Betrayal (52 page)

‘Well, he seems optimistic enough. I think he’s glad you decided on the committal.’

‘Oh he just likes the gamble, whatever he may say,’ Ginny remarked, loosing one of her perceptive darts. ‘He enjoys the risk.’

I had been careful to take a back seat in the decision over the full committal. I had left Ginny to talk the whole thing through with Tingwall and said almost nothing during a second conference with Grainger. I had listened to Ginny’s agonised deliberations, I had commiserated with her dilemma, but I had managed to offer no firm opinion. I felt the loneliness of the priest who has heard too much and must now remain silent.

Once the decision to go for the full committal had been taken and the date set, Ginny had started to show signs of strain, as if she had only just appreciated what lay ahead. She had spent the intervening weeks fighting asthma and other obscure nervous attacks which frequently sent her to bed for hours at a time. The weight had continued to drop off her, and the fluttering of her eyelids had become more pronounced. Often she cried out during the night, sudden shouts that had me waking with a racing heart.

Yet as we walked into Tingwall’s office none of this was apparent. She assumed her public mask, a look of serenity and quiet acceptance, and I could only wonder at her extraordinary self-control.

Tingwall was also showing his nerves. As we sat down for our daily recap, he didn’t so much smile as expose his teeth, and his eyes danced excitedly. ‘So, all the police evidence is out of the way now. I thought Grainger made some good points off Inspector Henderson yesterday. Getting him to admit that you had been totally consistent in everything you’d said, Ginny. That you’d never made a single admission in all those hours of questioning. And asking him how he thought a woman of your build might have lifted a body up a steep ladder – well, it all adds up.’ He bared his teeth again in the semblance of a smile. ‘But the main thing, of course, is the lack of forensic evidence. That will hardly have gone unnoticed. So!’ He clasped his hands together, a troop leader boosting morale. ‘It’s just the eyewitness now.’

The
just
lingered uncomfortably in the air, and Tingwall quickly corrected himself. ‘It’s Gordon Latimer now.’

I asked, ‘Will his evidence take long?’

‘Impossible to say. And then there’ll be Grainger’s cross-examination. Really impossible to say. But I can try to get the occasional message out to you.’

I made my usual face. ‘Thanks.’ As a defence witness I was not permitted to sit in court, so rather than hang around the door in a state of anxiety I had spent much of the last two days at a nearby hotel, doing business on the phone and waiting for occasional calls from Tingwall’s assistant.

At twenty to ten Tingwall drove us to the court. As the building came into sight Ginny delved into her bag and took a puff of her inhalant. She had not forgotten the mass of press who had greeted our first appearance on Monday morning, thrusting their lenses against the car windows and jostling us as we entered the building. Ginny hadn’t attempted to hide her face. We had decided that, as someone with nothing to hide, she should hold her head high. But the aggressiveness of their behaviour had shaken her and once inside she’d suffered a massive asthma attack.

There was only one photographer today, a down-at-heel man in a faded anorak who waited until we had got out of the car before taking a few desultory pictures. Inside the building we were left alone: for this hearing reporting restrictions were in place, and no word of the proceedings nor comment of any sort was permitted to be published.

In the hall was a motley gathering: defendants and their supporters destined for other courts – according to Tingwall mainly traffic offenders and TV licence evaders, with a sprinkling of shoplifters and drunks; and then, to one side, Henderson and his henchmen in their best suits, watching us with their unblinking policemen’s eyes; and, far to the other side, visible in an adjacent lobby, Grainger, holding court with his junior and Tingwall’s assistant.

Grainger greeted us with his usual air of melancholic authority. ‘The Crown present their Mr
Latimer
today. Now, Mrs Wellesley, my cross-examination could be long and detailed, but don’t be surprised if it is rather less comprehensive, covering only a few major points. Much will depend on how the witness appears, and the strength of his evidence. You appreciate?’ He cast a peremptory glance over us all, looking for questions but expecting none. ‘All must be decided as the situation reveals itself . . .’

My attention was diverted by the sight of a figure making his way perilously across the hall, a man who was both familiar and strange, someone I knew but couldn’t place. It was another moment before I realised with a slight shock that the emaciated bowbacked figure was Old Gordon. His tweeds may have fitted him in younger sturdier days, but now they hung on him like sacking. He walked unsteadily, with a marked shuffle, and leant heavily on his companion, a middle-aged woman whom I dimly recognised as his daughter. It was hard to believe it was the same man I had last seen a year ago at my father’s funeral. He seemed to have aged twenty years. His narrow skull was exceptionally bony and his sparse lifeless hair floated above it like down. The skin hung heavily on his cadaverous face and his pouchy eyes had the watery look of advanced sickness.

Grainger must have caught some of my astonishment because when I looked back at him he raised a mildly inquisitive eyebrow.

I said in an undertone, ‘Gordon Latimer.’

He followed my gaze. ‘The one leaning on the woman?’

‘Yes.’

He watched while Old Gordon took a seat, and when he turned back to me a closed uncommunicative expression had settled over his face. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes. Though he looks absolutely terrible, poor chap. I can’t believe it.’

Grainger murmured as though to himself but pitched for my hearing too, ‘Nothing is certain in this life but uncertainty.’

Without explaining this, he summoned his team and moved towards the court. Ginny and I embraced briefly. Watching Tingwall lead her away I couldn’t rid myself of a creeping unease, an irrational sense of approaching doom.

A familiar voice said, ‘Hi there,’ and Julia swooped up to peck my cheek.

‘What are you doing here? I thought you had a decent job to go to.’

‘Decent jobs – curse of the upwardly mobile. No, I thought I’d come and see if I could be useful.’

‘Not a lot to be done,’ I said flatly. Then: ‘Have you been fired or something?’ She’d only started her new job two months before.

‘Not that I know of,’ she said airily. ‘No – I’m on sick leave. I’ve got flu.’

I peered at her. ‘I’m sorry.’

She touched my arm. ‘Hugh – not really.’

‘Oh.
Oh
. Sorry, I’m a bit slow today.’

‘Come and have a coffee.’

There was a trolley selling drinks and snacks, and we carried two cups of watery coffee to a corner.

‘How are things at Hartford?’ Julia asked.

‘Umm . . .’ It was an effort to think of Hartford. ‘Pretty good. No –
more
than good. Orders up twenty per cent. Packenhams have re-listed us – did I tell you?’ She nodded. ‘They even gave us a window display at Christmas. And . . . well, the staff have been wonderful. Productivity up. Costs down . . .’ I trailed off, easily distracted.

‘So ya-boo to Howard!’ Julia crowed.

But I was hardly listening. I was watching Old Gordon, and my disquiet returned, a niggling worry that I couldn’t quite name. ‘Would you do something for me, Julia? Would you go and sit in the court when it starts and come and tell me what’s happening?’

‘You’ll be here?’

In saying yes I realised I had taken the decision not to go and work from the hotel.

‘Do you want full notes or—’

‘No – just the gist of it.’

She gestured towards the people accumulating around the entrance to the court. ‘Never mind about later,’ she growled. ‘I’d better go now if I’m to get a seat.’ She hurried away and, sweeping past the queue, spoke to the usher and, without seeming to incur any objections, stationed herself at the head of the line.

I was about to go and find a quiet corner when I glanced back and paused. Julia had turned to talk to another woman just behind her, and the woman was Mary. I kept looking, I waited until the woman turned her head again, but there was no doubt about it. For an instant I felt put out, even a little indignant, that she should have turned up without telling us. In the next instant I was ashamed of such uncharitable thoughts. Mary would be here out of the best of motives, to support us, and as if to confirm it she turned and, catching sight of me, clasped her hands together in a gesture of encouragement and solidarity. I waved back.

When the hall was almost deserted I chose a seat not far from Old Gordon. The old man was hunched in his chair, staring vacantly at the floor. When his daughter spoke to him he lifted his rheumy eyes and peered vacantly about him. His gaze passed over me without focus or recognition.

An usher called his name. His daughter roused him and helped him to his feet. Watching him walk arthritically into the court, my disquiet took new shape, bringing regular beats of alarm that had me on my feet, then sitting again, then pacing restlessly up and down until Julia finally emerged twenty minutes later.

‘He’s very doddery,’ she whispered, ‘and a bit vague. I wouldn’t say he was doing too well.’

‘Where are you sitting?’

She gave me a sharp look. ‘Me? At this end, in the back row, by the door. Why?’

‘Who’s next to you?’

‘No one special.’ Reading my mind only too well, she hissed, ‘Look, is this a good idea?’

‘Choose a moment when there’s something going on. Some distraction.’

‘I really don’t think this is a good idea,’ she muttered as she went back into the court. Two minutes later she reappeared and waved me hastily past her and through a second door, which led into the public gallery.

My arrival went unnoticed amid some general movement in the court. Only one head turned as I sat down. Some sixth sense had made Mary glance round from her place in the front row of the gallery. Her eyes widened slightly at the sight of me, then with a quick bright smile she looked away again.

I slid down in my seat and shaded my eyes with one hand. In the witness box to one side of the room Old Gordon was settling himself on a chair and being offered a glass of water. Ginny was sitting in the dock with her back to me. Ahead of her were the lawyers, also with their backs to me. Only the magistrate was facing the gallery.

The magistrate leant forward. ‘Are you well enough to continue, Mr Latimer?’

The old man’s eyes swivelled nervously. ‘Aye.’

The magistrate, an owl-faced man with pebble glasses and thick grey hair, nodded to the prosecuting counsel, who rose to his feet.

‘Mr Latimer, could you once again cast your mind back to the thirtieth of September last year?’ the prosecutor began. ‘You were telling us where you were in the afternoon at approximately five o’clock. You said you were down by the ferry, is that right?’

Old Gordon appeared to concentrate hard. ‘By the ferry, aye.’ His voice was thin and reedy and breathless.

‘When you say the ferry, Mr Latimer, you mean the ferry that crosses the River Dart from Dittisham village?’

The old man’s mouth moved several times before murmuring: ‘Aye.’

‘Mr Latimer, what were you doing there by the ferry that day?’

Gordon’s hooded lids blinked heavily and his jaw slackened, and it seemed to me that he was having difficulty in comprehending even the most basic question.

‘Sitting,’ he muttered at last.

‘You were sitting where exactly?’

Gordon’s eyes wandered anxiously. ‘By the pub.’ Then after another pause: ‘Always sit by the pub.’

‘This is the pub called the Ferry Boat Inn?’

Another pause. ‘Aye.’

‘You were sitting on a bench, were you?’

He nodded distractedly.

‘If you could say yes or no, Mr Latimer,’ the prosecutor reminded him gently.

Gordon hesitated for a long moment, as though he had forgotten the question. ‘Aye,’ he said finally.

‘Thank you. And this bench overlooks the ferry pontoon?’

The old man seemed beset by a growing air of apprehension, as if each question were leading him further on to perilous ground. ‘Aye.’

‘While you were sitting on the bench that day, could you please tell us what you saw?’

‘Saw . . . Mrs Wellesley,’ he whispered, and his eyes were agitated.

‘You mean Mrs Virginia Wellesley?’

The pause stretched out.

‘Mr Latimer? This person was Mrs Virginia Wellesley?’

‘Mrs Hugh,’ Gordon said at last.

‘By that you mean Mrs Hugh Wellesley? Virginia Wellesley?’

This seemed to confuse him for a moment. ‘Mrs Hugh,’ he repeated in a voice that was increasingly quavery and fearful.

‘Quite. Mrs Hugh Wellesley. Do you see her in court, Mr Latimer?’

The rheumy eyes registered something like bafflement, the mouth began a gasping fish-like motion.

‘Mr Latimer, do you see Mrs Wellesley in court?’

A measure of understanding dawned. He began to cast about uncertainly. His glance came past the gallery, stopped momentarily before drifting away and roaming the room. Screwing up his eyes, leaning forward slightly as if to focus better, his gaze finally settled on the dock. ‘Aye.’

‘You can see Mrs Wellesley? Could you point her out to us, please, Mr Latimer?’

Gordon raised a hooked finger at Ginny.

‘Let it be shown that Mr Latimer was indicating the defendant. Now, Mr Latimer, could you tell us what Mrs Wellesley was doing when you saw her that day?’

The jaw sagged again. The effort of memory seemed almost beyond him. ‘A boat. Took a boat.’

‘Did you see her go to this boat?’

Pause. ‘Aye.’

‘Where was she when you first saw her?’

His brows pulled down, he seemed to glower.

The prosecutor tried again. ‘Did she pass close by you?’

Gordon gave a slight nod. With the bent shoulders and gaping mouth, with the bony head hanging forward on the scrawny neck, he had the look of an ancient bird.