Betrayal (53 page)

‘Was that a yes, Mr Latimer? If you wouldn’t mind speaking out . . .’ Getting no response, the prosecutor urged, ‘Did she pass close to you, Mr Latimer? If you could say yes or no?’

‘Yes.’

‘How close would you say?’

This question troubled him. ‘Close,’ he offered tentatively.

‘As far as she is from you now, in this courtroom? Further? Nearer?’

‘Same.’

‘So, two yards at the most. And did you get a good look at her?’

‘Aye – Mrs Hugh.’

‘You were sure it was her?’

The eyes were fearful again. ‘Aye.’

‘Now this boat she went to, what kind of a boat was it?’

He thought for a long moment. ‘Small boat.’

‘A rowing boat perhaps?’

He nodded vaguely.

‘Was it a rowing boat? If you could just say yes or no, Mr Latimer?’

‘Aye . . . yes.’

‘And Mrs Wellesley went off in it, you said?’

Another pause: ‘Aye.’ The old man reached out for the glass of water. The prosecutor waited while he grasped it with clawed hands and brought the rim unsteadily to his lips. As he drank, water spilled down his chin and fell onto his jacket. An usher came forward and took the glass from him and placed it back on one side. Old Gordon made no attempt to mop up the spilt water and it formed a darkening stain on his lapel.

The prosecutor continued, ‘So she rowed off, did she, Mr Latimer?’

Old Gordon’s concentration seemed to have drifted again, and the question had to be put to him a second time. ‘Aye,’ he said at last.

The magistrate, who had been making notes much of the time, was now watching Gordon intently.

‘Which direction did she row off in?’ asked the prosecutor.

Silence.

‘Was it up river, or down river, or across river?’

Gordon frowned a great deal before breathing, ‘Up.’

‘Up. She rowed off
up
river.’ The prosecutor glanced down at his papers and, coming to what looked like an abrupt decision, said, ‘Thank you, Mr Latimer,’ and, nodding to the bench, sat down.

Grainger rose to his feet. ‘Mr Latimer,’ he began in a kind unhurried tone, ‘you are fond of sitting there by the pub, are you?’

Pause. ‘Aye.’

‘You like to watch the world go by?’

The empty colourless eyes seemed to focus momentarily. ‘Aye.’

‘And there’s quite a bit to see, is there? The ferry, the pleasure boats coming and going, and so on?’

A whisper. ‘Aye.’

‘You go there regularly?’

Grimacing, Gordon sucked in his thin lips. ‘Not so much.’

‘Not so much now. What about last autumn, Mr Latimer, in September at the time you say you saw Mrs Wellesley on the pontoon – did you go there regularly then?’

Much thought again. ‘Some.’

‘How often did you go in a week, Mr Latimer?’

The troubled look again, the groping for words. ‘Sundays. Other times. When it were fine.’

‘You would invariably go on a Sunday?’

‘When it were fine.’

‘So last autumn, if it was fine, you would go on a Sunday. And other days too, if it was fine?’

The old boy was flagging. His shoulders bowed further, his chin descended almost to his chest. ‘Aye.’ And it was little more than a gasp.

‘I’m so sorry – did you say yes, Mr Latimer?’

‘Aye – yes.’

‘So how often might you go and sit by the pub then, Mr Latimer? As often as three times a week? Four? If it was fine.’

He had to think about that for a long time. ‘Sundays. Tuesdays sometimes. An’ Fridays.’

‘As many as three days a week then? What about Saturdays?’

Gordon seemed uncertain about that.

‘Did you go there on Saturdays at all?’

‘At my daughter Saturdays.’

‘Ah. So you generally visited your daughter on Saturdays?’ A pause. ‘Have I got that right?’

Gordon’s mouth began to work in increasing agitation. ‘Aye, to my daughter.’

‘Where does your daughter live, Mr Latimer?’

Another long pause. ‘Primrose Cottage.’

‘That’s in Dittisham village, is it?’ When he had his reply Grainger said in a pleasant almost reminiscent tone, ‘So on a day when you went to visit her, you would stay until what time?’

‘Teatime. Leave after tea.’

‘
After
tea? And what time did tea finish?’

This was the one answer which came without hesitation. ‘Half past six.’

‘So on the days you visited your daughter you wouldn’t leave until after six-thirty?’

‘Aye.’

‘Now on a day you went to see your daughter, would you also find the time to go and sit by the pub?’

The old man looked thoroughly bemused at this. His pale eyes cast anxiously about, his mouth drooped at the corners and his lower jaw reverted to its strange gasping motion.

Grainger repeated the question carefully.

No one moved. The court seemed to hold its collective breath.

Finally the thin voice rasped, ‘At my daughter Saturdays.’

‘Forgive me,’ Grainger said, selecting a compassionate tone, ‘I just need to be clear. Last September you were in the habit of visiting your daughter every Saturday until seven. So are we to understand that you never went and sat by the pub on a Saturday?’

The old man’s face crumpled further, he seemed thoroughly confused. Eventually he gave an odd movement of his head.

‘Can I take that as a yes, Mr Latimer?’

Another indeterminate movement.

Grainger turned towards the bench, as though for assistance. The magistrate leant forward and said in the ringing tones that people usually reserve for the deaf, ‘Mr Latimer, do you understand the question?’

Old Gordon’s mouth went through its frantic motions.

‘I’ll ask Mr Grainger to put it to you one more time, shall I? Mr Grainger, if you please.’

Grainger repeated, ‘Last September you were in the habit of visiting your daughter every Saturday until seven. Can we take it, then, that you never went and sat by the Ferry Boat Inn on a Saturday?’

Old Gordon closed his mouth and nodded distinctly. ‘Aye.’

‘Thank you.’ And Grainger’s tone left no doubt that he had made his point. ‘Now, Mr Latimer, if I may I’d like to take you back to the occasion when you saw Mrs Wellesley setting off in the boat. Which day of the week was that?’

It was as though the old man suddenly appreciated his predicament. He became increasingly distressed, his face contorted into a grimace of woe and confusion, his mouth wobbled. Finally he shook his head.

The tension was like an electric charge. My mind told me that it was all over, logic insisted that we had won, but the consequences of this thought were so overwhelming that for the moment my emotions refused to follow.

Grainger was driving his advantage home. ‘You can’t say?’ he repeated. ‘So it could have been a Sunday?’

The old man lifted a bent hand to his chest as if his breathing were giving him trouble.

‘So it might have been a Sunday?’ Grainger pressed with the urgency of a man who senses he is running out of time. ‘Mr Latimer?’

‘Can’t say.’

The magistrate leant forward. ‘Mr Latimer, are you feeling unwell?’

‘Can’t say,’ Gordon echoed miserably.

‘Mr Latimer.’ The magistrate raised his voice again. ‘Are you feeling all right?’

‘Can’t remember like I used to,’ Gordon cried plaintively.

‘Is it your memory that’s troubling you, Mr Latimer, or are you feeling unwell?’

‘Memory . . . bad.’

‘So apart from your memory you’re feeling all right?’

Old Gordon nodded despairingly, and he seemed close to tears.

‘In order that the court can be absolutely clear,’ the magistrate continued with great deliberation, ‘you are saying, Mr Latimer, that you cannot be sure which day of the week it was when you saw Mrs Wellesley go off in the boat?’

The old man’s mouth turned down almost to his chin, he blinked rapidly and shook his head. ‘Memory . . . it’s terrible.’

The magistrate took his time writing his notes before looking towards Grainger. ‘Any more questions, Mr Grainger?’

‘No, sir.’

There was a pause as the usher helped Gordon from the witness box. The old man’s corrugated cheeks were streaked with tears, and his eyes held the terrors of bewilderment.

The prosecutor stood up briefly and said disconsolately, ‘Sir, that completes the case for the prosecution.’

The magistrate looked expectantly at Grainger, who rose and announced in a firm voice, ‘Sir, I would like to move that there is absolutely no case to answer. The Crown has offered no forensic evidence
whatsoever
that links my client to the scene of the crime. Nor has it produced a
single
piece of forensic evidence to link her to the victim. Indeed, its case relies solely on Mr Latimer’s eyewitness evidence, and Mr Latimer
cannot remember
which day it was that he saw my client rowing off ‘‘up river’’. Now we do not dispute the fact that my client took a dinghy from the pontoon and rowed out to the yacht
Ellie Miller
on the day
after
the murder, on the
Sunday
. My client herself volunteered this information to the police at her first interview, and was happy to repeat it in her subsequent statement. What we dispute utterly is that she was anywhere near the water on the day before, on the
Saturday
, and indeed the prosecution have entirely failed to prove that she was
anywhere
in the vicinity on that day. Thus, sir, I submit that there is simply no case to answer and that it would be unsafe in every respect to allow this case to proceed any further.’

Grainger sat down. The magistrate studied his notes before bending forward to have a word with the clerk. Looking out over the court, he said with a long sigh of exasperation, ‘I agree with you entirely, Mr Grainger, for all the reasons you have stated—’

There was a startled cry, and a banging of doors as some people hurried from the gallery.

‘The prosecution have failed to produce any reliable evidence to connect Mrs Wellesley to this crime—’

I buried my head in my hands.

‘. . . In my view it would be unsafe in the extreme to allow this case to proceed to the crown court. I find that there is no case to answer, and the defendant is therefore discharged.’

He addressed Ginny then – something about being free to go – but I couldn’t hear his words for the violence of my own emotions. Julia’s voice sounded in my ear and her arm came round my shoulders, and she may have been crying too.

Even before the magistrate had left the court, the place erupted into noise and movement. Someone close by began shouting, a man pushed roughly past me. Julia led me out of the gallery and into the well of the court. In the midst of the people congratulating her, Ginny looked small and dazed. Reaching her, we embraced uncertainly as if neither of us could quite absorb what had happened, and then her arms tightened around my waist and she was gasping, and laughing a little too.

Tingwall was hovering, grinning all over his squinty-eyed face.

‘Not too late to fire me,’ he chuckled.

‘I always said you were too young for the job.’ And I embraced him.

I heard Mary’s voice. ‘Ginny!’ she cried, and, sweeping past me, enveloped Ginny in a large hug. ‘I’m so,
so
glad!’ she declared. ‘I’m so pleased! Oh, Ginny! I’m going to phone David this minute! We’re so thrilled!’ Throwing up her arms as though lost for further words, she laughed in an odd overexcited way and enveloped Ginny again.

I went over to Grainger who was packing his papers away. ‘Thank you,’ I said simply, and shook his hand.

‘It would have been hard to lose,’ he said with a sigh of disappointment, like a prize fighter cheated of a good bout. ‘That old man . . . In the circumstances it was a lucky thing that your wife is something of a gambler.’

‘You still handled it brilliantly.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Did I? You were in court?’

I smiled at how easily I had been caught out. ‘Just at the end,’ I admitted.

‘Oh, Mr Wellesley.’ He shook his head with an ironic show of disapproval. ‘If we had gone to trial, that little escapade could have made our lives very difficult.’

‘Perhaps I’m a gambler too.’

He thought about that. ‘Yes,’ he drawled in his unfathomable accent, ‘I think you probably are.’

Before I could ask him what he meant by that Tingwall came bustling up with something he wanted me to read.

‘I prepared this for the press last night. A statement.’ Waving the paper in the air, he giggled like a child. ‘I knew, you see. I knew!’ Waiting for my grin of acknowledgement, accepting it with a small swagger, he read from the handwritten sheet. ‘Mrs Wellesley has protested her innocence most vigorously ever since she was charged, and with the throwing out of the case her position has been entirely vindicated. There was never the slightest evidence against Mrs Wellesley, yet she has been forced to suffer months of needless distress as a result of a charge that from every point of view should never have been brought. Her family would now ask that she be left in peace.’ He looked up. ‘I would have liked more time on it, but what do you think?’

‘I think it’s fine.’

I turned to find Mary at my elbow. She drew me aside and whispered fervently, ‘Hugh – you’ve no idea what this means to me.
No
idea. I’ve been
praying
for this from the very beginning.’ Her eyes with their garish blue lids looked fiercely into mine. ‘
Praying!
’

‘I know.’

‘What we need to do now is forget,’ she said in a confidential tone. ‘
Forget
we ever had that talk.
Forget
what I said.’

I stared at her in open astonishment, wondering how she could possibly imagine I could forget something so devastating, something which was going to darken my life for ever. ‘
Forget?
’

She grasped my arm. ‘As far as we can, of course.’

I shook my head.

‘All in the past now, Hugh,’ she insisted. ‘The
past
.’ She laughed suddenly, the same odd laugh again. ‘Well – I must go and phone David! He’ll be so thrilled.’ With a jolly wave, she hurried off.

The next few hours were a confusion of downward-floating emotions. Tingwall went to the front of the court building and read his statement to the horde of waiting press who had materialised, as always, out of nowhere. Then when Tingwall’s assistant had brought his car round to the front we left the shelter of the building and launched ourselves at the jostling photographers and shouting reporters for what I fervently hoped would be the last time. Ginny ignored their questions until, on reaching the car, a BBC reporter put a microphone under her nose and asked how she felt. ‘I feel immensely glad that it’s all over,’ she replied.