My Husband's Wife (37 page)

I've lost count now of the verdicts I have waited for. Sometimes I think it's like waiting for the result of a pregnancy test. Or a DNA test.

You tell yourself that you have done your best, and you hope that it all goes in your favour. But you also warn yourself that this might not happen. You try to prepare yourself, argue that it isn't the end of the world if the result isn't what you want. Yet at the same time, you know that's not true.

A lost case means you've let yourself down. And, more importantly, others too.

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have been too keen on this barrister. He was too young. Too inexperienced. But as I told Carla, some juries are put off by an all-guns-blazing, confident, strutting QC. My man endeared himself to me when he had said we needed to go softly. ‘Our defence is that there is only circumstantial evidence,' he'd pointed out, flushing madly – he was one of those types, like me, who blushes easily. ‘Nothing firm. No witnesses seeing Carla do anything other than run through the park. No incriminating fingerprints on the knife. She saw an intruder at the door.'

‘But there's no proof of this,' I butted in.

The barrister went pink. ‘Carla is a beautiful woman. I wouldn't mind betting that the men on the jury will believe her. That at least would give us a fifty-fifty chance.'

Of course, that was when I should have told him about the envelope I'd received soon after Carla's arrest. The one with the familiar spidery writing which, the office night porter told me, had been handed in very early one morning.

The one I had told myself I should not open.

Naturally I knew what the envelope contained. A tip-off. Hadn't Joe already told me in a phone call that morning? ‘I want to help you, Lily.'

I'd nearly put the phone down there and then. ‘I told you, Joe. Don't contact me again. I did what you wanted – had the paternity test done – and now it's over. There's nothing left between us.'

‘I don't believe you. You lied to me.' His voice was deep, sending tremors through me. ‘You're just scared. I get that. I really do. I can tell from your voice that you haven't looked inside that envelope I sent you. It will help you in the case. Open it. Fast. For old times' sake.'

Old times' sake? He spoke as though we had a past. Which of course we did. A past that no one must know about. A past he can always hold over me. Can you imagine the headlines?
THE SOLICITOR AND THE BATH KILLER
. Let's not even go there. It would destroy my career. Not to mention my family. And Joe knows it.

‘Tom isn't yours, Joe.'

‘And I told you I don't believe you, Lily. I love you.'

I wanted to be sick. A murderer was in love with me? I slammed down the phone. Made sure the envelope was
hidden in a drawer. I should have torn it up there and then. But it's sitting there. My insurance. My plan B.

But right now I'm waiting. Waiting to hear what the jury is about to say. Carla is shaking. (I can say her name without a pang now.) Her terror gives me pleasure. There is nothing she can do now. No one she can bribe. No one she can sleep with to get her own way.

She can't even blame me. No one could deny that I have done my best legally, hand on heart, to get her off. I even took her into my home to coach her for the defence. (Although she flagrantly went against my instructions to wear something suitable.) Together we have succeeded in blackening Ed's name so that everyone thinks the man I married was a drunk and a philanderer. You see? I am not as good as I look.

The whole court is taut. Waiting.

‘Do you have a verdict?'

The foreman's mouth is opening. My palms are sweating. I swear I can feel Ed by my side tugging at my sleeve. When I turn, I realize I've snagged my navy silk jacket on the bench.

‘Not guilty.'

I don't believe it.

Walls shake around me. There are gasps. Screams from the gallery. A baby cries. Poppy? The daughter I never had. Carla is collapsing. It might of course be for show. A policeman is helping her to her feet. The barrister shoots me a smug ‘We did it' look. People are congratulating me. One of the detectives is speaking urgently to a colleague. I feel a twinge of misgiving. They'll be on the hunt for the real killer now. But up in the gallery I see someone else.

A tall man. Clean-shaven. Short hair. Boldly staring down at me. Wearing a moss-green tweed jacket with a light-beige suede collar, turned upwards. And then he disappears.

The phone rings the moment I get back into the office.

‘Why didn't you use my evidence?' Joe Thomas's voice is gravelly with disappointment.

I open the drawer and take out the envelope. It is still sealed. How many times had I thought about opening it? It would have made my job easier. I knew that. Joe has never got things wrong before. As he's pointed out on many an occasion, I wouldn't have got this far in my career without his help.

‘It's my insurance,' I say.

‘Insurance? I don't get it.'

‘In case the verdict wasn't what I hoped for.' As I speak, I think about Carla and how she barely thanked me after the trial. How her chin tilted upwards as if being acquitted was no more than her right. How she was swallowed up in the hysterical press of journalists, each wanting her story, each wanting to pay her more than the others.

‘You can't use it now,' he adds reproachfully. ‘The trial is over. The police will already be looking for someone else to pin Ed's murder on.'

I wince. Even now, I can't believe my former husband has gone. I miss him. My mind keeps going back to the better bits of our marriage. Curling up on the sofa together. Holding Tom as a baby. Celebrating when Ed's painting was bought by an anonymous buyer.

Then my memory returns to that early morning jog on
the seafront when Joe asked for a paternity test. I had felt particularly vulnerable at that time. Angry towards Ed for having his cake and eating it. Jealous of Carla for seeing my son on their access weekends. Lonely. Scared. Confused about still feeling drawn to Joe.

And for the first time since it happened, I allow myself to think about the key. The one that I was carrying, as always, for self-defence. The key that fell out of my pocket. The one that Joe picked up.

And didn't give back.

‘It's the spare from the house,' I said bitterly at the time. ‘My old home that Carla has now taken along with my husband and my son, who seems to think she's wonderful.'

‘I could teach her a lesson,' Joe said quietly.

I felt a tremor of fear – and yes, of excitement too. ‘I wouldn't want her hurt. Or him.'

‘Just scared, perhaps.'

‘Maybe,' I find myself saying.

That's when I ran over the road, towards the sea, stunned by my own actions. Had I really just allowed myself to break the law? In one brief crazy moment, I'd just given a criminal carte blanche to break into the house where Ed and Carla lived. A criminal who would do anything for me.

Aiding and abetting, they call it.

I raced back to the cafe table, panting madly. But Joe had disappeared.

As time went by and nothing happened, I felt safer. The longer I heard nothing from Joe, the more it felt safe to put the DNA test out of my head. Maybe he'd decided not to do anything after all. Maybe they'd changed the
locks. But then came the shocking news of Ed's murder. When Ross called me at Tom's school, I initially presumed Carla was guilty, as did the rest of the world.

But then she told me about the door opening and a man standing there. And the notes.

That's why I took her on as a client. I needed to make sure that she went down, because if she didn't, the police might track down the real murderer.

Joe.

He'd tell them I'd given him the key.

I would get sent to prison.

I'd lose Tom.

It was unthinkable.

I would do anything. Anything for my son. Suddenly I had to work out the toughest defence strategy of my life. How to make Carla lose without making it look as though I hadn't tried.

Put up such a poor defence that she would go down?

But that wasn't the way to do it.

Wasn't that what I'd told myself when Carla had first asked me to take on the case? And it was true. I had to be far more subtle than that. I needed to use reverse psychology.

Why hadn't I taken on the case myself without any help? Not because a judge might not like a solicitor in charge, as I told Carla, but because they'd trust me more if I brought in someone else. Besides, the judges know me, know my style – if I'd put up a weak defence, they'd have instantly known and accused me of conflict of interest.

My husband's wife.

Far cleverer to choose a young, nervous barrister who
would get it wrong for me. I told Carla that a jury didn't always like a confident, strutting QC. That is sometimes true. But not always. Yet – just my luck – they did indeed warm to my fumbling, gauche brief, and that in turn made him grow in confidence. By then it was too late to lose.

I also suspected that if I insisted on her wearing ‘dull' clothes, Carla wouldn't be able to do it because she's so vain. I was right. But this backfired in my face too. It was clear from the look on the jurors' faces – both men and women – that they admired her style.

Why didn't they see Carla as I did? A manipulative child who had grown into a manipulative, husband-stealing adult.

‘
You shouldn't have done it,' I now say down the line to Joe. My voice is cracked with disbelief. Shock. Self-recrimination.

Joe's voice, in contrast, is cool. ‘I got the impression you didn't care for Ed any more.'

‘You said you'd frighten Carla.' I'm whispering now. ‘Not kill my husband.'

‘Ex-husband,' corrects Joe. ‘And who says that I did kill him? Open the envelope. Go on.'

My hands do what my mind tells them not to do.

Inside is a sealed plastic bag.

Inside that is a pair of gloves. Washing-up gloves.

Blue. Small. They have blood on them. Blood and earth.

I gasp.

‘Now do you get it?' says Joe.

I can't believe it. ‘Carla did it after all?'

‘Who else?' He sounds smug. Pleased.

‘How did you get them?'

‘I'd been sniffing around their place for a while, checking it out.'

‘What were you going to do?' I whispered.

‘Wasn't sure. Never am until these things happen.'

These things?

A picture of poor Sarah flashes into my head.

‘I was there that evening. Some young bloke came out. Looked upset, he did. I listened at the door and heard one hell of an argument going on. Reckoned it might provide the distraction I needed. So I went in.'

With my key. With
my
key!

‘There she was, in front of me, wearing a pair of washing-up gloves covered in blood. Almost as shocked to see me as I was to see her. I ran out after her. I watched her toss the gloves into some shrubbery opposite the house. Rather than carry on chasing her, I picked up the gloves so you could use them, for evidence. Except that you didn't.'

No, I hadn't. I'd wanted to do this on my own, without the help of a criminal.

‘So what's next?' Joe's voice forces me back to practicalities. ‘The trial's over, Lily. Your client's won. But we both know that she's guilty. And now the police will be looking for someone else. Me.'

‘Will you tell them about us?' My voice comes out as a whimper.

‘That depends.' His voice is steady. Threatening. ‘Not if you tell me what the paternity test really said.'

‘I did tell you. You're not the father.'

‘And I don't believe you.' His voice hardens. ‘I want another one done, Lily. Or else …'

His voice trails away. But the implication is clear.

‘Are you blackmailing me?'

‘You could call it that.'

I put the phone down, my hand shaking. Joe isn't just a murderer. He's desperate. Dangerous.

And he's not the only one.

What should I do now? Then I feel something inside one of the gloves.

It's a key. One that I definitely recognize.

If I was in my right mind, I'd go straight to the police and hand over the gloves.

But instead I'm going to pay a visit.

To my husband's wife.

Carla was packing. Fast. Furiously. Not the red stilettos. She'd wear them instead. Her favourite perfume too, for luck. First she'd go to the hotel, for that exclusive interview she'd promised to the newspaper. The advance would go towards her new future.

She was free. Free!

It was all working out. Far better than she could have thought. Poor naive Lily. Convinced that the rest of the world was good if only she could make it so. Carla almost felt sorry for her. Then again, she deserved it.

Lily needed to learn a lesson.

The jury had believed her. She had played her part well. Yet there were elements which had indeed been true. Ed, drunk with wine and jealousy, grabbing the knife. Her, pushing him away. Him, falling against the wall and hitting his head. Blood. Then getting up and coming at her again. Her, grabbing the knife in self-defence and lashing out. The knife in Ed's thigh. It had just stayed there, sticking out of the flesh with its green handle.

Then she was running. Throwing the gloves in the bushes as she went.

If only she could have confessed in court. Self-defence. For that's what it had been. But people knew they had
argued – look how Ed had spoken to her at the last party in front of everyone. Suppose the law had not believed her? Far better to talk about the intruder. The other thing that had been true. The man at the door, whom she had rushed past.

Thank you for being there, whoever you were, she thought. It meant we could blame you for all the blood. All the horror.

Too much to think of.

The only way to cope was to blank it out. Tell herself it had happened as she'd said in court. Get on with her life. She would go to the States with Poppy. Rebuild their lives away from prying Italian and English eyes. Give up law too. She had had more than enough of that.

‘You.'

Carla jumped. ‘Lily? How did you get in?'

Lily tossed a key up and down in the palm of her hand as though teasing her. ‘I still had the spare. It was my house once. Remember? Before you stole it and my husband from me. You should have changed the locks, Carla. You and Ed.'

Carla began to shake. ‘You still had the key?' she repeated.

Lily smiled. ‘That's right. I gave it to a friend. He's the man you saw at the door. He saw you throw away your bloody gloves. And he kept them for evidence.'

‘You're lying!'

‘No.' Lily's voice was cool. Scarily assured. ‘I'm not.'

I
hold the gloves up now in their plastic bag. ‘See? When they are analysed, the DNA will show Ed's blood. Much more of it than was on your clothes. And they have earth on them too, from where you tried to hide them. Looks suspicious, doesn't it?'

‘You can't do that.' Carla is laughing. ‘You can't use them. The trial is over.'

‘You don't really keep up with criminal law, do you, Carla? Employment is your speciality, I seem to remember. Well, the law has been changed. Some years ago, in fact. Way after the case I told you about – on purpose, by the way. Double jeopardy doesn't always apply now, especially when there's new evidence. Like fresh DNA. All I have to do is hand these gloves over to the police. Then you will be tried again. And this time you will go down for life.'

She's still smirking. ‘If you're so sure, why haven't you gone to the police?'

I'm already beginning to think I've made a mistake there. ‘Because I wanted to see you face to face first. To tell you what I really think of you.' My eyes are wet. ‘Poor Ed. He didn't deserve to be murdered. You're going to pay for this, Carla, if it's the last thing I do …'

That's when she runs at me, her eyes blazing like an animal's. Her push is much stronger than her frame might suggest. I push her back. Then I wobble. Lose my balance. Trip over the spindle-backed mahogany kitchen chair that I once bought at auction. It's yet one more thing that Carla has taken from me.

I put up my hands to protect myself, the key and gloves flying into the air.

Flash of metal.

Thunder in my ears.

‘This is the five o'clock news.'

The radio, chirping merrily from the pine dresser laden with photographs (holidays, graduation, wedding); a pretty blue and pink plate; and a quarter bottle of Jack Daniel's, partially hidden by a birthday card.

The pain, when it comes, is so acute that it can't be real.

A quick succession of questions race through my head. What will happen to Tom when I am gone? Who will understand him? How will Mum and Dad cope with another child gone?

Above me, on the wall, is a picture of a small white house in Italy with purple bougainvillea climbing up it. A honeymoon memento. The one that Ed helped me to paint.

And here I still am, an hour later, slumped against the wall. My limbs completely numb. Bleeding and waiting. The blood is still streaming from my head, from where I hit the wall. My chest is throbbing. Am I having a heart attack? My silver honeymoon bracelet, which – despite any reasoning – I still wear every day, is cutting into my wrist because of the way I have fallen. And my ankle, which had been throbbing quietly, is now agony.

Still, at least the smell of smoke is getting fainter. It had been rubbery. Rather like a tyre burning. The gloves?

If Carla has destroyed them, there will be no evidence.

And if Joe tells the truth about the key, I might go down instead.

That
last push from Lily had sent her reeling against the kitchen counter. A saucer had fallen off the side, smashing on the floor. She hadn't been hurt. Just stunned by the push. But not badly enough to stop her pushing Lily back. There had been a hollow crack as Lily had crashed against the wall.

Vaguely Carla remembered staggering over to the sink and trying to get rid of the gloves.
Incriminating evidence
. How often had she read that phrase in files at work? Essential to get rid of.

They wouldn't burn properly, so she'd chopped them up into little bits and flushed them down the toilet. Then she'd slumped in the hall, below one of Ed's rough charcoal studies for the original
Italian Girl
.

It seemed a fitting place to stop. Her body might not be injured. But her mind seemed to have had enough.

From where she was lying, Carla could hear Lily groaning. Who would have guessed how much blood could gush from the head?

If it wasn't for the fact that her legs didn't feel like her own, Carla might have got up to help Lily. She'd had time to think now after that initial shock of seeing those bloody gloves. Strangely, she didn't hate the woman for trying to turn her in. In fact, if she'd been in her position, she might have done exactly the same.

All her life she'd wanted things that had belonged to other people. The caterpillar pencil case. Nicer clothes. A father. Even her mother had belonged to Larry when she
was a child. And, of course, Ed. Until she'd finally got him and saw what he was really like.

She hadn't, Carla reminded herself, meant to hurt Ed. All she'd been doing was trying to defend herself. Such a fright when the knife had gone into his thigh. How easily the blade had slipped in! Made her feel sick right now to think about it.

I deserve to be caught, Carla told herself. It's gone too far. Then her eye rested on a photograph of Ed and Tom on the bookcase near her. Father and son had their arms around each other, grinning out of the frame.

Poppy.

How would her daughter manage without her? Mothers needed to protect their children. Now she could see why Mamma had pretended that Carla's father was dead in the early days. And why, later, she had hidden her cancer. Now she, Carla, couldn't let Poppy suffer by having a mother in prison. As a child, Carla had thought it was bad enough having a mother with a strange accent who was always at work. But this was going to be far worse. Poppy would be Different with a capital D from the others in her class when she went to school. No doubt about that.

She had to force her shocked body to get up and leave, if only for Poppy's sake. Reality began to kick in. She'd hung around long enough now. It was time to take a few things. Ed's grandmother's ring might fetch a bit and see them through a few weeks.

There was a moan.

She didn't, Carla told herself, really want Lily to die, especially now she'd got rid of the gloves. All she'd done was push her, although that crack had sounded bad. Yet
she couldn't help her, either. It would compromise her own safety. Maybe when she got out of the house, she could go to a phone box and make an anonymous call to say that a woman was hurt.

‘Lily?'

Footsteps. Someone was coming towards her, through the front door. With a shock, Carla realized Lily must have left it open.

‘Where is my Lily? What have you done to her?'

Carla stared up as fear caught in her throat. It was him! The man who had broken in through the door that night. Something about those black eyes stirred a more distant memory. That stranger at Tony's funeral!

He ran past her now. Towards Lily. ‘It's all right, my darling. I'm here.' She couldn't hear Lily's reply.

But she could hear his footsteps coming back now. Could see the glint of metal in his hands.

Carla felt strangely calm.

‘You hurt her!' he was screaming. ‘You hurt Lily!'

The last thing she could remember hearing was the rush of wind as the blade came down to meet her.