The Cradle in the Grave (11 page)

Giles Proust drove Paul and me back to the contact centre. We'd missed most of our allotted time with Paige, but there was still half an hour left. The contact supervisor looked about twelve. I'll never forget her name: Leah Gould. ‘Leah Ghoul, more like,' I said to Paul later. She refused to wait in the corridor and watch us through the window, despite DS Proust almost going down on his knees and begging her to allow us that small degree of privacy. She insisted on staying with us in the horrid, small, too brightly painted room that reeked of the misery of countless families forcibly separated by smiling, officially sanctioned torturers – at least that's how it seemed to me at that moment.

When Leah Gould placed Paige gently in my arms, my misery was sent packing, if only temporarily. A tiny baby is such a joyful, hopeful bundle that it's hard not to respond, and I was suffused with a rush of love for my beautiful daughter. Paul and I showered Paige with cuddles and kisses. The poor child's face was sopping wet within a few minutes, we'd slobbered over her so much! ‘No one will take her away from us,' I thought. ‘That would be too crazy, given how much we love her and how obvious that must be, even to someone as unemotional and blank-eyed as Leah Gould.' At that moment, I firmly believed the powers-that-be would see sense and Paul, Paige and I would be allowed to have a future together.

I don't really know what happened next but I know that it was one of the oddest moments of my life. Suddenly Leah Gould was standing in front of me, saying, ‘Helen, hand the baby to me. Please hand Paige to me. Now, please.' I did as I was told, confused. Time couldn't be up yet; we'd only been in the room a few minutes. I could see from the expressions on Paul and DS Proust's faces that they were also mystified.

Leah Gould virtually ran from the room with Paige in her arms. ‘What did I do?' I asked, bursting into tears. Neither Paul nor Giles Proust could answer the question any more than I could. I looked at my watch. I'd spent a total of eight minutes with my daughter.

The episode only made sense when I learned from Ned some time later that Leah Gould was going to give evidence at my trial and say that I had tried to smother Paige right in front of her, in the guise of giving her a cuddle. I remember I actually laughed when I heard this news. ‘Let her say that if she wants to,' I said to Ned and Gillian. ‘Paul and Giles Proust were in that room too. No jury will believe they'd fail to notice an attempted murder taking place right in front of their eyes! One of them's a detective sergeant, for heaven's sake!'

Maybe I was naïve. Maybe if Leah Gould's testimony was the only so-called ‘proof' the prosecution had had at its disposal, I'd have walked free, and Paul and I would have been allowed to keep our daughter. But though I didn't know it yet, Leah Gould's utterly baseless lie would sound frighteningly convincing alongside the expert opinion of somebody far more mature, articulate and highly esteemed, someone the jury would take very seriously indeed. It's hard to believe, looking back now, that there was once a time when I'd never heard of Dr Judith Duffy, the woman who would play the leading role in the destruction of the rest of my life.

The first irritation was Charlie walking into the kitchen.
Her kitchen
. Simon had been living with her at her place for the past six months. Most of the time he preferred it, though the exceptions to this rule were frequent enough to make him certain he wasn't yet ready to put his own house on the market. The second irritation was Charlie yawning. No one who'd had several hours of sleep had any business yawning. ‘Why didn't you give me a nudge when you got up?' she said. ‘You're my alarm clock.'

‘I didn't get up. Haven't been to bed.'

He was aware of her staring at him, then at the book that lay on the table in front of him. ‘Ah, your reading homework: Helen Yardley's tear-jerker. Where are Proust's yellow markers?'

Simon said nothing. He'd told her last night, he'd rather saw off his own head than read the copy the Snowman had given him. Did all women make you answer the same question twenty times over? Simon's mum did it to his dad; both his grans did it to both his grandads. It was a depressing thought.

‘That can't be the copy you ordered yesterday from Amazon . . .'

‘Word,' he said abruptly: a one-word answer, both in form and in content. Word on the Street was an independent bookshop in the town centre, far less trendy than its name suggested. Local history, gardening and cookery books competed for space in the window. Simon liked it because it had no café; he disapproved of bookshops selling coffee and cakes.

‘They had an evening event on last night. I popped in on the off-chance on my way home from work, they had the book, so I thought I might as well buy it, read it overnight, speed things up a bit.' Simon was aware of his right heel drumming on the kitchen floor. He forced himself to keep still.

‘Uh-huh,' said Charlie lightly. ‘So when the Amazon one arrives, you'll have three copies. Or did you put the one the Snowman gave you through the shredder at work?'

He would have done if he could have guaranteed Proust wouldn't catch him in the act.

‘If you've still got it, I wouldn't mind having a look at it.'

Simon nodded at the table. ‘There's the book, if you want to read it.'

‘I want to see which bits Proust marked out for your special attention. I can't believe he did that! The man's ego knows no bounds.'

‘The bits about him,' said Simon quietly. ‘As if those are the only parts of her story that matter. She thought he was Martin Luther King, the Dalai Lama and Jesus Christ our saviour all rolled into one.'

‘What?'
Charlie picked up
Nothing But Love
. ‘The opposite, right?'

‘No. She rated him.'

‘Then she's guilty of bad judgement at the very least. Do you think she killed her children?'

‘Why, because she's full of praise for Proust?'

‘No, because she was sent to prison for murdering them,' said Charlie with exaggerated patience.

‘I've been told to look out for people like you. The Snowman wants names. Traitors' names.'

Charlie filled the kettle. ‘Can I say something without you taking it the wrong way? And if I make you a cup of tea at the same time?'

‘Say what you want. I'll take it how I take it.'

‘How reassuring. I feel so much better now. All right, then: I think you've got a dangerous obsession brewing. Fully brewed, actually.'

Simon looked up, surprised. ‘Why, because I stayed up all night? I couldn't sleep. Helen Yardley's no more important to me than any other—'

‘I'm talking about Proust,' said Charlie gently. ‘You're obsessed with hating him. The only reason you stayed up all night to read that book is because you knew there were references to him in it.'

Simon looked away. The idea that he'd be obsessed with another man was laughable. ‘I've never had a murder victim who's written a book before,' he said. ‘The sooner I read it, the sooner I find out if there's anything in it that can help me.'

‘So why not read the copy Proust gave you? Instead, you go to Word – which isn't on your way home from work, so you weren't just passing. You went out of your way to go to a bookshop that might not even have been open last night, might not have had the book . . .'

‘It was and it did.' Simon pushed past her and into the hall. ‘Forget the tea. I've got to get washed and go to work. I'm not wasting time talking about things that never happened.'

‘What if Word had been closed?' Charlie called up the stairs after him. More pointless hypotheticals. ‘Would you have gone back to work and picked up the copy Proust gave you?'

He ignored her. In his world, if you shouted a question at someone from far away and they ignored it, you left it at that, maybe waited till later to try again. Not in Charlie's world. He heard her feet on the stairs.

‘If you can't bring yourself to read a book you need to read just because he gave it to you, then you've got a problem.'

‘She rated him,' Simon said again, staring at his exhausted face in the shaving mirror Charlie had bought for him and attached lopsidedly to the bathroom wall.

‘So what?'

She was right. If he found the disagreement of a dead woman unacceptable, he was as bad as Proust and well on the way to tyranny. ‘I suppose everyone's entitled to an opinion,' he said eventually. Maybe some of the Dalai Lama's colleagues thought he was an arrogant twat. Did people in flowing orange robes have colleagues? If they did, was that what they called them?

‘How much of your time is taken up with hating him?' Charlie asked. ‘Eighty per cent? Ninety? Isn't it bad enough that you have to work with him? Are you going to let him take over your mind as well?'

‘No, I'll let you do that instead. Happy?'

‘I would be if you meant it. I'd get straight on the phone to that five-star hotel in Malaysia.'

‘Don't start that honeymoon shit again. We agreed.' Simon knew he wasn't being fair; unwilling to negotiate, he'd given Charlie no say in the matter, then tried to spin it so that it looked like a joint decision.

What was it the Snowman had said?
I know I can count on your support
.

Simon was dreading his and Charlie's honeymoon. Next July was only nine months away, getting closer all the time. He was afraid he'd be unable to perform, that she'd be disgusted by him. The only way to stop dreading it was to reveal the full extent of his inadequacy even sooner.

He brushed his teeth, threw some cold water on his face and headed downstairs.

‘Simon?'

‘What?'

‘Helen Yardley's murder is about Helen Yardley, not Proust,' said Charlie. ‘You won't find the right answer if you're asking the wrong question.'

 

Proust got out of his chair to open the door for Simon – something he'd never done before. ‘Yes, Waterhouse?'

‘I've read the book.'
Which is why I'm here, giving you another chance to be reasonable, instead of at Human Resources complaining about you
. Except it wasn't a real chance; Simon couldn't pretend there was anything generous-spirited about it. He wanted to prove Helen Yardley wrong. It was ridiculous; embarrassing. Didn't he know Proust well enough after years of working with him?

‘It's a pity you never met Helen Yardley, Waterhouse. You might have learned a lot from her. She brought out the best in people.'

‘What did she do with it once she'd brought it out?' Simon asked. ‘Bury it somewhere and leave clues?' He couldn't believe he'd said it, couldn't believe he wasn't being ejected from the room.

‘What's that?' Proust nodded at the sheet of paper in Simon's hand. Was he stifling his anger in order to deny Simon a sense of achievement?

‘I think there's an angle we're neglecting, sir. I've made a list of names I think we ought to talk to. All those who had a vested interest in Helen Yardley being guilty, and others who—'

‘She wasn't guilty.'

‘There are people who need to cling to the belief that she was innocent,' said Simon neutrally, ‘and people who need to cling to the belief that she did it because they can't live with themselves otherwise: the eleven jurors who voted guilty, the prosecuting lawyers, the social workers who—'

‘Dr Judith Duffy,' the Snowman read aloud, having snatched the paper from Simon's hand. ‘Even in my line of work, I haven't met many human beings I'd describe as out-and-out evil, but that woman . . .' He frowned. ‘Who are all these others? I recognise a few: the Brownlees, Justice Wilson . . . Waterhouse, you're surely not suggesting Helen Yardley was murdered by a high court judge?'

‘No, sir, of course not. I put him on the list for the sake of completeness.'

‘Any more complete, it'd be a perishing telephone directory!'

‘Justice Wilson played a part in sending Helen Yardley to prison. So did eleven jurors whose names are also on the list. Any of them might have reacted badly when her convictions were quashed. I'm thinking . . . well, maybe someone reacted very badly.' Simon didn't want to use the word ‘vigilante'. ‘That's why Sarah Jaggard and Rachel Hines are on the list too. Chances are anyone who thinks Helen Yardley escaped justice will think Jaggard and Hines did too. We need to talk to them both, find out if anyone's been bothering them, if they've been threatened or noticed anything out of the ordinary.' ‘Make up your mind, Waterhouse. Is this a list of people who have a vested interest in Helen Yardley being guilty, or is it something else entirely?' Proust held the piece of paper between his thumb and forefinger, as if it hurt him to touch it. ‘Because it seems to me that Sarah Jaggard and Rachel Hines might have a vested interest in her being
not
guilty, since they were the victims of similar miscarriages of justice, and Helen campaigned on their behalf.'

Helen. Helen and her friend Giles
.

‘Sarah Jaggard was acquitted,' Simon said.

Proust glared at him. ‘You don't think being charged with murder when all you've done is look after your friend's child to the best of your ability constitutes a miscarriage of justice? Then I feel sorry for you.'

As far as Simon knew, the Snowman had never met Sarah Jaggard. Did his outrage on behalf of Helen Yardley automatically extend to all women accused of the same crime? Or was it Helen Yardley's certainty that Jaggard was innocent that had convinced him? If Proust had been an approachable sort of person, Simon might have asked these questions. ‘You're right: not all the names on the list have a vested interest in Helen Yardley's guilt. They're all people we ought to talk to, though.'