The Fall (35 page)

He waited, listening to the noise of traffic from the open window. ‘It’s not.’

She took a step towards him; the room was very small. ‘You say that, but you took yourself off the case for a reason. Didn’t you?’

He said nothing.

‘Come on, Matt.’

‘Don’t make me say it.’

‘OK,’ she said, and she took the last two steps over to him and put her arms round his neck and kissed him.

It seemed to go on for a long time, but also be over in seconds. He’d imagined it as long as he’d known her, since he’d seen her that first morning half-asleep and scared, to feel her body against his as her coat fell open on her light summer dress, to hear her breath catch in her throat. When he kissed her neck, she tasted faintly of salt. Her mouth was soft. Her hands went into his damp hair and he felt her sag against him. ‘Oh.’

He pulled away, pushed her back, and they stared at each other. ‘Why did you do that?’ he asked, when he could speak.

‘I wanted to. For a long time. Didn’t you?’

He sighed: a deep, deep sigh. ‘We can’t. Not now.’

‘But I thought you—’

‘Christ, of course I do. Every minute, when I see you. But the trial’s next week. You don’t want to do this, not while he still needs you.’

‘He doesn’t seem to think he needs me,’ she said, folding her arms. ‘I mean, he doesn’t love me any more, does he? It’s pretty clear. He won’t even try. He won’t even say he didn’t do it.’ Her voice wobbled.

‘I know. But still. It’s not right.’

‘God, you’re obsessed with what’s right, aren’t you?’ She pulled her coat round her. ‘I really am sorry about your case, and you know, messing up everything for you.’

‘It’s OK.’ She’d never know how much she had messed things up, and exactly how little he would ever change, if it meant she was here, kissing him.

She turned at the door and kissed him again on the side of his mouth. It was a kiss that made offers, a kiss that was just millimetres from the truth. His hand crept round to the back of her neck as if it had a mind of its own. He pulled away. ‘Don’t. Come on.’

‘OK, OK. Jesus, what is it with men and not knowing what you want?’

As he listened to her clatter down his bare staircase in her high heels, he thought it wasn’t that at all. He knew exactly what he wanted. He also knew all the reasons why he couldn’t have it, not now. Maybe this was how that bastard Stockbridge felt, too.

Dan’s trial started on a Monday in October. Reporters gathered early at the Crown Court, setting up camp on the wet morning streets, among the hum of street-cleaners pushing machines. There were TV, radio and newspaper reporters, everyone agog for this one case of a wealthy banker who’d slipped, and fallen. Charlotte, trembling and white, arrived in a taxi at the back entrance, all pipes and concrete, and was led through bleach-smelling corridors to the witness room. As she sat there with her empty stomach churning over and over, she could hear the next-door room begin to fill. She heard the clatter and stamp of feet and dry coughs and murmurs. Still she sat, head down, staring at her feet. The floor was the same, the speckled plastic, the little islands. Charlotte closed her eyes, breathing deeply, trying not to pass out.

She heard a swell of shouting that rose and died away. Now they would be bringing in Daniel Stockbridge, possible murderer, disgraced banker, and her fiancé. If he was even that any more. So long since she had seen him. She shut down the memory of kissing Matthew Hegarty, of pressing herself in so close she could breathe him. She hadn’t spoken to him since then. Not now. This wasn’t the time.

She knew Kylie was planning to start right off with a plea for a mistrial, based on the huge amount of media speculation into the case. How could it be a fair trial when they were calling him a Banker Butcher? But as she waited, nothing happened. It must have been turned down.

She waited. Right now, she knew, they’d be doing the plea. And if he said he was guilty – if he did what he’d threatened to do – they would all be going home and that would be that. Charlotte held her breath:
Oh, please, no
.

The door opened and in came one of the guards, hair combed over his bald skull. She looked up, her heart in her mouth. ‘Is it . . .’

He shook his head. ‘They’ve called you, miss.’ She breathed out. Thank God. He’d pleaded Not Guilty. She stood up and her legs buckled.

‘OK, miss?’

‘Yeah. Yes, I’ll manage.’ She willed herself to walk.

As Charlotte went in, a murmur went up. Scarlet, she kept her eyes on the floor. One step, then another, like Dan had said.

She looked up at the dizzying heights, the seats where the spectators sat, the seal of law on the wall. Into this room Dan had come to receive an idea of justice. These people, the row of faces in the jury box, would look only at the facts as they were packaged by Kylie and the prosecuting lawyer. They’d choose which package they liked best. They’d judge.

Dan had on his five-thousand-pound Prada suit, which his mother had delivered to him in prison. He stood up straight in the dock, but the difference in him was shocking. His tanned skin had turned yellow from months inside, like an old dried-out tea bag. She could see what looked like a healing bruise over his eye, and his hair had been cut severely short. Dan was vain about his hair and this shocked her more than the rest, that he could let it be cut so badly, all tufts and patches. He looked like someone else. His eyes roamed, dazed, and found her sitting there. What she saw hurt her so much she was the first to look down.

There was the judge, a white-haired cliché of a man, brisk and no-nonsense. He had a wig over his own white hair. Then there was a whole lot of preamble, Kylie standing up in her robes and white wig and the prosecuting lawyer, Adam Hunt QC.

There was a pause. Then Adam Hunt QC was looking right at her. She swallowed hard; it was like being caught in class. ‘The Crown calls Miss Charlotte Miller.’

That was her. She got up, feeling her hot legs stick to the seat in nervous sweat. She walked over the floor in her clip-clopping heels. She sat down in the box, did her swearing on the Bible, confirmed her name and address. It was like being on the stage, a sea of heads swimming before her. Her hands felt slick and cold.

Adam Hunt was waiting to question her. ‘How do you know Mr Stockbridge?’

She cleared her throat. ‘I was his fiancée. I am, I mean.’

‘You still are?’

She scanned the crowd; there were Dan’s parents, and Sarah, but no Matthew Hegarty. ‘Yes,’ she said, licking her lips. She didn’t look at Dan but heard him sigh across the space of polished wood.

‘Can you explain what happened on the night in question?’

‘Dan and I went out to a club in Camden. It was some kind of Jamaican place . . . we were meant to go there on our honeymoon.’ She explained how she’d come home that day, and Dan was there, and what he’d told her, their decision to go out. Dan didn’t look up once as she spoke.

‘So you went with your fiancé to the Kingston Town club, is that correct?’

She nodded, then, remembering she had to speak out loud, said, ‘Yes.’

‘How would you describe his behaviour?’

She glanced over; Dan’s head was bowed. ‘He was very upset at first. But after that he seemed better, I thought.’

‘Was anything else influencing your behaviour that night?’

She cringed. ‘We – Dan brought home some cocaine.’

‘You took illegal drugs, is that correct?’

‘Well, yes, but—’ She looked at Kylie –
Just answer the questions
. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you regularly take drugs, Miss Miller?’

‘No. I don’t.’ Don’t sound defensive, Kylie had said, but honestly, it was hard.

‘Tell the court what happened with Mr Johnson. Did you witness anything out of the ordinary?’

‘Well,’ she hesitated. ‘Not really. I went to the ladies’, and when I came back I saw Dan talking to him. Then they went off – to the office, I think.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I got our coats, and went to wait outside. Then Dan came, and we went home. He seemed fine. I didn’t notice anything strange.’

‘How long was he gone?’

‘Not long at all. Just a few minutes.’

Adam Hunt narrowed his eyes at her. ‘You’re sure about that? The court has seen taxi records and CCTV, which indicate it was more than ten minutes, Miss Miller.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Can you tell us, Miss Miller, about your journey home?’

She said nothing.

‘Miss Miller?’

‘No. I . . . I don’t really remember it, you see.’

‘You said in your first statement: “It’s a bit hazy, I wasn’t used to drugs.” Is that correct?’

She blushed. This was awful, your drunken ramblings dragged out for all to hear. ‘Yes. But I remember the rest of it. The rest of the night. I remember he was fine.’

‘Hmm. All right, Miss Miller, that’s all for now.’

The judge raised his head. ‘Miss McCausland, your witness.’

Kylie got up, not making much difference in her height, since she was barely five feet tall. ‘Miss Miller.’ She gave Charlotte a quick flickering wink, almost unnoticeable, and Charlotte had to bite down a sudden nervous laugh. ‘At the time of Mr Johnson’s death, you were about to be married to Mr Stockbridge?’

‘It was meant to be a week later, yes.’

‘And this was cancelled after the arrest?’

‘Postponed.’ She lifted her chin, trying to believe it was true.

‘Miss Miller, you’ve commented in papers recently about this case. Why did you do that?’

‘I felt I had to. I don’t believe Dan could ever have done something like this – not kill someone. I’m so afraid a mistake’s been made.’

‘Yet Mr Stockbridge admitted to throwing a punch at the victim. Could you imagine that?’

‘Well, maybe. He was very upset that night, very humiliated.’

Kylie let that sink in, not commenting either way. ‘While you waited for Mr Stockbridge outside, did anything happen?’ She kept the question bland, not leading.

‘A man pushed past me. I think he was running.’ She said it firmly, because it was true, wasn’t it? She remembered – mostly.

‘Did you get a good look at this man?’

‘Not really. It was a white man. He had a shaved head, I think.’

‘Well.’ Kylie’s eyes opened wide and blue at the jury. Here was a new angle. ‘Let’s proceed. Miss Miller, you have since lost your job, I believe – can you say why?’

‘I was very upset over Dan,’ she said. She couldn’t help but look at him, yellow and hunched. He didn’t know she’d been fired.

‘And what have you done for money?’

‘I’m working as a waitress,’ Charlotte said defiantly. Let them judge her. ‘And I sold my engagement ring.’

‘So it’s fair to say you lost your wedding, your ring, your job, and you were also followed, harassed at home. Yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Let me ask you, Miss Miller. After all this, do you still want to marry Mr Stockbridge?’ She was deliberately not calling him ‘the defendant’.

‘How is this relevant, my Lord?’ said Adam Hunt QC.

Kylie’s eyes went wide again. ‘Love? I’d say that’s always relevant, my Lord.’

There were titters of laughter round the room.

‘Get on with it, Miss McCausland,’ said the judge drily.

‘Miss Miller, do you?’

Charlotte scanned the room again, and there he was, down the back near the door. His green eyes found her and she felt hot and cold.
Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry
.

‘Of course,’ she said, not looking at Hegarty. ‘Of course I do.’

Adam Hunt QC rose again, irritated. ‘This man you say pushed you, Miss Miller. You were, were you not, in an intoxicated state at the time?’

‘I said I was. Yes.’

‘So you can’t be sure.’

Charlotte made herself smile. ‘As sure as I can be about anything I’m saying.’

‘Hmm. That’s all. Thank you.’

Hegarty didn’t take much to this Adam Hunt. The lawyer was nice, as if he wanted to show he respected the police, but it wasn’t real respect, because he was a lawyer and Hegarty just a DC.

‘Good morning, Officer,’ he said, with his lizardy smile. It was the second day of the trial, and the courtroom was hushed. ‘You were the arresting officer on the Kingston Town case, is that correct?’

‘I was.’ Christ, Stockbridge looked even worse than before. In the gallery sat Charlotte, pale and worried. Opposite, Adam Hunt and Kylie, watching.

‘Can you talk us through what happened that night?’

Hegarty went through it, the call to the station that sent him rushing down to the club, the office with the man, wondering for a second was he still alive, blundering in. All the blood spattered on the floor in little round drops.

‘So, to summarise, you answered an emergency call as you were in the area.’

‘Yes.’

‘And when you went in, what did you see?’

‘Blood. Lots of blood.’ He remembered how the red of it had shocked him. It was so red it looked fake, like ketchup. ‘We ascertained that the victim had been stabbed in the neck, most likely with a broken bottle, severing his c . . .’ shit, he’d forgotten the right word ‘. . . the artery in the neck, and he bled to death within minutes.’

‘Did you find the bottle in question?’

‘We recovered a Red Stripe beer bottle from the scene.’

‘And did you fingerprint it?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’ Hunt looked impatient.

‘The prints matched the defendant’s.’

A murmur went up; Hegarty saw Charlotte flinch.

‘I see.’ Up went Hunt’s eyebrows. ‘Was there anything else to link the defendant to the scene?’

‘The CCTV, several witnesses, and his credit card was found actually in the office, on the desk.’

Hunt turned to the judge. ‘My Lord, statements were taken from a Miss Rachel Johnson, the victim’s sister, who was present on the night. Miss Johnson was too upset to appear before the court, but you will find her statement in your dossier about the row over the credit card in question, and how the defendant made racist comments to the victim.’

Hegarty was increasingly doubting what Rachel had said, but he kept quiet.