The Shadows of Justice (13 page)

“Err…”

“I think she was warning me off.”

Dan found himself getting up from the sofa. “I think it’s time I was getting home.”

“Sit down a minute.”

Back down he sat, without a thought to demur. The light was catching Katrina’s eyes, pooling in the contrasting colours. It was difficult not to stare into them.

“Do you like my eyes?” She asked.

“Err, well – yes, of course I do. I thought…”

“What?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Please tell me. I’d like to hear.”

“I was being silly. It must be the wine.”

Slowly, her lips formed the words. “Tell me.”

Dan hesitated, but said, “From the first moment we met, I thought they were like two different shades of autumn. The turning leaf next to the evergreen.”

She sat back and finished the remains of the wine. A kiss of lipstick lingered on the rim of the glass.

And amidst the quiet and half-light of the bar, the supernova exploded.

“Would you like to spend the night at my hotel?” Katrina asked.

“What?”

“Would you?”

“Um, well…”

“I’d surmise that as a yes.”

“Oh, err…”

“But there’s a little game you have to play first.”

“I’m sorry? A what?”

“Call it – a test.”

“A test?”

“You have to answer a question.”

“A question? What question?”

“This question – what is
heterochromia iridis
?”

“What?! What’s what?”

She repeated the words, spelt them out, then sat back and crossed her legs. And now Katrina waited, elegance and poise, beauty and mastery, effortless in body and mind. It was all Dan could do to mumble an apology and make for the rest rooms.

With the door closed and surrounded by the safety of the stark, white tiles, Dan stared at himself in the mirror. He splashed some water onto his face. It made no difference to the nonplussed expression gawping back.

Time passed, although how much, he could never say. A man walked in, went about his business and cast a quizzical look, but Dan didn’t come close to noticing.

He straightened his shirt, ruffled his hair, wiped any traces of wine from his lips and reached a decision. After just a few seconds he found the answer to Katrina’s question and returned to the bar.

One of the great advantages of being reasonably well off is that it limits the necessity for the dreaded walk of shame.

Dan’s sufferance was just a couple of hundred yards, from the hotel to taxi rank. But, as if to penalise him anyway, fate sent a dagger of conscience in the form of a demonic driver.

The time was half past six and the crimson spectacle of a young autumn dawn already established in the eastern sky. Dan had hardly slept. In part, that was due to Katrina, but more to do with the traditional wondering whether this was really such a good idea. There was also a modicum of guilt, but, in truth, it was by far the junior partner.

“Thanks for an interesting night,” she murmured sleepily, as he vanished from the room. Dan couldn’t help but think it wasn’t the finest eulogy of a send-off.

Upon the opening of the heavy, black door the cab driver didn’t bother to drop his tabloid. Instead, he immediately chirped up with exactly the kind of comment you really don’t want to hear in such a situation.

“I know you, don’t I?” the man asked, with the faux cockney accent that some younger people see as an important fashion accessory.

“I don’t think so,” Dan replied, climbing hurriedly in.

“I’ve driven you before. You’re that man on the telly.”

The star of the small screen attempted to shrink into the seat. “Yeah, that’s me, ‘the man on the telly’. Hartley Avenue, please.”

“You do all them crime stories. I always watch
Wessex Tonight
. You got some nice birds.”

“Good. Thanks.”

“You go out with that detective woman, don’t you?”

Already taken well aback, Dan now retreated further. “What?”

“The really pretty one. Gorgeous, in fact. Ever so nice she is. Great figure, beautiful hair. A lovely woman, really kind. Clever too.
I’ve driven you two to her place on the Hoe. You’re well lucky having a bird like that.”

“Would you mind if we got going? I’ve got a busy day ahead.”

The man produced a grin so lecherous that even the director of a
Carry On
film might have found it excessive. “What you been up to then? Get lucky, did you?”

“Hartley Avenue, please,” Dan replied, weakly.

So browbeaten was he by the man’s assault that Dan even gave him a tip. “You should be in the diplomatic service,” he muttered, as he unlocked the door.

Rutherford leapt up and went through his usual fusillade of barks. Dan grabbed the dog’s muzzle.

“Shh, old friend! I’ve been a bad boy and we don’t need anyone else knowing. I conned my way into a woman’s bed when she asked me some ridiculous question I had no hope of answering. But with a bit of the old Groves’ craftiness, I got it anyway.”

Dan made for the bathroom and a protracted process of trying to wake up. He needed to rejoin the pace of civilisation. Today could be a very important one in the trial, perhaps even providing the moment which would decide its outcome.

The word was that Martha Edwards would be called to give evidence.

***

The case had reached its closing stages. They were into some routine character evidence about the Edwards and the proceedings were plodding along at the rate of a sullen mule.

It was far from exciting, and on the press benches the hacks stirred restlessly. It was just that lingering possibility which kept them waiting.

There had been constant rumour that at least one of the Edwards would be called to testify. A couple of the braver journalists had asked Wishart what he intended. “I’m considering the defence’s position,” was all he would say.

It was a game that had been played out many times before. One of trial tactics. A fine judgement that could nudge the verdict either way.

If Wishart didn’t call the Edwards, the jury would be told they could infer that damaged the siblings’ claims of innocence. The simple argument – what did they have to hide? But if he did, the prosecution had an opportunity to cross-examine them. And for some defendants that could be akin to giving them the keys to lock up their own cell.

Wishart finished reading the evidence of a Dr Andy Lovejoy, tutor in Forensics at London Metropolitan University. He had submitted a statement about Martha’s skills and character.

A quiet student who tended to keep herself to herself, but nonetheless a dedicated one. She was clever and talented and showed herself to be extremely capable. As to her character, she always behaved impeccably in college and I saw no signs whatsoever of any criminality or anti-social tendencies
.

Judge Templar scribbled a note and looked up at Wishart.

“That, I think, concludes the list of witnesses for the defence,” the judge said. “So, we proceed to the closing speeches. Unless…”

Wishart shuffled some papers and turned to the glass dock. “Indeed, Your Honour. Unless…”

Like all the best barristers, Wishart was a master of drama. He studied Martha as she sat, hands in her lap, looking calmly back. In her eyes wasn’t anger, not even defiance and certainly not fear or concern. It was a look of neutral and detached curiosity, the expression of a scientist.

“I call Martha Edwards!” intoned Wishart.

Fast breaths ran around the courtroom. People leaned forwards to take a better look at this fabled creature, freed for the first time from the glass confines of her cage.

The woman portrayed over these days of the trial as cold, bitter and ruthless. The one who would kidnap a 17-year-old girl and leave her to an agonising death in the inferno of a burning cottage.

But also the one who had herself suffered so much. Who knew all too well the cruel interlude of medical history which the prosecution claimed as her motive.

A security guard unlocked the dock. Martha drew herself up and, with an exaggerated care, walked step by precise step, to the witness box.

***

How a day can make a difference. Yesterday, over the hours of testimony, the old wooden box had edged inwards until it crushed Annette. With Martha, the shining panels kept a respectful distance.

She stood, her hands resting calmly on the grooved ledge, facing Wishart and the twelve watchful faces of the jury. The flow of her hair had been loosely tied and held in a copper tail. The light found the blanched and freckled landscape of her face.

“Let us first deal with the basics,” the barrister began. “The prosecution have outlined the crime they believe you committed. What do you say to that?”

“It’s not true.”

“Did you kidnap Annette?”

“No.”

“Did you hold her in a cottage in the South Hams?”

“No.”

“Did your brother, Brian?”

“No.”

“Did either of you have anything whatsoever to do with the kidnapping?”

“No.”

“So you are both totally innocent of the charges against you?”

“Yes.”

Martha’s voice was clear but husky, the words curiously soothing. There were no nerves, no hesitation and no pauses. No scent or sound of evasion or deception.

“Let us now deal with the so-called
evidence
against you,” Wishart continued. “The prosecution say you left no forensic traces because your expert knowledge meant you knew how to avoid doing so. What do you say to that?”

For the first time, Martha’s face formed an expression. It wasn’t quite a smile, more an edge of amusement.

“It’s nonsense. If there’s one thing you learn studying forensics, it’s that the techniques are so powerful you can always find some evidence. A basic principle I was taught was – if you can’t find it, it’s not there.”

Around Dan, the hacks underlined the phrase in their notebooks. Such a memorable quote would feature heavily in their reports.

“Moving on,” Wishart boomed, “What explanation can there be for the fact that you disappeared at the time Ms Newman was kidnapped? And that your mobile – along with your brother’s – were both turned off?”

“I can explain that. But this part I… find difficult.”

“Please, take your time.”

She sipped a little water and closed her eyes, as if summoning the memory.

“It was a beautiful couple of days so we went to Dartmoor. I love it there. There are lots of places where you’re alone in perfect peace. I like to watch the sunsets over the tors. They give me strength. And at night, the silence. It’s like a medicine to me.”

Wishart let her words float over the rapt court. In the jury box at least a couple of heads were nodding.

“And Brian took you?” the barrister prompted.

“Yes. He has to be there in case…”

“We’ll come to that in a moment. But – you stayed up there on Dartmoor?”

“Yes.”

“Camping?”

“Yes.”

“And your mobiles were off because?”

“They intrude. They spoil the peace and beauty.”

Wishart turned again to the jury. “‘Peace and beauty’. Something all of us seek at some point in our lives. Hardly the way of a ruthless and embittered kidnapper, I think you’ll agree.”

He turned back and found a page in his file. “One further matter, Ms Edwards. It’s about Brian. He won’t be giving evidence?”

“No.”

“I know the jury will be asking themselves – can you tell the court why?”

“He’s found all this very difficult. He’s not quite as good at coping as I am, or expressing what he feels. He thinks we’ve already suffered enough. He can’t understand how, after all that we’ve been through, we can find ourselves…”

Her voice faltered and she drew in a long breath of the warm air.

“How we can find ourselves… here. On trial. Accused of a crime we didn’t commit. Having to go through yet another ordeal in our lives. It just doesn’t – well, it doesn’t seem fair.”

Wishart nodded his agreement. “And fairness is something which has sadly eluded you in life, has it not? ”

The court shifted in time, pulled back 30 years in a few seconds of Wishart’s words. Eyes dulled as minds imagined their way to another world.

In his university days, the less than committed student that was the young Dan Groves, had taken a course on the history of science. It looked an easier option than some of the intimidating alternatives. They were laced with warning words like
Advanced
,
Quantum
or
Mathematical
.

It did turn out to be amongst the more worthwhile uses of his university time, and one lesson stayed with him.

Always beware with the keenest distrust the person who is absolutely certain
.

When arguing the point, Dan would talk of radioactivity. In the early days of the discovery, the fact that it made a liquid glow was taken as proof of great benefit to the human body. People were fed gallons of the stuff and grinned their delight to the cameras.

It was only when the unfortunate subjects’ bones became so fragile they would shatter under the slightest pressure, or the foulest of tumours began to develop, that the scientists realised their incontestable conclusion may have been a little awry.

The lesson could be extended to any field of life. Another favoured example was the insistence by learned statesmen of the past; that a small German chap with an odd moustache and unbecoming haircut could best be handled by giving him whatever was wanted.

Dan was reminded of his little maxim as Wishart spoke. The barrister lowered his voice, in the best traditions of a storyteller, and reminded the court of one of the greatest scandals in the history of British medicine.

***

Wishart began gently. “Tell us about your childhood.”

“Which part?”

“From your earliest recollections. How you compared to other children.”

The arrow hit the invisible target. The moment changed. It was there in Martha’s face, the paleness of those green eyes. A different door had opened. It led inside, to a part of the person previously unreached.

Where before she had been calm and relaxed under questioning, a strain began to show in Martha’s voice. It was no longer soothing and easy, but muted and faltering. The answers took longer to come and were offered without reassurance.

Her fingers, once still on the shining wood of the ledge of the witness box, now twitched and played. Her feet shifted on the boards.

Wishart had broken through. The defences that stood for so long, which repelled charge, battering ram and boulder had fallen under an assault of roses. Kindness had succeeded where cannonballs failed.

“You were different, weren’t you?” the barrister prompted.

“Yes.”

“Tell us what you remember.”

“I must have only been three or four. I’m not sure. I remember being…”

“Yes?”

“Lonely. I wasn’t allowed to play with the other children. I had to stay in my room. I wasn’t allowed to do anything like climbing or running around. I just sat, watched TV and drew pictures.”

“And all this because you weren’t well, were you?”

“No. I wasn’t.”

Martha said no more and Wishart didn’t try to push her. Instead, he turned to the jury.

“My client finds this understandably difficult, so perhaps it’s best if I tell you the facts.”

He looked up to Templar and received a judicial nod of approval.

“Martha Edwards suffers from Von Willebrand disease. It is similar to haemophilia. It means the person bruises extremely easily and the blood does not clot properly when they suffer an injury. In the most serious cases it can be life threatening. And Ms Edwards’ case is amongst the most severe.”

The faces of the jury studied the woman, standing in the witness box. She said nothing, just closed her eyes and slowly nodded her head.

“A sad case,” Wishart continued. “But there was hope – or at least, a hope of hope.” He turned back to Martha. “Was there not?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us what happened?”

“It’s difficult…”

Wishart glanced to the judge sitting impassive above him, the red and purple blazes of his robes bright in the sunlight.

“You can take all the time you need,” Templar decreed.

“Well – my memories from that time are blurred. But they’re all about men and women in white coats. It was as if they used to float around me. Sometimes, they’d hurt me, with needles and tests. But they were kind. Always told me how brave I was, and that it was all to help me get well again. And then one day…”

“Yes?”

“One day they said they’d found a way to make me better. So that I’d be like the other children. So I could go outside and run around and play with them. And be…”

“Yes?” Wishart prompted again.

“Just – normal. That was all I wanted. To be like the others.”

“You must have been excited?”

“I was so happy. It was all I’d ever wanted. Every Christmas and birthday I’d ask to be like the other children. To join in with them, instead of watching through a window. That’s how I felt: I was a window child.”

Even through the microphone and speakers, Martha’s words were growing close to imperceptible. Wishart waited for her to find some composure before asking, “So – what happened?”

She took a long breath “They told me I had to go into hospital. I didn’t mind, because all these clever people told me I was going to be better. So I went in and they did all these – things to me. And they told me I just had to be patient and in a few weeks I’d be like all the other children.”

It is an underrated art to nod sadly, but the barrister managed it. “But it didn’t turn out that way?”

“No.”

Again the words were thin and faint. Martha rubbed at her eyes with a careful hand.

“Can you tell us what happened?”

“A week passed. Then another. I kept asking when I’d be better. But there was no answer. These people with their white coats, the ones I’d trusted. The ones who promised they’d make me better, they didn’t answer. Then they just seemed to fade away. They disappeared. And I started to understand I wasn’t going to get better.”

“That must have been bad enough. But, in fact, it was even worse. Was it not?”

Martha may have tried to speak, but her lips hardly moved.

“Take a moment, Ms Edwards,” Templar intervened. “Perhaps Mr Wishart can take us through what happened next.”

The barrister took a drink of water, turned to the jury and picked up the story.

It was the late 1970s and early ’80s. Blood products to treat those who suffered from hemophilia, Von Willebrand disease and others like them, were being imported from America. But controls were lax and a scandal was in the making.

To attract donors a payment was offered, and many drug addicts and prisoners came forward. Some of the blood they gave was infected with HIV and hepatitis. Almost five thousand people in Britain contracted the illnesses.

Government procrastination was an exacerbating factor. Evidence started to emerge of the contamination, but it was ignored. The blood continued to be imported.

Martha was one of the last to be infected before the negligence was exposed. She had to live with the knowledge that, if action had been taken sooner, she would not have suffered.

She was, in a way, lucky. Unlike some, her death sentence would take years to be executed.

Courtesy of the misguided, and perhaps even reckless, efforts of the state and medical profession, Martha Edwards contracted hepatitis.

***

The judge called Wishart’s narrative to a halt. Martha had sat down on the seat in the witness box, her head bowed. Only a flow of coppery hair showed above the lines of wood.

All in the court saw it, but no one said. No one could.

It was precisely the same stance as Annette had been reduced to after her testimony.

In the jury box, the foreman tugged at a tuft of beard. Wishart held a whispered conversation with a solicitor sitting behind.

“Ms Edwards, I have only a couple more questions, if you think you could manage?”

She stood back up. “Yes.”

“It is another difficult matter, but…” a hesitation, then softly, “How advanced is your illness now?”

She swallowed hard. “It’s reached the terminal stage.”

“And it makes you physically weak?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“And would have done so six months ago?”

“Yes.”

“So – not exactly the ideal condition for a ruthless kidnapper, the like of which the prosecution have attempted to paint you?”

She cast a disdainful glance at Adam. “Not exactly.”

“And as to your treatment? The doctors are doing all they can?”

“Yes.”

“You trust them – despite what happened to you as a child?”

“Yes.”

“You’re being given the best of medication?”

“I think so.”

“I ask because the prosecution say part of your motive for kidnapping Annette was to get money for a new drug treatment.”

“No. I think I’m being treated as well as I can be.”

Wishart scribbled a note on a piece of paper.

“There is one final matter I must put to you. The prosecution claim you kidnapped Annette, in part, for revenge. Because she and her father in some way represent
the
establishment
,
something you hate because of what it did to you all those years ago. They say another element of your motive is resentment and anger, to hit out at someone who has so much in life when you do not. What do you say to that?”

Martha stared up to a skylight, a rectangle of perfect blue held within. Sunbeams danced down upon the court, riding in the circling breeze.

“It’s not easy sometimes, but I try not to be bitter about what’s happened. I’ve often wondered why some of us are picked out to be healthy and happy and seem to have everything they could ever want in life. And yet others are picked on and just seem to suffer.”

Another hesitation, another careful sip of water. “For me it comes down to this. You can either shout and scream and let what you’ve gone through destroy you. Or you can come to terms with it and still do the best you can with the gift of life you’ve been given. And, however tainted it may be, I believe it’s still a great gift.”

Once more Wishart let the words linger in the silent courtroom, before he pronounced quietly, “An embittered woman, members of the jury? A ruthless kidnapper? Or a victim every bit as much as Annette Newman?”

He produced a sombre smile. “Thank you, Ms Edwards. Please remain in the witness box. I know the prosecution will have some questions for you.”

***

Adam was the first out of court. He strode from his seat and beckoned to Dan, who picked his way through the crowd to follow. Templar had called a fifteen minute recess. Then Munroe would have his chance to question Martha.

The detective was waiting by one of the small interview rooms. He closed the door firmly and drew the blind too.

“I know you’re angry,” Dan said, calmingly. “Ok, Martha came across as very decent and human. And yes, it probably did make an impact on the jury. But given what Munroe’s like, I bet she won’t be looking quite so angelic by the end of the day. And another thing—”

“It’s not just that.”

“What?”

“It’s not to do with the case. I just don’t need any more complications.”

“Err – what?”

Adam sat on the edge of the table. The shadow of his beard was already growing dark, despite the early hour.

“You need to start thinking up a good excuse.”

“An excuse?” Dan floundered. “What are you talking about?”

The detective produced one of his lofty looks. “Last night.”

If Adam not wanting to talk about Martha’s testimony was a surprise, this was a shock. Ice in the stomach and a vice on the heart.

“Um – what about last night?” Dan dissembled, hopelessly.

“You look tired out. Whereas Katrina—”

“What about her?”

“Looks like she’s had a double measure of the elixir of life in her coffee.”

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t think I need to be saying anything, do I?”

Dan shifted his weight busily from foot to foot. He studied the sole decoration in the small room, a faded print of some water lilies.

“And another thing,” Adam added. “If you’ve always exchanged a chatty hello with someone, and then one morning you mumble something and can’t look at her, it’s the kind of thing a detective might just spot.”

“You mean when we were coming into court?”

“Affirmative.”

“Bugger.”

“Which I’d say about sums it up.”

A feeling was building fast inside Dan’s body. It started around the heart and spread rapidly outwards. Every nerve, bone and vein felt like a guitar string being mercilessly tightened, tightened, tightened.