The Verdict (39 page)

Melissa wasn’t as far gone as she’d sounded, but she was working on it. There was half a bottle’s worth of white wine in a large long-stemmed glass in front of her. The rest she’d poured into the glass she’d pushed my way.

We were in her kitchen, sat at the granite-topped island in the middle, surrounded by sleek chrome appliances and white cupboards and shelving. The place was as sterile as an empty operating theatre.

‘Be honest with me, Terry. Did he do it? Did he kill that girl?’

‘No,’ I said.

She cut me off before I could continue.

‘Actually, I don’t care if he’s innocent. Makes no difference to me. I’m divorcing him.’

She sipped her wine. How much had she had already?

‘I won’t be at the trial,’ she said. ‘I’m leaving the country on Sunday.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘America. The girls are all at summer camp. I want to be with them.’

‘Have you told him?’

‘No.’

More wine went back.

We used to drink together all the time in Cambridge. We drank like couples have coffee or dinner. We’d go to student-free pubs, old men’s hangouts that served room-temperature ale and peat whisky you’d still be tasting three days later. Melissa handled her booze a lot better than me. She never got out of control. The only way to tell she was tossered was by the way her Leeds accent got broader and her language filthier. And she asked me to roll her cigarettes for her, because she couldn’t quite manage. She always had a tin of Old Holborn tobacco with her. Sober, she could roll them one-handed, which I thought was dead impressive at the time. But then everything about her mesmerised me.

‘Why don’t you tell me what happened? What set you off?’ I said.

‘
Set me off?
Like a bomb, you mean?’ she sneered.

‘It’s just a figure of speech. What I mean is, why now? Why are you drinking like this?’

She pushed a lock of hair back from her eyes so she could glower at me unobstructed. She looked a state, possibly wearing the first things she’d grabbed when she got out of bed – grey tracksuit bottoms, a loose black T-shirt and flip-flops. Yet even pissed and pissed off, she was stunning.

‘Janet called yesterday. She wanted me to give evidence for Vernon. Say what a great bloke he is and… I agreed. Then…’ She smiled bitterly and wiped a tear with the back of her hand. ‘
Then
she told me what’s going to come out in court. The whores – the S&M… all that sordid stuff. She asked me if I knew.’

‘Did you?’

‘It’s more complicated than yes or no.’

‘You suspected?’

‘I
knew
, Terry. I knew. Not because he told me. I knew what he was into. How he
got off
.’ She sniffed. ‘But, you know, he’s a great father. Really loves those girls. Dotes on them. And we were so happy. That’s all I chose to see and believe.’

‘If it’s any consolation, it shocked me. I don’t know where it came from,’ I said.

I was on duty here, still working, representing the firm. That’s how I’d decided to play it. Professionally, keeping my distance. Although who was I kidding? I’d told Karen I was going to be working late at the office, going through files with Redpath.

‘Does it have to come from anywhere?’ she said.

‘On an academic level, he doesn’t fit the profile,’ I said. ‘Sexual fetishists usually compensate for their public lives by doing the opposite in private.’

‘Save me the textbook patter. Vernon’s just another cheating husband with twisted fetishes,’ she said.

‘That wasn’t the person I knew, the bloke I grew up with.’

‘None of us are.’

‘But there’s always a hint of the person you’ll become, somewhere,’ I said.

‘Maybe you weren’t paying close enough attention.’

‘Or maybe he already knew how to hide things from those closest to him,’ I retorted.

No comeback from her, except to drink more wine. She’d necked over half the glass now. I couldn’t help but notice. That was the ex-drinker in me, one part smug, two parts alarmed.

‘You said you knew?’

‘We’d always experimented. Almost right from the start, at Cambridge…’

I didn’t want to hear this.
 

‘Role play. Handcuffs. Uniforms. Toys. Threesomes…’

But how could I stop her?
 

‘We had an orgy once – not all they’re cracked up to be. Have you ever had one?’

I’d been a virgin when I met her.
 

She wasn’t.
 

I shook my head.

‘Didn’t think so,’ she said, laughing.

What was that supposed to mean?

‘Vernon liked variety, trying new things. It was exciting –
he
was exciting,’ she said, smiling coyly.

I wished my hands weren’t on the table so I could clench my fists.

I tried balling up my feet instead, but it wasn’t the same.

Had she fancied VJ when she was with me?

Had he coveted her all along?

I wanted to know all the things I didn’t want to know.

Why the hell had I come here? I
knew
it was a mistake.

‘What Vernon really liked was rough sex. Spanking, biting, slapping, choking. Pain. Giving, not receiving. I’m not the submissive type. I hated it. I mean I tried… I went along with it, to please him. I thought it was another phase, something he wanted to try out and would get bored with.

‘But it wasn’t a phase. And he didn’t get bored. He went further, until he was outright hurting me. We’d have rules. Safety words and signals. But he’d ignore them. One night he choked me so hard with his belt I thought he was going to kill me. I told him I’d had enough. That I wasn’t into any of it. Never had been. That I hated it. Sorry, am I embarrassing you?’

No,
horrifying me
. I remembered what Fabia had told me.

I shook my head. ‘Did he stop?’

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘But he was distant with me afterwards. Things weren’t right. I tried talking to him about it, and he was evasive. We almost broke up.

‘Then he went away with Ahmad to New York for a couple of weeks, touting for clients. It was a very successful trip. When he came home, he was back to being himself, back to being the man I loved. We had sex for the first time in ages, and it was totally normal – no hitting, no choking. It was like we’d never been to those other places. And it stayed that way.’

‘He never slapped or choked you again?’

‘No, all that stopped. He even apologised for what he’d done, said he’d gone too far. And I didn’t think any more of it. I got pregnant and our lives changed,’ she said. ‘We were so happy – s
o, so
happy. But now I know why. He was going out for what he couldn’t get at home. Just like every other man who uses whores. I don’t think we could ever be happy again.’

‘I thought you told me you knew.’

‘I didn’t
know
. I assumed there were others. I never asked him because I didn’t want him to lie,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, quietly, reaching across the table to take her hand.

She didn’t notice.

‘Aren’t you going to have that?’ she asked, pointing at my glass.

‘I don’t drink,’ I said.

‘At all?’

‘No.’

‘Poor you.’

She took my glass.

I was still holding her hand, which hadn’t moved.

What was I doing here? I didn’t even know her any more. I’d been listening to a stranger who happened to look a lot like someone who broke my heart a long time ago.

Melissa went over to the sink, and turned the taps on full.

‘I’ve got to get going,’ I said.

She didn’t turn round. I didn’t think she’d heard me over the jets of water. This was going to be an easy enough exit.

Then I noticed she was crying.

I couldn’t leave her like this. What had she done to me anyway? It was almost twenty years ago. I wasn’t going to see her again. Probably.

So I could finally say goodbye, wish her the best. And mean it.

I went over to her and put my hands on her shoulders. She was wearing a man’s T-shirt. One of VJ’s, I bet. She might be leaving him to his fate, but she still loved the bastard. And she always would, no matter how much she hated him.

The taps were roaring. I could hear her sobs, feel her quaking.

I reached over and closed the taps.

She turned round and gazed up at me. Her eyes were red and wet and puffy, her cheeks were glistening with tear streaks and her nose had started running. And do you know what? Despite every damn thing I’ve just said, she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen – or known.

She put her arms around my waist and pulled me in tight and rested her head on my chest. She wasn’t wearing a bra and I felt her breasts pressing against my shirt.

I really couldn’t help it. My dick went rock hard.

I hugged her closer and stroked the back of her head. I remembered how she’d liked me doing that.

Then I kissed her forehead.

And our eyes locked. I stroked her face, and she was still holding me tight, tighter, not letting go.

She raised her face slightly and closed her eyes, which was what she’d always done right before we kissed.

I bent my head down and our lips touched. And touched again. And then they met. Her eyes were still closed. Her mouth opened and our tongues met. I tasted wine, and I knew that if this went any further my life was well and truly over. Marriage, family… I’d be a weekend dad…

No.

It wasn’t worth it.

Nothing was.
 

I pulled away.

‘We shouldn’t,’ I said.

She looked at me, blinking, confused, like she wasn’t sure what had just happened.

‘I’m going to go,’ I said, moving towards the door.

She nodded, but not at me, more to herself.

I walked out and went down the corridor. She followed me.

I opened the front door. The wind was up outside, rustling through the leaves, carrying with it the smell of the sea.

She was right behind me.

‘You know what the difference between you and him is?’ she said.

I didn’t answer. There was a bite to her voice.

‘Same as it always was, Terry. He always knew what he wanted and he always had the balls to take it.’

And look where it got him, I thought.

‘Goodbye, Melissa.’

I crossed over Albert Bridge, walking fast; relieved and saddened – but mostly relieved.

The bridge was a beautiful thing to behold, all lit up like a fairground attraction; four thousand bulbs making its frame and gently swaying cables twinkle as though they were made of gold.

I took out my phone to turn it back on. I noticed my cuff was undone. One of my lucky green shamrock cufflinks was missing. It had probably fallen out at Melissa’s house.
Damn.

My phone screen blinked on. I had a message.

He was already there when I arrived, hands in the pockets of his blue raincoat, which he’d buttoned up to the collar, looking up at the huge black brass sculpture that dominated the roof of the arch. The Goddess of Peace descending on a four-horse chariot going full tilt. The horses were frozen in mid-gallop, front hooves raised, heads twisted and turned in different directions, the outer two looking panicked, as if they’d realised they were about to drive the carriage into thin air and certain death.

How many times had I passed this monument sitting in the middle of a busy road outside the walls of Buckingham Palace? I’d lost count. I’d thought nothing of it. Yet until Swayne had arranged to meet on its roof, I’d never known the arch was hollow inside; that it had three floors with a museum and a café, that it was even open to the public.

‘Beats your usual choice of venue,’ I said, knowing better than to say hello and ask him how he was.

Swayne glanced briefly in my direction then moved over to the parapet, and gazed out across the park towards Hyde Park Tube.

It had been raining all day. Thunderstorms in the morning, heavy showers in the afternoon, and now a light and constant drizzle was falling over the city like wet dust.

‘I found Fabia,’ I said.

‘And she’s dead?’ Not even a flicker of a reaction.

‘How do you know?’

‘You wouldn’t be talking to me if she wasn’t.’

‘What’s Scott Nagle got to do with Vernon James?’ I asked.

‘You
have
been busy,’ he said, sarcastically.

‘Tell me.’

‘After Vernon fucked you over, you must’ve thought of shopping him, telling the cops you’d made up his alibi.’

‘Every day,’ I said.

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘The police never had enough evidence to charge him. Vernon wouldn’t have been prosecuted for his dad’s murder. And I would’ve implicated myself and my family for nothing.’

‘Now you know how I feel.’

‘Are
you
implicated in this?’

He laughed and shook his head.

‘You’re closer than you know, but further than you think, Terry. Time is not on your side. If you haven’t got the proof to exonerate Vernon by the time the trial starts, they’ve won.’

‘Who’s “they”?’

‘You know that answer.’

‘Scott Nagle?’

‘Remember the first time we met, and I asked you who the lead barrister was? What did I say when you told me? What were my exact words?’

‘I don’t remember. I was too busy trying to figure out how the hell I was going to work with a dickhead like you.’

Swayne stared straight ahead. The monument was surrounded by a small park, with a path threading under the arch. The only person there was a woman in a short black raincoat standing by the Australian War Memorial, reading the names off the curving grey granite. The grass was an unnatural shade of green, the colour of cheap processed peas and pool table baize.

‘All right. Let’s start with me, then. How did I get this job?’ he asked. ‘It wasn’t through you. And it
definitely
wasn’t Janet Randall.’

‘Sid Kopf insisted on you.’

‘Even though I hadn’t been an investigator for twelve years?’

‘He said you were the best person for the job – for this kind of case.’

‘Was I?’

‘I never had any complaints – apart from your obnoxious personality.’

‘What was I good at, in particular?’ he asked.

‘What is this – an appraisal?’

‘Indulge me.’

‘I liked the way you ran the interviews. That was impressive.’

‘That was acting,’ he said.

‘You got hold of the CPS stuff.’

‘That was bribery.’

Enough of this already.
 

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a long, boring day. I’m tired and I’m standing out here in the rain, when what I really want to do is go home. So why don’t you spare me your famous donkey and carrot act.’

Swayne finally deigned to look at me through his speckled glasses. I was expecting his usual reaction to my annoyances – that punchable half-smirk – but his expression stayed neutral.

‘How good an investigator was I
really
, Terry? How effective was I? Did I bring you results? Did I find you Fabia Masson? Did I even do a good job – or any kind of job?’

Rating him on that scale, no he hadn’t. None of the breakthroughs in the case had come via him. They’d come from me. But surely that was all down to good luck and diligence on my part?

Swayne moved to the opposite corner, where we could see over the barbed wire-topped wall surrounding Buckingham Palace and the gardens beyond.

‘Let’s try this again,’ he said. ‘What do you think of your junior barrister?’

‘Liam Redpath? I don’t know.’

‘You’ve been working with him for three months and you don’t know?’

‘I’ve got nothing to go on. I’ve never seen him in action, in court.’

‘What about meetings – client meetings, case meetings? What’s he like in those?’

‘He doesn’t say much,’ I said.

Swayne let out a short snort.

‘What do barristers do, Terry?’

‘Defend a client.’

‘And how do they do that? With their fists? Their wigs?’

‘Verbally. They talk.’

‘They
talk
. Exactly! All barristers
talk
. They love the sound of their own voices. That’s why they’re barristers, not solicitors. Yet you’ve told me Redpath doesn’t say much. Don’t you think that’s a bit of a problem? A mute barrister? What good’s he going to be in court?’

I could have argued that Christine and Janet did most of the talking during meetings, but Redpath had never made his presence felt in any of them. He’d said little and contributed less.

Just then I had a sense of foreboding about where this was all going. I was starting to see how the broken pieces Swayne was tossing me might fit together.

Swayne misread my silence as ongoing cluelessness and sighed impatiently.

‘How about Christine, then? What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of her?’

‘She’s terminally ill,’ I said.

‘So what’s she doing defending a high-profile murder case?’

‘She’s still good.’

‘When she’s not on two kinds of morphine-based painkillers that make her nod off in her soup, you mean?’

‘She’s
still
good.’

‘Put your personal feelings aside, Terry, and ask yourself: is that
really
true?’

I thought back to when Janet, Kopf and I had put the defence team together. I’d suggested using a female barrister. Kopf had insisted on Christine over Janet’s objections.

It made perfect sense then. The case was a loser. We all thought VJ was guilty. Kopf wanted to bamboozle the jury; smuggle reasonable doubt in the pockets of sympathy. It was a good plan. Janet bought it. As for me, I thought it was cynical genius. I still did.

Yet how good had Christine actually
been
? She’d only got around to asking VJ about his enemies a month into the interviews. She never even
considered
the possibility he could have been set up until I found Fabia. She’d missed things, obvious things. And she was going to trial in under two weeks.

But that wasn’t the only thing wrong with the picture that was slowly coalescing in my head. Redpath, as junior barrister, would have to replace Christine if she was too sick to attend – or continue. He couldn’t carry this trial. Franco Carnavale would shred him.

‘The penny dropping yet, Terry?’ Swayne said, and moved off again.

I stayed put, out of his range. I needed space to think.

What kind of defence team were we, exactly? A dying barrister, a crap junior, a washed-up investigator, and me – an inexperienced clerk… with a grudge against the client.

What kind of defence team were we?

No.
 

Impossible.

Yet who’d brought us all together?

No.
 

It
couldn’t
be.

It wasn’t possible.

It made no sense at all.

Unless…

I walked over to Swayne.

‘Are you saying Sid Kopf
wants
to lose this trial?’ I asked.

‘It’s like I told you the first day we met: “They’re sparing no expense to lose this one.”’

Now I remembered him saying that. I hadn’t picked up on it. How could I?
Why
would I?

I was too stunned to think. My eyes suddenly lost all focus. The view blurred.

‘Ultimately, KRP is the house Scott Nagle built,’ Swayne said. ‘Kopf owes him everything.’

We were looking out over Constitution Hill, and the broad pinkish stretch of road disappearing behind the dense foliage of the flanking trees. Above, on the horizon, was the Big Ben spire and the clockface marking 7.10 p.m. To the left was the London Eye, the spokes and capsules already illuminated.

Spotlights came on under the statue. The horses and carriage looked like they’d sprung from the depths of a tarry pit.

‘Did you work out how they found Fabia?’ he asked me.

‘They followed her.’

Swayne shook his head.

‘They didn’t follow
her
, Terry. They followed
you
.’

‘
What?
’

‘Like they followed you here,’ he said, nodding towards the park. ‘See that woman by the memorial?’

I knew exactly who he meant. I’d noticed her when I first arrived. Dark hair, black raincoat, jeans and trainers. She was standing in exactly the same spot now, half-turned to us.

We’d gone around the sculpture three times, stopping at each point of the compass, pausing at the different views. But Swayne had always lingered here, facing Hyde Park Corner Tube. When I thought he was looking out at the dual carriageway that went into Knightsbridge, he was really checking up on her.

‘She’s waiting for you to leave,’ Swayne said.

He saw the alarm in my face.

‘You have nothing to worry about for now. They’re just keeping tabs on you. They know the police are involved and Nagle won’t want anything getting in the way of the trial. They won’t make a move unless they have to,’ he said.

‘Unless they
have
to?’

‘Put it this way: if you get killed any time soon, you’ll die knowing you were on the right track.’

‘Thanks,’ I said.

‘You’re welcome,’ he chuckled.

They must have started following me from the moment I went to the Silver Service Agency.

Wait…

What if this was more of Swayne’s bullshit?

Only one way to find out.

‘Are they following you too?’ I asked.

‘I don’t interest them.’

‘Which way did you come here?’

‘Piccadilly.’

The opposite direction to me.

I led him back around the sculpture, so we were out of sight.

‘Give me your coat,’ I said, unzipping my waterproof.

‘Why?’

‘I want to see if you’re telling the truth.’

‘This isn’t a game, Terry. I’m being very serious.’

‘We’ll see.
Coat
.’

‘This really isn’t a good idea – for either of us.’

‘Because you’re lying?’

‘I’m not lying,’ he said. ‘You don’t know —’

‘
Coat!
’

Swayne emptied his pockets – phone, wallet, keys, his spectacle case and a pack of tissues – and handed me his raincoat.

‘Go back the way you came,’ I said, trying to button up his mac. It was tight around my shoulders and wouldn’t do up without looking ridiculous.

Swayne started heading for the exit.

‘Terry…’

‘Go back the way you came,’ I said. ‘I’ll be watching.’

He left.

I went back and looked at the woman at the memorial. She hadn’t moved.

I started cursing Swayne and his too small raincoat and his bullshit and riddles. He was probably pissing himself laughing now.

A couple walked past the woman.

I turned to Constitution Hill.

I glanced back at the memorial.

The woman was gone.

I searched the park. No sign of her.

Then I spotted her, on the path, right before she disappeared under the arch.

I turned my head. There was Swayne, moving away, his hood up, walking at a steady pace.

The woman reappeared on the other side of the arch, keeping her distance from Swayne, but keeping him in sight.

And that’s when I got seriously scared.

And I ran.