A Greater Evil Page 12
‘Thank you, sir. One relief is the lack of press interest. I’d expected with such a high-profile group of people we’d have them on our tails from Day One.’
A short sharp laugh made her wonder what she’d missed. ‘That too will be because of the saintly Mrs Mayford. I’d lay a sizeable sum on her being best mates with the most important editors, or at least someone influential at the Press Council. But it’s a two-edged benefit.’
Caro raised her eyebrows at the weird metaphor.
‘Although it may be keeping the dogs off you,’ he said with the air of a man deigning to explain the obvious, ‘it also means less pressure on the husband. You might have had more luck getting him to talk if he’d been all over the pages as the prime suspect.’
Caro waited. She was sure there was more to come.
‘And it wouldn’t be sub judice because we haven’t charged him yet.’
Chapter Ten
Christmas lunch had taken more than two hours so far. Trish, who felt as though she would have to sit very still for a long time to allow her body to deal with the quantity and richness of the food she’d eaten, looked down the long table to where George sat and raised her glass to him. The whole feast had been his triumph, a miracle of cookery, timing and generosity. No one had wept or shouted, or been sick; the brandy poured over the pudding had burned with blue and orange flames for longer than Trish had ever seen; and David’s face was still bright with excitement as he chattered to his big blonde Australian Aunt Susie.
Sam was sitting next to Trish’s mother and seemed to be confiding in her. Trish read interest in her mother’s expression and concern in the way she was leaning towards him. As tall as Trish and even thinner these days, Meg looked as though the slightest push could knock her over, but she had more guts than anyone Trish had ever known; and more instinctive sympathy for anyone in trouble.
There were those who said Trish had an uncanny knack of getting people to talk, but with her it was a matter of asking the right questions and interpreting often unspoken aspects of the answers to get at the truth. Meg was different: she had only to enter a room for the most troubled people in it to come and tell her the story of their lives. Whatever talent Trish had was undoubtedly part of her genetic inheritance from her mother, to counteract, she sometimes thought, the tendency to fury and other even less appealing traits she had inherited from her father.
It was lucky, she decided as she let ideas meander without direction or censorship, that his current girlfriend had grown-up children from her first marriage and that they were happy to include him in their Christmas plans.
‘One tradition in my family,’ George announced, breaking into her musing, ‘is to make a toast at this point in the festivities.’
David’s cousins exchanged mocking glances at the prospect of yet another strange English custom, while Susie frowned them down. Sam looked away from Meg for a second, his eyes flickering in Trish’s direction. From her side of the table, his expression looked odd. There was a faint smile on his lips, but his eyes were bleak. Trish couldn’t work out what the funny little smile meant and hoped it held some pleasure, or at least amusement, rather than pure bitterness.
‘Absent friends,’ George said, raising his glass. Everyone else followed suit, even Sam after a tiny hesitation, the children making their toast in soft drinks.
‘That was nice, George,’ Meg said, pushing back her chair. Perhaps she’d had enough of Sam’s confidences. She definitely didn’t look happy. ‘A good tradition. You’ve worked so hard you ought to let some of us clear now.’
‘We don’t do the washing-up yet,’ he said, sharing smiles with his mother before blowing a kiss to Trish. He looked comfortable and serene and quite unlike the worried butt of office politics. ‘The light’s already going, so if we’re to have our walk, we need to go now. The dishes can wait.’
‘Walk?’ said Susie. ‘After all that food? I’m only good for lying down now.’
‘You must walk.’ George was definite. ‘Otherwise you won’t sleep tonight. We needn’t go far. I thought we could stroll along the south bank to the Millennium Bridge, cross the river there, carry on down Queen Victoria Street, back over Blackfriar’s Bridge and so home. Just to get some air and see London as the daylight goes completely and the lights make the sky look dark blue. You’ll like it, I promise. Come on.’
Groaning, laughing, they all pushed themselves up from the table, littered now with tangerine peel, broken crackers, nutshells and chocolate papers, and found their coats and scarves. The weather had done them proud, avoiding the snow that always turned into dirty slush in London but providing a crisp frost that made the air feel like champagne as it prickled against their skin. George hung back to hug Trish.
‘Was that all right?’ he said.
‘It was amazing. Everybody loved it. I’ve never seen nine people smile so much. I just hope no one collapses in the cold.’
‘They won’t. D’you want to go ahead, while I give the mothers an arm each?’
Trish wriggled through the small crowd, fished her keys from the bowl by the front door, nodded to Sam, who was waiting there, and pulled it open.
Cameras flashed in her eyes, making her fall back and grab the door. Sam put a protective arm around her shoulders and steadied her.
‘What the—’
‘Sam Foundling? How does it feel to know the police aren’t looking for any other suspects in your wife’s murder?’ shouted one coarse voice.
‘Sam, this way!’
‘Is it true your alibi’s bust?’
‘What would you say to—’
Trish got the door shut and unbuttoned her coat. Fury that their perfect day was spoiled churned in her gut with dread of what the others might say or do. Very conscious of Sam at her side, she turned first to George’s mother.
‘I’m really sorry, Selina. If I’d had any idea this might happen, I would never have staged Christmas here. Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ she said, but she looked shaken. With an obvious effort, she added: ‘I’m sure it’s not your fault, Trish. And we have been having a lovely day.’
George took her arm to steady her, leaving Trish to make more apologies to Meg and the others. She could see Susie wanting to ask questions and knew she couldn’t answer honestly with the children listening.
‘I don’t think we should all walk,’ she said quickly to forestall them. ‘It’s too provocative. George, would you like to take the family out, while I’ll make a cup of tea for Sam?’
‘Sure.’ His eyes looked worried in spite of the wide smile that pinned back his lips. ‘I’ll go out first. Meg, will you bring up the rear?’
Trish watched her mother nod, then look at her with questioning eyes.
‘Unless Trish and Sam want company?’ she said.
‘We’ll be fine,’ Trish said, trying to put all the necessary reassurance into her voice. ‘You’ll have the toughest time getting through them, but when they see Sam’s not with you, they should let you pass. And you can always remind them they’re trespassing on my stairs.’
‘They’ll only retreat to the street,’ George said, before turning to Susie to offer his free arm. ‘You know they’re unlikely to get bored and go away.’
‘I know,’ Trish said. ‘But I’ll do what I can to take down the tension by making tea for them too. They must have been out there for hours and will probably be freezing.’
She hoped George would be able to explain what was happening in a way the others would forgive. She had considered warning them about Sam, knowing news of the murder was most unlikely to have reached the Australian press, but decided it would be easier for everyone if they came to him without preconceptions. The risk of someone’s saying something hurtful was less than the likelihood of stiffness and embarrassment if they were circling round the subject no one must mention. The door clicked behind them all.
‘Bastards!’
At the sound of Sam’s explosive voice, she turned to
see him standing only a couple of feet away, his fists balled at his sides and his face reddening.
‘How the fuck am I supposed to cope if everywhere I go people accuse me of killing her? And how the fuck did they know I was here? Your fucking friend the chief inspector, I suppose.’
There was no answer, so Trish went silently into her narrow kitchen to make tea. She had to guess the number of photographers and journalists outside and took ten mugs down from their shelf. There were plenty of mince pies left; they might help too. She filled two plates and waited for the kettle to boil.
‘Sam,’ she called over her shoulder in a gentle voice designed to take some of the tension out of the atmosphere. ‘I think the best thing to do now is for each of us to take out a tray of tea and mince pies and offer them round. When you get to the end of the line, you can either give me the empty tray or dump it on the ground and simply walk through them. Okay? That way, their hands are going to be occupied with hot mugs, so they’re unlikely to take any more photographs as you go.’
‘They’ve already got plenty of shots. And if anything I felt shows in my face they’ll be corkers.’
Trish understood, but she felt a stirring of impatience too. She was doing her best to help. If he chose not to cooperate, he was going to make things worse for himself with the press.
‘Sorry,’ he said abruptly. ‘Your mother-in-law’s right: it’s not your fault. But the way people see me now matters.’
‘Of course it does, Sam, but …’
‘Because of the baby. I’m not stupid; I know they’re keeping her in hospital longer than they need. I know how close I am to losing her for good. I can’t be shown up as a violent thug in the papers as well as the minds of the police and my mother-in-law or I’ll never be allowed to have her home.’
Trish knew it too. There was no comfort to offer and she wasn’t going to pretend.
‘Which is sodding ironic given how hard I tried to persuade Ceel to wait before we tried to get pregnant.’ He looked away, but the tightness of his shoulders and the way he’d curved his back to protect himself were eloquent enough. At last he faced Trish again. She flinched from the pain in his eyes.
‘She wanted children, you see, but I didn’t think we were ready. I didn’t think I was ready. She said I needn’t worry, that with her history, and being so far past the peak of fertility, it would take years before she got pregnant. But it happened more or less straight away. And we were stuck with it. At least that’s how it seemed then.’
‘Her history? What history?’
‘Oh. Well. You know. She’d been on the pill for years.’ Sam wasn’t looking at her. ‘Your water’s boiling over.’
The over-full kettle was pouring out so much steam its lid was wobbling. Trish made the tea.
‘Are you up for another sortie, Sam? There’s too much for me to carry out on my own.’
‘I suppose so. If I’m holding a tray, I can’t hit any of them.’
‘That would be a mistake,’ Trish said, trying for a light-hearted tone. ‘So, here we are. You take this one and I’ll follow with the other. Have you got your keys?’
He nodded, gripped the tray and strode to the door. Trish followed, wishing, as she’d often wished before, that misery didn’t make some people aggressive.
More camera flashes and shouted questions greeted them as Sam stepped out. But the mood changed with comic speed as the enemy saw they were to be fed. Hands reached out for George’s overflowing pies and the hot mugs.
‘You must be freezing,’ Trish said with her biggest smile. ‘How long have you all been out here?’
‘Hours,’ said one man with a camera hanging around his neck. Crumbs of rich pastry flew out of his mouth. ‘There’s been no other news this Christmas. Not so far anyway.’
She watched the dirty looks his colleagues directed his way. Sam quietly walked down the iron staircase, propping his tray at the bottom and was away down the street before they noticed. A few of the photographers took shots of his back view then.
‘Just leave the mugs on the step when you’re done,’ Trish said, turning to go back inside.
‘How will the judge feel next time you’re in front of her,’ said one quiet female voice, ‘knowing how much support you’re giving to the man who killed her daughter?’
Trish looked at the woman. She was young and fair, as unlike the accepted image of a reptilian hack as possible. But that didn’t make her question any less dangerous. Trish took a moment to plan her answer.
‘First, Mrs Justice Mayford would never allow any personal consideration whatsoever to affect her in court. Second, there is nothing to suggest Sam Foundling had any part in what happened to his wife. It’s outrageous to talk as though he could be guilty.’
Without waiting for a reaction or any more questions, Trish went back inside, hoping she hadn’t said all the wrong things. Like most other barristers who’d conducted big cases in the London courts, she had often been filmed by television news cameras as she’d emerged on the steps with her clients. But she’d never been interviewed or had to justify any of her actions to the press. It was nearly always the solicitors who read out clients’ statements.
Still troubled, she surveyed the wreck of George’s triumph and was glad to know this was one mess she would be able to clear up. Housework could be remarkably soothing, especially when it involved hot water. As soon as she’d loaded the crockery into the dishwasher and set it going, she filled the sink, added a slug of detergent and set about the glasses, glad to know a pile of silver waited for when they were done, and greasy pans after that.
Through her own clattering and splashing, she heard the journalists clomping down her iron staircase to the street. Car doors banged and engines revved. It could have been a decoy departure, but with Sam gone there wouldn’t be much point in their staying. George and the others should have a free passage when they returned.
Much later, when the Australian party had gone back to their hotel, David was getting ready for bed and George was desultorily chatting to his mother on the sofa, Meg asked to have another look at the latest painting Trish had hung in her bedroom. Together they climbed the spiral staircase. At the top, Meg ignored the new canvas, plumping down instead in the spoon-backed chair in the corner.
Trish recognized the signs and obediently stretched herself out on the big bed, piling George’s pillows on top of her own so that she was still semi-upright.
‘What?’ she asked, watching the serious expression on Meg’s lined face.
‘You obviously like Sam,’ she said slowly, ‘and I can see why. He’s very appealing.’
‘But?’
‘I think there’s more to him than he shows.’ Meg brushed her thin cheek with one hand in a troubled gesture long familiar to Trish. ‘He was telling me how guilty he feels.’
‘About what?’ Trish felt cold in spite of the efficient radiator coils in the corners of the room. She tried not to recognize her own fear.
Meg looked as though she knew exactly what was going on in Trish’s head. ‘His actual words were, “about so much to do with my wife”.’
‘Did he tell you he’d killed her?’ Prayer didn’t form part of Trish’s life, but if it had, now would have been the time to give it her all.
‘Not in so many words. The guilt he was actually admitting was about not being in the studio to protect her when she was attacked.’
Trish felt her neck muscles let go and she lay more comfortably against the pillows. But Meg hadn’t finished.
‘What’s worse, he said, is knowing how his jealousy of her past lovers stopped her talking about any of the other men she had to deal with at work. He’s afraid that’s why she never said anything to him about the bloke her colleagues say was harassing her.’
‘I can see how a man who’d been abandoned as a baby would hate the idea of other men. Can’t you? At some level, he must always have been afraid one of them would pop up again and make her abandon him all over again.’
‘Why are you sounding so doubtful? Isn’t it the likeliest possibility?’
‘I don’t think so.’
There was so much pity in Meg’s voice that Trish shivered again and pulled George’s half of the duvet over herself so that she felt like a silkworm in its cocoon.
‘We had a man in the surgery once who told us his wife had been beating him up,’ Meg said, still in the kind, regretful voice. ‘He came again and again, always with injuries. We were all worried, I mean the receptionists as much as the doctors, and we persuaded him to go to the police to report his wife. Eventually they set up video surveillance and what that showed shocked us all.’
‘How did you come to see police videos?’
Meg’s face crumpled a little. ‘It was the only way they could persuade us to believe what they’d seen. Every time the man was injured, the fight had started with him hitting his wife. She was just hitting back, Trish, trying to defend herself. The reason he’d convinced us he was her victim is that he’d convinced himself first. He wasn’t consciously lying. He genuinely believed it was her aggression not his own that led to the injuries.’
Trish nodded without speaking. This wasn’t an alien concept, but she didn’t want to get into a conversation about spousal abuse with her mother. She’d only witnessed one occasion on which her father had hit Meg, but she was sure there had been others. Even now, more than thirty years later, Trish found it impossible to deal with the mixture of rage, pity, helplessness, and guilt for not having stopped it.
‘There’s no need to look so tragic,’ Meg said. ‘Just remember that things are very rarely as simple as you’d like them to be. What does your mate Caro think about this Sam?’
‘She’s the senior officer in charge of the investigation and she’s sure he’s guilty. We’re not speaking at the moment.’