A Greater Evil Page 24

  ‘Idiot,’ she muttered, just as Bettina walked in with Felicity draped against her shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said immediately. ‘What—’

  ‘Not you. Someone involved in the engineering of the Arrow. We’re going to need Giles to get us a computer whizz. When you’ve put Felicity down, I’ll show you what I mean.’

  Bettina settled the baby, then came to stand at Trish’s shoulder and listen to her explanation.

  ‘And so you see,’ she said at the end, ‘what I think must have happened is that when Guy Bait signed off on the drawings, specifications and letters inviting contractors to tender for the project, he didn’t notice that a decimal place had gone astray in the diameter of the outer cables. Look, the actual figures are the same for both inner and outer cables. It’s just that the outer ones should have been ten times the size.’

  ‘And no one else noticed either? Is that possible?’

  ‘Why not? Think about it: all the double-double-checking that went on before the drawings and specifications were finalized would have been done on the correct diameter. Then somehow the mistake was made – human error presumably. Probably someone, late at night and fuzzy-brained, thought they were making a crucial correction to ensure consistency with the other cables. And Guy, the only partner around in mid-August, signed off on it all without noticing what had happened.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he have been rather young for that kind of responsibility?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Trish smiled up at her. ‘But, as I say, the invitations to tender went out in August, when most of the more senior partners would have been on holiday with their children.’

  ‘But it was a huge project. How could they have—’

  ‘It’s only huge to us. Forbes & Franks International deal with buildings and dams and motorways on a far bigger scale all over the world all the time. This would’ve been fairly run-of-the-mill for them.’

  ‘And no one would have had any reason to check back through the paperwork Guy had signed,’ Bettina said, at last thinking through all the ramifications in a way that pleased Trish. ‘Unless there was a problem. Which there wasn’t until the Arrow had actually been built and started to crack.’

  ‘Exactly. But at that stage, when everybody started looking for the reason for the cracking, they tested the actual components that had been used. So they’d have done it against the specifications, not against the original calculations – which means the cables would have looked right. The decimal point must have slipped – or been changed – during that one small gap between the final approval of the scheme and the printing of hard copies of drawings and documents sent out for tender.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘And then, I think,’ Trish went on, ‘someone must have realized what had happened and tried to hide it by altering the diameter of the outer cables in all the original files too, so that they matched.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The obvious suspects are whoever actually made the mistake in the first place and Guy Bait, who didn’t notice. But it’s dangerous to rely on the obvious.’

  Trish thought of Sam, and of the man on the Tube who she’d been so sure had had a bomb. She ran her fingers through her hair as vigorously as though she was washing it, rubbing away the memory of the shame she’d felt then.

  ‘Guy certainly ought to be far too clever to have done such a half-arsed job.’

  ‘What d’you mean, Trish?’

  ‘Look, whoever did it changed the diameter of the cables in all the documents and drawings and in the stress tests, but didn’t bother to change the other figures in the tests to make the sums work. If he had done that, we’d never have spotted it.’

  Light dawned in Bettina’s eyes, and with it an anger that pleased Trish even more. ‘How do we find out who it was?’

  ‘How do I know?’ Trish said, sounding as frustrated as she felt. ‘It shouldn’t matter as far as our case goes. The building was erected with cables only one-tenth of the size they should have been – which means that Leviathan cannot be held liable for the failure.’

  ‘Don’t you care who it was?’

  Trish had to laugh. ‘Of course. Who wouldn’t? But we must be practical. If Giles produces good enough computer experts they may be able to show how it was done and when, which will probably throw up a name. But it doesn’t matter to us.’

  ‘You know, altering those figures would be very hard to do,’ Bettina said, with a frown nearly as forbidding as Caro’s.

  ‘Would it? I thought hackers could do anything with computers.’

  Bettina shook her head. ‘There was an extranet for all the different professionals involved in the Arrow’s design.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Extranets are set up so that no one can change anything without it being absolutely clear to all the others. Once a file has been uploaded, it’s effectively locked and can only be changed by uploading a revised version. The extranet audit trail logs anything like that and keeps a record of all the changes, who made them, and who received them.’

  Trish looked at her pupil with a mixture of astonishment and awe. ‘Are you sure there isn’t a way round the audit trail?’

  ‘I can’t think of one.’

  ‘Then I’ll have to see if Giles can come up with someone who knows even more about computers than you.’ Trish chewed at her lower lip. ‘There must be a way. Nothing else explains why no one noticed there were figures in the stress tests that didn’t add up. Will you get Giles on the phone for me?’

  ‘Sure.’ Bettina’s expression suggested she was truly engaged in her work for the first time since Trish had known her.

  The whole story had to be explained to Giles, who was even less ready to be convinced than Bettina. Trish wondered whether she should have gone to his office to draw it for him. Patiently, she went through it all again, and once more for luck. Then she put down the phone and waited for him to get back to her. She knew it would take some time.

  Sam stood in the dock, listening in disbelief. The magistrate wanted to overrule the CPS, who’d said they were prepared to see him get bail until his trial. Just because he’d been three-quarters of an hour late this morning, the old bags on the bench wanted to stick him in a cell for the next ten months or more.

  Was Gina behind this? It would give her the chance she needed to get control of Felicity. His hands curled into fists and he had to fight to keep from banging them on the smooth wooden edge of the dock. The only way was to force them down against the grain, grinding his skin into it.

  Frankie Amis was on her feet now, arguing for his right to bail to be restored, even if it had to have conditions attached. He could feel blood pouring into his face as he clenched every muscle to control himself. A vein pumped in his temple too. He was sure the magistrates must be able to see it. Would it make them think he was dangerous?

  It wasn’t possible to relax. If Frankie didn’t win this, he’d be taken into a police van and driven straight from here to whichever hellhole they’d picked for him. He thought of his trip to Holloway, and the hate and violence he’d had to watch.

  He hadn’t locked the studio properly. The stove was still alight too. They’d never let him go back to sort it all out. Would Trish help? Even if she turned off the stove and locked up, she couldn’t do anything about the new head for the Prix Narcisse. It would dry out under its cloth and crumble into nothing. And Felicity would be taken away. She’d be another child growing up without a father. Gina would never mistreat her, but what if Gina lost interest or died? What guarantee was there that Felicity would be safe? Who could be trusted to make sure? And how would it be when he was let out in the end? Would she scream at the sight of him? Or hate him?

  Then the killer thought hit him: would he even want her back?

  The women’s voices clacked in his ears and didn’t reach his mind.

  Gina nodded to the claimant’s counsel, who’d just finished his closing speech on his client’s behalf. She couldn’t stop hersel
f looking up at the clock. Sam’s appearance before the magistrates must have finished. Had they given him bail? What was going to happen to Felicity? How should she set about finding the best nanny? It would have to be someone young but with impeccable references, who’d be prepared to live in and could be trusted to do everything Cecilia would have done for her daughter. It would be easier this time round, now that Gina had all the money she’d need for every kind of permanent help. And …

  ‘… my lady?’

  Gina looked up. Defending counsel must have been talking for several minutes. She had to focus. Whatever was happening in Southwark, she couldn’t let these people down. But for a moment she couldn’t remember who they were or what their argument was.

  Trish was still waiting for an interim response from Giles Somers. To keep her impatience under control, she tidied up the digital files and relabelled the copies so she couldn’t get muddled about which was which. She phoned Jenny Clay to tell her how her perception and honesty might have broken the case, and promised to get back to both her and Dennis as soon as there was more information. Bettina was back at work and Felicity chuntering peacefully, sucking at her lower lip.

  Trish’s phone rang. Watching the baby’s face, she answered the call. The junior clerk told her Sam Foundling and his solicitor had arrived.

  ‘We can hand Felicity over now,’ she said to Bettina as she put down the phone.

  ‘I’ll miss her.’

  ‘Me too, but she’s too much of a distraction.’ The door opened and Trish got to her feet. ‘Sam. How’re you feeling?’

  And that’s a stupid question, she thought as she took in his

  hollow eyes and bitten lips. He needed to wash too.

  ‘I’ll live. In the end they gave me bail, thanks to Frankie here, so it’s over for the next ten months or so, before I hear whether I’m to spend the rest of my life in prison.’

  ‘It won’t come to that,’ the solicitor said, taking on responsibility for comforting him. Trish was grateful. Lie though she sometimes had to, she hated it.

  ‘That being so,’ Sam went on, pretending he didn’t care, ‘I’ll take Felicity off your hands. How’s she been?’

  ‘Amazing. We kept to your routine, and apart from the early bit of the first night, she’s been really good. I’ve got some of her stuff in my car downstairs. I’ll come down with you.’

  Trish noticed that Frankie Amis didn’t join them. Sam wanted to know whether Gina had been in touch and Trish relayed everything she could remember of their talks and Gina’s visit.

  ‘Will you be all right, loaded down like that?’ she asked as he hefted the carrycot off the ground by her car.

  ‘Yeah. I’ll catch a cab if there is one. It’s a bit cold for her out here like this. But we’ll be fine. Don’t worry.’

  ‘You will phone if you need me, won’t you?’

  He nodded, raised a hand and wheeled round to leave the Temple by the Embankment gate.

  Back in her room, Trish found Frankie waiting and heard a fuller version of the morning’s proceedings.

  ‘Mrs Mayford talked of briefing Jake Kensal for the defence,’ Trish said. ‘Do you think he’ll take the case?’

  ‘He already has. I wanted to have a word with you before I talk to him.’

  Trish felt Bettina’s curiosity like a kind of mist settling over her skin. She wished she could think of a good excuse to get her out of the room. Trying to ignore her, she smiled at Frankie.

  ‘Sure. Look, sit down and tell me what you need.’

  ‘Mrs Mayford tells me you’re convinced of Sam’s innocence. Why?’

  Trish stamped on all her doubts and spoke as confidently as though she were giving a closing speech in court. ‘I don’t believe in this elaborate set-up to provide an alibi, with confusing timings and so on. It’s ludicrous in the context of the overwrought violence of what was done to Cecilia. Far too well planned. And then because the day he came here to talk to me—’

  ‘The day his wife died?’

  ‘Exactly. He was completely obsessed with the question that brought him here. Cecilia wasn’t anywhere in his mind. Has he told you why he needed to talk to me?’

  ‘Yes. And I can understand why he didn’t want anyone else to know. It’s good of you to have kept it quiet.’

  ‘There’s nothing else really,’ Trish said, ‘except my feelings about him – not for him, but about him. I do not believe he is violent. Not now. Whatever he was like as an adolescent, I believe he’s got past it.’

  ‘Your feelings are not susceptible to proof,’ Frankie said with all the casual disdain so many solicitors used without even thinking of the effect it might have.

  Trish had taken years to break George of the habit and even now stress could bring it back. She hated it.

  ‘Jake Kensal may want to call an expert psychiatric witness to testify to his ability to overcome his old violence,’ Frankie went on, ‘although that can be dangerous with juries these days. They’re more and more reluctant to trust experts after those cot-death cases. But apart from that, we haven’t got a lot.’

  ‘There are some bits of evidence that might throw doubt on the prosecution’s allegations,’ Trish said, working far harder than Frankie to avoid trampling on other people’s sensibilities. ‘I think the police have been studying CCTV tapes of the Somerset House ice rink on the morning Cecilia died. Could you get hold of them?’

  ‘Of course. But it may take ages.’

  ‘I’d like to see them. If they show what I think they may, that would be something you could use.’

  Frankie shrugged, not looking remotely convinced, then nodded. Trish wasn’t sure what either gesture meant.

  The post had been delivered while Sam was in court. As he swung the carrycot across the studio threshold, he saw the letter on top of the sprawling pile. It was from Maria-Teresa Jackson.

  He did everything Felicity could possibly want before settling her in the crook of his arm to give her a bottle, then put her down for her afternoon sleep. At last he could have the shower he so badly needed. Clean again, and warmer, he wrapped himself in a bathtowel the size of a Roman toga to heat some tinned meatballs and baked beans on the old Baby Belling’s double rings.

  Spooning the food into his mouth as though he’d been starved for a week, he stared at the untouched pile of envelopes by the door. He decided to get dressed first. Only when he’d run out of excuses did he rip hers open.

  Dere Sam,

  Im’ sory you sore that beeting. I’d never of wanted you too. Im beter now. Just bruized stil and my eye looks badd. Wourse than it feles.

  I heard what you sed when you come here and Im’ not going to try and change yore mind. I unnerstand. Its only write after what I done for you too be free of mee now.

  But think of mee now my trile’s come up. Its’ at the Old Baylie. I’m scard. I do’nt mind what they do too mee, not now I have’nt got you nor Danny no mor, but Im’ scard of standing thare in that dock heering what they say about me.

  He’s in the dock two, neere enough to tuch, and I never wont to see him agen after what he dun to Danny.

  Think of me, Son. I’m so scard. Maria-Teresa Jackson

  Sam lit a match, but he couldn’t make himself set fire to the letter. When the flame reached his fingers, he cursed and blew it out.

  Felicity woke, crying with an urgency that was new. He stuffed the letter under a pot of orange sticks on his desk and ran to pick her up. It took nearly half an hour to get her calm enough to lie down. She started crying each time he put her in the carrycot.

  Kissing the top of her downy head when he’d picked her up yet again, he noticed the way the brain pulsed between the bony plates of her skull under the thin skin. Or was it just her blood pumping? He could fit her whole skull into one hand. The most vulnerable part of her body had no protection at all. His own survival from birth to the moment he was discovered on the hospital steps was taking on a miraculous aspect. Maybe he hadn’t been uniquely unfo
rtunate.

  He strapped the sling around his body and levered Felicity in. She felt warm against his chest. The weight of her made him aware of his heart as it beat with a steady thud. Could he work like this? Encumbered but warmer than he could remember feeling in his life, he flexed his arms. They still moved freely.

  He’d never know unless he tried. Still afraid of her presence, needing to protect her, feeling weird with her small body between him and his work, he put his hands on the clay, and let ideas about fragility flood his mind.

  The next day, Trish was sitting in Frankie Amis’s office, with the Somerset House CCTV tape running. She was amazed at how quickly the police had disgorged it. Was it a sign Caro was feeling so guilty about what she was doing to Sam that she wanted to bend over backwards to help his defence? Or was it evidence of her absolute confidence that he was guilty?

  Cecilia was easy enough to spot with her great pregnant belly taking up the space of two ordinary-sized people. Beside her walked a man of medium height. At first his face was fuzzy, like Cecilia’s, but as they neared the camera their features were more visible. He looked rather like Chekhov without the beard. She looked troubled. Trish searched the crowd behind them, peering forward as though she could make the tape reveal what she needed. But she couldn’t see anyone else she recognized.

  ‘What did you expect?’ Frankie said, seeing her droop.

  ‘One of the two other men who I think could have killed her,’ Trish said.

  ‘I can’t believe you made me get it for that. It’s not our job to show who did it, only to maintain that the police haven’t proved it was Sam Foundling.’

  ‘I thought …’ Trish hesitated. She’d seen Guy Bait only once and couldn’t conjure up a very precise idea of his appearance, except that he had not been as tall as she was and he had a pleasant roundish face and short hair. And a very quiet voice, which wasn’t relevant to his appearance. But, allowing for the difference in age, he did look rather like Dennis. They were the same physical type at least. And so was Sam.