A Greater Evil Page 29

  Nearly thirty minutes later, she had two almost certain sightings of Guy and noted the time, which was shown in white figures at the bottom right of the screen. The first was nearly twenty minutes before Cecilia arrived at Somerset House; the second only two minutes after she left.

  Trish thought of skipping out of the building with the tape in her bag, but decided it wasn’t worth the risk of pissing off Frankie as well as Caro, so she took the tape back to the solicitor’s office and hurried back to chambers to organize her material as carefully as though she was about to go into court.

  *

  Caro opened the door of the flat she shared with Jess, looking anything but welcoming. She was still dressed in one of the dark suits she habitually wore to work, and her thick fair hair was tightly suppressed with matt wax so that it added to the severity she’d once have shed before they met.

  ‘Hi,’ Trish said as breezily as she could. ‘Thanks for this.’

  ‘Do you want a drink?’

  There had never been a less enthusiastic invitation, Trish thought as she said, ‘I’d rather show you what I’ve brought first.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Caro produced a constricted smile, as though trying to make up for her brusqueness. ‘I’m not sure I want to see it, whatever it is. But you’re so damn stubborn I know you’ll make me look, one way or another.’

  Sensing a small thaw, Trish laughed. ‘Come on, old thing. I’m on your side, you know.’ She led the way to the grey sofa, opening her bag as she went.

  There was a pile of Jess’s magazines on the coffee table, as well as a row of cuboid glass vases stuffed with red and purple tulips cut off just under the flowers. They looked glorious, but they were in the way. Trish carefully slid them backwards, then laid out her photographs in their place.

  ‘Look, Caro,’ she said. ‘Here’s Sam Foundling …’

  ‘I told you I didn’t want to hear this.’

  ‘I know. But you have to look. If you can’t see what I mean, I’ll take myself and my ideas away, and I won’t bother you again. But you have to look. You’re too fair-minded to refuse that much.’

  ‘Flattery …’

  ‘Please, Caro. Don’t play games. You sent me photographs of Cecilia’s wounds to remind me why you feel as you do. I looked at your pix; you ought to look at mine. Here’s Sam Foundling in the position in which your witness must have seen him. Okay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And here’s a photograph I took of Guy Bait’s back view earlier in the day yesterday.’

  There was a long pause. At last Caro looked up. Suspicion fought doubt in her suddenly expressive face.

  ‘Aren’t you taking a risk here, Trish? This is what Sam’s defence will produce at his trial. Handing it to me on a plate like this is …’

  ‘Going to make you tell the CPS to withdraw the charge, I hope,’ she said, determined to put everything else on the plate too. ‘This isn’t the only thing. If you take another look at the CCTV tapes from Somerset House, you’ll see that a man who looks extraordinarily like Guy arrived there fifteen minutes before Cecilia and left only two minutes after her.’

  ‘If his back view looks so like Foundling’s,’ Caro said with all the old chill, ‘what makes you think the man on the film couldn’t be Foundling?’

  ‘Because the front views aren’t so alike and because Sam was with me. I know I haven’t got specific times for his arrival at chambers or his departure, but he couldn’t have been at Somerset House at 11.30 and then killed Cecilia, and been with me in the Temple for as long as he was that day. Not physically possible.’

  She laid another print of the photograph of Guy Bait and Malcolm Jensen on the table, pushing the rest back.

  ‘I know you found Guy Bait convincing, but this encounter is evidence that he’s not straight.’

  Before Caro could dismiss her, Trish explained the whole saga she’d already used to convince James Rusham. Caro didn’t give in so easily, but eventually she ran out of reasons to protest.

  Trish then described her trip to Devon and what she’d learned of Guy’s childhood and tendency to violence.

  ‘I wish I could use it all, along with my knowledge of Cecilia, to persuade Guy to talk,’ Trish said, ‘maybe even to confess he begged her to hide the evidence of his mistake over the Arrow’s outer cables when they met in Somerset House, using their old closeness to put emotional pressure on her, but I can’t. I’m too deeply involved in the insurance case. So you’ve got to do it.’

  Caro didn’t speak.

  ‘Look, Caro, it all fits together. You’d heard rumours of a stalker, of whom there’s been no evidence. I no longer think it was Dennis; Guy’s a much more likely candidate. I suspect Cecilia thought he was trying to resuscitate their old relationship, when all he wanted was to make sure she hadn’t discovered his mistake or planned to expose it. When she did discover it—’

  ‘How would he know she had?’ Caro said with a snap like a trap.

  ‘Because of the back door I think he opened in her computer,’ Trish said gently. ‘We know the attack came from a computer at his firm, although we haven’t got any evidence to prove it was he who operated it. He’s just much the likeliest person to have done it. And it seems he has the expertise.’

  ‘You’d better carry on then.’ All the expressiveness had left Caro’s face, along with every scrap of the warmth and affection Trish had once known.

  ‘I think he also picked up the texts she and Professor Suvarov exchanged via her BlackBerry when they arranged to meet in Somerset House that last day. Witnesses have said that Guy hung about waiting until Suvarov had gone, then talked to Cecilia. I think he told her he knew she knew what he’d done, and pleaded with her to help him hide it and save his professional life.’

  ‘This is all getting very complicated. And it’s all speculation in any case.’

  ‘Bear with it a little longer. Cecilia would have refused at once. I know she would. But it’s possible the encounter so troubled her that she rushed – probably by taxi – to her husband’s studio, phoning him on the way and leaving the message you found.’ Trish paused, then added: ‘You’ve never told me what she said.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he has either, which is hardly surprising given how bad it makes him look. It went something like this: “Sam, Sam! Why didn’t you come home last night? I need to talk to you. Please pick up the phone if you’re there. Please. I need to see you. I’m on my way. Please don’t be angry with me.” ’ Caro’s voice was detached, emotionless. ‘She sounded frightened, Trish.’

  ‘So she might, having just had the encounter with Guy Bait. I don’t know whether he threatened her, or whether she was just scared of his fury …’

  ‘If she was as frightened as you’re suggesting, why would she have let Guy Bait into the studio, supposing he really did follow her?’ Caro was still not looking friendly, but at least she was taking the propositions seriously enough to argue now.

  ‘This is only guesswork,’ Trish said, ‘but it could have been because there’s no spyhole in the door, or chain, so she wouldn’t have known it was him until she opened the door. Or—’

  ‘I told you she was attacked while she was lying on the sofa,’ Caro reminded her. ‘She wouldn’t have gone back to lie on it if she’d found a furious enemy on the doorstep.’

  ‘Or,’ Trish went on as she’d planned all along, ‘because the latch hadn’t clicked properly. I saw that happen myself the day you found me scrubbing the floor.’

  ‘What then? What’s the next scene in this mental movie of yours?’

  ‘He tries again,’ Trish said, wondering why Caro looked so blank, almost as though half her mind was somewhere else, ‘hoping to persuade her. When she refuses to help, he grabs one of the sculpting hammers and attacks her. Or maybe he doesn’t even try to persuade her. Maybe he pushes his way in, through the unlatched door. She’s lying on the sofa, assuming the incomer is Sam. By the time she’s realized it isn’t and has managed to push herself
up – I saw how long that took even with a table to lean on – he’s there, holding one of Sam’s hammers in his gloved hand.’

  ‘How d’you know he had gloves?’

  ‘In the CCTV the man who looks just like him has his gloves on. And when I photographed him by the river, he had to take off his gloves – black leather – to eat his sandwich. Unlike Sam, Guy’s a man who habitually has gloves with him.’

  Trish wanted to plead with Caro, threaten her, beg her. She knew she mustn’t. All she could do was sit in silence, while Caro fought the loathing and whatever else had been keeping her so stubborn and so angry all these weeks.

  A key sounded in the front door, then Jess’s light footsteps announced her arrival. She took one look at the two of them, then backed away. Caro raised her head. Her eyes looked even bleaker than during their angriest encounters.

  ‘Leave it with me.’

  ‘Will you—’

  ‘Don’t push it, Trish. What is it you’re always saying to me? It’s better that nine guilty men should go free than that a single innocent one be convicted?’ Caro’s eyes widened as she spoke, clearly seeing too late that she’d just made Trish’s argument for her.

  ‘Don’t push me,’ Sam said into the phone, picturing his agent’s foxy face. ‘I’ve enough pressure at the moment without this. And I don’t work well under pressure.’

  ‘Of course I know you’re under pressure, Sam. And you know how much I sympathize over … over everything that’s happened. But you told me not to get mawkish or make you talk about Cecilia. So I’m trying to stay businesslike. And I need to remind you there isn’t much time, and you may not get another invitation to submit a piece for the Narcisse. Don’t forget, receiving the invitation is like being put on an ordinary long list in itself.’

  ‘I know, I know. Only ten sculptors worldwide get to put in an entry and the prize only happens once every five years,’ Sam rattled off like a child with a well-learned but ill-understood poem. ‘I know.’

  ‘So, how’s it going?’

  Sam looked at the head and couldn’t prevent a smile forming. He damped it down, not wanting it to sound in his voice, which might give his agent an excuse to come round, invading his studio and making comments that couldn’t possibly help at this stage.

  The head had two sides, like a Janus. One showed the naive boy Sam had fought so long. Hoping, yearning, allowing himself to believe there were good people in the world, his eye looked out with eagerness and his half of the mouth smiled. The other side of the face was the fighter: bitter, without hope, older-looking and yet obviously not older in years.

  It scared Sam to see himself so exposed, but there was satisfaction in having got it right. And there was no one left to take advantage of what it betrayed.

  ‘Sam. Sam.’ The voice in his ear had been shouting at him for a while, he realized.

  ‘Yes? What?’

  ‘I asked how the head is going.’

  ‘Not too bad.’

  ‘Don’t forget you’ve only got another week. Will you have it done by then?’

  Sam looked at his faces. ‘Yes.’

  Chapter Twenty Two

  ‘And so, sir, I think we ought to pull him in and hear what he has to say,’ Caro said, standing in front of the chief superintendent.

  ‘Why are you doing this to me? You had weeks to find this man and interview him in the ordinary way. Now, you’ve stirred up the press, charged someone else, and handed the files to the CPS. Are you trying to make us look incompetent as well as ridiculous?’ He glared at her like a basilisk, the mythical serpent that could kill with a breath or a glance. ‘Is this the way you expect to make career progress?’

  ‘Believe me, sir, it’s the last thing I wanted to do. I’ve fought the battle every which way, night after night.’

  ‘You do look as though you’ve not been sleeping.’ He sounded a little kinder.

  ‘It has to be better that we look fools at this stage than that we go through the whole performance of a trial with a defendant we’re not convinced is guilty, when there’s another potential one out there, quite possibly destroying evidence while we dilly-dally. And maybe going on to kill the next person who gets in his way.’

  ‘You’re not seriously trying to persuade yourself he hasn’t already got rid of every single thing that could betray him, are you? If – if mind you – he did kill your victim, he’ll have destroyed any evidence the day he did it.’

  Caro’s phone rang. She wanted to leave it, but he gestured angrily at it. She picked it up and saw Trish’s name on the screen, shook her head and put it down again.

  ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘I need time to think.’

  ‘This is not a good moment,’ Caro said into the phone.

  ‘Sorry.’

  Trish didn’t sound remotely apologetic, Caro thought; more smug.

  ‘I’ve had a thought. He must have been blood-spattered after the attack. I know Sam keeps spare clothes in the studio, so Guy could’ve stripped off his own clothes and put them in the stove. Did you find any evidence of burned textiles there?’

  ‘You can’t expect me to answer that.’

  ‘Which means you did. Why not go to Guy and ask him to provide you with the clothes he can be seen wearing in the Somerset House CCTV?’

  ‘There are plenty of reasons why he might not still have them.’ Caro kept watch on the chief superintendent.

  ‘It’s a thought, though, isn’t it? A way into questioning him, making him feel unsafe enough to need to talk. And if you search his flat, you might find some clothes of Sam’s, something he took from the studio. And Sam might be able to tell you what’s missing from his clothes there.’

  ‘Unlikely. It wasn’t that kind of wardrobe. Thanks for calling.’ That ought to be enough to make Trish realize there was someone in the room with her, who shouldn’t be party to the conversation.

  The chief super wheeled round and stood with his back to the window. ‘All right, Caro. I don’t like it, but I can see where you’re coming from. Clear it with the CPS and then go in. But kid gloves. Even more than last time. And don’t give Foundling’s defence team – or Mrs Justice Mayford – any idea of what you’re doing.’

  ‘And if Guy Bait goes to the press? What then?’

  ‘It’s a gamble, but from what you’ve said, he sounds unlikely to want publicity. Go for it. You can have Glen Makins and a DC. More later, if you turn up anything that convinces me.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  He was half out of the door before he looked back.

  ‘Pray you’re right. Otherwise I can’t see any good end to this, Caro. And I’d be sorry to see you brought down before you’ve even begun.’

  I will kill Trish if she’s messing me about this time, Caro thought, keeping her face free of every expression beyond mild, confident gratitude.

  The chief super nodded and left.

  Trish felt George stir beside her. She hadn’t been able to sleep yet, running over and over everything she’d done, in case there’d been any gaps she should have filled. From here there was no going back. She’d risked all sorts of professional trouble, as well as the friendship that meant so much to her. It could still all go horribly wrong. Cecilia’s killer might get away with it. And Sam might never be free of suspicion that it was him.

  George’s hand landed on her thigh and he moved his thumb in a gentle, circular motion against her skin.

  ‘Can’t sleep?’ he said.

  ‘No.’ She rolled her head to smile at him in the darkness. ‘Mind like a rat in a trap, thrashing about to no good purpose.’

  He slid his hand up, past her hipbone, into the dip before her ribs, then over them, letting his fingers bump a little over each bone, so near the surface of her skin. She flattened her body, to give him better access and saw the shadow of him leaning over her against the thicker blackness beyond. She stretched her free arm towards the light.

  ‘Don’t turn it on,’ he murmured, his lips now moving softly
across her breast, their dryness rough against her skin. ‘Let it be all one sensation, not muddled up with what you can see.’

  Trish lay back and did her best. But George’s intentions were too obvious. She loved making love with him, but being the passive recipient of sex-as-therapy wasn’t the same.

  After a few minutes, she stroked his hair. ‘I’m sorry, George. I’ve lost it.’

  ‘Pity,’ he said. His erection brushed her thigh as he rolled away from her and she felt mean, ungrateful, but unable to fake anything with him. Suddenly she wondered whether the outpouring of physical affection just after Christmas had been a way of blunting anxiety for him. Maybe this move too had been made out of his need, not hers, in which case she had to do something to help.

  ‘George, I …’

  ‘It’s okay. Don’t explain. I hope you sleep. ’Night.’

  Gina Mayford switched on her light to look at the clock she’d had since childhood. Its illuminated numbers had long since faded.

  ‘Four thirty,’ she muttered aloud, and half turned to beat her pillows into submission. The twist made two vertebrae grind together. For a second she thought she’d damaged her spine and lay back in terror, waiting for the pain to recede.

  Did Sam do it? she asked herself for the thousandth time. Will I ever know? What happens to my faith in my work if we go through the trial and I still don’t know for sure by the time it’s over?

  Don’t be so self-centred. It’s more important to worry about what happens to Felicity. Whether Sam’s around to bring her up or in a cell somewhere, serving a life sentence, she’ll suffer. If he isn’t convicted people will always whisper. How old will she be before someone tells her Sam probably killed her mother?

  It had been hard enough growing up with the knowledge that her own mother had died of cruel natural causes soon after she’d given birth, but at least Gina had always had her father: loved, admired, relied on. Trusted. Who would Felicity have?

  Half past four. Too late for a sleeping pill. She’d never be able to stay awake on the bench if she took one now, and she had some tricky arguments to disentangle in court. There was no point lying fretting like this, making herself feel worse, so she got up to make a cup of tea and read through the notes she’d made of the evidence she’d heard so far.