False Witness (34 page)

“They’ve captured my likeness pretty well,” he said. “But they haven’t done you justice, Mr. Fawley. They’ve made you look
like a worried cocker spaniel.” He handed me the tabloid sketch.

“It’s how I feel,” I said.

“You should get some rest, you know. Too much… running about.”

“I assume you’re referring to my encounter with your mate Templeman.”

“That’s rather a large assumption to make,” Kingsley said.

“He must have told you. Don’t even try to pretend—”

“What did you think of him?” Kingsley suddenly interrupted.

“I think he needs to work on his right hook.”

Kingsley smiled. Or at least that part of his face below the eyes smiled. The eyes were unchanged.

I gave the tabloid back to Kingsley and said, “I do know that you… well, that you didn’t write the handwritten note.”

“And just how do you know that?”

“The same way that I know Templeman isn’t what he seems. Call it—”

“Instinct?” Kingsley asked. “Or interference in matters that don’t concern you, perhaps? I did tell you the handwritten note
wasn’t mine—”

“No, you just said you wanted a graphologist to examine it. Why couldn’t you just have said it wasn’t yours?”

“Would you have believed me?”

“Probably not,” I said.

“You see.”

“So what do you want?” I asked. “An apology?”

“That would be nice. But I’d settle for a teenage girl to—”

“What about the typed note? You haven’t said whether…” I paused. I heard a rattle of keys outside as other remand prisoners
were being led to the prison van.

“I thought you gave a—satisfactory performance,” Kingsley said.

“Thanks for your undiluted praise.”

“Well, I think you were a bit harsh on that poor policeman.”

“He was trying to set you up for murder.” I realized that was the type of thing I would have said to one of my innocent clients,
so I added, “Whether or not you did it.”

“But the real question, Mr. Fawley, is whether they will get their hands on the girl.”

“Which girl?”

“The only one left. I hear young Diane Morrow overdosed on heroin. Such a shame. Young people and drugs, what
can
we do?”

“How did you know her name?”

“Everyone knew. Oh, yes,” Kingsley added, “apart from you. Are you beginning to get the impression, Mr. Fawley, that you haven’t
been invited to the party?”

“Look, I want to know.”

“To know?”

“Is it true you were a trustee of the home?”

“I don’t think the prosecution will introduce that fact.” Kingsley replied.

“That’s not what I asked.”

“But that’s what I answered.”

“Were you a bloody—”

“Yes, I was a trustee.”

“You never said.”

“You never—”

“I know, I never asked. So who was murdered, Kingsley?”

“Poor innocent Molly Summers. Well that’s what your… lady friend, Justine Wright told the court.”

“Leave her out of it.”

“No supper at the Savoy tonight?”

“Shut it, Kingsley.”

“Didn’t Miss Wright say poor Molly was buried in a little grave in Stonebury?”

“But Molly Summers doesn’t exist, does she?”

“You mean she doesn’t? I hope we haven’t all been chasing the wrong fox.” He smiled, the rows of little round teeth sparkled.
“Can you murder someone who doesn’t exist, Mr. Fawley? Now there’s a question.” He tapped a crooked index finger against his
lips. “Yes, a very interesting philosophical question. Of course, St. Matthew said—”

“Just shut up,” I told him. I walked slowly to the door and glanced through the glass panel. The jailer was waiting outside.
“I don’t know what’s going on, Kingsley. I’m not so sure anyone does any more… I mean, what’s your defense? Is it: A. I wasn’t
there. B. I was there but did nothing. C. I was there but killed someone else. Or—”

“Or D. I’m just not going to tell you.”

Kingsley made to say something else but I stopped him. “Just listen, Kingsley. Now I’ve got a job to do. And I’ll do it. I
don’t like it, but I’ll just have to put up with it. But what I won’t put up with is your feeble pretense at innocence. It
makes me sick.”

Kingsley was silent.

As I closed the door behind me, I heard him say, “Hope you sent my love to Stonebury. I do so miss the place.”

I spotted Justine walking ahead of me on the south side of Fleet Street on the way back to the Temple. She looked very different
from the rest of the rush-hour crowd, somehow above it all, untouched by the grime and the sleaze and the noise. She momentarily
gazed into a shop window. As soon as she saw my reflection in the glass, she was off up the hill.

I grabbed Justine’s arm and said, “We’ve got to talk.” She stopped, looked at the offending hand in disgust and then pulled
away rapidly.

“That piece about circumstantial evidence was a bit below the belt,” I called after her.

She carried on walking.

“Let’s not make this worse than it need be. Can’t we keep our… differences out of it, Justine?”

She had reached the arch opposite Fetter Lane which led into the Temple. I again managed to grab her sleeve.

“Justine, why is it no one wants to bring up Kingsley’s link to West Albion?” When she did not reply, I added, “Justine, I’m
talking to you.”

“No, Tom. You’re talking
at
me.” Her eyes were ablaze. It was more than anger, it was loathing. “Winning’s not good enough for you, is it? You want everything.”

“So?”

“So you can’t have me.”

“Gloves off then,” I said.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want us to be civil to each other.”

“You walked out on me, remember?” she said.

“And you know why. Because—”

“Because you wanted to run back to your wife.”

“No. Because what’s happening is all wrong, Justine. I had to leave. Can’t you see that?”

“Oh, I saw it all, Tom.” For a moment, she stopped trying to get her arm free. “I told you right at the start.”

“What?”

“That you’d leave me.”

“You never said—”

“I told you that all my men abandon me when I need them most. Alex was sent away, my father died, Ignatius… so why should
you be any different?”

“Justine—”

“Let go of me.”

“Just one thing, then. Are you going to call the girl?”

“Get off me, you pig.”

I shook her more vigorously then I intended. “Are you calling that wretched girl?”

A policeman, seeing the commotion, marched over and removed my hand. He looked a little like that buffoon, Lynch. “Are you
all right, madam?” he asked.

“Just mind your own business,” I said. “This is private.”

“No, sir. This is public. A public street. Now you just shut it.”

I pulled my hand free of his rough grip. “How dare you speak to me like that.”

“Is he bothering you, madam?” he asked.

“Just leave me alone,” I said. “She’s my girlfriend.”

“Is
he
your boyfriend, madam?”

Justine looked at the policeman in a helpless way.

I tried to grab her again to get her attention. “For God’s sake, Justine.
Tell
him.”

“Right,” said the officer when she was again silent. “On your way or you’re nicked.”

“You can’t arrest me,” I said. “I’m… I’m a barrister.”

“I’ll count to five,” he said.

By the time he had reached three, I was on my way to the old bookshop on Chancery Lane, muttering to myself about the prevalence
of police brutality. But there was something more important to do. There was a paperback I needed urgently to buy.

I worked late in chambers, waiting for the traffic to die down. By ten o’clock the Temple was again a deserted village with
its gas-lights and its cobbles, its fountains and its courtyards, a place stranded at the end of the wrong century.

When I reached Chiswick, I had almost finished the book I had bought, and opened the front door imagining that everything
was as it had once been. I imagined that Penny was watching television and Ginny was doing her maths homework at the kitchen
table.

But the rooms felt different, the furniture seemed out of place, even the photographs seemed like photographs of strangers.
I was visiting my home and realized that I no longer belonged and that, perhaps, I never really did. Stonebury had changed
my perspective. It was like putting a different lens onto a camera, a wider one, even if it was not yet properly focused.

I knew that I was on the verge of letting go completely and that my control had gone. I was about to lose everything except—possibly—the
one thing I did not want to win. And that was Kingsley’s trial.

H
E WAS TO BE THE PROSECUTION’S SECRET WEAPON
. Edward Blythe stood in the witness box on the second day with his silver hair and artificial tan. He had the type of looks
that would have made him a matinee idol had he lived forty years earlier. He was the type of man who had very few male friends,
who “Simply adored” women but who had never truly loved one.

Even Justine, at least a generation his junior, was taken in. “Could you please tell us your occupation, Mr. Blythe?”

“It’s Doctor Blythe actually, young lady. I am Professor of Ancient Religion at the University of Cambridgeshire.”

“And your qualifications and experience?”

“I am a Doctor of Philosophy, visiting lecturer at California University, I have written widely about the ancient world, am
President of the British Institute of the Paranormal, and then, of course, I regularly appear on—”

“Your academic qualifications will suffice,” said Justine. “Do you have a particular specialization?”

“Yes. Celtic mythology.”

The grandmother gazed at Blythe with unrestrained admiration, the social worker faltered in her note-taking.

However, one woman in court was less than impressed. “Miss Wright,” said Hardcastle, her eyes as hard as billiard balls, “what
is the relevance of all this?”

“Does Your Honor not have a copy of this expert’s report? It was sent to the court last week.”

“No. I haven’t seen it. I’m sick and tired of papers going missing. When I find out who’s to blame—” Hilary then realized
that she hadn’t sent the jury out and tried to revert to a friendlier tone. “I wonder, Miss Wright, do you have a spare copy?”

With some trepidation, Justine began, “I’m afraid I haven’t.”

Anticipating another judicial explosion, I shot to my feet. “Your Honor can have the defense’s copy.”

“Thank you… again, Mr. Fawley.”

“Not at all. We got our two copies yesterday. But Miss Sharpe and I can share one.”

Hardcastle began to fume. “You mean… you mean an expert’s report was only served on the defense on the morning of the trial?”
The prosecution has a duty to serve such reports well in advance so that the defense can consult its own expert.

I tried to sound a little hurt. “I’m afraid so, Your Honor.”

Justine attempted to salvage something. “But we… we served it as soon as—”

“I wasn’t addressing you, Miss Wright,” snapped Hardcastle. “Do you wish the jury to retire, Mr. Fawley?” That was the lawyers
code for, Do you want to exclude this evidence?

“No, thank you. I wish the jury to hear everything.”

Smiles from the twelve. Jurors hate being sent to their room and missing the action.

Emma tugged my gown. “She’s giving you the green light, Tom.”

“You mean you
don’t
object to this evidence?” asked the judge.

“Not at all,” I said. “I shall be fascinated to hear what the good doctor has to say. I’m a real fan.”

“Fan?”

Edward Blythe’s vanity could not be contained. “Well, I do have my share.”

Hardcastle was dumbfounded. “Continue, Miss Wright.”

Justine leant slightly toward me. “Thanks, Tom. Sorry for being such a brat yesterday.”

I did not reply.

“Now, Doctor Blythe,” asked Justine, “have you read the report of the pathologist, Doctor Molesey?”

“I was in court when he gave evidence this morning.”

“You
were
?” Justine was surprised.

“Yes. I asked
that
gentleman if it would be all right.” He pointed to me. “And he didn’t seem to mind.”

I smiled back.

Justine glanced at me suspiciously. “The pathologist testified that the shallow stab wounds on the victim’s back were not
fatal. Have you got anything to say about that?”

Blythe had a lot to say. He always had. Like so many people with good looks and intelligence, he was convinced that his every
word was golden. In fact, he was a bore.

We were then treated to a posted history of the Celtic peoples of West England. their rites and their rituals. After twenty
minutes, Blythe eventually reached the Roman conquest with Hardcastle huffing and puffing about the relevance of it all. I
sat there pretending to be captivated.

Blythe said, “The main social group around Stonebury was a Druid-like sect. The Romans considered them—”

“Did you say
Druid
?” asked Hardcastle.