Prey to All (5 page)

‘Come on, Trish! Admit it. I can see you liked the woman, but use your professional brain for a moment. It was a judgement call Phil made, and you might have made the same one yourself.’

Trish took a huge swallow of wine to take away the taste of the admission she didn’t even have to articulate. George was stacking plates.

‘So, what was it that made
you
decide she was innocent?’ he asked, scraping the remains into the bin.

Trish organised her thoughts. ‘I liked her.’

‘Fair enough,’ he said, with her favourite smile. ‘But you’ll need more than that.’

‘And I believed her story of the teeth and the bag.’

‘Better.’

‘Patronising git,’ she said cheerfully, and ducked as he threw a tea-towel at her.

‘And I can’t imagine why – if she had killed him – she wouldn’t (a) have worn gloves when dealing with the bag, before pressing his own hands on to it, and (b) left it on his head. She isn’t remotely stupid: she’d have known at once that her best defence would have been suicide and that if she were to run that, the bag would have to have been found on his head.’

‘OK. I’ll buy that.’

‘Great,’ she said, with enough sarcasm to make him threaten her with the tea-towel again.

‘Now, did you see there’s going to be that brilliant French film about murder in a chocolate factory tonight?’ he said. ‘Channel Four. It’s on in five minutes. D’you want to see it?’

‘Why not? I’ll take those out and make us some coffee. You go and warm up the telly.’

Trish caught sight of Phil Redstone as she ran upstairs at the Royal Courts of Justice. His face stiffened as he recognised her. ‘Trish!’ he called.

‘Can’t stop,’ she answered, leaning over the banister, the strap of her bag trailing into space. ‘I’m on my way to a hearing. Catch you later?’

‘I want …’

‘Later, Phil. It’s OK. Don’t worry.’

She went on her way, sure that he must have heard she was looking into the Deborah Gibbert case for Anna’s film. Somehow she’d have to reassure him that she wasn’t about to rip up his reputation in public. He couldn’t be afraid of any kind of legal sanction. Nothing said in court was actionable, and barristers couldn’t be sued for negligence in court work.

After all, someone had to lose every case. You couldn’t go round complaining about your counsel just because it happened to be you who got the wrong verdict, even if you knew you were innocent. Not all clients understood that, of course, but colleagues should.

But there wasn’t time to think about any of it now. For the moment, Trish belonged to Magnus Hirson and his four-year-old son, Alex. She found them waiting with their solicitor outside the court, only about five yards away from Angela Hirson and her team.

The two adults were carefully not looking at each other.
Alex was standing pressed against his father’s knee, staring at his mother in terror. Magnus had his right hand loosely draped over Alex’s shoulder. The boy was holding his father’s index finger in both hands. Trish had been determined to keep him with his father ever since she had read the brief, but the sight of him doubled her need to win. She wished Magnus hadn’t brought him, but she knew why he’d done it. The sight of such a child, so small and so vulnerable, occasionally made the aggressive parent think again. Alex’s nanny was waiting in the background, ready to take care of him while his parents’ lawyers fought over his future.

Trish acknowledged the nanny with a slight smile, then set about talking to Magnus and his son, trying to ease the tension that was wound round them both like binding twine.

The judge, a man Trish had known for a long time, listened patiently and smiled impartially at the two barristers and the court welfare officer as they spoke. Trish tempered her passionate determination with the sort of cool rationality she knew he liked. But in the end he went against her.

She couldn’t believe it. She turned to her client. His face was white, stricken, but his eyes were blazing. Trish kept her own eyes still as he glared at her, the anger scorching her.

Outside he put his hand on his son’s head, stroking the soft pale-brown hair and murmuring quietly that he would be seeing more of Mummy now and wouldn’t that be nice?

‘No,’ he wailed, with a noise like a seagull. He didn’t fling his arms around his father, just pressed himself tightly back against Magnus’s legs. ‘No.’

Trish knew she should be used to this by now, but it hurt as much as it ever had. She moved slowly backwards, feeling a faint current of air from the flapping of her skirt. Magnus caught the movement and turned away from his desperate son for a second.

‘Goodbye, Ms Maguire,’ he said casually, not even trying to hide his feelings.

Alex had dug his toes in and was being literally dragged away from his father’s side.

‘Come on, Trish,’ the solicitor whispered in her ear. ‘You can’t do any more. And this time it’s only for tea. He’s not being wrenched away for ever. He’ll get used to it before the move’s made permanent. Children always do.’

They turned away and went downstairs.

‘It breaks your heart,’ said the solicitor, ‘I know. But you did your best, Trish. There’s no point tearing yourself apart over it.’

‘Hard not to in a case like this.’ Trish held out her hand. The solicitor shook it and they parted.

Phil Redstone, she thought, forcing her mind away from Alex and his father. Thank God there was always more work and no time to think about lost cases.

Phil’s chambers were quite close to hers, so she called in on her way back and asked the head clerk if she could write Mr Redstone a note. She was invited to use the table in the waiting room and sat down to the task.

She hoped that would keep him reasonably happy. Her own clerk was waiting when she got back to chambers. When she told him what had happened to the Hirsons, he shrugged, saying: ‘Pity. But still, win some, lose some.’

Trish had to grip her hands together to stop herself hitting him. She sought refuge in her own room and an article she was writing about child protection for a new law journal she wanted to support. The fee for the article would hardly pay for e-mailing it to the editor, but it was all in a good cause.

The last paragraph caused her a lot of trouble and she was still fiddling with it when Dave rang through to say that Anna Grayling had arrived.

‘Could you ask her to wait for five minutes while I finish this?’ Trish said. ‘And then I’ll be out to collect her.’

But the interruption had destroyed her concentration. She couldn’t find the right words to make her conclusion startling enough. With a mental shrug, she eventually filed what she’d done, e-mailed the editor to say he’d get the piece tomorrow, and closed down her system.

‘Hi, Anna,’ she said, emerging into the waiting room two minutes later. ‘Thanks for coming. Shall we go out? I need air.’

‘Fine. Whatever.’

They walked out on to the Temple lawn. There were two separate drinks parties already in full swing, but there was still plenty of space near the river side of the gardens, where there were benches and it was cool under the trees. The traffic beat along the Embankment, only just the other side of the railings, but even so it was one of the most civilised spots within reach. The sky over the river was the thin pale blue of a watercolour with just enough wispy white cloud to make it interesting.

‘So, what did you think of Deb?’ Anna asked, when they were settled.

‘I liked her.’

‘Oh, fantastic.’ Anna shifted on the bench so that she could grab both Trish’s hands in a hot, damp clasp.

‘Is it that exciting?’ Hearing repressive disapproval in her voice, Trish thought she must have caught some of George’s dislike of vehemence.

‘Yes. You can’t think how much I respect your judgement,’ Anna said more calmly, letting her go. ‘If you hadn’t agreed with me about Deb, I’d have dumped the whole idea of the film.’

‘I thought you were so keen on her you were determined to do anything you could to get her out of prison.’

‘Well, yes. But my confidence has been a bit shot lately, so I needed someone I trust to agree with me. Tell me why you liked her, Trish?’

‘Partly because of the way she talked about her cell-mate,’ she said, catching the uncharacteristic need for reassurance in Anna’s voice and working it out as she spoke. ‘And partly because of Deb’s determination to protect her daughter, and …’

‘And?’

‘Oh, and because her mother loved her so much that she was prepared to confess to murder to protect her.’

Now it was Anna’s turn to look surprised. Trish didn’t explain that she couldn’t bear the thought of Deb’s mother dying in the belief that her so-loved daughter was a killer and might go to prison for the rest of her life. It was for that woman, rather than any of the others, including Anna, that Trish was tempted to work on the film.

‘And you,’ she asked, knowing that Anna didn’t put the same value on mothers as she did, ‘what’s your particular interest in Deb?’

‘Actually,’ she said, in a confiding whisper that didn’t sound remotely real, ‘it’s not so much Deb
qua
person as
qua
symbol. If I’m to be truthful, I want to exploit the poor cow.’

‘Ah.’ A bit of sincerity – even unattractive sincerity – usually made Trish feel more comfortable.

‘How?’

‘I have to make a popular programme soon. And there’s not much that gets people going as quickly as a juicy miscarriage of justice. They love a good let’s-kill-all-the-lawyers story. Who wouldn’t?’

Trish felt her face hardening. It was unlike Anna to be quite so self-absorbed that she would casually insult a friend she professed to need.

‘So, I asked about a bit and came up with Deb. Her story’s got everything – ghastly crime, innocent mother of four, faithful wife, dutiful daughter, in prison for a murder she didn’t commit because of the shenanigans of the male establishment and the incompetence of her – male – lawyers. What more could a girl want?’

Trish considered the question. She could think of quite a lot, but she didn’t know much about television and would have to take Anna’s word for it; not something she had ever enjoyed.

‘There is just one problem,’ she said. ‘Or two, rather.’

Anna’s face twisted. ‘What?’

‘I’ve seen no evidence to prove Deb’s innocent, even though her story about the bag sounded credible to me. And you’ve got no witnesses to speak for her. The only useful one – her mother – is dead.’

‘We’ll use actors to play out the characters in our version of what happened,’ Anna began, ‘and—’

‘You can’t do a film like this entirely with actors. You’ll need the real emotion of a suffering family if it’s to carry any weight.’

‘I know, but we’ll have Deb’s husband and eldest daughter – and, boy, are they suffering! Then there’ll be all the people
you’ll turn up as you interview the main players.’ Anna sounded both more confident and further ahead with the project than she’d suggested. ‘You’re the best interviewer I know. And, of course, some experts, legal and medical.’

‘Who?

Anna put her head on one side, apparently trying to look like a hopeful little wren, but in fact, as Trish was tempted to tell her, impersonating a pug that’s eaten its owner’s dinner and is about to sick it up.

‘Well, you, for a start, Trish, explaining the legal background, Mal—’

‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ she said at once. ‘I only agreed to look into the background for you, not expound it on screen. I don’t want to be seen in public rubbishing Phil Redstone’s work. Particularly not with an appeal in the offing, which is apparently going to be based on his incompetence.’

‘Trish, you—’

‘No, Anna, listen. This is important. Quite apart from professional loyalty, it could be counter-productive for Deb. Phil persuaded the judge to admit Deb’s mother’s confession under Section 23 of the Criminal Justice Act 1988. He didn’t have to and that was the only thing that might have helped her. You’ve got to be very careful about this, if you have any real interest in getting Deb out as opposed to making a noteworthy programme.’

‘Well, if you won’t, you won’t. One person who will is Malcolm Chaze, the MP. He’s certain Deb’s innocent.’

‘OK. He would be good. He comes over well. Who else?’

Anna looked blank.

‘That’s really all?’

‘So far. But once you’ve come up with a realistic alternative killer, we’ll—’ She broke off artistically.

‘Anna,’ Trish said, watching her in deep suspicion, ‘you are
not planning to trick someone on to your programme and then accuse him of this murder on screen, are you?’

‘Why not? It would make terrific TV, and I’d be made for life if we got the right man.’

Trish said nothing as she ran through all the things Deb had told her, trying to remember exactly what it was that had sounded convincing in her account of the night her father died. Was it enough to let this probably slanderous project go much further? Trish was so used to being protected against defamation in court that she was bothered about how much the film might expose her.

‘Or facing vast damages.’

Anna shrugged. ‘You can advise on that when you see the rushes. Come on, Trish. Say you’ll help. Concentrate on the thought of getting Deb out. Listen, I need this film to work. And I can’t do it without you: I don’t know enough about the law. Say you’ll do it. Please.’

Trish was still holding out.

‘Hear what Malcolm Chaze has to say at least. Shall I fix a meeting for you? Any particular time?’

Anna was pushing much more than Trish liked to be pushed. A lot more. Still, they were old friends. It was an interesting case. And Deb Gibbert did need help.

‘Oh, all right.’ Trish opened the jacket of her black linen suit and flapped it to get some cooler air through to her skin, forgetting that she wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath until she saw Anna’s amusement. Luckily there were only trees in front of them.

 

Deb sat on the edge of the bottom bunk, staring straight ahead. The stainless-steel washbasin was directly in front of her. It made her think of the kitchen at home, with the children trailing in from the garden and Adam getting in the way. He’d driven her mad sometimes, wandering in and
leaning against the sink for a chat or washing his hands in it when she was trying to get a meal ready. She used to shout at him for it. Now it seemed the most harmless of habits.

He was a good man. She couldn’t remember why she’d been so angry with him. Except that she’d been angry with everyone; everyone except Kate.

‘Oh, God, please let Kate be all right,’ she said under her breath, so that no one outside the cell could hear. ‘Please.’

She’d be able to talk to Kate on the phone again tomorrow morning, so it was silly to get in such a stew now. They always talked on Fridays before Kate left for school. Deb hoarded phonecards to make sure she had enough left by Friday.