False Witness (42 page)

“But she knew of some forged documents.”

“Yes.”

“And misled the court?”

“Well, she—”

“They were used in court?”

“Yes.”

“And you found out about it?”

“Yes.”

“And you did
what
?”

What could I say? That was a distortion. Those were the facts, but that wasn’t the truth.

“And what did you do about it, Mr. Fawley?”

“You won’t find the answer on the floor,” said Roach.

I raised my eyes and said, “I did nothing.”

“Not looking too good, is it?” said the woman.

“Leslie,” hissed Traynor. He didn’t want his flow interrupted. He was a professional.

“No, Miss Roach,” I said. “It’s not looking too good.”

Traynor asked, “Why did you push Mr. Templeman out of the window?”

“Because he was trying to hurt Justine.”

“Was she injured in any way?”

“I don’t—”

“That you could see?”

“No.”

Traynor looked at the clock. It still hadn’t moved. The tape continued to whir and Roach’s eyes burnt into my face.

“I just want to understand this part,” he said. “You went to rescue Miss Wright?”

“Yes.”

“And you ended up struggling with her over the knife?”

“I can’t remember if we struggled. In fact, I don’t think we did.”

But why, then, had Justine stopped? I certainly could not have fought back.

“Mr. Fawley?” His voice started to recede and the walls grew darker and darker. I could see Roach’s hands moving up and down
on the desk but heard no sound. Then Traynor came very close and whispered as if he were telling me a secret. “I have to tell
you, sir, that at this stage it’s likely you will be… well, charged.”

“Charged?”

Roach’s lips opened and closed and I could read the “Yes.”

“Charged with what?”

“With the attempted murder of Philip Templeman. He hasn’t died.”

“Not yet,” said Roach.

Traynor looked at me. His eyes, still gentle, moved slowly over my face. What option is there, they seemed to say. You’ve
made all the admissions, what do you expect us to do? Finally, he spoke. “Is there anything you want to ask us?”

“Just one thing. Who told you Justine’s middle name?” “Well,” said Detective Sergeant John Traynor. He was embarrassed—what
could he be hiding? “Well,” he said, “it was your wife.”

I
COULD NOT SAY HOW LONG
I
HAD BEEN IN THE CELL
. It seemed like weeks, days at the very least, but I suppose could only have been a matter of a few hours. I slept fitfully.
But I saw nothing. It was as though the screen in my head had finally been switched off. Traynor had taken my tie away in
case, he said, I was tempted to do “something silly.”

There were a number of things that did not make sense. My last memory was of Justine standing over me. I remembered the knife
with my blood already on it and then I woke up in that dreary little cell. Every time I asked about Justine, I was ignored
or told that I was in deep enough trouble as it was.

They hadn’t charged me. Was that a good sign? Or were they just waiting for Templeman to die? Then there was a clatter of
keys and a dirty yellow shaft of light as the wicket gate was opened.

“We want you,” said the voice. It was WDC Roach. She took me out of the cell and started leading me up countless flights of
stairs.

After about five minutes’ climbing, she paused on a landing and asked, “Want a brief, Fawley?”

“What happened to the Mr.?”

“It flew out of the window with Philip Templeman. Do you want a solicitor or not… Fawley?”

I was too ashamed to tell anyone of my plight and merely asked, “What time is it?”

“Time to tell us the truth,” she said.

“What time is it?” It was dark outside.

“Six thirty,” she said.

“Morning or night?”

“Morning, of course. We got a long day ahead of us, you and me.”

Roach then led me into the interview room. The desk and chairs were modern. With its whitewashed walls, it looked like a classroom.
Traynor sat behind the desk. To his right was a woman in her forties. Her head was down as she scribbled away furiously at
the file of papers in front of her. She was vaguely familiar.

But Roach commanded my attention. She looked tired, her translucent skin drawn tightly over her sharp features, and her eyes
continued to stare and stare.

“Sorry to drag you back here, Mr. Fawley.” Traynor coughed and said, “Can we have another… chat?”

I then saw Roach put on the tape-machine.

“Don’t worry,” said Traynor. “It’s just for our records. Honestly, no need to worry.”

But I did. I worried terribly. I knew from scores of clients over the years that the instant you’re treated well, the moment
they show you a little courtesy or concern, that’s when you are most vulnerable.

“I’ve decided,” I said. “I want a solicitor.”

“You didn’t earlier,” said Roach through her teeth.

“Leslie, now if Mr. Fawley would like legal representation, then he is entitled to it,” said Traynor.

“Well, he’ll have to wait for one,” she snarled. “This time of day, could take—”

“All right,” I said. “Let’s just get it over with.”

“Well then,” said Traynor. “Perhaps we can shorten matters.” He looked to his side. “Can I introduce the lady sitting with
us? Doctor?”

“Mr. Fawley and I have met before,” she said, still scribbling and not looking up.

Traynor, a stickler for detail, persisted. “Doctor, can you identify yourself for the tape?”

She looked up for the first time. “My name is Doctor Jennifer Stone. I am a qualified psychiatrist.”

Then it occurred to me: What was she doing there? A
psychiatrist
? Were they trying to commit me? What if I refused to cooperate? Could they commit me for that? I didn’t know.

Hadn’t Jenny Stone once said that she thought I was neurotic or anally fixated or something?

I stood up.

“Sit
down
,” shouted Roach. “Don’t make it worse for yourself,
Mr
. Fawley.”

I refused to answer most of Jennifer Stone’s questions, and pretended I was somewhere else, miles away, walking through the
woods. But she persisted with one subject until I could bear it no longer.

“It’s a simple question,” she said. “How would you describe your relationship with Justine Wright?”

I was again silent.

“I don’t want to get unnecessarily personal,” she said. “But were you, well, intimate?”

“Want to know if I screwed her?” I shouted.

“Please, there’s no need—”

“Want to know the positions? Need some tips, Doctor?”

“Just calm down,” said Traynor.

“Justine Wright is catatonic,” Stone said.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Stuporose,” she said.

“Are we still speaking English?”

“She’s withdrawn from the world,” Traynor explained. “Like in shock.”

“And we want to know why,” said Roach, but Traynor glared at her and she looked to the clock. It hadn’t moved.

“We think… well, we think we know why,” Stone said. “When Miss Wright was found by the ambulancemen, she was sitting in a
chair next to you. She had the knife. It was as if… well, almost as if she were frozen or carved in stone. Like she was standing
guard over you.”

I thought of the circles at Stonebury, but before I could make any meaningful analogy, I felt a stab of pain in my midriff.

The psychiatrist looked at the bandage at my side, now slightly pink in places with the seeping of blood. “We just need a
little more information. That’s all.”

“If you must,” I said.

“Yes, we must,” snapped Roach.

“But how can someone end up like that?” I asked.

“It’s a recognized psychiatric condition,” Stone said. “It’s called
flexibilitas cerea
, one aspect of catatonia. Can I ask, did she suffer from delusions?”

“How do you mean?”

“Like a calling, or some sort of mission in life?”

“Well, people had nicknames for her.”

“Like what?”

“The Ice Maiden, the Angel of Vengeance. But you know how people bitch about a successful woman… don’t you, Doctor Stone?”

Roach tutted in disgust.

Jennifer Stone ignored me. “Did she have any mood changes?”

“Constantly. But surely everybody—”

“Any tactile hallucinations?”

“Any what?”

“Ever complain of insects crawling over her, that sort of thing?”

“No. Of course not.”

Stone continued. “Did she believe, perhaps, she was being followed?”

“I think we were.” But I wasn’t really sure. Not anymore.

“Did she have difficulties forming relationships?”

“She did with me.” And then I thought about Penny and Jamie, even, for a moment, about Hilary Hardcastle. “You see, Doctor,
everyone has difficulties forming relationships with me.”

Traynor smiled. Roach raised her eyebrows and tutted once more.

The psychiatrist looked at me carefully, like a butcher, having sharpened a knife and trying to decide where to make the next
cut. She asked, “Was she promiscuous?”

“She was attractive.”

“Did she think she was attractive?”

“She never said.”

“Was she insecure about her childhood?”

“She was the daughter of a judge and owned a horse called Nigel. It’s hardly the most normal upbringing,” I said. “Anyway,
who isn’t insecure?”

“Are you, Mr. Fawley?”

“Look, I’m a lapsed Catholic and a balding barrister. I’ve every right to be insecure. So what are you getting at?”

“Almost finished,” said Stone. She wrote something down and tapped her chin. “Did she have any—how can I put this?—any sexual
eccentricities?”

“Apart from me?” No one smiled. I thought about what Chapple had said about their first time together on the night of Justine’s
father’s death. But all I said was, “No. There were no eccentricities.”

“Do you know of any emotionally inappropriate behavior?”

“What? Like trying to kill me?”

“We’re not interested in that,” said Roach.

“Your concern is touching, Constable,” I said.

Stone was keen to press the point. “What I want to know is, did she do things that were inappropriate? You know, out of context?”

I thought about the first time we made love, on the desk of the judge who had so recently died. I thought about how sex and
death always seemed to go together for Justine, for the village of Stonebury. But due to some reason I did not entirely understand,
I could not betray Justine.

“No, I don’t know of any inappropriate behavior.”

Jennifer Stone turned to Traynor and said, “I find that hard to believe.”

“Are you lying?” snapped Roach.

“It doesn’t matter,” the psychiatrist said. “I think we have enough information to confirm our suspicions.”

“What suspicions?”

“Justine Wright has been deteriorating for years.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Your wife told us.”

“My
wife
?”

“She’s next door,” added Traynor. “I suppose we can allow you access to her now.”

“If she’s willing to speak to you,” said Roach.

“We can normally treat Miss Wright’s illness with drugs,” said Stone. “She refused to take them. She staggered from relapse
to relapse as her paranoia became worse. I understand she had to leave the Bar for a couple of years. I’m afraid she has completely
withdrawn,” said Stone. “The prognosis is not good.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why didn’t she kill me? I can remember that after Chapple or Templeman had stabbed me and had
fallen out of—well, I remember Justine standing over me with the knife. She could have—”

“Her personality began to… in a sense, dissolve. But there must have been part of her that cared for you. It struggled to
save you.”

“To save me from what?” I asked.

“From the part of herself that she did not understand,” Stone said.

We can still have it all. It’s not too late for us
.

“Saving you from that part of herself,” the psychiatrist continued, “was probably the last thing she will do.”

As we started to file out of the room, Roach turned off the tape-machine and Traynor took my arm. He spoke in a low voice
so no one else could hear. “I’m really sorry for all this, Mr. Fawley. We’re just doing a job, you know. Like you.”

How had I missed all the symptoms of Justine’s illness? The sleeplessness, the mood changes, the constant connection between
love and death. When I thought about it, some of the evidence was there. Perhaps I was just too close to see? Perhaps I had
subconsciously convinced myself not to believe it. Or perhaps it was something that I simply refused to believe. It did frighten
me because since the first trial began, Justine had appeared to me to be the saner of the two of us. I had the dreams, I had
the doubts. If Justine was lost, then where was I?

Eventually, I asked Stone, “What will happen to Justine?”

“We’ll try therapy, of course,” she replied. “And if that fails, we’ll try drugs again.”