False Witness (7 page)

“Who was to blame?” she asked me without blinking.

“I don’t understand.”

“Rubbish. Who was to blame, Tom?”

“To blame for what?”

“For Sarah Morrow’s case. Five years ago.”

“Look, Emma. I don’t think I can—”

“Oh, do cut the Sir Galahad routine, Tom.” She paused so that I looked directly at her. “Now, you and Justine. Who was to
blame?”

“If we’re going to discuss this, I want my lawyer present,” I said.

“You have got your lawyer present,” Emma replied. “Who was to blame?”

“I don’t understand you lot. It was your women’s group that instructed Justine as junior counsel. Or have you forgotten that
little detail?”

“It wasn’t
my
group. I had no say in it.”

“Well, the sisters then. Collectively. They must have wanted Justine to defend.”

“I think it came from the family. Sarah Morrow once went to the same school as Justine or something.”

I then remembered being told something similar a few years previously. “So it was the Stonebury connection?” I asked.

“I suppose so,” Emma replied. “Anyway, the point is Justine simply didn’t have her heart in it. Didn’t care. Only in it for
the publicity.” Emma sipped some more wine. “Justine’s a bit like… well, rather like one of those birds. You know, the ones
that go after shiny objects.”

“Jays? Or magpies?”

“I’m not a bloody ornithologist, Tom. The point is, they’re just attracted to the glitter.”

“Perhaps she was misunderstood.”

“And perhaps you just wanted to get into her knickers.” We both knew that was a cheap shot. “You’re so pathetically weak with
women. A toss of the hair, quick whiff of perfume and you’re putty, Tom.”

She emptied my glass. “God, this wine is rough,” she said and tried to smile, but it was not very convincing. “You see, Tom,
I sometimes worry about you.”

“About what?”

“About… well, about your disgusting little soul. Christ, now I’m sounding like your priest.”

“I haven’t got one.”

“Perhaps you should.” She picked up her bag and brushed herself down. “I’m just worried about what you’re doing to yourself.
Justine Wright is trouble, Tom.”

“Emma,” I said, “let me just say—”

But she put her fingers to my lips a little like Justine had done at Manly’s party years ago. For the first time in her life,
Emma Sharpe pressed her cheek against mine. She immediately recoiled in embarrassment, not wanting me to take it the wrong
way. But I could not, not with Emma.

“Want to know the truth?” she asked as I nodded. “I’m a little frightened about what we might find in this case, Tom. I don’t
give a damn about Richard Kingsley; as far as I’m concerned, he can burn in hell for ever. He’s pure evil.”

“To you, he’s evil,” I said. “To me, he’s just another client suffering from a dodgy alibi and an acute lack of innocence.”

“That’s what you always do,” Emma said. “Try to joke it away.”

“Well, innocence is a much overrated commodity. Don’t you think?”

Emma paused but did not smile. “You see, Tom, no matter what you might say, there’s something at the heart of all this. Something
rotten. You know, a bit terrible. I’m not sure what it is, but I think you might just stumble your way into it.”

She started to walk away, but stopped after a couple of paces and added, “That’s why I’m worried about you, Tom.”

T
HE BEDROOM AT HOME WAS AS COLD AS EVER
. Penny, my wife, insisted on sleeping with the window ajar whatever the season. There was a slender shaft of moonlight on
the bed and I could see her baggy white tee-shirt—she never wore negligees or anything like that. Too prissy, she used to
say.

And then I felt a movement somewhere below my belt-line. In Kingsley’s novels, such a scene would result in the hero’s “manhood”
becoming engorged and throbbing. But the only thing that throbbed was my forehead. And all that I felt further down was a
faint tingling. I knew that it would happen. It occurred disconcertingly often in those days. I got drunk and wanted to make
love. The irony was that I probably couldn’t, but that wasn’t the point.

Surveying the target area, I tried to decide upon my best strategy. Penny always complained that my hands were cold when I
came to bed after her. That was Step One: I put my cupped hands to my mouth and blew into them several times. Penny stirred
and rolled on to her back, while I began to undress, balancing precariously on the bottom of the bed.

“Tom, is that you?” she asked. I just told her to go back to sleep. Penny reached out with one arm, but I was too far away.
When the hand fell limply back to the sheets, I put my head next to her on the pillow. Penny smelled of sleep.

“What time is it?”she asked.

I did not answer. That would have been certain disaster. Instead I moved closer and tried to kiss her forehead. Penny rapidly
pulled away.

“You’ve been drinking,” she said.

I had made a huge mistake. Usually I would brush my teeth and gargle with that sickly tasting mouthwash, but she could smell
alcohol and my task had become doubly difficult. As I crawled under the duvet, I thought that there was still hope. It required
tact, timing and just a little luck. I giggled foolishly.

Her body was curled tightly and she started as if shocked when I moved against her. There were obviously parts of my anatomy
that I couldn’t warm up—the pulsing blood inside didn’t seem to reach the outer skin.

“Pen,” I whispered.

There was no response.

“Pen, are you asleep?”

It was, of course, a ridiculous question. She mumbled something.

“Penny,” I started to stroke her hair. Mousy, she called it and seemed to wash it less and less as she grew older and it grew
darker. My fingers got caught in the knots.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

She knew. We’d been through the routine on so many occasions. I felt humiliated. Although I believed that a husband has no
right to expect anything from his wife, deep down I still felt ludicrous having to plot and scheme just to sleep with Penny.
The longer we were together, the more difficult it became to make love.

“I’m asleep,” she said.

“Penny,” I whispered. It was my last chance. I slowly moved my hand across her body and started to caress her left breast.
That was Step Two. Slowly the nipple grew harder.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“That’s obvious isn’t it?”

“Well, don’t,” she snapped with a crashing finality.

The bedside light went on and Penny looked at the clock. She stared at me but said nothing. As I tried to keep my eyes fixed
on the ceiling, I could feel her feet passing against mine.

“Thought so,” she said.

“What?”

“You want to screw. You’re so bloody predictable. Lights off, socks on.
So
romantic.”

I knew it annoyed her, but my toes got cold when the window was open. There was no point replying—all was lost.

“Been boozing, have you?”

“No,” I said.

“Don’t lie. You stink of alcohol. It’s revolting.” Then there was a much gentler inflection in her voice. “Darling, come here.”

Dutifully, I rolled over. She ran her small fingers smoothly down my stomach, past my thighs. I ached for her and was melting.
I thrust myself toward her palm but she withdrew it swiftly. Suddenly there was broken ice in her voice.

“If you must accost women in their sleep,” she said, yawning, “if you must pester women, be decent enough to have a proper
erection, Thomas.”

She used my full name. That was a bad sign. Thomas meant I was in trouble. Thomas meant no groping, no fondling, no sex and
no breakfast. It meant I’d cut your dick off with my nail-scissors if it wasn’t so pathetically small. I hated it when she
used to call me Thomas.

The light went off.

I couldn’t stand it. I had no place in that house, in that bed. My bathrobe was still damp from the morning—nothing dried
properly in those Arctic conditions. I flung it on and rushed toward the door.

“Justine called round,” said Penny. “She left a note in your study.”

“What about?”

“Well, I didn’t read it. I’m not going to read a
billet-doux
between you and your—”

“She’s not my—”

“Of course she’s not,” Penny said. “Justine’s just up to her old tricks again. That’s all.”

“What old tricks?” I asked.

“Oh, leaving things in strange men’s studies.”

“What on earth does that mean, Pen?”

“Look, ask Justine about… Alex,” she said.

“Who?”

Penny did not reply but pulled the duvet over her head and curled up.

When I crept along the landing, I had a desperate urge to look in on Ginny, my daughter. Her door was shut and I couldn’t
bring myself to open it in case it woke her. So I edged my way down the stairs, feeling terribly alone.

I had a little gas heater in my study. When I was forced to work through the night, getting up a brief, it was a source of
comfort. Penny forbade the central heating’s use during the night. I tried to light a match but my hand was shaking too much.
The matchbox fell to the floor, matches were everywhere.

On the desk were various piles of case papers. Emma had photocopied the entire Kingsley brief so that I could work on it at
home—not that I was bothered. There was a crisp white envelope tucked in the Kingsley depositions. I understood immediately
what it was. I picked up a broken match and used it to prise open the rear of the note.

Justine’s writing was deliberate, full of ornate letters, with deep strokes almost tearing through the paper.

Dear Tom,

Sorry to miss you. I’ve jotted down the name of a witness we do not intend to use. The police don’t want to disclose it (for
some reason). I think you should have it—in fairness. It might help.

Love, Justine

Love, she wrote. She had never written that before. I’d known Justine Wright for many years. From the moment I met her at
one of Penny’s old schoolchums evenings, she invaded an untroubled corner of my imagination. I didn’t resist. Did she really
write Love, Justine?

As I stared at the stacks of dog-eared papers and the unlit gas heater, my bedroom seemed very distant. I sat in my armchair
with a damp bathrobe draped around me—wondering.

I
T WAS THE SECOND DAY OF THE TRIAL AND
I
WAS
late.

For that night I had slept little but had dreamt a lot. And what I had dreamt was this: there was a great field. And in the
field were numerous stones. But these stones were not scattered. They were arranged in three circles. And I thought: Why three?
Three for luck, perhaps? But good luck or bad luck? And luck for whom?

For some reason, I imagined myself walking around the circles, noticing a debris of acorns and straw. But I awoke with a start
and realized that I would be late. And is this not the way of things? No sooner had I crawled out of my Fred Flintstone boxer
shorts than I forgot about such insubstantial matters and worried instead about the very terrestrial terrors of being late
in the court of Mr. Justice Ignatius Manly.

When I reached the security doors at the Old Bailey, I remembered that crusty old sages in the robing room used to say that
the great defense barrister, Edward Marshall Hall, used to keep the court waiting deliberately. He would stalk outside the
courtroom with his cushion. He suffered from piles, which along with thinning hair and an overblown sense of one’s own importance,
was an occupational hazard. There Marshall Hall would remain until the tension became unbearable. Then the doors would be
flung open and he would march into court with a triumphant swirl of his gown.

When I arrived at Court 8, I peeped my head through the double doors. I was in trouble—the court was in session.

I delicately shut the door and scampered along the corridor. Every step echoed around the halls. I sneaked past statues of
great legal reformers, solemn paintings of judges as my temples pounded and my tongue felt like sandpaper. What I wouldn’t
have given to be back in bed. For ten minutes tucked up in my duck-feather duvet, I would gladly have sold that small knot
of indigestion which I sometimes mistook for my soul. I needed to hide.