Keep Me Alive (3 page)

‘It’s not the money. I mean, it’s not only the money. It’s my marriage, my self-respect, my home, my faith in the basic decency of other human beings, my—’ Tears of fury had filled his eyes, and he’d had to fight for control. Trish had considered explaining the law on consequential loss, but had decided to
wait for a better time. The effort Will had made to keep his voice steady deepened it into a rolling bass. ‘Everything. Then they made me believe it was
my
fault.’

That had been the killer accusation for her. In the past she’d seen plenty of rapists and paedophiles who’d made themselves feel better by blaming their victims. Furbishers’ crime might not have been as bad as theirs, but the tactic was the same. She’d always thought it was vicious. This time it had ratcheted up her already powerful sympathy for her client.

‘By the way,’ she said to him, ‘it won’t be Antony asking the questions today. It’ll be me.’

Will shook off her hand so that he could grab her by the shoulders, turning her so that the light from the high leaded windows fell on her face.

‘Honestly?’ he said. ‘Oh, Trish, thank God. I wish I’d known. I’d have slept much better.’

Over Will’s shoulder she could see Antony, raising his thumb like a merciful spectator of gladiatorial games. She let one eyelid droop in acknowledgement, hoping Will wouldn’t notice.

‘I’ve got to go to the robing room now,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you in a bit. OK?’

He produced a quivery smile and nodded her away.

Tim Hayleigh stood in the garage forecourt, feeling sick. The smell of petrol stuck in his throat and made it worse. It had taken him weeks to summon up the courage for this encounter and it wasn’t going the way he’d planned.

‘What are you so scared of?’ Ron said. He had at least half his attention on the clicking figures on the pump, as he filled up his battered blue van. ‘If there was going to be trouble about the body it would’ve happened ages ago, and definitely before the inquest. You’re safe, the pair of you. Stupid, but safe. No one’s going to go back on a suicide verdict now.’

‘But the man had a camera.’ Tim’s voice was shaking. He was pleading as abjectly as if he’d fallen on his knees in front of everyone, but it didn’t have any effect on Ron. ‘There
must
be other people out there who knew what he was doing. They’ll have been watching us ever since. It’s a miracle we haven’t been caught yet, but it’ll happen one day. I know it will.’

‘I doubt it. Not now. But if you’re that worried, just tell my big brother you won’t fly for a bit. There’s nothing he can do to you.’

‘You didn’t see what he did to that snooper,’ Tim whispered, wiping his hand over his mouth and feeling his lips mash against his palm. ‘I keep thinking of the way the poor bugger’s cheekbone went. It kind of split and things burst out. He was still alive then.’

‘Bob’s not going to do anything like that to you.’ Ron looked into Tim’s face, as though searching for something he needed. ‘He knows you’re the only one of us who can fly. Just say no. It’s easy enough.’

‘What about the people on the other side?’

‘What about them? There’s nothing they can do to you if you’re not there.’

‘W-will you tell Bob for me?’

Ron shook the petrol nozzle, like a man in a urinal determined to make sure the last drop doesn’t fall on his trousers, and stuffed it back into the side of the pump. Then he looked Tim full in the face.

‘Can’t you even do that much for yourself?’

‘You didn’t see him that night.’

‘I know what he’s like.’ A faint smile softened Ron’s expression. ‘I was five when I worked out that the only people he never hurt, even when he got into one of his rages, were the ones who could give him things he couldn’t get for himself. You can, with the flying, so you should be OK so long as you don’t cringe. That always gets him going.’

‘Oh, God.’

‘And don’t forget to take the plane up sometimes. You need to keep your neighbours remembering the noise is normal for when you find the guts to start again.’

Ron hoisted himself into the van and slid the door shut with a decisive crunch. Tim was left on the forecourt, still sick and wishing he’d brought Boney with him.

 

Trish paused for a moment in front of the mirror to make sure her wig was straight. The voluminous black gown made her seem even taller than usual and accentuated her pallor. Luckily her dark eyes and high-bridged nose were dramatic enough to stop her looking washed out. As she left the robing room, she saw that she’d have to run the
whole length of the nave-like hall to catch up the rest of the team.

The sound of her heels clacking against the marble floor echoed up in the stone vaulting of the roof. The building was more like a vast church than anything else. Dating from the height of the Victorian passion for Gothic architecture, it provided a suitably awe-inspiring setting for the administration of justice.

She reached Antony’s side just as he was making his silk gown swish with extra vigour as he passed Sir Matthew Grant-Furbisher, the chairman of Furbishers Foods. Sir Matthew didn’t react, but when he caught sight of Will the two of them flashed such hatred at each other that Trish flinched.

Why had Grant-Furbisher come to court today, when he wasn’t likely to be called to give his evidence for a long time yet? Was he trying to spook Will into even more of a turmoil than usual?

Belatedly Trish noticed a young redheaded woman in the corner watching Grant-Furbisher with fear in her eyes. Maybe he was stalking the halls to remind his employees of what he wanted them to say when they came to answer for their actions on his behalf.

‘Bully,’ Trish muttered as she settled the wig even more firmly on her smooth black hair, tucking it behind her ears to avoid muddling it with the grey horsehair curls. Some of her old-fashioned colleagues of both sexes looked like pantomime charladies wearing mops on their shaggy heads.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Antony whispered over his shoulder as she slid into the bench behind his. ‘You look great.’

‘Not like a moulting eagle then,’ she whispered back, quoting one of their old clients, who had disapproved of her severe professional style.

Antony’s eyebrows lifted again. Once the judge was in court, he would be all seriousness and devotion to duty. But there were
still a few moments to go, and his expression told her he was planning to make the most of them.

‘Not these days. If it’s got to be any kind of bird, I’d say a cormorant, with black feathers sleek and body sinuous as it dives for its kill.’

‘Steady on,’ Trish said, trying not to laugh out loud. In the old days, she’d never have believed her abrupt and tyrannical head of chambers could be capable of this kind of cheerful silliness. ‘I know you spin words for a living, but that’s way over the top.’

As he turned away, she couldn’t help thinking about the kind of bird that might best represent him. He had peacock qualities, obviously, and a tendency to overbear anyone who irritated him, but he had too much cleverness and wit for any creature as small-brained as a peacock. And he was capable – occasionally – of the most surprising kindness.

An usher appeared from the door behind the bench. Antony straightened his back. Everyone in court stood and bowed in silence, as Mr Justice Husking followed the usher. The judge was nearly as plump as Grant-Furbisher but a lot taller and more dignified in his black robes and neat wig.

Trish was too old a hand to feel nervous at this stage. Later, after the defence had had their chance to rip into Will’s story, it would be different. Then she’d need some fear to get enough adrenaline pumping through her system to make her perform at her best.

Will was called and made his way to the witness box. The sight of his shaking hands and visibly heaving chest made her add even more confidence to her smile.

‘Is your name William Applewood?’ she asked him.

‘Yes.’ He coughed to clear his croaking voice, then said it again.

She established his address and occupation, before asking him to turn to page one of the witness statement in front of him, then the last page, which he had signed.

‘Could you please tell the court if this is your signature?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Have you had an opportunity to re-read the statement since you signed it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you invite the court to accept that statement as your evidence in this case?’

‘Yes.’

Trish had done all she had to do for the moment. She bowed to the judge and sat down, thinking of all the discussion that had gone into drafting the statement so that Will would come over as the careful but spirited entrepreneur she knew him to be, with the wildly emotional victim kept well in the background.

Ferdinand Aldham, QC, Furbishers’ leading counsel, didn’t deign to acknowledge her. He paused for long enough to make everyone aware of his importance, then rose, barely even nodding to the judge, and directed a beetling glower at Will Applewood.

‘This statement is, of course, an unconscionable tissue of misinformation, isn’t it?’

‘No, it bl—’ Will caught himself up, nodded apologetically to the judge, then said moderately, ‘No. It is the absolute, unvarnished truth.’

‘Are you sure it is not the case that you were so over-excited by the idea of being able to expand your little empire that you completely misinterpreted Furbishers’ mild expression of interest in your, er – ’ He looked deliberately down at his notes – ‘your pheasant, pork and, um,
pis
tachio terrines?’

Trish knew perfectly well that he was trying to instil in the judgeis mind the idea that the magnificent and enormous Furbishers empire was far too important to bother to do anything intentionally to harm a pissant little rural business. After all, Furbishers made a huge and well-known contribution
to the United Kingdom’s economic, political and cultural life. They believed they were untouchable.

The judge’s minute smile suggested that he knew what Aldham was doing, too. He made a note and turned his head away from the silk, whose poker face did not change.

‘No one takes six weeks to prepare estimates of costs, income and profits in a frenzy of excitement,’ Applewood said firmly, directing his responses to the judge as Trish had advised. ‘I went into every possible eventuality and decided that the deal Furbishers had offered me was a good one.’

‘But they hadn’t at that stage offered you the deal, had they?’

‘Of course they had. Arthur Chancer, the buyer, and I shook on it. He told me the men in suits took for ever to produce the paper contracts and he didn’t want to wait for them before putting such a potentially popular product on the shelves. He said that actually signing the papers would be no more than a formality, and we should get going straight away.’

‘That’s not quite accurate, is it?’ Aldham shuffled through his papers, presumably looking for the buyer’s witness statement. ‘Didn’t Mr Chancer actually say that the men in suits took for ever to get out the paperwork and so he would like to offer you a trial agreement for two deliveries a week for three months, while they worked out the terms of the deal they would eventually offer you?’

‘No.’ Will shot Trish a small triumphant glance, inviting her to notice his unemotional rebuttal. She wasn’t allowed to make any kind of signal, so she couldn’t nod her approval.

‘Didn’t he add that those three months would give him time to assess the popularity of the product, so that he could work out the best price he could offer you for a long-term supply?’

This was, of course, the crux of the case, and given that there were no incontrovertible documents to prove it either way, the verdict would depend on the judge’s assessment of the balance of probabilities, and of the characters involved.

‘No, he didn’t,’ said Will, still firm and polite.

‘Did anyone ever advise you not to buy the new machines until you had a signed contract?’ Aldham asked, sounding dangerously casual.

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘No one at all ever said anything like: “be careful to get something on paper before you spend all this money”?’

There was a pause. Trish felt her heart thudding. Aldham might be fishing, but she had a feeling he had some documentary evidence somewhere to support this. She and Antony had, of course, seen the skeleton arguments Ferdy was going to use, just as he had seen theirs. But there could still be surprises in the detail.

‘Only my wife. My ex-wife. And she didn’t understand that I
had
a firm contract,’ Will said. ‘She was ignorant enough to believe that a contract has to be written down, and you know as well as I, Mr Aldham, that is not the case.’

‘But she still warned you, didn’t she?’

‘It is true that she once wrote to me in those terms from her mother’s, where she was staying at the time, but she knew nothing about the details of this particular deal, so I threw the letter in the bin.’

Will looked at Aldham as though he suspected the flamboyant silk of fossicking through dustbins in search of documentary evidence.

‘“She knew nothing,”’ Aldham quoted. ‘And yet she put her finger on the very point that subsequently caused your problems, did she not? Could this have been because she knew your unbusiness-like and over-emotional habits?’

Will said nothing.

‘Had she ever had cause to comment on what might be called your grandiosity before this?’

‘Sometimes,’ he said, looking injured. ‘But she’s never run a business. She thinks in terms of someone budgeting for a week’s food shopping for a small family. You can’t equate the two. Running a business like mine needs much more long-term and strategic planning.’

‘Her housekeeping instinct means that, unlike you, she has never been in debt in her life or developed an irrational hatred of supermarkets, whereas you have, have you not?’

‘No. I don’t hate supermarkets,’ Will said in the tones of one about to add a fiery insult. He managed to choke it down, looking as though it gave him burning indigestion.

‘No?’ Aldham’s voice was heavy with satisfaction. ‘Then could you please tell the court about the two reports you sent to the Food Standards Agency about meat you falsely claimed was contaminated by dangerous chemicals when it was offered for sale by my clients and some of their competitors?’

Trish might not have noticed the tiny stiffening of Antony’s back if she hadn’t been so worried herself. This was the most dangerous part of the evidence against Will. He stuttered and stumbled over his belief that substandard meat, brought in from foreign countries with much lower standards of animal husbandry, was being passed off as prime British meat in many outlets. Trish winced. She’d heard this was a common misconception in the farming world.

‘They may use drugs that aren’t allowed in the UK, and chemical fertilizers we’re banned from using to produce the feed crops.’ Will’s voice was gobbling again, as the old anger seized his throat and made his tongue swell in his mouth. ‘So their yields are greater than our farmers’ and their prices lower. British consumers buy their garbage instead of the real thing. No one knows what the chemical residues are doing to the health of the people who eat it or their unborn children.’

If Antony hadn’t forbidden her to raise objections, Trish would have been on her feet by now. Will was already in a
tangle and clearly had no idea that the way he’d phrased his outburst suggested people were eating their unborn children. She dreaded to think what he’d come up with next.