More Than You Know (102 page)

“I see. So your relationship is purely a business one; is that correct?”

“Yes, it is.”

“There is nothing personal between you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“But you are clearly friends? You want to help him.”

“Yes,” said Louise steadily, “we are friends and I want to help him.”

“I see. Well, you are a good friend, Miss Mullen. I hope he appreciates you.”

Could there be more between them? Could there?

“Did you admire Mr. Shaw as a businessman?”

“Yes, very much. He built up the company from nothing.”

“He was one hundred per cent committed to it, I imagine? How do you think he will adjust to a slightly more … detached role?”

“I think it will be hard for him. Very hard. But he’s prepared to do it, and I think that shows the extent of his love for Emmie.”

“Have you spent much time with Mr. and Mrs. Shaw and Emmie?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“So you’re not really very well equipped to comment on his parenting skills? Beyond what you have already told us? I just want to put your … testimonial, passionate as it is, in proportion.”

Louise met his eyes very steadily.

“No. No, I’m not. But I am equipped to comment on his personal ones, and he is a very determined person, and whatever it is he puts his mind to, he will see it through. And right now, he’s put his mind to being the main figure in Emmie’s life. He even said to me that he would be prepared to sell the company in order to care for her full-time. If it became apparent that was necessary. And he loves that company; it would be like selling part of himself. One day Emmie will be very proud of her father.”

“I see. Thank you, Miss Mullen.”

She was amazing, thought Matt. Completely amazing. Standing up there, beating the drum for him, putting herself through this, when there was absolutely no need, just because she wanted to help him.

He watched her, cool and calm, and so bloody clearheaded and articulate, so impressive, and he felt a sudden thud of … God, he’d thought it was gratitude, but actually it was something a bit … a bit different.

“I would now call my next witness, Mrs. Sandra Shaw.”

Well, she’d be predictable … and she was … wonderful son … wonderful father … wonderful family man …

“Mrs. Shaw—”

Toby Gilmour had stood up very slowly; he smiled at Sandra Shaw.

“Mrs. Shaw. Could you tell us what sort of mother you consider your daughter-in-law to be? Remember you are under oath.”

“I … I think she has been a good mother. In the early days, yes.”

“How would you define ‘good mother’?”

“Well … she looked after her very well. She seemed to love her. Emmie was certainly very well cared for. And Eliza used to work very hard at keeping her amused: take her to visit her friends, things like that. She used to bring her over to see me quite often, because she knew I liked that.”

“That must have been … very nice for you both.”

“Yes. Yes, it was. And I used to help her as much as I could, make suggestions, you know. It’s hard when it’s your first baby; you’re nervous. And Emmie was very naughty; she used to play up, given half the chance—and with Matt working so hard, I think it was nice for Eliza to have a bit of help.”

“Which she wasn’t getting from him? I thought—”

“Well, not during the week, no. He had his business to run.” Sandra looked defensive. “It was a twenty-four-hour job sometimes.”

“Indeed. Hard on Eliza, perhaps?”

“Well, no worse than most wives have to put up with.”

“Really? Did your husband, and the husbands of your friends, work a twenty-four-hour day, as you put it?”

“No. No, they didn’t.”

A pause.

“Did you get the impression she was lonely?”

“No, I didn’t. She seemed to have plenty of friends. And a car and that—she wasn’t tied to the house; she could get out and about.”

“So you were on good terms with her?”

“Yes, yes, we were—then.”

“But not anymore?”

“No. We’re not.”

“Did you observe any change in your daughter-in-law’s behaviour, at any point?”

“Well … when the … the little boy died, she was very low after that, of course. Very low.”

“Did she talk to you about it, how she felt?”

“No. Not really. I used to offer to have Emmie for her then; she didn’t often take me up on it. She said Emmie—” She stopped, looked anxiously across at Matt.

“Go on.”

“She said Emmie gave her a reason for living.”

“I see. And … did she continue to appear depressed?”

“For a while, yes. Then she saw this doctor and she got some pills for the depression, and she seemed better.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Shaw.”

Jennifer was wonderful, Eliza thought: very cool, very calm. She stressed that Eliza worked only two days a week, that she and Matt were never out on the same evening; they were both very devoted parents, and she dealt quite firmly with the matter of what Bruce Hayward called the habit of taking Emmie to the agency.

“It was not a habit. It was a suggestion of mine that if Mrs. Shaw was held up in a meeting, I could save her half an hour or so by taking Emmie to her office occasionally. It was necessary for me to leave on time, as I have an invalid mother to take care of, but the offices are on my way home, and so it seemed helpful to both of us.”

“But … did this not delay Emmie’s bedtime?”

“Only very little. I would give her her tea first, and then drive her to Carlos Place. But it was a very unusual arrangement, as I say, very far from regular. Perhaps once a month at the most.”

“And you would leave Emmie there, with her mother?”

“Well … yes. Usually.”

“And unusually?”

“Well, once or twice, the receptionist would look after her. Just until Mrs. Shaw was out of her meeting. She would pop down and make sure Emmie was all right, and then go back to her meeting.”

“I see. So once a month—let us say—a five-year-old child, who should have been in bed, and after her last meal of the day, was dragged across London, into an office environment, and left in the care not of a qualified child minder or her mother, but a receptionist.”

His implication was clear: a receptionist was rather lower on the social scale than a hooker.

“No! She wasn’t dragged across London. She was in the back of my car, and I am a very good driver. We would sing songs and tell stories on the way. It wasn’t late; it was about half past five. Emmie didn’t go to bed until at least half past six. And she loved going there; she asked every single day if we could.”

“I see. Now we come to the night Emmeline was ill and her mother was away.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps you could describe the chain of events …”

Jennifer described them. They were exactly as detailed by Matt.

“But I believe Mrs. Shaw’s mother was also in the house?” said Hayward.

“Yes, she was.”

“Why would that have been? At whose instigation?”

“Mrs. Shaw’s. It was the first time she had left Emmie to go away on a business trip, and she felt that her mother added a … a safety net.”

“So she didn’t entirely trust you, in other words?”

“My lord, I object to the question.”

“I agree, Mr. Gilmour. Carry on, Miss Grant, please.”

“Mrs. Fullerton-Clark—that is Mrs. Shaw’s mother—was there as a backup. Emmie is devoted to her. As she is to her other grandmother.”

“Thank you, Miss Grant.”

Toby Gilmour stood up.

“Miss Grant. How would you describe Emmeline? Is she shy, quiet, extroverted?”

“Oh … well, she’s extremely bright. Very sophisticated in her patterns of thought. Not remotely shy, no. Quite … naughty. A handful, really. Oh, and very popular at school.”

“And … has she been badly affected by the recent chain of events?”

“She was very upset, yes, after her parents told her. They kept it from her for a long time. Her father was still living in the house, you see,
so it was possible to sustain the fiction that all was well. Since then, she has suffered from nightmares, bed-wetting; she has become very much more difficult to handle. I … I feel very sorry for her,” she said simply.

“Thank you, Miss Grant.”

“I think,” said Clifford Rogers, “we will adjourn for the day. Thank you. We will resume in the morning at nine o’clock.”

“Eliza, this is Toby Gilmour.”

Toby Gilmour. The barrister. The cold, not-clever-enough barrister, who so far had done almost nothing for her. Not Toby, who had made love to her in a creaky bed only three days ago, and made her think she might be falling in love with him …

“Oh, hallo.”

“Look—bit of a shock. The judge has called your mother. It’s extremely unusual, but he’s concerned to make sure the child’s case is properly understood, and he’s taking a strong line on it.”

Terror shot through her. This was really the end of it for her.

“I’m sorry. We just have to … to hope for the best. You’re doing wonderfully, Eliza. I’m … I’m very proud of you.”

It wasn’t very intimate, but it was something, some indication that he was at least human.

“So just hold tight today, and then by tomorrow afternoon we should be in calmer waters. OK?”

“Yes. OK.”

“Oh, and Eliza …”

“Yes?”

“Remember not to pick your nose.”