‘She says?’ demanded the magistrate, bewildered.
‘When I charged Mrs Lomax she said she hadn’t killed her husband. That it was Jane…’ Bentley paused, in a rare moment of embarrassment. ‘Jane Lomax was the first wife of the murdered man.’
Gillian Heathcote smiled, bleakly, turning to Perry. ‘I understand.’
‘I want everyone to understand,’ said Jennifer, her voice cracked from shouting. She came forward on her pillows, wincing as the drip needle bit into her arm. She couldn’t support herself and at once fell back against the pillows, aware the magistrate had instinctively retreated at the movement. Jennifer tried to prevent it but she couldn’t stop the crying. ‘I didn’t kill him. I loved him!’
‘I think we can bring this quickly to an end,’ said the magistrate, anxiously. ‘I agree to a formal remand, for seven days…’ She remained half standing, looking at Perry again. ‘… I fully understand your problems but I think you should do all you can at future hearings to keep your client under some sort of control.’
‘ God, this is fun. This really is so much fun! ’
Jeremy Hall came hesitantly into his uncle’s rooms, momentarily stopping completely when he saw Bert Feltham comfortably seated beside Sir Richard’s desk. Proudfoot himself was framed against the window overlooking the Inner Temple and the manicured grass leading down towards the Thames.
‘Come in, come in,’ encouraged the older barrister. ‘Interesting case to discuss.’
‘The Lomax killing,’ said Feltham, uninvited. ‘You read about it in the papers?’
‘Briefly,’ said Hall. He was a big man, the height accentuated by a build developed at Cambridge where he’d gained a rowing Blue: anxious that it wouldn’t turn to fat he tried to scull as many weekends as possible. He appeared far too big for the chair towards which Proudfoot gestured him.
‘It’s going to be a high-profile case. Get your name in the papers,’ encouraged the older man. He was tall, too, the greying hair swept back but worn comparatively long to fashion into two distinct wings, on either side of his head. He affected a slow, measured delivery when he spoke, either in court or out. That afternoon’s stance was a favourite, too: hands clasped behind his back, winged head slightly forward, a lecturing pose.
‘From the papers it looked like a simple domestic,’ said Hall. After only nine months in chambers he wasn’t in a position to argue against any brief but there wasn’t any reason unquestionably to accept whatever he was presented with. There was still some lingering regret at having had to join his uncle’s practice in the first place, instead of being able to make his way independently in a rival chambers, although he reassured himself there was even less reason to let pride outweigh the practical reality of earning a decent living after working so bloody hard for so bloody long getting a Double First as well as his rowing Blue and the pass marks he had in the Bar examinations. That and the fact he’d had no alternative. As his mother had told him at his father’s funeral, beggars couldn’t be choosers. He didn’t enjoy being a beggar.
‘It’ll be a guilty, to manslaughter,’ said Feltham, confidently. ‘Diminished responsibility.’
‘So it comes down to a plea of mitigation,’ said Hall. ‘What’s that going to be?’
‘Humphrey Perry’s instructing. Arranging the usual psychiatric things.’
‘Short, sharp but extremely profitable,’ said Proudfoot, from the window. ‘It won’t do the chambers – or you – any harm. In fact I’m anxious for you to do it. We’ve had a long run of wins. Wrong for a practice to appear only to take the ones they’re sure of. And this won’t be a loss. It’ll be a brilliant plea…’ He smiled. ‘… Which I know-it will be, for a sad, sick woman.’
Proudfoot finished what he was saying at an open cabinet and, as he leaned forward to accept the sherry his uncle offered, Hall was suddenly curious why such a case had to be pressed upon him over sherry by the chamber’s head, even if it was his uncle. According to office lore, Feltham would have already accepted the brief anyway. Still unwilling to accept a fait accompli, Hall said, ‘I’ll be by myself?’
‘Absolutely,’ confirmed Proudfoot.
To Feltham, Hall said, ‘She’s mad? No other reason or motive?’
‘Police haven’t finished yet, but there doesn’t seem to be any doubt. Cut her husband to pieces in front of sixteen people and then stood there laughing. I’ve fixed a meeting for you with Perry for tomorrow.’
So much for the pretence of discussion before acceptance, thought Hall. Pointedly – confident he could do it because Proudfoot was his uncle – Hall said, ‘There’s nothing else to it, is there?’
‘Nothing else?’ said Proudfoot. ‘I don’t understand the question.’
‘It seems almost…’ Hall paused. ‘Almost too mundane: too small compared to most of the things we do.’
‘I’ve explained my thinking on that,’ said Proudfoot.
‘I understand,’ capitulated Hall, detecting the older man’s irritation. He was being railroaded, Hall realized.
‘Eleven tomorrow morning OK, here in chambers?’ said Feltham, who already knew it would be because he maintained the appointment diaries and knew Hall’s was hungrily empty.
‘Fine,’ agreed Hall.
‘A well publicized murder’s the best fast track for a reputation,’ confided the chief clerk. ‘This could be a good beginning.’
‘It’ll be my first murder,’ admitted Hall.
‘But not the last, if you handle this one right.’
As Proudfoot served him his second whisky, after Hall had left the room, Feltham said, ‘That was a sharp question, about a hidden agenda.’
‘His ability was more important than his relationship to me,’ insisted Proudfoot. ‘He’s damned clever.’ The man added to his own glass, disdaining the earlier sherry. ‘Perry wouldn’t do anything underhand about the copper thing, would he?’
Feltham shook his head, smiling. ‘There isn’t a solicitor in London who’d try to cheat me. Certainly not one who’d get half a chance to do it a second time. It’s more than their job’s worth.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ said Proudfoot. ‘We’re not wasting our time on a tuppenny murder for nothing.’
Patricia Boxall didn’t really want the relationship to end but knew it was inevitable. So, she suspected, did Jeremy. If it came down to a straight comparison Jeremy had more going for him than Alexander: he was adventurous in bed and made her laugh a lot. But she wanted more than Chinese take-aways and Spanish plonk in front of the television watching videos of old Oxford and Cambridge boat races. Alexander had an independent income and belonged to all the good clubs. She had been just two tables away from Mick Jagger the night before last.
‘That was a hell of a race,’ Hall said.
‘You showed me before.’
‘We were drunk for a week after that.’
Patricia wondered who’d paid. ‘Must have been fun.’
‘I got a case today. The murder that’s in all the papers.’
‘She’s mad, isn’t she?’
‘Seems that way.’
‘What can you do?’
‘Enter a sympathy plea.’
‘Any money in it?’
‘Not a lot, I wouldn’t think. It won’t last long.’
‘Why do it then?’
‘I haven’t been offered anything else,’ admitted Hall. ‘And I don’t like having to watch old videos of boat races because I’m broke, any more than you do.’
‘Let’s go to bed then.’
‘Well!’ said John Bentley, triumphantly.
‘No-one’s admitted anything yet,’ cautioned Rodgers.
‘Wait,’ cautioned Bentley. ‘Just you wait.’
‘How long?’
‘An hour.’
‘Five pounds says it’ll take more than one session.’
‘You’re on.’
Chapter Seven
Rebecca Nicholls was slim and blond and enjoyed the effect she had upon men, particularly upon those to whom she was clearly unavailable, as she was to this overconfident policeman who’d emphasized his rank and held the handshake too long and dressed like an upmarket car salesman. In other circumstances she might have amused herself with this encounter but this afternoon these most definitely weren’t the circumstances. Not that she was nervous. She could handle it. But she wished there hadn’t been the feeling of uncertainty. She wasn’t an uncertain person.