‘Poor Marco.’
‘Have you talked to him?’
‘I’m meeting him in a few minutes. I’m taking him shopping before he catches the train to London.’
‘How is he?’
‘I don’t think he really understands. I thought jury tampering only happened in the movies.’
‘You’ll have to explain it to him.’
‘Maybe you can help me.’
I hesitate and she picks up something in my voice. ‘You knew! That’s why you asked me about the judge.’
I don’t reply, which simply confirms her suspicions.
‘What happened, Joe?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
Before she can ask me another question she interrupts herself: ‘There’s Marco. I’d better go.’
I don’t get a chance to say goodbye. I want to ring straight back and hear her sweet voice.
A cab has pulled up outside the main doors. Natasha Ellis emerges, clutching Billy’s hand. The young boy is wearing his school uniform and has Tigger tucked under his arm. Natasha doesn’t acknowledge the cab driver as she pays. Her eyes are bloodshot and she seems to be moving from memory, unable to process what’s happened.
Dr Chou collects her while a nurse takes Billy to a play area with toys and colouring books. I stand for a long while watching him leaning over a drawing, furiously moving his pencil.
Twenty minutes later Natasha reappears, wiping her eyes and struggling to focus. Billy begins telling her about the drawing. She nods and tries to listen but struggles to hold on to his words. She sees me and a new emotion ignites within her.
Spinning to confront me, her left hand swings from the waist, striking me across the face, raking her nails across my cheek. The slap echoes through the waiting room and my eyes swim.
Her face contorts in grief and rage. ‘You did this!’
I touch my cheek where her nails have broken the skin. My thumb and forefinger slide together, lubricated by a droplet of blood.
She tries to hit me again, but this time I catch her by the wrist and hold her until I feel her energy dissipate and her shoulders sag. Having surrendered, she lets me take her to a chair where she stares blankly at the far wall, taking short, sharp breaths.
‘Is there someone I can call?’ I ask. ‘What about your parents?’
Natasha shakes her head.
‘I can get a victim support officer.’
She doesn’t reply.
‘Or I could call a friend . . . You really shouldn’t be alone right now.’
Taking a deep breath, she looks at me imploringly.
‘Why couldn’t you leave us alone? We were fine. Happy. Don’t you see it was her fault? She was to blame.’
I don’t reply and hatred blooms in her chest again. ‘You’re no different from Gordon - he was besotted with that little slut. She fooled everybody, but not me. I found her earring in the bedroom. Gordon tried to lie about it, but I’m not stupid. I knew what he was doing with her.
‘I followed them one day. Gordon borrowed my car and picked her up after school. He took her to Bradford-on-Avon and bought her an ice cream. They were sitting by the river. I watched him feed it to her. She opened her mouth and he teased her, pulling the spoon away from her lips and offering it again.’
Natasha wipes her eyes. ‘Gordon said I was being paranoid about Sienna. He said my jealousy made me ugly. He said he still loved me but I had to stop smothering him . . . If that little tart hadn’t tried to steal him . . .’
The moment passes and she shrinks away, diminished.
‘What happened to his first wife?’
Natasha doesn’t look at me. ‘She ran away.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘Gordon said he wouldn’t lie to me.’
‘You’ve seen what he’s done.’
Her eyes meet mine, clouding.
‘He’s not a monster. He loved me.’
52
Outside in the weak sunshine, looking across the hospital grounds, I watch a mower creating verdant strips of green on the turf, light green and dark green. A curtain of rain is hanging above the horizon as though unsure whether to spoil the day. It creates a strange light that might please a painter or a photographer, but there’s nothing I find comforting or appealing about the scene.
I touch my cheek again. The scratches are weeping. Natasha Ellis struck me with her left hand, unleashing all her grief and fury. She has lost her husband. Lost the life she fought so hard to protect. This is the detail I failed to notice. I didn’t comprehend how far she’d go to save her marriage. The sins she’d overlook. The risks she’d take.
I have a missed call on my mobile. Ruiz. I call him back.
‘Have you heard?’ he asks. ‘They abandoned the trial.’
‘I just saw the news on TV.’
‘Looks like Ronnie Cray pulled it off. Does she still have a job?’
‘Far as I know.’
He asks about last night and why I didn’t come back to the terrace.
‘I stayed with Julianne.’
‘Really?’
‘Nothing happened. I slept on the sofa.’
‘Maybe she wanted you to storm her bedroom and ravish her.’
Do people ‘ravish’ each other any more?
I tell him about the booby-trapped caravan and my helicopter flight to the hospital with Gordon Ellis.
‘So he’s dead?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about Caro Regan?’
‘Maybe the debris will yield some clues.’
Ruiz is silent for a time, thinking about Coop and Philippa Regan and their mausoleum-like flat in Edinburgh and their funereal existence, wondering what happened to their daughter.
‘Where are you now?’ he asks.
‘Frenchay Hospital.’
‘You need a lift?’
‘If you’re offering.’
‘I should have been a minicab driver.’
‘More money.’
‘Better hours.’
He hangs up and I walk across the road, feeling the turf beneath my shoes. I am closer to understanding things now. I know why Ray Hegarty was murdered, why Annie Robinson was poisoned and why Sienna was framed.
Not everything makes sense. If there’s an exception to every rule, then that rule itself must have an exception. Novak Brennan tried to corrupt a judge. Sway a jury. Secure a verdict. Yet so much of it depended upon factors that he could never fully control. A majority verdict to acquit required ten jurors - a huge ask. By blackmailing a judge the only thing he could completely guarantee was the collapse of the hearing and a retrial with a new jury and a new judge. Novak must have known this.
I glance towards the hospital and see my reflection cast back at me from the doors. I am a man standing alone in a field. Some things we have to do alone. Birth. Death. Sitting in a witness box . . .
Uneasiness washes over me, inching upwards, lodging in my throat. Fumbling for my phone I call Julianne. Her number is engaged. I start over. This time she answers.
‘Where’s Marco?’ I ask.
‘He went to buy me a present.’
‘Does he have a number?’
‘He doesn’t have a phone.’
She’s at Broadmead Shopping Centre, which is fifteen minutes away.
Julianne senses my fear. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘You have to find him. Get him out of there.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s not safe. Find him and call me.’
Ruiz has pulled up outside the hospital. I try to run but suddenly freeze and stare helplessly at my legs, telling them to move. I direct all of my concentration to just my left leg, telling it to step forward. It must be like watching a man step over an invisible obstacle. Once I get a degree of momentum, I’ll be fine. One leg will follow the other. Walk and then run.
I pull open the passenger door and tumble inside, telling Ruiz to drive, telling him that Julianne’s in danger. Without hesitation, he accelerates, weaving between cars, demanding answers.