It was stashed in the gap between the old butler sink and the equally old cooker, obviously untouched. Hen took it out. As if Peter Friel would snoop. He had the advantage of her. He had met her on paper long before he had ever seen her; he had other yardsticks to judge her by. It made him act as if he had known her for ever, made his mind up about something. The same was not true in reverse.
A trusting soul, a natural confider who believed in two-way traffic to truth and maybe talked too much. Told her all about working for Thomas Noble; Rick Boyd coming to call on him in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, all that. Asking for the return of his property, enquiring about a possible bequest. She listened to Thomas’s irritated, precious voice on the mobile as he gave directions and dress code for Peter to visit the Lover, Peter mimicking it all afterwards, cleverly but kindly, so she could picture the man. Getting her involved, as she had involved him more closely than she had ever intended because she had reacted so badly to the shock of her father shouting. Offering to go home, instead of her. Sharing grief, but why? Hen did not see herself as the object of a sudden passion, how could she? She was not used to anyone wanting to help. Spontaneously. Especially a lawyer, all of them cut from the same cloth as Marianne Shearer. Also a grown man with brothers and sisters, nephews and nieces; she remembered the egg on his jacket the first time she met him. He was nice. Maybe normal people were nice.
She checked her watch and looked for another coat. She would go and see this Thomas Noble she had identified at the inquest as a small, self-important man. Explain that she had everything Rick Boyd wanted, or at least some of it. She spread things out of the bag, on to the kitchen table, deliberately slowly.
Photos of Angel, au naturel, legs spread, inserting the handle of a carving knife inside her own vagina, face to camera, terrified, still smiling. Photos of Angel, presenting her buttocks, pulling the cheeks aside to ease the passage of the bottle up her anus, her contorted face visible between her own, thin thighs. The broken bottle hurt more, she said, but I let him do it, Hen, I let him. I can’t have anyone see these, Hen, they’re his. I can’t let anyone know what I let him do. I couldn’t bear it, Hen, I won’t be examined, I won’t, I won’t, I won’t. I was such a fool. Don’t touch me. Don’t try. If you tell anyone about what I let him do, I swear I’ll kill you.
Another digital photo. Angel, naked, sitting grinning, eyes vacant, with her elegant hands with their long fingers spread wide on the table top, nails varnished, waiting like a cat so anxious for food it would sidle up to a snake. Waiting for her hands to be admired. At the very least, Hen thought wryly, evidence that someone else was present, if only to take the picture. Another picture, showing that miniature axe. NO, Angel shouted. No. No one must ever see this. I let him. I didn’t know what he was going to do, but I let him do it. It didn’t even hurt. Not then. I was telling him I could always sew, that I wasn’t worthless, and he said, which finger do you use most? I said that one, I suppose.
These were the souvenirs that she had scooped up from the hidden places in that damp cellar in Birmingham and put in the carpet bag along with everything else, plucked from corners Angel never examined. All his emails and letters to the other women, their photos, nothing like as bad. Addresses, details of who they were. Those she had given to the police, while the photos of Angel stayed at home. She had set the hunters on R. Boyd, and kept the pictures back, because of what Angel said. ‘If I’ve got to go to court, Mum and Dad’ll see these, won’t they? We can’t, Hen, we can’t… ’
Also inside the bag was a copy of the Pathologist’s report on Angel Joyce.
Overdose of narcotics, diazepam, tranquillisers, facilitated by alcohol.
No abnormalities to heart or lungs. Deceased has history of non-fatal, extraordinary, physical damage. Spindle-like object inserted as far as the womb, possibly amateur abortion. Torn sphincter, indicative of gross interference, healed. Significant vaginal scarring, possibly glass.
Not a newsworthy inquest. Unlike that of Marianne Shearer, no one was interested in Angel Joyce by the time it came to an inquest, except her mother who had cried silently throughout the Pathologist’s respectful, jargon-filled rendition. Then screamed until she was taken away. Hen was thinking, we didn’t protect her after all. She had learned thus much about inquests. All the Coroner wanted or needed to know was Cause of Death. Not Why, How. Cause of death was a self-inflicted cocktail of an overdose. Verdict: Accidental Death while balance of mind disturbed. End of case.
The copied report shivered in her hand, along with the memory of the scene. Her own shame at what else she had done, such as sending a copy to Marianne Shearer after too much thinking about it, an act of spite and an early Christmas present. Hen was ashamed of herself, put her head in her hands and wept. Because Richard M. Boyd was back, like the miasma he was.
Wanting his souvenirs. Wanting the evidence of what he had done, so no one else could have it. Seeking out anything that Marianne Shearer had preserved, angry with her for not proving him innocent, plus anything else she, Henrietta Joyce, had withheld. He must be afraid. He must feel ill at ease, to go and ask. Richard M. Boyd. After his release, he had insisted on the return of all his property. She had been asked if she had anything and choked with rage as she tore up the letter, then wrote back, saying everything was with the police or his lawyer, M. Shearer. What did he believe? Maybe he thought Marianne Shearer had everything, the full possession of the facts. It had taken Henrietta Joyce right up until now to realise that Ms Shearer had never been in full possession of the facts. She had only been armed with her ghastly belief.
What to do? Take it all to Thomas Noble. Keep Rick Boyd away. She could feel his hatred, drifting over the courtroom, burning her as his counsel made a right royal fool of her. Grimacing, rather than smiling as if in pity, the most contemptuous thing of all.
Take it to Thomas Noble, the messenger. Tell him it had some bearing on the death, get rid of it. Then think about the trunk delivered to her father. Hen hesitated. She had automatically repacked the carpet bag and put it back where it had been. Then she hefted it out again. She had lived with it long enough.
The blood on the skirt could wait. She wanted out. The new knowledge of that bastard wandering round with his own mission made her twitch. He wanted what Marianne Shearer knew and he wanted what was his and he knew where she lived.
He had been here before, to collect his Angel.
And she had been waiting.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Thomas was reading.
Continuation of cross-examination of Angel Joyce by Marianne Shearer, QC
MS. We’ll leave the business of you supposedly having been raped, but I will come back to it. I can tell it’s a strain on you. Are you OK, Angel? Bit pale this morning, are we?
AJ. Fine.
MS. As plain as ever…
Interruption from Counsel.
MS. My Lord, if you’ll let me finish my sentence. I was saying as plain-speaking as ever, OK? I make no allusions to Angel’s exceptionally unangelic appearance. If your Lordship would stop interrupting, we might get on with this trial, right?
OK, Ms Angel, how did you lose that finger?
AJ. He cut it off.
MS. When was that?
AJ. I don’t know. Not exactly. I’d done my nails and-