“He’s my son,” said Peter.
“He’s also a prosecution witness,” said the detective, taking hold of Thomas’s arm to lead him away.
Hearns and Thomas walked over to the bank of elevators, and the detective pressed the call button. Peter did not follow. The excitement that had taken him up the courthouse stairs and across the great gulf that divided him from his son drained away as quickly as it had come, and Peter stood silent at the top of the stairs. A few seconds later the elevator arrived and swallowed up his son and the detective.
Peter waited for a moment before going downstairs. The great hall on the first floor was empty. Another day of justice and broken hearts was over, leaving only a litter of soft-drink cans and cigarette butts in the bins for the cleaners to empty that evening.
Peter turned away and began to go down the stairs. He took his time; it didn’t matter if Greta came up and found him now. He was halfway down the last flight leading to the entrance doors when a hand touched him on the shoulder. He turned around to find Thomas with a finger on his lips.
“Mr. Hearns is up on the landing,” Thomas whispered. “I’ve got to go back.”
“There’s something I need to ask you,” said Peter, keeping his voice as low as his son’s. “It won’t take a moment.”
“Not here. Later. I’ll be at Matthew’s. Call me there.”
“But I don’t have the number,” Peter said, but Thomas didn’t reply. He had already turned and gone back up the stairs. Peter followed a little way, and looking around the corner of the stone banister he saw Thomas standing between Hearns and another uniformed policeman.
Outside the courthouse Peter found Greta waiting for him on the pavement.
“Are you all right?” she asked solicitously. “You don’t look well.”
“No, I’m fine now.”
“Were you sick?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” he lied. “It must have been something I ate.”
“I don’t need to go this evening if you’re unwell, Peter. I can see Miles tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s vital that you’re fully prepared.”
“I suppose you’re right. It’s just that I get so tired sitting there day after day, listening to all those lies.”
“Patrick said that Thomas did really badly today though.”
“Yes, that went well.”
“He said that Miles shot him full of holes over his story about the men coming back.”
“Yes, it was obvious he’d made it all up.”
“Why didn’t you show me the statement he made about it, Greta?”
“Which statement?”
“The one that Thomas made about the men coming back.”
“I don’t know. I only got it just before the trial, and it didn’t seem something that you needed to worry about. I told you what had happened and that it was obvious he’d made it up, and you agreed. There didn’t seem anything else that we needed to say about it.”
“No, I suppose not,” Peter said, sounding as if he thought the opposite.
“Why are you suddenly so interested in all that?” asked Greta.
“I’m not. It’s just Patrick was saying that Miles made such a lot out of it when he was cross-examining Thomas today.”
There was silence between them. Peter was staring out the window, trying to suppress his consciousness of Greta looking at him, waiting for him to turn around. Eventually she lost patience.
“Did you see Thomas inside the courthouse when you went back just now, Peter? Is that what’s got you so upset?”
The insistence in Greta’s voice forced Peter to turn around to face his wife.
“No, of course not. I went back inside to throw up. I just told you that.” Peter tried to mask his anxiety with irritation. To his surprise the trick seemed to work. Greta sounded apologetic when she spoke again.
“All right, I was only asking,” she said. “There’s no harm in that. I’m sorry you were sick.”
“It doesn’t sound like it,” he said.
“Don’t be silly.”
Greta kissed him lightly on the cheek and Peter smiled before turning with relief back to his window, where the stone wall of the Chelsea Embankment was flying past alongside the car. He looked out over the river wondering where Matthew Barne lived. He needed to ask Thomas about Rosie, but would Thomas tell him the truth? Peter felt that there was no one he could really trust. He wanted to believe in Greta, and he was almost sure he did, but asking her about Rose again, telling her about the connection, would make her think that he didn’t believe, and that would be disastrous for both of them. Peter felt that he’d already said too much. Greta was looking at him strangely again as they got out of the car.
“I think I’ll stay here,” she said. “I don’t want you to be on your own when you’re sick. Miles will understand.”
“No, Greta, that’s a mistake. I know it is. You’ll be rushed in the morning, watching the clock. You won’t be able to concentrate.”
“It’s not that bad, darling,” Greta said, smiling. “Perhaps you’re right though. I’ll feel better when I’ve had a drink. Be a love and make one for me while I go and change.”
Peter waited in the drawing room, listening to the sound of his wife’s footfalls on the stairs leading up to the top story. He eyed the telephone, feeling like a snake. It was sitting on top of the desk in which Thomas had found the locket. Greta used the bureau now, and Peter wondered if she had put anything in the secret drawer to replace the locket. For the hundredth time he tried to visualize Anne as he had seen her on the day of her death: at lunch, lying on the sofa, passing him on the stairs. He didn’t think she was wearing the locket, but he couldn’t be sure. He hadn’t known that it was the day of Anne’s death; he hadn’t known that he was looking at her alive for the last time.
I’m not your Greta Rose. Not anymore. But had she been once? Peter had to know. He picked up the telephone and dialed directory assistance. Matthew Barne’s number was unlisted and Peter was about to give up when he remembered the school. He was a parent, a tuition-paying parent. Carstow would give him the number; they had no reason not to.
Soon he was speaking to Thomas.
“What do you want, Dad?” Thomas’s voice was wary, but at least the word Dad implied a recognition of a relationship between them.
“I want to speak to you, to ask you something.”
“About what?”
“About Rosie.”
There was a silence at the end of the telephone, and Peter thought for a moment that they had been disconnected.
“Thomas, are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“I can’t speak for much longer. Will you meet me?”
“I don’t know.”
Another silence, and Peter could hear Greta coming down the stairs.
“There’s no time. I’ll meet you on Chelsea Town Hall steps at six-thirty.”
“Where’s that?”
“Around the corner from the house.”
Peter put the phone down just as Greta came into the room.
“Who was that?”
“Just someone from the Ministry.”
“What’s he doing around the corner from the house?”
“The House of Commons. That’s where I’m meeting him next week.”
The lie slipped easily from Peter’s tongue, and Greta seemed to accept his answer. She took the drink from his hand and kissed him as she did so, allowing her lips to move over his so that he was suddenly filled with desire.
She caught the look in his eye and moved away from him, smiling. Her power over him was still undiluted.
“Not now, darling, or I won’t be able to concentrate. Besides, I’m wearing my giving-evidence dress. It’s a dry run for tomorrow. What do you think?”
“I think it’s perfect.” Peter was being no less than honest. The black dress was of a perfect cut and length. Her breasts were high and pronounced, but there was no trace of cleavage. He had never seen Greta looking so beautiful.
The time passed slowly. Peter’s mind was in confusion, but he tried not to show it, hiding behind government papers on the sofa. But something must have alerted Greta to his anxiety. Perhaps it was the way he kept glancing up at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Several times she asked him what was wrong, and several times she wondered aloud about canceling the conference with Miles Lambert.