Betrayal (34 page)

I reached for her hand. ‘Darling, don’t worry about it. Just leave it to Jones when he comes. He’ll make sure it’s all right.’

There was a commotion at the next table as a child started to scream.

When the child had quietened down a little Ginny asked dully, ‘Will I get bail?’

I hesitated. ‘Tingwall thinks there’s an excellent chance.’ I explained about the QC, and how Tingwall was aiming to pre-empt any objections the police or prosecution might have. But she had seen my hesitation and understood it; she realised it would be a mistake to count too firmly on her freedom.

‘But listen,’ I said, pushing optimism into my voice, ‘I had a long session with Tingwall. We started mapping things out. We’ve got six months, maybe more, before the trial. That gives him plenty of time to prepare the best possible defence. Now I want you to be quite clear, darling – we’re going to have the very best team, the best lawyers, the best experts and doctors – whatever it takes. There won’t be a single thing that won’t be covered. Not a thing!’

She thought about this but did not seem to draw much comfort from it.

I ploughed on. ‘And as for tactics – approaches – there are all sorts of options. Tingwall went through them with me . . . Ginny?’

She had sucked in her lips, she was blinking rapidly: the signs.

‘Darling,’ I pleaded helplessly.

Pulling her hand away, she stared down at the table and shook her head. It was both an appeal and a warning. She did not want to discuss it.

Retreating, I cast around for safer ground. After a long pause I offered half-heartedly, ‘Things at Hartford are still frantic. Everyone racing around . . .’

She nodded to show she was listening.

‘But I’ve backed off for a while. Left them to it. Quite nice, being out of it.’ I added for light relief: ‘Might try it on a permanent basis.’

There was no flicker of an answering smile. ‘And the buyout?’

‘Oh, more off than on at the moment.’ I shrugged: ‘There was always a risk.’

‘Sorry.’

‘One of those things.’ Another pause during which I became increasingly lost. ‘Oh . . . The estate agent says there might be some people interested in Melton.’

‘That would be good,’ she said with visible effort. ‘Before they next go over the place get Mrs Hoskins to put plenty of flowers everywhere, won’t you? It makes such a difference.’

A couple of young children roared past. We lapsed into silence again.

I said, ‘Nothing from the agents in France, though.’

She gave a long jagged sigh. ‘I’m sorry,’ she gasped, and I realised we weren’t talking about houses any more. ‘I know you were only trying to help.’

‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘I find it so hard . . . You see’ – she raised her eyes at last – ‘whenever I think about it, I can’t see any way out, and it frightens me to death.’

A spark of dread passed between us.

‘Ginny, there
will
be a way out. Wait until you talk it through with Tingwall. He’ll explain all the options. I promise – there
will
be a way out! Just tell him what he needs to know. I promise!’

She swung her head slowly from side to side. ‘But what can I tell him?’

Aware that she might be on the brink of some irreversible revelation, feeling a terrifying blend of fear and curiosity, I led her slowly forward. ‘You must tell him anything that could help. Like where you were on that Saturday afternoon, at exactly what time, and who might have seen you . . . Someone
must
have seen you, darling. At Glebe Place, or on the motorway, or . . .’

‘But I was there.’ This comment slipped into the pool of silence, a small ripple which grew and grew. ‘I can’t say I wasn’t there. That’s why they’re never going to believe me.’ She gave a ragged laugh, near tears. ‘Never.’

My breath was tight in my chest. ‘When you say
there
, you mean . . . you mean in Dittisham?’

She nodded bitterly.

‘You . . .’ I could hardly ask it. ‘You weren’t near the boat, though?’

‘I thought you were on board, I went to find you.’

A cold horror settled in my stomach. I felt sick. ‘And then?’ I whispered.

I thought for a moment that she wasn’t going to answer. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. ‘I found her.’

I could hardly speak. ‘Found her?’

She put a hand to her head, as though it was causing her pain.

‘Ginny, Ginny . . .’ I tried to keep the shock out of my voice. ‘What are you saying? Are you saying she was dead?’

She was silent.

‘
Ginny?
’ I pleaded. ‘What are you saying?’

She rubbed her temples. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘But is that what you’re saying? For God’s sake,
tell me
.’

She looked me straight in the eye then, and it was a look which contained resignation and defeat, and finally, a small but unmistakable flicker of confirmation.

My mind went racing off in several directions, most of them startling, all of them confusing. ‘But, Ginny . . . why didn’t you tell anyone this? Why didn’t you report it?’

She shook her head slowly, and kept shaking it for a long time.

I leant across the table, I seized her hands roughly in mine. ‘But you must tell them now! You must!’

‘It wouldn’t do any good.’

‘Why not, for God’s sake?’

‘Oh Hugh . . .’ And she gave me a pitying look.

‘I don’t understand.’

But she closed herself off from me then. Her face emptied, she dropped her eyes.

I struggled to make sense of it, I tried to grasp what she was telling me, but I was hurt and confused by her lack of faith in me, it was all a jumble, and for a while I felt as though I too were going mad.

I
N ENGLISH
courts there are two kinds of magistrate, Tingwall enlightened me. There are the stipendiaries, known colloquially as ‘stipes’, trained lawyers who sit alone on the bench as full-time professionals, and there are the lay magistrates, part-time justices of the peace who sit for a few days a month in a triumvirate with two fellow JPs.

Exeter had no stipendiaries, only JPs. I wouldn’t have given this any thought, I certainly wouldn’t have seen it as any kind of disadvantage if Grainger, our QC, hadn’t commented to Tingwall within my hearing, ‘Oh for a stipe.’ Seeing I had picked up on this, Grainger elaborated derisively in his affected drawl, ‘JPs can be dreadful old women. Paralysed by the fear of doing the wrong thing. And, as a consequence, of course, frequently doing precisely that.’

I did not fret about this for too long. Partly because I saw Grainger’s concern as a way of covering his back. Partly because, by the time we had waited in the hall outside the court for an hour, I was beginning to think that Grainger himself might be a far greater liability. His arrogant overbearing London style seemed destined to rub the JPs up the wrong way, as it had so thoroughly irritated me. I tried to talk myself out of disliking the man, but the way he strutted about, his bombastic voice and imperious manner made me so angry that I had to take myself for a walk around the block. Tingwall reassured me that Grainger was one of the top criminal barristers in the country and that he hadn’t won this reputation by chance, but by the time we filed into court I had convinced myself that Grainger was in every respect a terrible mistake.

I recognised one of the male JPs from a previous remand, but the second man and the woman were new. Both men were sixtyish, one a successful business type, the other, the chairman, a tweedy countryman, a landowner or professional man. The woman was younger, about forty, and stylish. They were the sort of people Ginny and I had occasionally met on Wiltshire weekends, though I couldn’t decide whether to take encouragement from that.

Stairs led straight up into the dock from the cells below, and to the accompaniment of clanging subterranean doors and shuffling feet, Ginny appeared with officers ahead and behind. This sight disturbed me, it seemed grotesque, as though Ginny were the victim of some hideous identity switch.

She did not glance in my direction as she went to the front of the dock and sat down. The business quickly began. Grainger announced that he represented Ginny and made the application for bail.

The prosecution objected to bail due to the seriousness of the crime and the prison psychiatrist’s report, which indicated that Ginny was in a frail state of mind and might be a danger to herself.

Rising, Grainger began his plea. I had to strain to hear him. At first I thought he was simply getting into his stride, working his voice up to a theatrical pitch, but then it dawned on me that this quiet unassuming tone was the one he had deliberately selected for the occasion. The actor-lawyer, appearing for this performance only as the sincere advocate without pretensions. As he pleaded Ginny’s previous good character, her exemplary life, her charitable work, her poor health which, the doctors agreed, would suffer dramatically unless she were allowed home, I was forced to hand it to him, grudgingly at first, then with increasing admiration. It was a masterly show of moderation and restraint, with just the right dash of humility. If I hadn’t met him beforehand, I would have thought he was an extremely nice man.

Without giving the slightest hint as to the way Ginny intended to plead, he managed to suggest that she was incapable of hurting a fly, and suddenly the idea of her innocence was floating gently and inoffensively on the air. He emphasised that Ginny would be returning to the bosom of her family, that she had the full support of her husband, family and close friends.

Calmly Grainger referred the bench to the report of the eminent psychiatrist Dr Jones, which granted that Ginny had been in a state of shock and depression for the first week after she had been charged, but declared that, with the commencement of treatment, she was now in a robust and sensible frame of mind, and constituted no danger to herself. Mrs Wellesley’s mental health would continue to be closely monitored by Dr Jones, whom she would be seeing at least once a week. No good would be served by keeping Ginny in custody, he summarised, and no harm could possibly be done by allowing her out on bail. He offered the surrender of Ginny’s passport, residence at Melton, and surety at the court’s discretion.

Tingwall had warned me that the JPs would withdraw to consider their decision, so I was taken off-guard when, after a short discussion between themselves, and a brief consultation with the clerk, the chairman promptly announced that bail was granted, subject to residence at Melton, surrender of passport and surety of fifty thousand pounds.

Tingwall had the papers ready, the surety was approved, and with that the court rose for lunch.

I pushed my way out of the public gallery, past the usher and into the court. Ginny turned and met my clumsy all-enveloping embrace with impassivity. ‘We’re going home,’ I said with considerable emotion, ‘I’m taking you home.’

‘You’ll be there?’ she said.

I wasn’t sure what she meant. ‘Of course. Where else would I be?’

Grainger came up and I shook his hand.

‘Thank you. You were superb.’

He gave a faint smile, as though he was aware of what I had thought of him and took amusement from having proved me wrong. ‘You might want to leave by the back way,’ he commented, turning his eyes towards some reporters in a gaggle by the door. ‘They can’t bother you inside the building, but they’ll try for a photograph outside. I wouldn’t recommend draping anything over the head, it makes a very unfortunate impression. Dark glasses are not ideal, either. But the head averted, the hair hiding the features? Family on either side and in front?’

I had not been prepared for this. Automatically I looked to Tingwall. ‘I’ll go and find out,’ he said doubtfully, and I realised that he hadn’t been prepared for this either.

David’s voice came from behind. ‘Put me in the vanguard. I’m good barging material.’

‘I didn’t know you were here,’ I laughed.

‘Crept in late. Sat at the back.’ He kissed Ginny fleetingly on the cheek. ‘Why don’t I go and get my car and bring it round to the side or wherever it is?’

Tingwall arranged for us to leave through the court office. David, with great seriousness, synchronised his watch with mine and went off to do a recce. Tingwall then took Ginny and me to the court office, as though to do more paperwork. Two sharp-faced reporters followed us across the hall and hung around the office door, making no attempt to conceal their purpose. Someone fetched Ginny’s bag from the cells, we found reasons to open the door regularly so the reporters could see we were still in there, then, on the appointed minute, we ran for the side exit and jumped into David’s Mercedes.

We would probably have escaped the worst of the press if the automatic barrier hadn’t been slow in lifting. Forced to pause in full view of the front of the building, we were soon surrounded by photographers. As they lifted their cameras I called a warning to Ginny and raised my hand to shield her face. And so it was that the photograph that featured regularly in the newspapers over the days and months that followed showed Ginny’s head largely obscured by my splayed hand, and, in the foreground, made prominent by the flashlights, my face wearing an ugly aggressive expression, teeth bared, eyes popping, like a dangerous maniac on licence from Broadmoor.

After seeing this photograph for the first time I stopped reading the newspapers.

From superstition or lack of forethought or a mixture of both, I had made no preparations for our arrival at Melton. I hadn’t phoned Mrs Hoskins to ask her to turn up the heating, and I hadn’t bought any food. So it was that we arrived to a cold dark house with nothing in the fridge but a few eggs, a half-empty carton of milk and some tinned pate which had been open a dangerously long time.

Leaving Ginny in the kitchen with a cup of tea, I went through the place turning up thermostats, lighting fires, drawing curtains. Returning, I found Ginny sitting in the same position at the kitchen table, staring out of the window into the dusk.

‘There’s hot water,’ I told her.

‘I’ll go and unpack.’

I carried her bag upstairs. In my pleasure and anxiety at having her home, I talked nervously about anything that came into my head: the food I would buy in the morning, the book I wanted her to read, the latest developments at Hartford, much of which I had already told her during the journey from Exeter. I joked that unemployment was making me lazy, that I was enjoying not having to get up in the mornings, none of which was true, but which seemed to form a necessary part of the charade of normality.