Final Witness (14 page)

    The sun was shining high in a cloudless sky when they got outside into Parliament Square just after one o’clock, and they walked down to the park carrying the picnic basket between them. There was a blanket on top of it, and Greta spread it out on the grass near the river.

    “We went on a boat yesterday,” said Thomas, making conversation while Greta unpacked the rest of the picnic. “Me and my mother. We went from here up to the Tower. Past Traitors’ Gate.”

    “God, it’s a grisly place,” said Greta. “I haven’t been there since I first came to London.”

    “Why grisly?”

    “Well, where do you start? The Princes in the Tower. Anne Boleyn. Catherine Howard.”

    “Yes, we saw where they were executed.”

    “By that bastard, Henry the Eighth. The most disgusting old man in history. Marries pretty girls a third of his age, and a third of his weight too, and then he kills them when they have an affair. What did he expect?”

    “But they didn’t,” said Thomas eagerly. “Not Anne Boleyn anyway. Thomas Cromwell told the King she did, but she didn’t.” Henry VIII and his six wives was one of his favorite historical subjects.

    “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. I know what I would have done if I’d been married to that old goat.”

    Thomas did not respond. Greta’s reference to her own sex drive made his heart beat fast. He felt the blood rushing to his cheeks and turned away.

    “Come on, let’s not talk about people getting executed. It’s much too nice a day for that. I don’t want to get blamed for you having another sleepless night.”

    “What do you mean? I slept fine.”

    “That’s not what your mother said last night, Thomas. She said you had dark circles under your eyes, that she didn’t think you’d slept at all.”

    “Oh, you mean the night before.”

    “Yes, that’s right.”

    Greta looked at Thomas expectantly. She hadn’t asked any question, but it felt to Thomas exactly as if she were waiting for an answer. When he didn’t give her one, she pressed the subject further.

    “It must be strange being in London after the quiet of Flyte. It takes awhile to adjust, doesn’t it?”

    “I guess so.”

    “The traffic can be noisy too. Even when it’s way past midnight. It often keeps me up.”

    “Well, I didn’t have a problem. Not the first night and not last night either. I don’t know what my mother was talking about.”

    Greta smiled. She seemed to visibly relax suddenly, and Thomas felt as if he’d given her exactly what she wanted. He knew he should have been pleased; the last thing he needed was for Greta to suspect that he’d been spying on her and her mysterious friend. However, he also felt the old sense of disloyalty stirring within him. He couldn’t even be with Greta anymore without feeling that he was treating his mother badly, and there were other things that he knew he shouldn’t forget. Like the man with the scar, and the lie she’d told his parents last night about being with her mother in Manchester.

    Thomas knew that he needed to be on his guard, but it was hard when Greta was so attractive and was making such an effort to be nice to him.

    “I’ve got white wine,” she said. “A little won’t hurt you, but don’t tell your parents.”

    This secret didn’t require any oral agreement. Taking the polystyrene cup from Greta’s outstretched hand was quite sufficient to seal Thomas’s complicity, and the alcohol made everything glow in the warm afternoon sunlight.

    “God, I wish I was wearing something more comfortable,” said Greta as she took off her jacket and unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse. She had already kicked off her high-heeled shoes when they sat down.

    “Not enough room in the picnic basket for cushions, I’m afraid. Look, I can’t use this jacket, Thomas. I need it for work. Do you mind me using your legs? As a pillow, I mean.”

    Thomas nodded. He couldn’t trust himself to speak as Greta stretched her legs out on the blanket and positioned her head on his thigh. She closed her eyes and sighed with apparent contentment.

    Thomas was lying on his side with his head resting on his elbow, and soon his arm began to ache, but he didn’t move. Concentrating all his attention instead on slowing down his breathing and his heartbeat, he moved his other arm until it came to rest just by where the mane of Greta’s raven hair was spread out over the pale cotton trousers that his mother had bought him the day before.

    He hesitated for what seemed like an age with his hand suspended above Greta’s head before he began gently to stroke her hair. After a moment she turned her head slightly so as to move herself more fully onto his legs, and looking down, Thomas could see the rounded beginnings of her breasts. He felt himself hardening against her, but he was powerless to do anything about it. He was certain that Greta couldn’t help but be aware of his excitement. However, she did not move away from him. Instead, without opening her eyes, she began to talk in a sensual, half-sleepy voice that aroused him even more.

    “You know I like you, Thomas. I always have. You’re so unlike your father, and yet you remind me of him as well.”

    “I like you too,” whispered Thomas.

    “Your father and a boy I knew in school years ago,” Greta mused. “You remind me of him as well.” Thomas didn’t know whether she had heard him or not. “Pierre, he was called. Always quoting poetry; telling crazy stories. His father was from somewhere in France and hated it in Manchester. Maybe Pierre got it from him. His romantic nature, I mean.”

    “What happened to him?”

    “Pierre? He left school. Came south. Got lost in London somewhere. We kept in touch for a while, but I haven’t heard from him in ages. The last time we spoke he was working somewhere in France. I don’t know if he stayed there. He’s probably got a wife and two-point-five children by now.”

    Greta broke off. A note of annoyance had crept into her voice, and a frown creased her wide forehead down to her black eyebrows. Thomas tried unsuccessfully to smooth it away with the back of his hand.

    “Do I look like him?” he asked, trying to return the conversation to its previous intimate footing.

    “No, not really,” said Greta irritably before she added in a softer voice: “I’m sorry, Thomas. It’s the past. I don’t like talking about it. It’s not your fault.”

    She smiled up at him, but the afternoon’s spell was broken. Big Ben struck three, and Greta pulled herself up to a sitting position.

    “Come on,” she said. “Time to pack up. We’ve got to be home in twenty minutes.”

    “Why?” asked Thomas, shaking his arm about in a vain attempt to rid himself of the cramp, which was now transforming itself into a painful attack of pins and needles.

    “I’m meeting your father there. On the way to the next set of meetings. Let’s hope he’s managed to sort out the Saudis.”

    “Sort out who?”

    “The Saudis. The ones with the Islamic sensibilities. Don’t you remember anything?”

    Thomas didn’t answer. He did dimly remember the reason that Greta had given for his father’s absence, but it didn’t seem important. His father was always absent, always letting him down. What mattered was the afternoon with Greta: the sun and the white wine, her head resting on his thigh, his hand in her hair, and now it was all going to be over. Why? Because of his father and his stupid work. Thomas wished that he didn’t remind Greta of his father at all, but perhaps that was what she liked about him. He felt he couldn’t win.

    They were on the sidewalk for less than a minute when a taxi pulled up. Greta seemed to attract them like a magnet, Thomas thought bitterly as they sped off down the road by the river toward Chelsea. There was hardly any traffic to hold them up, and every one of the signals seemed to turn to green just as they approached.

    Greta was checking the voice-mail on her mobile phone as she sat beside him in the back of the taxi, and Thomas felt as if she’d already moved on to the next part of her day, leaving him and their picnic far behind. Thomas thought that it might be weeks before he saw Greta again. She and his father had not been down to Flyte in over a month, and it might be just as long before they came again, and then there was always the possibility that Greta might not come at all, given the hostility that Thomas’s mother so clearly felt toward her.

    Thomas was too young to cope with the violent emotions that had taken such a firm hold on him. He was like a boat in a storm that had broken free of its moorings and was now tossed about rudderless in uncharted waters. He forgot his loyalty to his mother and his suspicions of Greta. All he wanted was to say what he felt before his time with Greta was over. Before the taxi got them home.

    At last a traffic light turned red. They were by Chelsea Bridge, and Thomas knew it was now or never.

    “Greta,” he said, and his voice came out in a whisper, contradicting the power of the emotion that had led him to break his silence.

    Greta heard him, however. She’d put her mobile away in her bag and was gazing half wistfully at Thomas’s profile when he spoke her name.

    “Yes, Thomas. What is it?” The sensual sweetness was back in her voice, and it gave him the courage to continue.

    “You know how I feel about you.”

    “How do you feel about me, Thomas?”

    “I feel that you are so beautiful.”

    Greta heard the longing in Thomas’s voice, and she didn’t know how to respond.

    “You’re very sweet,” she said lamely.

    “No, I’m not,” he said with sudden vehemence as his voice broke through his earlier whisper. “You are beautiful. I’ve never met anyone as beautiful as you are.”

    “But you will, Thomas. I promise you, you will.”

    “Don’t say that,” he said. “I love you, Greta. Can’t you see that? I love you. Not anyone else. You.”

    “You mustn’t say that, Thomas. It’s not right.”

    “Don’t you feel anything about me at all?”

    “I like you. No, more than that. I’m very fond of you. But that’s all it can be. I’m too old, Thomas. Too old for you.”

    Tears had formed in the boy’s eyes, and they now began to trickle down his cheeks. Greta put her hand under his chin and turned his half-resistant head toward her. Then, leaning forward, she kissed him on the forehead.

    “Don’t cry, Thomas,” she said. “Don’t spoil our wonderful afternoon.”

    Thomas did not reply. There was no time. The taxi drew up in front of the house, and he could see his father on the doorstep waiting impatiently for his personal assistant to get out. Thomas hung back for a moment before he followed Greta out onto the sidewalk. He did not know in that instant whether he loved or hated this mysterious green-eyed woman with whom he had become so obsessed.

    Looking up at the house as he got out of the taxi, Thomas caught sight of his mother standing framed in one of the high windows of the drawing room on the first floor, and he never afterward forgot the look of infinite sadness on her face. It was as if she knew that she had less than two months left to live.

    

    

    “AND NOW, with your Lordship’s leave, I will call my first witness,” said John Sparling, turning his attention away from the jury and focusing on the old judge above him, who was busy sharpening a set of colored pencils.

    Sparling felt his opening had gone well. The jury had stayed attentive and seemed suitably upset when shown the murder photographs. Now was the time to build on that effect, and who could be better for the purpose than the crime-scene officer? Detective Constable Butler would keep the jury concentrating on the appalling circumstances of Lady Anne’s death, and the more the jury thought about that, the more they would want to find someone responsible for it. The more they would be prepared to follow Sparling’s lead down the paths of circumstantial and uncorroborated evidence that led to the defendant.

    Sparling had no doubt in his mind that Lady Greta had conspired to murder her husband’s first wife, but proving it was quite another matter, particularly when he had Old Lurid Lambert to contend with. He did not underestimate his opponent; he’d lost too many guilty defendants to Miles over the years to allow himself to do that.

    Detective Butler came into court preceded by Miss Hooks, the diminutive usher, who looked no more than half his height as he towered above her in the witness box and read the oath from the card that she held up in front of his solar plexus.

    He must be six feet six. Detective Giant, thought Greta as she looked across at the crime-scene officer and imagined the back pain that he must endure bending over to examine floors and recesses for tiny bits of forensic evidence.

    “I arrived at the House of the Four Winds at ten fifty-five P.M., having been called to the scene by the two officers who had attended in response to the original 999 call,” said Detective Butler, adopting the impersonal voice of the professional witness.

    “It’s agreed, members of the jury, that that was made by Thomas Robinson from the house of a neighbor, Christopher Marsh,” said Sparling, speaking across his witness. “He’d gone there to raise the alarm.”

    “Yes, that’s correct,” said Butler. “The officers had entered the house through the open side door by which Thomas Robinson had exited. They had climbed the back stairs and discovered the body, and they had afterward gone through the rooms in the house in order to ascertain if there were any other persons present.”

    “Any intruders, you mean?”

    “Yes. They found nobody, and they did not disturb the scene of the crime. I was satisfied that upon my arrival it was in the same condition as when Thomas Robinson had left the property to raise the alarm.”

    “Why would he have needed to do that?”