Unspoken (16 page)

Of course I need my bloody job. ‘But I thought you said I was—’

‘Sshh,’ Sheila says, placing a finger over my lips. It smells of smoke. ‘Just take the case, Murray. Get the guy some bail. Get him through his interview. Get him a suit and a tie if he’s up in court in the morning, and for God’s sake, Murray, get yourself a bloody wash and a shave before dawn breaks.’ She steps back and says sweetly, ‘OK?’ As far as she is concerned, the problem is solved. She can go back to the penthouse suite.

‘Oh no,’ I say, my eyes widening, my heart thumping. Through the glass doors I see Julia running along the pavement. She has been to park the car. ‘You really don’t understand, Sheila. I
can’t
take this case. I’ll do anything for you,
anything
, but don’t make me do this.’ I gesture to where the cells are located, but already I know it’s hopeless. Sheila’s made up her mind.

Julia pushes through the doors and comes up to me, panting, freezing, smelling of the night. ‘What’s happened?’ she asks. ‘Is there any news?’

‘Plenty,’ Sheila says, butting in and tapping the side of her nose. She stares directly at the back of Julia’s head. ‘What were you doing here anyway, Murray?’ But she doesn’t even wait for my answer. ‘See you . . . back . . . in . . . the . . . office, then,’ she sings deliberately, coded to say that if I want to keep my job I’m going to have to do exactly as she says.

‘What was all that about? Why was Sheila here?’ Julia has never particularly liked or understood my boss. She stares after the older woman as she strides down the street, leaving another cigarette butt in her wake. ‘Murray? Are you OK?’ Julia is breathless; beautiful. She is puzzled as she draws up to me. ‘Have you found out about David yet?’

I snap back to some kind of reality. ‘No, not yet.’ Suddenly, I feel very sober.

‘Why was Sheila here? She looked really angry.’

‘Here you go,’ the grizzled sergeant says, handing me a load of paperwork. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing the good news.’ He briefly looks at Julia as if he’s not seen anything so beautiful in the station for a long time. ‘I’d smarten yourself up a bit if I were you, mate. You’ll be hitting the breakfast news in about five hours.’

I assimilate this observation before Julia can reply, which, of course, she will. My drunken world slows everything to poured treacle. The sergeant is right. The assault on Grace Covatta has caused a flurry of interest from journalists both locally and nationwide. Television crews and newspaper reporters have already latched on to Grace’s story as one to watch. Public sympathy is running high, especially as there’s always the chance this could be the work of a serial attacker.

‘What does he mean?’ Julia asks. ‘What does he mean, you’ll be on the news?’

‘Julia.’ I plant my hands on her shoulders but she shrugs them off. I worry that my breath still smells of whisky. ‘Julia, Sheila was here because she was called in as the duty solicitor. Our firm is part of the Criminal Litigation Accreditation Scheme.’ That was hard to say.

‘And?’

‘And it means that, because Sheila had a date with Mel Gibson . . .’ I stop for a second and then it all comes out wrong. ‘Julia, I’ve been assigned as David’s duty solicitor. Just for tonight until . . . just because . . . I didn’t want to . . . Sheila said . . . She made me and . . .’

Julia has already walked away with her face buried in her hands. ‘No way,’ she whispers, peeking between her fingers.

‘It’s OK,’ I say, knowing it isn’t. ‘Just a formality. It was a case of wrong place, wrong time. Sheila was on a date and didn’t want to take the case, so she forced—’

‘It’s not right. It’s not ethical.You’re hardly going to give it your best shot, are you?’ Julia rarely gets hysterical, but she is doing a fine job of it now. She paces back and forth across the width of the waiting area. ‘Murray, you have to call someone else.’

I shrug and turn to the desk sergeant for support. I know he’s been listening to every word. My face implores him.

‘He’s right, love. Ms Hanley threatened this chap here with losing his job. I’ve seen some things in my time, but—’

‘Will you be able to help him?’ Her words cut through everything; shatter as they drop on the tiles. Julia is cold and the skin on her face has hardened to alabaster.

‘I don’t know yet. I have to read the file. But Julia . . .’ and I go up to her; allow myself within an inch of an embrace. ‘I will treat him as I would any other client. You have to believe me on that.’ Our eyes lock for a second, just long enough for her to see a glimmer of honesty in me. ‘I won’t let you down.’

‘Thank you,’ she replies, and hugs her coat around her body. The shivers don’t stop. ‘Thank you, Murray.’

Her desperate tone, poorly concealed beneath a measured voice, makes me believe she’s known the man for twenty years; that he’s been a long-standing friend of the family; that he is her brother, an uncle, a long-lost relative, or worse . . . her lover.

‘Do you want to help?’ I ask, trying to lighten things up. Julia nods solemnly. ‘Then fetch me a suit,’ I say. ‘The grey one in the cupboard at the front of the boat.’ Her face slumps when she realises she won’t get to see David.

I fish in my pocket for the keys, turning away from the custody desk. I pull in close to Julia and speak into her ear, taking the opportunity to let her hair brush against my lips. ‘Old Groucho here is right. Once the press find out there’s been an arrest in relation to the Covatta case, it’ll be headline news. Bring me a toothbrush, aftershave. The whole damn bathroom.’

And it’s at that moment, as Julia nods and sets off to begin her mission, that I realise two things. One, I am more deeply in love with my wife than I have ever been, and two, if David is charged, I have very limited experience of this type of case. Earlier in the week I was dealing with a client who had thirteen unpaid parking fines. However hard I try, it’s going to look like I messed up on purpose.

 

David’s back is broad and square and facing me when I enter the interview room. His arms splay out to the sides, his cuffs are unbuttoned, and his shirt stretches in a fine cut across his shoulders. ‘Dr Carlyle?’ I don’t know why I’m asking. It’s clearly not going to be anyone else. Rather I’m giving him the chance to recognise my voice, to kick up a fuss at my presence and send me away before we are locked in together. It would be a relief if he did. The bang of the door destroys any chance of that.

‘Guess what?’ A pause for effect. ‘I’m your solicitor.’ Slowly, he turns. ‘Murray French,’ I add. ‘At your service.’ I suppress the bow, the smile of triumph when I see the flash of shock widen his eyes and raise his brow. I’ve still got a decent amount of whisky inside me.

‘I asked for a solicitor, not a clown.’ He ignores my extended hand and speaks like a careful machine, already one hundred per cent on guard and very different to the man I met at Northmire. His expression is rock solid now and betrays no concern at his predicament. I wonder if this is how he treats his patients in the surgery.

‘No extra charge for the entertainment.’ I resist the urge to punch him and dump my battered leather bag on the table. Julia gave it to me aeons ago, when I first qualified. ‘Assault, Dr Carlyle. Grievous bodily harm, aggravated battery. Call it what you like. Call it murder if the girl dies.’ I remember the newspaper article. Grace’s current lifeless state. ‘That’s the unsavoury little cocktail you’re about to be questioned on and possibly charged with. I suggest if you want to be out of here in time for breakfast, then we get down to discussing things.’

Carlyle draws a breath that seems to suck the walls closer to him. ‘In that case, there’s nothing to discuss.’

‘Oh, I think there is.’

I drop down into the chair at the small table and take out a pad and pen. The first glimmer of a headache stretches between my temples. I write down the time and date, badly, because my hand is shaking. I reek of Scotch. ‘From the beginning, Dr Carlyle. The very beginning, up to and including this evening when you were with my wife.’ That’s all I want to hear, what they were doing as the police hammered on his door. Were they kissing, or hadn’t they quite got that far? Had he touched her by then, on the back, shoulder, face or somewhere more intimate? Worse, perhaps the police interrupted them already in the bedroom. Julia is hardly likely to tell me of how they hastily struggled into clothes when Ed and his men arrived.

‘So do you want me or not, Dr Carlyle? There’s no one else available to fight your corner tonight. You’ll be questioned, possibly charged, and then it’ll be off to the magistrates’ court in the morning.’ I lay down my pen. The gauntlet.

He pauses thoughtfully and stares somewhere beyond me, and for a moment I see not contempt or jealousy but a whip of vulnerability. In a flash, I know that the doctor needs me, really needs me. The thread of hope spun between Julia and me is stretched to virtual invisibility but not yet broken. I fight the urge for another drink, just a small one, to wash it all away.

‘Doctor.’ A deep breath. ‘There is a detective in this building waiting to interview you about a very serious crime. He wants to put you in prison.’ He might as well hear it straight. But David’s eyes close, as if picturing another place, another time. His skin glistens with a thousand tiny sweat beads. ‘Dr Carlyle, did you attack Grace Covatta on the twenty-eighth of December?’

His eyes flash open, making me visibly jump. They are as dark and unfathomable as anything I have ever seen.

Before he answers, I step in. ‘You realise that if you are charged with this crime and you confide to me that you actually are guilty of . . .’ I swallow, not wanting to think of Grace’s injuries yet again. ‘. . . of these current allegations, but you choose to plead
not
guilty, then I can no longer be your solicitor.’ Hope above all hope that this happens. Now. Tonight. To get me out of here.

‘But I am not going to tell you that I’m guilty, am I?’ David smiles, perfectly in control again, as if he’s only got a parking fine.

‘The evidence against you is extremely serious.’ I know. I’ve read the file. Carlyle isn’t going anywhere tonight except back to a cell. I wipe my hands over my face and catch the length of my hair in my fingers. I’m reading the headlines already:
Suspect Represented by Alcoholic Dropout
.

‘I’m telling you that I didn’t assault or hurt or injure anyone, Mr French. When the police discover that any evidence they have against me is purely circumstantial, they’ll release me. It’s as simple as that.’ Carlyle is completely unfazed by the seriousness of the allegations against him. I have no idea if he’s telling the truth or not.

‘The police recovered a waxed jacket in the field close to where Grace Covatta was found.’ I think of Julia, how bravely she coped after finding the girl. ‘The jacket had one of your bank statements in the pocket. As we speak, forensics will be officially confirming it’s your coat. It’ll be riddled with DNA, hair, bodily fluids.’ I wait for a reaction. There’s nothing. I feel sick.

I continue. ‘Based on Grace’s parents’ statements about their daughter’s movements, DI Hallet has CCTV footage revealing that you and Grace were together in your car on the afternoon before she was attacked.’

‘That’s easily—’

‘Plus there’s a statement from a café owner stating that you were with Grace Covatta, apparently arguing, a week before her attack.’ I’m skimming through the details. ‘And you . . . you were seen kissing her. You clearly know her well, Doctor.’ His face is deadpan. ‘In Julia’s statement to the police, she says that the first and only word Grace spoke when she found her was “doctor”.’ It’s ironic but I like it that Julia’s statement has helped bring in Carlyle.

‘She asked you to help me, didn’t she?’ He says this with a vapour-thin smile, as if something magical has dawned on him. When I don’t respond immediately, he says, ‘Julia made you.’ He is ignoring everything I have just told him.

I shake my head. ‘Actually, no . . .’

‘So are you going to, then?’

‘What?’

‘Help me.’

‘Of course—’

‘Let me offer
you
a bit of advice, Mr French.’ His turn to interrupt me. ‘There’s this joke I know about solicitors. I think we could both do with a bit of a laugh, don’t you?’ He stands up and there’s no way I can compete with the size of him. He looms across the table, hands outspread, face warped by anger, guilt, denial. He pauses for maximum effect. ‘How do you get a lawyer out of a tree?’

I shrug. ‘I haven’t a clue.’ I know I’ve heard this before. I’ve just set myself up. It’s not jokes we need, it’s a miracle. ‘I don’t know. How do you get a lawyer out of a tree?’

‘Cut the rope, Mr French. You cut the rope.’

Ninety minutes a week visiting rights and he gives them all to me, just like that. An entire week crammed into an hour and a half.

‘This is absolutely shocking. Terrible,’ I say earnestly, whispering so no one overhears us. But however I say it, it still sounds as if he has been caught by a speed camera or had a parking ticket slapped on his windscreen; as if he’ll be out by teatime. ‘Ridiculous!’ I laugh, showing him I believe he’s innocent. Besides, it would be an insult to my judgement if he were anything else. I know, I just know, that we have a future together. There’s no way David attacked anyone. I won’t let it be true.

‘I went to visit Grace Covatta again,’ I tell him. I can see by the look on his face, the way his eyes suddenly bleed their colour, that he doesn’t like me bringing up her name. ‘She’s been put into a coma to let her brain heal. She’s just a husk; as if the life’s been sucked from her. It’s frustrating for the police, let alone you. I want her to be able to tell them that it wasn’t you who hurt her.’ I stop. David is miles away. Doesn’t he want to hear about Grace?

‘I understand,’ David replies flatly. It could mean anything.