Conviction, page 13
‘Out of my hands, I’m afraid,’ I reply, and force a smile.
I hear the man behind us slurp from his can of G&T, and have the sudden urge to reach around and snatch it from him, guzzle it down until there are two bubbling streams of it seeping from either side of my mouth.
‘You were right about the source,’ he says, speaking low. ‘The man who accosted you works for the Viklunds. They’ve worked together for some time; he seems to be their go-to man for things like this.’
A part of me doesn’t want to know who the Messenger is, to put an identity on the man. It makes him seem more real. A man with a history. I don’t want to think of him as human; he would have been a baby, a child, an uncorrupted soul until something happened along the way to turn him into the monster he is now. But despite my reservations, my curiosity gets the better of me.
‘Who is he? The Messenger?’
‘Leon James. A nasty character with a charge sheet as long as your arm.’
‘That makes me feel better,’ I quip. ‘What has he gone down for in the past?’
‘Extortion. GBH. And he’s rumoured to have committed far worse.’
‘It’s fitting, at least.’
‘I’m sorry not to have better news. But it’s good to know who you’re dealing with.’
I don’t know what I had been expecting. Of course he would be a dangerous man. I think of the gun he pointed at my chest the day we met.
‘And the Viklunds? Are they as bad as the rumours suggest?’
He nods solemnly, which tells me they are even worse.
‘I’m still looking into them, but they have connections throughout the city. I can’t imagine you’re the only one being… exploited like this. The Viklunds don’t have any one means of business – if there’s a way to make a living from a crime, they play a part in it.’
Despite the conversation, my thoughts drift to Fredrick himself. I wonder if he has cottoned on to what I’ve done. I am known for my husband’s disappearance just as much as my legal work. Perhaps he looked further into me too, when he was digging into the Messenger. Maybe he can see right through me. See the blood dripping from my hands.
‘I don’t know what to say. Thank you, I suppose.’
‘This is just the first step,’ he says. ‘I’ll dig around, see if I can get wind of anything more that might be able to help you.’
‘Thank you.’
I turn my attention to the window and admire the lights of the city. The night suddenly feels colder; my bones ache with it, and my teeth chatter behind my lips. I clamp my gloved hands between my thighs.
The boat begins to drift from its course towards the side of the river as Embankment comes into view.
‘And the other thing we discussed?’ I ask, my eyes straight ahead. ‘Anything there?’
‘Yes,’ he replies. ‘Something I think you’ll be able to use.’
He doesn’t say what I might use it for, and for what outcome, but in a few simple words, it’s clear he knows of my motives: preparing for the last resort, to use Wade as my sacrificial lamb.
He hands me a file. The cover is blank, with no hint of what might be inside.
‘I’ll get off here, you leave at the next,’ he says. ‘I’ll call you when I have more.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, meeting his eyes. ‘Do you have enough time? The trial begins on Monday.’
‘It’ll have to be,’ he replies. He places his gloved hand over mine, and gives it a comforting squeeze, to the sound of squeaking leather. ‘You’re not alone in this, all right?’
I hadn’t realised how alone I had felt, until I heard those words.
‘Thanks.’
He gets up as the boat pulls up at Embankment.
‘I’ll see you soon,’ he says, and gives me a comforting wink.
The night feels colder just a few miles up the river. The wind carries an arctic chill, bringing water to my eyes; the sort of cold that makes one’s skin ache. I look for him on the shore over my shoulder as the boat pulls away, and see him standing at the dock, giving me a nod. Behind him, the view of the city glows.
I turn back to the file in my lap. It seems so inconspicuous, and yet it seems to burn into my thighs with all the possibilities it might hold. I lift the cover and begin to read, my face slowly draining of colour as I take in the potential evidence I could use to damn my client, if I choose to put it in the wrong hands.
What Fredrick has given me isn’t a mere spanner in the works, it’s explosive. If this were sent to the prosecution, they may well have won the case before it has even begun. It is perhaps the best hand I could have been dealt.
I just pray I don’t need to use it.
19
I sit in my armchair in the living room with the new evidence on my lap and a glass of wine in hand, wondering how I could possibly bring myself to unearth this against my client.
I was wrong before. It isn’t explosive evidence. It’s nuclear. No defence barrister would be able to dodge this bullet. This information wouldn’t just smear Wade Darling’s character. It would implode our entire route of defence.
I drink the last gulp of wine in my glass and assess the prosecution’s case laid out before me. This would be the evidence needed for them to win, no questions asked. It would give credibility to every one of their claims, but had been buried so deeply that even they struggled to find it. The question I have now is: do I use this to my advantage, or bury it as far down again as I can?
My guilt rears up, closing about my throat in a chokehold.
It hasn’t got to that point yet. I mustn’t drive myself mad over something I might never have to do.
But as I open my eyes again and stare down at the evidence laid in my lap, I know the odds of avoiding the Messenger’s demands aren’t exactly in my favour. I jolt out of my thoughts at the sound of Hannah’s voice.
‘You okay?’ she asks from the sofa, remote in hand. ‘You look really pale.’
I force a tight smile.
‘I’m fine. A bit stressed. Nothing wine won’t help.’ I get up with my empty glass. ‘Want anything?’
‘I’m good.’
I head into the kitchen and brace myself against the counter for a moment, trying to stop my head from spinning with thoughts.
If I sent this to the prosecution, I would be destroying a man’s life. Stealing away any chance of a fair trial. It’s grossly unjust. It would make me despicable.
But what if it’s the only way to protect Hannah, and keep my secret? What then?
I pour myself a generous glass of red wine. I’ll need to sleep tonight, and this will help to keep my mind from wandering.
I step back into the living room and pause.
Hannah is up from her seat, peering over my paperwork sprawled across the footstall before my armchair.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
Hannah jumps at the cutting sound of my voice and spins around.
‘I was just… curious.’
She steps aside as I march over to my armchair and snatch up the files. She’d been glancing at the document Fredrick gave me.
‘This is confidential information. That’s really not on.’
‘I was interested what you did in your job. I’m sorry, I didn’t know—’
‘You did know, Hannah. You wouldn’t have waited until my back was turned if you didn’t know it was wrong.’
I take the files and the glass of wine with me towards the stairs.
‘Lock the doors before you come up. I’ll see you in the morning.’
I march up the stairs, the wine glass shaking in my grasp.
* * *
I wake standing in the dark.
The room is pitch black. So dark that the air before my eyes appears thick enough to run my hand through. I am naked. I can’t see myself, but I feel the nip of the cold room all over my body, gooseflesh running up my thighs and across my buttocks, raising the hairs on the backs of my arms. Through my fear, I feel the whisper of pain: my teeth are ringing, and the skin on my wrist feels like it has been burnt.
The rush of blood pulses in my ears, my thoughts running in a muddled, anxious loop.
It’s happening again it’s happening again it’s happening again.
My eyes slowly acclimatise to the dark, colours peering through the shadows, forms and shapes breaking through the wall of black. There is movement before me. Twisting. Turning. The realisation of where I am hits me suddenly, like a fist in my gut.
I am not in my room. I’m in Hannah’s.
My body shakes, my aching teeth chattering together. I am stood above Hannah’s bed, watching her. Through the darkness, I can see her milky white skin, her eyes closed with sleep.
I back away, tripping over a piece of clothing that has been left on the floor, and stumble. Hannah stirs, her limbs unfurling beneath the sheets. I watch in terrified silence where I am flat against the door. She sits up, squinting to see through the dark. I don’t breathe. I don’t think. The only lifelike thing about me is my rampant pulse screaming from beneath my skin.
Seconds pass, feeling like minutes. I listen to her breaths, sleepy and ragged, before she groans and turns, flopping down on the bed again. When her breathing slows, and I know she has returned to sleep, I edge open the door and click it shut behind me.
In my room, my bed is messy and unmade where I threw my covers off in my sleep. The restraint I had tied to my wrist to fix me to the headboard is on the floor: a fabric belt from a jacket in my closet. No wonder my teeth hurt; I had gnawed myself free, the fabric frayed where I’d bitten at the knots.
I get back into bed, shivering beneath the covers, and bind my wrist to the headboard so tightly that my fingertips swell with blood.
I mustn’t let this rule my life again. It’s just the stress of the trial; things will calm down as they did before.
But as I try to return to sleep, one question niggles through my brain.
Why had I been standing above Hannah’s bed?
20
One day until the trial
The trial is so close now that I can practically smell the wood panelling on the courtroom walls, hear the creaks of the juror’s chairs. I glance up at the clock on the wall of my office in chambers, the seconds ticking away from me as the hand whirls around the face.
Breathe. Just breathe.
I close my eyes, resting back in my chair before my desk. I’d managed an hour’s sleep, perhaps two, interspersed between nightmares that made me wake with a violent jolt each time, tugging at my restraint, in fear I had been walking again. I woke the final time to the sound of my name, and Hannah’s pale, frightened face peering through the doorway to my dark room, asking if I was all right.
I was dreaming of murdering your father.
I imagine Hannah in the witness box, relaying my tossing and turning to the court, adding her name to the ever-growing list of prosecution witnesses that could be used against me at trial: the neighbour, the stepdaughter, the solicitor, the client. But there is a way out of this, something I hadn’t allowed myself to even think of, until meeting with Fredrick. That’s if I can bring myself to do something so despicable as sacrifice a man’s life for my own.
My thoughts return to Hannah. Last night had been too close a call. The memory of waking up beside her bed, staring down at her through the darkness, is enough to bring up the taste of bile.
She can’t stay another night. I need her to go home.
I pick up my work phone with a shaking hand and dial Maggie’s number. She answers on the fifth ring.
‘Maggie, it’s Neve. Don’t hang up.’
She sighs at the other end of the line. ‘What is it? I was about to go out.’
‘It’s about Hannah.’
‘Of course it is,’ she says, with an exacerbated huff. ‘I expected this.’
‘Expected what?’
‘It was only a matter of time before the shine of having Hannah all to yourself would wane. It’s not as easy as it looks, is it, looking after someone other than yourself?’
‘It isn’t that, Maggie. The case is taking over, and I’m not able to be around as much as I’d like. Come the trial, I’ll barely be at home at all.’
‘So you want me to take her off your hands?’
‘I wouldn’t put it like that.’
‘The answer’s no. You both made your bed – made me the bad guy, ganged up on me – now you need to lie in it.’
‘This isn’t a pissing contest, for Christ’s sake. This is about her care. My job—’
‘Your time is not more precious than anyone else’s. You chose to come between Hannah and me, and these are the consequences. When she’s had her fun, she’ll come home again. You wait and see. But I’m not going to be made out to be the bad person here by demanding she does.’
I go to respond, but she cuts me off.
‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go out.’
She ends the call before I am able to utter another word, and I am left listening to the endless tone shrilling in my ear. I replace the phone back on the dock with a sigh and rub my tired face.
‘Sleeping on the job?’
I jolt up in my chair. Artie is stood in the doorway leaning against the frame, his smirk slanted across his face.
‘No,’ I snap. ‘I was thinking.’
‘Let me take a load off then. Fill me in. What’s your argument for Mr Darling’s case?’
‘I’m not really in the mood, Artie.’
‘Oh come on,’ he says, and perches on the edge of the desk. ‘You know old Artie likes to be kept in the loop.’
He peers down at me in his usual way, before glancing over the open law books on my desk. He wants to know how I’ll defend my client. Except, I hadn’t been looking for ways to defend him. I had been researching ways to condemn him. The last thing I need is Artie picking my plan apart.
My work phone rings. I briefly hope it’s Maggie, calling to change her mind, and fumble for the receiver.
‘Yes?’
‘Neve. It’s Antony.’
‘Antony, good morning.’ I wave Artie away, who chuckles to himself and gives me a salute, before heading for the door.
‘I’ve heard from Mr Darling,’ Antony says. ‘He wants to speak to us at midday.’
I hold my breath, willing him not to utter the words I know are coming.
‘Oh?’
‘He wants to talk about Alex Finch.’ I can practically hear him grinning down the phone. ‘I think he’s going to tell us something important.’
My heart sinks.
‘Right,’ I say, and cough nervously. ‘I’ll be there.’
I hang up the phone and sigh into my hands.
This is it. The moment I’ve been dreading. The point where Wade reveals his hand, and I have to deliver my own in response. Whatever he is about to tell us, I won’t be able to keep Antony from asking all the questions he’s wanted to about Alex Finch, which will be a direct chance for us to show the police investigation in a suspicious light. That’s unless I blow it out of the water with the truth about Mr Darling’s past.
I take a deep breath, hold it in my chest, before finally letting it unfurl.
I don’t have to do anything yet. All I have to do is listen to what he has to say.
But deep down, I know. I know that whatever he is about to put to us will push me to act; to defend me, defend Hannah.
It will come down to him or us.
* * *
Antony and I sit across from Mr Darling in the same seats as before.
Wade looks more prepared this morning. He has dressed and showered ahead of time, shaved off his stubble, styled his hair, put on a crisp white shirt and dark jeans. He looks ready. Almost as if he has an objective of his own for this meeting.
I try to keep the panic suppressed, smothered behind a professional smile, silently willing him not to take us down a path from which we can’t return.
‘Thank you for coming,’ he says, in a low, serious tone. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been more open with you during the past few meetings. I had my reasons, but now I see it’s the only way.’
He glances at his mother, and I wonder what they talked about in our absence. I had hoped Marianne would urge him to push back the trial, but clearly it backfired. Instead, it seems she has talked him into opening up. I sit before him, bracing myself for the inevitable blow.
He takes a deep breath.
‘I didn’t want to talk about Alex Finch, not because of our business dealings, but because of my family. My wife, in particular.’ He looks down at his hands, lacing them together on the table top. ‘I told you that Alex Finch wanted my wife. But what I didn’t tell you was that, for a time, she wanted him too.’ He clears his throat, averting his eyes momentarily before meeting mine and mine alone. ‘They had an affair.’
My heart jumps with the blow. If Alex Finch was sexually involved with Yolanda, and their relationship went sour, it takes the heat off Wade as the sole suspect. His defence just grew remarkably stronger.
You stupid fool. You’ve damned us both.
The silence has ticked on, with neither Anthony nor I saying a word. Anthony is the first to speak.
‘Why didn’t you tell anyone about this before?’
‘I didn’t want to give the prosecution a motive for murder,’ he replies, matter-of-factly. ‘And I didn’t want my wife to be disgraced before the nation. She would die all over again if she knew that people knew of her indiscretion. They would judge not only the type of woman and wife she was, but what kind of mother she was. Our children were her world. I couldn’t do that to her, even after everything she had done to me.’
‘You didn’t want to give the prosecution a motive,’ Antony repeats. ‘As in, if you disclosed that your wife was having an affair with your business partner, you would have had cause to kill them?’
‘That’s one way the prosecution could have spun it, yes.’
I am still sat in silence, unable to bring myself to speak, to force encouragement from my lips when all I want to do is beg him to take back the words. To undo the mayhem he has unknowingly caused. He has hooped his own noose without even knowing it.
