Conviction, p.16
Conviction, page 16
23
The day of the trial
I wake up to the sun beaming through the window. I hadn’t drawn the curtains before sinking into bed. At least, that’s what I guess happened. Everything is a blur. My last memory was of lying on the dock as the chains were pulled from me. I don’t remember the journey home, nor slipping my front door key in the lock. Hannah was there, I know that much. I can remember flashes of her, the smile slipping from her face, her lips moving but her words not reaching my ears. I don’t feel well, I remember saying. But not before knocking back two straight brandies. For the rest of the night, I dreamt that I was drowning, staring up at the Messenger where he stood on the dock above. But as far as I’m aware, I didn’t wander in the night. There’s that mercy, at least.
I am fully clothed, with my feet still firmly in their heels. The sun is hot on my face, and I squint to look about for my phone. Three missed calls. Voicemails. All from the judge’s office. My heart jumps in my chest as I scramble up to a sitting position. I wasn’t in my right mind and didn’t set an alarm – it is almost nine. I should be in court preparing to begin trial in an hour.
I rub my eyes furiously to rid them of the yellow orbs from the sun and play the voicemail.
‘Ms Harper, this is Nicola Bennett calling from Judge McConnell’s office. I’m calling regarding the Darling trial set for commencement this morning. Please give me a call back as soon as you can.’
I hang up and bring up the call log on the screen, noticing how the phone shakes violently in my grip.
Personal reputation or not, McConnell can’t go ahead with the trial with such an oversight in the police investigation. If we proceed, he must know I could push for there being no case to try, when it comes to the end of the prosecution’s case. I wonder which he would find more humiliating in terms of the press.
The judge postponing the trial is my only chance to get out from under the Messenger’s hold on me. To form a plan to protect Hannah and me, before the trial recommences again. Otherwise, I have no other choice but to proceed with his demands. Last night was proof of that. I press the phone to my ear and listen to the dialling tone, my heartbeat echoing in the other.
When Nicola answers the call, I notice immediately that she sounds tired and stressed. Her voice is an octave higher than usual.
‘Nicola, it’s Neve Harper returning your call.’
I hear her sigh with relief on the other end of the line.
‘Ms Harper, I was worried I might have missed you. Thank you for calling me back.’
She clears her throat as I wait with bated breath. Whatever comes out of her mouth will determine my fate. Sweat breaks out all over me. I sit in wait, feeling the warm trickle of it running down my ribs.
‘Yes, the Darling trial. Judge McConnell has considered your evidence and—’
There is a muffling at the other end of the line, and a distant, tinny voice muttering in the background. My heart is lodged in my throat.
Come on, come on, come on.
‘Ms Bennett?’
The line clears.
‘Apologies, Ms Harper, it’s a bit manic this morning. The press is calling off the hook about this, we can barely keep our phone lines open.’
I sigh silently and rest my head against the headboard. My heart is beating so violently that I can barely focus on my breathing.
‘Neve,’ she says, in a tone I can’t distinguish. ‘The judge has decided to proceed with the trial.’
It hits me like a blow. I close my eyes as the panic rips through my every nerve.
Nicola has continued talking, but I’ve not registered a word, catching only her last sentence.
‘…it seems someone leaked the possibility of a mistrial to the press.’
Niall.
It was a genius counter-move. The only thing that could have kept the judge from dropping the trial would be to throw his reputation to the wolves of the press. By having them threaten to slander his character and reputation before he’d made the call on whether to proceed, it would almost definitely affect his judgement and overall decision.
I imagine Niall getting the same news, the inevitable grin sweeping across his face.
‘Right,’ I reply, trying to compose myself.
‘Sorry, Neve – it was a close call.’
‘Thanks.’
I hang up and sit in silence.
We are going to trial.
The fear crushes down upon my chest, until I am shaking from head to foot, and tears wet my eyes. I force myself to breathe, taking small sips of air.
It’s Wade’s freedom or mine.
A knock at my bedroom door jolts me from my thoughts.
‘Come in,’ I force.
Hannah’s face peers through the gap in the door.
‘Are you okay?’ she asks. ‘You looked really bad last night.’
Her complexion is pale, and her eyes are wide with worry. I would feel guilty for troubling her, did my fear not have its hands wrapped about my neck, squeezing the life out of me.
‘Fine,’ I reply. ‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’
‘I don’t feel good either,’ she says, her voice turning child-like, almost baby-ish. ‘Maybe I have the same bug as you.’
I doubt it.
I don’t have the capacity to take this on; I don’t have the mental space to call the school and report her sick, nor jump through any other hurdles they might put in my way. If she wants to play truant, I’ll let her.
‘I’m running late,’ I say, and clamber out of bed. ‘Do I need to call and let them know? Or will they get the message if you don’t show?’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she says.
So I don’t. I grab my towel from where I’d let it dry on the radiator and head towards the bathroom when I hear a knock at the front door. Hannah and I both freeze.
‘Are you expecting anyone?’ I ask.
She shakes her head.
I pass her for the stairs, my heart hammering as fast as my feet, as the knocking picks up again. I reach the bottom, notice how bad I look in the mirror above the mantle. My hair is wild from sleep, with dark circles framing my eyes. I don’t look like myself, but like a creature. Wild. Dangerous.
The knocking starts up again.
I open the door. A man dressed in an orange fluorescent jacket stands before me. My eyes drift from his face to the name of the company he works for above his breast. Thameslink. On the other side of the road, another man in the same jacket knocks on the door of number forty-five.
‘Yes?’ I ask.
‘Sorry to disturb you, madam. We’re just doing the rounds to confirm the railworks commencing this week.’
I stare at him, a piercing whistle screaming down both ears.
Did he just say…
‘Madam? I’m confirming the railworks behind your property.’
‘W-what railworks?’
‘We sent a notice to each resident last month.’
‘No you didn’t,’ I stutter angrily.
‘We delivered them by hand, madam. This is just a courtesy call to confirm—’
‘I didn’t get a letter,’ I repeat, as if that will change anything.
‘I’m sorry for that, madam. Perhaps you thought it was a piece of junk mail?’
As if that matters now. The taste of bile is rising up my throat. I raise a shaky hand to it.
‘What… what works are you doing?’
Whoosh. Thwack. Whoosh. Thwack.
‘We will be laying a new track alongside the existing line.’
‘But surely there isn’t room—’
‘We’ve had permission to remove the trees on the far side,’ he says. ‘This was quite the hot topic last year. There was a meeting with the local residents. Have you lived here long?’
I have gone completely cold.
‘Yes. I… was distracted. I have a demanding job. When does this work commence?’
‘Today, madam—’
‘Stop calling me madam!’
His eyes widen, and his colleague across the street peers over his shoulder at the commotion.
‘When will you be removing the trees from behind my address?’
‘This will be the first task, but I’m afraid it would be difficult to estimate when—’
My mind is reeling so fast that I can barely pin a thought down. Only one persists: Matthew, rotting in the ground. I stare at the man in a blind panic.
‘Apologies for any inconvenience, mada—’ he stops himself with a nervous cough, before trundling off to the house next door. I click the door shut.
The body.
They are going to unearth the body.
PART II The Prosecution
Day One
24
The weather is ice-cold. The sort of air that feels wet with each breath. Londoners pass me by in a huddle of rustling coats and coiled scarves as I stand before the Old Bailey, looking up at the ray of sunlight breaking through the clouds and beaming upon the Bailey’s dome, illuminating Lady Justice where she stands in all her bronze-gilded glory. A sword in one hand, scales in the other. She represents blind justice: fairness, honesty, integrity. Everything I do not.
I don’t think I truly realised what I am to face until now. Before hearing the news about the trial this morning from the judge’s office, there seemed to be a window of hope where I thought I might still wriggle out of it. A point where a clear route of escape would open up before me. But time has run out, Fredrick is dead, the trial is about to begin, and now of course, there’s the matter of the body.
I have always feared this day would come.
When I had buried him there, it was not with the notion that it would be forever. He was too close to home, literally and figuratively, and if he were found, fingers would inevitably point towards me. But once the deed was done, I couldn’t find the strength to go through with it again. Now I fear I have left it too late.
The panic is sudden and overwhelming. I clench my fists to ground myself.
I can’t think of that now. I must tackle one problem at a time.
My other problem stands before me. I peer up at Lady Justice, gleaming from her perch.
I have never knowingly lost a case before. Never jeopardised a client’s fate for my own. Not just because I love my job, but because I’m tied to a strict view of right and wrong. This is my comeuppance for tipping the scales. The consequences of my crime.
The evidence I have against my client is nestled safely in my carry case. It is as if I can feel the weight of it, the pull of my guilt. But whenever it becomes too much, I think of Hannah, and my fear for her safety drowns out everything else. I must find a window in the day to deliver the evidence to the prosecution. I say this to myself factually, devoid of emotion, but as soon as it comes time, I know the fear will grip me, for once I do this, there is no going back. The trial will only end one way.
The press has crowded before the doors. They won’t have caught Wade, who was escorted into the building by Antony earlier this morning, but they will expect me to give them something. After Matthew’s disappearance, the press and I agreed on an unspoken rule where I would discuss my work but not my personal life. To deny them now would be inviting them to dig deeper into me rather than my client, picking at my life like vultures.
I take a deep breath, my exhalation unfurling in a cloud.
I can do this, I think to myself, in the hope that I’ll believe my own lie. Because I don’t have a choice.
I cross the street towards the doors, bracing myself as the press catch sight of me and begin their onslaught.
There is no going back now.
* * *
The inside of the Bailey is essentially two worlds: the past and the present. On one side, you have the original building. The same doorways the likes of Myra Hindley and the Krays passed through to face their crimes. Decades of bloodshed tried and sentenced; British history that has bled into the walls. The other side is modern and cold, where the juror chairs don’t squeak and the panelled walls on the courtrooms still smell fresh. I can’t help but see the similarities between my surroundings and my life. The present ever plagued by the past.
I pass through the building for the de-robing room, listening to the echoes of my heels on the cold hard floor, when I hear the hard clap of footsteps growing louder behind me.
‘It appears your trick of attempting to throw the trial didn’t go according to plan, Harper,’ Niall says behind me, stopping me in my tracks. ‘Sorry about that.’
I turn to face him and see the victorious grin on his face. Humility is something Niall never quite mastered.
‘Your plan worked though, leaking it to the press. I suppose I owe you congratulations.’
‘You can save your congratulations for the end of the trial,’ he replies. He steps closer, the smell of coffee lingering on his breath. ‘Your theory of the second suspect won’t stick – you know that, right?’
With so much at stake in my life, Niall’s competitiveness seems childish in comparison. I watched a man die last night. Now I stand before another, watching as he strokes his ego, playing a trivial game of back and forth. I long to care about nothing but the win; to have nothing more at stake. To have this burden lifted from my back. I turn to leave and feel a tug on my arm.
‘Are you still playing dirty?’ he whispers. ‘Any more tricks up your sleeve?’
Having a man so close to me, lay his hand on me – it makes my skin crawl. I cannot help but think of the rough, calloused palms of the Messenger thrusting me towards the dock’s edge to watch Fredrick die.
I snatch my arm away, and turn without giving him a response, my stomach somersaulting as I quicken my pace towards the ladies’ room.
I push my way into the bathroom and stop before the mirror, waiting to discern if I am alone. All the cubicles are free, and the only sounds to be heard are the incessant drip from the furthest tap, and the quick rush of my breath.
I was too distracted to check how I looked this morning, too terrified to care. But as I stare into my reflection, I wince at the sight of the woman staring back at me. I am deathly pale, and my prominent cheekbones almost make me look gaunt in this lighting. The life has been drained from my eyes.
Despite the trial before me, my mind returns to the body. I can see it in my mind, rising from the earth tangled in tree roots as they are clawed from the ground to make way for the new track. It’s one thing to bury a body in plain sight when you have to, but to gamble twice, and do so again, seems far too reckless. But now I have no choice. It’s not if I will move the body, but when.
I have no other choice.
But of course, I do. I could pay for my crimes. I killed my husband, and with murder comes the consequences. I of all people should know that. But then having my life and those I love at risk muddies the water. It isn’t just about me paying my price, and Wade receiving a fair trial – it has become something so much bigger. I think of Hannah – so innocent, so pure. So much of her life has yet to be lived. I deserve to pay for what I have done, but Hannah deserves to live. I cannot condemn us both. The Messenger’s threats seem all the more real after Fredrick’s death. I remember the thrashing of the water as he bucked against the chains, the bubbles from his lungs slowly dissipating on the surface of the water until he went still. I look down at my shaking hands. More blood is upon them now. I might not have fixed the chains about him, or thrust him from the dock. But I killed him. I dragged him into this mess, and now his body is floating at the bottom of the Thames. I scrunch my eyes shut at the thought of the wild, chopping water. The memory of the Messenger’s grip on my neck burns into my skin. I rub the same spot and sigh heavily.
I am so sorry, Fredrick.
My watch ticks quietly at my wrist, the seconds counting down to the commencement of the trial. To the decision I must inevitably make.
The door to the bathroom opens. I straighten up, reach for the tap, and begin washing my hands.
‘Good morning.’
I jolt at the sound of his voice. The Messenger stands by the door, the smirk firmly on his face.
‘You shouldn’t be in here,’ I hear myself say.
He releases that vile, smug laugh I’ve come to expect of him. The arrogance seeps from him, exuded from every sound and movement.
‘That’s the least of your worries,’ he replies, and steps closer. He doesn’t stop until he is behind me, and we stare at each other through the mirror. I can smell his breath as it cascades down upon me: minty fresh, with a hint of tobacco smoke lingering beneath.
‘I just wanted to check in on you, after last night,’ he says through a smile. ‘My buddies didn’t think you’d show. They were sure they’d need to man the airports, but I told them you’d come. I said you had the biggest pair of balls on a woman that I’d ever met. I was right, of course.’
I say nothing and look down to turn off the tap when his hands latch onto my head and snap it upwards, until I am staring back through the mirror. His fingers are laced in my hair, the tips digging into my temples and cheeks.
‘You understand what will happen if you fail, don’t you?’ he whispers. ‘I’ve made myself clear?’
His hands squeeze tighter around my head. I can feel the pressure burning into my eyes, my pulse drumming against his palms. His fingers pull at my hair until tears creep into my vision.
‘But I suppose prison is the least of your concerns, isn’t it? What with young Hannah. Such a pretty girl.’
‘I’d kill you,’ I whisper.
He cocks a brow. ‘Do your job, and nothing will happen to either of you. You have my word.’
‘Your word,’ I spit. A single tear snakes from my eye, running off his thick, meaty finger. ‘I said I’d do it, didn’t I?’
‘Just making sure you haven’t lost your nerve.’ He kisses my crown tauntingly, and a wave of nausea rips through me. ‘It doesn’t look like you have long, either… not with those rail workers setting up shop behind your house. How long till they dig up your dirty little secret, do you think?’
