Cardew?”
Ballinger’s face softened, his shoulders eased a little bit, and he almost smiled. “I’ve admired him immensely, for a long time.”
“He was involved with Phillips, and you admired him?” Rathbone’s voice carried his disgust, and his disbelief.
“Rupert Cardew was involved with Phillips, for God’s sake! I admired his father!” Ballinger said witheringly. “And I was desperately sorry for him. You haven’t children yet, Oliver. You have no idea how you can love your child, regardless of how they behave, or what wretched things they do. You still care, you still forgive, and you can never abandon them, or stop hoping they will somehow change and be at least something of what you want for them.”
Rathbone was totally confused. Was it possible?
Ballinger leaned forward across the table. “I did all I could to save Sullivan, for his own sake. I should not have been surprised that he took his own life, but I regret to say I did not see it beforehand, or I might have stopped him. Or perhaps not. He was a man with nothing left, and death was the only answer remaining. Thank God that at least he took with him the evidence that would have ruined Rupert Cardew as well.”
“Took with him?” Rathbone echoed.
“I meant into oblivion,” Ballinger elaborated. “I don’t suppose he had it literally … in his pockets. It was his one half-decent act, poor devil.”
“But he blamed you.”
“So you say. Half-decent, but not entirely.” He reached out his hand toward Rathbone. “But I will not say this in court, Oliver. I must clear my name without destroying Cardew. Possibly no one can save Rupert, but leave his father out of it.”
“How is his father involved?” Rathbone found the words difficult to say. He knew of Lord Cardew only by repute, for his crusade against industrial pollution. The man had apparently found some means to change Lord Justice Garslake’s mind, heaven knew how! Oliver himself had had only one highly emotional meeting with him, over the danger against Rupert, but he could not imagine Lord Cardew having anything to do with Parfitt or Phillips, unless he were tricked into it. Monk would have no interest in that.
“You don’t need to know,” Ballinger said softly. “Leave the man a little dignity, Oliver. And if you can, leave his name out of the court proceedings. You can defend me from this without mentioning Phillips, or Sullivan, or any of the others who were dragged down by him. I did not kill Parfitt, nor do I know who did, or specifically why. The man was human filth and must have had scores of enemies. If you can’t find the one who killed him, at least oblige the jury to know what type of person that would be. Don’t ruin Cardew in the process … please.”
Rathbone felt as if certainty had crumbled in his hands. He was holding a dozen shards, none of which fitted together to make a comprehensible whole.
“Perhaps you can do it without destroying anyone else,” Ballinger went on. “But if you can’t save Monk from himself, then you must follow the law, and your own sense of right and wrong. You did not do this to him; he did it to himself.”
“I’ll do everything I can,” Rathbone said gravely. “As it stands at the moment, I will be able to challenge the prosecutor on just about every point. But of course I shall not stop working until the case is thrown out.”
Ballinger smiled. “Thank you. I knew you would.”
CHAPTER 10
It was the evening before Arthur Ballinger’s trial began. Rathbone sat in his armchair before a fire not really necessary yet but vaguely comforting. Margaret sat opposite him playing at a piece of needlework, and unpicking as much of it as she sewed.
“Who will they call first?” she asked, looking at him intently, her face strained. Tiny lines around her eyes were visible in the light shining sideways from the gas bracket at her left. He had never noticed them in the daylight. He felt an intense pity for her, and longed to be able to give her some comfort, but promises that could not be kept were worse than none at all. After they were broken, she would never be able to trust him again, and he could not rob her of that.
“Oliver!” she prompted. “Who will they call first?”
“Probably Monk,” he replied.
“Why? He didn’t find that wretched man’s body. Why not the policeman who did?”
“Maybe they’ll call him, but it’s rather tedious and adds nothing to the case. It’s a dangerous thing to bore a jury.”
“For heaven’s sake! It’s not an entertainment!” she said savagely. “The jury is there to do the most important job of their lives, not to be amused.”
Rathbone tried not to let any emotion sharpen his voice.
“They are ordinary people, Margaret. They are frightened of making a mistake, awed that the responsibility is theirs for a decision they have had no training to reach. A man’s life hangs in the balance, and they know it. They will find it difficult to concentrate, almost impossible to remember everything, and if either Winchester or I allow their minds to wander from what we are saying, they will forget half of it. Winchester is no fool, believe me. He will not repeat anything that is irrelevant.”
“What do you mean, irrelevant?” she demanded. “How can the truth be irrelevant? It is somebody’s life … Are they stupid?” Her voice was growing higher, less within the tight effort of control that she had kept up with difficulty since her father’s arrest.
He leaned forward a little. “The description of the river where they found Parfitt is not important enough for the jury to hear it from both the local policeman and Monk,” he explained. “It has nothing to do with who Parfitt was, or who killed him. They don’t need it twice. They will cease to listen, and that matters.”
“What will Monk say?” she persisted. “He’ll shade everything because he hates Papa. He’s never forgiven him for choosing you to defend Jericho Phillips. Men like Monk can’t bear to be beaten. What are you going to do to show the jury that it’s personal, that he wanted Papa to be guilty for his own reasons?”
Rathbone saw the anger in her face, and the fear. It was as if some part of her were facing an ordeal from which she might never recover. He ached to be able to reach out to her and simply hold her, to feel that intensity of closeness where pain can be shared. But she was too tightly knotted within herself to allow it, as if he were also the enemy.
“Margaret, Monk wants to end the abominable trade in child pornography, not persecute any one person. If he wanted revenge over Phillips, for heaven’s sake, don’t you think he got it at Execution Dock?”
She stared at him. “You don’t believe me, do you? You’re siding with Monk!”
He swallowed back the exasperation that filled him. “I am trying to defend your father. Personal attacks on the police are not going to accomplish that, unless Monk makes a mistake. If he does, I will take him apart for it, friend or not.”
“Will you?” she said doubtfully.
That was unfair, and at any other time he would have told her so. “You know I will,” he said gently. “Didn’t I do that, to both Monk and Hester, to defend Jericho Phillips? And I despised the man. How much more so would I do it to defend your father?”
“You know he’s innocent, don’t you?” Now she was really afraid, shivering where she sat on the sofa only a couple of feet away from him. What could he possibly say? He did not know that Ballinger was innocent. Of the murder of Parfitt, he probably was, because why on earth would he do such a senseless and unnecessary thing? But of any involvement with those who used the boats and the wretched children on them, no, he was not certain of Ballinger’s innocence at all.
“Oliver!” She was trembling now so intensely, he would have thought the room ice cold if he had not felt the heat of the fire scorching his legs.
“I know he didn’t kill Parfitt,” he answered her. “Of course I do. I’m afraid he might have gone further than he would like to have in defense of some of Parfitt’s victims. I’m not absolutely certain that he doesn’t know who did kill him, and he might be protecting them.”
