supposedly shared a common purpose, but it didn’t make him trust them. All they seemed to care about were each others’ opinions. The rest of the world, policemen and criminals alike, were a sort of underworld that they had to visit from time to time, in order to earn their bread and butter. The barristers in their robes and horsehair wigs made Trave uncomfortable and even angry sometimes, and he knew himself well enough to realise that this arose from a fundamental feeling of inferiority. There was no basis for it. Trave had got a perfectly reasonable university degree, and he could just as easily have set out to become a lawyer all those years ago, but instead he had wanted to be a policeman. The job made sense. He was trying to bring order to a disordered world. Barristers were hired guns. Men without principle, available to whomever could afford their inflated hourly rates. But still, sometimes Trave felt that he was in the wrong job. The lawyers had the final say. Prosecuting innocent men and letting the guilty ones go. Maybe if he’d got a promotion, he’d have had more clout. But he had never been good at making people like him, particularly superior officers. He had remained a middle-ranking detective inspector for fifteen years, marooned on a rate of pay that had had his wife, Vanessa, on his back almost every week until she had left him. He got good work to do, because everyone knew that he was one of the best detectives on the force, but the final decisions were out of his hands.
And this case had begun to trouble him more than any he had ever worked on, until now it was almost an obsession. He had killed Reg Ritter, but it was the man’s wife whom Trave couldn’t forget. He kept seeing her lying dead on her bed in the manor house. She had seemed so small and abandoned, laid out in the centre of the white counterpane with little pink flowers that just reached all the edges of the mattress beneath. She was obviously a person who cared intensely, almost disproportionately, about the way things looked, and she had made her bed so neatly before she left for London with her husband in the morning. Little did she know then that it was her deathbed she was preparing and that the counterpane would be her winding sheet.
Trave shook his head and tried to forget all the dead faces: Ritter and his wife and Cade himself and, soon, if Thompson would not listen, Stephen as well, dangling on the end of a rope somewhere in Wandsworth Prison.
Trave was now inside the enclosure of medieval buildings known collectively as the Temple. Some of it had been bombed during the war, and rebuilding was still continuing in various places. But much of it was unchanged since Dickens’s day. Little alleyways opened unexpectedly into grand squares with fountains and tall beech trees and distant views of the river. Hare Court, Pump Court, and Doctor Johnson’s Buildings. Everywhere the Temple was a hub of activity: barristers coming and going, their clerks tottering down the cobbled lanes under mountains of papers tied up with different-coloured ribbon. Red for defence work and white for prosecution. Most barristers defended and prosecuted, but Tiny Thompson was an exception. The government had secured his exclusive services, and he only prosecuted capital cases. He got results too. The hangman was busier than ever.
Trave had taken a roundabout route to kill time, walking up to Fleet Street and past Temple Bar, where the authorities displayed the heads of executed criminals as late as the eighteenth century. But he was still ten minutes early when he knocked on the door of Number 5 King’s Bench Walk and was shown into a waiting room in which a coal fire was giving off very little heat. The scuttle was empty, and there was no sign of any wood.
Trave picked up a magazine off the table in the centre of the room and flicked the pages, but he could not concentrate. He was remembering a day when he and Vanessa and Joe had come here just after the end of the war. God knows why they had chosen the Temple, unless it was just that it was one of the few places that Trave knew in London. But Joe had loved it, running ahead of his parents and jumping out of hidden doorways to scare them. Until they turned a corner and found that he had completely disappeared. Trave had shouted for his son, but he wasn’t really worried. He knew Joe couldn’t have gone far. But Vanessa didn’t see it that way. The look of abject terror on her face had shaken Trave at the time, and now, in retrospect, it seemed like it was a premonition. Trave remembered how they had gone to a tea shop on the Strand afterward, and he had tried to console her while Joe ate his way through an entire chocolate cake. But her confidence had snapped, and she hadn’t touched her food. And then, at the end, just as he was paying the bill, she’d taken his hand and told him what she felt, and the words had stayed with him ever since.
“We’re walking on ice, Bill. All the time on thin ice, and we just don’t know it. We think it’s solid ground, until it breaks.”
And ten years later the ice had broken. Joe had died and now Vanessa had left Trave for another man. It was as if she held him responsible for what had happened. She’d given him the son he craved, and he hadn’t protected that son. He’d failed her, and so she’d left him.
Trave’s contempt for his own self-pity didn’t make him feel any better or more prepared for Gerald Thompson, who now appeared in the doorway of the waiting room, looking down at Trave over gold half-moon spectacles that he wore forward on his nose, enhancing a naturally supercilious expression.
But to Trave’s surprise, the barrister seemed disposed to be friendly. He shook Trave’s hand quite warmly, before guiding him down a corridor into his office. It was a beautiful room with light wood-paneled walls and a roaring fire in the corner, a marked contrast to its counterpart in the waiting room.
Thompson went to the door and called to an invisible assistant to make coffee, while Trave took in more of his surroundings. Everything was neat: books arranged in descending order of height on the shelves and papers tied up with ubiquitous white ribbon. The big kneehole desk with drawers on either side was devoid of photographs, but, between two of the bookcases, a six-foot-high mirror had been set into the wall, and Trave imagined Tiny Thompson in his robes, preening himself in front of it, standing slightly on tiptoes to achieve the best effect.
“You’re quite a hero, Inspector,” said Thompson, returning to his seat on the other side of the desk. “It’s not every day that I get to drink coffee with a man of action like yourself.”
Trave forced a smile, uncertain how else to respond to being complimented on killing another human being. Even if it was a man like Ritter.
“I hear you felled friend Ritter with just one shot.” The prosecutor spoke in the same clipped, almost feminine, voice that had so grated on Trave’s nerves during the trial, and his words were laced with irony, but Trave was nevertheless grateful that Thompson was not hostile before he’d begun. Maybe the barrister would listen to what he had to say.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Thompson,” he said. “I appreciate it’s short notice.”
“Gerald, please,” interrupted Thompson, smiling.
“Gerald.” Trave found it hard to get the name out. It would have been easier to call the prosecutor Tiny. “Gerald, I wanted to talk to you about the case.”
“Yes, I imagined you would,” said Thompson. “It’s going well, I think. I’ve had the new statements from Sasha Vigne and Silas Cade, saying they were together in her room on the night of the murder. Obviously Silas will have to be recalled now that he’s changed his evidence, but I don’t see that as too much of a problem.”
“So the trial’s going ahead? There won’t need to be a new jury?” Trave sounded surprised-shocked, even. It was not what he had expected.
“No. No need for one. I spoke to friend Swift yesterday. He doesn’t want to start again. He’d lose the evidence of poor Mrs. Ritter if he did. The defence’ll obviously be attacking Silas for all they’re worth from now on, but I doubt it’ll do them much good. His injuries should make him more sympathetic to the jury. Not less.”
“But what about the prosecution?”
“What about it?”
“Don’t you want to start again?”
“No, I’d lose my star witness if I did that.”
Trave looked perplexed, and Thompson laughed.
“Come on, Inspector. You should know who I’m talking about. You’re the one who got rid of Sergeant Ritter, after all. I’m just glad that you waited until after he’d given his evidence.”
“I had to do it. It wasn’t a choice,” said Trave, unable to contain his irritation at being depicted as some sort of trigger-happy gunman. The prosecutor’s evident amusement at his discomfiture only increased Trave’s annoyance.
“It’s all right, Inspector. I know you only did what you had to do, as they say. Like I said outside, everyone thinks you’re quite the hero. Me included.” Thompson laughed and picked up his cup of coffee. Trave noticed with surprise that it was an antique, made of a delicately painted bone china. Thompson blew into the liquid several times before he took his first sip. It was like he was preparing a kiss.
“It’s in both our interests to carry on, you see, Inspector,” he said after a moment. “The defence have Mrs. Ritter, and we have her husband. The jurors may not have liked him, but they believed his evidence. And the key turning in the lock is the jewel in our crown, particularly when you add in the fingerprint evidence. No, I’m content. I
