“You mustn’t worry, you know,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “I’ll be all right. Truth will out, you’ll see. Old Murder can do his damnedest, but it’s not his decision at the end of the day.”
“Old Murder?”
“Oh, sorry-that’s what they call our judge in here. They say he’s the worst of the lot. But the nickname’s pretty good, don’t you think? He looked at me today like he’d got half a mind to come down off his bench and throttle me himself. God knows why. It’s not like he even knows me.”
Stephen fell silent, as if frightened at how doubt had so quickly replaced his earlier optimism. But then his lips tightened in defiance. “I didn’t do it, you know,” he said suddenly. “I couldn’t have killed him even if I’d wanted to. He was my father, for Christ’s sake. It’d be like murdering part of myself.”
“You said you hated him,” she said.
“Yes. And I loved him too. Love and hate aren’t so far apart, you know.”
Stephen was silent again for a moment, and there was a faraway look in his eyes when he went on: “There’s not a day goes by that I don’t feel guilty about leaving him alone that night. Opening the door for whoever it was to walk straight in there and put a bullet through his head.”
“How were you to know?”
“I wasn’t. I just wish I hadn’t left him, that’s all. No one deserves to die like that.”
“What about that family in France?” asked Mary, leaning forward across the table. “He herded them into a church like cattle. That’s what you told me. Did they deserve what happened to them?”
“No, I know. You’re right. There are just too many ghosts. That’s the trouble. Too many unanswered questions,” said Stephen, returning to the present with a half-forced smile. “Like who killed my father. My defence team doesn’t seem to be getting too far with that one unfortunately. And there’s not much I can do to help them while I’m sitting here.”
“You’ve got to trust them,” said Mary. “You’ve got a good barrister. Everyone says so.”
“I know, I know. You’re right as usual. But enough about me. Tell me about yourself. Are you working?”
“No, of course not. How could I come to court if I was acting as well? The stress is bad enough as it is.”
“You’re right. It’s not easy.”
Mary bit her lip, unable to understand her irritation. What was she doing complaining about stress when Stephen was on trial for his life?
“How’s your mother?” asked Stephen, trying to keep up the conversation. “Is she any better?”
“A little, maybe.”
“I’m sorry. Have you been to see her again?”
“Yes.”
“And your brother. Did he go too?”
“No. Yes. What do you want me to say? Why do you always keep asking me about Paul?” asked Mary, irritated again.
“Sorry,” said Stephen defensively. “I guess it just felt a bit strange that you never wanted to introduce him to me. That’s all. It doesn’t matter now. Let’s talk about something else.”
But there was no time. A speaker on the wall crackled into life giving a two-minute warning. And it had the same effect as on Mary’s previous visits, pressurizing them both into an awkward silence.
“I love you, Mary,” said Stephen.
“And I love you too,” she replied.
But it was too pat. The place robbed their words of meaning. And there was no time left to explain, to connect, to try to work out where everything had gone wrong.
Mary got up to go. And afterward, left on his own at the table, Stephen followed her with his eyes until she disappeared into the throng of other visitors leaving through the door at the back of the hall. And involuntarily he wondered whether she would be driving away from the prison alone or whether there would be someone waiting to meet her on the other side of the high wall surmounted with barbed wire that separated him so entirely from the life he’d left behind.
THREE
In court the next morning, Gerald Thompson watched his opposite number get slowly to his feet. John Swift was a tall, willowy, good-looking man in his late forties. He’d been a pilot in the war, one of those who’d led a charmed life, guiding his Spitfire through everything the Germans and later the Japanese had been able to throw at him without once being shot down. Things came easily to him. As a barrister, he had an instinctive ability to see what mattered, to find what was persuasive in a case and get it across to a jury in a way that they could understand. Except in this case. Here, everything seemed to point toward the defendant’s guilt, and on top of that Stephen Cade was his own worst enemy. He was headstrong and unmalleable. And his interview with the police was a disaster.
Swift was the son of the second to last lord chancellor, born with a solid silver spoon in his mouth. He’d been educated at Eton and Oxford. He was rich and well liked. A true war hero. He was, in short, everything that Thompson was not, and Thompson hated him for it, hated him secretly and with a passion. This high-profile case was exactly what Thompson had been praying for. He’d get his conviction, and he’d make a fool of John Swift in the process. No one would call him Tiny Thompson after this or poke fun at his working-class origins behind his back. Swift sensed the prosecutor’s malevolence, but there were other more-pressing things on his mind as he began his cross-examination of Inspector Trave. He couldn’t get a handle on the case. He needed a way in and he couldn’t find one, though it wasn’t for want of trying.
“My client was arrested on the same night that his father’s body was discovered. Is that right, Inspector?” asked Swift.
“Yes. On the fifth of June. He was arrested on the basis of what we were told by Mr. Ritter at the scene. That the defendant had unlocked the door of the study from the inside to let him in.”
“And Mr. Ritter was the first to respond to my client shouting in the study?”
“I don’t think I can answer that, I’m afraid. I can only tell you the reason why we arrested Stephen Cade. I can’t give direct evidence about what happened in the house before I arrived.”
“Of course he can’t. You shouldn’t need a policeman to tell you that, Mr. Swift,” said Judge Murdoch irritably. “How can the inspector know who shouted, or if anyone shouted for that matter?”
“He can’t, my lord. I’m sorry. Let me ask you about the cause of death, Inspector. Only one bullet had been fired from the pistol that you found on the side table. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And it had entered the professor’s forehead?”
“Yes. And lodged in his brain.”
“To use a popular expression, he’d been shot between the eyes.”
“Just above a point between the eyes.”
“Thank you. It was an execution-type shooting. That’s my point. Would you agree with that description?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“To achieve that kind of precision with a bullet, wouldn’t you need considerable skill as a marksman?”
“I don’t know. I’m not an expert.”
“No. Quite right, Inspector. You’re not,” said the judge. “Is there evidence of the distance from which the shot was fired, Mr. Thompson?”
“About twelve feet according to the report, my lord,” said the prosecutor, reading from a report in one of his many files.
“I see. Not exactly a great distance, Mr. Swift.”
“No, my lord. I’ve made my point. I’ll move on. You’ve told us about Mr. and Mrs. Ritter, Inspector. Who else was in the house on the night of the murder?”
“The defendant’s girlfriend, Mary Martin; his elder brother, Silas Cade; and Sasha Vigne.”
“Who’s she?”
