definitely decided to give Pendle up.’
‘Good,’ said Jane.
‘At least I would, if he’d have the decency to ring me up, so I could tell him so. I’ve got nothing to do. And no one to do nothing with. I think I shall buy a dog.’
I opened the fridge, and found a jar of pickled onions. I ate five.
‘If he asked you out, I bet you’d go,’ said Jane, trying to paint out the purple circles under her eyes.
‘I would
I ate another pickled onion noisily. The telephone rang. I must have qualified for the Olympics, hurtling across the room. It was Pendle. He apologized — but not quite enough — for not ringing before, he’d been impossibly busy. Had I eaten? Would I like some dinner?
An hour later, my curls still wet from a hasty washing, I sat in Julie’s bar, lapping up a large glass of wine, and talking out of the corner of my mouth like a gangster, so as not to asphyxiate Pendle with the smell of onion. He looked even rougher than Jane, his face greyish-green with tiredness, his eyes heavy-lidded and red-rimmed. I hoped it was from poring over legal documents not loose-living. When I first saw him I wondered why I’d been eating my heart out for him. Then, as the wine curled down inside me, the old magic started working again.
‘Have you had any exciting cases?’ I asked.
‘Just routine stuff, but I’ve got a big case coming up tomorrow.’ He smiled slightly. ‘Defending a rapist.’
After the way he’d tried to pull me the night we’d met I was tempted to point out that he must have plenty of experience in that field. But it seemed a shame to rot up the evening so early on.
‘Will you get him off?’
‘The odds are against it. My client’s a man called Bobby Canfield. He’s sales manager of a small export-import firm in the City. He’s charged with raping,’ he lowered his voice slightly, ‘Fiona Graham.’
I whistled. ‘Rick Wetherby’s girlfriend? But she’s ravishing.’
‘Ravished you mean,’ said Pendle.
Rick Wetherby was a very successful racing driver, absolutely dripping with charisma and money. His affair with Fiona Graham had been well publicized in the papers.
‘Weren’t they about to get married?’ I said.
Pendle nodded. ‘Bobby Canfield was her boss. She claims he asked her to work late — the day before she was due to give up work actually. Rick Wetherby turned up unexpectedly to collect her from work, and found the door locked. She claims Canfield had raped her.’
‘How exciting! Had he?’
‘Well, they definitely had it off. I’ve got to prove it wasn’t rape. The Wetherby clan are naturally out to hammer Canfield, and they’ve got the money to do it. They’ve hired Jimmy Batten to prosecute. He’s one of the best QCs in the country. Canfield should have got a QC to represent him too. I’m not really a big enough shot, but I handled his sister’s divorce a year back and I suppose he was impressed by that. He says Fiona Graham was absolutely asking for it. But it’s going to be a bugger to prove.’
‘Girls don’t usually “ask for it” when they’re about to marry something as luscious as Ricky Wetherby,’ I said.
‘Exactly,’ said Pendle, ‘And Canfield’s got a shocking reputation with women.’
He held up his hardly touched glass of wine in the shaft of light from the table lamp, rocking it in the thick glass so it looked almost black. His eyes were just dark hollows now in a white drawn face.
‘It’s your big break,’ I said, wonderingly. ‘Aren’t you terrified?’
He grinned and filled up my glass. ‘Absolutely shit-scared.’
‘It’ll be packed out,’ I said wistfully. ‘I wish I could come and hear you.’
‘You can if you like,’ Pendle said. ‘If you can get the day off I’ll save you a place in court.’
If the onions hadn’t been making a comeback, I’d have kissed him then and there.
There was a heavy frost that night. Next morning, smothered in Jane’s red fox fur coat, I walked to the tube. Each twig and blade of grass glittered with whiteness. The last yellow leaves covered the parked cars and crunched like frosted cornflakes beneath my feet. Outside the court the crowds shivered and stamped their feet. They were mostly motor racing fans, anxious to catch a glimpse of Ricky Wetherby and his beautiful fiancee. For the sake of procedure her name was supposed to be kept a secret, but everyone knew who she was.
Once inside I was utterly turned on by the theatrical atmosphere of the packed courtroom, the rows of journalists lounging and exchanging gossips, the solemn beefy policemen and the array of wigs and robes. The Judge, in scarlet, was a little mole-like man with bright eyes and a twitching inquisitive nose. He looked capable of ferreting out the truth, and not likely to stand any nonsense.
Opposite, sitting in the vast dock, was Bobby Canfield, raffish, handsome, his face slightly weak about the mouth and chin, his hair thinning and too long at the back. And there was Pendle, even paler than ever, but outwardly calm and looking sensational in a grey wig and gown.
James Batten, QC, a sleek, dark, dapper otter of a man in his early forties, opened for the Prosecution, and for half an hour in magnificently sculptured prose had the privilege of so blackening Canfield’s character that before a word of evidence was heard there seemed no longer any doubt about his guilt.
‘In the dock, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury,’ he said in tones of fastidious horror, ‘is a man charged with a revolting offence, a typing pool Don Juan who took advantage of this inn-o-cent girl, so in love with her handsome fiance that there was no other thought in her head but her marriage in a few weeks’ time.’
Canfield’s face was expressionless, but there was a muscle going like a sledgehammer in his cheek, and he was twisting his signet ring round and round his little finger. You could see Batten had impressed the Jury. Oh poor Pendle, I thought in anguish, what chance has he got?
‘I shall now call my first witness, Miss Graham,’ said Batten, smoothing his sleek hair with an air of anticipation. The Press and public gallery licked their lips. Fiona Graham did not disappoint them. She came into court wearing a grey wool dress with a white collar, a Hermes scarf attached to her Gucci bag, her shoulder-length blonde hair brushed back from a smooth forehead. With her blue eyes downcast, and a slight flush on her beautiful pink and white complexion, she indeed looked the picture of inn-o-cence. I thought the white puritan collar was overdoing it a bit, but there was no doubt the Jury were impressed. As she took the oath in a whisper, you could feel the waves of approval and sympathy. Even the Judge looked more benevolent.
Batten rose with a reassuring smile.
‘Do you recognize the man in the dock, Miss Graham.’
She bit her lip, looked at Canfield, gave a shudder and said she did. Then in a clear, but occasionally quavering voice, aided by much sympathetic prompting from Batten, she told the court how Canfield had asked her to stay late, as he was going to be out of the office next day, how he waited till the building was deserted, then tried to kiss her. Running to the door she had found it locked, whereupon Canfield had ripped her dress open, forced her back on the desk and proceeded to rape her. Afterwards when she was still sobbing hysterically, there was a hammering on the door. After telling her to straighten her clothes, Canfield had opened the door and found her fiance and Miss Cartland, the head of the typing pool, outside.
‘My fiance then insisted I went to the police,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t want to.’
With a sob in her voice she went on to say how excited she had been about the wedding. She was so beautiful and so touching, you could see the pity on everyone’s face; two of the women jurors were surreptitiously wiping their eyes.
In this emotionally charged atmosphere, Pendle rose to cross-examine.
‘Hasn’t a dog’s chance,’ muttered a fat woman on my right, offering me a glacier mint.
Pendle, too, reassured Fiona Graham with a slight smile. His voice was quiet and gentle in direct contrast to Batten’s histrionics.
‘When this unfortunate event occurred, you were getting married in six weeks’ time?’
She nodded.
‘I think we could all agree your fiance is a rich man?’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘In fact, marriage to him would represent a considerable change in your circumstances?’
It was almost indecent the caress Pendle could get into his voice. Listening to the soft unhurried syllables, Fiona began to relax, her pretty white hands with their colourless nails unclenched on the Gucci handbag.
