bathroom? I won’t be long.”
Peter did not wait for his wife to reply but walked quickly through the courthouse doors. He wasn’t lying about not feeling well, although he had no intention of finding a bathroom. An alarm had been going off in Peter’s head ever since Patrick had told him about Rosie. He had made the connection instantaneously with what he had overheard Greta saying on the telephone the night that they had first slept together. It was the day of the funeral; the day when Greta got arrested and they had ended up in Greta’s flat, in Greta’s bed, and then the telephone rang in the middle of the night and she had said: ‘Don’t call me that. I’m not your Greta Rose.’ Peter was sure that that was what she’d said, and afterward she’d told him that that was her name before she came to London: Greta Rose because Rose was her grandmother’s name. Was that the truth, or was Greta connected to Anne’s killer? Peter had to know. Greta wouldn’t tell him. She hadn’t told him about the names in Thomas’s last statement. She’d told him not to read the statement in fact because he’d got enough on his plate without worrying about Thomas’s lies. Or maybe that was wrong, maybe he’d just never asked to see it. Peter could not be sure now. All he knew was that he needed to ask Thomas about this Rosie character. Had the other man called him Rose or Rosie? Was Rose his first name or his second? Was there a connection or was there not?
Peter did not stop to think whether his son could help him with any answers. All he knew was that there was no one else to whom he could put his questions.
He thought that there must be a chance that Thomas was still in the building. Hearns wouldn’t allow the boy to leave on his own, and Hearns himself might not have been ready to leave immediately. The detective always seemed to be busy with something. Peter had seen him in the courthouse corridors several times since the first morning of the trial carrying papers, talking sycophantically to barristers, looking self-important. It would be unlike Hearns to rush away straight after court, particularly if it had not gone well for the prosecution today.
The problem for Peter was that he didn’t know where to look for his son, and not only that: time was against him. Greta could not be relied upon to sit twiddling her fingers in the back of the Daimler forever.
There was no one in the witness waiting room and no sign of Hearns in the police room. Peter had just given up the search and was on his way downstairs when he ran straight into the detective and his son on the first-floor landing. It was the first time that Peter had seen Thomas since the day he’d thrown him out of his house the previous October, and he wouldn’t have known how to speak to him if the urgency of his need to know about Rosie had not overcome his inhibitions.
“I have to talk to you,” Peter said simply. He stood barring his son’s access to the stairs.
Thomas opened his mouth but no words came out. Astonishment seemed to have momentarily taken his voice away, and it was Hearns who responded to Peter’s approach.
“You’re a potential defense witness, Sir Peter. You should know better than to try to talk to a witness for the prosecution.”
“He’s my son,” said Peter.
“He’s also a prosecution witness,” said the detective, taking hold of Thomas’s arm to lead him away.
Hearns and Thomas walked over to the bank of elevators, and the detective pressed the call button. Peter did not follow. The excitement that had taken him up the courthouse stairs and across the great gulf that divided him from his son drained away as quickly as it had come, and Peter stood silent at the top of the stairs. A few seconds later the elevator arrived and swallowed up his son and the detective.
Peter waited for a moment before going downstairs. The great hall on the first floor was empty. Another day of justice and broken hearts was over, leaving only a litter of soft-drink cans and cigarette butts in the bins for the cleaners to empty that evening.
Peter turned away and began to go down the stairs. He took his time; it didn’t matter if Greta came up and found him now. He was halfway down the last flight leading to the entrance doors when a hand touched him on the shoulder. He turned around to find Thomas with a finger on his lips.
“Mr. Hearns is up on the landing,” Thomas whispered. “I’ve got to go back.”
“There’s something I need to ask you,” said Peter, keeping his voice as low as his son’s. “It won’t take a moment.”
“Not here. Later. I’ll be at Matthew’s. Call me there.”
“But I don’t have the number,” Peter said, but Thomas didn’t reply. He had already turned and gone back up the stairs. Peter followed a little way, and looking around the corner of the stone banister he saw Thomas standing between Hearns and another uniformed policeman.
Outside the courthouse Peter found Greta waiting for him on the pavement.
“Are you all right?” she asked solicitously. “You don’t look well.”
“No, I’m fine now.”
“Were you sick?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” he lied. “It must have been something I ate.”
“I don’t need to go this evening if you’re unwell, Peter. I can see Miles tomorrow morning.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s vital that you’re fully prepared.”
“I suppose you’re right. It’s just that I get so tired sitting there day after day, listening to all those lies.”
“Patrick said that Thomas did really badly today though.”
“Yes, that went well.”
“He said that Miles shot him full of holes over his story about the men coming back.”
“Yes, it was obvious he’d made it all up.”
“Why didn’t you show me the statement he made about it, Greta?”
“Which statement?”
“The one that Thomas made about the men coming back.”
“I don’t know. I only got it just before the trial, and it didn’t seem something that you needed to worry about. I told you what had happened and that it was obvious he’d made it up, and you agreed. There didn’t seem anything else that we needed to say about it.”
“No, I suppose not,” Peter said, sounding as if he thought the opposite.
“Why are you suddenly so interested in all that?” asked Greta.
“I’m not. It’s just Patrick was saying that Miles made such a lot out of it when he was cross-examining Thomas today.”
There was silence between them. Peter was staring out the window, trying to suppress his consciousness of Greta looking at him, waiting for him to turn around. Eventually she lost patience.
“Did you see Thomas inside the courthouse when you went back just now, Peter? Is that what’s got you so upset?”
The insistence in Greta’s voice forced Peter to turn around to face his wife.
“No, of course not. I went back inside to throw up. I just told you that.” Peter tried to mask his anxiety with irritation. To his surprise the trick seemed to work. Greta sounded apologetic when she spoke again.
“All right, I was only asking,” she said. “There’s no harm in that. I’m sorry you were sick.”
“It doesn’t sound like it,” he said.
“Don’t be silly.”
Greta kissed him lightly on the cheek and Peter smiled before turning with relief back to his window, where the stone wall of the Chelsea Embankment was flying past alongside the car. He looked out over the river wondering where Matthew Barne lived. He needed to ask Thomas about Rosie, but would Thomas tell him the truth? Peter felt that there was no one he could really trust. He wanted to believe in Greta, and he was almost sure he did, but asking her about Rose again, telling her about the connection, would make her think that he didn’t believe, and that would be disastrous for both of them. Peter felt that he’d already said too much. Greta was looking at him strangely again as they got out of the car.
“I think I’ll stay here,” she said. “I don’t want you to be on your own when you’re sick. Miles will understand.”
“No, Greta, that’s a mistake. I know it is. You’ll be rushed in the morning, watching the clock. You won’t be able to concentrate.”
“It’s not that bad, darling,” Greta said, smiling. “Perhaps you’re right though. I’ll feel better when I’ve had a drink. Be a love and make one for me while I go and change.”
Peter waited in the drawing room, listening to the sound of his wife’s footfalls on the stairs leading up to the top story. He eyed the telephone, feeling like a snake. It was sitting on top of the desk in which Thomas had found
