Squeezing her eyes shut and pressing her fingers against her temples, she tried to put herself into her house. She imagined walking along the gravel track and through the rickety iron gate that hung askew (she could ask Andy to fix that), up the little path that was muddy in winter, to the gray-stone building with its dilapidated outhouses and the old beech tree to the left that as a child she had imagined climbing. Through the front door, the tiled hall filled with building material, and into the low-ceilinged kitchen with its thick walls, wide windowsills and its view of the sea. The floorboards near the door had been pulled up, ready for her and Andy to lay new ones. The walls were plastered and unpainted; one day they would be white. There was an open fireplace that she hadn’t lit that day because she hadn’t found the energy, and beside it a large battered sofa, bought on eBay, where she had been lying, covered in a blanket, when Andy had knocked at the door. The back door led out to the main garden, though more a muddy building site than garden at the moment, and to more falling-down sheds. Tabitha forced herself to think of that door swinging open onto the wet December darkness: the pile of boards, Andy crouched on the ground, reaching out for him and feeling the plastic cover under her hands, then the bulk of the body; the blood.
In her mind she stepped back inside, into the kitchen, then the living room that was uninhabitable at the moment. Up the narrow, winding stairs, past the small bathroom, the guest bedroom stacked high with boxes, up a few more steps and into her room under the eaves. She had chosen it for the view of the sea from its small windows; when the waves were large, you could hear the sea as well.
In her mind, she stood in front of that window now, and she was looking at the gray water and listening to its distant sigh.
“Tabitha Hardy?”
The voice made her start. It was a warden, the thin woman with a pinched face who had helped strip-search her.
“Your lawyer is waiting for you in the visitors’ room.”
“She’s not. I don’t have a lawyer.”
The warden shrugged her sharp shoulders. “Whatever. She’s there anyway.”
“Why are you here?” asked Tabitha.
“Hello to you as well,” said Mora Piozzi. “How are you, Tabitha?”
“Confused.”
“I wasn’t happy with how we left things.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Tabitha. “I know you were trying to help.”
“And I’d like to continue trying.”
“What do you mean?”
“You can’t do this alone, Tabitha.”
“Except I am.”
“You mustn’t. It’s madness.”
“Perhaps I am mad—that’s what you think, isn’t it?”
“If you defend yourself in court you will lose everything.”
“At least I’ll try.”
“Try what?”
“Try to find out what happened.”
Mora Piozzi wrinkled her nose. “Is that what you’re intending? To conduct your own investigation from inside your prison cell. Is that your line of defense?”
“You make it sound absurd.”
“Because it is absurd. Worse, it’s self-destructive.”
Tabitha nodded.
“Tabitha, I’m not here to get you to reinstate me. I’ll recommend another lawyer to you. Just as long as you don’t do this.”
Tabitha looked down at her hands on the table. She had bitten all her fingernails back and the skin was dry and cracked.
“You believe my only course is to admit I did it. I can’t do that.” It took a great effort to say the words. Her impulse was to give up, give in, accept the solicitor’s help. “So thanks, but no thanks.”
“That’s your last word?”
“Yes. Yes, it is. But the thing is, the thing that I don’t know,” said Tabitha, “is what to do now. I have literally no idea what to do.”
Mora Piozzi was bending down to the stout leather briefcase on the floor. She opened it up and lifted out a thick bundle of papers.
“I thought you might say that. I’ve printed out all the evidence the prosecution has sent. This is where you should start, by reviewing their evidence, seeing what their case is—though I think you know their case already.”
“You’re being kind,” said Tabitha. Her voice croaked.
“The prosecution have up to fifty days to get everything to you, including who they intend to call as witnesses, but there’s a lot here already. Everything the police got leading up to your charge. All the witness statements, the copies of documents, most of the forensics, the nine-nine-nine recording. You.”
“Me?”
“The transcript of your interviews. Your medical assessment, things like that.” She glanced up. “Some of the photos you might find upsetting.”
“Of him?”
“Yes. Anyway.” She pushed the bundle across the table. “This is yours. They’ve been through it so now you can just take it.”
“Thank you.”
“After they’ve served you their evidence, you’ll have twenty-eight days to give your defense statement.”
Tabitha looked away. She thought if she met the solicitor’s gaze she might start wretchedly giggling.
“Right. My defense statement.”
“At which point they are legally obliged to serve you with any material that might help you or undermine their case. You should bear in mind that sometimes they don’t give you everything they should.”
“Why?”
“Why indeed? You can request evidence that’s not included.”
“How will I know what that is?”
“That’s a good question. The answer is, you should have legal representation.”
“Are you very angry with me?”
The solicitor tipped her head to one side. “I’m aghast. I feel like I’m watching an accident that’s about to happen and I can’t stop it.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“My card is in that bundle. If you want to be in touch.”
“Thanks.”
Tabitha watched her leave. Then she stood up and lifted the bundle of paper. The top page simply had her name on it and her prison number. She carried it back to the library and put it on the table next to her brown notebook. She took the cap off her pen, thought for a moment, then replaced it. She couldn’t even think where
