Tabitha sat in silence for a few seconds. She couldn’t imagine Stuart being scared of her. Disregard or casual contempt seemed more likely.
“What did you think about it all?”
“I forgave him long ago,” Laura said, in a voice entirely lacking in emotion.
She stood up, preparing to leave, and Tabitha stood as well. She had remembered something, something she needed to ask.
“I saw the CCTV footage of the village, from the day of the murder. At half past ten, Stuart drove out of the village. As you know, there was a tree across the road and he had to come back. Do you know where he was going?”
“No.”
“I looked at the prosecution evidence. There was nothing in his diary for that time. Did he have some regular place he went on that day?”
“No.”
“Does it seem strange to you?”
“My only thought is that if the tree hadn’t fallen over, he might still be alive.”
“That’s true. What a strange thought.”
“And soon there’s the trial.”
“Yes, there’s that.”
As they were starting to say goodbye, Tabitha thought of one last thing and wondered whether she ought to say it aloud and then said it anyway.
“You never said why you came to see me.”
“I’m not sure I know.”
“I think I know. I think that you believe me when I say I didn’t kill your husband.”
“I’m not sure what I believe,” Laura said and turned away, making her way slowly through the tables of the visiting room.
As Tabitha watched her go, she thought of what she really hadn’t dared say aloud. Laura may have believed that Tabitha was innocent, yes; or she may have believed that she was guilty and didn’t care.
Or maybe she knew something about her husband’s murder. Or maybe she feared something.
Thirty-Seven
Tabitha read through her timeline again and again until she knew it by heart. It was almost restful. She could lie on her bunk, close her eyes and play the film in her head, moving outside into the cold blustery Devon day and going inside into the shop. As she played it over and over, it developed its own rhythm, like a piece of music, the school bus coming in the morning and returning in the afternoon, the delivery van coming at 9:40 A.M. and then leaving at 3:34 P.M. Mel and Luke and Dr. Mallon and Shona and the rest of them moving this way and that.
Tabitha created different scenarios in her head. Laura had been conveniently absent during the day, called away by a mysterious client who hadn’t turned up. Had the police traced him yet? She needed to check. But then Laura couldn’t have known about the fallen tree. That couldn’t have been part of any plan.
Always she came back to the video. The video. It was almost nothing and yet it was everything. There was a simple fact and she repeated it to herself. Nobody could reach Stuart’s house—or indeed her house—without being seen by the CCTV camera. Unless they flew in, or arrived by balloon or boat. There were of course two exceptions to that. Luke, who had been there at the very end of the time when it was possible. And herself, who had been there pretty much throughout. Which was more bad news.
She considered her meeting with Laura. If Laura hadn’t definitely been out of the village, Tabitha would have started to suspect her. Then she thought of someone else, someone else she needed to see. It was a slow process. Finding someone’s number, phoning them and arranging a date took days. But perhaps in this particular case there was a quicker way.
Unfortunately, Mary Guy was the warden on duty. Tabitha walked up to her.
“I’ve got a pain in my ear,” she said. “It might be an infection.”
Mary Guy seemed indifferent. “You know where-to go.”
“I’m a remand prisoner. I’ve a right to see my own doctor.”
The warden looked puzzled and then she looked angry. “What are you talking about? It’s only your ear. Just go and see the nurse.”
“You can check if you want. I’ve got the right to be seen by my doctor. But if you want to tell me that you aren’t going to do it and want me to make an official complaint, then just tell me.”
Guy looked to the left and to the right, checking that nobody could hear her. Then she leaned forward and spoke in little more than a whisper.
“You’d better get off in this trial of yours. Because if you’re convicted, you’ve got a lot of people’s backs up in a very short period of time. If you’re convicted . . .” She paused. “Oh fuck, let’s stop pissing about. When you’re convicted, you’re going to find out what people can do to get their own back over five years, ten years, fifteen years.”
Tabitha reached into the pocket of her jeans and produced a torn-off piece of paper.
“That’s his name,” she said. “Tell him it’s an ear infection. Tell him it could be meningitis.”
Guy snatched the piece of paper. “Fuck you,” she said.
Thirty-Eight
“I can’t see anything,” said Dr. Mallon. “No signs of infection. No discoloration.”
They weren’t in the visitors’ room. Tabitha had been led to an examination room in the medical wing. There was none of the usual paraphernalia of a hospital. No posters on the wall. No objects that could be picked up and used as a weapon. There were two battered chairs and an examination couch. Mallon himself was dressed in a faded gray jacket and a navy-blue shirt and dark trousers.
“Sod’s law, isn’t it?” said Tabitha. “The moment you actually see the doctor, you’re suddenly better.”
“Well, I can confirm that you don’t have meningitis,” said Mallon. “That was your self-diagnosis, wasn’t it? Meningitis because your ear ached? That’s what they said on the phone.”
“I mentioned it as something I was worried about.”
“She didn’t speak very warmly of you.”
“We didn’t get off to a good start,” said Tabitha. “And then it continued not being good.”
“She said she thought you were malingering. Malingering.”
