As for Mrs Haynes, Julianna listened into the quiet conversations held in the back of the car and, as expected, offered no counsel. Hettie wasn’t always comfortable with the lack of privacy; she would attempt to codify her remarks and her eyes would flutter back and forth, occasionally glancing at the rear-view mirror to check whether Julianna was paying any attention to her phone calls. Julianna maintained her professionalism under duress – if only she could speak up and ask Hettie outright about Mark.
She tapped her finger on the folder Mark had handed her. ‘Well, I best follow this up.’ The meeting ended with another brisk handshake. ‘Good to meet you, Mark.’
She hesitated at the door for one last inspection of the painting and her new colleague – his fawn cheeks tinged with a hint of shame. Far from advertising his connection to Hettie Haynes, he had played it down, claiming Jackson was his friend, not Hettie. The lady’s bower, the secret apartment, was the clue to why a new employee had that painting hanging in his office. Chris had given her Mark’s personnel record a week ago. That bugged her too. Maybe it was so Jackson could use Julianna to keep an eye on his wife’s admirer. Cheeky of him, but probably in character.
From now on, she would pay more attention to Mark Clewer. She bristled with delight – somehow, she had created a mission of her own. What the remit was, she would devise during the project.
5
Mark
The unique ringtone again. Hearing it gave him a few seconds to stopper a groan. He let it ring long enough to wrap a towel around his waist and dig out the phone from his trouser pocket. Shaking his head, he sprinkled the bathmat with water. He could ignore her, but she was as stubborn as a limpet on a wave-battered rock.
‘Mark. I tried to ring you yesterday evening.’
‘Mum. I'm fine. The new job is going good and—’
‘When are you going to visit? I haven’t seen you in months. You’re overdue to visit. Not just me, but Dad too. He’s been asking about you.’
He wrote to his father regularly, read the replies, but that was it. The distant father and son relationship didn't extend to phone calls or visits.
‘Have they moved him again?’ He wiped the condensation off the mirror. There were dark shadows under his eyes and a fine dusting of bristles on his chin. The late night session in the pub had stretched on into the small hours.
‘No. It depresses him so much when he gets moved at short notice.’ At one point they shipped him to the North East and Deidre had jacked in one of her jobs to free up time to visit him.
‘I’ll try to come one weekend.’ Mark switched to speaker phone and dried himself. He had no plans to travel north in the coming weeks.
‘Good.’ Her voice lifted out of the doldrums. ‘Have you found a new solicitor? You said you’d find another to launch a fresh appeal.’
Mark pressed his lips together. She had fired the last one for incompetence.
‘Mark?’ She echoed against the tiles. ‘You're in London now. There have to be good lawyers in London.’
There were good lawyers in Manchester. ‘We can't afford them, Mum.’ We, no, that should be you, Mum. He tossed the towel aside and went into the bedroom.
‘Eight years. Eight bleedin’ years. They won't even consider paroling him.’
That was how long he had maintained his plea of innocence. A guilty man would have quit by now, surely? His mother repeated this mantra to every solicitor she hired.
‘You know he won’t get parole while he continues to maintain his innocence. You know that. No acceptance of guilt, no parole. We need fresh evidence to launch a new appeal.’ He picked a shirt out of the wardrobe. A script wasn’t necessary when explaining things to Deidre; a recorded message would do just as easily.
‘What about that witness?’
Witness! The elusive witness. Put a sock in it, Mum.
He never told people at work about his father. Guilt or innocence didn’t matter; the man was in prison. London provided plenty of lawyers, but Mark didn't know where to begin to find the right one. Given Deidre’s interfering ways, it would have to be somebody with thick skin who could dig through conflicting evidence in the hope of finding something countless others had missed. They would also have to charge peanuts.
‘Mum, don’t cry. I’ll sort something out.’ Mark flopped onto the bed. He listened without paying any attention. The familiar sensations plagued him: blood turned to ice; muscles, rigid; dry eyes fixed on that spot on the ceiling; bottled anger corked. He hated telling necessary lies. They blossomed and grew and hid the reality he feared to face. The story of his father might not be complete and there were plenty of pieces missing, but joining up the dots wouldn't mend his relationship with Deidre.
Ellen had cried off, left him alone to deal with lawyers and the mountain of paperwork. He dearly wanted the situation resolved. More especially, he wanted to end the farcical pretence of supporting his parasitic mother. Ellen owed him.
6
Ellen
Ellen cast her eye about his apartment: open plan, spacious and minimalist. ‘You’ve not been here long?’
‘Two months.’ Mark dropped the door keys on the kitchen worktop. ‘Does it show?’
‘To be honest some men, especially those living alone, don’t go for much about the place. Others are downright untidy. I know you’re not the untidy type, but this sparse?’ His old bedroom in Manchester was now a storage room filled with boxes and boxes of Bill Clewer's things. Deidre refused to throw them out.
‘I like objects to have a purpose. I don’t
