Jennifer was totally exhausted, eyes sunk into black-ringed hollows, skin so numb it tingled and was sensitive to touch, as if it had been burned. It was a constant effort in the daylight to retain the consciousness she’d wanted so desperately to lose during the night but hadn’t been able to. Because of the drip it hurt to reach up with her right hand and the bandages on her left made it difficult to knuckle the drooping tiredness away even to see around her. The hospital doctor, Peter Lloyd, had refused to give her the stimulant she’d asked for, saying it would counteract the painkillers she was having. He’d done so standing well back from the bed when Jane had made her call the man an awkward bastard. It had been Lloyd, whom she thought looked too young to be a doctor, who’d given her the time of the magistrate’s arrival and she’d tried, before Humphrey Perry came, to tidy herself with a brush and make-up but she couldn’t control the shake any more. Her lipstick had smudged, unevenly, and she’d had to stop where her lip was swollen and split and the liner was a mistake on eyes already too dark. The tears, when she’d cried from frustration as well as grief, had made the mascara run and she hadn’t been able to clean properly the marks from her face and knew she looked dirty and unwashed.
‘She wouldn’t let me sleep. Not at all. She kept on at me all night,’ Jennifer announced, as the solicitor came into her room. She saw one of the two departing policewomen shaking her head.
‘ Do what I like, do what I like! ’
‘It’s all right.’ Perry didn’t think he’d shown any reaction but supposed there must have been something. He felt a twitch of pity, despite what she’d done: mentally sick people weren’t responsible for their actions, however horrifying.
‘It’s not! I look like a mad woman.’
‘ You sure do, honey. ’
Perry didn’t think he would have recognized the gaunt, cadaverous-faced woman lying on the bed in front of him as the svelte, sophisticated person photographed and named as Jennifer Lomax in that morning’s newspapers. If she continued to look like this it would contribute to the only plea it was possible to enter. ‘It’ll only last a few minutes today.’
‘I’ve got to stop her! You’ve got to help me stop her.’
‘ You can’t! Neither can he! ’
‘I will,’ promised Perry, emptily. He’d probably be back in the office in time to call the psychiatrists he’d employed in the past. Mason was good. So was Denning. He’d use both. And anyone else they suggested. Get it over as quickly as possible. Bert Feltham was right: unwinnable cases were a bastard.
‘What have you done already?’ demanded Jennifer. She gripped the edge of the sheet and then covered one hand with the other to stop the trembling. It didn’t.
‘We’re going to use Sir Richard Proudfoot’s chambers. They’re the best.’
‘Is he a QC?’
Perry hesitated, with a choice of reply to a question he hadn’t wanted. ‘Proudfoot is, yes.’
Jennifer caught the qualification. ‘He is going to represent me, isn’t he? Proudfoot himself?’ She felt her eyes closing, despite herself, and stretched her face to keep them open, distorting her features and making her broken lip hurt.
‘His junior, at first. Jeremy Hall,’ avoided the solicitor. Was she consciously pulling faces at him? Fleetingly he wondered if it was safe to have the policewomen out of the ward. There didn’t seem to be anything in the room she could use as a weapon.
‘But it will be Proudfoot, at the trial?’
‘There’s some way to go before we get that far.’
‘ Can’t you see he’s lying, you stupid bitch! ’
Jennifer moved to speak but stopped, trying to assemble the words first, straightening against the pillows. ‘I am not pleading guilty. I am not guilty. And I am not mad. And I want the best, not a junior.’
‘You’ve got the best, believe me.’ It was going to become very tiresome before it was all over. Hall was going to earn the chambers’ copper brief.
‘How old is Jeremy Hall?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How long has be belonged to the chambers?’
Perry shifted, uncomfortably. ‘They’re the best because they only take the best.’
‘I want a QC. The most foremost criminal barrister there is.’
‘ He’s going through the motions! That’s all any of them are going to do. ’
‘Things have to go in sequence, in a proper order,’ recited Perry. ‘We’ve got to have this committal hearing and the proper medical and clinical examinations and then pre-trial discussions, before we even get into a proper court. You must trust me. I won’t let you down. But I think it would be advisable to give Geoffrey Johnson your power of attorney to make sure everything goes smoothly while you’re… you’re indisposed. I’ve brought the authorizing document for you to sign.’
‘ He doesn’t give a fuck. All he wants is the money. Ask him what he’s going to charge.’
Jennifer didn’t, momentarily pleased she was able to resist. Instead she remained looking at the man, feeling the despair as well as the frustration and exhaustion. There was nothing she could do! She was helpless! She tried to bite her lip, gnawing back the whimper, forgetting the split.
‘ That’s exactly what you are, helpless! ’
Jane says I’m helpless.’
Perry sighed at the new face she was pulling but glad the delusion had taken over. ‘You’re not. You know you’re not. Your lip’s bleeding.’
‘ Listen to the lying bugger! ’
‘What about Emily?’ Jennifer was pleased again, excited that she’d managed to change the subject without Jane’s intervention. She ran her tongue over the cut.
‘We told you last night she’s all right. That the nanny is looking after her.’ Perry hadn’t bothered to check and made another reminder note to see if Geoffrey Johnson had done so. It was more Johnson’s responsibility as the family lawyer. He had to tell the man about the power of attorney, too.
‘I want Emily told that I love her. That I can’t come home at the moment but that I love her and will see her soon.’
‘ How, exactly, do you think you’re going to see her soon! ’
‘I’ll ensure she’s told that.’
Jennifer felt another dip of despair. She had no-one, she abruptly realized. No mother, no father: not alive any more. Gerald and Emily were her life: had been her life. No-one else. What about Rebecca? Rebecca was a friend. She’d help. Had to help. Stupid not to have thought of Rebecca before: been allowed to think of Rebecca before, she qualified. Abruptly she pulled herself upright, aware she’d had her head to one side again, listening. Had to stop that: stop looking mad. ‘There’s a trader at Gerald’s company. We’re friends. Rebecca Nicholls. I want her to come here. She can see Emily for me.’
Perry made a note of the name with his carefully pointed propelling pencil. ‘I’m going to oppose any transfer from here, today. The doctors don’t want it. But you’ll need clothes. Perhaps I can ask
…’ He paused. ‘Is it Miss or Mrs Nicholls?’
‘Miss.’ Where was Jane? Why wasn’t she jeering, mocking?
‘… Perhaps I can ask Miss Nicholls to do that for you, if she will.’
‘She will,’ said Jennifer, confidently. Incredible she hadn’t thought of Rebecca before. Although perhaps it wasn’t. But now she had. So it was all right. Rebecca wouldn’t treat her as if she was mad. Rebecca even believed in clairvoyants: went to fortune tellers.
There was movement from the door and people entered as a group. Ahead of those Jennifer recognized, Bentley and Rodgers and the policewomen, there was a tightly costumed, open-faced woman with rigidly permed grey hair. Slightly behind her was a distracted, disordered man who appeared to have difficulty with two files he was trying to carry in addition to a briefcase. A second man also carried a briefcase and was supervising the policewomen manoeuvring ahead of them two tables like the one that fitted over Jennifer’s bed for meals she had so far been unable to eat. A nurse and a doctor, at the very rear, carried chairs.
The room became almost impossibly overcrowded. From the rear Dr Lloyd said, ‘We could all move to somewhere larger if you like.’
The grey-haired woman looked at Perry and said, ‘I’m happy, if you are. It’s not going to take long, is it?’ The voice was the strident one of someone accustomed to being obeyed. In an apparent afterthought she turned to the distracted man and said, ‘Do you mind?’
‘It’s going to be brief, as far as I am concerned,’ agreed Perry.
The other man said, ‘Strictly formal.’ He put his files and briefcase down on one of the hospital tables and looked at Jennifer curiously for several moments before fumbling with his papers.
Perry edged around the bed to put himself beside the other man. They nodded to each other before introducing themselves by name to the woman: the distracted man’s name was Norman Burden. Despite the formality, both men seemed to know her anyway but for the benefit of the unidentified court clerk at the edge of her table the woman named herself as Gillian Heathcote. In the same breath she said briskly, ‘Right! Let’s get on with it, shall we?’
Burden immediately called Bentley, who made a movement as if coming forward but in fact didn’t, because there was no room. He recited the memorized oath and then, unprompted, said that at three-thirty the previous afternoon he had responded to a 999 call to the commodity trading offices of Enco-Corps Inc. in Leaden-hall Street. There, in a third-floor office, he had found the body of an American, Gerald James Lomax.
‘There were extensive injuries. There were at least fifteen stab wounds, as well as a number of deep cuts – slash wounds – to the face, neck and body. There had been a considerable loss of blood and the office, which I ascertained to be that of Lomax, was heavily blood-stained. Mrs Lomax, who was also bleeding extensively from knife injuries, was slumped on the floor, against an internal window. In my opinion she was close to unconsciousness. She was removed to this hospital, where I saw her at six forty-five last evening. At seven-thirty I formally charged Mrs Lomax with the murder of her husband…’ Bentley paused, looking expectantly towards Burden.
Prompted, the prosecuting solicitor said, ‘There are a number of other enquiries to be made before this matter can be proceeded with and I would formally ask, madam, for a remand in custody. I have no objection to that remand initially being here, in this hospital. I understand from the doctor he considers Mrs Lomax should remain under observation for several more days…’
It was as if she didn’t exist, thought Jennifer, outraged. They were talking about her and across her but no-one was even looking at her!
‘Mr Perry?’ invited the magistrate.
‘I have no objection to that course, madam. At a later date, in view of Mrs Lomax’s injuries and other matters that need consideration, I would ask for any further remands to be in a hospital wing of a prison-’
‘What about my objections!’ Everyone looked at Jennifer as if for the first time, visibly stunned by the outburst. Before there was any other reaction, Jennifer said, ‘I am not guilty! I want everyone to know that.’
‘Mr Perry?’ demanded the woman.
‘ Tell the bitch to shut up and let you speak! ’
‘Shut up! Let me speak…’ blurted Jennifer. Then, ‘No! Oh no! Damn! Damn! Damn!’
‘ Caught you. Forgot I was here, didn’t you? ’
‘Now, now,’ soothed the doctor, almost unseen.
‘Don’t patronize me as if I were mad! None of you!’
‘I apologize,’ said Perry, hurriedly. ‘As I said, there are other matters to be pursued… medical and specialist examinations-’
‘I said don’t patronize me,’ Jennifer screamed at her lawyer. Then, still shouting, to Bentley, ‘Tell them what I said when you charged me!’
‘Mrs Lomax… please…’ tried Perry.
‘Tell them!’ yelled Jennifer.
‘Go ahead,’ said Gillian Heathcote, nodding to the detective.
‘ The frumpy cow is patronizing you worst of all! ’
‘Don’t patro-’ started Jennifer, then stopped.
‘ Say it! ’
‘She says you’re patronizing me worst of all.’
‘She says?’ demanded the magistrate, bewildered.
‘When I charged Mrs Lomax she said she hadn’t killed her husband. That it was Jane…’ Bentley paused, in a rare moment of embarrassment. ‘Jane Lomax was the first wife of the murdered man.’
Gillian Heathcote smiled, bleakly, turning to Perry. ‘I understand.’
‘I want everyone to understand,’ said Jennifer, her voice cracked from shouting. She came forward on her pillows, wincing as the drip needle bit into her arm. She couldn’t support herself and at once fell back against the pillows, aware the magistrate had instinctively retreated at the movement. Jennifer tried to prevent it but she couldn’t stop the crying. ‘I didn’t kill him. I loved him!’
‘I think we can bring this quickly to an end,’ said the magistrate, anxiously. ‘I agree to a formal remand, for seven days…’ She remained half standing, looking at Perry again. ‘… I fully understand your problems but I think you should do all you can at future hearings to keep your client under some sort of control.’
‘ God, this is fun. This really is so much fun! ’
Jeremy Hall came hesitantly into his uncle’s rooms, momentarily stopping completely when he saw Bert Feltham comfortably seated beside Sir Richard’s desk. Proudfoot himself was framed against the window overlooking the Inner Temple and the manicured grass leading down towards the Thames.
‘Come in, come in,’ encouraged the older barrister. ‘Interesting case to discuss.’
‘The Lomax killing,’ said Feltham, uninvited. ‘You read about it in the papers?’
‘Briefly,’ said Hall. He was a big man, the height accentuated by a build developed at Cambridge where he’d gained a rowing Blue: anxious that it wouldn’t turn to fat he tried to scull as many weekends as possible. He appeared far too big for the chair towards which Proudfoot gestured him.
‘It’s going to be a high-profile case. Get your name in the papers,’ encouraged the older man. He was tall, too, the greying hair swept back but worn comparatively long to fashion into two distinct wings, on either side of his head. He affected a slow, measured delivery when he spoke, either in court or out. That afternoon’s stance was a favourite, too: hands clasped behind his back, winged head slightly forward, a lecturing pose.
‘From the papers it looked like a simple domestic,’ said Hall. After only nine months in chambers he wasn’t in a position to argue against any brief but there wasn’t any reason unquestionably to accept whatever he was presented with. There was still some lingering regret at having had to join his uncle’s practice in the first place, instead of being able to make his way independently in a rival chambers, although he reassured himself there was even less reason to let pride outweigh the practical reality of earning a decent living after working so bloody hard for so bloody long getting a Double First as well as his rowing Blue and the pass marks he had in the Bar examinations. That and the fact he’d had no alternative. As his mother had told him at his father’s funeral, beggars couldn’t be choosers. He didn’t enjoy being a beggar.
‘It’ll be a guilty, to manslaughter,’ said Feltham, confidently. ‘Diminished responsibility.’
‘So it comes down to a plea of mitigation,’ said Hall. ‘What’s that going to be?’
‘Humphrey Perry’s instructing. Arranging the usual psychiatric things.’
‘Short, sharp but extremely profitable,’ said Proudfoot, from the window. ‘It won’t do the chambers – or you – any harm. In fact I’m anxious for you to do it. We’ve had a long run of wins. Wrong for a practice to appear only to take the ones they’re sure of. And this won’t be a loss. It’ll be a brilliant plea…’ He smiled. ‘… Which I know-it will be, for a sad, sick woman.’
Proudfoot finished what he was saying at an open cabinet and, as he leaned forward to accept the sherry his uncle offered, Hall was suddenly curious why such a case had to be pressed upon him over sherry by the chamber’s head, even if it was his uncle. According to office lore, Feltham would have already accepted the brief anyway. Still unwilling to accept a fait accompli, Hall said, ‘I’ll be by myself?’
‘Absolutely,’ confirmed Proudfoot.
To Feltham, Hall said, ‘She’s mad? No other reason or motive?’
‘Police haven’t finished yet, but there doesn’t seem to be any doubt. Cut her husband to pieces in front of sixteen people and then stood there laughing. I’ve fixed a meeting for you with Perry for tomorrow.’
So much for the pretence of discussion before acceptance, thought Hall. Pointedly – confident he could do it because Proudfoot was his uncle – Hall said, ‘There’s nothing else to it, is there?’
‘Nothing else?’ said Proudfoot. ‘I don’t understand the question.’
‘It seems almost…’ Hall paused. ‘Almost too mundane: too small compared to most of the things we do.’
‘I’ve explained my thinking on that,’ said Proudfoot.
‘I understand,’ capitulated Hall, detecting the older man’s irritation. He was being railroaded, Hall realized.
‘Eleven tomorrow morning OK, here in chambers?’ said Feltham, who already knew it would be because he maintained the appointment diaries and knew Hall’s was hungrily empty.
‘Fine,’ agreed Hall.
‘A well publicized murder’s the best fast track for a reputation,’ confided the chief clerk. ‘This could be a good beginning.’
‘It’ll be my first murder,’ admitted Hall.
‘But not the last, if you handle this one right.’
As Proudfoot served him his second whisky, after Hall had left the room, Feltham said, ‘That was a sharp question, about a hidden agenda.’
‘His ability was more important than his relationship to me,’ insisted Proudfoot. ‘He’s damned clever.’ The man added to his own glass, disdaining the earlier sherry. ‘Perry wouldn’t do anything underhand about the copper thing, would he?’
Feltham shook his head, smiling. ‘There isn’t a solicitor in London who’d try to cheat me. Certainly not one who’d get half a chance to do it a second time. It’s more than their job’s worth.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ said Proudfoot. ‘We’re not wasting our time on a tuppenny murder for nothing.’
Patricia Boxall didn’t really want the relationship to end but knew it was inevitable. So, she suspected, did Jeremy. If it came down to a straight comparison Jeremy had more going for him than Alexander: he was adventurous in bed and made her laugh a lot. But she wanted more than Chinese take-aways and Spanish plonk in front of the television watching videos of old Oxford and Cambridge boat races. Alexander had an independent income and belonged to all the good clubs. She had been just two tables away from Mick Jagger the night before last.
‘That was a hell of a race,’ Hall said.
‘You showed me before.’
‘We were drunk for a week after that.’
Patricia wondered who’d paid. ‘Must have been fun.’
‘I got a case today. The murder that’s in all the papers.’
‘She’s mad, isn’t she?’
‘Seems that way.’
‘What can you do?’
‘Enter a sympathy plea.’
‘Any money in it?’
‘Not a lot, I wouldn’t think. It won’t last long.’
‘Why do it then?’
‘I haven’t been offered anything else,’ admitted Hall. ‘And I don’t like having to watch old videos of boat races because I’m broke, any more than you do.’
‘Let’s go to bed then.’
‘Well!’ said John Bentley, triumphantly.
‘No-one’s admitted anything yet,’ cautioned Rodgers.
‘Wait,’ cautioned Bentley. ‘Just you wait.’
‘How long?’
‘An hour.’
‘Five pounds says it’ll take more than one session.’
‘You’re on.’