Gerald was grudging. ‘Well, I suppose it’ll do.’
‘What do you mean — do?’ Charles was aggrieved. He had spent the journey down to Breckton in vivid fantasies of Charles Paris, the legal whiz-kid. As an actor, he could never escape being dictated to by his costumes.
‘Never mind. I suppose there are scruffy solicitors,’ Gerald conceded.
‘Scruffy? I’ll have you know, in 1965, this suit was considered daringly trendy.’
‘Yes, maybe, but one or two things have changed since 1965. In fact, most things have.’
‘Except the British legal system, which hasn’t changed since 1865.’
Gerald ignored the gibe. He looked preoccupied. ‘Charles, I’ve been thinking about this business. As a solicitor, I will be taking a risk which is really unjustifiable. In the sense — ’
‘It’s decided. I’ve got to see Hugo.’
‘You’ll have to give your name when we enter the court. If there ever is any follow-up — ’
‘Let’s assume there isn’t. Come on, Gerald, where’s your spirit of adventure?’
‘Currently hiding behind my fear of being struck off for professional misconduct.’
They entered the Magistrates’ Court building. Mr. Venables and his colleague from the office, Mr. Paris, checked in and were directed to the relevant court. They sidled on to a solicitors’ bench on which the profession was represented by every level of sartorial elegance,
‘That suit on the end’s a darned sight older than mine,’ Charles hissed. ‘Looks like it escaped from a Chicago gangster movie.’
Gerald switched hips off with a look. Charles scanned the courtroom. It all seemed a bit lethargic, like a rehearsal where some of the principal actors were missing and their lines were being read in. The court was as empty as a summer matinee. And as in a theatre, where the audience is scattered in little groups, he was more conscious of the comings and goings in his immediate vicinity than of the main action taking place between the magistrates’ dais and the dock. Solicitors shuffled in and out, reading long sheets of paper to themselves in states of bored abstraction.
One disturbing feature of the proceedings, for which his ignorance of the British legal system had not prepared him, was the large number of policemen around. That in itself was not worrying, but it soon became apparent that for each case the arresting officer had to be present. He wasn’t sure who the arresting officer would be in Hugo’s case, but if it were one of the policemen he had met on the Tuesday night, Charles’s imposture could have serious consequences. He decided not to mention this new anxiety to Gerald. It would only upset him.
It was after twelve, and after some dreary cases of drunkeness, thefts and a taking and driving away, that Hugo was called. He came up into the dock accompanied by a policeman whom, thank God, Charles had never seen before. The prisoner was not handcuffed; in spite of the seriousness of the charge, he was not regarded as a public danger.
Charles turned round with some trepidation and discovered to his relief that there were no familiar faces among the policemen who had just entered the court.
He transferred his attention to his friend. Hugo looked lifeless. There was a greyish sheen to his face and bald dome; his eyes were dead like pumice-stone. Charles recognized that extinguished expression. He’d seen it in Oxford tutorials, in recording studios, at the various ports of call during their Monday drinking session. Hugo had retreated into his mind, closing the door behind him. Nobody could share what he found there, no friend, no wife.
This time the deadness seemed total, as if Hugo had withdrawn completely from the body. His movements when brought to the dock had been those of an automaton. Presumably he must still be suffering from a brain-crushing hangover — it would take a week or so to get over the sort of bender he had been on — but that wasn’t sufficient to explain the absolute impassivity of his expression. It was as if he had opted out of life completely.
The proceedings were short. The charge was read by the magistrate, the police said that they were not yet ready to proceed and the accused was remanded in custody for a week.
Suddenly Hugo was being led off down to the cells again. Gerald shook Charles by the shoulder. ‘Come on. We go down now.
The jailer was in a lenient mood and gave the two solicitors permission to go into the accused’s cell rather than leaving them to conduct their interview through the covered slot in the metal door.
The door was unlocked with caution, but as it swung open, it was apparent that no one need fear violence from the inmate.
Hugo sat on the bed, looking straight at the wall ahead of him. He did not stir as the genuine and false solicitors were ushered in or as the door clanged shut and was locked behind them.
‘How are you feeling?’ asked Gerald with professional jovialty.
‘All right,’ came the toneless reply.
‘Headache better?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Charles took the moment for his revelation. Perhaps it would be the necessary shock to shake Hugo out of his lethargy. ‘Look, it’s me — Charles.’
‘Hello.’ The response was again without animation. Without even surprise.
Unwilling to lose his coup, Charles continued, ‘I came in under cover of Gerald’s outfit.’
The solicitor winced predictably at the final word. To gain another predictable wince and maybe to shift Hugo’s mood by humour, Charles added, ‘There’s no substitute for knowing a bent lawyer.’
Gerald’s reaction was as expected; Hugo still gave none. Charles changed tack. ‘Look, Hugo, I know this is one hell of a situation and I feel partly responsible for it, because I’m sure if I hadn’t said certain things in my statement, you wouldn’t be here and — ’
Hugo cut him off, which at least demonstrated that he was taking in what was being said. But the voice in which he spoke remained lifeless. ‘Charles, if it hadn’t been you it would have been someone else. You only told them the truth and that was all they needed.’
‘Yes, but — ’
So there’s no need for you to feel guilty about me or feel you have to make quixotic gestures and come down here to save me from a terrible miscarriage of justice. I don’t blame you. I’m the only person to blame, if blame is the right word.’
‘What, you mean you think you killed her?’
‘That’s what I told the police.’
‘You’ve confessed?’
‘Yes.’
Charles looked at the solicitor. Gerald shrugged. ‘I didn’t tell you because you didn’t ask. You swept me along with some wild scheme of your own and — ’
‘But, Hugo, is it true?’
‘Oh, Charles.’ The voice was infinitely weary. ‘I’ve spent some days going through this, both on my own and with the police. And… yes, I think I did it.’
‘But you can’t remember?’
‘Not the exact details. I know I staggered back from the Backstagers when the bar closed and I was full of hatred for Charlotte and drunk out of my mind. The next thing I remember with any clarity is waking up on the sitting room floor on Tuesday morning with the feeling that I’d done something terrible.’
‘But everyone feels like that when they’ve had a skinful.’ Hugo ignored him. ‘It’s no secret that Charlotte and I hadn’t been getting on too well, that… the magic had gone out of our marriage For the first time, there was slight intonation, a hint of bitterness as he spoke the cliche. ‘And it’s no secret that I’d started drinking too much and that when I drank, we fought. So I imagine it’s quite possible that, if I met her, smashed out of my mind, on Monday night, I laid hands on her and…’ In spite of the detachment with which he was speaking, he was unable to finish the sentence.
‘But you can’t remember doing it?’
‘I can’t remember anything when I’m that smashed.’
‘Then why did you confess to killing her?’
‘Why not? It fits the facts remarkable well. The motivation was there, the opportunity. I think my guilt is a reasonable deduction.’
‘Did the police put pressure on you to — ’
No, Charles. For Christ’s sake-’ He mastered this momentary lapse of control. ‘I reached the conclusion on my own, Charles. I was under no pressure.’ Realizing the irony of his last remark, he laughed a little laugh that was almost a sob.
‘So you are prepared to confess to a murder you can’t even remember just because the facts fit?’
Gerald came in at this juncture with the legal viewpoint.
‘I think this may be one of the most fruitful areas for the defence, actually. If you really can’t remember, of course we won’t be able to get you off the murder charge and that’s mandatory life, but the judge might well make some recommendation and you could be out in eight years.’
‘You’re talking as though his guilt were proven, Gerald.’
‘Yes, Charles. To my mind — ’
‘For Christ’s sake, both of you shut up! What does it matter? What’s the difference?’
Charles came in, hard. ‘The difference is, that if you are found guilty of murder, you’ll be put away for life. And if you are not found guilty…’ He petered out.
‘Exactly.’ It was only then that Charles realized the depths of Hugo’s despair. His friend was bankrupt of any kind of hope. It made little difference whether he spent the rest of his life in prison or at large. Except if he were free, drink might help him shorten his sentence.
Gerald got to his feet in an official sort of way. ‘You see, Charles, I didn’t really think there was much point in your coming down here. I’m afraid it’s an open-and-shut case. All we can do is to ensure that it’s as well presented as possible. Actually Hugo, I wanted to discuss the matter of instructing counsel. I felt — ’
‘Stop, Gerald, stop!’ Charles also stood up. ‘We can’t just leave it like this. I mean, as long as there’s even a doubt…’
‘I’m afraid a signed confession doesn’t leave much room for doubt. Now come on, Charles, I’ve taken a foolish risk in bringing you down here; I think we should move as soon as possible and — ’
‘No, just a minute. Hugo, please, just look at me and tell me that you did it, tell me that you strangled Charlotte, and I’ll believe you.’
Hugo looked at Charles. The eyes were still dull, but somewhere deep down there was a tiny spark of interest. ‘Charles, I can’t say that definitely, because I can’t remember. But I think there’s a strong chance that I killed Charlotte.’
‘And you’re prepared to leave it like that?’
Hugo shrugged. ‘What’s the alternative? I don’t see that it’s going to be possible to prove that I didn’t.’
‘Then we’ll just have to prove that someone else did.’ The remark came out with more crusading fervour than Charles had intended.
It affected Hugo. A new shrewdness came into his eyes. ‘Hmm. Well, if you think that’s possible, then you have my blessing to investigate until you’re blue in the face.’
The new animation showed how little Hugo had even considered the possibility of his innocence. Whether from his own remorse or because of the prompting of C.I.D. men anxious to sew up the case, he had not begun to think of any alternative solution.
But the shift of mood did not last. Hugo dropped back into dull despair. ‘Yes, if it’ll amuse you, Charles, investigate everything. I’d like to feel I could be of use to someone, if only as something to investigate. And if you can t clear my besmirched name’ — the italics were heavy with sarcasm — ‘then take up another hobby. Amateur dramatics, maybe?’
Gerald got purposeful again. ‘Charles, I think Hugo and I — ’
‘Just a minute. Hugo, I’ve got to ask you a couple of things.’
‘Okay.’ The voice had reverted to tonelessness.
‘You said the other evening that Charlotte was having an affair. Do you know who her lover was?’
‘Oh God, here we go again. I’ve been through all this with the police and — ’
‘Look, Charles, I don’t think — ‘Gerald butted in instinctively to defend his client.
‘No, it’s all right, Gerald. I can go through it once again. No, Charles, I don’t know who Charlotte’s lover was. No, I’m not even certain that she was having an affair. It just seemed a reasonable assumption — like so much else.’
‘What led you to that assumption?’
‘She was a young, attractive woman. She was trapped in a marriage that was getting nowhere. She was bored, lonely. I spent more and more time out getting pissed. If she didn’t start something up, then she had less initiative than I gave her credit for.’
“But you had no proof?’
‘What sort of proof do you want? No. I never caught her in flagrante delicto, no, I never saw her with a man, but if coming in at all hours, if going out on unexplained errands during the day, if saying she didn’t have to stay with me, she could go elsewhere… if that kind of thing’s proof, then I had it.’
‘But you never asked her directly?’
‘No. Towards the end we didn’t talk too much. Only to make domestic arrangements or to shout at each other. Oh, I’m sure she had a man somewhere.’
‘When did you start to think this?’
‘I don’t know. Two, three months back.’
‘Round the time she started rehearsing The Seagull.’
‘Possible. And, in answer to your next question, no, I have no idea whether she was having an affair with any of the Backstagers. I just felt she was having an affair with someone.’ Hugo’s voice was slurred with fatigue. Charles could feel Gerald’s protective restlessness and knew he hadn’t got much longer for his questioning.
‘Hugo, I’ll leave you now. Just one last thing. I want to find out more about Charlotte. Did she have any friends’ I could talk to, to ask about her?’
Hugo replied flatly, ‘No, no friends in Breckton. No close friends. That’s what she always complained about. That’s why she joined the Backstagers, to meet people. No, no friends, except lover boy.’
‘Didn’t she keep in touch with people she’d known before you married?’
‘One or two. Not many. Diccon Hudson she used to see sometimes. And there was a girl she’d been at drama school with, used to come round sometimes. Not recently. I didn’t like her much. Too actressy, hippy… young maybe is what I mean.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Sally Radford.’
‘Thank you. I will go now, Hugo. I’m sorry to have to put you through it all again. But if there’s a chance of finding something out, it’ll be worth it.’
Hugo spoke with his eyes closed. His voice was infinitely tired. ‘I wouldn’t bother Charles. I killed her.’