slid over a printout of the picture from Rachel Johnson’s phone, the mystery white man. She stared at it with a hunted look on her face. ‘Any idea who he could be?’
‘Of course not. This is all crazy.’ Her face was pale.
‘Hmm. OK, I suggest you go home, Miss Miller. You look tired.’ He saw her bristle. ‘I meant, you might like to have a rest. Nothing will happen today. The hearing will be at ten at the Magistrates’ Court. It’s on Holloway Road – they’ll give you the address outside.’
She tried to take this in. ‘So, tomorrow he can come home? That’s the bail hearing thing, is it?’
‘You should talk to the duty lawyer about it. Do you have your own lawyer, you and Mr Stockbridge?’
‘Of course not, why would we?’
‘Best get one soon. They’ll give you some numbers at the desk.’
‘He was a judge, you know.’ She got up with admirable poise. ‘Dan’s father. High court, for twenty years.’
Hegarty forced a smile. ‘Then I’m sure he’d advise you to get a lawyer as soon as you can.’
Charlotte
When Charlotte could finally leave, it was getting dark. She emerged into a quiet, rain-washed Camden, the May skies darkening with clouds. After waiting twenty minutes for a bus, shivering with tiredness, she got home to the ransacked flat and washed her hair free of the smell of the police station, immediately feeling better. Then she picked up the phone and listened to the dial tone. Imagined the cut-glass tones of Dan’s mother, Elaine: ‘Good afternoon, 54372.’ Saying hello wasn’t polite, apparently. Or his father, Justice Edward Stockbridge QC: ‘Pardon? Pardon? Speak up, will you, Charlotte.’
Charlotte knew she should get a lawyer, of course, but the thought of ringing the Stockbridges made her feel even more sick than before. Wouldn’t it all blow over after the hearing? Dan had only been gone a few minutes, not long enough to kill someone, for God’s sake, even if he was capable of it. Which he wasn’t.
Slowly she put the receiver down. After all, what could his parents do today? Maybe they would never need to find out.
There was no food in the fridge except for what she’d bought on Friday, a lifetime ago. She ate three olives, making her stomach churn. The clock kept up its insistent tick, stringing out her nerves, so she got up and turned on the stereo, but it was playing the last CD she’d had on, the song for their first wedding dance. She turned it off, resisting the urge to chew on her nails. No point in spoiling months of careful maintenance. Tomorrow it would be over and she could forget all about those head-spinning facts.
The witnesses. The row. The drugs . . . All of it was true, but she’d kept opening her mouth to say, ‘Yes, but . . .’ There was always an explanation when it was you they were accusing. Meanwhile that young policeman, the one who’d seen her boobs, kept whipping out more and more evidence. Like Paul bloody Daniels.
Charlotte hated that policeman. He had an answer for everything. And he’d left a large footprint on her cream carpet. Red-brown and sticky, she knew what it was. It was blood, that Johnson guy’s blood, smeared on her living-room floor.
Charlotte went to the hall cupboard where their cleaning lady kept supplies, and rooted about until she found a cloth. She never did her own cleaning, so she wasn’t sure what they had.
She scrubbed it until just a red tidemark was left, then poured away the bloody, brackish water. Her hands smelled of old metal pipes. Tomorrow she would get up, fix her hair, go to court and bring Dan home, then put this behind her as one of the worst weekends of her life. And maybe by the time their first anniversary came round she’d be ready to think of it as a funny occurrence in the past, but she doubted it.
Monday
Keisha
‘Jesus! You scared me.’
He was sitting on the pile of dirty clothes by the bed, watching her. She sat up, head and heart pounding, and felt for her bottle of
‘Of course not. This is all crazy.’ Her face was pale.
‘Hmm. OK, I suggest you go home, Miss Miller. You look tired.’ He saw her bristle. ‘I meant, you might like to have a rest. Nothing will happen today. The hearing will be at ten at the Magistrates’ Court. It’s on Holloway Road – they’ll give you the address outside.’
She tried to take this in. ‘So, tomorrow he can come home? That’s the bail hearing thing, is it?’
‘You should talk to the duty lawyer about it. Do you have your own lawyer, you and Mr Stockbridge?’
‘Of course not, why would we?’
‘Best get one soon. They’ll give you some numbers at the desk.’
‘He was a judge, you know.’ She got up with admirable poise. ‘Dan’s father. High court, for twenty years.’
Hegarty forced a smile. ‘Then I’m sure he’d advise you to get a lawyer as soon as you can.’
Charlotte
When Charlotte could finally leave, it was getting dark. She emerged into a quiet, rain-washed Camden, the May skies darkening with clouds. After waiting twenty minutes for a bus, shivering with tiredness, she got home to the ransacked flat and washed her hair free of the smell of the police station, immediately feeling better. Then she picked up the phone and listened to the dial tone. Imagined the cut-glass tones of Dan’s mother, Elaine: ‘Good afternoon, 54372.’ Saying hello wasn’t polite, apparently. Or his father, Justice Edward Stockbridge QC: ‘Pardon? Pardon? Speak up, will you, Charlotte.’
Charlotte knew she should get a lawyer, of course, but the thought of ringing the Stockbridges made her feel even more sick than before. Wouldn’t it all blow over after the hearing? Dan had only been gone a few minutes, not long enough to kill someone, for God’s sake, even if he was capable of it. Which he wasn’t.
Slowly she put the receiver down. After all, what could his parents do today? Maybe they would never need to find out.
There was no food in the fridge except for what she’d bought on Friday, a lifetime ago. She ate three olives, making her stomach churn. The clock kept up its insistent tick, stringing out her nerves, so she got up and turned on the stereo, but it was playing the last CD she’d had on, the song for their first wedding dance. She turned it off, resisting the urge to chew on her nails. No point in spoiling months of careful maintenance. Tomorrow it would be over and she could forget all about those head-spinning facts.
The witnesses. The row. The drugs . . . All of it was true, but she’d kept opening her mouth to say, ‘Yes, but . . .’ There was always an explanation when it was you they were accusing. Meanwhile that young policeman, the one who’d seen her boobs, kept whipping out more and more evidence. Like Paul bloody Daniels.
Charlotte hated that policeman. He had an answer for everything. And he’d left a large footprint on her cream carpet. Red-brown and sticky, she knew what it was. It was blood, that Johnson guy’s blood, smeared on her living-room floor.
Charlotte went to the hall cupboard where their cleaning lady kept supplies, and rooted about until she found a cloth. She never did her own cleaning, so she wasn’t sure what they had.
She scrubbed it until just a red tidemark was left, then poured away the bloody, brackish water. Her hands smelled of old metal pipes. Tomorrow she would get up, fix her hair, go to court and bring Dan home, then put this behind her as one of the worst weekends of her life. And maybe by the time their first anniversary came round she’d be ready to think of it as a funny occurrence in the past, but she doubted it.
Monday
Keisha
‘Jesus! You scared me.’
He was sitting on the pile of dirty clothes by the bed, watching her. She sat up, head and heart pounding, and felt for her bottle of
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