Never Tell (39 page)

‘Objection, Your Honour! This is inadmissible.’

‘For Christ’s sake!’

‘Mrs Miller, please!’

‘Well, honestly.’ I ignored John Huntingdon’s desperate gesticulating. ‘We were kids. Really. We were eighteen, nineteen. We thought we knew the world, but we didn’t, and we didn’t know any better. We were just trying to have fun, to be a little outrageous – and it went a bit wrong. It’s got nothing to do with this. Nothing. James doesn’t have any sort of criminal record.’

The judge banged her gavel down. ‘The jury will disregard the allegation just made by counsel for the prosecution.’
Like hell they would
. ‘And Mrs Miller will refrain from using the stand as a soap-box.’

I gave her a sheepish look.

‘We’ll adjourn for lunch. And, Mr Huntingdon,’ the judge turned her gaze to the barrister, ‘I suggest you get the witness into line over a plate of something light.’

A titter rippled round the court. Huntingdon smiled a pained little smile.

‘You can’t let them rattle you, Rose.’ Ruth took me to task over a stale ham sandwich in the canteen. ‘You’ve got to appear calm and maternal and sensible. And you certainly can’t speak out of turn like that. It just makes you look hysterical.’

‘OK.’ I abandoned my unappealing lunch. ‘But it’s hard. They really do twist everything, don’t they?’

‘Of course. That’s their job. Now,’ she looked tired and for a moment, I thought, defeated, ‘is there anything about this Society X that I need to know?’

‘No. It was just a silly secret society at university that ended badly.’

‘Badly?’

‘Someone else got carried away with a silly ritual. The police got overexcited and charged James: it was dropped within two days.’

‘Are you sure? What’s the death thing?’

‘Lena Latzier overdosed,’ I said quietly.

‘The opera singer’s daughter? Bloody hell.’ Ruth drained her can of lemonade. ‘Anything else?’

‘Dalziel St John killed himself.’ My voice was smaller now. ‘Lord Higham’s son.’

‘Tell me you’re joking, please?’ Ruth stared at me. ‘Higham, as in the UKPP?’

‘Yes. Dalziel was the – the ring-leader, if you like. And some overzealous police got involved, and tried to make a case against some of us when he died. But honestly, the charges were dropped as quickly as they were brought.’

I didn’t mention that I was sure Lord Higham had had a hand in making it go away; that he had obviously wanted no mention of scandal around his name if he could possibly help it. As it was, he had resigned from the cabinet the following year.

Ruth looked at me sadly, rather as if I had let her down. Then she left me there alone and went to talk to James.

James’s barrister, John Huntingdon, was grave and sincere. I had been alarmed by his youth, by his ruddy complexion and air of suppressed bon viveur – but I had been assured he was the best.

‘Your husband is a family man, Mrs Miller? He worked hard, created everything from scratch?’

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘He is extremely hard-working. He was -sorry – he
is
a dedicated father. His children need him at home.’

‘Of course. And would you think there was any reason for him to put this at risk?’

‘No,’ I said honestly, ‘I don’t. He was extremely successful. His businesses were doing very well. He is very well respected as a music producer. Why would he need to smuggle drugs?’

I talked some more about him being an upstanding pillar of the community, employing lots of people, giving today’s youth a chance with various schemes at the label and the club, contributing to charity. The jury looked reasonably impressed, I thought, but they were a motley bunch themselves. One thickset middle-aged woman in the front row looked like she might combust from disapproval; another folded her arms every time I spoke. James studied his hands.

Janet Leen started on about Katya and James; fortunately she didn’t mention Society X again. As she droned on and on, I looked up and I saw Kate’s mother sitting at the edge of the gallery, holding on very tight, and I cringed inside. She would know now that I had lied on my visit to her house. I tried very hard to not catch her eye at any point. I couldn’t look at James at all.

At the end of my questioning I sensed movement at the other end of the gallery and I glanced up to see a tall figure in a long black jacket heading for the stairs. For a second, I thought it might be Charlie Higham.

Then Leen took a final swipe.

‘Were you ever aware that your husband was using his clubs as a front for something else?’

‘No, absolutely not.’ I dragged my eyes back from the gallery. ‘He just loves music; he lives for it. He always did. It was a dream come true to make such a great career out of it.’

‘And drugs and partying, with lots and lots of girls?’

‘Objection, Your Honour.’ Huntingdon shot up like a jack-in-the-box. The usual toing and froing began again between the lawyers.

I glanced back up, but the figure in black was gone.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The following Monday, I sat outside the courtroom with a newspaper and a cup of tea. Waiting, again – this time for Liam, the first defence witness. The Crown were nearing the end of their case; apparently they only had a few more witnesses to call, and Liam was coming in from France where he’d been sorting out some problems with the club there.

To my surprise, DS Montford suddenly arrived and sat opposite me at the end of the corridor, staring at her navy court shoe, swinging it on and off her foot like it was the most interesting thing she’d ever seen.

‘You’ve given evidence, haven’t you?’ I asked eventually. There was a small ladder in the heel of her tan pop-sock.

Montford nodded. I’d read her statement. She’d wielded the knife against James like a deranged teenager.

‘So?’ She’d obviously come to freak me out. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I’m waiting for someone,’ she said, pushing her glasses up her nose.

‘Who?’

‘No one you know,’ she said crisply.

After a while, I couldn’t bear the tension any more and went outside to look for Liam but it started to drizzle.

As I walked back into the building, the clerks were ushering someone into Court Number Two – the one beside our courtroom, the wooden doors swinging shut behind him, DS Montford in his slipstream like a small blackbird.

I stopped a court officer who was following them.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Anonymous evidence for the Miller case.’

‘Why are they going in there then?’

‘They’ll video it and transmit it through to next door.’

Twenty minutes later, Liam arrived, sweating profusely. He kissed me on both cheeks, his great hulk squeezed into a navy suit that was a size too small.

‘I’ve put on some weight,’ he said ruefully, as I patted his tummy.

‘It’s all that loving, baby,’ I tried to joke. It was too oppressive to joke, here in the corridors of fear. ‘Or too much foie gras.’

‘Both probably. Sorry I’m late. Christ, I’m nervous.’

‘There’s no need to be, is there?’ I said, eyeing Liam carefully. We’d seen little of each other recently; we’d kept in touch on the phone or by email during the past few months. He had sorted out the finances with Revolver’s lawyers and I received a monthly sum that at least paid the mortgage – the enormous mortgage I’d never realised James had taken out to finance the club in Bangkok he’d dreamed of.

‘Guess not,’ he shrugged.

‘You’ve just got to tell the truth, the whole shebang.’

‘I bloody hate lawyers, though.’ Liam ran a finger round his tight collar; the shaving rash on his neck looked red and painfully raw. ‘So smarmy and smug, always out to trip you up.’

‘Liam?’

‘What?’

‘You know Lana mentioned some kind of blackmail, and Lord Higham accused me of trying to extort money,’ I muttered. ‘Then the prosecution just started on about the club being a front.’

‘Lana?’

‘Kate’s flatmate. And James said Charlie Higham was involved in something dodgy.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me. But it’s the first I heard of blackmail.’ He looked at me levelly. ‘And I can assure you the clubs aren’t a front. You know that. I tell you, they’ve been through bloody everything with a fine-tooth comb.’

Ruth was bearing down on us. ‘Liam, we need to have a quick chat.’

I couldn’t decide whether to go in and listen to his evidence. I was so sullied by the whole affair; every day it seemed more hopeless. I thought longingly of my children: I missed them desperately. I went outside to call them.

I was at the tea machine when Liam appeared again in the corridor.

‘That was quick,’ I said, surprised.

‘They sent me out again. Big old kerfuffle in there. Some copper’s giving evidence anonymously.’

‘What policeman?’

‘Dunno. Never actually saw him.’

My plastic cup dropped down from the machine with a clunk.

‘And they only used his Christian name anyway.’ Liam leaned against the machine.

‘John?’ Dully I watched the cup fill with tepid water, idly plucking names from the air. ‘Peter?’

‘No. David. No. Not David. Dan!’ He looked triumphant. ‘Yeah. Danny – that was it.’

Chapter Thirty-Three

Every ounce of adrenalin I possess crashes through my body; I’m shaking with rage. I will find him if it kills me. I smash open the doors and run into the court. He is here, so near and yet still so bloody, bloody far. Further than he’s ever been.

I look up, across – and I see him. It takes me a second to absorb the fact – and then I can’t believe it. I can’t believe Liam was right.

You are in the wrong place, absolutely the wrong place, I think. I see him and for a moment I think I am surely mistaken.

He stands to leave the witness box; he hears the commotion and he turns. Our eyes meet across the courtroom.

‘You can’t be in here,’ someone says.

‘Please,’ the court officer is speaking, ‘can the ushers … ?’

Her voice fades. Everything fades as he looks at me across the empty room and it all falls into place. How could I have been so very, very stupid? Of course he is a policeman.

Someone in uniform holds my arm as I just stand there, immobilised by shock.

It’s as if my whole life has been heading inexorably for this moment: like the moment when you switch off the television set and the tiny white light dies, the moment you are alone in the darkness.

The officer takes my arm. She is trying to remove me, push me back outside, back into the corridor. There is a furious whispering, a room alive with the excitement of the case, of my misdemeanour. But they are light years away; I don’t hear them any more because we are staring at one other, our eyes locked.

There is only him – and my heart, it actually stops; it feels like it stops so I gasp suddenly with the shock of it. I think I even stagger. I feel a pain, a real pain deep in my belly, as visceral as if my insides are tearing away from themselves. I want to bend myself double, to curl up and hide – but how can I here, where I am watched? I am trapped.

And then he looks away.

So this is it, I think. There is just white light and noise around me that makes no sense, and then eventually they succeed. They get me back outside again.

The doors close in my face, and he is gone.

So this is what they call it. It is worse than I imagined: it is worse even than heartbreak and, God knows, I’ve felt that too.

This is worse than heartbreak. It is infinitely worse.

This is betrayal.

And then they were hustling me out and he was being led the opposite way. I tried to turn to see him but I couldn’t twist my head far enough as I was marched out, and the door was firmly shut behind me.

Where would they take him? Where would they try to hide him?

After a couple of false starts, I found an alley that led to the back of the court-house. I saw DS Montford come out and get into an unmarked Rover, and I guessed he’d be somewhere there too.

I ran across the car park and a security guard was calling, ‘Miss, miss,’ behind me in a strong Nigerian accent, but I ignored him and pushed the fire door open, almost falling as it took my weight.

He stood there, leaning against the wall quite calmly just inside the door, rolling a cigarette, and when he saw me, he narrowed those unreadable eyes at me. Blue as Hockney’s swimming pool; blue as Turner’s skies.

‘Hello, Rose Miller,’ he said, and my world crashed again. Blue as forget-me-nots.

He just stood there rolling a cigarette like he had no care in the world, not one.

The security guard lumbered up behind me. ‘Please, miss.’ He had a shiny bovine face. ‘You can’t be—’

Danny flashed something that he pulled from his jacket pocket, some kind of badge. ‘It’s OK. She’s with me.’

With me!
I nearly laughed – except it would have killed me.

The reluctant guard sized us up. ‘OK, sir. If you are sure.’

‘Sure I’m sure. Cheers, pal.’

The guard lumbered off again.

‘You’re going to say, what am I doing here,’ Danny said quietly. He was wearing a grey suit and a dark shirt. He looked smart, handsome, his hair less dishevelled than usual. I’d never imagined him like this.

‘Yes I am. What the fuck
are
you doing here? Oh God. I can’t believe it.’ And I slapped my palms against my own forehead so hard it hurt. ‘God God God,’ I intoned. ‘You bastard.’

He grabbed my wrists. ‘Don’t.’

‘Fuck off,’ I hissed. I didn’t ever remember feeling this angry. Ever. Fury made me strong, strong enough to get out of his grasp this time. I lunged back from him. ‘How could you have done that? How could you have?’

‘Calm down, Rose,’ he said.

‘Why? Why would I calm down? You bloody bloody liar.’ I stared at him. He dropped his gaze first.

‘Just wait a sec.’ He leaned over me and pushed open a door. It was some kind of waiting room; he manoeuvred me in.

‘What the fuck are you doing here? Where’s—’ I gazed at him. ‘Is it true? Are you really a policeman?’

We looked into each other’s eyes; the eyes that once I could have drowned in.