‘And I met you,’ Hen said to him. ‘Positive so far?’
‘How so?’ Thomas asked her. She turned towards him. She never usually looked at anyone other than Peter if Peter was there to be observed. Couldn’t quite take her eyes away from him, leading to the conclusion that there was no accounting for taste. Perhaps that was the positive result the Coroner meant.
‘He dresses better than he did,’ she said. ‘Not that I care what he wears.’
The man doesn’t stand a chance, Thomas thought, not a cat in hell’s chance. If she had her way, they’d be breeding five children before he knew it. A woman was so incredibly determined once she had made up her mind.
She was laughing at him the way Marianne had laughed; in a way that made him feel part of it.
‘I don’t understand,’ she was saying. ‘I’m glad I was there, and wish I wasn’t. I wanted to mourn, but I can’t do that. Would she want to be mourned, do you think? Mourned or respected? Anyway, it was a reminder, oh I don’t know, of what a small amount a court case covers. You only get half the story. That’s all you ever get.’
Peter leaned forward, suddenly earnest.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘There’s a different dynamic in a criminal court. I mean the thing has its own wheel, turning on a bloody uneven surface, generating sparks and punctures, subject to weather conditions, drivers, highwaymen, rain and fog. Think of the logistics of getting a number of people to turn up at the same place and time, think of the egos who take the reins, and the lame horse, and the capacity for accidents. Think of someone without a compass and someone with one. Luck and incompetence in combination. The wheel stays off or on. The thing can sabotage itself. I can’t have you blaming her. Not entirely. It isn’t all sabotage. There was plenty of truth in the verdicts. Marianne Shearer owed you nothing.’
He turned to Thomas.
‘She would have wanted her brother to have a decent defence, you know. Whatever he did. Shall I do something about that, or will you? Someone must.’
No should, must.
Maybe he did have a cat in hell’s chance.
She was looking at that honest face of his, with her mouth half open in admiration, shaking her head as if she had suddenly encountered a wonder of the world.
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Marianne’s victim. Boyd’s victim. Everyone deserves a defence.’
Her profile was a beautiful version of the same profile, her shape the same shape. She sat the same way. She would suit the clothes.
Some mistake, surely, some quirk of the light.
About the Author
FRANCES FYFIELD has spent much of her professional life practicing as a criminal lawyer, work which has informed her highly acclaimed novels. She has been the recipient of both the Gold and Silver Crime Writers' Association Daggers. She is also a regular broadcaster on Radio 4, most recently as the presenter of the series ‘Tales from the Stave.’ She lives in London and in Deal, overlooking the sea, which is her passion.
