46

‘Don’t be cross with me Connie. I couldn’t risk it,’ Judith protested later. ‘She wasn’t our witness and someone had definitely got to her.’

Constance and Judith were back at Constance’s office, preparing for the following day.

‘And Ahmad can do that stuff, talk about his wife.’

‘If he will. He asked us not even to mention her, don’t you remember?’

‘Defendants on trial for murder don’t always know what’s best, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Presumably that’s why you instructed me. You thought I might do a marginally better job than Ahmad would do on his own.’

‘Oh, of course. Don’t be so prickly. I just meant he does have rights too. If he specifically asked us to keep his family out of things, we should respect that.’

‘Hang on. A minute ago, you wanted me to ask Lottie to spill the beans.’

‘Well, she wouldn’t have said anything really personal, just that he had a wife and daughter. That is better than giving Ahmad the third degree in public.’

‘Connie. Stand back for a moment. We have no real defence here, do you agree? I mean, there is no real hard evidence against Ahmad, but he was there, at the time, so theoretically, he could have committed the crime.’

‘Yes.’

‘So we’re never going to be able to show that he couldn’t have done it – he was sighted a hundred miles away, he wasn’t physically capable – any of that stuff we love to uncover if we can.’

‘Unless we find the real murderer.’

‘OK. Yes. Unless we stumble upon someone else, which we and the police have not managed to do after two months’ investigation.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘The best we will be able to manage, I fear, is to find some explanation for the rings that doesn’t involve murder and to tell the jury that one hair is not enough to condemn a man to fifteen years in prison. And if that is all we have, appealing to their judgement, I want them to know he has a wife and child who love him and depend upon him. Now, leaving aside all your sensibilities of what you may or may not have promised Ahmad in a rash moment of empathy, you must agree with me?’

Constance huffed and sat down on the bench.

‘How did you think it went today?’ she asked, happy to change the subject.

‘Not great. Tracy Jones was slightly in our favour but more because of what she didn’t see or hear than anything else.’

‘I think your cross-examination about the will was useful.’

‘Marginally. I mean, who would have thought it? Two million pounds. Far more than I ever imagined. Mrs Hennessy with a small fortune doesn’t seem quite so helpless, but that could give Ahmad more of a motive. Who knows what Chambers will try when we put Ahmad on the stand? He might say Ahmad was jealous; Mrs Hennessy had all the things Ahmad didn’t have; that kind of thing. With the theft of the rings it all falls into place.’

‘Why didn’t you ask her where she went on the Thursday?’

‘I just didn’t want to chance it; I had no idea what she was going to say. I mean, she might have said “I have terminal cancer and I had to see a doctor”. Unlikely, but you get my point. Better to leave it that she had what she professed to be an “appointment” which was clearly more important to her than visiting her sick, aged mother, and let everyone else join the dots. And the stuff about Barbara’s hands worked too. I’ll use that in closing to emphasise that she may have been so distressed about her inability to paint that she wanted to end her life.’

‘And if she slipped on the fire escape she might not have been able to hold on.’

‘Yes, that too. But even so, there’s something fishy going on, isn’t there?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, if you had just inherited one million pounds, would you be starting a new full-time job in Ealing primary school in September?’

‘Perhaps she loves teaching?’

‘Or perhaps those “complications” she told you about are keeping her away from her money. And her brother’s engagement news which I overheard at the funeral. You know I’m not big on coincidences.’

‘Maybe when his mother died it put things in perspective for him.’

‘Hmm. Joseph Hennessy does not strike me as the sentimental type. Maybe she said he had to be married to get his share.’

‘Well his partner, Janice, seemed pretty happy anyway.’

‘Yes she did. It would be cruel of me to suggest that’s because she’s marrying a millionaire. What else? Yes, Barbara’s forgetfulness may be useful, too, if we can show she might have become confused, disorientated, that kind of thing. Perhaps with the combination of the drugs she was on and the aftermath of the anaesthetic.’

‘What about Dr Wolf?’

‘Ah, that sanctimonious prig.’

‘You still like him, then.’

‘Oh come on. First, he accuses Ahmad of anger management issues because he dares to look askance when Wolf’s brogues make dirty great marks on his clean floor, then he maintains Ahmad has “interfered” with a patient, pejorative enough to make the jury think he’s been harming patients all along and has only now been caught. But when I tackle him he realises, ’cos he’s not stupid, that he has to renege. If Ahmad had been caught doing something naughty, how could he or the Trust have kept him on, to go on and kill Mrs Hennessy? Ahmad gets convicted and the Trust is faced with a corporate manslaughter charge too. And he doesn’t like Mahmood either.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Mahmood has been head of the unit since before Wolf qualified. But he puts the two of them on a par. Oh yes, he is glad to help out by taking Mahmood’s patients and they have the same expertise.’

‘Maybe Wolf wants his job.’

‘I don’t doubt that for a second. But this case isn’t helping his prospects. I think he’s slippery and self-serving and there’s more we could find out from him.’

‘You don’t think he killed Mrs Hennessy?’

‘No motive. Unless something went wrong in the operation and she knew about it, threatened to tell. Seems very unlikely. Especially with a bunion operation. It’s not like removing the wrong kidney! And the mortality rate of his patients is average, well, better than average actually. He appears, from the statistics to be a very good doctor. But he certainly had ample opportunity, hanging around till the small hours. Did we ever find the physiotherapist?’

‘No. He was Italian and he left back in May some time. The police couldn’t find him, although I’m not sure how hard they tried. I could do some digging if you think it’s important.’

‘Never mind. You have lots to do and we have enough from Wolf confirming she could have walked unaided, which is all I would ask him. That was useful too.’

‘There’s one thing I want to investigate further. I didn’t get much of a chance yesterday when I first saw it. If I find something we can re-call him, can’t we?’

‘As long as old Seymour lets us, but I’m sure I can manage that one. What is it?’

‘I’d rather complete what I’m doing and then tell you, if that’s OK.’

Judith shrugged. ‘What’s Ahmad’s answer on the Oyster card?’ she asked.

‘You mean the timing?’

‘Yes. It doesn’t take twenty-five minutes to get from the ward to the station, even if the lifts are busy.’

‘You won’t like it.’

‘Lay it on me, Connie.’

Constance giggled. Judith was so larger than life.

‘He had forgotten...’

‘Again?’

‘But his wife’s birthday was coming up, so he had made a short diversion to the shops, on the way to the station.’

‘The shops, which were all closed.’

‘Yes. He said he went window-shopping.’

‘Which windows?’

‘I didn’t ask.’

‘OK, so this will come up when he takes the stand and we need to be ready. Ask him which shops, what items specifically he remembers seeing in those shops and take photos, although the windows may well have changed now. We need support for what he says from the shop owners.’

‘How can I do that if we’re in court?’

‘Ring them or send someone from your office. Don’t you have any junior staff?’

‘OK. I’ll sort it.’

‘And while they’re at it they should time how long it takes to walk from the hospital to those shops to the station.’

‘All right. I can do that.’

‘Good. Did you get hold of Dr Atkins, remind him of the timing of his evidence, tomorrow or Wednesday?’

‘Yes.’

‘His report is OK, as far as it goes on the PTSD, but you’ve spoken to him; what’s his take on Ahmad?’

‘He is willing to say that the behaviour exhibited in the station is consistent with an episode suffered by people with PTSD, a kind of flashback. But that is it. I think he was cross when Ahmad wouldn’t open up to him, felt his time was being wasted.’

‘OK. Not great but I’ve been forewarned. I suppose most of the time he knows what the trauma is before he has to diagnose the related stress.’

It was two hours later that Inspector Dawson called from outside in the street. All the staff had gone home and Constance let him in and led him through the deserted corridor to their makeshift research hub. Judith sat at the head of the largest meeting room, her third coffee of the evening between her hands.

‘Hello, Charlie.’

‘Judith.’ Dawson deliberately avoided eye contact with Judith and did not shake hands.

‘Were you in court today?’

‘No time. Out catching criminals. PC Brown was there and filled me in on the best bits, without picking anyone’s pocket – that may surprise you. How’re you doing?’

Judith shrugged. She would let Dawson’s challenge remain undefended. She understood his anger, directed obliquely at her suggestion the last time they had spoken, that one of his officers might have tried to frame Ahmad. The fact he had come this evening when Constance had called was evidence, at least, that he would still work with her.

‘Could be worse,’ she replied.

‘So, what’ve you found, then? What’s so pressing I have to miss the cricket highlights?’

‘I’ll let Constance tell you. We’re hoping to ask Dr Wolf what it means, in court.’

Constance scrolled through a couple of screens on her laptop.

‘These are the hospital forms for Mrs Hennessy,’ she said.

‘OK.’ Dawson sat down and unbuttoned his coat. Judith rose and came to stand behind him.

‘If you scroll through the admissions forms, they are all numbered, but page 7 is missing. It’s been removed.’

‘Yes, I can see that.’

‘I asked Dr Wolf’s secretary when I noticed it, last week, but she said she couldn’t remember what the form was. She thought it must have been something routine, but she hadn’t removed it.’

‘OK. So, what’s the importance of this missing page?’ Dawson asked casually.

‘These are the forms for another patient, Mr Wilson, also private, seventy-five years old, discharged the day before Mrs Hennessy died.’

‘How did you get these?’

‘Dr Wolf’s secretary gave them to me.’

Dawson raised his eyebrows but remained silent. Constance scrolled forwards then reached the screen she wanted. With finger and thumb she enlarged it so it could be read more easily.

‘Page 7 for Mr Wilson is a form giving consent to a particular treatment, signed by Dr Wolf and Mr Wilson.’

‘What’s the treatment?’

‘It’s not very clear. If you see at the bottom, it says “Aladdin Trial”. And also, “I, the undersigned, confirm that I give my doctors permission to use the Aladdin process currently being trialled, in addition to or in place of conventional processes, at their absolute discretion”.’

‘And what the hell is that?’

‘I don’t know. But it’s clearly important enough that it’s been removed for Mrs Hennessy who is now dead.’

‘Any idea who removed it?’ Dawson was interested now but wishing he wasn’t.

‘The metadata shows the last person to work on the document.’ She pointed Dawson towards the name on the screen.

‘Ah, surprise, surprise, Charlie, it’s our friend Dr David Wolf,’ Judith chimed in.

‘And there’s something else, too, which I have only just discovered,’ Constance added. ‘It may mean nothing, but just in case.’

‘What?’

‘The anaesthetist, Dr Jane Bridges, is Dr Wolf’s wife. She practises in her maiden name.’

‘Lots of doctors marry each other. So do lots of lawyers I’m told. Not many coppers though.’

‘He didn’t tell us when we asked him. He just talks about “Dr Bridges” as if they are not connected to each other. I think he and his wife are involved in something they are trying to hide and that may give us the answer to Mrs Hennessy’s death.’

Dawson sat and mused over Constance’s words. Judith began to pace, arms folded.

‘Clearly, we must recall Dr Wolf tomorrow and ask him about this, but only after forensics, I think,’ she said.

Dawson looked from Constance to Judith and back again.

‘Can you send me these documents?’ he asked.

‘Yes of course. Share and share alike,’ Judith replied sarcastically.

‘What will you ask Wolf about all this in court?’

‘I suppose I just have to ask him what it all means. I haven’t quite decided yet. It will need careful thought – and at least one more cup of coffee.’

* * *

Judith slipped into bed late but couldn’t break the habits of a lifetime; at least two files accompanied her and she propped herself up with a glass of Chardonnay, her blue notebook on her lap. Often she had her best thoughts at night, lying quietly surrounded by the darkness.

Greg moaned and turned over noisily to make space for her.

‘What time is it?’ he asked.

Judith patted his arm lightly. She had neglected him the last few days with all the preparation for the trial, she mused. Then she paused in abject horror. The thought which had just entered her head was so alien to her that she feared she had lapsed into unconsciousness without noticing. Martin, her late husband, had always given her so much space; either he wasn’t around or, if he was, he had so much of his own to divert him, she would never have contemplated how much attention she was paying Martin, because it would never have concerned him.

Judith and Martin had spent time together – restaurants, opera, theatre – most of it divine and decadent, but had they really been together? When she thought back to those joint experiences, she wondered if they had truly been shared? They had so infrequently talked about them afterwards or mentioned them to anyone else. True, Martin had often called her when he was travelling, for a download, especially if she was working on a big case, but they hardly ever really chatted when they were together.

Greg expected so much more. If they were out somewhere, he wanted to laugh and joke and hold her hand and drag her over to read things or view the world from a particular angle. And if they were at home, he wanted to talk about his day and hear about hers. When he took a phone call, always accompanied by an apology if it was ‘after hours’, he wanted to lament it, or imitate the person on the phone or swear, each time anticipating a reaction from her. This need to be responsive, to participate in his life, to allow him entry into hers, was unfamiliar. So she had taken things very slowly with Greg; it was a month before they kissed and now, almost a year into their time together, they were trying out a period of him staying over. Neither of them had articulated how long it was intended to last.

Judith thought about Ahmad and the kind of husband he was; which of the men she knew he most closely resembled, if any. Constance said his wife didn’t speak at all. And Constance was getting involved again with the family and she mustn’t. It wasn’t that Judith was uncaring. She had to remain aloof in order to make sensible judgements about the case. She didn’t have the luxury of forming attachments with clients. She hoped Constance understood that and didn’t think her cold and totally unfeeling.

Judith focused back on the present. When the trial was over she would do some rearranging. Having Greg living in, even temporarily, required a re-think of how to use her limited living space. The gap between the dressing table and the curtains, on the opposite wall, for starters, bothered her.

For a moment she couldn’t remember why there was a gap there at all; then she recalled that Martin’s trouser press had sat there until recently. It was the only personal item of his she had retained from their former life. She hadn’t burned his possessions on the lawn, as Greg had admitted he had done with those of his adulterous wife. She had, instead, found a nice ‘clearance’ lady and asked her to find suitable homes for everything which had been Martin’s – shirts, shoes, briefcases and stationery. And had agreed to leave most of the furniture behind.

But the trouser press had come with her. It wasn’t sentiment; quite the opposite. In the immediate aftermath of his death and her discovery of his serial infidelity, she had wanted to inflict pain on Martin, even if it was posthumously. Martin had always timed the pressing of his trousers to the last second to have the creases perfect, so she had taken his suits from the wardrobe and pressed the trousers over and over until they started to singe and wrinkle; this had been her revenge.

But when Greg expressed a desire to spend more time with Judith and they agreed this trial arrangement, she no longer felt any need for this last remnant of their cohabitation. The trouser press had been driven to the dump and unceremoniously tossed into a large skip. And now only the space where it had stood remained.

She allowed her eyes to travel around the room, taking in the chair, dressing table with mirror, wardrobe, bedside cabinet and wastepaper basket, and thought about Mrs Hennessy’s room at the hospital. Then she extracted the envelope of photographs Constance had taken and leafed through them again. Eventually, she stopped. Now she knew what had bothered her about the furniture in Mrs Hennessy’s room.

Barbara Hennessy’s bed clothes were thrown back on the side facing the door, as if she had climbed out of that side of the bed. But her crutches were over by the bathroom door, propped against the chair for visitors. If she was to use the crutches to help steady herself and walk, Judith would have expected them to be next to the bed. Had someone other than Mrs Hennessy moved the crutches out of her reach, and if so, why? That lent support to a third person being involved in her death after all.

‘What time is it?’ Greg muttered again. ‘Why don’t you turn off the light and go to sleep?’

Martin would have slept through her scribblings and would never have dared to tell her to stop working. But Martin wasn’t here any more, and although she was still sad he was gone, she was pleased not to be alone.

She exited her bed slowly and entered the bathroom, ran some cold water into the basin and soaked her left hand for some minutes. Then, with the aid of a bar of soap, she eased her wedding and engagement rings off her finger and lay them on the edge next to the tap. She thought of the dressing-down she had given Ahmad when he had dared to explain that Mrs Hennessy had placed her rings in a similar place.

She stretched her left hand out and examined closely the space where the rings had sat. It felt strangely naked; she tried dropping it to her side and glancing at it casually. That was better. Then she dried the rings and her hand and slipped them back on. ‘Not yet,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Not yet.’

Scrambling into bed, she switched off the bedside light, turned on her side, wrapped one arm around Greg and went to sleep.

* * *

Constance returned to her empty flat. There was no point even trying the fridge for food. She knew there wasn’t any. Judith had a strong constitution, she thought. After a whole day in court she was still full of vigour at 11pm, but Constance was desperate to sleep.

She could hear Judith’s endorsement ringing in her ears after she had discovered the missing hospital form. ‘Well done, Connie. You did it again.’ But she wasn’t entirely sure what she had done or where it would lead. She hadn’t particularly warmed to Dr Wolf but she had been the one who tried to rein Judith in from her early suspicions that he was hiding something. Now she wished she had supported Judith more at the time.

She knew she should shower, undress, prepare her bag for the following morning, but somehow all those activities seemed like things which could be done just a little later. Before long she was fast asleep, fully-clothed on top of her bed.

The musical chime of her mobile woke her and a shaft of light, squeezing through a chink in the curtains, struck her temple as she reached for her phone. As Constance muttered ‘hello’ she noticed the time on her clock by the bed. It was already 7:10 –much later than she had expected to rise.

‘Is this Miss Constance Lamb?’

‘Yes. Who’s calling please?’

‘My name is Dr Al-azma. I am calling you from Damascus. In Syria. You have been trying to speak to me.’