“YOU’VE NOT LEFT my people much to do. Plus, this coffee’s terrible,” Derek Martin groused. The Crown Prosecution Service’s portly investigating solicitor sat with Davies, Penwarren, and Hennessy in the noisy café of the Morrison’s supermarket just downhill from the Magistrate’s Court in Bodmin. He had a sausage roll in one pudgy hand and the coffee in the other. The court, having heard the police evidence and a statement from Martin himself, had remanded Alice Biggins for trial to the nearest women’s prison, HM Eastwood Park, far north in Gloucestershire.
“Well, she pretty much did your work for you, Alice did. And the DNA evidence simply supported it.” Morgan said.
“But I will still need any and all documentation you have on this case, including that associated with your initial suspect, Jeremy Rhys-Jones.”
“Why?” Moira Hennessy demanded. “He had no role in Trevean’s murder.”
Penwarren interrupted: “Because the prosecutors, the ‘Queen’s Silk’ chaps at Crown Court, will require it for trial. Derek’s job is to collect every piece of documentary evidence associated with the case so Alice Biggins’s own lawyer, another of your able Public Defender colleagues, can’t claim the police or the prosecution have left anything out. And anyway, why were you even here today? Your client is Rhys-Jones…”
Hennessy smiled. “Research: I have a lot to learn that they don’t teach you in law school.”
“Somehow, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble keeping up, Moira,” Morgan said.
“Look, the other reason I’m here is to thank you both on behalf of my client. Having been convicted of illegal entry with a false passport, Mr. Rhys-Jones is now imprisoned but also receiving psychiatric care at HM Exeter. He was a long-term victim of incest. It seems to have damaged him. They don’t know how deeply or permanently. That this passport violation is the only charge against him, however, I owe to you two,” she said, nodding to Davies and Penwarren, “and to Nicola Rhys-Jones. She and Andrew Stratton have waived the charges against him associated with his apparent attacks upon Trevega House. They understand he is haunted. All Nicola cares about is that he be treated and that they remain safe from him. I think we can arrange that. I don’t think Mr. Rhys-Jones will be going anywhere anytime soon. I shall work to ensure that, even though I am his defense lawyer. It’s what he needs.”
“What about extradition to Italy?” Morgan asked. “I don’t know anything about that.”
“Our extradition treaty with European Union countries stipulates that if the person wanted is already charged with a crime in the UK, that crime and its prosecution has preference. In this case, given what I suspect will be the length of treatment and incarceration, that may be a very long time.”
“I doubt extradition will happen anyway,” Penwarren added. “The woman who accused him has proved an unreliable witness, according to information from the Polizia. They suspect Rhys-Jones’s version of that event may be true and the woman lodged those inflated charges pursuant to a lawsuit seeking compensation from their employer, Credit Suisse, though the investigation continues.”
Morgan’s mobile vibrated, dancing on the table top.
“Sorry.” She looked at the sender on her screen. “Oh, shit, not that. Not now…” She stood, sought a quiet corner, and listened.
“Morgan?” Penwarren was beside her when she closed her phone.
“It’s the Royal Cornwall Hospital. Calum’s there. They can’t control his heart. He’s going into surgery for a pacemaker. So help me, if he survives this I’m going to kill him.” She grabbed her purse.
“Morgan?”
“What?”
“He loves you, you know.”
A WEEK LATER, Morgan stomped into Penwarren’s office at the Bodmin hub.
“Yes, please do come in, Morgan,” Penwarren said, laughing. He’d seen her reflection in his window. “How is Calum?”
“He’s recovering, damn him. When I get my chance…”
“When you get your chance, I think he’ll need you. His girls will, too. And we need him back. Attend to that. Take whatever time is necessary. Now, assuming this is not a medical update, as you’ve provided none to us since his surgery, was there something else?”
She sat down at his small conference table and stared at its surface.
Penwarren turned. Morgan looked defeated. He crossed to the table and sat.
“Morgan?”
“I was looking over my notes on the Biggins case and found something I’d lost track of. Her banker in St. Ives mentioned she had a collection notice on her account from a physician in Penzance.”
“This banker is no doubt your ‘source’ about Mary Trevean’s will?”
“Okay, yes. But he’s done nothing wrong, nor have I, so get over it.”
“You’re angry Morgan. Talk to me.”
“Alice Biggins is dying, boss. Incurable renal cancer. Far advanced. That’s why she looks so emaciated. Her husband claims he never knew and I believe him. She had her own modest bank account, money Eldridge gave her, and when the doctor gave her the diagnosis she refused to pay the bill: denial, the doc reckons. Not uncommon.”
“Which means…”
“She’ll never serve for Mary Trevean’s murder. Probably not even make it to Crown Court. She knew her condition was terminal before she killed Trevean. I think she’d been building up a powerful hatred about Trevean’s relationship with her husband for years and killed her when she believed they were actually lovers. Mary was beautiful and lived in a beautiful house; Alice lived a life of frugal deprivation, thanks to Eldridge.”
“Her lawyers will use the provocation defense: loss of control due to suspected infidelity,” Penwarren said. “The CPS, on the other hand, are saying it was a revenge killing, pure and simple.”
“Her defense would lose the loss of control argument anyway,” Morgan answered. “Since the law on provocation was changed, that defense wouldn’t help her. I checked with Moira Hennessy. If convicted, she still would get a life sentence.”
“Which, apparently, she already has…” Penwarren said, almost to himself.
“Yes.”
“She never had anything to lose, did she…?”
“No. But everyone else did. Especially Mary Trevean.”