Once I had given evidence, I was technically allowed to go into the public gallery and listen to the rest of the trial but for two reasons I decided against it. Firstly, juries were popularly supposed to dislike seeing the complainant in court, as it looked vindictive. I didn’t want to lend any accidental credibility to Seth’s barrister’s suggestion that I was going through this as an act of revenge. Secondly, I didn’t want to spend another minute in that courtroom after I’d endured my time in the witness box. It had gone quickly because I was concentrating, but afterwards my knees felt exceedingly unreliable as I followed the usher out of court. I was tired and worried that I’d said too much, or not enough. I had been likable, I hoped, but serious enough to show the jury that this mattered to me.
And it did matter. I didn’t want Seth to walk away unscathed. I had been brutally honest about what had happened between us, and it had cost me something. All I wanted was for the jury to recognise my honesty and respect my account of events. If they refused to convict him – and juries could go either way; they were as unpredictable as an English summer – I would feel as if I had been found guilty and I wasn’t sure how I would deal with that.
I sat on the bench outside the courtroom, because I had nowhere else to be, and couldn’t stop shivering even though the building was overheated. The last prosecution witness was giving evidence. Then the defence case would begin, with Seth’s own account of events. I dreaded the thought of it. He was good at arguing, and plausible. Five men, seven women: those odds were in his favour, it seemed to me.
A rattle at the door made me jump. It opened and the prosecution witness stepped out, smoothing his tie, scanning the hallway for anything amiss out of pure habit. I watched him walk across to me, checking off the details: dark suit, navy tie, new white shirt, recent haircut, general air of confidence, a touch of swagger at all times. He looked notably unruffled by whatever the defence had asked him.
‘All right?’
‘Yes.’ I didn’t sound sure of it, though. I cleared my throat. ‘How did that go?’
‘Usual stuff.’ Derwent smoothed his tie again. ‘Nothing that should worry you.’
Because he was a witness too, he hadn’t seen my evidence. ‘Did he suggest to you that I’d made it up because I resented being dumped?’
‘He did. That was fine. I told him getting married was not on your radar and it was hard to get you to commit to lunch, never mind an engagement.’
‘What did the jury think of that?’
‘They laughed.’ He stretched. ‘Juries love me. You know that.’
‘I couldn’t look at them. I don’t know what they made of me.’
‘You make a decent impression.’ He hauled me to my feet. ‘Come on. You look done in. Let’s go to the canteen and I’ll buy you a cup of tea.’
‘It’ll be terrible tea and it’ll cost a fortune.’
‘Don’t be ungrateful.’
‘I’m not,’ I protested. ‘In fact I should buy the tea to thank you for doing this.’
‘I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. The look on his face when I walked into court.’ Derwent shook his head. ‘If nothing else, I got to see him in the dock.’
‘I didn’t really look at him.’
‘Probably for the best. It might have put you off. It inspired me, I’m glad to say.’
‘Oh God.’
‘I was phenomenal.’ He put his arm around me and guided me down the corridor, holding forth about his own brilliance all the way.
The canteen was to the left of the front door, a few tables and chairs becalmed outside Court 1. I found a table near the window and looked out at the brilliant October day and the trees fiery with leaves they hadn’t yet shed. Snaresbrook had been built as a massive Victorian orphanage; Crown Court was merely the latest of its incarnations. It was the only court I could think of with a duck pond.
‘Here you go. Looks good to me.’ A cup and saucer clattered on to the table in front of me and I gave a soft wail of distress.
‘It’s pale grey. Since when was tea grey?’
‘Nothing wrong with it.’ Derwent drew it back to his side of the table and gave me the other one.
‘That looks more like it.’ I sniffed it, suspicious. ‘How did you manage that?’
‘Natural charm. I asked for two teabags in yours.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Drink it while it’s hot. You do look as if you need it.’
‘I’m OK.’
‘Really?’
When I looked up, he was watching me with that unnerving focus I had come to fear. ‘Yes. It’s just weird, that’s all.’
‘What is?’
‘Being the victim.’
He leaned across the table and covered one of my hands with his. ‘Whatever happens with this trial, you’re no one’s victim. He didn’t take anything from you. You’re still you. And you’re the bravest person I know.’
I shifted in my seat, embarrassed. ‘I don’t feel brave.’
‘Coming to court and giving evidence was brave.’
‘You didn’t give me the impression that I had any choice,’ I pointed out.
‘You always have a choice.’ He sat back. ‘For instance, you could have chosen to do the wrong thing.’
‘But you would never have forgiven me.’
‘Probably not.’
‘And you’d have made my life a misery.’ I corrected myself. ‘More of a misery.’
He grinned, his eyes bright with amusement. ‘I’d have been very understanding.’
‘Oh sure. You always are.’
The two of us sat there, drinking our tea, talking about anything and everything but the trial that was going on elsewhere in the building, where a man’s fate hung in the balance with mine.
The jury went out at the start of the third day after a summing-up of the evidence from the judge. I thought of his spare, haughty face and worried that he would guide the jury away from believing me. His would be the last voice they heard before the usher took them away to consider their verdict.
‘If they come back quickly, it’s usually a good sign for the defence. Easier to acquit than convict.’ Emma Khan chewed her lip, looking nervous, because the outcome turned on how well she had done her job. It was always like that, the police and the CPS and the victim expecting a conviction and the prosecutor having to explain why it hadn’t worked out. I told her I thought she’d done well, which was true, and we agreed that juries were unpredictable, and then the two of us fell silent as the minutes passed.
Somewhere, Seth would be pacing up and down, like I was. The stakes were higher for him. All I had to lose was my faith in the legal system, imperfect and underfunded though it was. He could lose his freedom and his job. The not-knowing would be a kind of punishment in itself, I thought, and tried to comfort myself with that. Whatever happened, I had made him come to court and explain himself. Whatever happened, I had spoken up for myself, and for all the women he had harmed. The officer in the case had tracked down two of them but neither had wanted to give evidence against him. I was on my own.
But I was on my own with a fair number of people to help and support, from Alice Schneider, the officer in the case, to Emma herself. And even as I thought that, a familiar figure came into view at the end of the corridor and sauntered towards me, his hands in his pockets.
‘Any news?’ Derwent asked as soon as he reached me.
‘They’ve been out for an hour.’ I smiled at him. ‘I didn’t know you were coming today.’
‘I didn’t want to miss this. It’s the best bit.’
‘All parties in the case of Taylor to Court Three,’ a voice intoned over the tannoy. Emma set off for the door at a half-run, dropping her wig on her head as she ducked through the double doors. I grabbed on to Derwent’s arm.
‘This is it.’
‘Or the jury want to ask a question. Come on.’
As we came into court, Emma was leaning over to talk to the court clerk. She looked around at us and mouthed, ‘Verdict.’
I sat in the public gallery with a humming in my ears and my eyes fixed on the floor, faintly aware of the other seats filling up with Seth’s family and friends and the reporters who had followed the trial. Derwent sat beside me, his knee pressed against mine for support, or because manspreading was what he did. He glowered at anyone who tried to sit near us. The rumble of conversation in the corner caught my attention: Seth, waiting to be let into the dock by the officer who was coming up from the cells. He was practically dancing with impatience to get this over with. He saw me look and flashed me a dazzlingly white smile: I might want to think he’d suffered during the trial but he was determined to give me the impression that he’d had no concerns at all.
We stood as the judge arrived, summoned by the flat-footed and weary usher. The judge glanced around the court as he sat down and I imagined his eyes lingered on me.
‘We have a verdict,’ he announced to the court. Then he eyed the usher. ‘Jury, please.’
Slowly, the twelve of them shuffled in, self-conscious now that the entire court was waiting for them to play their part in this strange theatrical ritual. I waited to see if they looked at Seth once they had found their places. When juries didn’t look, it meant they had decided the defendant was guilty. I would know for sure in a moment, but I couldn’t help agonising over what they had decided.
The clerk stood up, holding a copy of the indictment. ‘Will the defendant please stand?’
In the dock, Seth got to his feet. He looked completely self-possessed but his hands were clasped so tightly the top one left a mark on the lower one.
‘Would the foreman please stand?’ the clerk droned. It was routine for him, of course.
The foreman was, in fact, a round, middle-aged woman. She clutched a piece of paper with white knuckles, as if it was her shopping list on Christmas Eve an hour before the supermarket shut.
‘Will you please answer my first question yes or no,’ the clerk said, drawing out the final word. He pushed his glasses up his nose and squinted at the jury. ‘Has the jury reached a verdict upon which you are all agreed?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was clear and loud enough that we could all hear her. I wondered briefly if she was a teacher – she had that air – then made myself focus again on what was happening.
‘Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty of causing grievous bodily harm with intent?’
She answered immediately, but her voice seemed to come from a long way off. I watched her lips move before I heard the word so that I understood it.
‘Guilty.’
A sigh swept through the public gallery. In the dock, Seth seemed to stumble, swaying on his feet. The dock officer reached out and steadied him.
‘Thank you. You may sit down.’ The clerk did the same and started writing something inscrutable on the papers in front of him.
Emma got to her feet. ‘The defendant has no previous convictions.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ drawled the judge.
As she sat down the defence barrister rose. ‘It’s my application for reports, your honour.’
The judge’s face tightened. ‘Mr Colebridge, we all know what sentence I must pass in this case. I’m not wasting the probation service’s time.’
Mr Colebridge sat down again, his head bent. Not a good day for Mr Colebridge, or his client.
The judge turned to the jury. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, your role in these proceedings is finished. I will now sentence Mr Taylor. If you wish to stay, you are welcome to. If you don’t wish to stay, please indicate that and the usher will take you to the assembly area.’
None of them made a move. They were all looking across at Seth, their expressions revealing that they had no doubts about their verdict at all. I looked for pity on their faces and saw only distaste.
‘Yes, Mr Colebridge.’ The judge nodded to him, and the barrister got up to start his mitigation. I stopped listening, aware that it was designed to make Seth sound as good as possible. As if it was being transmitted via a poorly tuned radio, the odd phrase broke through the humming in my ears. Unblemished record … good character … maintains his innocence …
Colebridge wound up with: ‘The offence falls towards the bottom of the range and I would request you take that into account in your sentencing.’
The judge nodded, and turned to the dock. ‘Stand up please, Mr Taylor.’
Seth dragged himself to his feet. He had never had any doubt that he would be acquitted and now reality was crushing him like a juggernaut.
‘Mr Taylor, I must now sentence you for an offence of grievous bodily harm with intent.’ Coldly, clinically, he recited the facts of the case for the final time. I almost forgot it was me he was talking about. His voice was like ice when he said: ‘The jury has rejected your version of events, and in my judgement, rightly so. In my judgement, I am sure that you did lock her in the flat, which significantly aggravates the offence.’
He had believed me and not Seth. I stayed completely still, not smiling, but the relief I felt was as warming as if a light had been switched on inside me.
‘I listened very carefully to the personal mitigation advanced on your behalf very ably by Mr Colebridge. I do not punish you for having a trial, but the effect of that is that I can give you no credit for your plea.’ He began to talk about sentencing guidelines and I looked around to see a handsome woman, Seth’s mother, weeping silently. I had never met her while we were dating. Now was not the time, I thought, to make her acquaintance, but I handed Derwent a tissue, and nodded in her direction, and he passed it along to her.
‘This case,’ the judge intoned, ‘is so serious that an immediate custodial sentence is necessary. The least sentence I can impose is one of four years’ imprisonment. You will serve half of that sentence in custody and the remaining half on licence. Mr Colebridge will explain to you exactly what that means.’
Lucky Mr Colebridge. At least his client knew what it meant. Seth was grey now, visibly shaking, his good looks lost to despair.
‘Is there anything else I need to deal with?’ the judge asked and Emma shook her head. He looked across at Seth and flicked his fingers. ‘Take him down.’
The judge went one way, the jury another. Mr Colebridge headed off glumly to the cells and his devastated client. Emma Khan skipped away to the robing room to pack up her belongings, clearly delighted with the result. Derwent gripped me by the elbow and steered me competently past the reporters and Seth’s supporters, moving too quickly for anyone to intercept us. We walked down the corridor, passing the main exit without a second glance at the bright sunshine outside. The press would be there, waiting, and that was the last thing I needed. The full scandal of the Chiron Club had broken during the summer, with week after week of lurid revelations, much of it written by Bianca Drummond. The wave of public interest had splashed over me too – Undercover Stunner Was Club’s Downfall, one headline screamed, much to my irritation. I’d avoided the press as much as I could, concentrating on preparing for the many trials that arose out of the investigation. Orlando Hawkes had already pleaded guilty to murdering Roddy Asquith, and despite giving evidence Peter Ashington had found himself with a long custodial sentence too for the part he’d played in it. It almost didn’t matter that Antoinette had backed away from giving evidence against him. Almost. It nagged at me that he’d got away with it, and that we’d never identified the second man who attacked her. Like the mould in Paige’s flat, they poisoned the very air around them, but they were an invisible evil. They hid in plain sight, behind handsome faces and the swagger of wealth.
The most important trials, Sir Marcus Gley and Mila Walsh, would be taking place in December and January respectively. Gley was still trying to suggest Iliana’s death had been a simple accident, even though he was the star of the snuff movie we had found. The CPS were still having none of it. Mila had refused to talk, unlike Harry, who had told us everything he could. But I still didn’t know exactly how Paige died, and I thought I probably never would.
It would be nice to be professionally rather than personally involved in a trial for a change, I thought. The stakes were so much lower, whether you won or lost. Seth had lost, but it didn’t feel like much of a victory to me. I shivered.
‘All right?’
‘He looked distraught.’ Somewhere behind us Seth was locked in a tiny cell, confronting his disgrace and his bleak future. He had two years of incarceration to look forward to, and almost certainly no job when he came out. I wondered how much he hated me now.
‘I’m glad I didn’t get my hands on him,’ Derwent said thoughtfully. ‘It would have been fun, but watching him go to prison was far more satisfying.’
‘He’ll be out in two years.’
‘You’re right. I can do it then.’
‘You’ll have forgotten all about it.’
Derwent shook his head. ‘Unlikely. But I can wait. I’m good at that.’
We slipped out through the side door, unobserved by anyone, and walked away across the leaf-strewn grass together.