25

Throughout all of this I was still working, in part because it was practically impossible to take time off at short notice, and in part because I wanted to. My best and only weapon against constant, crippling fear was defiance. Besides, these were my cases. I didn’t want to give them to anyone else.

When I was in court, I was safe, and I could concentrate on just doing my job. On the way home, I remembered to be scared. When I had to use the Underground I got in the habit of standing with my back to the tiled walls of the platforms, letting the crowds surge onto the train before I moved forward to board. I had never been a fan of waiting with my toes touching the yellow line but now I hung back, eyeing my fellow travellers with more than ordinary big-city suspicion. Train stations were as bad: big, windy platforms made me feel exposed. Every time a fast train charged through without stopping I felt a shudder of fear. One quick nudge and I could be under the wheels. I was glad when hearings were over early, allowing me to travel at quieter times, avoiding rush hour and the dark. I knew that fear was having an effect on me despite my best efforts, but stubbornly, blindly, I kept doing what I had to do.

It was Tuesday lunchtime when I made a post-court trip into chambers to drop off some files and check my desk. The day was cold and bright and the buildings in central London looked like cardboard cut-outs stuck against the dark blue of the clear sky. If I didn’t dawdle in chambers, I could be back in the flat before sunset, I thought, checking my watch for the hundredth time. Sunset was at four in the afternoon on these short December days, and getting earlier all the time. At home I would be locked away again, safe – but at what cost to my sanity? I had to avoid thinking of it as a prison, I reminded myself – it was where I was safest, especially now that I’d invested in a deadbolt to back up the new lock. The handyman had also replaced the smoke alarm, bemused to be asked to do it when it was working perfectly. I hadn’t explained. The flat was as secure and private as I could make it, and it was the only safe place I had.

Before I ducked in through the gate that led to Inner Temple Lane, I twisted to inspect the pedestrians who had been walking behind me on Fleet Street. Blank, uninterested faces. No one I recognised. The knot in my stomach eased a fraction, so that – for a moment – I almost felt normal.

But I would be afraid for the rest of my life unless I found out who was behind Belinda and Vicki’s deaths. It was like my job. I won or I lost.

I couldn’t allow myself to lose.

The narrow lane wound down towards the square outside Temple Church, one of my favourite places in London. One side of the square was the back of Inner Temple Hall; another was a colonnade that had been stolen wholesale from Italian classic architecture. The third side was occupied by the venerable Temple Church that crouched there like a dozing round-headed cat, self-contained and inscrutable. It was usually busy with tourists trying to come to terms with its tremendous antiquity – and in fairness, even I struggled to imagine what life could have been like in 1185 when it was originally founded. Today a wooden sign outside advised that the church was closed to visitors because of a memorial service. I glanced through the open door as I passed and saw a barrister I knew quite well standing just inside the church. His face was grim as he looked around him; he must be there to pay his respects, I thought. It occurred to me with a chill of fear that the memorial service might be for someone I knew.

I sidled past the sign and stepped into the church. The thunder of the organ drowned out the sound of conversation, but the pews were packed: dark coats shoulder to shoulder all the way to the altar. At the front of the church, a woman in a very well-cut black dress was standing with two men who looked as if they were in their early twenties, all three with grave faces. The family, I deduced.

My barrister friend was still standing where I’d seen him first.

‘Peter.’ I murmured it but he jumped. He was the sort of tall, thin man who lived in a constant state of anxiety; he was five years older than me and had looked as if he was fifty ever since I’d known him.

‘Ingrid! Haven’t seen you in ages.’

‘I’ve been busy. What are you doing here? Whose memorial is it?’

‘Judge Canterville.’

‘Ron Canterville? The one who sat at Guildford?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘He died?’

Peter nodded. ‘A couple of months ago.’

Judge Canterville had been young for a judge – in his mid-fifties – and fit. The last time I’d seen him, he had been sporting a fine tan from a skiing trip to Canada. I turned to look at the family. Now that I knew who their father was, I could see that both of his sons resembled him. They had the same square jaw and prominent nose. ‘What happened? Was he ill?’

‘Accident,’ Peter whispered, and winced as someone in the nearest pew turned to glare.

I nudged him and pointed to the side of the church where there were seats more or less behind a pillar. He darted over to them, relieved to be out of sight. I followed more slowly, scanning the nave for anyone I knew, out of habit. There were plenty of familiar faces in the congregation. As barristers we spent our lives shuttling around from one court to another, opposing one another, and there weren’t all that many of us; it was quite normal to see the same people over and over again. At a glance I saw a handful of former opponents, bar-school acquaintances, a QC who interviewed me for a pupillage I did not in fact get, several judges and a few people from my own chambers, including Karen Odili. No one jarring; no one out of place. It was safe to pay my respects.

I sat beside Peter, who seemed more relaxed now we were tucked away. The organist spiralled through a succession of flourishes, outdoing Elgar in a way that was very helpful for those of us who wanted to chat.

‘You were saying it was an accident,’ I prompted.

‘He was out jogging very early on a Sunday morning near his house. Apparently he was training for the marathon, so he had gone out before dawn. He fell down a slope. Cracked his skull on a tree.’

‘Where was this?’

‘Oxshott Woods. Have you ever been there?’

I shook my head.

‘Where he fell was pretty dense woodland. They didn’t find him straight away.’

‘I had no idea,’ I said blankly. ‘I always liked him.’

Peter nodded. ‘Big loss to the judiciary. He could be scary but he was generally fair.’

‘He was nice to me. Mind you, that was the only time I was in front of him for a trial and I had a leader so I didn’t have to worry too much about him being scary …’ I trailed off, horrified. At the same moment the organist began to play a different piece that heralded the arrival of the choir, and the start of the service. They processed in past us, solemn in their cassocks, the choir boys with faces as angelic as their voices. The music soared, filling the vaulted ceiling over my head as I stood up automatically along with the rest of the congregation. I wasn’t really hearing any of it.

What had I just said?

‘We have come together in this church to give thanks for the life of His Honour Judge Ronald Canterville,’ the vicar intoned. ‘We join our prayers with those of all who miss him and who mourn for him.’

I bowed my head as the fine words of the service echoed around me, half-hearing the familiar phrases (… I am the Resurrection and the Life …) while my mind raced (… neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come …) because although Judge Canterville’s death could have been an accident (… blessed are the dead …) there was a chance that it was nothing of the kind.

(… deliver us from evil …)

The trial I had done in front of Judge Canterville was the trial that Belinda and I had done together. The trial we had won.

Belinda.

The judge.

Vicki, in my place.

Someone was picking us off, one by one.

Someone who made John Webster look as innocent as one of the choir boys in the Temple Church.