I can’t believe the ex-husband said all that stuff,” Christopher says to Rumpole in the garden. “Bloody idiot.”
The dog is sniffing the hydrangeas Sadie planted one Tuesday afternoon when he was working. They are turning brown around the edges of their petals.
“Can you imagine?”
Christopher has seen plenty of ill-advised witness performances. Ex-lovers, barbed answers to questions not asked. Lies told, of course. Contempt of court, and the rest of it. But he’s never seen anything quite like this. An ex-husband, sure his wife is innocent, despite all the evidence to the contrary. And looking at her from the witness box with that look on his face. Maybe they were in on it together.
Nevertheless, he thinks the barrister was nasty, going for their relationship history. He almost said something, but decided not to after a moment’s thought. Let them go for it, he thought. Whatever.
He stands now, in his garden, worrying away at Marc’s evidence, but can’t find what bothered him most about it. He goes inside, leaving Rumpole in the flower bed, and sits at the breakfast bar, not knowing what to do with himself.
It comes to him, five episodes of Game of Thrones, four beers, and six hours later: Marc respects Becky. He looked at her with respect in the courtroom. And so when she told him she was innocent, he believed her.
When was the last time Christopher looked at Sadie that way? He remembers, once, referring wryly to her nursing career as wiping bottoms in an unusually vicious, alcohol-fueled moment at a dinner party when he chose to prioritize the cheap laugh over the offense it would cause. She never mentioned it, but he saw her shoulders tense. He should have apologized. Why didn’t he?
What did she think of him at the end? Does she miss Rumpole? She’s never said, and he has never inquired. Does she still love him? Not according to their divorce petition, no.
He sets his can of beer down on the arm of the sofa and pulls his laptop over. He will email her, he thinks.
As he types, a peculiar sensation comes over him. It is something to do with the stillness of his house. The only sound is Rumpole, turning around in the corner of the living room.
Layla.
That’s who Christopher is thinking of. The baby who died: by accident or from something sinister, he isn’t yet sure. But there is something weird about it. That is where the goose bumps come from.
Something isn’t quite right.
Something isn’t quite fitting together, somehow.