An hour later, and only fifty metres down the street, Constance pushed her way through the crowds on Columbia Road, flocking, like the thirstiest of bees, to the striking array of flowers. She came here most Sundays, even if only for a few minutes, and she usually returned home with something to brighten up her flat. Today, the fuchsia gerberas had caught her eye, fifteen for £5, neatly boxed, their blackened centres dark as soot.
‘What about a few hydrangeas too?’ the stall owner asked. ‘They’re the best you’ll see in here.’
Constance contemplated the enormous lacy-headed blooms and shook her head.
‘This is good for today, thanks,’ she said, before stepping out of the melee into a cobbled side street and on, into the nearby courtyard. If she lingered, she knew she’d be tempted to buy more and flowers were a luxury, even at only £5 a box. She also didn’t want to be late for her appointment at her favourite café. Seated outside Lily Vanilli was Judith, coffee in hand, nestling up to a striking watercolour, which had overflowed the gallery next door.
‘Uncle Ellis is an interesting chap,’ Judith began.
‘You met him, then.’
‘We share a passion for whisky, so he says, although I wonder if he really knows his Lagavulin from his Laphroaig.’
‘You went drinking together?’
Judith threw her head back and laughed. ‘I suppose we did. And I’m still feeling the after-effects. Hence the caffeine fix.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘Oh, nothing much, but he insists Debbie is a fraud. Called her a narcissist. I thought that was an interesting choice of word.’
‘It just means vain, doesn’t it?’
‘It’s often more than that, and that’s what Ellis meant, I think. One of the three dark, triadic personality traits, along with Machiavellian and psychopathic.’
‘OK?’
‘Callous and manipulative.’
‘Manipulating who?’
‘All of us. Ellis thinks it’s an act – that Debbie has everyone taken in. That she’s icy cold underneath and switches emotions on and off. Who knows? Some lions in public are little mice in private, and look at comedians; the profession’s awash with manic depressives.’
‘Ben says Debbie was more gentle at home than on the pitch, but that’s not that surprising. Although…’
‘What? Go on, tell me what you think.’
Constance took a deep breath and then lowered her voice, although they were alone in the courtyard and the noise from inside the bustling café would have hidden most conversations.
‘I don’t know if it’s because of the transgender stuff or not,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’d be the same if she was still Danny. I’m trying really hard to push all that out of the way, but I just feel awkward in Debbie’s company, more than with most clients. Thing is, I don’t know how to read her. I mean, I know we all get things wrong, those signs you look out for, to show if your client’s telling the truth, but you kind of get used to how a man might react to things and then what a woman might do. That’s all messed up with Debbie.’
‘All the things you’re talking about will be magnified tenfold if she ends up in front of a jury. They’ll be confused too,’ Judith said.
‘Her kids are so positive though. That must help.’
Judith smiled. ‘Ever the optimist. Although you’re right. The kids are a real asset. We need them, I think, if only to convince the jury that Debbie’s a good person.’
‘Some people would think what Debbie did was selfish though, wouldn’t they? Inflicting pain on the family, unnecessarily.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t so difficult. Maybe Rosie wasn’t as nice as everyone says. What about her public persona versus private? You got a hint of that from Laura, didn’t you? We should sound Debbie out on what Rosie was really like. And why should Danny lose his kids, just because he wants to change his gender?’
‘Ellis doesn’t see it that way, though.’
‘Ellis says it’s much worse than that. That Debbie never loved Rosie, even when she was Danny. That she’s just pretending.’
‘It had crossed my mind.’
‘Yes. Well, one of them is lying…or mistaken. Doesn’t mean she killed Rosie though.’
‘You keep saying that.’
‘And it’s important to remember. All this noise, what Danny was like, what Debbie was like, even what Rosie was like; it’s just noise. It’s not evidence.’
‘The glove, the eye witness who saw Debbie arrive, the 999 call, the trophy, their divorce, the chase. They all point to Debbie.’
‘What about Nicki Smith?’
‘I talked to Dawson. He interviewed her. She has an alibi.’
‘Alibis come and go.’
‘All right. I’ll talk to her myself. I wanted to anyway, but you put me off. I’ll see what she has to say.’
As the queue inside the café dispersed, Constance went off to the counter to order a drink. Then her mobile rang. She ignored the first ring, but picked it up on the second. And then she saw the name of the caller: Ben Mallard.
‘Hello?’ she said.
‘It’s Ben. Ben Mallard.’ Ben’s voice trembled down the line.
‘Hello Ben.’
She retraced her steps and sat down again with Judith. Constance switched the phone to speaker mode and they both leaned in close to hear him.
‘I’ve been thinking about giving evidence for Dad. You remember we talked about it,’ Ben said.
‘Yes.’ Constance said, trying to sound encouraging.
‘I’m not sure it’s such a good idea, now. Uncle Ellis says that if I do, lots of personal stuff will be in all the newspapers. That once I’m a witness, they can ask me anything – about Mum, Dad, me and Laura. I’m not saying I won’t do it, just…I wanted to know if that’s right, what he said.’
‘Your uncle isn’t wrong,’ Constance said, ‘but we can take steps to limit what you’re asked. Look, we might not need you. We have lots of other material we can use to help your dad. Is there something, in particular that you’re worried about?’
‘I wanted to tell you before,’ he said. ‘I know sometimes it’s better to just get stuff out, so it’s not a secret any more, not that this really ever was…a secret, that is. I just didn’t want to make things worse for Dad.’
Constance counted the seconds, visualising the introverted Ben sitting in his room in Laura’s flat, skinny and wan, his phone lying before him on the bed, struggling with his conflicting loyalties. Ben remained silent.
‘What is it you want to share with me?’ Constance said.
‘It was my fault,’ Ben said, after a further hiatus, his words tripping over each other, in their rush to escape.
‘What?’ Judith’s question came out louder than she had intended and she clasped her hand over her mouth. But if Ben had noticed the change in tone or volume, he didn’t say.
‘I asked Dad to go and talk to Mum that day,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ Constance took control again.
‘I told you we had an argument, me and Mum. It was stupid. I wanted to leave school and go to acting classes, like Mum did.’
‘And your mum didn’t agree.’
‘She hit the roof. I thought Dad could help. He always supported my acting. Mum was usually too busy to come. And now it’s too late.’ He began to sob uncontrollably down the phone.
‘Listen to me, Ben,’ Constance said gently. ‘This wasn’t your fault, OK? And I don’t want you to ever think it was. I’ll discuss what you said with Judith, but I don’t want you to worry any more.’
‘OK.’
‘And you did the right thing telling me. Is there anything else you wanted to share?’
‘No. That’s all. Nothing else.’
‘Anything you think of, you give me a call. But remember what I said.’
Constance ended the call and waited for Judith to comment. Judith pursed her lips and then turned away, muttering ‘another one bites the dust’. Constance headed back inside, to buy something tasty to lift her spirits.