twenty-eight

Despite not touching a drop of booze, I slept the appalling sleep of a heavy drinker who, too drunk to drive home, kips the night on a friend’s sofa. Tired, tetchy, dry-mouthed, and gritty-eyed, I surfaced through a prism of sludgy grey and emerged into consciousness.

Hiking my dose of antidepressants, I vowed to brave flood, plagues of locusts, and frogs, if necessary, and head back to Devon the following weekend. I’d check up on the old house and put as much physical distance between Monica and me as possible.

Feeling a bit more sorted, I picked out a pair of black trousers and chunky roll-neck. The temperature had dropped several degrees. Wind gusting. Muscular iron skies. Lightning and thunder and hail. Not a day for a funeral.

I drove to work, grabbed a coffee and phoned Gavin Chadwick’s chambers. I needed help, even if Monica didn’t. Asked for a name, I gave it. Asked with what it was in connection, I fudged. “Advice on a forthcoming case.” The line went silent and I imagined wood-panelled walls adorned with muddy-coloured landscapes, shelves of dusty old tomes, dim EU lighting shining polka-dots of yellow on dark cobwebbed corridors, and that particularly old-money smell that you find in ancient legal practices.

“Kim.” Gavin sounded pleased to hear from me. Probably mad with curiosity, wondering what I’d got myself into this time.

I didn’t drag it out. Straight to the point, I gave him a rundown of events. I was factual and unemotional. He listened without interruption even when I mentioned Niven.

“So what do you think my mother should do?” I finished.

“You say they want her back?”

“On Thursday.”

“And how many times have they spoken to her?”

I mentally did a recap and told him. In the absence of any comment, I continued, “Is it significant?”

“I’d say so.”

“Is she a suspect?”

“Too strong,” Gavin said. “The police are suspicious, that’s all.” It sounded like one and the same to me.

“So I’m jumping the gun?”

“A little.” He paused.

“But?”

“If more information comes to light implicating her, they might make an arrest.”

“Dear God, what happens then?”

“Don’t you remember?” It was supposed to be sardonic. I wasn’t in the mood. Silence ballooned down the line. “Sorry, crass of me,” Gavin said, clearing his throat. “If an arrest is made, they’ll formally interview her on tape.”

“She’s already given a video statement.”

“This is quite different.”

“What sort of information could trigger an arrest?”

“Anything that provides a strong motive for murder.”

I remembered Monica’s face, protruding eyes, thin lips, and rage against a legal system that had, to her mind, removed her children from her. Jesus.

“Why did she run?” Gavin said.

“I’m not sure she did.” I wanted to be scrupulously fair. “But I can see how the police might view it.”

“From their perspective, she had the means and opportunity. Did you say they were looking at other leads?”

“According to my mother, yes. To be honest, it’s tricky, Gavin. I’m getting all this third-hand and we don’t have what could be described as a typical mother and daughter relationship.”

“Whatever typical is,” he snorted with dry humour.

You have absolutely no idea, I thought. “What’s the next move?”

“By the police?”

“Uh-huh.”

“If they haven’t done so already, they’ll arrange to get a life statement from next of kin, and focus on the fact that the deceased was a former judge.”

“I’ve been thinking about that. Surely, it will be a main line of enquiry?”

“A strong line of enquiry,” Gavin corrected me. “Firstly, background checks will be done on anyone who had contact with the judge within a week or so of his death and that includes your mother. Does she have any previous convictions?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“When was the last time you two met?”

“Over twenty years ago.”

“And you have no idea of her life up until recently?”

That was the point. “No.”

“Have they carried out forensic checks, DNA swabs, and so on?”

“Done.” I remembered how unhappy she’d been about it.

“She didn’t refuse?”

“I don’t think so.” Would she have told me?

“Okay.” I imagined him stroking his chin in a lawyerly way, sharp eyes glinting through the lenses of his spectacles. “The police are still in evidence-gathering mode. They won’t want to screw up by jumping to conclusions too soon.”

“They did with me.”

“Yours was a unique situation.”

Good to know I was special. “What you’re saying is that unless and until they make an arrest, the services of a solicitor are surplus.”

“And if they do, anyone under arrest is offered a duty brief.”

“You mean you wouldn’t be interested in taking the job?” Dread bloomed inside me.

“Simply giving you the facts. If she needs my help, of course, Kim, I’m happy to take it on.”

I felt light-headed with relief. “Thanks, Gavin, I really appreciate it.”

“Keep me posted. Your mother might not need any legal representation at all.”

I so hoped he was right.