My Husband's Wife (3 page)

Yet he doesn't look like an archetypal prisoner, or, at least, not the type I'd imagined. There are no obvious tattoos, unlike the prison officer beside me, who is sporting a red and blue dragon's head on his arm. My new client is wearing an expensive-looking watch and polished brown brogues which stand out among the other men's trainers and are at odds with his green prison uniform. I get the feeling that this is a man who is more used to a jacket and tie. Indeed, I can see now that there is a crisp white shirt collar peeping out from under the regulation sweatshirt. His hair is short but well cut, revealing a high forehead above a pair of dark eyebrows. His eyes suggest someone who is wary, hopeful and slightly nervous all at the same time. His voice, when it comes, is deep. Assured but with an accent that is neither rough nor polished. He could be a neighbour. Another solicitor. Or the manager of the local deli.

‘I'm Joe Thomas,' he says, letting go of my hand. ‘Thank you for coming.'

‘Lily Macdonald,' I reply. My boss had told me to use both names. (‘Although you need to keep a distance,' he'd said, ‘you don't want to appear superior. It's a fine lawyer/client balance.')

Meanwhile, the look on Joe Thomas's face is quietly admiring. I flush again, although less from fear than embarrassment this time. On the few occasions I've received any kind of attention, I've never known how to respond. Especially now, when it's so clearly inappropriate. I can never rid myself of that constant taunting voice in my head from schooldays.
Fat Lily. Big-boned. Broad
. All things considered, I still can't believe I have a wedding ring on my finger. Suddenly, I have a vision of Ed in bed on honeymoon in Italy. Warm sun streaming in through creamy-white shutters. My new husband opening his mouth, about to say something, and then turning away from me …

‘Follow me,' says one of the officers tightly, jerking me back to the present.

Together Joe Thomas and I walk down the corridor. Past the stares. Past the man cleaning out the goldfish tank with a care that might seem touching anywhere else. And towards a room marked ‘Visits'. It's small. The barred window looks out on to a concrete yard. Everything inside is grey: the table; the metal chairs on either side; the walls. There's just one exception: a poster with a rainbow and the word
HOPE
printed under it in big purple capital letters.

‘I'll be outside the door,' says the officer. ‘OK with
you?' Each word is fringed with a distaste that appears to be directed towards both of us.

‘Prison officers aren't very keen on defence solicitors,' my boss had warned me. ‘They think you're poaching their game. You know. Trying to get them off the hook when it's taken blood, sweat and tears on the police and crown prosecution's part to get them banged up in the first place.'

When he put it like that, I could see his point.

Joe Thomas now looks at me questioningly. I steel myself to look back. I might be tall, but he's taller. ‘Visits are usually in sight of but not necessarily in hearing of a prison officer,' my boss had added. ‘Inmates tend to reveal more if there isn't an officer actually in the room. Prisons vary. Some don't give you the choice.'

But this one had.

No, it's not OK
, I want to say.
Please stay here with me
.

‘Fine, thank you.' My voice belongs to someone else. Someone braver. Someone more experienced.

The officer looks as though he's going to shrug, although he doesn't actually do so. ‘Knock on the door when you've finished.'

Then he leaves us together.

Alone.

Time was dragging slowly. It felt like ages since she'd seen the golden-haired fat woman staring at her this morning, thought Carla. But already her stomach was rumbling with hunger. Surely it must be lunchtime soon?

She stared despondently at the classroom clock. The big hand was on the ten and the small hand on the twelve. Did that mean ten minutes past twelve? Or twelve minutes past ten? Or something completely different because, as Mamma always said, ‘in this country, nothing is the same'.

Carla's eye travelled to the desks around her. Each one had a green caterpillar, bulging with pencils, felt-tip pens and fountain pens with real ink. How she hated her own cheap plastic case with a sticky zip and just a biro inside, because that's all Mamma could afford.

No wonder no one wanted to be her friend.

‘Carla!'

The teacher's voice made her jump.

‘Perhaps you can tell us!' She pointed to the word on the board. ‘What do you think this means?'

P U N C T U A L
?
This wasn't a word she'd come across before, even though she sat up every night in bed, reading the
Children's Dictionary
. She was on the ‘C's already.

C for cat.

C for cold.

C for cunning.

Underneath her pillow, Carla had carefully written down the meaning of each word and drawn a little picture next to it, to remind her what it meant.

Cat was easy. Cunning was more difficult.

‘Carla!' Teacher's voice was sharper now. ‘Are you daydreaming again?'

There was a ripple of laughter around her. Carla flushed. ‘She doesn't know,' chanted a boy behind her, whose hair was the colour of carrots. Then, a bit quieter, so the teacher wouldn't hear, ‘Hairy Carla Spagoletti doesn't know!'

The laughter grew louder.

‘Kevin,' said the teacher, but not in the same sharp voice she'd used earlier on Carla. ‘What did you say?'

Then she swung back, her eyes boring into Carla in the second row. She'd chosen to sit there so she could learn. Yet it was always the ones at the back who made trouble and got away with it.

‘Spell it out, Carla. What does it begin with?'

‘P.' She knew that much. Then a ‘U'. And then …

‘Come on, Carla.'

‘Punk tool,' she said out loud.

The squeals and shouts of laughter around her were deafening. ‘I've only got to C at home,' she tried to say. It was no good. Her voice was drowned out – not just by the taunts but also by the loud bell. Immediately, there was a flurry of books being put away, feet scuffling on the ground, and the teacher saying something about a new rule during lunchtime play.

Lunch? Then it must be ten past twelve instead of twelve past ten! Carla breathed in the peace. The classroom was empty.

The boy with the carrot hair had left his green caterpillar on his desk.

It winked at her.
Charlie
, it said.
I'm called Charlie
.

Scarcely daring to breathe, she tiptoed over and stroked its fur. Then, slowly (scared-slowly), Carla placed Charlie inside her blouse. She was ‘nearly ready' for her first bra, Mamma had said. Meanwhile, she had to make do with a vest. But things could still be hidden inside, just as Mamma often hid paper money ‘in case of emergency'.

‘You're mine now,' she whispered as she pulled her cardigan down over the top. ‘He doesn't deserve to have you.'

‘What are you doing?' A teacher poked her head round the door. ‘You should be in the canteen. Go down immediately.'

Carla chose to sit away from the rest of the children, conscious of Charlie nestling against her breast. Ignoring the usual spiteful remarks (‘Didn't you bring your own spaghetti, Carla?') she worked her way through a bowl of chewy meat. Finally, when it was time to go into the playground, she walked to the far end where she sat down on the tarmac and tried to make herself invisible.

Usually she'd feel upset. Left out. But not now. Not now she had her very own green caterpillar who felt so warm and comforting against her skin. ‘We'll look after each other,' Carla whispered.

But what will happen when they find you've taken me?
Charlie whispered back.

‘I will think of something.'

Ouch!

The blow to her head happened so fast that Carla hardly saw the football hurtling through the air. Her head spun and her right eye didn't feel like it belonged to her at all.

‘Are you all right? Carla, are you all right?' The teacher's voice was coming at her from a long way off. In the blurry distance, she could see another teacher telling off the carrot-haired boy. The one who really owned Caterpillar Charlie.

‘Kevin! You were told quite clearly about the new rule, this morning. No ball games in this part of the playground. Now look what you've done.'

This is our chance
, hissed Charlie.
Tell her you need to go home and then we can make our escape before they realize I'm missing.

Carla staggered to her feet, careful not to make a sudden movement that might dislodge her new friend. Folding her arms to hide Charlie's shape, she managed a smile. One of her brave smiles that she practised in front of the mirror. This was a trick she had learned from Mamma. Every evening, her mother ran through a series of different looks in front of her dressing-table mirror before the man with the shiny car arrived. There was the happy smile when he was on time. There was the slightly sad smile when he arrived late. There was the smile with the nose slightly tilted when she asked if he would like another glass. And there was the smile that didn't quite meet her eyes when she told Carla to go to bed so she and Larry could listen to some music on their own.

Right now, Carla assumed the slightly sad smile. ‘My eye hurts. I would like to go home.'

The teacher frowned as she took her to the school office. ‘We will have to ring your mother to make sure she's in.'

Aiuto!
Help! She hadn't thought of that. ‘Our telephone, she is not working because we have not paid the bill. But Mamma, she is there.'

‘Are you sure?'

The first part was the truth. Mamma was going to tell Larry about the phone when he came round next. Then he would pay for it to work again. But the second part – about her mother being in – wasn't true. Mamma would be at work.

But somehow, she had to get home before Charlie was discovered inside her school blouse.

‘There's a work number here,' announced the teacher, opening a file. ‘Let's try, just in case.'

She'd had it now. Trembling, she listened to the conversation.

‘I see.' The teacher put down the phone. Then she turned back to Carla, sighing. ‘It appears your mother has taken the day off. Do you know where she is?'

‘I told you. She is at home!' The lie slid so easily into her mouth that it was as if someone had put it there. ‘I can walk back on my own,' she added. Her good eye fixed itself on the teacher. ‘It is not far.'

‘We can't allow that, I'm afraid. Is there anyone else we can ring? A neighbour, perhaps, who can go and fetch your mother?'

Briefly she thought of the golden lady and her husband. But she and Mamma had never even spoken to them. ‘We must keep ourselves to ourselves.' That's what Mamma
always said. Larry wanted it that way. He wanted them for himself.

‘Yes,' Carla said desperately. ‘My mother's friend. Larry.'

‘You have his number?'

She shook her head.

‘Miss. Miss!' One of the other children in her class was knocking on the door. ‘Kevin's hit someone else now!'

There was a groan. ‘I'm coming.' On the way, they passed the woman who helped out in her class. She was new and always wore sandals, even when it was raining. ‘Sandra, take this child home for me, will you? She's only a couple of stops away. Her mother will be there, apparently. Kevin? Stop that right now!'

By the time she turned into her road with the sandal woman, Carla was really beginning to feel wobbly. Her eye was throbbing so badly that it was difficult to see out. There was a pain above the eyebrow which was pulsing through her head. But none of this was as bad as the certain knowledge that Mamma would not be in and that she'd then have to go back to that horrid school.

Do not worry
, whispered Charlie.
I will think of something
.

He had better hurry up!

‘Do you know the code?' asked sandal woman as they stopped at the main entrance to the flat. Of course. The doors swung open. But just as she'd expected, there was no answer when they knocked on number 7.

‘Maybe my mother has gone out for some milk,' she said desperately. ‘We can let ourselves in until she comes back.'

Carla always did this, before Mamma returned from work. She'd get changed, do a bit of tidying up (because it
was always a rush for Mamma in the mornings) and start to make risotto or pasta for supper. Once, when she had been really bored, she'd looked under Mamma's bed, where she kept her ‘special things'. There she had found an envelope containing photographs. Each one showed the same young man with a hat at a funny angle and a confident smile. Something told her to put him back and not say anything. Yet every now and then when Mamma was out, she went back to take another look.

Right now, however, she could see (after fetching the chair that sat at the end of the corridor) that the key wasn't in its usual place on the ledge above their door. Number 7. It was a lucky number, Mamma had said when they moved in. All they had to do was wait for the luck to arrive.

If only she had a key for the back door, by the rubbish behind the flats. But that spare key was for Larry so he could come in whenever he wanted and have a little rest with Mamma. Her mother joked it was like his private ground-floor entrance!

‘I can't leave you.' The sandal woman's voice was all whiny, as though this was Carla's fault. ‘We'll have to go back.'

No. Please no. Kevin scared her. So did the other children. Charlie,
do
something!

And then she heard the distinct padding of heavy footsteps coming towards them.

APPEAL.

A PEAL.

A PEEL.

Joe Thomas is writing on a piece of paper opposite me.

I push back my hair, normally tucked behind my ears, try to ignore the smell of cabbage drifting in from the corridor outside and take another look at the three lines on the desk between Joe Thomas and me. The charming man I met an hour ago has disappeared. This man has barely uttered a word. Right now, he is putting down his pen, as if waiting for me to speak. Determined that I should play by his rules.

For anyone else it might be unnerving.

But all that practice, when I was growing up, is now standing me in good stead. When Daniel was alive (I still have to force myself to say those words), he would write words and phrases in all kinds of ways. Upside down. The wrong way round. In an odd order.

He can't help it, my mother used to say. But I knew he could. When it was just the two of us together, my brother wrote normally.
It's a game
, his eyes would say, sparkling with mischief.
Join me! Us against them!

Right now I suspect that Joe Thomas is playing a game with me. It gives me an unexpected thrill of strength. He's picked the wrong person. I know all the tricks.

‘Appeal,' I say crisply and clearly. ‘There are several ways of interpreting it, aren't there?'

Joe Thomas is clicking his heels together. Tap, tap. Tap, tap. ‘There certainly are. But not everyone thinks that way.'

He gives a half-laugh. A dry one. As if those who don't think along those lines are missing something important in life.

I wonder who put up the purple
HOPE
poster. A well-meaning officer perhaps? Or a do-good prison visitor? Already I'm beginning to learn that you get all sorts inside.

Like my client.

I could do with a bit of hope myself. I glance down at my paperwork. ‘Let's take “peel”. The report says that the scalding bathwater peeled the skin off your girlfriend.'

Joe Thomas's face doesn't flinch. Then again, what do I expect? He must be used to accusations and recriminations by now. That is what this particular prison is all about. You might also call it ‘discussion'. Psychologists talking to prisoners about why they committed their crimes. Other men in peer groups doing the same. One rapist demanding to know why another slit his mother's throat. The latter tackling the former on why he took part in a gang-rape of a thirteen-year-old.

My boss took great pleasure in filling me in. Almost as if he wanted to frighten me. Yet now I'm here, in prison, I sense an unbidden curiosity slowly creeping over me.
Why
had
Joe Thomas murdered his girlfriend in a scalding bath?

If indeed he had.

‘Let's go over the prosecution's argument at your trial,' I say.

His face is impassive, as if we're about to check a shopping list.

I glance down at my notes, although my gesture is more to avoid that black gaze than refresh my mind. A good lawyer needs a photographic memory; mine recalls every detail. There are times when I wish it didn't. But right now, it's vital.

‘You and Sarah moved in together, a few months after you met in the local pub. You were described in court, by her friends, as having an “up-and-down relationship”. Both her parents took the stand to say that she had told them you were controlling and was scared you would hurt her. The police report verified that Sarah actually lodged a complaint against you on one occasion for pushing her down the back-door steps and breaking her right wrist. However, she then withdrew the complaint.'

Joe Thomas gives a quick nod. ‘That's right. She fell because she'd been drinking even though she'd promised to stop. But she initially blamed me because she didn't want her family to know she was back off the wagon.' He shrugs. ‘Drinkers can be terrible liars.'

Don't I know it?

‘But a previous girlfriend made allegations against you too. Said you stalked her.'

He makes an irritated noise. ‘I wouldn't call it stalking. I just followed her a few times to check she was going
where she said she was. Anyway, she dropped her complaint.'

‘Because you threatened her?'

‘No. Because she realized I was only following her because I cared for her.' He gives me a blank stare. ‘Anyway, I gave her the shove shortly after that.'

‘Why?'

He fixes me with an ‘Isn't it obvious?' look. ‘I stopped caring for her because she didn't live by my rules.'

Talk about a control freak.

‘And then you met Sarah.'

He nods. ‘One year and two days later.'

‘You seem very certain.'

‘I'm good at numbers and dates.'

He doesn't say this in a brash way. More as a statement which is so obvious that it barely needs mentioning.

I continue. ‘On the night of her death, your neighbours said they heard screaming.'

Joe shakes his head. ‘That Jones couple? Those two would have said anything against us. I told my lawyer that at the time. We had endless problems with them after we moved in.'

‘So you think they made it up? Why would they do that?'

‘I'm not them, so I don't know, do I? But like I said, we didn't get on. Their television was so loud. We never got any peace. We complained to them, but they didn't listen. And old man Jones didn't like it when I told him off about his garden. Talk about being run-down! Reflected badly on ours, which, I might add, I kept in pristine condition. After that, they got really unpleasant. Started threatening
us. Threw litter in our garden.' His mouth tightens. ‘Mind you, accusing me of murder was taking it a touch too far.'

‘What about your fingerprints on the boiler?' I point to the relevant lines on the report. ‘The prosecution said you turned up the water temperature to maximum.'

Those dark eyes don't even flicker. ‘I told my defence at the time. Do I need to repeat this? The pilot light was always going out, so I had to keep relighting it. So of course my fingerprints were on the boiler.'

‘So how did Sarah die if you didn't murder her? How can you explain the bruises on her?'

Those fingers begin to drum the table as though to a silent beat. ‘Look. I'm going to tell you exactly how it happened. But you have to let me tell you in my own way.'

I realize that this man needs to be in control. Perhaps I'll let him for a while; see what I can uncover that way. ‘Fine.'

‘She was late getting back from work. It was two minutes past eight when she got back. Usually it's 6 p.m. On the dot.'

I can't stop myself from butting in. ‘How can you be so certain?'

His face suggests I've just said something very stupid. ‘Because it took her precisely eleven minutes to walk home from the shop. It's one of the reasons I encouraged her to take the job, just after we moved in together. It was convenient.'

My mind goes back to Sarah's profile. ‘Fashion sales assistant'. It sums up a stereotypical picture. Immediately I rebuke myself. I am no typical lawyer. Ed is not a typical
advertising man. And Joe? Is he a typical insurance salesman? I'm not sure. He's certainly very precise about figures.

‘Go on,' I say encouragingly.

‘She was drunk. That was obvious.'

‘How?'

Another ‘Are you stupid?' look.

‘She could barely stand straight. She reeked of wine. Turned out she'd had half a bottle of vodka too, but it's difficult to smell that stuff.'

I check my file. He's right. Her blood alcohol level was high. But it doesn't prove he didn't kill her. ‘Then?'

‘We had an argument because she was late. I'd made dinner, like I always did. Lasagne with garlic, basil and tomato sauce. But it was all dry and nasty by then. So we had a row. Raised our voices, I admit. But there was no screaming like the neighbours said.' His face wrinkles with disgust. ‘Then she was sick, all over the kitchen floor.'

‘Because she was drunk?'

‘Isn't that what people do when they've had too much? Disgusting. She seemed better after that, but the vomit was all over her. I told her to have a bath. Said I'd run it, like I always did. But she wasn't having any of it. She slammed the door on me and turned up the bathroom radio. Radio 1. Her favourite station. So I left her to it while I washed up.'

I interrupt. ‘Weren't you worried about her being alone in a bath if she was drunk?'

‘Not at first. Like I said just now, she seemed better after being sick – more sober – and anyway, what could I
do? I was worried she'd report me to the police again. Sarah could be very imaginative.'

‘So when did you go and check on her?'

‘After half an hour or so I
did
get worried. I couldn't hear her splashing and she wouldn't answer when I knocked. So I went in.' His face goes blank. ‘That's when I found her. Almost didn't recognize her, even though her face was up. Her skin was purple. Dark red and purple. Some of it was peeled back. There were these huge blisters.'

My body shudders involuntarily.

Joe goes quiet for a minute. I'm glad of the break. ‘She must've slipped and fallen in. And the water was so hot,' he continues. ‘Much hotter than you'd expect after thirty minutes, so I can't even guess what it was like when she got in. I burnt myself lifting her up. I tried to resuscitate her, but I've never done a first aid course. I didn't know if I was doing the right thing. So I dialled 999.'

He is saying the last bit in an even, steady tone. Not distraught. But not totally detached either. Like someone trying to hold it all together.

‘The police said you didn't seem very upset when they arrived.'

His eyes are back on mine. ‘People show emotion in different ways. Who is to say that the person who wails loudest is the most distressed?'

He has a point there.

‘I'm telling you the truth,' he adds firmly.

‘But the jury found you guilty.'

I sense a tightening behind the eyes. ‘They got it wrong. My defence were idiots.'

The
HOPE
poster stares mockingly down.

‘An appeal is generally only launched if there's new evidence. The bones of what you have said are already in the files. Even if what you're saying is true, we have nothing to prove it.'

‘I know that.'

I'm losing patience now. ‘So do you have new evidence?'

He is staring hard at me. ‘That's for you to find out.' He picks up the pen again. ‘
PEAL
,' he is writing now. Over and over again.

‘Mr Thomas. Do you have new evidence?'

He just continues writing. Is this some sort of clue?

‘What do you think?'

I want to snap with frustration. But I wait. Silence is another trick I learned from my brother.

There's the steady sound of ticking from a clock I hadn't seen before. It has a handwritten notice stuck up underneath it:
DO NOT REMOVE
. Unable to stop myself, I give a short snort of laughter. It's enough to break the silence.

‘One of the men stole the last one.' Joe Thomas is clearly amused too. ‘He took it to bits to see how it worked.'

‘Did he succeed?' I ask.

‘No. It was finished.' His face becomes hard again and he draws an imaginary line across his throat. ‘Kaput.'

The action is clearly designed to intimidate me. It does. But something inside me makes me determined not to show it. Carefully, I look across at the piece of paper on the desk. ‘What's the significance of “peal”? The one with “e” and “a” in it.'

‘Rupert Brooke.' He speaks as if it was obvious. ‘You know. “And is there honey still for tea?” Church bells pealing across the village green and all that.'

I'm surprised. ‘You like the war poets?'

He shrugs, looking out of the window towards the exercise yard. ‘I didn't know them, did I? So how can I say I like them? But I can guess how they felt.'

‘How?'

His face swivels back to mine. ‘You haven't done your homework very well, have you, Miss Hall?'

I freeze. Didn't he hear me when I introduced myself as Lily Macdonald? And how does he know that Hall is my maiden name? I have a flash of Ed's warm hand holding mine at the altar. This meeting had been arranged before my marriage, so maybe Joe Thomas had been given my previous name. Maybe he wasn't listening properly when I introduced myself. A niggling instinct tells me that it would be safer not to correct him at this stage. A correction might not get us off to the right start.

Besides, I'm more concerned with the reference to the homework. What did I miss? A lawyer can't afford to be wrong, my boss tells us all, again and again. So far, I've been all right. Not like one of the newly qualified lawyers who was taken on in the same month as me and sacked for failing to lodge an appeal within the given time.

‘It won't be in your notes,' he adds, observing me glance down. ‘But I'd hoped that your lot would have done more digging. Think about it. War poets. What did they go through? What behaviour did they display when they came home?'

I feel like a struggling student on
University Challenge
.
‘Shock,' I say. ‘Many refused to talk because of post-traumatic stress.'

He nods. ‘Go on.'

Desperately, I try to dredge up my A-level memories. ‘Some of them were violent.'

Joe Thomas sits back, arms folded. A satisfied smile on his face. ‘Exactly.'

This isn't making sense. ‘But you weren't in the army.'

‘No.'

‘So why did you kill your girlfriend?'

‘Nice try. I pleaded innocent. Remember? The jury made a mistake. That's why I'm appealing.' He jabs at my notes with a long artistic finger that doesn't match his substantial frame. ‘It's all there. Apart from this extra clue, that is. Now it's over to you.'