Next of Kin (56 page)

‘But that's what you were,' said Montignac.

‘And the only time you ever came to me was when you were in need. When you and Stella were in trouble. Now I want something back. I didn't get so much as a pension left to me after all my years of service. Was that fair? We're in the same boat now, you and I, like it or not. We were both treated badly. So is it too much to hope that you will help me now like I once helped you? I don't want to be left on my own and I don't want to have to leave my home. You have to make her see sense. You protect me, Owen, and I'll protect you.'

‘Protect me?' he asked in surprise. ‘And what's that supposed to mean?'

‘Do I have to spell it out?'

Montignac frowned; he wasn't quite sure what she was getting at. ‘I think perhaps you do,' he said.

Margaret sat back in her chair and poured some more tea. ‘Oh, it's stewed,' she said in disappointment, looking at the dark stream emerging from the pot.

‘Protect me from what?' insisted Montignac.

‘
You're not going to believe this, Margaret
,' said the former nanny quietly, leaning forwards so that no one else could hear. ‘
But that was Owen on the phone. He wants to make things right with us. Says he wants to apologize and make a fresh start. I'm to go up to his gallery to meet him this evening and we're going to talk it all out. Not a word to Stella now, all right? Not until I'm sure that he means it. I'll take the late afternoon train and leave a note for her; there was a lecture I was planning on attending anyway so I'll say I've gone to that.
'

Montignac almost stopped breathing for a moment. He sat back and looked around anxiously; he could feel his face grow pale with shock.

‘He told you,' he said finally. ‘You were there when I phoned him.'

‘I was there.'

‘He said he hadn't told anyone.'

‘He lied,' said Margaret. ‘Although as far as all of you have ever been concerned, I'm not anyone. I'm nobody at all.'

‘What do you want?' asked Montignac, whose mind had already begun to skip through the possibilities; if she knew, then she had known since the morning after Raymond's murder and she had said nothing. There was no reason she was going to go to the police now. But she obviously wanted something in return.

‘I don't want anything very much,' she said. ‘I've been confused about what to do in fact. It took me a few days to realize the truth but I didn't say anything to the police because I didn't want the family name dragged through the mud. Nothing was going to bring Raymond back and I didn't want to hurt Stella any more. But now that she's going anyway … it's made me realize how worthless I am to her. How she simply doesn't care. So I don't have any choice. I have to turn to you. You have to stop her giving the house away.'

‘You're worse than I am,' said Montignac quietly.

‘Hardly,' said Margaret.

‘And if I do this, if I can persuade her, then you won't say anything?'

‘I won't watch that boy hang, if that's what you mean. I won't go that far.'

Montignac frowned. It was all too difficult suddenly; there were too many people to consider. ‘I have to save him too?'

‘There has to be a way,' said Margaret. ‘He's an innocent.'

‘All right,' said Montignac, realizing he had no choice in the matter. ‘I'll do what I can. I'll speak to Stella. I'll try to persuade her.'

‘Do you still love her?'

‘Of course I love her!' he shouted, without even considering the words. Others in the tea shop turned to look at him and he stared down at his cup in embarrassment. ‘Of course I love her,' he repeated in a quieter voice. ‘You've got no idea of what my life has been without her. Of the things I've … of what I've shown myself capable of. There's never been anyone but Stella.'

‘Then tell her,' said Margaret quickly. ‘Tell her and she'll stay. I know she will.'

Montignac sat back and stared at her. ‘There are times when I've questioned my actions,' he said quietly. ‘When I've wondered what kind of man I am. But I know one thing for sure. I'm nothing like you.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You sit there and say that you loved all three of us, that you took care of us…' He shook his head bitterly. ‘You did nothing but look out for yourself. The things you said to Stella and me all those years ago when we came to you, the names you called us … And now you have the nerve to say that I should return to her and try to win her back, just so you can fulfil your dream of remaining lady of the manor? I don't blame Uncle Peter for forgetting you. I'd forget you myself.'

Margaret's lips pursed and she glared at him. ‘You don't have any choice, Owen,' she said. ‘You either help me or you lose everything. There's finally a chance for you now, for you both. It's up to you if you want to take it.'

For a moment he felt a pang of remorse for the things he had done in his life, for what was happening right now. The chain of events he had set in progress. And as he looked across the table at this old lady who was terrified of what the future held, he wondered whether there wasn't at least one person who was more to blame for the mess that was his life than he was.

He glanced at his watch; it was nearly ten to two.

‘I have to go,' he said, standing up. ‘The court will be back in session shortly. Are you coming too?'

She shook her head. ‘I've seen all I wanted to see,' she said. ‘And said all I needed to say. You'll think about what I've said?' she asked.

He shrugged. ‘I could hardly fail to,' he said, walking away without looking back at her, walking out on to the street where he had an uncommon urge to scream at the top of his lungs, to bring the traffic to a standstill with his cries.

4

THE COURTROOM SEEMED A
lot bigger to Gareth Bentley when he was actually standing in the witness box. Throughout the trial so far he had managed to keep his eyes focused on two distinct places: either directly at the witness who was testifying on the stand or down below, at the ground beneath his feet. He was aware of the hundreds of people who attended court each day to hear the evidence and to judge him silently; he could feel their eyes burning into him as they stared in his direction, trying to decide for themselves whether or not he had the appearance of a brutal killer, but he never once looked back at them. Only now, standing on the raised dais with the courtroom coming to an expectant silence did he feel able to look out at them all and wonder what on earth he had ever done to deserve such unwelcome attention.

Like Montignac a few hours earlier, and like the stream of witnesses who had already appeared, he placed his right hand on the Bible and swore that the evidence he would give would be the truth. His stomach was in knots as Sir Quentin Lawrence, counsel for the defence, rose to question him.

‘Mr Bentley,' he began without any further ceremony. ‘Can you tell us where you were on the night of August the eighteenth, nineteen thirty-six?'

Gareth nodded and cleared his throat. ‘I was in the Bullirag pub by Piccadilly Circus with my employer, Mr Owen Montignac.'

‘I see. And can you tell us what you remember of the events of that night?'

‘No, I'm afraid not.'

‘I beg your pardon?' asked Sir Quentin in surprise, as if this had not already been discussed and rehearsed several times already in Gareth's cell.

‘I said that I can't remember, sir.'

‘And can you tell us why that is?'

‘I drank too much alcohol that night, to my regret, and unfortunately when I drink too much I find that the next morning I can remember very little of what happened the night before.'

‘So you have no memory of the evening at all?'

‘Very little, sir.'

‘And what is your first subsequent memory?'

‘I woke up in a strange bed, in a strange flat,' he said. ‘I had no idea where I was. I had a terrible hangover. I lay there for some time and then I could hear footsteps outside on the street and cars pulling up. I got out of bed and when I did I discovered that there was blood on my shirt.'

‘Someone had attacked you in the night?'

‘Objection, Your Honour,' shouted Harkman. ‘Counsel is leading the witness.'

‘Sustained. Please don't make conjectures for your client, Sir Quentin,' grumbled the judge.

‘My apologies, Your Honour. Mr Bentley, can you tell us in your own words what happened next?'

He nodded. ‘I heard someone come into the flat. I still had no idea where I was and so I stepped out of the bedroom and that's when I saw him.'

‘Him?'

‘The man I later discovered to be Raymond Davis. His body on the floor. It was … horrible. And before I knew it there were policemen coming in and they jumped on me and it's all a bit of a blur from then on.'

Sir Quentin nodded and his voice rose louder as he approached the box. ‘Can you tell us, Mr Bentley, whether you had ever laid eyes on Raymond Davis before that morning?'

‘Never, sir.'

‘You had neither met with him nor spoken to him?'

‘No, sir.'

‘And you had no grudges against him?'

‘Of course not.'

‘Can you tell me, Mr Bentley, whether you killed Raymond Davis?'

‘No, sir,' said Gareth emphatically. ‘I don't believe I did.'

It was all that Sir Quentin could do not to strike the witness himself. He had coached him on this moment a dozen times. The answer to the question was
No, sir
. Full stop. Nothing else. He was allowed to lean forwards to sound more emphatic if he liked but two words were all that were needed. No amendments. No editorials. Sir Quentin stared at his client, his mouth open in astonishment that he should destroy this necessarily melodramatic moment so completely. It beggared belief.

‘No further questions, Your Honour,' he said quietly and the court buzzed in surprise at his brevity, his climax robbed from him, as it so often was, by an unhelpful client.

Mr Justice Harkman rose to his feet a little sooner than he had expected but he had been handed a very convenient thread and he picked it up immediately.

‘You don't
believe
you killed Mr Davis?' he asked politely.

‘No, I … I didn't kill him,' he replied, aware of the mistake he had made. ‘That's what I was supposed to say.'

‘What you were—?'

‘What I
meant
to say,' said Gareth, his voice rising as he grappled with confusion. ‘I meant to say … did I kill Raymond Davis? No. No, I did not.'

‘But you don't know that for a fact, Mr Bentley, do you? You couldn't swear to it?'

He opened his mouth and glanced at his own barrister who raised an irritated eyebrow back at him; immediately he recalled the advice he had been given in advance and cursed his own forgetfulness.

‘I…' he began, hoping to backtrack. ‘I could swear to the fact that I consider myself incapable of hurting someone in that way. I never even knew—'

‘Thank you, Mr Bentley. If you could just confine yourself to answering my questions we'll all get out of here a lot sooner. Now, are you familiar with Aidan Higgins?'

Gareth nodded his head sadly.

‘Can you tell us how you know him?'

‘We were at school together,' he said. ‘When we were children.'

‘And can you talk us through the incident that occurred back then that led to your suspension from Harrow and can you recount the story strictly from your own memories of it?'

He opened his mouth to answer and then the second half of Harkman's question struck him. He had enough experience of the law to see exactly where the barrister was heading on this and shook his head again.

‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I can't do that.'

‘And why is that?'

‘I can't remember the incident.'

‘Really, Mr Bentley, we've already had testimony from two of your school friends, Aidan Higgins and Paul O'Neill, both of whom have described in lurid detail how you violently assaulted Mr Higgins and left him with a fractured arm and dislocated shoulder. Are you telling us that you have no memory of the incident at all?'

‘I was drunk,' said Gareth quietly, his head bowed.

‘Could you speak up please? I can't quite hear you.'

‘I said I was drunk,' he repeated, louder, and the court buzzed again. ‘I don't remember any of it.'

‘But would you accept the account that the two witnesses gave of the incident? Considering they were there and, I believe, sober?'

‘I suppose so,' said Gareth.

‘You suppose so? Can't you do better than that?'

‘Yes,' he replied. ‘I accept their account of it.'

‘I see,' said Harkman. ‘Can you tell me, Mr Bentley, whether in your own words you would consider yourself incapable of hurting someone in that way?'

‘I don't think I could, no.'

‘But you've admitted that you did.'

‘When I was a boy, perhaps.'

‘A drunken boy. And it wasn't so very long ago, was it?'

‘It's … I never meant to hurt him.'

‘Mr Bentley, I presume you were sent down from Harrow after the incident?'

Gareth shook his head. ‘No,' he said. ‘No, I stayed on.'

‘Really? How extraordinary! And after such a violent fracas? How on earth did you manage that?'

Gareth looked up and in the distance he could make out the figures of his mother and father at the side of a row, Roderick with head bowed and body crumpled in pain, Jane staring at him, her lips moving to guide his answer. He had a sudden memory of how she used to mime the words of songs he performed at school concerts when he was a child; how she had focused her eyes directly on him, knowing the words he had to say almost as well as he did himself. This was like a macabre echo of those youthful, simpler days.