Next of Kin (58 page)

‘He may surprise you, you know,' said Roderick.

‘Who?'

‘The king. He may be made of sterner stuff.'

Keaton laughed and shook his head. ‘You don't know him.'

‘No, but you never know. What if he sets her aside?'

‘Then I lose,' said Keaton with a shrug. ‘And there will be absolutely nothing I can do about it. The last laugh, as they say, will be on me. But you needn't worry, once you've voted my way in the morning I'll tell Sharpwell and your boy will be safe. I'm an honourable man, Roderick. I always keep my side of bargains.'

Roderick nodded and made for the door.

‘He should have just followed in your footsteps,' said Keaton as he walked away. ‘Your son, I mean. If he'd just done what—'

Roderick wasn't listening any more. The former judge closed the door behind him and made his way slowly downstairs and into the early December evening, where a light drizzle was starting to fall and the shadow of the Houses of Parliament along the Thames made him wish that he was anywhere else in the world other than there.

6

HE DECIDED NOT TO
go to court the following morning. Instead he sat in his study, staring at the volumes of legal books that made up the majority of his library, wondering whether it was time to place them in boxes and take them off his shelves. He could barely stand to look at them without feeling like a traitor to his entire life. He turned away and his eye caught the photograph of his son, Gareth, that sat on his desk, taken when he was younger and more carefree, a wide smile plastered across his face, his future before him.

‘Roderick, aren't you ready yet?' asked Jane, stepping inside quickly, adjusting an earring and looking around her as if she had lost something.

‘Ready for what?'

‘For
court
, of course,' she said. ‘What do you think?'

He shook his head but couldn't look directly at her. ‘I'm not going,' he said. ‘Not today.'

‘Not going?' she asked, stopping quickly to stare at him. ‘But you have to.'

‘I don't
have
to do anything,' he snapped. ‘I can't take another day of it, if you want to know the truth.'

Jane laughed bitterly. ‘And you think I can? Just get ready, please. We have to leave in about ten minutes.'

‘I said I'm not going,' he shouted, standing up from his chair and walking around to face her. ‘Why can't you listen to me when I speak? If I say I'm not going to court then that's exactly what I mean. I couldn't care less if I never see the inside of a courtroom again.'

‘You actually mean it?' she asked in an astonished voice.

‘Yes, I mean it.'

‘And what about Gareth?' she asked. ‘The judge might send the jury out today. Don't you think he'll want to know that we're here for him?'

‘He knows that already.'

Jane stared at her husband in exasperation; she couldn't believe he would let her down at this crucial moment. She opened her mouth to remonstrate with him some more but then hesitated, a thought occurring to her. ‘You did it, didn't you?' she asked.

‘What's that?'

‘You're not coming to court because you know that Gareth's going to be all right. You changed your vote.'

Roderick sighed and looked away. Very slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded his head and Jane let out a deep sigh.

‘I knew it,' she said. ‘I knew you wouldn't let me down.'

‘And you think I haven't?' he asked.

‘You did what you had to do. For our son. You have nothing to feel ashamed of.'

‘Then how is it that I do?'

‘Roderick—'

‘Listen to me, Jane, there's nothing to be so happy about really. Yes, I changed my vote. Yes, Keaton will influence the judge and Gareth won't receive the death sentence. But what does it change really? He's still going to be found guilty. He's still going to jail.'

‘You don't know that,' she cried.

‘I don't? How many years was I a barrister, Jane? How many years have I sat on the bench? I can read a jury, I can hear evidence and decide on it. Unless Quentin pulls something out of the bag then there's a horrible inevitability to all of this. Do you really think that Gareth will survive in jail? Look at him, for pity's sake. He's already a shadow of his former self. A couple of years will be the end of him. All I did was prolong his misery.'

Jane shook her head; she didn't want to hear defeatist talk such as this. ‘I have to go,' she said. ‘You stay if you want but I'm going to court. I won't let him hear the verdict without my being there to support him.'

‘Then I'll see you tonight.'

She hesitated, wondering whether she should make him change his mind, but decided against it. He had done what she wanted. He had made sure that their son's life—
her
son's life—was not in jeopardy. That was all that mattered. What happened after that was for another day's worrying. She said nothing more to him now, simply left the room, collected her bag and coat, and slipped outside and into the car without another word.

Roderick moved to the window as she made her way through the journalists, a sudden urge overcoming him to go outside and fight them, get them off his property once and for all. But there was no fight left in him any more, he realized. There was nothing more to be done. He sat down on the sofa instead and looked around, wondering how he would fill his days from now on.

*   *   *

JANE ARRIVED AT THE
courtroom later than she had hoped; a traffic jam along the way had delayed her and the seat she normally sat in at the front was already taken. She sighed in frustration, craning her neck for a view of Gareth in the dock but all she could see was the back of his head and she was unable to make out if his breakdown on the stand the previous day had had any bad effect on him.

‘You'll have to take a seat, ma'am,' whispered a policeman to her and she nodded quickly and moved to a row near the back, finding a place at the end of it where she settled herself quickly and tried to take in what was happening. Sir Quentin was on his feet questioning a witness, one she didn't recognize, and she frowned as she tried to decide who he might be.

‘Don't worry,' whispered the young man sitting directly to her left. ‘He's only just taken the stand.'

‘Mr Montignac,' she replied quietly, turning to look at him, her face flushing a little in embarrassment as she recalled their last encounter in the gallery. ‘I didn't notice you there.'

‘I saw you the moment you came in.'

She gave a small smile, unsure whether he meant that as a compliment or not, and nodded in the direction of the witness box. ‘Who's that?' she asked.

‘The coroner,' said Montignac.

A hand stretched forwards between them, resting on her shoulder for a moment; it belonged to the policeman who put a finger to his lips to silence them and she nodded before turning her attention to the front of the court.

‘Now, Dr Cawley,' Sir Quentin was saying, ‘you were the coroner who performed the postmortem on the body of Raymond Davis, is that correct?'

‘Yes, sir, that's correct,' said Cawley, a middle-aged man who spoke in confident tones and appeared to be accustomed to giving evidence in court.

‘And can you tell us what you found to be the cause of death?'

‘The cause of death was a blow to the cranium which smashed the frontal lobe of the skull. My examination revealed that there were three such blows inflicted but it is likely that death was instantaneous with the second blow.'

‘I see,' said Sir Quentin. ‘And you've examined the candlestick which has already been offered into evidence by the prosecution?'

‘I have, sir.'

‘And can you tell us whether you consider this implement to be the same one that killed Raymond Davis.'

‘With complete certainty, yes,' said Cawley, nodding his head. He glanced in the direction of the judge for a moment as he continued with his evidence. ‘There were flakes of paint consistent with the candlestick still lodged in Mr Davis's wounds,' he explained. ‘Added to this there were blood and hairs and various skull matter on the base of the candlestick. I don't believe there can be any question as to this being the murder weapon.'

‘Thank you, Dr Cawley,' said Sir Quentin, who was strolling around the top of the court in a very casual way—a little too casually for Jane's liking—as if he knew something that no one else did. ‘And you were also able to fix the time of death of the deceased, were you not?'

‘Yes, sir. My examination revealed that the time of death was somewhere between two and three o'clock on the morning of August the nineteenth.'

‘Some five to six hours before the police discovered the body at Bedford Place?'

‘As I understand it, yes.'

‘Thank you, Dr Cawley, no more questions just now.'

The judge raised an eyebrow at the last part of Sir Quentin's sentence but then looked in the direction of Mr Justice Harkman, who rose for the prosecution. He stood there for a moment, looking slightly baffled.

‘I don't have very many questions for you, Dr Cawley,' he said, looking across at the defence counsel suspiciously. ‘It seems to me that Sir Quentin has asked much of what I wanted to ask you. But just let me clarify. Mr Davis was definitely killed between the hours of two and three a.m. in the flat on Bedford Place, a flat whose only occupant at the time was the defendant, Mr Bentley?'

‘I can answer yes to your first two statements,' said Dr Cawley carefully. ‘As for the occupancy of the flat, I'm afraid that's outside of my jurisdiction.'

‘Indeed, indeed,' said Harkman thoughtfully. He licked his lips, knowing full well that there was something he was missing. Sir Quentin was clearly leading him up a blind alley and until he knew what lay at the end of it the sensible thing to do was to sit down.

‘Thank you, Dr Cawley,' said Judge Sharpwell. ‘You may—'

‘Actually, Your Honour,' said Sir Quentin, rising again. ‘If I may, just one or two more questions.'

‘Go ahead,' said the judge with a sigh.

‘Dr Cawley, when you examined the body of the deceased, did you restrict your examination to the wounds at the front of the skull, the wounds which had apparently caused the death of Mr Davis?'

‘No, sir,' said Cawley. ‘I did not.'

‘I see. And in your examination, did you find anything noteworthy on the body of the deceased?'

Cawley reached down for a notebook and flicked through it until he found the page he was looking for. ‘Yes, sir,' he said finally. ‘There was another injury to Mr Davis which became evident during the course of the postmortem. An earlier injury.'

A low murmur broke out around the courtroom and the judge reached for his gavel to silence the spectators.

‘What did he say?' asked Jane, looking towards Owen Montignac for clarification. ‘Did he say an earlier injury?'

‘He did,' said Montignac, narrowing his eyes and listening carefully.

‘Dr Cawley,' continued Sir Quentin, enjoying the tension of the moment. ‘Can you please tell the court what the nature of this injury was?'

‘Yes, sir,' said Cawley. ‘At the back of the head, just above Mr Davis's neck, there was a second injury, a blow struck, I would conjecture, by a heavy instrument, perhaps a poker or a steel rod.'

‘I see. And would this injury have been enough to kill Mr Davis?'

‘No. It was aimed far enough below the skull to render the victim unconscious but would certainly not have caused death.'

‘And were you able to determine by the wound when exactly it took place? Would it have been a few moments before the fatal blows to the front of the head, for example?'

‘Definitely not,' said Cawley. ‘The level of bruising was quite advanced in relation to Mr Davis's other wounds. I placed the time of the earlier injuries some eight to ten hours before, or between the hours of four and five thirty p.m. on the evening of the eighteenth.'

‘Up to ten hours before the fatal blows were delivered,' repeated Sir Quentin for added effect.

‘Yes.'

Once again the courtroom broke out in noise and on this occasion the judge let out a roar, ordering that everyone be silent. Jane arched her neck, desperate to get a better view of the front of the court. Montignac checked his watch anxiously.

‘Dr Cawley,' continued Sir Quentin, ‘you're telling the court that Mr Davis was struck unconscious ten hours before he was murdered. How long would such a blow have rendered him unconscious?'

‘From the swelling and the manner in which the blood had clotted below the wound, anywhere from six to twelve hours I would imagine.'

‘And there is nothing to tell us that the initial blow took place at the Bedford Place flat?'

‘I don't believe it was. There was nothing in the flat which might have delivered a blow like that.'

‘So it would be reasonable to assume that the blow was struck elsewhere?'

‘I would think so, yes.'

Mr Harkman rose to his feet and objected loudly. ‘Is defence counsel actually implying that Mr Davis was knocked unconscious in one place and brought to another for the purposes of murdering him?' He sounded outraged, as if this was a slight on the principles of logic.

‘Well, Sir Quentin?' asked Sharpwell. ‘Are you implying that?'

‘No, Your Honour, I'm stating it,' said Sir Quentin. ‘I am stating that Mr Davis suffered two attacks that night and that the perpetrator of the first waited up for nine hours before finishing the job. Your Honour, if you please, I would like to recall Gareth Bentley to the stand.'

Sharpwell looked at prosecution counsel, who shrugged his shoulders reluctantly, and Gareth, looking more and more dazed, emerged from the dock, barely glancing at Dr Cawley as he resumed his place in the witness box.