So what if Miranda had put her hand in her pocket for something - a tissue, say, or a glove, or a biscuit for the dog - and the hair bobble, with Kathryn’s hair on it, had dropped out? It could have happened any day, of course; but what if Miranda had been wearing that coat on the day David died? Or perhaps she had visited the tank a day or two earlier, on one of her walks with the dog. Either way, it would explain why the bobble was there.
Her lawyers, however, concentrated single-mindedly on the other explanation - that the police had put it there - and the more they explored this possibility, the more Kathryn came to believe in it herself. After all, if Miranda had so clever, so determined as to do this thing, surely she would have been careful not to make a mistake. She had made no other mistake, as far Kathryn could see - her alibi was perfect, there were no clues, no traces other than these inconclusive footprints. And in the absence of the real murderer this policeman, this DCI Churchill, had every reason to suspect her, Kathryn, and every incentive, too, to go that little bit further to provide proof of her guilt.
Sarah, reviewing her notes at the end of the interview, was convinced that the detective had done exactly that. She’d seen how he behaved in David Kidd’s trial with the shopkeeper Patel, stretching the evidence in the way he wanted; and before that with her own son, interviewing him in a police car in defiance of all regulations and then trying to present his words in court as a spontaneous confession. But how to challenge it; that was another matter.
Rising at the end of the interview, she gave Kathryn a tight, determined smile. ‘Very well, Mrs Walters, I think we’ve reviewed all the evidence. But this is the key to it, certainly. If we can shake them on this hair bobble, all the rest is circumstantial. So if anything else comes to mind, for goodness’ sake let me know.’
‘I will, of course. Do you think we have a chance?’
Sarah considered, knowing how her final words, after an interview like this, could echo in a client’s mind, late into the lonely night. ‘Yes, we have a chance, certainly. But I’d be lying if I said it was going to be easy. A lot will depend on the impression you make on the witness stand. If the jury believe you’re just an innocent victim of this whole affair, then they’re more likely to turn their suspicions on the police.’
‘So I should be careful what I say, you mean?’
‘Yes.’ Sarah studied Kathryn thoughtfully. The woman looked pale, gaunt, and anxious. ‘Careful, but not too careful, if that makes sense. Think about what they’re likely to ask you, and how you’ll reply, and then ... tell the truth, as genuinely as you can.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Good. I’ll see you in court then. And don’t worry. I’ll be doing my best.’
She smiled encouragingly, but on the way home, the interview echoed in her mind just as her words, perhaps, echoed in Kathryn’s. There had been something not quite right about it which she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Kathryn had maintained her innocence quite firmly, and yet ... there was something that didn’t quite fit. It was a sense, familiar to her from less reputable clients, that the whole truth was not being told; that their conversation only dealt with what was on the surface of the woman’s mind, that things more momentous by far were going on beneath.
She frowned, sat back in her chair, and wondered.
50. Wisconsin
The long months before the trial had been a torment for Miranda. When she had first heard the news of her mother’s arrest she had been distraught. It was not what she had imagined would happen, at all. The body should have remained buried in that tank for months, years even, until it dissolved into mush; instead, just as her nightmare on the plane had foretold, David’s corpse had crawled out, pallid, bloated, relentless, to threaten her family again. And she had certainly not expected her mother to be arrested. I’ll have to go back, she thought; I did this, I’ll have to sort it out.
But then her mother had phoned from prison - a three minute call, probably recorded by the authorities and made in a public corridor to judge from the background echoes. Kathryn had been adamant: ‘It’s all for the best, darling. He’s dead and I’m glad of it. Proud. If I met the person who did it I’d hug them to my heart and ... well, never mind. I’d love that person forever. The main thing is not to worry. They can’t prove I’m guilty because I didn’t do it, and the best thing you can do for me is to stay in America with Bruce and Sophie, and
not come here
. Do you understand? I love you deeply, darling, more deeply than ever before, but I don’t want you to come back here until it’s over. Promise me, please darling, promise me that.’
So Miranda had promised. What else could she do? Letters had followed in similar vein, all of them circumspect because of the prison censor, but it was clear, without saying it, that her mother guessed who had done it and was prepared to sacrifice herself, if necessary, for her daughter’s happiness.
Only Miranda wasn’t happy, not at all. She couldn’t say anything, even to Bruce, without incriminating herself. She hid from him behind a wall of silence. Once allow a trickle of truth to escape, she thought, and it would prize the floodgates open and drown them all. Her mother was right - she would lose Bruce and Sophie - all would be drowned, torn away from her for ever.
But the secret consumed her like a cancer. If only there was someone she could tell! She went for long walks alone in the forest, whispering her confession to beavers in dams, screaming it aloud to eagles on hilltops, throwing stones disconsolately into lakes. Nothing helped for long; no one understood. There were weeks when she scarcely spoke to Bruce at all; their marriage seemed drying up for lack of love. From her, at least; he remained kind and considerate, ascribing her snappish moods to the strain she had been through in England. He rocked her in his arms, his big hands holding her like a child, until she shoved him away, tears starting again in her eyes.
If it had not been for Sophie she would have gone back. But the little girl needed her now, it seemed, more than ever. In the first few weeks after Miranda’s return the child had been a nightmare, alternately clinging to her mother’s jeans or slapping her face and running to hide in her bedroom. To Miranda it seemed as if the child was fey, smelt the mud and oil of the drainage pit on the hands that reached out to embrace her, saw the ferocity of a killer in her mother’s eyes. But it wasn’t so, she told herself, it couldn’t be true; Sophie had been upset the first time she’d gone to England, for Shelley’s funeral; this was the same effect magnified, an attempt to punish her mother for going away. All her friends said the same: her long absence had damaged her daughter’s security, it was to be expected. All she had to do was stay patient and calm, and her daughter’s trust would return.
So Miranda tried, and slowly, grimly, it worked. Gradually, Sophie settled, until, occasionally, a whole day would pass without a tantrum, a week without a damp little girl coming in to her at midnight from sodden sheets. But it was not straightforward, and with Bruce often working late, most of the burden fell on her. Once it became so bad she took the child to a therapist, but that was awful; after conducting various tests on her daughter the man turned his gaze on Miranda, asking increasingly probing questions about her emotional state, her behaviour, her relationship with her husband and parents. Miranda met his eyes with a blank, non-committal stare, while the panic-stricken truth burrowed away to hide in a cave deep in her brain. It was too early, the man said, for Sophie to be exhibiting the symptoms of bi-polar disorder; the best thing by far would be consistent, patient parenting, in a secure environment shielded from the pressures of the outside world.
But to do that Miranda had to grow a shell to shield herself. She became adept at deflecting all talk about events in England; friendly enquiries from friends and her husband’s family slid off her like water from a duck’s wings. Perhaps she seemed cold to them, indifferent; she didn’t care. To her the subject was so sensitive that part of her mind thought about nothing else; and yet, to survive at all, to get through the day, above all to care for Sophie, she had encysted her secret within her, so that it lived in its own little world like a globe, a cherished disease. A monster whose existence she could acknowledge to no one.
It was hardest, of course, for Bruce. As things with Sophie improved, he wanted to try for a second child. Miranda shuddered and shrank from him in bed.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not yet. I’m not ready.’
‘So when will you be? After your Mom’s trial?’
‘Maybe. I can’t say. I’ll let you know.’
‘You’ll let me know? This is a thing for us both, honey. Not just you.’
‘I know, love. But not yet. I just can’t.’
As the trial approached the cyst within her threatened to burst. Her mother’s letters insisted that she should stay away, but Miranda knew, more and more clearly, that it would be impossible. She had to go back, even if meant abandoning Sophie yet again, just at the time when the little girl was really settling down. But the thought of allowing Bruce to put another baby inside her, another responsibility to grow alongside the monster of guilt she kept hidden, made her feel sick. She hadn’t dared discuss this with him yet, let alone tell her daughter she was leaving. But she had to go back, she couldn’t leave her mother to face this alone. Even if it meant abandoning her family for ever.
‘Sophie’s nearly three now,’ he persisted. ‘We agreed that would be the best time, you know we did. A little brother or sister for her to grow up with might be just what she needs.’
And a mother in prison, if things go wrong, Miranda thought. Yes, terrific. With an enormous effort she turned in the bed to smile at him.
‘Maybe you’re right, love. After Mum’s trial. I’ll feel better about things then.’
‘Is that it? I know it’s a lot of strain for you, honey. But you never talk about it. Maybe it would be better if you did.’
‘Nothing to talk about. She didn’t do it, she’s not guilty. I’m tired, Bruce, I’m sorry. I’ve got a headache.’
It was not the first or the fortieth time he’d been brushed off like this. Tonight, with the trial less than a month away, he was determined to pursue it further. Bruce admired his mother in law, regarding her as a tough old bird, but he didn’t regard her guilt as totally impossible. She had a clear enough motive, after all. It might be wrong but he could understand someone killing for revenge.
‘Have you never thought she might have done it?’ he asked. ‘After all she had good reason, didn’t she? If anyone did that to Sophie, I’d probably do the same.’
‘You’re a man, Bruce. She’s a woman in her fifties.’ Miranda turned away, feigning sleep.
‘Even so, Shelley was her daughter. You’d do it too, wouldn’t you, love?’ he persisted. ‘Fight to protect your children, if there was no other way?’
Miranda shook her head numbly, feeling the tears prickle at the back of her eyes. For a moment she was tempted to confess; if he really felt like that perhaps he would understand her, even forgive. But she didn’t trust him; the burden was too great. He might have broad shoulders but she’d been married to him long enough to know that his opinions changed according to the people he was with, and his mother in particular had powerful religious views that saw the world clearly in terms of the ten commandments. Once her secret was out, she could never call it back. Bruce would be shocked, appalled, uncertain what to think; he would seek advice from his family and friends, and soon the whole world would know.
She loved him so much; she was killing everything she loved.
‘Maybe you should go back for this trial after all,’ he said thoughtfully, after a pause. ‘You’re no good here, just worrying. You should give your mom support, not just shrivel into yourself like this.’
‘I do give her support!’ she snapped, so loud that their dog barked in the garden. ‘Haven’t you seen all the letters I send her, the cards? What more can I do, Bruce, if she doesn’t want me there?’
‘I know she says that, honey, I’ve seen the letters too.’
‘And what about Sophie? Just when she’s doing so well at last.’
‘I’ll manage. I managed before.’
‘Until I came back, yes. You know what she was like then.’ Abandoning the pretence of sleep, Miranda sat up in bed. He was only advocating what she knew she had to do anyway.
‘You needn’t be away long. If your Mom’s acquitted, you could even bring her back here for a holiday. She likes Sophie; that might help.’
‘Yes, sure.’ Miranda stared numbly out of the window, watching the moon rising over the trees at the end of the garden. Why was it so red tonight, of all nights?
‘If it was my mom, I’d be there no matter what. Christ, Mandy, what can go wrong?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ Gratefully, Miranda watched a cloud darken the blood red moon. ‘Nothing at all, Bruce.’ She mouthed the words emptily, grateful that he’d made the decision himself. It might be the last burden he’d ever take from her. That, and a lifetimes’s care of Sophie, if things went wrong.
Miranda shuddered, exhausted by the months of struggle. She’d borne her secret for so long, but it just grew stronger. Bruce was right, she belonged in England, not here. She’d done her best with Sophie, but she was no good to her husband any more; she was a husk, a ghost of the wife he deserved. To hide here with him while her mother was locked up for life would be intolerable.
Her only hope now was that Kathryn would be acquitted. And I have to be there to see it, Miranda thought. There’s no other way.
They sat silent in the dark, their minds as distant as continents. The first red rays of the moon emerged from the far side of the cloud.
‘You’re right,’ she said at last. ‘I do have to go.’