A Question of Guilt Page 10

  ‘Geoffrey! A sane voice from the wilderness. Don’t tell me not to rejoice, I can’t bear it. You’re going to saddle me with bad news. The witnesses have emigrated, Ryan has foot-and-mouth, Mrs Cartwright has mown down fifty warders with her submachine-gun. I know it.’

  He laughed. ‘Well, perhaps the celebration Ryan staged when we finally arrested her was worth it.’

  She sighed, relieved. ‘Even you wouldn’t be laughing if the news was that bad. I breathe again. What’s up? Sad Jaskowski been any more trouble? Another change of heart?’

  ‘No. Silence from that end. It isn’t him I want to discuss. Something’s been happening with Bernard. He asked to see me. I thought I’d better report the result.’

  ‘Will it take long?’

  ‘Longer than a phone call, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Damn. I’m up to the eyes, court tomorrow. Look, do you mind after office hours?’

  ‘As long as I can drink as well as talk. No, of course not.’

  ‘It won’t take that long. Any chance you could come to my flat about six-thirty? I’d say here, but I’ve got to be home to check up on my delinquent odd-job-man before he leaves. His work isn’t guaranteed for longer than twenty minutes and it’s easier to talk without the phone going all the time. If you don’t mind, that is?’

  ‘Fine. Yes, I know where it is.’

  Helen did not wonder how he knew as she replaced the phone, immediately half regretting the arrangement. A close degree of social contact with police officers was discouraged, even specified in the Service handbook, and whilst she had never found the rule difficult to follow, despite the open friendliness she gave and received, it was still a reservation to be held in the mind, a direction she regarded as inherently sensible. There was enough of the corruption of camaraderie in the ranks already; no point in adding to it. Policemen breathed a different air, not bad, or poisonous, or tainted, but different. Snobbery of a kind, she supposed, working both ways, but not as simple, more a question of mutually incompatible assumptions. Lawyers carried the mark of Cain, thought in riddles, believed in concepts, lived by analysis of the written word. Free of this, most policemen were freer of doubt or dogma, no time for thinking without specific purpose, believed in simple, physical solutions, and never looked comfortable in suits. For all the hours of conversation which she had enjoyed and endured while propping up cell corridors, jokes and stories which dulled neither affection nor respect for the breed, Helen always imagined closer personal contact could only be made through smoked glass revealing a stranger on the other side, prevented from touch. She had never tried, regarded the gap as one which could be spanned but never crossed: no need to question it. Life worked better when she did not.

  On the other hand, never since the demise of marriage into divorce had her buried self responded with such awkwardness as it did now, with the pleasurable shyness at the thought of Geoffrey Bailey, which was not completely submerged in this innocent enjoyment of his company. She had not flexed the muscles of flirtation in a long time and did not intend to now, but the rules, spoken and otherwise, bothered her until she admitted they did. Then Helen thought of where obedience to conventions had left her and did not like that either. Time to engineer her own code, and having reached her conclusion, Helen felt secure enough to regard Bailey’s businesslike visit with more than workmanlike pleasure.

  Hurrying home, it was the kind of unprofessional anticipation which made her hope the flat had survived the onslaught of Mr Ruparell, very odd-job-man indeed. The only alcoholic Pakistani of her large acquaintance; no task too great for perfection on a sober day, and none too small for destruction on the others. Mr Ruparell, who was kind, funny and looked like a pickled walnut, had learned his carpentry from an Irishman and with it a certain fusion of habits, cultures and melancholy, so that employing him to make shelves and mend cupboards was always a risk worthwhile only on a balance heavily weighted by affection. Simply a question of preferring to pay him rather than anyone else who did not drink the profits within hours. On the one day when she would have liked to make a more efficient impression, the balance had not tipped in Rupe’s favour. She knew it as soon as she entered the flat and heard him singing.

  By the time Bailey arrived, Helen had taken the line of least resistance, paid Ruparell, whose singing had been the usual prelude to apologetic crying, told him, Never mind, Rupe, finish it another time. Look after yourself Rupe won’t you? and was standing in front of sixteen crooked shelves marvelling at his achievement. The kitchen cupboards had been the perfect work of the morning, that far off time in Rupe’s life when the bottle had been full. The shelves represented the other end of the day. So did the plaster dust and woodshavings littering the carpet, foot-printed to and from the direction of the source of refreshment.

  ‘How,’ said Geoffrey in amazement, ‘did a carpenter manage to do that?’

  ‘He drinks a bit sometimes,’ said Helen defensively.

  ‘That explains a lot,’ said Bailey without a hint of criticism, ‘and he’s left his tools. Here, I’ll do them again.’

  ‘No, no, you musn’t.’

  ‘Why not? I’ll talk as I work.’

  Coat and jacket discarded with actions swifter than promises. Helen poured two glasses of wine, listened and watched from her mahogany table, surprised into a complete and passive contentment while interruptions from the electric drill scarcely halted the flow of his story. Bernard had had a fit of doubt, did not want to give evidence; had told him that Mrs Cartwright ‘knew too much about his work’, and could embarrass him. That was not all: that did not matter for the end result of a proper conviction for murder, even though it would matter to Bernard, but then there was the question of the glove, a nasty, green practical joke, as if to underline a point, but what point, and who put it there?

  ‘But Mrs C’s in prison. Who else would put it there?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m always saying I don’t know,’ Geoffrey answered, fitting another shelf straight and neat into its place. ‘A friend or neighbour, who had found it, didn’t want to volunteer it, couldn’t throw it away, who didn’t want to speak to Bernard? Houses with murders are leprous: people leave them alone, don’t like to have the possession of souvenirs like a glove left in a car. Put it on a bush? I don’t know. I just don’t know. But if someone was getting at him, they did well.’

  ‘No one could have known that he would find the glove on the same day as he received the witness order.’

  ‘No. But anyone with a brain could make a phone call and find out when the trial is due. Why? His evidence isn’t crucial; discrediting him isn’t crucial either. More like blackmail for another purpose, a softening up for something else. If it was supposed to influence the trial, this business with the glove, whoever it was would be better off tackling more important witnesses. Like the girl who took in Jaskowski’s petrol-soaked money, for instance. I’ve checked them all. No approaches, nothing nasty at all. And I’ve checked with Jaskowski’s family. Usual ecstatic response, but they say they’ve never heard of a glove.’

  ‘Do you prefer the first explanation, the nervous friend returning unwanted reminder?’

  He hesitated. ‘It’s as likely as any.’ The drill whirred. ‘But I have an open mind. Openly uneasy.’

  Helen was silent, oddly unconcerned at this development of a case which continued to disturb her so profoundly. She could not describe the concern, but could contain it as long as Bailey was there, tall and angular, creating space for precious books with competent speed. Engrossed in a task he enjoyed and pleased to display his competence, he knew a similar ease. When hands were busy nothing was as important as it might have seemed.

  ‘My father was a carpenter,’ he volunteered, information following nothing, ‘about as successful as your Mr Ruparell. For similar reasons. When I became a policeman, he was very disappointed in me.’

  ‘Not proud?’

  ‘No. Never that.’

  ‘Were you ever expected to be academi
c?’

  ‘No. Not part of their idea. Wish it had been. The Commissioner did that for me. Time off for a sponsored degree at the advanced age of twenty-seven. Wonderful. I spent half my time reading books outside the syllabus. Most people thought I was there to write a thesis on detective fiction. My wife hated it. Very juvenile, she thought.’

  ‘Still?’

  ‘No. That’s long in the past. But I told you, I still read detective fiction. It’s better than the real thing, but more predictable.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Helen pulled towards him from a corner of the room a large box of books too heavy to lift. ‘Here you are. Designed for the shelves. Necessary furniture for any household. Complete Maigret, Eric Ambler, P. D. James, Nicolas Freeling. Take your pick, or have you read them all?’

  ‘Ahh …,’ the grin of a delighted schoolboy, bent on mischief, stooping before a box of treasures, straightening reluctantly. ‘No, wait, I’ve done the shelves; I’ll complete the furnishing. Stack and examine at the same time.’

  A sense of order even in enthusiasm, she noticed. That was Superintendent Geoffrey Bailey in his disciplined element.

  Three, maybe four hours gone if either was counting, and not a mention of Eileen Cartwright, or sad, twitching Michael Bernard in his nearby street. One bottle of wine gone, another tapped, floor cleaned, scrambled eggs eaten, bookshelves straight and full, and the air above the mahogany table rich with the satisfying smell of burnt toast, cigar smoke (his), cigarette smoke (hers): enough for the partial melting of two pathologically reserved souls, keepers of others’ secrets, now open with their own, failures first, moving in easy domestic chatter from shopping to marriages.

  ‘What’s the worst part about divorce?’ Geoffrey wondered out loud.

  ‘Never feeling blameless,’ said Helen at once. ‘Always feeling it was my fault. That if I’d been wiser or something. Still stuck with the guilt, still let him manipulate me, because I imagine I could have made us both better. Arrogant, really.’

  ‘Hmm. You shouldn’t think like that.’

  ‘You can talk. You know exactly what I mean.’

  ‘I suppose I do. Do you ever see him?’

  ‘Sometimes. We’re friends of a kind.’

  ‘Would he help with the shelves? Some do.’

  ‘Not mine,’ she laughed. ‘Do you see your wife?’

  ‘Sometimes. Even though she remarried, I still mend things. A practice to be continued as long as she knows, and I know, that I’m free of other attachments.’

  ‘And are you?’ An innocent question, a slight danger signal, ignored, then compromised.

  ‘Oh yes. I don’t mind the freedom. I like it. Too much, perhaps.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Helen, ‘so do I. Should I make some coffee?’

  The danger zone passed, into a new phase of tranquillity, another hour easily spent. He had admired her house, the opposite of his own with a genuine and curious liking, and mildly admired her. She had been grateful to him, and he did not want to leave. She would have prolonged it, but did not want him to stay, either. When he left, they were still as free, but curious.

  CHAPTER SIX

  There was always a breathing space between committal and trial. In this case a long delay. The trial of Eileen Cartwright to be postponed despite mutterings from the judge, grumbling from heavy chins, his contempt unmuffled by the wig.

  ‘I do not understand why a lady who intends to protest her innocence is content to wait so long to do so, simply to ensure the services of counsel of her choice. With great respect to you, Mr Quinn, there are other silks. Other equally eminent defenders.’

  ‘With even greater respect to your Lordship, I have done a considerable amount of work on this case already … many hours. It is simply, unfortunately, my commitments in Hong Kong.’

  ‘Yes, I know, I know. You’ve explained. I am not wholly satisfied. Delay and justice rarely coincide. I am even more astounded at the lack of strenuous objection from the prosecution.’

  Junior counsel for the Crown leapt to his awkward height, undignified by haste, anxious to deliver the token protest briefly, aware he had been expected elsewhere ten minutes since.

  ‘I regret to say, my Lord, we are forced to agree, albeit with reservations. Mr Carey, my learned leader, is away for the whole of June, and part of July, together with part of August, and in any event, we have some difficulty with witnesses in that month, and September. The holiday season, my Lord understands.’

  ‘Does he indeed? Yes, yes. I presume that doesn’t apply to Mr Jaskowski.’

  There was an obligatory smile in response.

  ‘No, my Lord, but to several others. That is why we are content not to oppose the defence application.’

  ‘I don’t like it, don’t like it at all; but between you, you leave me with little choice. I presume,’ this with sarcasm as heavy as the humour, ‘that you will all be ready by October, so that I may at least fix a date for trial now? No more adjournments, not for any reason? Is six months enough notice for all your commitments?’

  Murmurings of deferential agreement, dates noted, flapping gowns making way for more, Quinn urbane in minor triumph, others rushing, justice postponed to justice.

  ‘Disgraceful,’ so his Lordship later informed Carey, as they sat in the Garrick, a fresh glass of claret each. ‘Disgraceful. Why does she want to wait for Quinn? And is Quinn so greedy that he’s persuaded her it’s for the best to wait, just for the brief fee? I know she’s paying privately, but all the same, it must be peanuts compared to what he’s getting from the Hong Kong bank for that fraudsman in the meantime. Why didn’t you get your junior to fight it?’

  ‘Well, John, because it suits me. Because my evidence is well preserved, not about to go stale; it’s embedded in the minds of witnesses unlikely to forget it. That’s my answer. I’ve got an excellent officer in the case, excellent instructing solicitor.’

  ‘Unusual, for the Crown Prosecution Service.’

  ‘Quite so. But between them, they’ll keep it under control for as long as it takes. And Jaskowski’s not going anywhere. I think the further he’s away from the dirty deed, the better he’ll be. As for Mrs Cartwright, don’t know her motives, do I? Not an easy case for us, relying on the evidence of a convicted murderer, but Quinn must have told her she’s still got a very high chance of being convicted. Makes it easier to persuade her to wait for his services since she would have realised that the six months she spends waiting would be docked from her sentence if she goes down, and she may as well have six months in a remand prison than the same time in some high security wing. Privileges on remand, you know: visitors, better food. You can imagine the sort of thing. That’s why half the prisoners like her are content to wait. Far more comfortable on remand.’

  ‘Good God. I’d forgotten. Shows how long it is since I defended and knew all the tricks. It’s still disgraceful. So be it, John. I’m glad it won’t be me who’ll be trying the damned thing. Have you time for dinner?’

  Carey, thinking of the taste of claret on his tongue, and the absence of his wife in the country far longer now than comfort demanded, debated the issue swiftly.

  ‘Oh, I think so, John. Yes, I think I have, now I come to think of it. Might manage dinner.’

  In Helen West’s office, there was a lull. Four pending trials, all major, all postponed; ten more in the pipeline, but far from crisis point, so that the quantities of paper were huge, with daily pressures bearable. The junior prosecutors were discontented to the point of rebellion so that all the symptoms of absence through sickness, backache, influenza were prevalent, and Helen was summarily loaned to the juvenile court. Her own work would have to wait, suffer for lack of care, but so did the system with its team lurching from one crisis to the next. No point protesting or stating how much she disliked the juvenile court. One perk of relative seniority had been the promise of freedom from it. She had not believed the promise then, and did not now.

  Monday morning in Seymour Place, there to co
nduct the daily list, beginning with the guilty pleas, papers delivered late. Miss West, ensconced before the building opened, reading furiously while the police room gradually filled with witness officers, booking on to give evidence on cases which might or might not be heard. In the juvenile court, police inertia was seeping from the woodwork. No accolades for arresting juveniles and bringing them here for a finding of guilt and, as the police joke went, a tip for turning up. Traumatic for the new offender, the good boy, frightened by the high-bred faces of selected magistrates and the prospect of disgrace: easier for the recidivist lulled into false security by practice, sitting in the foyer eating crisps along with anxious parents and bored policemen. The list was too long: it was always too long in case it should be too short. Half would be sent away hours later, adult throats aching from too many waiting cigarettes, bellies rumbling from weak coffee, nerves blunted by the official rudeness of it all.

  Struggling with the same indifference, the bloated defeat about the place even this early in the morning, Helen’s eye was caught by the name of the fourth defendant on the list, and the name shook her awake. Edward Jaskowski, charged with carrying an offensive weapon, one small knife. She flicked through the flimsy papers, all in a mess of various, tired handwritings, and found a crumpled statement under caution.

  ‘… I carried the knife in my back pocket to defend myself – Had you ever been attacked? – No, but you never know.’

  Quite right, you never did, especially if your father was known to be in prison for murder, and you lived in the war zone, but it still didn’t amount to a defence. First offender. Once might be enough. Probation might help. As long as the bench didn’t worsen the situation by shovelling on a fine they couldn’t pay. Miss West went out to find the defence, and found Jaskowski, mother and son, dressed in their Sunday best.