My Husband's Wife(11)

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?’