My Husband's Wife(122)

‘So do we all, Mrs Macdonald.’

What Carla didn’t say – Lily had advised her not to, as she said it would muddy the waters – was that the more she thought about it, the more she felt that she remembered him from somewhere.

‘Did you take your baby with you when you made this desperate run?’

That wasn’t fair. He knew she hadn’t.

‘No,’ whispered Carla, and collapsed into sobs.

There were disapproving murmurings among the jury.

This wasn’t good. Somehow she had to make them understand what she had gone through. Forcing herself, Carla lifted her tear-stained face. ‘I had postnatal depression after my baby was born. I told my barrister that.’ A large sob escaped her mouth. ‘And my mother died in Italy of cancer on the very day I gave birth. I didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye. I know I shouldn’t have run off and left Poppy behind. But I just wasn’t thinking straight …’

Carla had her head in her hands, although her fingers were open wide enough for her to look at the jury. Instead of disdain or disbelief, the woman with the pinched face was weeping quietly into a tissue. Was it possible that she had had similar troubles?

Carefully, she started speaking again through her tears. ‘It was wet and cold. I wanted to go back for my baby, but I thought I heard footsteps behind me in the park. So I ran into a pub for help. Someone called the police, but they arrested me! For his murder …’ Great sobs were coming out of her mouth now. Hysterical huge gulps. There were murmurs of sympathy from the jury. Someone handed her a glass of water. Her legs gave way.

‘I think,’ said the judge softly, ‘we should take a break here.’

She had done well, the barrister had told her, his face looking flushed with excitement. Very well. The jury looked as though they were on her side. Mind you, you could never tell.

‘Does he know what he’s doing?’ she asked Lily later.

‘Carla, what have I said before? You’ve got to trust me.’

The trial went on and on. ‘Six days,’ Lily had predicted. Right now it was on its tenth.

The worst, after her own testimony, had been when Rupert was called. ‘Yes, I did care for Carla once upon a time,’ he had told the court. ‘But now I am happily married. My wife was my fiancée when I called in with a present for Carla and Ed’s new baby. I was surprised by the tense atmosphere. Ed had clearly been drinking and didn’t make me feel welcome. So I left after a few minutes.’ He spoke rapidly, flashing nervous glances up at a girl with blonde hair in the gallery. Instinctively, Carla knew that he was torn. He couldn’t be too nice about her, in case his wife thought he really had been having an affair with her. She was thankful when he finally left the stand, shooting her an apologetic look.

An expert witness had then pointed out that the small amount of blood on Carla’s clothes did not prove that she had hurt Ed. That it was more likely to have been from the head injury that her husband had sustained in falling when she’d pushed him away in self-defence – a fact backed up by the autopsy findings. Nor were there any fingerprints on the knife, apart from Ed’s.

Carla’s head began to whirl. So many people, saying so many things, as if they knew her! An expert on bereavement. Another on postnatal depression and the link with the strain of a premature birth. Both were used by the prosecution to claim Carla might have behaved unpredictably. Her defence cross-examined them, claiming this would be why her memories were so unclear. Her barrister, who thankfully seemed to grow in confidence as the days passed, called an art dealer who spoke about Ed’s ‘reputation for being up and down’. A medical report on his drinking. A statement from the bank about his debts. Photographs of the terrible gash on Ed’s body. The carving knife.

She felt numb. As though all this was happening to someone else.

Now finally they had finished. As they sat waiting for the verdict in a room nearby, Lily was very quiet. The barrister had gone outside to make a phone call.

How was it possible that her entire future could be decided by a pack of strangers? Carla’s knee began to jerk up and down. She was back at school again. In Coventry. Carla Spagoletti.

‘The jury’s back.’ It was the barrister, his face taut. ‘That was quick. We’re being called in.’





61


Lily


I’ve lost count now of the verdicts I have waited for. Sometimes I think it’s like waiting for the result of a pregnancy test. Or a DNA test.

You tell yourself that you have done your best, and you hope that it all goes in your favour. But you also warn yourself that this might not happen. You try to prepare yourself, argue that it isn’t the end of the world if the result isn’t what you want. Yet at the same time, you know that’s not true.

A lost case means you’ve let yourself down. And, more importantly, others too.

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have been too keen on this barrister. He was too young. Too inexperienced. But as I told Carla, some juries are put off by an all-guns-blazing, confident, strutting QC. My man endeared himself to me when he had said we needed to go softly. ‘Our defence is that there is only circumstantial evidence,’ he’d pointed out, flushing madly – he was one of those types, like me, who blushes easily. ‘Nothing firm. No witnesses seeing Carla do anything other than run through the park. No incriminating fingerprints on the knife. She saw an intruder at the door.’