My Husband's Wife(123)

‘But there’s no proof of this,’ I butted in.

The barrister went pink. ‘Carla is a beautiful woman. I wouldn’t mind betting that the men on the jury will believe her. That at least would give us a fifty-fifty chance.’

Of course, that was when I should have told him about the envelope I’d received soon after Carla’s arrest. The one with the familiar spidery writing which, the office night porter told me, had been handed in very early one morning.

The one I had told myself I should not open.

Naturally I knew what the envelope contained. A tip-off. Hadn’t Joe already told me in a phone call that morning? ‘I want to help you, Lily.’

I’d nearly put the phone down there and then. ‘I told you, Joe. Don’t contact me again. I did what you wanted – had the paternity test done – and now it’s over. There’s nothing left between us.’

‘I don’t believe you. You lied to me.’ His voice was deep, sending tremors through me. ‘You’re just scared. I get that. I really do. I can tell from your voice that you haven’t looked inside that envelope I sent you. It will help you in the case. Open it. Fast. For old times’ sake.’

Old times’ sake? He spoke as though we had a past. Which of course we did. A past that no one must know about. A past he can always hold over me. Can you imagine the headlines? THE SOLICITOR AND THE BATH KILLER. Let’s not even go there. It would destroy my career. Not to mention my family. And Joe knows it.

‘Tom isn’t yours, Joe.’

‘And I told you I don’t believe you, Lily. I love you.’

I wanted to be sick. A murderer was in love with me? I slammed down the phone. Made sure the envelope was hidden in a drawer. I should have torn it up there and then. But it’s sitting there. My insurance. My plan B.

But right now I’m waiting. Waiting to hear what the jury is about to say. Carla is shaking. (I can say her name without a pang now.) Her terror gives me pleasure. There is nothing she can do now. No one she can bribe. No one she can sleep with to get her own way.

She can’t even blame me. No one could deny that I have done my best legally, hand on heart, to get her off. I even took her into my home to coach her for the defence. (Although she flagrantly went against my instructions to wear something suitable.) Together we have succeeded in blackening Ed’s name so that everyone thinks the man I married was a drunk and a philanderer. You see? I am not as good as I look.

The whole court is taut. Waiting.

‘Do you have a verdict?’

The foreman’s mouth is opening. My palms are sweating. I swear I can feel Ed by my side tugging at my sleeve. When I turn, I realize I’ve snagged my navy silk jacket on the bench.

‘Not guilty.’

I don’t believe it.

Walls shake around me. There are gasps. Screams from the gallery. A baby cries. Poppy? The daughter I never had. Carla is collapsing. It might of course be for show. A policeman is helping her to her feet. The barrister shoots me a smug ‘We did it’ look. People are congratulating me. One of the detectives is speaking urgently to a colleague. I feel a twinge of misgiving. They’ll be on the hunt for the real killer now. But up in the gallery I see someone else.

A tall man. Clean-shaven. Short hair. Boldly staring down at me. Wearing a moss-green tweed jacket with a light-beige suede collar, turned upwards. And then he disappears.

The phone rings the moment I get back into the office.

‘Why didn’t you use my evidence?’ Joe Thomas’s voice is gravelly with disappointment.

I open the drawer and take out the envelope. It is still sealed. How many times had I thought about opening it? It would have made my job easier. I knew that. Joe has never got things wrong before. As he’s pointed out on many an occasion, I wouldn’t have got this far in my career without his help.

‘It’s my insurance,’ I say.

‘Insurance? I don’t get it.’

‘In case the verdict wasn’t what I hoped for.’ As I speak, I think about Carla and how she barely thanked me after the trial. How her chin tilted upwards as if being acquitted was no more than her right. How she was swallowed up in the hysterical press of journalists, each wanting her story, each wanting to pay her more than the others.

‘You can’t use it now,’ he adds reproachfully. ‘The trial is over. The police will already be looking for someone else to pin Ed’s murder on.’

I wince. Even now, I can’t believe my former husband has gone. I miss him. My mind keeps going back to the better bits of our marriage. Curling up on the sofa together. Holding Tom as a baby. Celebrating when Ed’s painting was bought by an anonymous buyer.

Then my memory returns to that early morning jog on the seafront when Joe asked for a paternity test. I had felt particularly vulnerable at that time. Angry towards Ed for having his cake and eating it. Jealous of Carla for seeing my son on their access weekends. Lonely. Scared. Confused about still feeling drawn to Joe.

And for the first time since it happened, I allow myself to think about the key. The one that I was carrying, as always, for self-defence. The key that fell out of my pocket. The one that Joe picked up.

And didn’t give back.

‘It’s the spare from the house,’ I said bitterly at the time. ‘My old home that Carla has now taken along with my husband and my son, who seems to think she’s wonderful.’