My Husband's Wife(124)

‘I could teach her a lesson,’ Joe said quietly.

I felt a tremor of fear – and yes, of excitement too. ‘I wouldn’t want her hurt. Or him.’

‘Just scared, perhaps.’

‘Maybe,’ I find myself saying.

That’s when I ran over the road, towards the sea, stunned by my own actions. Had I really just allowed myself to break the law? In one brief crazy moment, I’d just given a criminal carte blanche to break into the house where Ed and Carla lived. A criminal who would do anything for me.

Aiding and abetting, they call it.

I raced back to the cafe table, panting madly. But Joe had disappeared.

As time went by and nothing happened, I felt safer. The longer I heard nothing from Joe, the more it felt safe to put the DNA test out of my head. Maybe he’d decided not to do anything after all. Maybe they’d changed the locks. But then came the shocking news of Ed’s murder. When Ross called me at Tom’s school, I initially presumed Carla was guilty, as did the rest of the world.

But then she told me about the door opening and a man standing there. And the notes.

That’s why I took her on as a client. I needed to make sure that she went down, because if she didn’t, the police might track down the real murderer.

Joe.

He’d tell them I’d given him the key.

I would get sent to prison.

I’d lose Tom.

It was unthinkable.

I would do anything. Anything for my son. Suddenly I had to work out the toughest defence strategy of my life. How to make Carla lose without making it look as though I hadn’t tried.

Put up such a poor defence that she would go down?

But that wasn’t the way to do it.

Wasn’t that what I’d told myself when Carla had first asked me to take on the case? And it was true. I had to be far more subtle than that. I needed to use reverse psychology.

Why hadn’t I taken on the case myself without any help? Not because a judge might not like a solicitor in charge, as I told Carla, but because they’d trust me more if I brought in someone else. Besides, the judges know me, know my style – if I’d put up a weak defence, they’d have instantly known and accused me of conflict of interest.

My husband’s wife.

Far cleverer to choose a young, nervous barrister who would get it wrong for me. I told Carla that a jury didn’t always like a confident, strutting QC. That is sometimes true. But not always. Yet – just my luck – they did indeed warm to my fumbling, gauche brief, and that in turn made him grow in confidence. By then it was too late to lose.

I also suspected that if I insisted on her wearing ‘dull’ clothes, Carla wouldn’t be able to do it because she’s so vain. I was right. But this backfired in my face too. It was clear from the look on the jurors’ faces – both men and women – that they admired her style.

Why didn’t they see Carla as I did? A manipulative child who had grown into a manipulative, husband-stealing adult.

‘You shouldn’t have done it,’ I now say down the line to Joe. My voice is cracked with disbelief. Shock. Self-recrimination.

Joe’s voice, in contrast, is cool. ‘I got the impression you didn’t care for Ed any more.’

‘You said you’d frighten Carla.’ I’m whispering now. ‘Not kill my husband.’

‘Ex-husband,’ corrects Joe. ‘And who says that I did kill him? Open the envelope. Go on.’

My hands do what my mind tells them not to do.

Inside is a sealed plastic bag.

Inside that is a pair of gloves. Washing-up gloves.

Blue. Small. They have blood on them. Blood and earth.

I gasp.

‘Now do you get it?’ says Joe.

I can’t believe it. ‘Carla did it after all?’

‘Who else?’ He sounds smug. Pleased.

‘How did you get them?’

‘I’d been sniffing around their place for a while, checking it out.’

‘What were you going to do?’ I whispered.

‘Wasn’t sure. Never am until these things happen.’

These things?

A picture of poor Sarah flashes into my head.

‘I was there that evening. Some young bloke came out. Looked upset, he did. I listened at the door and heard one hell of an argument going on. Reckoned it might provide the distraction I needed. So I went in.’

With my key. With my key!

‘There she was, in front of me, wearing a pair of washing-up gloves covered in blood. Almost as shocked to see me as I was to see her. I ran out after her. I watched her toss the gloves into some shrubbery opposite the house. Rather than carry on chasing her, I picked up the gloves so you could use them, for evidence. Except that you didn’t.’

No, I hadn’t. I’d wanted to do this on my own, without the help of a criminal.

‘So what’s next?’ Joe’s voice forces me back to practicalities. ‘The trial’s over, Lily. Your client’s won. But we both know that she’s guilty. And now the police will be looking for someone else. Me.’

‘Will you tell them about us?’ My voice comes out as a whimper.

‘That depends.’ His voice is steady. Threatening. ‘Not if you tell me what the paternity test really said.’

‘I did tell you. You’re not the father.’