My Husband's Wife(17)

‘He talked a lot about Rupert Brooke, the war poet,’ I added. ‘Implied that this had something to do with his case.’

‘Was he in the army?’

It was a tradition that the men in Ed’s family went to Sandhurst before enjoying distinguished careers in the army. During our first date, he told me how disappointed his parents had been when he refused to follow suit. Art school? Was he mad? A proper job. That’s what he needed. Graphic design in an advertising company was an unhappy compromise all round. People didn’t rebel in Ed’s family, he told me. They toed the line. Ironically, I rather liked that at the time. It made me feel safe. Secure. But it seems to have given my husband a chip on the shoulder. At the few family gatherings I’ve been to with him, he’s always felt like the odd one out. Not that he’s said so. He doesn’t need to. I can just see.

‘The army?’ I repeated. ‘No, apparently not.’

Then Ed sat up and I felt a breeze of coldness between us. Not just the loss of warmth from his body, but the distance that comes when someone is on another plane. I hadn’t realized, until our marriage, that an artist could move so smoothly from real life to an imagined world. Ed’s family may have refused to finance art school, but no one could stop him from doing what he did best, in his spare time. Already a sketchpad appeared in his hands and my husband was jotting down the facial features of one of the men in the photographs staring across at us from the mantelpiece. This particular one was of his father as a young man.

Father …

And now, here I am, walking across the courtyard with the answer to my lifer’s puzzle right here, in my briefcase.

‘Your father was in the army,’ I say in the visitors’ room, sliding a folder across the table towards my client.

Joe Thomas’s face goes blank. ‘So what?’

‘So he was discharged. Not honourably either.’

I’m purposefully speaking in staccato. I want to stir this man, make him react. Something tells me it’s the only way to help him. If I want to help him.

‘He tried to protect himself when a man threatened to stab him in a pub, according to his statement.’ I look down at the notes which had taken me days to put together with the help of a keen junior trainee. ‘But when your father pushed the man away, he fell through a window and nearly bled to death. I think there’s a link between that and your case. Am I right?’

Joe Thomas’s eyes grow black in front of me. I glance around the room.

‘There’s no emergency button here,’ says my client softly.

My skin goes clammy. Is this man threatening me?

Then he sits back in his chair and regards me as though I’m in the hot seat instead of him. ‘My father was punished for acting in self-defence. He was shamed. Our family was ridiculed. We had to move to Civvy Street. I was bullied at school. But I learned a big lesson. Self-defence is no defence, because no one ever believes you.’

I look at this man in the chair before me and then draw out a photograph from my file. It shows a slim redhead. The dead woman. Sarah Evans. Joe Thomas’s girlfriend.

‘Are you saying that you acted in self-defence against a woman who barely looks as if she’s got enough strength to pick up a brick?’

‘Not exactly.’ His face swivels towards the window. Two officers are walking past outside, deep in conversation. Would they hear me if things got nasty? I suspect not. So why am I not afraid any more?

Joe Thomas, too, is looking at the men, an amused smile playing on his lips.

I’m growing impatient. ‘So what exactly do you want to base your appeal on?’

‘You’ve passed the first test. Now you’ve got to pass the second. Then you’ll know.’

He’s writing something down on the scrap of paper he’s brought with him.

101.2

97.3



The list keeps on growing.

I’ve never been great at numbers. Words are more my strength. There are letters too next to some of the numbers. But they mean nothing to me.

‘What is this?’

He smiles. ‘That’s for you to find out.’

‘Listen, Joe. If you want me to help you, you’ve got to stop playing games.’ I stand up.

He stands up too. Our faces are close. Too close. Once more, I smell him. Imagine what it would be like to lean forward … But this time, I am ready for it. Mentally, I smash the image against the window like the pigeon. I can almost see the feathers.

‘If you’re to help me, Mrs Macdonald, you need to understand me. Call it another test, if you like, to check you’re up to this job. This appeal is everything to me. I want to be satisfied I’ve got the right person for the job. Until then, I’m not Joe. I’m Mr Thomas. Got it?’

Then he looks me up and down. Slowly. ‘Tall, aren’t you?’

Every part of my skin feels like it’s on fire.

He strides across to the door. ‘See you when you work out the answer.’

The man isn’t just being overfamiliar, I tell myself as I make my way to the office and sign out. He’s acting as though he’s in charge instead of me.

So why do I feel a sense of rising excitement as well as annoyance?

‘Everything all right?’ asks the baby-faced officer when I sign out.

‘Fine,’ I say. Something warns me not to add any more.