My Husband's Wife(32)

I’m aware as I list these complaints that they sound like the disgruntled litany of a long-married couple. In fact, we’ve only been married for two months. Where will it all end?

‘What do you think?’

Suddenly I’m aware of Tony Gordon staring at me. I feel a flush of shame crawling over me. This is a famous barrister. He could be the key to saving an innocent man. At least, my gut instinct tells me that Joe is innocent, even though I don’t like him very much. And here I am, thinking about my failing marriage.

‘I’m not sure.’ It seems a safe thing to say.

‘Come on, Lily, stay with me. The extra psychologist’s report that I asked to be carried out says that our man shows signs of Asperger’s and also has obsessive behaviours.’ Tony Gordon glances down at his notes. ‘Both are broad labels and mean different things to different people. But in this case, one of our man’s “things” is he likes everything to be neat and tidy. It disturbs him when objects aren’t in their right place. He interprets language literally. He doesn’t always respond to situations in the same ways as other people. He has difficulties communicating with people. He also dislikes change of any kind. Good with numbers too.’

‘My brother is a bit like that,’ I hear myself say. Even as I speak, I realize I should have said ‘was’, rather than ‘is’. The truth is that I often do that. It makes it easier to pretend Daniel is still alive.

‘Really?’ Instantly I feel Tony Gordon’s interest sharpen. ‘Does it make him act oddly?’

‘When he was younger,’ I say slowly, ‘we were just told he was difficult. We weren’t given any label. But he could be charming to people one minute and rude or abrupt the next. He didn’t like change …’ Mentally I run my hand over the smooth saddle. Smell the wood. Cradle Amelia in my arms. No.

‘Are you all right, Lily?’

I look down at my shaking hand. ‘Yes.’

Yes, it made Daniel do strange things. No, I’m not all right.

But Tony Gordon has already moved on. ‘We’ve got to watch that,’ he’s muttering to himself. ‘Got to emphasize the facts and the figures rather than the emotions. In my opinion, the defence didn’t do that enough last time. It would help, too, if the jury is made up of people who like statistics: they need to be the type whose heads rule their hearts rather than the other way round. We also need to show that although people with Asperger syndrome all share common behaviours and features, everyone is different. Unique. They have their own personalities that have just as much of an effect on their behaviour as the syndrome itself. According to my research, this cold, unemotional, obsessive behaviour that’s recorded in his notes is not necessarily a consequence of the Asperger bit. Tricky. Especially if someone on the jury has personal experience which doesn’t fit in with Joe’s. Or if we put his case in a way that offends someone.’

I’m beginning to wonder if I even need to be here. After all, I’ve briefed my barrister. It’s up to him now.

‘Please ask your firm to make sure you are with me when I visit the client,’ he says. ‘Your experience could be very useful. There’ll be a lot of publicity surrounding this case, you know.’ He gives me another kindly look. Almost fatherly. ‘No one will like us,’ he adds. ‘We’ll be the devil, you and I. A murderer is always a murderer in the public eye, even if proved innocent. This case is of huge national importance. If it’s allowed to run and we win, it will open the floodgates to all kinds of suits. We’ve got to be careful.’

‘I know,’ I say, realizing as I do so that I don’t. But I mustn’t show my ignorance. I want to be grown up. I want to be good at my job. I want to be good at my marriage. I just don’t seem to know how.

I leave Lincoln’s Inn with its beautiful brick walls and rich green post-rain grass to weave my way through the midday tourist crowds. I like walking in London. It’s good to breathe the air after being in a stuffy office, and besides, it gives me time to think.

I walk towards Westminster Bridge and pause for a moment to admire the skyline. ‘Earth has not anything to show more fair …’

Daniel used to love poetry. He admired the order. The way the words fell into place exactly where they were meant to. When he was distressed about something – a missing jigsaw piece or a shoe that was not in its usual place – I would sometimes read to him. It had to be a poet with structure and a certain touch of quirkiness. Edward Lear was always a good choice.

‘Sorry,’ I say as someone bumps into me. Ruefully, I rub my elbow. Typical of me to apologize for someone else’s rudeness. I did that all the time for Daniel. Meanwhile, the man hasn’t even stopped to acknowledge me. I glance back but he’s already disappeared into the crowds.

Then I realize something. My bag. Not the one on my shoulder, but the smaller one tucked under my arm, with all the papers concerning Joe Thomas. The figures he’d given me and the notes made during my meeting just now. It’s gone.

As I walk quickly towards the office, Tony Gordon’s recent words come back to me. ‘This case is of huge national importance … If we win, it will open the floodgates to all kinds of suits. We’ve got to be careful.’

At the time, I’d interpreted his words as meaning that we had to be careful to win. Now I’m beginning to wonder if he was referring to our own personal safety. Is it possible that I have been deliberately targeted? Did the man on the bridge – whose face I can barely recall – bump into me on purpose so he could remove vital evidence?