Final Witness

Chapter 22

Peter sat in the back of his official car drumming on the leather top of the briefcase that he held across his knees. In front of him across Ludgate Circus the bright midafternoon sun lit up the magnificent dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, but the motionless traffic on Fleet Street barred his progress toward the Old Bailey and made him oblivious to the beauty of the view. He was already five minutes late for his meeting with Greta, and his frustration boiled uselessly inside him. The rat-a-tat-tat of his nails on the briefcase only echoed a more frenzied pounding in his head, which he held in place even more rigidly than usual so that the thick blue veins in his neck stood out above the tight collar of his shirt.

The week of the trial had not been good for Peter. He had hardly slept, and the strain of trying to do his job and worry about his wife at the same time was showing on his face. There were bags under his eyes, and he had developed a tiny tic on the side of his lip. His mind would begin wandering to the Bailey in the middle of complex negotiations with armament executives, and he sensed the growing doubt behind the friendly masks worn by his civil servants. He felt that it was only a matter of time before he made some appalling mistake that would bring his career tumbling down in ruins.

Peter realized now that he should have booked time off during the trial, but he had thought naively that his work would be a distraction; better the Ministry of Defense than sitting outside the courtroom wondering what was going on inside. He consoled himself with the thought that it would all soon be over and tried not to think of the possibility of conviction. Only in his dreams did Peter imagine Greta being sentenced and taken away, and then the horror would wake him up with his heart racing. He’d calm himself in the dark by reaching out to take hold of his wife’s sleeping body.

Peter had made his life-defining choice on that cold November day in Ipswich eight months before when that smug bastard Hearns finally got around to charging Greta with conspiracy to murder. That was the day that he had proposed marriage to her. It was his way of telling the world who he was and where he stood, and besides, he had grown to love Greta. He owed her so much, and there was not a day that passed that she did not fill him with a terrible aching desire. Marriage meant that she would never go away. Till death do us part.

Of course, the wedding announcement had caused a scandal, but Peter had been ready for that. He had done well in his job since becoming defense minister nearly three years before, and he had known that the prime minister would stand by him. In fact, Peter had almost welcomed the media circus that congregated on his doorstep at the time of the wedding. Answering the reporters’ questions had given him an opportunity to tell the whole world how he felt about Greta.

Then, two days later, a train had crashed in the north of England, killing thirty passengers, and the defense minister’s private life had become yesterday’s news. The media spotlight had only returned with the onset of the trial, and now it was not Peter but Greta who was suffering under its glare.

Once again Peter cursed the ridiculous legal rules that stopped him from being in court until after he’d given his evidence. Patrick Sullivan had been down at the Bailey with Greta for most of the trial, and this had helped a little because Patrick was Peter’s oldest friend as well as his lawyer. However it wasn’t the same as being in the courtroom himself sharing his wife’s ordeal. Miles Lambert had told him that he’d be giving his evidence on Wednesday or Thursday at the latest, and Peter looked forward to the prospect like a prisoner awaiting his release. He’d tell them what Greta was and wasn’t capable of and what kind of person she was. He’d tell them that Anne had worn that locket at dinner after the Chelsea Flower Show and that she and Greta had got on fine in London. He’d tell them that he hadn’t seen Anne wearing the locket on the day of her death, and he’d tell them that that sneak Matthew Barne had run away without answering when he’d asked him if Greta had said “It’s mine.” Peter had not seen Thomas since that October afternoon in Chelsea when he’d come home to find the two of them burgling his house, and he’d not missed him either. He didn’t intend to see his son again until the boy came to him on bended knees begging his forgiveness, and Greta’s too for that matter, and maybe even that wouldn’t be enough.

Peter felt he’d been just. God knows he’d been just. He hadn’t dismissed Jane Martin even though the old shrew richly deserved being thrown out on the street. Instead he’d allowed her to stay on in the House of the Four Winds because he knew that that was what Anne would have wanted. He’d been just and loyal, unlike his son, who’d gone through Greta’s underwear behind her back, and his son’s freckled friend, the Barne boy, who ran away because he was too scared to back up Thomas’s lies. Peter wasn’t like that. He stood up to be counted when it mattered, and he didn’t sneak into people’s homes and then tell lies about them to fat detectives like Hearns.

Hurrying from the Daimler as soon as it had drawn up outside the court entrance, Peter ignored the group of reporters who shouted meaningless questions at him as he passed. He took it as a good sign that they were so few in number. Most of them must still be inside feasting on Greta’s trial, and so perhaps he wasn’t going to be late after all.

In the great hall at the top of the stairs Peter almost collided with Patrick Sullivan, who was coming toward him from the lifts.

“Where’s Greta?” Peter asked anxiously. “I said I’d meet her here ten minutes ago. She must be looking for me.”

“It’s all right. She’s on her way down. The court only finished a couple of minutes ago.”

“How did it go?”

“Good. No, better than good. Miles did a fantastic job on Thomas.”

“About the locket? Greta told me he did well with the Barne boy.”

“He did. We’ve got the locket covered, but Miles did his real damage cross-examining Thomas about what happened two weeks ago. I wish you could have seen it.”

“You mean this business about Anne’s killers going back to get Thomas. I agree with Greta: he’s made the whole thing up. There’s not a shred of evidence to support his story apparently.”

“That’s right. It’s obvious he’s made it up because Miles was able to poke so many holes in what he said. The best one was when Thomas said he used his panic button to call the police and then when they got to the gate he buzzed them in through the intercom instead of telling them to go around and intercept these Lonny and Rosie characters in the lane.”

“Lonny and who?”

“Rosie. They’re these weird names that Thomas has dreamed up for the intruders. Rosie’s the main man though. He’s the one that Thomas saw under the streetlight and the one who took the locket on the night of the, the…”

Patrick’s voice trailed away. He always found it difficult to talk to Peter about the central event of the case, and it didn’t help that the main prosecution witness was Peter’s son.

“Didn’t Greta show you Thomas’s last statement?” Patrick asked in an attempt to get the conversation back onto more neutral ground.

“No, I didn’t,” said Greta, coming up on them from behind. “Peter’s got enough on his plate without having to read Thomas’s lies.”

Patrick was puzzled by the irritation evident in Greta’s voice. She had seemed so pleased upstairs only minutes earlier when they had come out of court.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just telling Peter how well everything had gone today.”

“Yes, it did go well, didn’t it?” said Greta. “Miles is a genius at what he does.” She kissed her husband. The anger had passed so rapidly from her face that it was as if it had never been there at all.

Peter did not respond to his wife’s greeting. It was almost as though he didn’t notice her presence. He had a faraway look in his eyes, and the deep lines on his forehead were furrowed even more than usual, as if he was immersed in some intense thought process.

“Are you all right, darling?” asked Greta solicitously. “You don’t look well.”

“Peter’s been overdoing it, I expect,” said Patrick, filling in for Peter’s lack of response.

“No, I’m fine. It’s been a long day for all of us,” said Peter, summoning up the ghost of a smile that flickered across his lips but never reached his distracted blue eyes.

“And I’m afraid it’s not over yet,” said Greta. “I’m supposed to have a conference with Miles to make sure we’ve got everything covered before I give evidence tomorrow.”

“When?” asked Peter. “Now?”

“No. Down at his chambers at six-thirty. I need to change first and have a drink.”

Patrick had already left and Greta was in the Daimler when Peter stepped back onto the sidewalk.

“I don’t feel very well for some reason, Greta. Will you wait for me while I just go back inside and use the bathroom? I won’t be long.”

Peter did not wait for his wife to reply but walked quickly through the courthouse doors. He wasn’t lying about not feeling well, although he had no intention of finding a bathroom. An alarm had been going off in Peter’s head ever since Patrick had told him about Rosie. He had made the connection instantaneously with what he had overheard Greta saying on the telephone the night that they had first slept together. It was the day of the funeral; the day when Greta got arrested and they had ended up in Greta’s flat, in Greta’s bed, and then the telephone rang in the middle of the night and she had said: ‘Don’t call me that. I’m not your Greta Rose.’ Peter was sure that that was what she’d said, and afterward she’d told him that that was her name before she came to London: Greta Rose because Rose was her grandmother’s name. Was that the truth, or was Greta connected to Anne’s killer? Peter had to know. Greta wouldn’t tell him. She hadn’t told him about the names in Thomas’s last statement. She’d told him not to read the statement in fact because he’d got enough on his plate without worrying about Thomas’s lies. Or maybe that was wrong, maybe he’d just never asked to see it. Peter could not be sure now. All he knew was that he needed to ask Thomas about this Rosie character. Had the other man called him Rose or Rosie? Was Rose his first name or his second? Was there a connection or was there not?

Peter did not stop to think whether his son could help him with any answers. All he knew was that there was no one else to whom he could put his questions.

He thought that there must be a chance that Thomas was still in the building. Hearns wouldn’t allow the boy to leave on his own, and Hearns himself might not have been ready to leave immediately. The detective always seemed to be busy with something. Peter had seen him in the courthouse corridors several times since the first morning of the trial carrying papers, talking sycophantically to barristers, looking self-important. It would be unlike Hearns to rush away straight after court, particularly if it had not gone well for the prosecution today.

The problem for Peter was that he didn’t know where to look for his son, and not only that: time was against him. Greta could not be relied upon to sit twiddling her fingers in the back of the Daimler forever.

There was no one in the witness waiting room and no sign of Hearns in the police room. Peter had just given up the search and was on his way downstairs when he ran straight into the detective and his son on the first-floor landing. It was the first time that Peter had seen Thomas since the day he’d thrown him out of his house the previous October, and he wouldn’t have known how to speak to him if the urgency of his need to know about Rosie had not overcome his inhibitions.

“I have to talk to you,” Peter said simply. He stood barring his son’s access to the stairs.

Thomas opened his mouth but no words came out. Astonishment seemed to have momentarily taken his voice away, and it was Hearns who responded to Peter’s approach.

“You’re a potential defense witness, Sir Peter. You should know better than to try to talk to a witness for the prosecution.”

“He’s my son,” said Peter.

“He’s also a prosecution witness,” said the detective, taking hold of Thomas’s arm to lead him away.

Hearns and Thomas walked over to the bank of elevators, and the detective pressed the call button. Peter did not follow. The excitement that had taken him up the courthouse stairs and across the great gulf that divided him from his son drained away as quickly as it had come, and Peter stood silent at the top of the stairs. A few seconds later the elevator arrived and swallowed up his son and the detective.

Peter waited for a moment before going downstairs. The great hall on the first floor was empty. Another day of justice and broken hearts was over, leaving only a litter of soft-drink cans and cigarette butts in the bins for the cleaners to empty that evening.

Peter turned away and began to go down the stairs. He took his time; it didn’t matter if Greta came up and found him now. He was halfway down the last flight leading to the entrance doors when a hand touched him on the shoulder. He turned around to find Thomas with a finger on his lips.

“Mr. Hearns is up on the landing,” Thomas whispered. “I’ve got to go back.”

“There’s something I need to ask you,” said Peter, keeping his voice as low as his son’s. “It won’t take a moment.”

“Not here. Later. I’ll be at Matthew’s. Call me there.”

“But I don’t have the number,” Peter said, but Thomas didn’t reply. He had already turned and gone back up the stairs. Peter followed a little way, and looking around the corner of the stone banister he saw Thomas standing between Hearns and another uniformed policeman.

Outside the courthouse Peter found Greta waiting for him on the pavement.

“Are you all right?” she asked solicitously. “You don’t look well.”

“No, I’m fine now.”

“Were you sick?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” he lied. “It must have been something I ate.”

“I don’t need to go this evening if you’re unwell, Peter. I can see Miles tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s vital that you’re fully prepared.”

“I suppose you’re right. It’s just that I get so tired sitting there day after day, listening to all those lies.”

“Patrick said that Thomas did really badly today though.”

“Yes, that went well.”

“He said that Miles shot him full of holes over his story about the men coming back.”

“Yes, it was obvious he’d made it all up.”

“Why didn’t you show me the statement he made about it, Greta?”

“Which statement?”

“The one that Thomas made about the men coming back.”

“I don’t know. I only got it just before the trial, and it didn’t seem something that you needed to worry about. I told you what had happened and that it was obvious he’d made it up, and you agreed. There didn’t seem anything else that we needed to say about it.”

“No, I suppose not,” Peter said, sounding as if he thought the opposite.

“Why are you suddenly so interested in all that?” asked Greta.

“I’m not. It’s just Patrick was saying that Miles made such a lot out of it when he was cross-examining Thomas today.”

There was silence between them. Peter was staring out the window, trying to suppress his consciousness of Greta looking at him, waiting for him to turn around. Eventually she lost patience.

“Did you see Thomas inside the courthouse when you went back just now, Peter? Is that what’s got you so upset?”

The insistence in Greta’s voice forced Peter to turn around to face his wife.

“No, of course not. I went back inside to throw up. I just told you that.” Peter tried to mask his anxiety with irritation. To his surprise the trick seemed to work. Greta sounded apologetic when she spoke again.

“All right, I was only asking,” she said. “There’s no harm in that. I’m sorry you were sick.”

“It doesn’t sound like it,” he said.

“Don’t be silly.”

Greta kissed him lightly on the cheek and Peter smiled before turning with relief back to his window, where the stone wall of the Chelsea Embankment was flying past alongside the car. He looked out over the river wondering where Matthew Barne lived. He needed to ask Thomas about Rosie, but would Thomas tell him the truth? Peter felt that there was no one he could really trust. He wanted to believe in Greta, and he was almost sure he did, but asking her about Rose again, telling her about the connection, would make her think that he didn’t believe, and that would be disastrous for both of them. Peter felt that he’d already said too much. Greta was looking at him strangely again as they got out of the car.

“I think I’ll stay here,” she said. “I don’t want you to be on your own when you’re sick. Miles will understand.”

“No, Greta, that’s a mistake. I know it is. You’ll be rushed in the morning, watching the clock. You won’t be able to concentrate.”

“It’s not that bad, darling,” Greta said, smiling. “Perhaps you’re right though. I’ll feel better when I’ve had a drink. Be a love and make one for me while I go and change.”

Peter waited in the drawing room, listening to the sound of his wife’s footfalls on the stairs leading up to the top story. He eyed the telephone, feeling like a snake. It was sitting on top of the desk in which Thomas had found the locket. Greta used the bureau now, and Peter wondered if she had put anything in the secret drawer to replace the locket. For the hundredth time he tried to visualize Anne as he had seen her on the day of her death: at lunch, lying on the sofa, passing him on the stairs. He didn’t think she was wearing the locket, but he couldn’t be sure. He hadn’t known that it was the day of Anne’s death; he hadn’t known that he was looking at her alive for the last time.

I’m not your Greta Rose. Not anymore. But had she been once? Peter had to know. He picked up the telephone and dialed directory assistance. Matthew Barne’s number was unlisted and Peter was about to give up when he remembered the school. He was a parent, a tuition-paying parent. Carstow would give him the number; they had no reason not to.

Soon he was speaking to Thomas.

“What do you want, Dad?” Thomas’s voice was wary, but at least the word Dad implied a recognition of a relationship between them.

“I want to speak to you, to ask you something.”

“About what?”

“About Rosie.”

There was a silence at the end of the telephone, and Peter thought for a moment that they had been disconnected.

“Thomas, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

“I can’t speak for much longer. Will you meet me?”

“I don’t know.”

Another silence, and Peter could hear Greta coming down the stairs.

“There’s no time. I’ll meet you on Chelsea Town Hall steps at six-thirty.”

“Where’s that?”

“Around the corner from the house.”

Peter put the phone down just as Greta came into the room.

“Who was that?”

“Just someone from the Ministry.”

“What’s he doing around the corner from the house?”

“The House of Commons. That’s where I’m meeting him next week.”

The lie slipped easily from Peter’s tongue, and Greta seemed to accept his answer. She took the drink from his hand and kissed him as she did so, allowing her lips to move over his so that he was suddenly filled with desire.

She caught the look in his eye and moved away from him, smiling. Her power over him was still undiluted.

“Not now, darling, or I won’t be able to concentrate. Besides, I’m wearing my giving-evidence dress. It’s a dry run for tomorrow. What do you think?”

“I think it’s perfect.” Peter was being no less than honest. The black dress was of a perfect cut and length. Her breasts were high and pronounced, but there was no trace of cleavage. He had never seen Greta looking so beautiful.

The time passed slowly. Peter’s mind was in confusion, but he tried not to show it, hiding behind government papers on the sofa. But something must have alerted Greta to his anxiety. Perhaps it was the way he kept glancing up at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Several times she asked him what was wrong, and several times she wondered aloud about canceling the conference with Miles Lambert.

At five past six the bell rang and Greta gathered up her papers and went down to the car. On the doorstep she hesitated and took hold of her husband by the arm.

“I can rely on you, Peter, can’t I?” she said.

“Yes. Yes, of course you can.” He avoided her eyes as he spoke.