‘Not much, but Dawson thinks it’s enough.’

  ‘Any fingerprints on the murder weapon?’

  ‘No. It was wrapped in a cloth and wiped clean.’

  ‘And the glove?’

  ‘They’re running more tests, said it’s complicated. It’s going to be Debbie’s though, like everyone thinks.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean she killed her.’

  Constance was silent.

  ‘How is Debbie bearing up?’

  ‘Pretty awful. The male prison hasn’t helped. She didn’t sleep at all the first two nights. Luckily, I found her certificate yesterday, so they’re processing it and finding her a women’s prison.’

  ‘I don’t expect them to hurry.’

  ‘Now I’m preparing the bail application, I’m not sure if it’s a good idea. Once people know she’s out, there’s likely to be another siege of her flat. She might do better to stay inside, especially if she’s relocating to the women’s prison.’

  ‘What about the children?’

  ‘Ben, he’s just 16. He’s moved in with Laura for now. And, like Debbie said, their uncle is around – Ellis Harper.’

  ‘Ah yes, the sponger.’

  ‘I saw him.’

  ‘You saw him?’

  ‘At Rosie’s house. He came, he said, to get some clothes for Ben. The policeman wouldn’t let him in.’

  ‘Quite right too. Did you talk to him?’

  ‘I decided not to. It didn’t seem like a good time. He was in a rush and I don’t think he even noticed me. I talked to Laura though, yesterday. She’s a tough one.’

  ‘Tough?’

  ‘She was back at work already, seems quite detached about it all. Definitely no tears.’

  ‘Grief does funny things to people.’

  ‘True, but she was…almost excited at the prospect of her father being on trial. When I told her we were still trying to find another killer, she seemed disappointed.’

  ‘Does she think Debbie killed her mother?’

  ‘No. Well, I didn’t ask outright.’

  ‘You didn’t ask her?’

  ‘You always tell me not to ask those kind of questions...when you don’t know the answer.’

  Judith swallowed a large mouthful of coffee.

  ‘That’s when we’re in court,’ she said. ‘It might be useful to know what a potential key witness will say in a trial of her father for killing her mother on the crucial question, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’ll talk to her again, but she implied that their split was to protect Rosie from embarrassment.’

  ‘That’s good, then, I think. Anything else?’

  ‘I don’t think she and Rosie really got on.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Just things she said.’

  ‘And Ben?’

  ‘I’m meeting him tomorrow. Debbie doesn’t want him to give evidence.’

  ‘Ah. We can consider that more as we prepare. Any other leads?’

  ‘Not yet, but I’ll try other family. And I’ll also see Jason Fenwick, the other presenter. I thought you’d like to come along?’

  ‘Perfect. Anything else of interest?’

  ‘All sorts of stuff, although most of it is just gossip; that Rosie and Danny were having money problems, some “has been” footballer saying Debbie was hard to work with. Early on, there was some positive stuff, focusing on how they’d been the perfect celebrity couple, everyone wanted to be like them, what a role model Danny was for young men.’

  ‘But that was before the arrest?’

  ‘Yes. Since then most of what I’ve read has been negative, like I said: quotes from footballers – quite nasty stuff; a “friend” of Rosie’s and even their marriage guidance counsellor.’

  ‘I saw that, yes. In The Sun, wasn’t it? Saying that Debbie went to the sessions, but didn’t try hard enough. That must be a total breach of her duty of confidentiality. Let’s hope all her clients read it and drop her like a stone.’

  ‘There’s one really awful photo of Debbie when she was half-way through transitioning, which at least three papers have used.’

  ‘Awful in what way?’

  ‘I’ll find it for you. It’s when she was growing her hair, so it’s all sticking up and she has lipstick on, but no face makeup. And I’m sure they’ve photoshopped it. You’ll see what I mean. In one photo it’s not too bad. In another, they’ve sort of made the area around her chin all grey, so she looks sinister. And God knows where they got it from.’

  ‘You know they can do anything these days with photographs.’

  ‘And…well you might already know this, if you’ve been looking at the historic stuff… Just before the Euro ’96 quarter final, Danny got in a bit of trouble.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘He was caught with another player at a bar in Málaga. They were drinking heavily; lying back over the bar, girls pouring spirits into their mouths. The photos were on all the front pages and the headlines, “the Duck is plucked” and other less polite rhymes.’

  ‘The Duck?’

  ‘It’s what they called Danny, the fans. They used to quack when he got the ball. You might have heard it, if you watched some of the later matches.’

  Judith frowned. ‘Not the best nickname for a footballer, is it? What about the lion? Or the cheetah? What happened then?’

  ‘They were almost sent home, but the manager pleaded for them. It was Danny’s birthday. Once Danny scored his wonder goal, the next day, it was all forgotten by the public, but it didn’t make him popular with the FA.’

  ‘No, I can see that. And you’re worried there might be other unsavoury stories waiting to emerge?’

  ‘Aren’t you? I mean, a Premier League footballer?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought, but you’re probably right. We should try to find a friendly football fan then, or a contemporary of Danny’s. Someone who can tell us the worst, but who won’t talk.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. And, this may be nothing, but the Mail is hinting that the glove the police found at the scene was planted?’

  ‘How does the press even know about the glove?’

  ‘Same way they knew, early on, about the chase and managed to take photos, I suppose.’

  ‘Poor Charlie, that’s all he needs on top of the fuss about pursuing Debbie. That’s what I mean. We can’t even let the police do their jobs, these days. Maybe it was better when we were all ignorant, you know, back in the early twentieth century, when you just did as you were told and stood in line and respected people cleverer than you.’

  ‘You don’t really mean that, do you?’ Constance said.

  Judith laughed. ‘No, not entirely.’

  ‘One other thing. There’s loads of stuff on Twitter today too,’ Constance changed the subject. ‘I think it will make the mainstream news.’

  ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘Someone from a women’s group launched a poll. You had to vote if you thought Debbie was guilty or not, but you had the option to list your sexuality and gender when you voted. They tweeted the results and it’s all got a bit nasty.’

  ‘Ah!’ Judith folded up the paper she had been reading and shoved it towards the centre of the table. ‘I’m surprised it’s taken so long for the battle lines to be drawn,’ she said. ‘What does this important poll show, to the extent these things show anything at all?’

  ‘They reported 90% of transgender people thought Debbie was innocent and 65% of everyone else thought she was guilty.’

  ‘65%! Before one shred of evidence.’

  ‘The chase.’

  ‘Circumstantial. Doesn’t prove Debbie did it.’

  ‘You said the chase was incriminating. It was the first thing you said when we spoke.’

  ‘Superficially, yes, of course. To ordinary people and…sensationalists.’

  Constance bit her lip.

  ‘How has it got nasty?’ Judith asked.

  ‘I don’t even know where to start. They’re saying it’s wrong to tell people the voting split, said it engenders transphobic tweets. And they’re right. Loads of stuff about how Debbie is “unnatural”, including from the religious lobby, pretty much encouraging people to stone her. You get the picture.

  ‘Then there’s two of the girls from the team she manages now, saying what a wonderful coach Debbie is and that’s led to loads of horrible things about how she’s only around young girls because she wants to see them in the showers. Honestly, I could spend all day reading it and not even scratch the surface and some of it is…horrific. I just hope Debbie hasn’t seen any of it.’

  ‘This is our wonderful democracy at its best then,’ Judith sighed. ‘I think we can be fairly confident that Debbie won’t be seeking it out. But everyone else will have seen it, including her children and potential jurors. We’ll have to be prepared.’

  Judith took her blue notebook from her bag and wrote the date at the top of the first page.

  ‘Some things never change, then,’ Constance giggled.

  ‘That’s unfair,’ Judith laughed too. ‘I have embraced many aspects of twenty-first-century technology, I even have an electric toothbrush! But the feel of the words is as important as their look and sound; the shapes they make when I write them down.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Judith sat back and placed both hands flat on top of her newspapers. ‘What is it?’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Something’s bothering you.’

  ‘All right,’ Constance stopped typing. ‘Given the timing, the case is likely to fall within the new “public transparency” pilot scheme. It’s going to be filmed for public viewing.’

  ‘I anticipated that.’

  ‘And you’re OK with it?’

  ‘Not really,’ Judith shook her head. ‘But you’re the one who’s always telling me to move with the times.’

  ‘I was so worried what you were going to say,’ Constance spluttered, then broke out in a broad grin. ‘I can see that it could be a really positive thing,’ she continued. ‘I mean, it’s great for us, because we can watch the prosecution witnesses later on, really see their reactions when you ask them questions, rather than relying on memory.’

  ‘And see where we’ve slipped up – all the questions I should have asked, but forgot…’

  ‘And, it helps our witnesses too. You’re often saying how difficult witnesses find it being in court, when it’s such an alien atmosphere. This way, they get to see the process over and over in other cases, before they give their evidence.’

  ‘I wish I could share your enthusiasm. I just see it as another nail in the coffin of the professions. First, they devalued teachers, then doctors and now it’s our turn. Show enough court cases on TV and then every wannabe Harvey Specter will want to have a go. But if Debbie’s case is in the scheme, there’s nothing we can do, so no point complaining.’

  Constance was silent. Judith’s stoic response was considerably better than expected.

  ‘What about motive?’ Judith asked.

  ‘That’s the thing; there isn’t one. Well, there’s this whisper of “money trouble”, like I said, but it’s just gossip and Dawson is trying to say there’s a history of violence. I told you about the 999 call.’

  ‘So the prosecution will most likely play it as a domestic incident, the culmination of months or years of abuse. Debbie’s admitted she was there, too. All right. I’m going to wade through the papers and make some notes. Shout if anything jumps out at you. Otherwise, let’s break in an hour for another brainstorm.’

  Judith grabbed the top newspaper and peered in close. Constance watched her for a moment. She was pleased that Judith was here, wasn’t she? If she’d instructed someone else, she wouldn’t have the same collaborative approach. Most barristers expected her to do all the work and they just picked up the papers at the court door. Judith wasn’t like that, partly because she didn’t need the work or the money. She just loved solving the puzzle.

  ‘Did you used to do them, when you were younger?’ Constance asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Jigsaw puzzles.’

  Judith finished her coffee.

  ‘Yes. Didn’t you? Or was there some new-fangled version you completed, online, in your youth.’

  ‘No. There were jigsaws, but I didn’t have any.’ Constance thought back to the tiny flat she and Jermain had shared with her mum, not far from where they were now. Maybe she had completed some jigsaws when she was really young, those wooden ones that nursery school kids use. But she couldn’t remember owning the more difficult variety, the 500 or 1,000 piece landscapes; a scenic railway, a forest, a cityscape: Rio de Janeiro, Venice, New York.

  She watched Judith at work and, feeling the heat of her gaze, Judith looked up and smiled at her. She smiled back and returned to her laptop and Google searches.

  12

  Constance walked the half a mile to Laura Mallard’s flat the next day, where Uncle Ellis opened the door and welcomed her inside. The neighbouring bistro was full of customers tucking into elaborate breakfasts, as the sounds of children’s voices rang out from the playground of the nearby school, and Constance was pleased that there was no flicker of recognition from her sighting of Ellis outside Rosie’s house.

  ‘It was good of you to come here. I’m not sure Ben would have made it to you,’ Ellis said, showing Constance into a small double-aspect living room, with floor-to-ceiling windows, and a kitchen replete with shiny white units and black granite tops. Constance peered into the sink, where a frying pan was soaking. Ellis shrugged.

  ‘I thought I could tempt him. He’s hardly eaten for days,’ he said.

  Constance sat down at the small, wooden table in the centre of the room and switched on her tablet. Ellis knocked on the door facing her.

  ‘Ben, are you up? The solicitor’s here, the one defending your dad. Are you OK to talk to her?’ He threw her a reassuring glance over his shoulder, as he waited for a response.

  Constance looked around the flat. There was a low sofa by the far window, its three cushions perfectly plumped and evenly spaced, no newspapers or clutter anywhere. Laura evidently kept a very tidy pad. The walls were painted white and were empty of adornment, but there was a framed black-and-white photograph by the toaster, featuring Danny Mallard holding the hand of a young, blond female mascot, on a pitch in a large stadium. The photographer had focused on the girl, rather than the football star and her expression was one of absolute cool confidence, as she stared straight into the lens.

  ‘You like it?’ Ellis said, following her gaze. He picked up the photo and handed it to Constance for a closer look. ‘She’s always been like that, Laura has,’ he said. ‘Nothing phases her. Eighty thousand people watching and she just marches right out there.’

  ‘I suppose she had her dad at her side,’ Constance said, now able to see the likeness between the feisty subject of the photo and the young woman who had visited her only yesterday.

  ‘Yeah. Even so, a cool customer. She used to play, you know. She was pretty good.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re a proud uncle.’

  Ellis reclaimed the photo and replaced it on the kitchen surface. Then the bedroom door opened and Ben walked towards them. Constance thought him younger than his sixteen years, his pale skin smooth and unblemished, his chest narrow. As he moved, his jaw muscles were working furiously to control his face. Ellis hovered beside his nephew, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder and guiding him to the seat next to Constance.

  ‘Hello Ben. Thank you for letting me come today,’ Constance began. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t easy for you.’

  ‘Will it help Dad?’ Ben’s voice was reedy and weak. He cleared his throat.

  ‘I don’t know till I hear what you have to say, but that’s what I’m hoping.’

  ‘I should leave you two to talk,’ Ellis said.

  ‘It’s not necessary, if Ben wants you to stay.’

  ‘I don’t want to interfere. I’ll go for a walk for, what, half an hour? See if I can find something nice in the shops for lunch. Ben can call me if you finish early.’

  He waved a set of keys at them and departed. When the door closed behind Ellis, Ben stared at Constance.

  ‘It’s nice of your uncle to come over. Does he live nearby?’ she began.

  ‘Near Amersham, but he’s staying in London for now, to help out.’ Ben spoke quietly.

  ‘That’s kind. Were he and your mum close?’

  ‘He lived abroad for a while, in Hong Kong. I’m not even sure when he came back, but they stayed close, yes.’

  Constance waited for Ben to continue.

  ‘Laura said it would help Dad for me to talk to you,’ Ben finally said. ‘He didn’t kill her. He didn’t kill Mum. I don’t know how they can say he did. If you knew Dad, I mean, he’s a good person. He does all sorts of stuff now, with sport, to help people. And they loved each other. They really did. He would never have hurt her. You believe that, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Constance tried to keep her voice even. ‘I’m pleased that’s what you think. I need to ask you a few questions now, if that’s OK?’

  ‘Will I have to go to the trial?’

  ‘Tell me what you know and then I can decide if it will help your dad or not. Like I said to Laura, we’re still optimistic that the police will find some other leads.’

  ‘Is that what they said?’ Ben said.

  ‘They have to keep some things to themselves. So, on 17th June, the day your mum was killed, can you tell me anything about that day, what you remember?’

  ‘Nothing special. I got up, went to school. That’s it.’

  ‘Did you come straight home after school?’

  ‘I went back to a friend’s place. When I got home, there were police everywhere. They wouldn’t let me see her.’

  ‘That must have been very upsetting. They wanted to protect you. And it’s standard practice. They couldn’t risk contaminating the crime scene.’ As she said the words, Constance reflected on how empty they must seem to Ben. ‘Going back to that morning,’ she continued, ‘where was your mum? What was she doing?’