Chapter 48
Chapter Forty-Eight
Time spent in prison: six years, eight months
Jennifer Ripley stood at the window in a room on the third floor of the Clermont Hotel in Charing Cross and looked out over London.
The hustle and bustle of the capital city was a far cry from the quiet streets of Whitby.
As much as she enjoyed her visits to London and supported her husband whenever she could, she didn’t think she’d be able to live here.
All she could hear was the constant noise of traffic and sirens.
Even last night while she was trying to sleep, the sound of the streets broke her dreams. As did Malcolm’s snoring.
He was out like a light. Today was a big day for him.
It could be for her, too, if everything went the way it should.
She looked at her watch. It was a little after five o’clock.
Surely it wouldn’t be long before Malcolm returned.
It was a five-minute drive from Downing Street.
But would he come straight back or go to the offices and introduce himself to his new staff who were no doubt waiting for him?
That’s if he’d been given a position in the first place.
But then, if he hadn’t, why summon him? So many thoughts were charging around Jennifer’s mind.
She went over to the king-size bed and sat on the edge.
All day, Malcolm had been in meetings, leaving her alone to see the sights the capital had to offer.
She wasn’t interested in shopping. There wasn’t anything here she couldn’t get up north at much cheaper prices.
She met up with an old university friend she had lost touch with.
While Jennifer was content with a backstreet solicitor’s office in East Yorkshire, Juliet Wilson was swanning the corridors of the Old Bailey.
They met at a wine bar and had a good catch-up.
Juliet’s stories were all of high-profile cases, successful trials, swanky parties and the renovations of her penthouse apartment.
While Jennifer found it interesting, she wasn’t the slightest bit jealous.
She enjoyed her life, her clients, her cases, and the charity, and she wouldn’t swap it for the world.
She had refilled her glass, sat back in the velvet chair and listened to her old friend’s glamorous life.
It was good to forget everything for a few hours.
Once back in the hotel room, she remembered the reason for her and Malcolm visiting London and the nerves took hold once again.
It was almost seven o’clock when the hotel room door opened. Jennifer had nodded off and she was woken by her husband pushing her hair out of her eyes and behind her ears and planting a kiss on her forehead.
‘Hello sleepyhead,’ he said softly.
She looked up at his smiling face. There was a note of triumph about him. His eyes sparkled, his face was red, and nothing would take that grin from his lips.
‘You got it.’ It wasn’t a question.
‘I got it.’
Jennifer sat up and wrapped her arms around her husband, kissing him hard on the lips.
‘You are now looking at the Secretary of State for the Home Department, commonly known as the Home Secretary,’ Malcolm beamed.
Jennifer took a breath. ‘I can’t believe it! I’m so proud of you.’ She placed both hands on his face and kissed him passionately. He fell on top of her, and she wrapped her legs around him.
He sat up and began taking off his jacket and tie. ‘Let’s make that baby,’ he grinned.
She returned his smile. ‘Let’s do it.’
The next morning, they woke late and ordered room service.
Malcolm had gone for eggs Benedict while Jennifer stuck to scrambled eggs on granary toast. They sat in their matching dressing gowns, basking in the glow of their love-making.
She’d stopped taking the contraceptive pill almost a year ago and was thankful their busy lives meant they didn’t have much chance for sex, despite Malcolm being overly keen to start a family.
The closer he came to being named a member of the Cabinet, the more he wanted a child.
It would look good to the Prime Minister, to the press, to the voters, for the new Home Secretary to be a family man.
Jennifer knew what Malcolm was doing was blatantly self-serving, and she didn’t want a child to be born to further its father’s career.
Love should be the first priority for a child, not status.
As she sat at the dressing table and combed her hair, she realised she was doing the same thing.
She was using the potential of having a child to please the new Home Secretary, her husband, and get him on board to help get Anthony Winstanley’s case fast-tracked to a retrial or a pardon.
She suddenly felt guilty and crossed her fingers there wasn’t a new life growing inside her.
There was a knock on the door. Breakfast was here. They sat down at the table and Jennifer poured them both a cup of coffee.
‘I, er, I had a call last week from Freya Sloan,’ Jennifer began, once they were eating.
‘Oh yes?’ Malcolm scooped up some eggs onto his fork.
‘Yes. She’s tracked down Alison Barnaby.’
‘Who?’
‘One of the prostitutes who gave a statement about Anthony Winstanley. She didn’t appear in court, but her statement was put forward as evidence. Anyway, she told Freya that DI Bishop paid her twenty pounds to give that statement.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ She looked at him hopefully.
‘It doesn’t help you, though, does it?’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, she wasn’t in court. She didn’t go on the witness stand and lie under oath, did she? All you’ve got is confirmation of what you already know; that Bishop was dodgy.’
‘True, but don’t you see what it means? If one of the women was paid to lie, the others were, too.’
‘You don’t know that for sure.’
‘Not for sure, no, but it’s a possibility.’
‘Anything’s a possibility,’ he said, picking up his coffee cup and taking a sip. ‘I’ve got a Cabinet meeting at ten. What are your plans for the day?’
‘I haven’t decided yet. Going back to Anthony—’
‘No,’ he said firmly, slamming his cup down on the table.
‘I’m tired of hearing his name, Jennifer.
You know, months can go by without you mentioning him, and then suddenly we get a short burst of you bending over backwards to get him released, and then it’s silence again.
Is this some kind of pet project for you?
Because if it is, it’s not fair on him or his mother. ’
Jennifer looked at him with daggers. ‘No, it is not a pet project. You know how slow this process is, and the charity has a small budget and a lot of cases to work on. I’d love to prioritise Anthony’s case, but it’s not possible. We’ve now finally got the chance to do something worthwhile here.’
He looked at her in silence. Suddenly, the penny dropped. ‘We?’ he asked.
‘You’re Home Secretary. You have the power to have Anthony’s case looked at by the Appeals Court. A major miscarriage of justice has occurred and it—’
‘Hang on a minute.’ He held up his hands. ‘Why would I want to get involved in this?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Jennifer, I don’t know how many times we’re going to have this same conversation, but it’s starting to wear thin, and frankly, I’m starting to get seriously pissed off,’ he said.
There was acid in his tone. ‘Now, one final time, Anthony was found guilty. The verdict was unanimous. He’s behind bars, where he should be. End of story.’
Jennifer sat back. ‘You’re not going to help?’
‘No. I’m not.’
‘Anthony is innocent.’
‘You need to stop saying that. You will do your career, and the charity, no good at all if you continue to associate with a rapist and a murderer.’
‘I believe him,’ she said firmly.
‘Then you’re a fool.’ He slapped his napkin down on the plate and stood up from the table.
‘What did you call me?’
‘You need to move on, Jennifer. I don’t know how else to say it, but you need to listen to me. Move on.’
The phone on Malcolm’s side of the bed rang. He answered it, said a few words, then hung up.
‘There’s a journalist downstairs who wants to do a quick interview. I’d better jump in the shower. I’ll be back late.’
Jennifer didn’t say anything more. She remained seated at the small table in front of the window in silence. Malcolm’s words echoed around her mind. She felt crushed.
Minutes later, he was out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist.
‘Did I bring those cufflinks?’ he asked, opening his suitcase. ‘Yes, I did.’ He looked up at Jennifer. ‘Did you say what you were doing today?’
‘No. I haven’t decided.’
‘Oh. Plenty of shops around here. Why don’t you get yourself something nice? Lots of posh dinners coming our way,’ he said with a smile before heading back into the bathroom.
‘You’ll be going to them on your bloody own,’ she said under her breath.
She waited until Malcolm dressed, kissed her on the cheek and left the room leaving behind a haze of overpriced fragrance he’d liberally sprayed on himself. She threw her clothes into her case and went for a quick shower. If she hurried, she could be back in Whitby before teatime.