Chapter 13
Miss Goodly pulls her usual stunt of asking no further questions so finally they’re out of court.
The judge has run through the same stuff as before, no internet research, don’t talk to anyone about the case, and they’re free to go.
They collect their stuff from the jury room.
Matthew finds himself next to Jasmine and Sarah, the two younger women who are sitting at the end of his row.
‘I wish they’d tell us more about Christian,’ Jasmine says. ‘I can’t get her face out of my mind. I shouldn’t have looked at those photos.’
Sarah pats her on the shoulder, consoling. ‘You’re bearing witness. It was the right thing to do, to look at them. That advocate was trying to get inside our heads to say she didn’t look shit-scared, but she bloody well did.’
Matthew nearly nods but decides to hold his own counsel. Time enough to discuss the case when it’s at its conclusion. Right now it’s too early to say. He doesn’t disagree, though.
‘What I want to know, is what exactly they’re saying happened to her? How does this all fit together?’ Jasmine says.
‘I guess we’ll find out,’ Matthew says. ‘There’ll be more tomorrow.’
With that, they leave the building. He takes in a breath of the late afternoon air, relieved to leave the air-conditioned sterility of the courtroom behind, but any sense of escape is short-lived.
Matthew needs to switch on his phone, and he knows it’s going to be bad.
A series of pings confirms his suspicion.
He’s at the top of the Playfair Steps now, looking down at Princes Street, the Grecian splendour of the gallery buildings, and an urge takes hold of him to throw his phone away, watch it bouncing down the stairs until its face smashes into a thousand tiny pieces.
He lifts his hand, brings his arm back, and—
‘Watch it,’ a passer-by says. He’s bashed her on the shoulder as he’s prepared to throw.
Matthew brings his phone back down in front of him, the urge suppressed.
He needs to catch a grip. While he walks down the stairs, he box-breathes – count for four in, hold for four, count for four out – and by the time he’s at the bottom he’s regained control.
There’s a bit of time still before the dinner at the New Club he’s due to attend on his boss’s behalf.
He could go home, shower, scrub up a bit.
But he’s already in a suit and it’s not like there’s traces of any surgery under his fingernails.
He’ll do. He heads right into Princes Street Gardens, finding a bench that’s overlooked by the Scott Monument.
Taking another deep breath, he picks up his phone and has a look.
Too many messages. More than he can deal with.
There will be millions of emails waiting on his computer at home, too.
But what is there to say? It’s his civic duty, his public responsibility to spend this time away from the hospital, from his family.
He was meant to be on holiday next week, anyway – they’d already taken him off the rota at work.
Rosalind will just have to suck it up. Instead of reading everything, wading his way through all their reproaches, he deletes every single message without reading it.
No good will come from them, and the senders know all they need to know from the messages he sent out earlier himself informing them that he had been selected for the trial.
When he reaches Olivia’s name, he pauses.
She’s sent only one message – Hope it’s interesting.
I’d love to hear about it if you do get a trial.
The first from anyone today not to be full of reproach.
A warmth creeps up him. He’d been getting bored with her; it might be nice in some respects that she’s in her twenties, but it’s not like they’ve got much in common.
Maybe he should reconsider, though. Rosalind’s going to be away for a week, after all.
Perhaps they could meet up for a drink .
. . He doesn’t reply, but hers is the only message that he doesn’t delete.
He puts his phone in his pocket. The air is mild and it’s nice to be outside, sitting on a bench like any normal member of the public.
Even if he doesn’t have a smartphone. It’s for the best. He can see himself now, typing the letters spelling Christian Shaw into it, Eliza and Isobel’s names too, sinking into the depths of the online discussions he’s sure are easily to be found.
Fortunately, that temptation is out of his reach with his basic brick.
He leans back against the bench, enjoying the breeze, the sight of the leaves fluttering against the blue sky above him.
A woman walks past and as she gets to the level of the bench, she pauses, a faint floral scent shimmering around her.
This catches his attention, and he moves his gaze to her.
Immediately he’s transfixed. It’s her. The blonde from court.
He’d forgotten his fixation for a while, distracted by the images of the dead girl and the occult happenings in the shed.
Thoughts of Olivia, too. But now it returns full force.
She’s older than he thought but it suits her, only a few lines round her eyes giving it away.
Pale skin, even white teeth, lips caught in a half-smile as if to say it’s you, of course.
He’s struck with a sense of instant recognition.
He knows her, that’s the only way he can describe it.
He raises his hand, about to greet her, when a phone rings from somewhere, the shrill sound breaking the spell.
He looks away. When he looks back, she’s gone, a faint scent of roses the only sign that she was there. He looks down the path in the direction she was walking but he can only see a group of tourists, schoolchildren weaving their way between them. He blinks, blinks again. He can’t have imagined it.
Can he?
It’s warm, the air fragrant, his thoughts pleasant.
Matthew lingers where he’s sitting, his doubts passed.
She was there. So maybe she’ll walk back, maybe this time she’ll smile, sit down next to him, they’ll talk, their hands will touch, perhaps her head will move closer, closer to his shoulder and then—
A group of teenagers run past him, boys in red blazers, girls in school uniform with their skirts rucked up nearly past their bums. One of the girls is telling one of the boys to fuck off with such enjoyment that it brings Matthew straight back down to earth.
The sun’s behind the buildings now and he realises that it’s getting chilly, his legs stiff from all the sitting of the day.
He checks his watch – time to get to the New Club.
As he walks back along Princes Street Gardens it strikes him that perhaps he should have gone home to change after all.
His shirt is less than pristine, his suit rumpled.
It’s not going to impress the visiting dignitaries Dominic has asked him to entertain, surgeons from Singapore and Australia, here on their way to discuss latest breakthroughs at a conference in Aberdeen.
On the other hand, he’s got an excuse. He’ll be able to regale them with tales of his jury experience.
Obviously not discussing the details of the case – the judge’s warnings have landed with him heavily enough – but all human interest is there to be found in the courtroom.
At least, by the time Matthew has finished describing it all, it will be.
The doctors will be delighted to hear about something that isn’t medical – no talking shop at this dinner.
By the time he’s at the front door to the club he’s almost bouncing with excitement at how the evening is going to go.
Normally he hates dinners like this, can’t stand the aggression that always lurks under the surface, the I can cut through a sternum with one hand kind of thing, but he’s got a dead pigeon he can lay before them, spatchcocked for their entertainment.
‘What did you say the name was?’ the doorman says. He’s short, broad. Matthew wouldn’t fuck with him.
‘Matthew Phillips.’
‘Hold on a minute, sir.’ The inner door closes.
Matthew might be off Princes Street, but he’s not inside the sanctum.
Not yet. He really should sort out membership, then he’d be spared all this.
Stupid he hasn’t done it before. But there’s always been someone else going, people who can sign him in, stand him whiskies, the school dinners that pass for fine dining in this revered establishment.
He’ll ask Dominic. Hell, he’d be able to put it through as an expense.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but you must be mistaken about the date.’ The doorman has returned.
‘No, it’s tonight. I’m sure of it.’
‘We’ve double-checked our records, sir, and there’s no booking in your name. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
‘But—’
Four men in suits come through the inner door and push past Matthew at that point, a haze of alcohol and stale cigar smoke surrounding them.
Matthew tries to push forward into the club, but somehow the doorman manages to manoeuvre it so that as they leave the building, he does too, the large wooden door closing with a click that’s more final than any resounding slam.