The Rapunzel Act, page 32
‘That depends.’
‘What does it depend on?’
‘On what surgery you have.’
‘How much did your surgery cost?’
Judith stood up to object, careful to keep her voice even, after the judge’s last reprimand. ‘Your honour. We are, again, delving into personal and irrelevant material.’
‘Mr Laidlaw, where are you going with all this?’
‘Your honour, it is the prosecution case that Danny Mallard took these sums from the joint account he shared with Rosie Harper, in order to fund his surgery. And that this is part of the reason why they argued on the day she died.’
‘Do you know where the money went?’ Judith was crisp in her question, addressed to Laidlaw.
‘I’m in the middle of cross-examining your witness. I won’t be cross-examined by you,’ Laidlaw snapped.
‘If you’re unable to show a chain of payment from the account to whoever conducted my client’s surgery, then this is no more than rumour and supposition, and your line of questioning shouldn’t be allowed.’ Judith focused on Judge Nolan. ‘Your honour, even if these payments were taken by Debbie, which she has already denied, Rosie Harper’s salary was in the region of £12,000 per month. She was very well paid. These were not sums which would render her destitute!’
Judge Nolan stared at Debbie, who was sitting calmly, hands folded, waiting for direction as to what to do next. Then she stared at Laidlaw.
‘Mr Laidlaw, have you investigated who or what are ABC Happy and the other company, the apparent recipients of this money?’ Judge Nolan asked.
‘We know that Debbie Mallard had surgery in April 2017 and February 2018 and these payments coincide almost exactly in time. We also know that the operations she undertook cost in the region of these sums. What we don’t have is 100% confirmation that the money was used to pay for the operations. But it cannot be a coincidence, your honour. You must see that.’
‘I can’t allow further questions on this issue without evidence that this money was used as you suggest. If you can get it before the end of the trial, I’ll allow you to recall the defendant, failing which I’ll direct the jury to ignore it. Continue please.’
The knot which had begun to tie itself around Judith’s stomach began to slowly unwind. Judge Nolan appeared to have remembered her obligations.
‘Going back to your managerial position at West Ham. Did you like the job?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you lost it in 2017?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why was that?’
‘I disagreed with George, the owner, on some issues. We thought it best I leave.’
‘Did that disagreement involve the use of physical violence?’
‘No.’
‘Why did the newspapers think it did?’
‘It sold more papers than the truth.’
There was a laugh from the public gallery, which echoed long after Judge Nolan’s frown silenced the culprit.
‘George Scopos didn’t deny it, though, when he was asked to comment.’
‘No. But if I had hit him, why weren’t the police called? Why didn’t they arrest me?’
‘Quite. Perhaps that’s another question which requires an answer. But not today. All right, Let’s move on. Were you jealous of Rosie?’
‘Jealous? Never.’
‘The fact that her career was going forwards in leaps, while you were training a fourth division women’s side.’
‘No.’
‘Are you certain? It’s often hard to be eclipsed by a partner or spouse.’
‘I was happy for her. And I was happy too.’
‘Really? You had to move out of the family home into a flat, you lost your job, there were these, you say, untrue and very uncomplimentary stories about you in the media. The bubble had burst. The hero became the villain and you were powerless to do anything about it. You expect us to believe you were happy?’
‘I don’t expect you to understand,’ Debbie muttered.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t hear what you said, Ms Mallard?’
Judith shook her head at Debbie. ‘Nothing,’ Debbie said.
‘Thank you. I want to focus for one moment on the murder weapon, which we talked about last week but which has slipped into oblivion since then. Let’s have photo 22 please. It shows the mantelpiece in Rosie’s house. Thank you. If you take a look, you’ll see that there are a number of other items there. Can you see that?’
‘Yes.’
‘If we zoom in, can you help by identifying what these items are?’
‘I’ll try. On the left, there’s a big glass vase. We bought that together in Italy, on holiday. Rosie loved the way the colours were mixed together; said it reminded her of clouds on a sunny day. Then, a postcard. Ben sent it to us from a school ski-ing trip. Rosie joked that it might be the only time we ever received post from one of our children, so she liked to keep it there to look at. Um, a pottery bird Rosie picked up at a craft fair and a school photo of Laura and Ben.’
‘Where was the trophy kept?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When you first gave evidence to the police, before your arrest, and you were shown the murder weapon, you said it was kept on the mantelpiece.’
‘I think it was.’
‘Look at those items, though. They’re evenly spaced, aren’t they?’
‘If you say so.’
‘Oh they are. And Dr Marcus’ report made it clear that the shelf had been dusted, so it was impossible to tell where on the shelf the award had sat – before it was used to batter your wife to death, that is.’
‘I don’t understand what you’re asking me,’ Debbie continued.
‘Your action, taking your time after killing Rosie, to shift everything back on the shelf, to move everything around, so that there was no gap. It totally deflates Ms Burton’s argument that you didn’t clean up after yourself so you can’t be the murderer.’
Debbie frowned.
‘No one would even know something was missing. In fact, the dustbin men were due early Friday morning, as they have been every fortnight since 2010, but there’d been a problem in the depot and they were late. That’s the only reason we found the murder weapon and thwarted your plan to cover your tracks.’
‘I didn’t kill Rosie and I didn’t spend time moving stuff around the room. We had tea, we spoke about Ben. I left Rosie alive.’
Laidlaw inclined his head to one side and the left corner of his mouth drooped. Constance joked, afterwards, that he reminded her of a sulky teenager. But Laidlaw had kept his best point till last.
‘You know that only last week we located some diaries of your late wife, on her laptop,’ he continued.
‘I’ve been told.’
‘In the light of what those diaries say, do you want to change any of the testimony you have just given?’
‘No.’ Debbie stuck her chin out obstinately.
‘Your honour. This is exhibit 12. I will put the text of the first entry up on the screen, so everyone can follow it. Please could you read it out, as loud as you can.’
‘February 16th 2017, evening.’ Debbie began reading. ‘Danny came back from work today. He was tired. I asked him how his day had been and he didn’t answer. He came downstairs in his jeans, but he was wearing a pink, flowery scarf. I asked him to take it off, because Ben would be home soon. He swore at me and then pulled me towards him, wrapping it tightly around my neck. For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Then he let go and stormed out of the house. I think I will have a bruise. He scared me.’
Debbie swallowed noisily.
‘Continue please,’ Laidlaw said. Debbie looked up at Constance. Constance attempted a smile in return but her face was unwilling to move. It was inevitable that Laidlaw would seek to use the diaries to maximum effect – Judith would have done the same – but it was still painful to watch.
‘May 5th 2017 after midnight,’ Debbie read on. ‘Ben was staying out with a friend. Danny came downstairs in a raincoat and said he was going out. He wouldn’t tell me where. I asked what time he would be back, just so I wouldn’t worry. He grabbed my wrist and I could smell my perfume on his skin. His coat opened and I saw he was wearing a short black dress underneath. I felt sick. He pushed me hard and I fell back against the sofa. He said not to wait up.’
‘August 11th 2017. Danny wants me to call him Debbie. It’s very difficult after all these years. It’s difficult even when I find him sitting at my dressing table, combing out his long blond hair. He has also now started wearing a bra. When he couldn’t find it this evening, he went berserk, smashed a wine glass, then made me clear it up. The cleaner had put it away with my underwear, by mistake. He accused me of hiding it. I locked myself in the bathroom until I heard him go out.’
‘October 25th 2017, Debbie was wearing my flowery dress today. I asked him to take it off because I knew Ben was on his way home. At first, Debbie refused. Said that Ben wouldn’t be at all fazed. That only an “uptight bitch” like me would be bothered.’ Debbie coughed once. ‘When I objected, she stripped naked in the living room and forced me to wear the dress over my clothes. As she pulled it over my head, I sustained bruises to my neck and abdomen.’
‘January 13th 2018. Debbie was walking around the house, practising speaking in a high-pitched voice. I asked her if she could practise upstairs as I had an important letter to finish and she was distracting me. Debbie then stood behind me, singing in a falsetto voice, until I couldn’t stand it any longer. When I said I would go upstairs instead, Debbie grabbed me and forced me to sit down and listen to her reciting a poem. Only when she had finished, did she leave the room. My ribs were bruised and I have another bruise on my arm.’
‘March 22nd 2018. Debbie moved out today. We waited till Ben was at school. She took three cases, mostly filled with papers. I asked about her clothes. She told me I could burn them or give them away. She said she would be living as a woman from now on and would not wear any of her male clothes. I asked her to take them with her. She pushed me and I fell down the two bottom steps, knocking my wrist against the banister.’
‘June 6th 2018. Debbie called me. She was abusive and threatened to come around and punch me. All this because I cancelled Ben’s visit, as he needed to revise for an exam.’
Debbie completed reading out the extracts and raised her head slowly to meet Laidlaw’s gaze. Her face was empty of emotion, but her fingers gripped the sides of the witness box.
‘Ms Mallard. I put it to you that these diaries reflect what you were really like to live with; a short fuse, a violent temper and a heavy right hand.’ Constance willed Debbie to remain calm.
‘They’re not true,’ Debbie said.
‘Not true? So your wife…what? Just sat down one day at her laptop, perhaps in the middle of replying to her “fan mail” as you described it and thought, hey, I’ll write some completely false things about my husband, shall I? Is that what happened?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘These are diaries. They record Rosie Harper’s private thoughts about what you did to her.’
‘No.’
‘She couldn’t bear to tell anyone else, not her mother, from whom she was estranged or her close friend, Caroline Fleming, who might have said I told you so. So she wrote it all down. That’s what people do when it’s too painful to tell. That’s why people keep diaries.’
‘No.’
‘Rosie Harper was subjected to a sustained campaign of domestic abuse, both mental and physical.’
‘No.’
‘You got her pregnant so that she had no choice but to marry you. Either that or go back to her parents.’
‘No.’ Debbie’s answers were beginning to increase in volume and vehemence.
‘You prevented her from taking a lucrative position at the BBC for more than ten years, until she finally defied you.’
‘No.’
‘You insisted she cash in her savings, in order to pay for your expensive treatment.’
‘No.’
‘Even though your relationship was clearly at rock bottom, you tried to coerce her into staying with you, because you didn’t want to give up your comfortable lifestyle. You might even have told her you loved her, but these were hollow, self-serving words.’
‘No.’
‘When she finally persuaded you to leave, you stopped providing any financial support for Ben and sought to turn the children against her.’
‘No.’
‘And on 17th June this year, when you visited her, you decided you had had enough. You argued about the money you had taken, she said that you couldn’t see Ben anymore. You told her she couldn’t stop you. At some stage, you spied the hefty trophy across the room – her award for best newcomer, the role which cemented her in the public’s hearts and minds – and, as she returned to her correspondence, you came up behind her and struck her once on the back of the head.’
‘No.’
‘When she turned around at the pain and shock and held her hands up to you, imploring you to stop, you hit her twice more, the second time causing her skull to split in two. She fell to the ground. Then you left her writhing in agony, in her death throes, and ran to the kitchen, where you collected a tea towel and calmly wiped the trophy clean. You left your phone at the house and walked down five doors to casually deposit the weapon in a neighbour’s bin. You returned, collected your phone and nonchalantly rode off into the sunset. Somewhere along the way – we will never know where; perhaps even in the home you once shared with Rosie – you stripped off your blood-stained clothes and put on new, clean ones. That’s what happened isn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No!’
Debbie banged her fist down on the edge of the box and stared, wide-eyed at Laidlaw. He smiled conceitedly, and promptly sat down. Constance bit her lip. Judith sat very still in front of her, before rising slowly to her feet.
* * *
‘Your honour. I need to re-call Inspector Dawson to ask him about these diaries, please. I should like to do that before re-examination of my client. Inspector Dawson is already prepared to attend again, to clarify some other matters.’ Judith spoke quietly, as Debbie stood, head down, her chest rising and falling.
‘What does Inspector Dawson know about the diaries?’
‘He worked to retrieve them from Rosie Harper’s laptop, with the police IT experts. And, depending on Inspector Dawson’s testimony and Mr Laidlaw’s position, we may also need an IT expert to give evidence.’
‘Mr Laidlaw?’
‘I am as in the dark as you, your honour, as to what Ms Burton is hoping to achieve here.’
Judge Nolan allowed her gaze to take in the public gallery.
‘Then, let’s hope that Ms Burton is going to lead us all into the light. Is Inspector Dawson here?’
‘I understand he’ll be here very shortly.’
‘All right. Let’s reconvene in an hour.’
42
Debbie was waiting for Constance downstairs, tapping one foot lightly on the floor, her face pale and drawn.
‘You did really well just then, especially talking about the diaries. It must have been hard,’ Constance managed, as she entered and sat down next to Debbie. Debbie took a bottle from her pocket, tipped out two large capsules and threw them to the back of her throat, swallowing loudly.
‘I know I shouldn’t have got angry,’ she said. ‘But it was such bullshit and I just lost it.’
‘It’s OK. You did better than you think, really.’
‘Is that what Judith thinks?’
‘Yes, absolutely.’
‘What’s happening next? Do I get my chance to explain?’ she asked.
‘Judith wants the jury to hear from Inspector Dawson, then you’ll get your chance. It’s important to tell things in the right order.’
‘If you say so. I would have explained then, if someone had let me.’
‘I need to ask you again about “Rapunzel”.’
‘Oh. That.’
‘This might jog your memory.’
Constance placed her tablet on the desk, in front of Debbie. She scrolled through some screens and then she pressed ‘play’ on the video she had shared with Judith on Saturday.
At first the video was dark and grainy, but then it grew lighter and the background noise transformed into clapping and cheering, with a couple of cat calls. A tall, blond woman was centre-stage of some intimate venue, burgundy velvet curtain for a backdrop, her hair tied in two long plaits, which hung down her back. She was wearing only a black lace corset and stockings and seated on the knee of a smartly dressed man. As she rose to her feet, teetering in three inch stilettos, the man withdrew from the stage and the Amazonian beauty came forward into the spotlight. The crowd grew silent, the beam of light intensified. She drew herself up to her full height, her bosom over-spilling the tight bodice and then she began to sing.
There was no mistaking. It was Debbie.
Debbie watched all the way through, some light tremors in her fingers revealing her struggle to control her emotions. At the end, she sat very still with her head down.
‘Someone sent this video to Rosie, back in 2017. Do you have any idea who it was?’
‘No,’ Debbie whispered.
‘We’re assuming that it was supposed to make her feel embarrassed, or worse; we’re searching for data on who sent it and why. We may want to use it, as evidence, in the trial.’
‘No! Can you imagine? No! I won’t let you.’
‘It might help you.’
‘How? How could this possibly help me?’
‘We think it may be connected to Rosie’s murder.’
Debbie sat back and placed both hands over her face. After a while, she removed them and sat up straight.
‘Did you see everything that happened over the weekend?’ she asked, ‘the attacks, those poor men, their faces all battered?’
