The Accused, page 24
Checking the map she’d been given at the entrance, Cora took a detour to stand for a moment by the memorial to the cemetery’s most famous resident, Karl Marx, immortalised in the form of a bronze bust atop a vast granite plinth. Then, aware that she was running late, she quickly located the row where Sally was buried. She spotted the grave immediately, its simple white headstone in stark contrast to the crumbling stone edifices either side. Cora stood still for a moment, taking in the inscription, then bent to gently lay her flowers on Sally’s final resting place, a lump forming in her throat. As she walked away, the line carved on the white marble danced before her eyes.
“Step softly, a dream lies buried here.”
Sally’s dream of an acting career. Sam’s dream of a sister, and what that could have meant. Cora’s dream of saving Sam. Dead, gone, buried. For a minute, Cora stopped walking, her legs suddenly leaden. Then, slowly and with great effort, she headed for the exit.
‘I love this card. It was so sweet of him. Thank you, again, for getting him to do this. I’ll treasure it. Although if this is what he thinks my hair looks like, I need a salon appointment pronto.’
From his position sprawled on the sofa, Adam laughed. ‘You look great, as always. Come here, Baxter.’
‘Coming.’ Cora ran her finger over the handmade card that Harry had proudly presented her with this morning, a drawing of herself on the front, brown hair sticking out in all directions from her head like wavy wires, and the words “HAPPY WEEKEND!!!” scrawled in bright red marker pen across her crooked legs. Inside, in Harry’s neat, childish script, “Hope you have a lovely weekend with me and Daddy, love Harry your favourite child ever ever ever”, followed by three rows of kisses.
‘Thirty of them. That means I don’t have to actually kiss you for a whole month, because you’ve got them all in advance,’ the little boy had said with a cheeky grin as Cora had studied the card, and then shrieked with joy as she had chased him around the room, finally catching him and smothering him with kisses which, in reality, he didn’t mind at all.
Cora had arrived slightly later than planned after getting stuck in traffic after her cemetery visit, and the card had lifted her spirits a little. She was feeling horribly low after a phone conversation she’d had with Sam during the drive, in which she’d filled her in on the news about Sally. Unsurprisingly, Sam had not taken it well. Her sobs had been heart-wrenching, reverberating around Cora’s car through her hands-free speakers.
‘Well, that’s it then. I’m screwed, aren’t I? It’s all over. I’m going to spend the rest of my life in this stinking prison, for something I didn’t do. I can’t do it, Cora. I just can’t, I can’t ...’
‘I know, I know, darling, but please, don’t give up.’ Cora felt like bawling herself. She was running out of words of comfort and reassurance for her friend, with no idea what, if anything, she could now do to help her.
‘Maybe – maybe there are other possibilities for someone who could have set you up.’ Cora couldn’t think of any, but she needed to give Sam even the tiniest sliver of hope.
‘But how do we find them? We’ve tried ... I don’t know who else ...’ Sam’s voice was choked with tears.
‘I know. I know. But I’m not giving up, Sam. Not yet.’
There was silence on the line for a moment. Then Sam spoke again.
‘No, Cora. I think that’s it. You’ve done all you can, and I’ll be forever grateful, but it’s time to get real. I’ll be pleading not guilty, of course. And then I’ll just have to put my fate in the hands of the jury at my trial, hope they believe me ... they have to. They have to. The alternative doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? Mum’s coming in this afternoon, so I’ll update her on the latest. At least that’s something to look forward to today. I’ll be fine, don’t worry.’
Matter-of-fact Sam was suddenly back, but Cora knew it was just an act. As they said goodbye, her heart was breaking for her friend. None of this seemed real, and yet in less than two weeks’ time Sam would be back in the dock, and the wheels of justice would continue their slow turn. And although there were still some days to go, the realisation that she was now bound to fail suddenly swept over Cora. Because she had failed, hadn’t she? She’d told Sam she wasn’t giving up, but she didn’t know what else she could do, not now. She had failed. Failed, for the first time in her life, to meet a deadline. The thought made her feel sick, and when she’d finally got to the Shepherds Bush flat, it had been a struggle for her to act normally in front of Adam and Harry. Despite its grim start, though, it had ended up being a nice day. Vowing to push the case out of her mind, for a few hours at least, Cora had gone along with Adam’s plans for an afternoon pottering a little further afield than usual in east London. A wander around the quirky little shops and vintage boutiques around Cheshire Street was followed by a delicious lunch at Cora’s favourite Brick Lane eaterie, a Bangladeshi restaurant where they shared fish bhuna, fried okra, dal and egg and onion roti. Harry tucked in with gusto, and Cora admired, not for the first time, the way Adam and Laura had brought the little boy up to try everything – no children’s menu of chips and chicken nuggets for Harry, ever.
As she watched the two of them across the table, banter flying back and forth between them as always as they ate, and so alike with their blond hair and green eyes, she felt a small, unexpected, wave of happiness wash over her, followed by a shiver of sadness. It was the little things that were important, she thought. Being with people you love, good food, walking in the sunshine. Will Sam ever have any of these things in her life again? I don’t know how I can bear it, if she’s locked up for ever, never sharing any of this with us again. How do I bear it? How does she bear it?
She had reached for Adam’s hand and he had offered it immediately, squeezing hers gently, instantly understanding. Now, back home and with Harry tucked up in bed, she slid the card carefully into the side pocket of her handbag and went to join Adam on the sofa, where he had been watching a repeat of Celebrity Squares on the TV.
Still full from their large lunch, they had snacked on cheese, crackers and olives for dinner, the remnants of the meal still strewn across the coffee table. Cora briefly considered clearing it away, then decided it could wait. Cuddled up with Adam, her head on his chest, his arms wrapped around her, she tried to let the television gameshow distract her from her thoughts, but after five minutes she realised it wasn’t working. Once more, she thought. I need to ask Adam, just once more. She stretched her arm out to grab the remote control from the table and pressed the mute button.
‘Oi! I was enjoying that. Perfect Saturday night escapism nonsense. What are you doing?’
‘Sorry, Adam – can we talk, just for a few minutes?’ Cora sat up, moving away from him slightly so she could tuck her bare feet underneath her.
He frowned. ‘That sounds ominous. Not dumping me, are you?’
He smiled, and she smiled back.
‘Of course not, idiot, as if. No, it’s ... well, it’s about Sam.’
Adam groaned. ‘Cora, really? I know how upset you are, but could we not just forget about it for one night? It will do you good, I promise ...’
She was shaking her head. ‘I can’t, Adam. Please. Look, I spoke to her this morning, and this Sally thing has totally wiped her out. She was devastated. I know she’s got us, and her mum’s supporting her through it like we’re all trying to, but she’s on the edge now. She still insists she didn’t kill Marcus, she’s going to plead not guilty and put her life in the hands of the jury, hope they believe her. And ... and I still believe her, Adam. Doubts creep in sometimes, but in my heart I do. I know you think I’m deluding myself, but I know Sam. I know her, and I know she couldn’t have done this.’
Cora paused. Did she still know that, really, truly? Yes, she had to stick with Sam, she had to. Otherwise, what hope would her friend have, if she really was innocent? She swallowed and carried on talking.
‘It’s only a fortnight now, less than a fortnight in fact, until her court appearance. Adam, please, I know this is driving you mad, but is there anything, anything else that can be done?’
Adam had covered his face with his hands while she spoke. Now, he looked up, his expression a mixture of frustration and tenderness.
‘No, there isn’t,’ he said simply. ‘I wish, so much, that I could say something different to you, but there isn’t. Most murders are carried out by someone the victim knows, not by strangers, Cora. Look at the facts. Sam was the victim’s girlfriend. They’d had a row. She was in the park around the time he died – we have her on CCTV, and she’s admitted that anyway. Her DNA is on the murder weapon. Hers, and nobody else’s. There is no evidence whatsoever that that DNA was planted there by somebody else, or that there was any sort of a laboratory mix-up. Even if there had been an identical twin sister, which we now sadly know there isn’t, the evidence against Sam is too strong. She did it, Cora, and we all have to accept that. I’m sorry, sorrier than you can imagine, but that’s the way it is.’
Cora was staring at her hands, her mind racing.
‘But ... but you still haven’t traced that third person you saw going into the park that night, with the dog, have you? Or the person who was sending her those gifts? Maybe ... maybe ...’
Adam reached over and took both of her hands in his. ‘We haven’t, no. But Cora, the DNA evidence, and everything else I’ve just said ... it’s too strong. The dog-walker is irrelevant, I’m sure of it. The gifts too. Please, please let this go. Please. It’s going to drive you mad if you don’t.’
Cora nodded, slipping back into his arms, and Adam un-muted the television, relieved that the conversation was over. He hugged her close, kissing her hair, and she nestled into his arms, trying to relax. Inside though, she was a churning mess of emotions; frustration, sadness, anger and desperation making it impossible to concentrate on anything else, even when Adam flicked over to a re-run of an early episode of Friends, a show Cora could normally happily watch all day long.
As Monica, Phoebe and Rachel chatted on screen, Cora remembered that she still hadn’t informed Clare Henderson about her daughter’s death, and wondered how best to go about it. It seemed too cold and impersonal to inform the New York police department and ask them to call round with the news. Maybe Kymani Campbell could do it? At least Clare now knew him a little. Cora vowed to phone Joel at the adoption agency in the morning, and ask him if that would be all right. Poor Clare. Poor Sally. Poor Sam. What a bloody mess this was.
38
Monday 17th June
11 days until the deadline
The girl, who was fifteen and skeletally thin, was huddled in the make-up room chair, shivering despite the warmth of the morning and the thick, black and white striped poncho she was wrapped in. As Sherry the make-up artist gently applied blusher to the teenager’s jutting cheekbones, the girl’s mother flicked anxious glances at her daughter from the seat to her left. Finally, the teenager turned to her with a small smile.
‘I’m fine, Mum. Stop worrying.’
‘I know you are, darling. Sorry.’
‘It’s OK. I love you, Mum.’
‘I love you too, Alex.’
Across the room, Cora grabbed a lip gloss from the counter, touched by the scene. Alexandra Young was suffering from anorexia, and she and her mother were appearing on Morning Live to talk about the devastating effects of the disease and to beg other parents to look out for the warning signs. Alexandra had been shaking and crying with nerves when she’d arrived at the studios a couple of hours earlier, but now, despite the shivering, she was composed and focussed, and had spoken calmly and eloquently about her condition during the seven o’clock hour of the show, resulting in hundreds of supportive emails and tweets. Her second appearance of the morning was coming up in ten minutes’ time, guests often doing more than one slot on the same show due to the unique nature of a breakfast programme – few viewers watched the entire thing, most dipping in for a few minutes here and there as they rushed to get ready for work or the school run.
The girl’s transformation from terrified to relatively tranquil had, Cora had been impressed to note, been almost entirely down to Miranda Evans, who had spent at least an hour chatting to her, making her laugh, putting her at her ease and gently urging her to be as frank as possible on air.
‘You can help so many other girls, and boys, by what you say today. And you’ll have your mum, and me of course, sitting there with you, so there’s honestly nothing to worry about, I promise. It’s hugely, massively, important that this subject is talked about more openly, and I can’t tell you how much it means to us that you’ve agreed to do this, Alex,’ the doctor had said, and the teenager had nodded, then grinned widely as Miranda added:
‘Plus, Olly Murs is on after you and I’ve asked him if he’ll come and do some photos with you when he’s done ...’
Once Alex and her mother had been taken to the green room, Cora had pulled Miranda aside.
‘That was brilliant. You handled her so well. I honestly thought we’d have to pull the interview when I saw the state she was in. You were fab.’
Miranda had flushed. ‘Thanks, that means a lot. It’s a subject I ... well, sort of specialised in really, a few years back. Nearly three-quarters of a million people in the UK suffer from an eating disorder, did you know that? That’s a lot of people hating themselves and their bodies, obsessing about their weight and their shape. And not just those with eating disorders, other conditions too. Some even have unnecessary plastic surgery, and ...’
She paused, a stricken look in her eyes, then took a deep breath and continued.
‘It’s the most horrendous thing ... I’m so glad she went on air, she was great, wasn’t she?’
‘She really was. I hope she recovers, poor girl.’
‘She will. She wants to now, and that’s half the battle. I said I’ll stay in touch, help her out if I can. I know ... I know people, young girls, who didn’t get the help they needed soon enough, with awful consequences ...’
Her voice shook a little, and Cora suddenly wondered if Miranda was speaking from personal experience.
‘Did ... did you ...?’ she started to ask tentatively, but they were interrupted by Cecily the floor manager marching into the room to drag Miranda off.
‘One minute, Miranda, one minute, come on!’
Cora watched as Alex and her mother were led out of the make-up room once more, the teenager striding confidently on her painfully thin legs, a glow on her face that was not solely down to Sherry’s skill with a blusher brush.
Miranda made a real difference to that girl today, Cora thought. She turned back to the mirror to finish patting down some flyaway strands of hair with a little styling cream, then frowned as her mobile buzzed in her handbag. Who was calling her before 9 a.m.? None of her friends or family would ever do that on a weekday, knowing the chances of her answering while the show was on air were minimal.
Tempted to ignore it, with her last bulletin of the morning just minutes away, Cora nonetheless opened her bag and peered at the phone’s display. Then, startled to see a New York number flashing on the screen, she grabbed it and hit the green button.
‘Hello? Cora speaking.’
There was silence on the line for a moment, then a woman’s voice, small and distant.
‘Cora? Is that you? It’s Clare, Cora. Clare Henderson? In New York. Sally’s mum.’
‘Clare?’ Cora was stunned for a moment. She did a quick calculation. Just after 8 a.m. in London meant it would be just after 3 a.m. in New York. What was Clare doing calling her in the middle of the night? She didn’t even have a phone, did she? Cora had rung Joel Anderson yesterday afternoon, apologising profusely about calling him on a Sunday, but he’d sounded delighted to hear from her, and genuinely upset to hear the news about Sally’s death. He’d readily agreed that Kymani was best placed to break the news to Clare, and had promised to call him immediately. That would have been at around 10 a.m. New York time yesterday, so Cora now assumed that Clare had probably been told about her daughter’s demise some hours ago. Even so, why the phone call?
‘Clare?’ she said again. ‘Are – are you OK? It’s so late there.’
There was another moment of silence, then Clare’s voice again.
‘It’s the early hours of the morning, yes. My neighbour, downstairs, she left her cell phone with me, in case I needed her during the night. She was with me when I heard the news ... the news about Sally ...’
Even on this crackly line, Cora could hear the emotion in Clare’s voice.
‘She has a real phone too, in her apartment, you see? She left me the cell phone and told me to use it to call her, if I needed anything in the middle of the night. But that detective guy, he gave me your number, in case I had any questions, he said. So I thought I’d call you, instead. Is that ... is that OK?’
‘Of course. Of course it’s OK. Oh, Clare, I’m so sorry about Sally. We all are – all Sam’s friends, I mean. We were so hoping we might find her. It’s tragic, and I’m so sorry you had to hear about it like that.’
‘Thank you. Was she ... was she happy, when she died? Do you know?’
‘She was, Clare, yes. She was working on her acting, doing really well. And she lived in a lovely flat and had lots of friends, really nice friends. I’ve chatted to one of them on the phone, and she said what a wonderful person Sally was, and how much everyone liked her.’
Cora crossed her fingers as she spoke, knowing she was embellishing the truth somewhat but hoping that her words would be enough to bring Clare some comfort. She decided to omit what she’d learned about Sally wanting to cut Clare out of her life. There was no point in revealing that – the woman was clearly suffering enough as it was.
