street.
‘Strange how just a little bit more information can change your opinion about someone,’ he said suddenly. ‘Yesterday, I would have brought back hanging for that woman. Now,’ he shrugged, ‘well, you know!’
‘You’re a good man,’ Beth said softly, all at once seeing his motive for bringing her here. ‘I’ll do my best for her. Will you let me know what you find out about the child?’
‘Of course,’ he said, and although it was dark in the street, she thought the glistening in his eyes was tears.
That night Beth couldn’t sleep. Each time she closed her eyes she was back in that cold, miserable room, imagining Susan crying over that album. Beth had never been maternal, she’d never played with dolls, babies bored her. But she could imagine the pain of losing a child, and she knew what it was to be truly alone. She thought the two things together were likely to send anyone over the edge.
She was dressing for work the following morning when Roy rang again. ‘It was her child,’ he said simply. ‘Annabel Lucy, born 18 April 1987 in St Michael’s Hospital, here in Bristol. Died 12 May 1991, shortly after being admitted to the Children’s Hospital. Cause of death, meningitis. The GP was Doctor Wetherall. Susan was a single mother and at that time she was living at a different address in Clifton Wood.’
Beth hardly knew what to say. As a lawyer, it was exactly what she wanted to hear, something meaty to build Susan’s defence on. Yet as a woman, her heart would have been lighter if she’d heard Susan had escaped from a mental home, and the child was just a distant relative.
She managed to thank Roy for letting her know so quickly. He said they now had enough information to charge Susan formally, and she would be appearing in court later that morning.
‘I must warn you,’ Roy said, his voice suddenly a little stern, ‘there isn’t any sympathy here at the nick for her, or out on the streets, the general view is that she’s a monster. On top of that, Roland Parks, the receptionist’s husband, is in the Mail today. I only glanced through it quickly, but it’s what you’d expect, schmaltzy stuff, pictures of the couple and their children. There will almost certainly be a crowd at the court waiting to catch a glimpse of Fellows, the press will certainly be there in force. It could be nasty.’
‘Then I need to find out why Susan shot her too,’ Beth said. ‘You know what they say about fighting fire with fire.’
Beth found it hard to concentrate on either of her two appointments that morning. One was with a man of thirty who was accused of date rape, and the other was a woman serial shop-lifter, who knew she faced a prison sentence this time round. Under normal circumstances Beth would be listening carefully to them, and even if it was patently obvious that they were guilty, she would be looking for an angle to build her defence case on.
But it was virtually impossible even to like either of these clients, let alone believe in their innocence. The date rape man was particularly offensive, as he appeared to imagine that buying a girl a couple of drinks and a kebab entitled him to have sex with her. His victim was just sixteen, a virgin until he forced himself upon her. For once, Beth wished she was on the prosecuting side. She’d enjoy making mincemeat of him.
But even as she went through the motions of listening to what her clients had to say, her mind was on Susan and her court appearance later in the morning. She must have been in her mid-thirties at least when Annabel was born. Did she choose to get pregnant when she wasn’t married because she knew her biological clock was running out? Or was it the result of a relationship that collapsed? What was she before she became a mother?
Before leaving for court, Beth scanned through the article in the Mail about Roland Parks. She was always suspicious of anyone who talked to the papers, especially this soon after a tragedy, and
‘Strange how just a little bit more information can change your opinion about someone,’ he said suddenly. ‘Yesterday, I would have brought back hanging for that woman. Now,’ he shrugged, ‘well, you know!’
‘You’re a good man,’ Beth said softly, all at once seeing his motive for bringing her here. ‘I’ll do my best for her. Will you let me know what you find out about the child?’
‘Of course,’ he said, and although it was dark in the street, she thought the glistening in his eyes was tears.
That night Beth couldn’t sleep. Each time she closed her eyes she was back in that cold, miserable room, imagining Susan crying over that album. Beth had never been maternal, she’d never played with dolls, babies bored her. But she could imagine the pain of losing a child, and she knew what it was to be truly alone. She thought the two things together were likely to send anyone over the edge.
She was dressing for work the following morning when Roy rang again. ‘It was her child,’ he said simply. ‘Annabel Lucy, born 18 April 1987 in St Michael’s Hospital, here in Bristol. Died 12 May 1991, shortly after being admitted to the Children’s Hospital. Cause of death, meningitis. The GP was Doctor Wetherall. Susan was a single mother and at that time she was living at a different address in Clifton Wood.’
Beth hardly knew what to say. As a lawyer, it was exactly what she wanted to hear, something meaty to build Susan’s defence on. Yet as a woman, her heart would have been lighter if she’d heard Susan had escaped from a mental home, and the child was just a distant relative.
She managed to thank Roy for letting her know so quickly. He said they now had enough information to charge Susan formally, and she would be appearing in court later that morning.
‘I must warn you,’ Roy said, his voice suddenly a little stern, ‘there isn’t any sympathy here at the nick for her, or out on the streets, the general view is that she’s a monster. On top of that, Roland Parks, the receptionist’s husband, is in the Mail today. I only glanced through it quickly, but it’s what you’d expect, schmaltzy stuff, pictures of the couple and their children. There will almost certainly be a crowd at the court waiting to catch a glimpse of Fellows, the press will certainly be there in force. It could be nasty.’
‘Then I need to find out why Susan shot her too,’ Beth said. ‘You know what they say about fighting fire with fire.’
Beth found it hard to concentrate on either of her two appointments that morning. One was with a man of thirty who was accused of date rape, and the other was a woman serial shop-lifter, who knew she faced a prison sentence this time round. Under normal circumstances Beth would be listening carefully to them, and even if it was patently obvious that they were guilty, she would be looking for an angle to build her defence case on.
But it was virtually impossible even to like either of these clients, let alone believe in their innocence. The date rape man was particularly offensive, as he appeared to imagine that buying a girl a couple of drinks and a kebab entitled him to have sex with her. His victim was just sixteen, a virgin until he forced himself upon her. For once, Beth wished she was on the prosecuting side. She’d enjoy making mincemeat of him.
But even as she went through the motions of listening to what her clients had to say, her mind was on Susan and her court appearance later in the morning. She must have been in her mid-thirties at least when Annabel was born. Did she choose to get pregnant when she wasn’t married because she knew her biological clock was running out? Or was it the result of a relationship that collapsed? What was she before she became a mother?
Before leaving for court, Beth scanned through the article in the Mail about Roland Parks. She was always suspicious of anyone who talked to the papers, especially this soon after a tragedy, and
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