Brian Freemantle - A Mind to Kill

There was an ice-like chill in the room. Jarvis coughed, a bird-like sound. There is a complexion upon this episode that makes it an important one, with profound legal implications. I was unaware, until this moment, of the effect upon this tiny child and I am obliged to Mr Hall for bringing it to my attention. I am persuaded, therefore, by the eloquence of the presentation, to grant the application, although to limit the precinct extensions to the Hampshire home of Mrs Lomax and the child’s kindergarten but not the hospital in which Mrs Lomax is currently undergoing treatment…’ He looked directly at the press lawyers. ‘In doing so, I would advise each of you to bring to the notice of your clients and your employers what has been said and ruled here today. Until the appointment of a trial judge, the precinct order is mine and I will deal most harshly with any transgression.’

As they left the room Perry said, ‘Jesus, you took a risk talking of the child’s collapse like that.’

‘It wasn’t a lie,’ insisted Hall.

‘It wasn’t the truth, either.’

‘As much of the truth as any of the others were offering.’

‘Where the hell did you get all those stated cases of press complaints?’

‘You weren’t the only one working late last night. I was in the chamber library until midnight, preparing for any press complaint hearing. Came in handy, didn’t it?’

Emily was in a playroom attached to a children’s ward when Jeremy Hall returned to the hospital but ignoring the toys. She still clutched the much-hugged rabbit but her eyes never left Annabelle: when the nanny moved towards Hall as he entered Emily scurried alongside, grabbing up for the ever present hand. Julian Mason was there, with a slightly built, heavily bespectacled girl whom Hall assumed to be the child psychiatrist. He didn’t think she was much older than the nanny.

‘The press have been barred from the house,’ he announced to Annabelle. ‘And I don’t think you’ll have any problems going home. If you do, call me immediately.’ He encompassed the other two in the room. ‘Can Emily go home?’

‘Whenever she wants. We just waited for you,’ said Mason.

‘You’ve got to put Ronnie Rabbit to bed, haven’t you?’ encouraged the bespectacled girl to Emily.

The child ignored her, gazing up at Hall instead. ‘Why doesn’t Mummy like me any more? Annabelle won’t tell me.’

‘Your mummy does like you,’ said Hall, totally out of his depth and looking desperately at the others for help. ‘She loves you: she told me.’

‘She tried to hurt me, like the men.’

‘I’ve told Emily it’s the medicine her mummy’s taking to make her better,’ offered Annabelle.

‘That’s what it is,’ seized Hall. ‘She has to take the medicine to make her better. But it makes her do funny things, like today.’

‘Will she do it again?’

‘No.’

‘She didn’t want my drawing.’

‘She did. She’s got it now.’

‘Will I see her again?’

‘She’s asleep now. Getting better.’

‘Let’s go home,’ said Annabelle, briskly. ‘It’ll be late, by the time we get there. We’ll come and see Mummy another day.’

‘Will the men chase us, like before?’

‘No,’ promised Hall.

‘Good,’ said Emily, positively.

Hall and Mason walked Annabelle and the child to Johnson’s waiting car. At the entrance Emily perceptibly held back, frowning through the glass. There was no traffic jam or obvious press pack.

‘I’m sorry about today,’ Hall told Annabelle.

‘So am I,’ said the girl. ‘I suppose nobody could have guessed it would happen.’

Hall looked at Mason but said nothing, waiting until the Bentley eased from the hospital and turned immediately left towards the bridge. ‘Is it going to affect the child?’

‘Not permanently,’ said Mason. ‘It won’t have helped Jennifer, though.’

‘I’m not sure there is anything that will,’ said the lawyer.

Everyone was assembled, waiting in Proudfoot’s river-view office, when Jeremy Hall got back to chambers. The QC and Feltham were drinking whisky. There was a half-empty sherry glass on the table beside Perry. There was no immediate invitation to Hall.

Proudfoot said, ‘I thought it was time we had an assessment.’

‘The child is going to be OK. There’s still a lot more tests to be carried out upon Mrs Lomax.’

‘I meant legal assessment,’ said Proudfoot, impatiently. He indicated Perry. ‘We’ve heard what happened at the hearing.’

‘We’ve got protection from the press, which was very necessary,’ said Hall.

‘Bentley’s a headline hunter,’ chipped in Feltham, wheezily. ‘He’ll tell his press friends why the child collapsed and they’ll tell their lawyers. Who’ll make damned sure it gets hack to Jarvis. He won’t rescind his order hut he’ll make equally damned sure every judge on the circuit knows what you did. He’ll think he’s been made a fool of.’

‘You didn’t do yourself – or the chambers – any favours today,’ said Proudfoot.

‘It was right that the restrictions were imposed,’ insisted Hall.

‘You’ve alienated the press and the bench, in one go,’ said Feltham, just as insistently.

‘In the best interests of a client,’ fought back Hall. He was tempted to help himself to sherry, uninvited, but decided against it.

‘Aren’t you losing perspective here?’ asked Proudfoot. ‘It’s right that we’ve taken this case and it’s right – a matter of professional integrity – that we defend it to the best of our ability. But at the end of the day, it comes down to mitigation. The plea for which, after what happened with the child, seems perfectly obvious.’

‘Shouldn’t the application have been made?’ challenged Hall.

‘I’ve no fault with the application,’ accepted the chamber’s leader. ‘But the press undertaking would have achieved the same effect as the definite order and we – you – wouldn’t have been exposed to judges’ irritation.’

‘Do you wish to transfer the brief?’

‘No,’ said Proudfoot, quickly. ‘Just remember that if you’d like to discuss anything, my door’s always open…’ He made a general movement with his whisky glass towards the chief clerk. ‘And I’ve never found Bert’s advice unwelcome.’

But I don’t want it, from either of you, thought Hall. ‘Thank you, for your support and confidence.’

When he got home there was a message on his answering machine from Patricia Boxall that she couldn’t make the following evening. She’d call. Hall felt relieved.

Jennifer gave up. On everything. On everyone. Even Jane. Particularly Jane. The voice was always there, mocking, goading, jeering. And Jennifer said words that weren’t hers and swore when she wouldn’t have sworn. She didn’t argue any more: didn’t try to win any mental battles. Didn’t care.

Awake or asleep – even drugged sleep – there was a constant image blocking her mind more than Jane occupied it. Emily’s face. Emily’s face contorted in open-eyed terror, Emily’s face broken in disbelieving fear as she twisted away, Emily’s face blanking in horrified dread as she briefly lay, helplessly, on the floor. Emily’s face, screaming. Always Emily’s face, the face of an Emily knowing her mother wanted to kill her – would have killed her – until she’d been stopped. Only just stopped. Wouldn’t have been without the hypnotic key implanted in her brain. Thank God. Except there wasn’t a God. Couldn’t be. What God would let this happen.

‘ That’s right. Prayers – exorcism – won’t help. You haven’t got anyone. Not even Emily any more. Alone. Lost.’