Hilary Bonner - When the Dead Cry Out

Marshall sounded extremely sanctimonious and sure of himself. Technically, of course, he could have been prosecuted for withholding evidence, both initially the fact that Janine was alive and now the names of Lorraine’s alleged adoptive parents. In practice, the CPS had decided that any such prosecution would merely make matters worse and allow Marshall to appear even more saintly. In any case, he had been charged only with the murder of his wife, and not of either of his daughters.

“I may have done the wrong thing, My Lords, I realize that now,” Marshall continued. “But the action I took all those years ago was because of my children. I wanted them to have the chance of a fresh start.”

He bowed his head and wiped one hand across his eyes as if brushing away tears. Karen wanted to slap him, not for the first time. She tried to convince herself that the three appeal judges would see through him. To her horror, although not totally her surprise — he was so plausible and he did have one hell of a witness on his side — this did not seem to be the case.

She watched the proceedings with an increasingly sinking feeling. Marshall was good, very good. He would not have stayed a free man for as long as he had were that not the case. She also felt sure that nobody in the court, including the judges, would doubt that Jennifer believed absolutely what she had said.

And she was right. Richard Marshall’s appeal was upheld and his conviction quashed. He walked out of court a free man.

There was a muffled cheer from the public gallery. Karen glanced up in surprise. She found it impossible to imagine Marshall having friends, but obviously he did, or maybe it was friends of Jennifer up there. The rest of the court, including Karen, sat in a kind of grim stunned silence. And it was somehow all the worse for Karen because of that extremely disconcerting visit to her mother. She was so certain of what her mother had been trying to tell her, and coming from someone in full possession of their wits it was the kind of evidence that could swing a case. Coming from Margaret Meadows in her condition, however, it was worse than useless. Karen had always wondered if the police investigation would have taken a different, more positive, course all those years ago if she had revealed to anyone that her mother had had an affair with Marshall, and she had always told herself that it would have led nowhere. Now she could no longer kid herself about that. Her mother had seen scratches on Marshall’s face the day after his wife was last seen, Karen was sure of it. And if that had been disclosed back in 1975 or even ’76, maybe, just maybe, it could have led to Marshall being put behind bars years ago.

Karen’s load of guilt was heavier than ever. Her head ached. The muscles at the back of her neck had knotted and tightened like little cords of coiled wire. She could feel Marshall’s eyes on her as he walked from the dock. She tried not to look at him — she knew that was what he wanted — but she couldn’t help herself. Marshall was smirking at her. His lips curled unpleasantly. She struggled to keep her gaze level, to show no emotion.

Marshall raised both eyebrows quizzically. Then he lifted his right arm in what was at first a clenched fist of victory, and then developed into a Churchillian V for victory salute — all the while looking directly at Karen.

She was incensed. She couldn’t believe the cheek of this man. She stood up quickly, turned away from him and marched out of the court. She wanted to get outside before he did. She didn’t think she could stand watching him perform in front of the assembled press whom she knew would be outside clamouring for a statement.

There was indeed a large group of them gathered on the wide pavement, but this time Karen refused to speak to them at all. She knew her thunderous look was not good PR. But she did not see how it was possible to put any kind of PR spin on anything that had happened that day. As far as she was concerned it had been a disaster.

Only as she pushed through the press on the way to her car did she remember Sean MacDonald.

“Damn,” she muttered to herself. But she just couldn’t leave without saying something to the Scotsman whom she liked and respected so much. She swung around and saw him making his way slowly out onto the pavement, his head bowed. She walked quickly towards him.

“I am just so fucking sorry, Mac,” she began.

The strain showed clearly in Sean MacDonald’s face, in the heavy lines around his mouth and the red rims around his eyes. For once he really looked like an old man.

“Not as sorry as me,” he said.

“No, I know.”

“It’s all right, lassie. I don’t blame anyone. He is just such a slippery bastard. I told you, didn’t I? Like an eel. You think you have him in your grasp, but you don’t. Nonetheless, it seems impossible that he’s got away with it again.”

“You still don’t have any doubts, do you, Mac?”

“No, none at all. He murdered my Clara. I’d stake my own life on it.”

“But,” Karen made her voice gentle, “that’s your granddaughter who just got him off. Your granddaughter whom you thought was dead.”

“Aye, I know, and I have no explanation at all. Maybe she’s more her father’s daughter than her mother’s, but I don’t believe that either. Nobody could be as evil as him, nobody.”

“I don’t think she’s evil, Mac. I think she’s brainwashed. Unfortunately, that’s neither an accepted medical nor a legal term.”

“I know. I just can’t feel she’s really my granddaughter, not after what she’s done.”

“You haven’t seen her at all, have you, not since we found out who she was?”

“No.” Mac shook his head quite violently. “I just couldn’t bring myself to see her, not knowing that she was probably going to be instrumental in getting Marshall off.”

“Do you want to see her now?”

“No. I know it’s not fair, I know she must be under his spell in some way, or that she really is mentally disturbed like you think but can’t prove, Karen, but I can’t forgive her.”

“I hope you can forgive me, Mac?”

Sean MacDonald smiled weakly.

“Oh, lassie, there’s nothing to forgive you for. You’ve never given up, none of ye have, and I’ll always thank you for that.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Oh, I’m straight off back to Scotland. I need some thinking time.”

“I don’t blame you.”

He grabbed her by the arm, pulled her towards him and stared directly at her.

“I’ll not give up, though, Karen. I promise you. I’ll not give up until I’ve got justice for my Clara. And if I can’t do it through the law I’ll do it another way.”

Karen put her hand on his and squeezed.

“Mac, you’ve always worked with us. Never against us. Don’t change now.”

Mac gave a small derisory sniff. “I’ve learned a lot about policing and the legal system of the United Kingdom since this nightmare began, Karen. There’s nothing you can do now, is there? Whatever happens now he’s got away with it. The law of double jeopardy is still in place, in spite of all the talk from politicians. He can’t be tried again for murdering my daughter. He’s made fools of us all.”

“It may be possible to try him for Lorraine’s murder one day.”

Mac sniffed again. “What, with no body and him claiming she’s alive and well? We couldn’t make a murder charge stick even with my Clara’s remains finally lying in a morgue.”

“Well, maybe you’re right, but double jeopardy will change, Mac, and it won’t be long now either, I don’t think. Then maybe we can have another go. There could be other charges, too. The illegal disposal of Clara’s body for a start...”