Douglas Kennedy - A Special Relationship

She gave me a brusque nod, then opened the door. I was going to ask her where I could find the nearest B&B, but thought better of it. I didn't want to engage her further. Especially as she had already done so much.

I headed up the street in the direction of town, not particularly worried if all the B&B's in Seaford were full or shuttered for the night. If I had to sleep on a bench in the station, so be it. The gamble had paid off. A sleepless night was well worth what I had come away with. But halfway down the street, I heard Pat Hobbs's voice calling, 'Where are you going now?'

I turned around. She was standing in the doorway of her house.

'I don't know. Figure there must be a B&B or a hotel open now'.

'At nearly one am in Seaford? Everyone's in bed. Come on, I've got a spare bedroom'.

The room was narrow and musty. So too was the bed. There was a small, sad collection of old children's dolls on a window sill. She didn't say much to me, except that the bathroom was down the hall and there was a spare towel in the airing cupboard. Then she wished me goodnight.

I undressed and crawled between the sheets. I fell asleep within minutes.

Then it was morning and she was tapping on my door, telling me it was eight and she had to be at work in an hour. Pat was dressed for the building society in a navy-blue uniform with a blue blouse and a blue-and-white scarf depicting the corporate logo of the conglomerate that employed her. An old-style brown tea-pot was on a metal warmer. There was a steel toast rack with two slices of white toast awaiting me, as well as a jar of marmalade and a tub of margarine.

'Thought you might like a little breakfast', she said.

'Thank you', I said.

'Tea all right? I don't drink coffee'.

'Tea's fine'.

I sat down at the table. I reached for a slice of toast and spread it with marmalade. Pat lit up a cigarette.

'Made those calls for you already', she said.

'Sorry?'

'Them two numbers I gave you last night. I called them both already. They're both willing to see you. What are you up to today?'

'I'm free', I said, genuinely pleased and just a little surprised by such a gesture.

'That's good, because the first person - the one who lives in Crawley - said she's around this morning. And I called the rail station - there's a train from here to Gatwick Airport at 9.03, but you have to change in Brighton. You get to Gatwick at 10.06, and then it's ten minutes in a cab to her house. The other woman can't see you today. But she's free tomorrow morning. However she lives in Bristol. She's expecting you at eleven, which means you'll need to be on a train from London around nine. All right?'

'I don't know what to say, except that I'm rather overwhelmed...'

'That's enough', she said, evidently wanting to avoid any more of my effusiveness. 'Hope it goes well for you, and that's all I'm going to say about it'.

We lapsed into silence. I tried to make conversation.

'Lived in Seaford long?'

'Twenty-three years'.

'That's long. And before that?'

'Amersham. Lived with my parents until they both died. Then felt like a change. Didn't want to be rambling around their house without them. So I asked the building society to transfer me somewhere different. They offered Seaford. Kind of liked the idea of being near the water. Came here in 1980. Bought this place with my share of the Amersham house. Never moved anywhere since'.

'Were you married or' -

'No', she said, cutting me off. 'Never did that'.

She stubbed out her cigarette. I had crossed the frontier into the personal, and the conversation was now closed.

She walked me to the station. When we reached the entrance, I said, 'Thanks for putting me up again. Hope I wasn't too much trouble'.

'First time I've had anyone to stay in about seven years'.

I touched her arm. 'Can I call you, tell you how things worked out?'

'Rather you didn't', she said. And with another curt nod of the head, she quickly said 'Goodbye' and headed off.

While waiting to board the train to Gatwick, I found myself studying a map of East Sussex on the wall of the station. As my eye moved slightly northeast of Seaford, I noticed the town of Litlington - scene of my infamous arrival at Diane Dexter's gate. Using my index finger, I gauged the distance between the two towns, then held my finger up against the mileage indicator at the bottom of the map. Tony was now spending weekends just three miles from where his sister lived.

I changed trains at Brighton. At Gatwick I took a cab to a modern house on a modest estate in Crawley. The woman there granted me thirty minutes of her time, told me everything I wanted to hear, and said that, yes, she would agree to an additional interview by one of my legal team. Then I took a cab back to the railway station. While waiting for the train, I called Nigel Clapp, excitedly blurting out everything that had happened in the last twelve hours. He said nothing while I rambled on. And when I finally concluded with the comment 'Not bad, eh?', he said, 'Yes, that is rather good news'.

Which, from Nigel Clapp, ranked as something approaching high optimism.

He also said he'd make arrangements to dispatch Rose Keating down to Crawley to take a witness statement.

Around noon the next day, I called him from Bristol with more good news: I had heard exactly what I wanted to hear from my second Pat Hobbs contact, and she too was ready to make a witness statement. Once again, he was enthusiasm itself: 'You've done very well, Ms Goodchild'.

Maeve Doherty concurred, ringing me two days later to say how pleased she was with my detective work.

'It is certainly very interesting testimony', she said, sounding cautious and guarded. 'And if carefully positioned in the hearing, it might have an impact. I'm not saying it's the smoking gun I'd like - but it is, without question, most compelling'.

Then she asked me if I was free to drop by her chambers for an hour, so we could go through how she was planning to examine me when I gave evidence at the hearing, and what I should expect from Tony's barrister.

Though she only needed to see me for sixty minutes, the round-trip journey to Chancery Lane ate up two hours. Time was something of which I was in short supply right now - as I had lost over a full working day on my assorted expeditions to Sussex and Bristol, and as the Film Guide proofs had to be in before the hearing began. Once inside her chambers, I found myself kneading a piece of paper in my hands as we did a run-through of my testimony. She told me that kneading a piece of paper was something I must definitely avoid doing while being questioned, as it made me look hyper and terrified. Then she did a practice run of a potential cross-examination, terrorizing me completely, coldly haranguing me, attacking all my weaknesses, and undermining all my defences.

'Now you have me scared to death', I said after she finished.

'Don't be', she said. 'Because you actually did very well indeed. The thing to remember is that she will do more than her level best to trip you up, and to make you seem like a complete and utter liar. She will also try to make you angry. The one trick here is: do not take the bait. Keep your answers brief and concise. Avoid eye contact with her. Keep repeating the same thing, again and again. Do not deviate from your story and you'll be just fine'.

I doubted that - but, thankfully, the terror of the hearing was briefly superseded by the more immediate terror of not making the deadline. I was actually grateful for the pressure, as it did block out the fear I had. It also forced me to work fourteen-hour days for the last week. Bar the occasional trip to the supermarket for food - and a fast thirty-minute canter along the tow path by the river - I didn't leave the house... except, of course, for my weekly visit with Jack. He was crawling now, and making a wide variety of sounds, and liked being tickled, and especially enjoyed a routine I did which involved holding him above me while I lay on the floor, and then going, 'One, two, three, boom' and pulling him straight down on top of me. In fact, he thought this hilarious, and in his own monosyllabic way, kept indicating that he wanted me to repeat it, over and over again. Which, of course, I was only too willing to do. Until Clarice walked in and informed me that our hour was up.