‘Either way, you’ve definitely got an attempted murder on your hands.’
3
Henley felt trapped. There was nowhere to run. She watched Eloise Rhimes cross the Inner London Crown Court car park and walk directly towards her. Eloise sat as a District Judge at Bromley Magistrates’ Court and Henley assumed that a meeting, likely about a youth charged with a serious offence, was the reason behind her presence at the Crown Court. However, paranoia and shame convinced her that Eloise was here for her. She could feel Eloise’s unanswered texts and voicemails burning a hole in her pocket. Henley wasn’t in the habit of hiding from people but that’s exactly what she’d been doing ever since she’d agreed to look into Eloise’s husband’s death.
‘I thought it was you,’ Eloise said as she hugged Henley. ‘How was your holiday?’
‘It was good. Very much needed,’ said Henley, feeling embarrassed by Eloise’s warmth.
‘And how are you and Rob?’
‘They definitely weren’t joking when they said marriage isn’t easy, but we’re better,’ Henley admitted. Her relationship with her husband had been challenging over the years. No one could ever replace her mum, but Eloise had stepped in, listened, advised and held her when it had got too much. Henley had reciprocated in kind when Eloise had suddenly found herself with the unwelcome title of widow.
‘Before you ask, no, I’m not stalking you. I’m here for the usualbureaucratic nonsense that could have been dealt with by email,’ Eloise said.
‘I didn’t think you were stalking me at all, but I wouldn’t blame you if you were. I know it’s been a few months, and I haven’t returned your—’
‘I’m asking a lot of you. I know that,’ Eloise cut her off, tenderly taking hold of Henley’s hand. ‘Harry was my husband, but he was also your friend, not just your boss. Bloody hell,nowit sounds like I’m trying to guilt trip you. I promise you that’s not what I’m doing.’
‘You want answers,’ Henley said, feeling very guilty.
‘Not want,needanswers.’
‘And you’ll get them. You’ll know as soon as I do.’
Eloise nodded, watching a news crew unpacking their van. ‘I’ll let you get on. I’ve got a trial starting this afternoon and you’ve got whatever this lunacy is.’
‘Oi, oi, sunshine,’ said Stanford, peeling himself away from the grey stone brick that formed the walls of the court building.
‘The last thing I feel is sunny and bright.’ Henley drained the last of her coffee and threw the cup into a nearby bin. She moved aside as a trio of barristers, black gowns flapping around them, horsehair wigs tucked under their arms, descended from the stone staircase.
‘Still not over your jetlag?’
‘No, my body clock is all over the place and I could think of a million other things I’d rather be doing on a Monday morning.’ Henley lifted up her head and inhaled deeply. The sun broke through the heavy rain clouds. ‘I should have stayed in Grenada. Transferred to CID in the Royal Grenada Police Force.’
‘For the love of God, get over yourself, woman,’ said Stanford, patting Henley affectionately on her arm. ‘Let’s go in. You can vent to the judge.’
Tension tightened the muscles in Henley’s neck. They entered the court building and cleared security. ‘I still can’t believe this is happening,’ she said.
‘We didn’t do anything wrong, with Fox-Carnell, I mean.’ Stanford had read Henley’s mind.
‘I know that,’ Henley replied, their footsteps echoing through the hallways. ‘But you know what the media and the public are like. It’s easier to blame us if something goes wrong and a murderer is put back on the streets.’
‘The judge may not even let her out.’ Stanford adjusted his tie. ‘How do I look?’
‘You’re fine,’ Henley said distractedly as she caught sight of Leonard Calgary’s widow, Deborah, and Fox-Carnell’s last victim, Jorge Menjivar, being escorted to the courtroom by an usher. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
The courtroom buzzed with excitement and anxiety. Counsel, reporters, family members, and curious onlookers who’d managed to snag seats in the public gallery, waited for the woman who’d been called the angel of death. Henley and Stanford both declined the invitation to sit behind prosecution counsel and sat at the bench usually reserved for probation, close to the Judge’s own bench but also with an unrestricted view of the dock. Stanford nudged Henley as the sound of metal clanging against metal rang out from the direction of the dock. Loud chatter lowered into whispers as Sian Fox-Carnell, flanked by two officers, entered. She was a pale-skinned, slim woman whose dark blonde hair hung in waves down her back. Fox-Carnell’s barrister scurried forward. Henley watched as Fox-Carnell walked to the corner of the dock, leaned towards the slim gap in the window and nodded in response to her barrister’s advice.
‘She looks …’ Stanford paused. ‘Surprisingly well.’
‘Wouldn’t you be looking well if a court of appeal had overturned all your murder convictions and ordered a retrial?’Henley asked, frustrated. She adjusted her blazer which suddenly felt too tight in the warm courtroom.
‘Even so. I would expect her to look a bit more, I don’t know … Broken.’
Henley didn’t reply as Fox-Carnell’s barrister returned to counsel’s row. Fox-Carnell remained standing and locked eyes with Henley. She was taken back in time to the moment she and Rhimes had sat across from Fox-Carnell in the interview room questioning her over the course of eighty-seven hours. Every single negative emotion that Henley could think of had swam in Fox-Carnell’s eyes: contempt, selfishness, smugness, arrogance, malevolence, boredom, hate, and Henley would swear blind that she saw evil.
‘That woman is anything but broken,’ Henley said as a loud knock reverberated around the courtroom and the door at the front opened. Everyone rose to their feet for the judge.
