Joe Thomas is writing on a piece of paper opposite me.
I push back my hair, normally tucked behind my ears, try to ignore the smell of cabbage drifting in from the corridor outside and take another look at the three lines on the desk between Joe Thomas and me. The charming man I met an hour ago has disappeared. This man has barely uttered a word. Right now, he is putting down his pen, as if waiting for me to speak. Determined that I should play by his rules.
For anyone else it might be unnerving.
But all that practice, when I was growing up, is now standing me in good stead. When Daniel was alive (I still have to force myself to say those words), he would write words and phrases in all kinds of ways. Upside down. The wrong way round. In an odd order.
He can’t help it, my mother used to say. But I knew he could. When it was just the two of us together, my brother wrote normally. It’s a game, his eyes would say, sparkling with mischief. Join me! Us against them!
Right now I suspect that Joe Thomas is playing a game with me. It gives me an unexpected thrill of strength. He’s picked the wrong person. I know all the tricks.
‘Appeal,’ I say crisply and clearly. ‘There are several ways of interpreting it, aren’t there?’
Joe Thomas is clicking his heels together. Tap, tap. Tap, tap. ‘There certainly are. But not everyone thinks that way.’
He gives a half-laugh. A dry one. As if those who don’t think along those lines are missing something important in life.
I wonder who put up the purple HOPE poster. A well-meaning officer perhaps? Or a do-good prison visitor? Already I’m beginning to learn that you get all sorts inside.
Like my client.
I could do with a bit of hope myself. I glance down at my paperwork. ‘Let’s take “peel”. The report says that the scalding bathwater peeled the skin off your girlfriend.’
Joe Thomas’s face doesn’t flinch. Then again, what do I expect? He must be used to accusations and recriminations by now. That is what this particular prison is all about. You might also call it ‘discussion’. Psychologists talking to prisoners about why they committed their crimes. Other men in peer groups doing the same. One rapist demanding to know why another slit his mother’s throat. The latter tackling the former on why he took part in a gang-rape of a thirteen-year-old.
My boss took great pleasure in filling me in. Almost as if he wanted to frighten me. Yet now I’m here, in prison, I sense an unbidden curiosity slowly creeping over me. Why had Joe Thomas murdered his girlfriend in a scalding bath?
If indeed he had.
‘Let’s go over the prosecution’s argument at your trial,’ I say.
His face is impassive, as if we’re about to check a shopping list.
I glance down at my notes, although my gesture is more to avoid that black gaze than refresh my mind. A good lawyer needs a photographic memory; mine recalls every detail. There are times when I wish it didn’t. But right now, it’s vital.
‘You and Sarah moved in together, a few months after you met in the local pub. You were described in court, by her friends, as having an “up-and-down relationship”. Both her parents took the stand to say that she had told them you were controlling and was scared you would hurt her. The police report verified that Sarah actually lodged a complaint against you on one occasion for pushing her down the back-door steps and breaking her right wrist. However, she then withdrew the complaint.’
Joe Thomas gives a quick nod. ‘That’s right. She fell because she’d been drinking even though she’d promised to stop. But she initially blamed me because she didn’t want her family to know she was back off the wagon.’ He shrugs. ‘Drinkers can be terrible liars.’
Don’t I know it?
‘But a previous girlfriend made allegations against you too. Said you stalked her.’
He makes an irritated noise. ‘I wouldn’t call it stalking. I just followed her a few times to check she was going where she said she was. Anyway, she dropped her complaint.’
‘Because you threatened her?’
‘No. Because she realized I was only following her because I cared for her.’ He gives me a blank stare. ‘Anyway, I gave her the shove shortly after that.’
‘Why?’
He fixes me with an ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ look. ‘I stopped caring for her because she didn’t live by my rules.’
Talk about a control freak.
‘And then you met Sarah.’
He nods. ‘One year and two days later.’
‘You seem very certain.’
‘I’m good at numbers and dates.’
He doesn’t say this in a brash way. More as a statement which is so obvious that it barely needs mentioning.
I continue. ‘On the night of her death, your neighbours said they heard screaming.’
Joe shakes his head. ‘That Jones couple? Those two would have said anything against us. I told my lawyer that at the time. We had endless problems with them after we moved in.’
‘So you think they made it up? Why would they do that?’
‘I’m not them, so I don’t know, do I? But like I said, we didn’t get on. Their television was so loud. We never got any peace. We complained to them, but they didn’t listen. And old man Jones didn’t like it when I told him off about his garden. Talk about being run-down! Reflected badly on ours, which, I might add, I kept in pristine condition. After that, they got really unpleasant. Started threatening us. Threw litter in our garden.’ His mouth tightens. ‘Mind you, accusing me of murder was taking it a touch too far.’
‘What about your fingerprints on the boiler?’ I point to the relevant lines on the report. ‘The prosecution said you turned up the water temperature to maximum.’
Those dark eyes don’t even flicker. ‘I told my defence at the time. Do I need to repeat this? The pilot light was always going out, so I had to keep relighting it. So of course my fingerprints were on the boiler.’
‘So how did Sarah die if you didn’t murder her? How can you explain the bruises on her?’
Those fingers begin to drum the table as though to a silent beat. ‘Look. I’m going to tell you exactly how it happened. But you have to let me tell you in my own way.’
I realize that this man needs to be in control. Perhaps I’ll let him for a while; see what I can uncover that way. ‘Fine.’
‘She was late getting back from work. It was two minutes past eight when she got back. Usually it’s 6 p.m. On the dot.’
I can’t stop myself from butting in. ‘How can you be so certain?’
His face suggests I’ve just said something very stupid. ‘Because it took her precisely eleven minutes to walk home from the shop. It’s one of the reasons I encouraged her to take the job, just after we moved in together. It was convenient.’
My mind goes back to Sarah’s profile. ‘Fashion sales assistant’. It sums up a stereotypical picture. Immediately I rebuke myself. I am no typical lawyer. Ed is not a typical advertising man. And Joe? Is he a typical insurance salesman? I’m not sure. He’s certainly very precise about figures.
‘Go on,’ I say encouragingly.
‘She was drunk. That was obvious.’
‘How?’
Another ‘Are you stupid?’ look.
‘She could barely stand straight. She reeked of wine. Turned out she’d had half a bottle of vodka too, but it’s difficult to smell that stuff.’
I check my file. He’s right. Her blood alcohol level was high. But it doesn’t prove he didn’t kill her. ‘Then?’
‘We had an argument because she was late. I’d made dinner, like I always did. Lasagne with garlic, basil and tomato sauce. But it was all dry and nasty by then. So we had a row. Raised our voices, I admit. But there was no screaming like the neighbours said.’ His face wrinkles with disgust. ‘Then she was sick, all over the kitchen floor.’
‘Because she was drunk?’