The courtroom of the High Court of Justiciary in Edinburgh smelt of wood polish and carpet cleaner. From the grand, classical exterior, Lulu had expected a grand, classical, lofty courtroom, but it was a relatively small, low-ceilinged space furnished like an office, with blond wood and lots of computers, and a navy-blue carpet and chairs. As she made her way slowly from the door to the witness stand, it struck her that this ordinary setting was all wrong for the ‘solemn proceedings’, as they called trials in the High Court, being played out in it. For the things Lulu was going to have to say.
The room, as the advocate depute had briefed her, contained the jury – fifteen people, in Scotland – the Lord Commissioner of Justiciary, the advocate depute or prosecutor and his assistant, the defence advocate and her assistant, the clerk and other court staff, and the media and ‘rubberneckers’, as he’d put it, in the public gallery.
And, of course, the accused.
She could feel Nick’s eyes on her, on her swollen belly, as she stepped into the box and turned to face the court, but she didn’t look at him. She looked at the public gallery where her parents and brothers were sitting alongside Isla, Maggie and Michael.
They all gave her encouraging smiles.
Mr Oliphant, the advocate depute, took her through the events leading up to Yvonne’s disappearance and Duncan’s murder, and as she detailed her brief marriage to Nick it was as if she were talking about someone else, a man she had loved who had himself disappeared.
‘And now, Ms Tidwell, if you could tell us what happened on 25 June last year.’
As the lie approached, Lulu could feel all the ‘tells’ assailing her – shortness of breath as the fight or flight response kicked in, making it difficult to speak more than a few words at a time; a desire to put her hand to her mouth in a subconscious attempt to cover up the lie; a need to blink more.
This, though, was one of the advantages of a knowledge of psychology. As she spoke the actual lie, as she told the court how she’d arrived at Rose Cottage and seen her husband stab his father, she made a supreme effort to centre herself, to keep her hands folded in front of her, to regulate her breathing, not to blink too much. At one point she had to catch herself up, stop herself repeating, ‘He stabbed him in the stomach.’ A huge tell was that liars tended to repeat important phrases in a subconscious effort to ram the lie home. And people listening to them could subconsciously pick up on that.
Thank goodness she didn’t need to worry about her story matching whatever Maggie, the previous witness, had said. Quick-thinking Maggie had told the police, when first questioned, that she’d been out of it when Nick had killed Duncan, or at least extremely woozy and not aware of what was happening. And she’d stuck to that ever since. She had realised, she’d told Lulu later, that her account of the stabbing could well contradict whatever Lulu said. So it was safer just to say she’d been out of it.
‘She’s lying!’ Nick suddenly shouted from the dock, and Lulu didn’t have to fake the shock that went through her, one hand going instinctively to her stomach as, at last, their eyes met.
He had jumped up from his seat and was being restrained by two burly men, one on either side of him, but he was looking straight at Lulu.
The silent message he sent her, as their gazes locked, was unmistakable.
‘Oh my God, Lulu, you were brilliant!’ Isla ran at Lulu in the corridor outside the courtroom and caught her up in a hug, and Lulu closed her eyes and breathed in the essence of young person, the light scent Isla used, the sweets she’d been surreptitiously popping in the courtroom, orange blossom and cherries and summer days in the sun.
‘Was I okay?’ Lulu muttered.
‘You were more than okay!’ Isla had a soft Welsh accent that Lulu could listen to forever. And a soft heart to match. It was almost impossible to think of her as Nick’s sister, and Lulu preferred not to. She preferred to think of Isla purely as Maggie and Duncan’s daughter and the lovely soon-to-be auntie of her own child who would also, in Lulu’s mind, have nothing to do with Nick but be Duncan’s grandchild. ‘And when he shouted at you,’ Isla went on, ‘and you sort of flinched and put your hand on your belly, you should have seen Mr Oliphant’s face! He was made up! And the defence woman, she was spitting feathers!’
Then Mum and Dad and Dennis and John were hugging her too, and Mum was fussing, guiding her along the corridor and out into the freezing January air, and chiding her for not being able immediately to find her gloves, as if Lulu were still a child. And Dad took her arm as they made their way down the historic High Street of Edinburgh’s Old Town to the café where they’d booked a table for lunch.
Maggie and Michael were coming along behind, deep in conversation, and Isla was running back and forth between the two groups like an eager puppy. The thought reminded Lulu of Milo. She hoped he was okay.
‘Does it seem like I’m enjoying this too much?’ Isla said, as if reading Lulu’s mind, as the two of them stood studying their reflections in the mirrors of the café’s loo. Isla looked nothing like Nick, thank God, apart from her height. She was tall, with Maggie’s strong nose, but where Maggie was, as she said herself, no oil painting, Isla’s features were in proportion, with those huge green eyes and wide cheekbones. She had the striking looks of a model, completely at odds with her bouncy, rather gauche personality. She seemed much younger than twenty-three.
‘Oh, I’m going to enjoy it too, now that’s out of the way,’ said Lulu, using a damp tissue to wipe the make-up from her sweaty face. ‘It’s been a long time coming.’
Isla sighed. ‘But, I mean – this is my brother’s trial for murdering my dad and my auntie!’