Next door, the builders are chiselling away at something deep in the party wall. Chip chip chip go their tools, each beat raising my blood pressure by a degree.
I’m hot with stress. Just like Mac couldn’t have one shot of whisky without sinking the entire bottle, my visit to the forbidden corners of the internet triggers a full relapse in me. Knowing it won’t do me any good, but powerless against the masochistic compulsion, I type in the URL www.jamiebalcombeisinnocent.co.uk
I hold my breath while the site loads and tell myself that nothing could be worse than what I’ve already seen this morning, but the home page is just as it has been for the last six months, two days. (Not that I’m counting, as such; I only know because the last time I logged on to Jamie’s site was the morning before I found out I was pregnant. After the positive test, I had to protect the babies from the adrenaline spike that viewing the site always created in me.) Gone is the bold assertion, the biography, the contact details and the list of contents. Gone is the years-old flannel about the Criminal Cases Review Board. Gone are the pictures of Jamie and his family, of Jamie on horseback, of Jamie and that award-winning eco-estate he built, of Jamie receiving his Master’s Degree in Criminology. The whole thing has been replaced by this message, red letters on a black screen.
jamie’s website is being updated due
to an exciting new development
Thank you for your continued support
I stare at it for a few seconds, then close the window. It can’t be that exciting a new development, as it’s been up there for half a year now. And anyway, if something had happened, the Balcombes’ public relations team would have splashed it all over the media. I don’t know what’s going on. Others might assume that they have admitted defeat, but Jim Balcombe once said that he would fight to the death to clear his son’s name and he’s still alive.
Who, now, apart from me – or Beth – could overturn Jamie’s conviction? It’s me he wanted. That’s what he was asking for in all those letters, for me to swear an affidavit retracting my statement. The conditions of his probation included a lifelong ban on making contact with his victim but nothing was specified about me.
It can hardly be the case that over a decade and a half later, someone has suddenly remembered something and come forward, so I am inclined to think that this holding page is their version of an old-fashioned test card; something they do to keep the message, the brand, alive while they take a break. I can’t think what else it might be. The legal machinations of this futile campaign I never grasped in the first place, and the motive goes in and out of clarity depending on my mood.
If it was important, it would come straight to my inbox. The Google alert I set up years ago is for ‘Jamie Balcombe + retrial’. That search has yielded nothing in fifteen years but its threat never seems to diminish.
The case being retried would force our lives to intersect with Beth’s again, and it would wake my sleeping lie. I don’t know which is worse.
Chapter 27
LAURA
19 May 2000
Kit woke up first, and was naked at the bedroom door before I remembered we had company. Thinking more about Beth’s potential distress than his modesty, I shot my leg out from under the duvet and made a shepherd’s crook of my angled foot, catching him on the shin.
‘There’s someone in the guest suite,’ I whispered.
Kit made a near-miss face – he knew I wouldn’t have bothered to warn him if it was Mac – then pulled on his pants and a T-shirt from the floor. ‘Who? I didn’t hear anyone come in.’
‘Don’t freak out, but it’s Beth. From Cornwall.’
Kit’s mouth fell open. ‘How – what’s she doing here? How’d she even find you?’
‘She turned up at work last night. I gave her a card at court.’ I realised the significance of the words seconds after they were out. Kit’s eyes flicked back and forth as though over abacus beads: Beth left the court building after giving evidence. Ergo she was not present from the second day onwards. Ergo Laura must have spoken to her on the first day. Ergo Laura lied to me about where she was, spoke to a witness and jeopardised the case.
‘When did you even.’
I caught at his hand. ‘We met by accident, in the toilets.’ I was whispering but talking fast so he didn’t have time to work out that I hadn’t used the lavatory while we were there together. Had he worked out that I had sneaked from the hotel room while he slept, he’d have been rightly furious. ‘Please don’t be cross, it was a sput-of-the-moment thing and I promise you we didn’t discuss the case.’ Kit gave me a look I recognised from my dad; I’m not angry with you, Laura, I’m just very disappointed. I sat down beside him. ‘Look, leaving aside how she found me, I need to tell you why. She came to my work because she was really upset. Jamie Balcombe’s been given leave to appeal against his conviction.’
‘Whoa.’ Kit ran a hand over his unshaven chin. ‘If it goes to retrial, you’d better hope nobody saw you talking in the toilets, let alone that you’ve started having sleepovers with her.’ There was contempt under his anger, sending a rush of fear through me. I could tolerate the anger, but I could not bear to lose his esteem. If my talking to Beth made him react like this, he could never find out what I said in the witness box.
‘You don’t have to whisper, I’m awake now,’ came Beth’s voice from the sitting room. I left Kit half dressed and angry in our bedroom. Beth was on her feet, yawning. When I noticed what she was wearing, I saw that I’d fucked up on yet another level. The T-shirt I’d groped for in the dark was Kit’s prized Chile ’91 souvenir shirt, threadbare and holey even then but so precious to Kit he barely wore it; and I had let Beth sleep in it.