‘Aren’t I going to see Natasha’s statement?’ Mel asked.
‘In time,’ said the older man. ‘We’ve told you the main points. The examining doctor takes the view there must have been a degree of force to have resulted in the wound sustained. There is one other thing Miss Baker wanted us to tell you. She’s pregnant. Fortunately, it seems that there is no damage to the baby.’
Pregnant. The word was a slap across the face. What chance did Mel have? Pregnant women were believed. Pregnant women were untouchable. Pregnant women didn’t spit out bitter words. Mel felt the officer’s small eyes boring through her.
‘We’ll be speaking to your mother, Mrs Isabel Goddard.’
‘Please don’t involve her. She won’t cope.’
‘We understand she was an eyewitness.’
‘I don’t know what she saw.’ True. You could never know what another person had seen. But she did remember her mother standing in the doorway, did remember the warning, ‘No, Mel,’ in the moment before the attack. What would Isabel say? Mel felt hot and cold at once as she heard the familiar words: ‘You do not have to say anything. But it may hurt your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
‘So, I’m being charged?’
‘We’ll hear what you have to say.’
This was the moment. She should confess all. Explain everything. Provocation was no defence, but it was strong mitigation. An early plea meant a lighter sentence. Do it now. Do what you believe in. Bursts of anger were wrong. Violence was wrong. But, worst of all was anger coupled with violence, followed by the relentless drip of dishonesty. For that there could be no redemption.
No damage, the officer had said. How could they be sure? She prayed he was right, though she couldn’t help wondering about the hapless child.
Her story bounced off the hard walls, her language articulate and practised. After a lifetime of public speaking she didn’t know how to sound genuinely troubled. In front of an audience, she was cool, prepared, confident. The worst way to proceed now. But it was all she could do. She had decided before arriving that she would give a broad outline of her actions. Not too much detail. She could refine it later if necessary. She prayed it would not be necessary.
She admitted that she and her pupil were no kindred spirits. There was nothing she could put her finger on. The pupil–supervisor relationship was delicate, particularly when the pupil was older, more experienced than usual. Mel had tried to be fair, but things had not worked out. It happened. Two women who simply didn’t like each other. Different backgrounds. The inherently competitive nature of the Bar.
She held back on the Attendance Note, the email to Paul. With luck she would never need them. If ever she did, a jury would understand why she had kept them back, her desire not to bring up confidential correspondence or unfounded suspicion. A jury. She was already imagining a trial and she hadn’t even been charged. As for Jacob, she couldn’t even utter his name in this vile place. It would be sacrilege. She took a deep breath and continued.
She had met Natasha for coffee in the Dulwich Picture Gallery. Her pupil needed a reference and there were a few matters she, Mel, wished to discuss. During the conversation Mel had referred to her mother, Isabel Goddard, a retired actress who had appeared in a long running soap. It turned out that Natasha was a fan and was eager to meet Isabel. But Isabel had become somewhat reclusive in her old age and Mel was reluctant to arrive with an uninvited guest. Natasha seemed disappointed but Mel thought no more about it until two weeks later.
She had let herself into her mother’s house and was waiting for Isabel to return from an outing. It was hard to describe her feelings when Isabel walked in with Natasha. Mel had been stunned. Not simply that Natasha had chosen to befriend her mother independently. But that she had failed to mention to Isabel that she was her daughter’s pupil. It was duplicitous, inexplicable.
They had been standing in the spare bedroom. An argument arose. As the argument grew heated Natasha had rushed towards her, whether to grab her or hit her it was impossible to say. Natasha was so unpredictable she might even have been intending a conciliatory hug. With appalling luck the poor girl had tripped, probably on one of the many high heeled shoes that were lined up across the carpet. And so, she fell, crashing against the glass edge of the dressing table.
The man’s eyes tunnelled through her. The technique was routine, intended to intimidate. There were rules about what the police could say and do, but there were no rules about their facial expression. It was their final weapon. When he asked for the second time about the relationship with Natasha, she told him she had nothing to add. She had already been open and honest about the difficulties. Anyway, the relationship was irrelevant. What mattered was what had happened in her mother’s spare room last Sunday afternoon and she had already told them what she had witnessed. There was nothing more she could say.
Privately she told herself she would need the support of a good solicitor if the police wished to take this further. She had said too much already. The older officer repeated the date, stated the precise time and declared that he was terminating the interview. The younger man turned off the tape. Mel was free to go.
* * *
She went straight to chambers and handed in Natasha’s phone. She emptied her pigeonhole and went home to prepare her next case. For the next week she threw herself into work, focusing on other lives. At home, at night, her own crashed in, images of blood, of falling, the bleak, grey interview room, swirling panic about the future. Jacob avoided conversation and for once she was glad that he was wrapped up in his separate world. She could only speak in pleasantries, her voice and body in the room with him, her mind elsewhere, circling, ruminating. Just as she was considering whether to ring the police to see how they were progressing with Natasha’s complaint, she was invited to attend the station again.
She was charged with Assault Occasioning Actual Bodily Harm and given police bail with a condition not to have contact with the complainant Miss Natasha Baker. Nor should she speak to any potential witnesses about the case. This included her mother, Mrs Isabel Goddard.
‘I’ll have to speak to my mother. She lives alone. She’s frail, elderly. She depends on me.’
‘You may see her. But you should not speak to her about the events that led to Miss Baker’s injuries.’
She had no choice but to agree and sign the conditions. In a daze she walked out into the busy street, narrowly avoiding a cyclist hurtling across a zebra crossing. She could no longer keep her secret from Jacob but how could she tell him? She might call Claude. He would maintain a barrister’s detachment, clicking into professional mode, even when dealing with the mother of his son. She carried on walking in the direction of chambers. It was almost noon. Perfect. Most of the tenants would be in court or working from home. Her heart was thumping as she entered the clerks’ room.
‘Hi, Andy.’
‘Hi, Mel,’ said Andy. ‘Everything OK? Haven’t seen you for a bit.’
‘Sort of. It’s kind of complicated. I’ll need a couple of days off court. I hope that’s not too inconvenient for you. I just wanted to pick up a few things and check my pigeonhole.’