It shunts along through the east of the city, industrial sites giving way to rows of identical houses, the gardens running down onto the tracks. The banks of the railway line are littered with detritus; empty cans, discarded clothing, old plastic bags like witches’ knickers in the stunted trees. I wonder if anyone ever climbs over the fences to fuck on the grass as the trains pass, escaping their daily existence for a moment of quick ecstasy to the rhythm of the 22:08 from Basildon to Fenchurch Street station. That’s one from the Monopoly board, I remember. At least I’ve gotten out of jail free. No such luck for Peter Royle. I search myself for any feeling of compassion for him but no, not a thing. He’s exactly where he deserves to be and I hope it brings some comfort to his victim and her family.
It’ll be good to get back to Madeleine’s case again. I close my eyes and lean back against the scratchy upholstery of the train seat. Thoughts of Patrick dance through my mind, Carl’s face glowering behind, their images swirling together as I fall into a fitful sleep, waking with a jolt as we arrive at Fenchurch Street.
Patrick and I meet at Marylebone two days later and take the train up together. He isn’t in a talkative mood and after a couple of attempts to get conversation off the ground, I leave him alone.
“We need to find out more about the relationship with the husband,” he says as we wait for the heavy iron gates to swing open.
“The journalists have given up now,” Francine says as she lets us in through the front door. “I thought they’d never give up, but then she never leaves the house, so they couldn’t get anything.” She gestures at Madeleine, who stands awkwardly in the doorway between the hall and the kitchen. “I’ll leave you to it. But don’t go upsetting her like last time. She isn’t strong.”
That I agree with. Francine a vibrant original and Madeleine a pale, washed-out copy. If she shrinks any more she’ll disappear, washed out from view the way her husband’s blood will now be scrubbed from their bedroom carpet.
We sit in Francine’s kitchen, a room far tidier than my kitchen ever is, jars and tea towels coordinated in a muted eau de Nil. Madeleine’s hair is better groomed than the last time we met, the roots now disguised with honey and caramel streaks of blond. I push my hair back from my face, shoving it behind my ears. Patrick sits at the end of the table, blue notebooks open in front of both of us.
“The plea and trial preparation hearing will be happening in a month,” I say. “Normally you would be expected to put in your plea, but in this case—”
“I want to plead guilty.” Madeleine’s face is contorted as she interrupts me, the words forced out but so quietly I have to strain to hear her. “I just want this over and done with.”
“I take your point, Madeleine, but we need to make sure we’ve covered all of the options first.” My voice sounds raucous compared to her whisper.
“There are two options, guilty or not guilty, and I’m going to plead guilty. I did it, I stabbed him, and that’s all there is to it.” The volume of her voice rises and she thumps her hand on the table.
“There is a third option at this stage, which is not to enter a plea at all. There are a lot of aspects to this that I think we need to explore. And we only have a prosecution case summary at the moment. You could lose some of your discount—”
“What does that mean?” Madeleine looks at me intently.
“You get a shorter custodial sentence if you plead guilty at the first opportunity, but in this case, I’d advise patience until we have more information,” I say.
“I’m going to get life anyway. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter—there are different levels of life imprisonment. And even if you plead guilty, we will need all the information we can gather in order to mitigate properly. I think that you should enter no plea at the PTPH.”
“The what?” she asks.
“The hearing I mentioned, the plea and trial preparation hearing. I suggest you make no indication of plea, and then we will get more of the prosecution papers, the witness statements, the forensic evidence. We can also explore the background to all of this more with you.”
Madeleine nods. “I suppose that makes sense. I still think I’ll have to plead guilty in the end.”
“Let’s see how we go. Now, we started talking about your relationship with Edwin last time.” I try to sound calm, not startle her. “It’s important that we understand the dynamics between the two of you before we can advise further.”
“What does it matter now? He’s dead and I killed him.” She’s speaking through her hands. Francine opens the door of the kitchen and walks in to stand beside Madeleine. She looks over at me as if to ask if she can stay and I nod. Perhaps her presence will help to calm Madeleine.
“It’s important to get a clear picture,” I continue. “It’s my job to defend you, to make sure that you’re given the best advice possible. I can only do that if you tell me everything.”
Madeleine takes a deep, shuddering breath and straightens up. Francine sits beside her, facing me, and puts her hand on Madeleine’s arm.
“Would you like Francine to stay with you while we talk?”
Madeleine shakes her head, pauses, then nods.
“You told us before that the last thing you remember in conversation with your husband was that he told you he wanted to leave you. Is that right?”
Another nod.
“And the impression I got from what you said was that this had come out of the blue for you?”
“Yes. I knew we had ups and downs, but I never thought we’d split up. I never thought he’d let me go.” Madeleine has stopped crying now, but still speaks very quietly.
“Perhaps we should go back a bit, to the beginning of your relationship. Where did you meet him?”
Madeleine smiles, looking off over my shoulder into a distance farther than I can reach. “He was so beautiful. I was too, if you can believe that. They called us the golden couple. Everyone wanted to be friends with us, to see if some of the magic would rub off. That’s what they said, anyway. Remember that, Francine? Those first few years?”
Francine nods. “Yes, of course. You were both so happy.” Her tone is anything but happy. I look at her but her expression is neutral, not showing any trace of the bitterness that’s crept into her voice.
“Yes, so happy. We met at college. I was the year above him, actually, but it didn’t matter. I was so pleased to meet someone like him. It happened like a flash, the first day he walked into the bar. We just connected. I was living in a shared flat off campus and he moved in within days and after that we were inseparable.”
“It sounds very romantic.” I scribble away in my notebook. Did anyone ever describe Carl and me as a golden couple? I don’t think so. But we were happy, once. In our twenties, before it all became so complicated, when weekends could be spent in bed and no one turned their nose up at cheap wine, just happy that there was booze to be drunk. We met in bars round Waterloo after work, a Cuban the favorite for a long while until we visited Havana and saw the real deal. That was the holiday we decided to fuck every day until the night we fell asleep on the beach and I was so eaten by mosquitoes that every touch was painful and we had to give up. Still, we laughed. We can’t even smile at each other now.