“Bye, darling. Have a good day.” I lean down and hug her.
“Are you going to pick me up?”
“It’ll be Daddy today. I’ve got a meeting.”
“Okay. Bye!”
She hangs her coat up on the peg and walks away towards a clutch of her friends. I stand and stare after her for a moment. They smile at Matilda and move over to make space for her in their circle. I wave goodbye and she waves back before I walk swiftly out and through the playground, head down.
“Matilda’s really happy, Alison, that’s what matters.” That’s what Carl says to me every time I worry about the other parents. Followed by “They’re always lovely to me.” I bet they are—not that I ever say that—and finally, “You just need to make more effort, that’s all.” Those were his words this morning, as he checked Matilda’s schoolbag and signed her reading book. I didn’t argue—he’s probably right. “I’ll pick her up today. My last client is at two,” he finished. At least that’s one less thing to worry about.
I make it just in time for the bus and sit down in a seat hemmed in by strollers. My black case is right by my leg, containing the brief—photographs and pages of evidence summing up a brutality which it’ll be my job in the next months to understand more fully than the workings of anything else: my mind, my marriage, or my failings as a mother. I can’t wait.
Once I arrive at chambers, I say hello to the clerks and unpack my wheelie bag, putting the brief on my desk. I sit down and look unseeing out the window. Fifteen years of practice building up to this, my first murder. I started with the usual: drunk drivers, shoplifting smack heads, recidivist robbers in the hell that was Balham Youth Court, pathetic pedophiles wringing their sweaty hands over indecent images of children, a rake’s progress of crime from the hapless via the helpless to those who could never be helped, whom even I occasionally agreed might be better locked up and the key thrown away for good. All so much in common, abusive childhoods leading to abuse of alcohol and drugs, deprivation and a desperation that sometimes externalized itself in raging demands: I want that phone, no, give me that fucking phone or I’ll stab you/punch you/drop you off this railway bridge in the path of an oncoming train.
That last robbery trial, some ten years ago, was one of my favorites. It was a multihanded trial in Nottingham where all the defendants blamed each other for making the threats and ended up with five years’ custody apiece. It was a good team of lawyers, though, and we drank the pub nearest to the Travelodge dry every night.
So. Madeleine Smith. I leaf through the file until I find the newspaper cuttings reporting on the case, with a passing nod to the restrictions required of a sub judice hearing. The main report shows a picture of Madeleine being shouldered by two police officers, her hands cuffed in front of her. She is a thin blond woman with a tired expression.
Madeleine Smith, 44, was arrested by police following the discovery of the body of her husband, Edwin, stabbed to death in their bed. He was a senior partner at the American asset management company Athena Holdings. Police were alerted after a cleaner entered the £3.5 million property in Clapham, London, and raised the alarm. According to sources the suspect was found sitting on the floor beside her husband’s body, and submitted quietly to arrest. Neighbors expressed astonishment at the events that have occurred: “She was lovely and always volunteered to help with the street party that we have every year. I just can’t believe it,” said one source, who asked not to be named.
I pause, make myself a coffee from the espresso machine that I bought Carl for Christmas last year. He’s never used it, telling me how wasteful the capsules are.
These are the facts of the prosecution case as provided in their brief summary: On Monday, 19 September, Edwin Smith is found dead in his bed by his cleaner; his wife, Madeleine, is sitting on the floor beside him. He has been dead for approximately twelve hours, and the cause of death is loss of blood from the fifteen stab wounds found on his neck and torso. It appears that he has been stabbed in his sleep, as there are no signs of defensive injuries on the body, nothing to show that he tried to fight back or stop the attack. A twelve-inch chef’s knife is found on the bed next to his body, the blade of which is consistent with the injuries noted before. Blood loss is extensive—it has soaked through the bed and the floorboards, leaking down through the ceiling of the living room below. Madeleine’s clothes are also covered in blood.
The police and an ambulance arrive immediately, though the victim is past all medical treatment. Madeleine submits calmly to arrest. She makes no comment at that time or at any subsequent time. She is initially remanded into custody at Downview Prison, but following a successful bail application made two weeks ago is now living under strict restrictions in her sister’s house in Beaconsfield.
By the looks of it, I can expect statements from the cleaner, the police and ambulance staff, a pathologist, and a neighbor who says he heard shouts and screams coming from the Smiths’ house on the night it’s presumed Edwin Smith died. No doubt the prosecution will get round to providing them at some point soon. I think back to what I was doing that Sunday night three weeks ago.
We’d gotten back from a partially successful weekend away to the seaside—Matilda had fun on the beach, at least, though Carl and I squabbled and slept, untouching, in a bed more designed for a dirty weekend than dirty looks over broken promises. It’s easier not to remember it, and I drag my thoughts back to the case.
Patrick has included a note about Madeleine’s movements that weekend. She says that their fourteen-year-old son, James, was home for the weekend from boarding school, and that she and Edwin had dropped him off at London Bridge to get the train back to school in time for Sunday-evening chapel. His name is also included in the list of prosecution witnesses, although they have yet to serve his statement.
Madeleine has given a brief statement to her solicitors about her background. She’s originally from Surrey, traveled extensively through her childhood with her diplomat family. She’s a trained accountant but hasn’t worked for years. She became a mother at the age of thirty. She and Edwin had been together for nearly twenty years, were happy, and she has no comment to make about the night in question. No comment at all.
When I arrive at the station, I see Patrick before he sees me. He’s leaning against the wall, looking at his phone, and at the sight of him something jolts in my chest and I stumble, my bag catching on my ankle. He looks up and smiles, a proper smile that reaches his eyes, and I laugh, so relieved to see someone who looks pleased to see me that I forget for a moment that I’ve finished with him. He touches my cheek when I reach him and I’m ready to catch him up on my thoughts about the case, but then his phone rings and he turns away from me to take the call. We don’t talk much on the train on the way to meet Madeleine, though every now and again he looks up between emails and pats my leg. I force myself to shift away from him, reminding myself firmly that it’s over between us and that while he might be being lovely now, he wasn’t on Friday and so many other times besides. I know he’s no good.
Beaconsfield is a pretty commuter town, dotted with boutiques and gastropubs. We take a taxi from the station to the house where our client is staying and wait at the closed electric gates to the property. The house is big, dwarfing its garden, and surrounded by equally big houses, all recently built and shiny.