‘And the safety of my client shouldn’t be ignored,’ says Helgarde. ‘In prison she will have to be kept in solitary and the guards will do her no favours. PC McCarthy doesn’t dispute that her DNA was found in the house. She claims to have visited that address prior to the murder; and the prosecution cannot place her at the scene on the night in question.
‘She also admits that she disliked the victim because he beat his wife and his mistress and terrorised his children. But to handcuff a man to the bed and set him on fire, to watch him die, that takes real hatred. That’s primal fury. That is a crime of passion.’ Helgarde pauses and I half expect him to step closer to the bench, or wander around the courtroom as he makes his case, both actions which aren’t allowed in British courts. Barristers are meant to stay at the bar table.
‘This is a headline-grabbing case,’ continues Helgarde, ‘which will make or break careers. Enormous pressure has been placed upon police to obtain a quick conviction because one of their own has been killed. Overtime was cancelled. Emotions ran high. Corners were cut. When a suspect emerged, the investigation immediately stopped looking for anyone else because it might compromise their one shot at a conviction. That’s why they have not examined the other possibilities. Philomena McCarthy is right in front of them and has become their only option. It’s easy. It’s simple. Let’s make it stick. But that is not how the legal system should function. My client is owed the presumption of innocence. She is not a flight risk. And she is not a danger to the community. Set bail and let her go home until a jury can decide.’
The magistrates have heard enough. They confer, speaking in whispers. The chairman turns back to the court.
‘Bail is set at one million pounds. The defendant will surrender her passport, and report daily to the nearest police station to her residence. There will be no contact with prospective witnesses.’
He addresses me directly.
‘Should you decide to get married, Miss McCarthy, there will be no honeymoon, do you understand?’
‘Yes, Your Worship.’
I glance at my father, who is already getting to his feet. A million pounds. He doesn’t look shocked by the figure. Maybe it’s too ridiculous to even countenance. I want some signal, or sign, but he has already turned away.
58
Two hours later, I am escorted from the cells and handed my belongings in a plastic bag. I am not party to the signatures or the lodging of sureties or whatever other guarantees were required to secure my release. Clifton and Daragh have come to collect me, both dressed in crisp white shirts and clean jeans and shiny black shoes. It looks like a uniform. I kiss their cheeks and apologise for looking like ‘death warmed up’。
‘Where did Daddy get a million pounds in two hours?’ I ask.
‘Eddie would have robbed the Bank of England,’ replies Daragh.
Dozens of reporters and TV crews have been waiting outside the courthouse, which is why we leave through a side entrance in Seymour Place. Clifton holds open the car door. I’m about to duck inside when I hear someone shout. A photographer has found us. Moments later, a phalanx of journalists and photographers come into view, scrambling to get TV cameras onto shoulders and spotlights in place.
‘The bastards!’ says Clifton. He pushes me onto the back seat and throws a coat over my head, which smells of nicotine and breath mints. I used to question why people covered their faces for the cameras outside courtrooms and police stations. Surely, it made them look guiltier, as though they had something to hide. But now I understand. It’s a fear that the camera will expose some hidden doubt or frailty; or make me look like a startled deer trapped in the high beams of an advancing truck.
The braying mass has surrounded the car. I hear them shouting and swearing, demanding that I show my face and answer their questions. The car horn sounds and I feel the vehicle lurch forward several times before accelerating away. I peer from beneath the coat.
‘Where are we going?’ I ask.
‘There was some debate about that,’ says Daragh, who is driving. ‘Your mother and father had a heated whatnot.’
‘They argued?’
‘Yeah, and for a good Catholic girl, your mother knows a lot of bad words,’ says Clifton.
‘Who won?’ I ask.
‘Scoreless draw,’ says Daragh.
‘Eddie on penalties,’ says Clifton.
‘Where is Henry?’ I ask.
‘I haven’t seen your boy,’ says Daragh. ‘Have you called him?’
‘They wouldn’t let me. I have to go home.’
‘That’s not what the court agreed.’
‘I need to see Henry.’
‘Call him.’
‘No. In person. I need to explain.’
Daragh and Clifton glance at each other, unsure of what to do. ‘Maybe you should wait until tomorrow.’
‘Take me home, or I’m getting out of the car right now.’
Daragh makes the final decision, circling Hyde Park Corner and driving west towards Knightsbridge.
‘Headstrong,’ says Clifton.
‘Like her mother,’ says Daragh.
‘We should warn the poor bugger.’
‘Too late for that.’
‘I can hear you,’ I say.
They grin.
It’s still an hour from dusk and the house in bathed in a soft twilight that makes the exterior look golden. I walk through the rooms, hoping Henry might have left a note, but find nothing. A calendar pinned to the fridge has his shifts blocked off with red crosses. He’s not working tonight.
As I move between rooms, I sense that everything has undergone a subtle transformation, as though a group of intruders has come in and shifted things around, before putting them back exactly as they had been.
Daragh has followed me into the house. I borrow his phone and call Henry’s number. He doesn’t answer. In the bedroom I discover that his overnight bag is missing and he’s taken his toothbrush and shaving gear.
I have his parents’ phone number in my wedding book. I call them. It rings for a long while. A woman answers. Henry’s mother. I call her Mrs Chapman, even though she’s told me it’s ‘Janet’。
‘Is Henry with you?’ I ask hopefully.
‘Philomena?’
‘Yes. Is he there?’
A pause. ‘He can’t come to the phone.’
‘I need to speak to him.’
‘Is this your one phone call?’ She thinks I’m still in custody.
‘I’ve been released.’
‘But you were charged. We saw it on the news.’
‘I’m on bail. Can you please put Henry on the line?’
Another silence. ‘He doesn’t want to speak to you.’
‘Don’t be difficult. Put him on.’
‘I don’t think you understand how much you’ve hurt him.’
‘Me?’
‘Those photographs … on the internet.’
‘What photographs?’
‘You and that woman. I have nothing against gay people; and I know attitudes to sex and gender have changed, but you can’t expect to marry my son after something like this.’
The police must have leaked Tempe’s photographs.
‘Nothing happened,’ I say.