And he did. ‘A mixture of water temperatures and models of boilers, including their age,’ he says now, beaming. ‘And, if I’m not mistaken, the implications are pretty big. I showed them to an engineer friend – don’t worry, I didn’t give him the background. But he said that there’s a definite pattern. So I had a hunch and did a bit of rooting around in our resource department.’
He hands me a newspaper cutting. It’s from The Times back in August when I was preparing for my wedding. An exciting time, when I hadn’t, perhaps, read the paper as carefully as I normally did.
SCANDAL OVER FAULTY BOILERS
I scan the piece with increasing excitement. ‘So,’ I say, summarizing the article in front of me, ‘a number of boilers, made over the last ten years, are suspected of being faulty. To date, seven customers have made complaints involving irregular temperatures leading to injury. Investigations are currently being carried out, but so far there are no plans to recall the models in question.’
Ross nods. ‘That’s seven who have come forward, but there are sure to be more.’
‘But it’s been going on for years. Why didn’t anyone realize before now?’
‘These things can take time. It takes a while for people to spot a pattern.’
Of course it would. Lawyers can miss things too. But I can’t be one of them.
‘I’ve worked out the figures,’ I say as I enter the visitors’ room the following day.
Funny how this is becoming more natural now. Even the double doors and gates seem quite familiar. The same goes for the seemingly casual pose of my client, arms crossed as he leans back in his chair, those dark eyes fixed on mine. This man is thirty. Ed’s age – my husband had his birthday a few weeks ago. Yet I feel as though I’m dealing with a truculent teenager.
One thing’s for certain. I’m not going to allow those ridiculous fantasies into my head again.
‘Worked out the figures?’ He seems slightly annoyed. ‘Really?’
‘I know about the boilers. The lawsuit. You’re going to tell me that the boiler company is responsible for Sarah’s death. You said the water was hotter than you’d expect after thirty minutes. Your boiler was faulty. It’s your defence – or rather your self-defence.’
He’s tilting his head quizzically to one side, as if considering this. ‘But I told you before. Self-defence can’t get you off.’
‘It can if you have the right lawyer,’ I shoot back.
‘Congratulations.’ He’s gone from disappointed to smiling in just a few seconds. Holding out his hand as if to shake mine.
I ignore it. I’m cross. Unnerved too.
‘Why couldn’t you just have told me about the boiler figures at the start? It would have saved a lot of time.’
‘I told you before. I had to set you the clues to see if you were bright enough to handle my case. I must have someone who’s on my level for this. Someone on the ball.’
Thank you, Ross, I think silently. Thank you.
Then he leans back, slaps himself on the thighs and lets out another laugh. ‘And you did it, Lily. Well done! You’re hired.’
Hired? I thought I was already.
‘You still haven’t told me exactly what happened.’ My voice is cool, laying down a boundary between him and me. ‘I’ve had enough of messing around now,’ I add. ‘If you want me to represent you, I need to know everything about you. No more clues. No more games. Straight facts. Why, for example, did you always cook dinner? Why did you usually run Sarah’s bath?’ I take a deep breath. ‘Was Sarah right when she told her family you were controlling?’
His face is rigid. ‘Why do you need to know?’
‘Because I think it might help us.’
For a while, he says nothing. I let the silence hang between us. It’s so sharp that I can almost cut myself on it.
I suspect Joe Thomas feels it too. He is looking out of the window. There’s no one in sight, even though it’s another beautiful crisp autumn day. Maybe the other men are at work; they all have jobs in the prison. I see the list in the hall when I walk in. Chalked-up surnames next to a task.
Smith – Pod. (Apparently that’s prison jargon for ‘kitchen’.)
White – Toilets.
Essex – Fish tank.
Thomas – Library. (Why does that not surprise me?)
Next to each name is also the word ‘Education’. I wonder what they learn in prison. Simple reading perhaps, if literacy statistics are to be believed. Or something more advanced? (Later, I was to discover, many men take OU degrees.)
‘The bath, Joe,’ I repeat. ‘Why did you usually run it for her?’
My client’s voice is quieter than usual. I can barely hear it. ‘So I can make sure that the cold goes in first. It’s what I’ve always done. Means you don’t burn yourself.’ The thump of his fist on the table makes me jump. ‘Stupid girl. She should have listened to me.’
‘Fine. The bath was too hot. But that doesn’t matter. They proved you pushed her in.’
His face hardens. ‘Didn’t prove. Just argued successfully. I’ve already told you. I didn’t touch her. She must’ve fallen in. The bruises must be from that.’
‘So why didn’t she get out again if the bath was so hot?’
‘Because … she … was … too … drunk.’
He says each word slowly, with a long space in between, as though I need it spelling out.
‘If she’d let me run the bath for her, it wouldn’t have happened,’ he says again. He seems obsessed with this point. And something about his obsession makes me believe him. About this part anyway.
‘And don’t think I don’t feel guilty, because I do.’
My skin begins to prickle.
‘I shouldn’t have left her there for so long. I should have checked on Sarah earlier. I was always so careful with her. But this one time …’
Joe Thomas is clearly a control freak. But that doesn’t make him a murderer any more than the rest of us. Don’t I have to wash the floor every morning now before work, as part of my daily ritual? Daniel had to fold his bed sheets in at the corners, just so. My boss always hangs his coat in a certain way by the door of his office. Joe Thomas likes to position his scrap of paper dead centre on the desk between us. (He would like a proper pad, he’s already told me. But supplies are short in prison.)
‘You need to do things your way,’ I say softly, ‘because then things won’t go wrong.’
He glares. ‘So?’
‘It’s OK. I understand.’
He stares at me as if willing me to look away. If I do, he will think I’ve just said this to make him confide in me.
But something’s still niggling.
‘If the boiler was faulty, why didn’t you find out the next time you turned it on?’
‘I’d been arrested by then, hadn’t I?’
Stupid me.
‘And the people who moved in after you? Didn’t they realize the water was boiling?’
He shrugs. ‘They re-kitted the bathroom – boiler and all, apparently. You would, wouldn’t you, if someone had died there?’
‘So when did you realize there may have been a manufacturing problem?’
‘A few weeks ago, someone sent me these figures in the post, along with a single word – “boiler”.’
‘Who sent them?’
‘I don’t know. But I’m not bad at figures. I did my research in the prison library and reckoned this was the answer.’ His eyes shine. ‘They’ve got to believe me this time. I’m not the one who’s responsible for Sarah’s death.’ His voice shakes as he looks at me.
I consider this. Anonymous tip-offs, we were told in law school, were sometimes given to both lawyers and criminals. Usually by people who had a grudge against someone else or who wanted to push a particular issue. Is it feasible that someone in the boiler industry wants justice?
I stand up.
‘Where are you going?’ His plea is almost childlike; vulnerable. It reminds me of the Italian child with her thick black curls and eyebrows that belong, surely, to a teenager rather than a nine-year-old.
‘I need to find a brief. A barrister who will take on our case.’
A slow smile breaks out over Joe Thomas’s face. ‘So you think we have one, do you?’
I have my hand on the handle. A prison officer is waiting outside, staring through the glass pane set in the middle of the door. His narrowing eyes indicate extreme disapproval at my plan to relieve the prison of one more inmate.
‘We might,’ I say cautiously, ‘providing what you’re saying checks out. But no more games. We need to work on this together. Promise?’