My Husband's Wife by Jane Corry Read Free Book Online

about.’
    Criminals, my boss warned me, can be remarkably soft in certain areas. Don’t let it fool you.
    â€˜I want you to go away and come back next week.’ The instructions clip out of Joe Thomas’s mouth as if this scene hasn’t taken place. ‘By then, you need to have worked out the connection between the war poets and me. And that will give you the basis of my appeal.’
    Enough is enough. ‘This isn’t a game,’ I say shortly to hide the inexplicable mixture of fear and excitement beating against my ribcage. ‘You know as well as I do that legal visits take time to organize. I might not be able to come back so soon. You have to make the most of this one.’
    He shrugs. ‘If you say so.’ Then he glances at my still-tanned wrists with my silver bracelet and then down to the shiny gold wedding ring, heavy with newness. ‘By the way, I got it wrong just now, didn’t I? It’s Mrs Macdonald, isn’t it? I trust you had a good honeymoon.’
    I’m still shaking when the taxi driver drops me off at the station. How did Joe Thomas know that I’d been on honeymoon? Was it possible that my boss had told someone when organizing the visit paperwork while I was away? If so, it was in direct contradiction to another piece of advice he’d given me: ‘Make sure you don’t give any personal
details away. It’s vital to keep boundaries between you and the client.’
    The advice, rather like the warning about ‘conditioning’ from the officer, had seemed so obvious as to be unnecessary. Like most people (I would imagine), I’d been shocked by the odd news story about prison visitors or officers having affairs with prisoners. Never once had I read about a solicitor doing the same. As for those strange thoughts in my head just now, it was nerves. That was all. Along with my disappointment over Italy.
    As for Joe’s ‘mistake’ over my name, I can’t help wondering if it was on purpose. To wrongfoot
me
perhaps? But why?
    â€˜Five pounds thirty, miss.’
    The taxi driver’s voice cuts into my head. Grateful for the diversion, I fumble in my purse for change.
    â€˜That’s a euro.’ His voice is suspicious, as though I’d intentionally tried to put one over on him.
    â€˜So sorry.’ Flushing, I find the correct coin. ‘I’ve been abroad and must have got my money muddled up.’
    He takes my tip with bad grace, clearly unconvinced. A mistake. A simple mistake. Yet one that could so easily be taken for a lie. Is that how Joe Thomas feels? Is it possible that he made a mistake and is so fed up with being misunderstood that he decided to play games with me? But that doesn’t really make sense.
    I glance at my watch. It’s later than I thought. Surely my time would be better spent going back to the flat, rather than the office, and typing up my notes. Besides, it would give me the opportunity to look into Rupert Brooke. My client might have unnerved me with his knowledge about
my private life. But he also intrigues me in that uncomfortable way when you feel you ought to know the answer to a question.
    â€˜Get as much from him as possible,’ my boss had said. ‘He was the one who approached us to make an appeal. That means there has to be fresh evidence – unless he just wants some attention. That happens quite a lot. Either way, we might seek counsel advice.’
    In other words, a barrister would be consulted.
    But I’m painfully aware that I haven’t got very far. On what grounds can we appeal? Insanity perhaps? Or is his behaviour merely eccentric? How many other clients would set a puzzle like this for their lawyers? Still, there’s something in Joe’s story that rings true. Drunks do lie. Neighbours can tell lies. Juries can get it wrong.
    The different arguments in my head make the train journey back much faster than it seemed this morning.