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‘That’s definitely where it happened?’ Daniel interrupted.
‘Yes. There’s blood on the floor and half the carpet is singed or downright burned.’
‘Sounds like hatred.’
‘Looks like it,’ Kitteridge agreed. ‘Whoever did it knew her well enough to have hated her very deeply.’ He sat forward a little. ‘Graves doesn’t appear to be a man who would feel that degree of passion. He’s a cold bastard. If she had a lover and he found out, he’d be more likely to kill the lover than her. If he did that, she’d not stray again in a hurry!’
This was going nowhere. ‘Maybe if we question him again, he has something to give us, or at least another person to suspect,’ Daniel concluded a little desperately. ‘What’s his reputation locally? Anyone willing to speak up for him, more warmly than Major Lydden?’
‘A few,’ Kitteridge replied, but there was no lift in his voice. ‘But he doesn’t . . .’ He raised his shoulder in a slight gesture. ‘He’s good at what he does. He’s honest in his dealings, as far as we can tell. He’s arrogant, and I don’t like him, and I can’t find anyone who does. I don’t know how to make the jury want to acquit him.’
Daniel understood. ‘What do you want me to do . . . as long as I can stay awake . . .?’
‘If I knew, I’d do it myself,’ Kitteridge said tersely.
Daniel did not reply. There was nothing about this case that he liked. He could see no way of defending Russell Graves from the charge of having murdered his wife. There was no defence. There was no alternative suspect. They had only reasonable doubt to suggest, and nothing to support it. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed with sympathy for Kitteridge. ‘Right,’ he agreed. ‘We’d better start thinking.’
Chapter Four
Daniel and Kitteridge began the following morning early by going to see the accused, Russell Graves. They were both tired after a heavy day and then, in Daniel’s case, another night with too little sleep.
Daniel had taken a cab ride from his lodgings to the Old Bailey. He could not afford to risk being late by using the public omnibus. He fully expected Kitteridge to be washed out as well, not only from the long day yesterday, but also with anxiety about fighting when he had so little ammunition, and a very real prospect of losing. It was an important case, and a bad one to lose, because it was highly public and Marcus fford Croft obviously cared about it dearly.
Why? That was an interesting question
. What stake had the old man in the outcome? Or in Russell Graves? Did Kitteridge know something important that he could not, or would not, tell Daniel? Something to do with Marcus fford Croft?
The cabby put him down on Ludgate Hill and Daniel thanked and paid him. He ran up the large flight of stone steps outside the Central Criminal Court, and in through the wide doors. Kitteridge was waiting for him just inside.
‘Morning,’ Kitteridge said, barely glancing at Daniel before turning on his heel and leading the way along the wide hall towards the back, and the small room where Graves would be waiting for them. They had already discussed their plans last night, actually in the small hours of this morning. There was no more to be said now.
Daniel had to stride to match Kitteridge’s long steps. The man must have been around six-foot three or four, and loose-limbed, coordinated only with an effort.
They came to a door with a guard outside. He greeted Kitteridge and then unlocked the door. Kitteridge thanked him and led the way in, Daniel on his heels.
There was only one man inside. He was large, heavy shouldered, with a fine head of iron-grey hair. His features were good. Only a greyish pallor and an expression of discontent marred what would otherwise have been a striking appearance. He looked no different from how he had been yesterday in the dock, except even more strained.
Kitteridge introduced Daniel briefly, then sat down opposite Graves. Daniel took the other chair and remained silent.
‘We haven’t got long – only half an hour – so we will be brief,’ Kitteridge began. ‘I will call you to the stand first thing. Please answer me as we have already agreed—’
‘What use is that going to be?’ Graves interrupted. He had a good voice, deep pitched, and a well-educated accent without sounding affected, but his fear showed through in a heightened pitch and a certain abruptness. ‘I don’t know any details that haven’t been sworn to by the police, doctors, firemen, and God knows who else.’
Daniel saw Kitteridge’s face tighten and knew that it cost him something to keep his own tone level.
‘They need to see your reaction to it, judge your honesty for themselves,’ Kitteridge explained. ‘They need to see your grief over your wife’s death, and hear you say you were not responsible. You know nothing you have not told the police—’
‘Good God, man, of course I know nothing!’ Graves said in ill-concealed exasperation.
Kitteridge clenched his jaw. ‘I know that. They need to hear it.’
‘You told them . . .’
Kitteridge’s fists were clenched in his lap under the table. ‘They need to hear it from you.’
‘I’m a . . .’ Graves began.
Daniel had agreed to keep silent but now he broke that agreement. ‘Mr Graves, sir, it is not only what you say, but it is how you say it,’ he interrupted. ‘They have to want to believe you. They have to like you and to sympathise with you. For that, they need to feel some of your grief, your bewilderment at what happened – and believe that you don’t know!’
