The House in the Woods (Atticus Priest Book 1) Page 25

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Really? Mr. Lamza was prepared to give evidence that Mr. Mallender hated his family and wanted them dead. That was the missing piece in the prosecution’s case. Here was his motive. Surely you must have been elated?”

  She shook her head. “We weren’t thrilled or elated. It was an important piece of evidence. We investigated it, just as we would investigate any other piece of evidence.”

  “But that investigation was a travesty. The Criminal Procedures Investigative Act demands that you investigate all reasonable leads, whether they point towards or away from a defendant’s guilt. Would you agree that you failed in that regard, Detective Chief Inspector?”

  Mack smiled, thin and curt, and shook her head. “No, I do not.”

  “But it has been demonstrated that Mr. Lamza perjured himself. That he was prepared to lie in order to gain a measure of revenge on the defendant while also being paid handsomely for doing so. Isn’t that right?”

  “I have been disappointed by what I have learned about Mr. Lamza over the course of the trial.”

  The line came smoothly. Atticus knew that Mack would have prepared it in advance.

  Crow pointed behind himself to the dock. “Not nearly as disappointed as Ralph Mallender. He is disappointed that you did not see Mr. Lamza for what he is—a duplicitous perjurer—until the defence did your work for you.”

  Mack’s eyes flashed with anger, but she held her tongue.

  “He is disappointed that you have turned his life upside down. He is disappointed that the manifest and repeated failures of the investigation that you were responsible for have meant that whoever murdered his family has not been brought to justice.”

  “It remains my position that the defendant is responsible for what happened that night.”

  “What nonsense.” Crow turned to look at the jury. “The prosecution case is a sham, isn’t it? A failure from start to finish. It was Cameron; then it wasn’t. It was Ralph, but now it isn’t. Isn’t it the case that your personal conviction of the defendant’s guilt led you to ignore all of the investigative avenues available to you?”

  “No, sir. It did not.”

  “Who really killed the Mallenders?”

  “There is still evidence against the defendant,” Mack said icily. “Mr. Mallender had the means, motive and opportunity to murder them. All I can do is to speak to the evidence that the investigation assembled. There is a lot of evidence that he was responsible for what happened.”

  “A lot of unsubstantiated, circumstantial evidence.”

  “You can say that, sir, but I don’t agree. And, with respect, it doesn’t matter what we think. The jury will decide whether he is guilty or not.”

  “Indeed,” Crow said with another look across the court at the eight men and four women, who were all rapt as they watched the exchange. “Thank you, Detective Chief Inspector. I have no further questions for you.”

  69

  The atmosphere in the court fizzed as Mack went back to her seat behind Abernathy. She felt a curious mixture of emotions: humiliation, at the shortcomings of the investigation being pinned solely on her; anger, that she had been shamed so publicly; and relief, that the ordeal was over.

  Mack looked over at the gallery. Allegra Mallender was there, in the same seat as before. She had glimpsed her while she had been in the box, and had seen how she had leaned forward, staring at her, a thin smile often playing across her face. Mack couldn’t really blame her. She knew that Allegra held her responsible for what had happened to her husband, and it wasn’t unreasonable that she should find pleasure in Mack’s discomfort.

  Atticus was there, too. She was surprised that he had come. He could deny being involved in the character assassination of Freddie Lamza as much as he wanted, but Mack knew that it was his work. Not literally, perhaps—Atticus was too careful to do something as foolish as that—but she knew that it had been him.

  There wasn’t much else for him to do now. His work was over.

  A job well done.

  Christopher Crow got to his feet and cleared his throat. “My Lord, now that the prosecution has concluded its case, I feel it is incumbent upon me to submit that there is no case to answer. The prosecution’s case relied upon the testimony of Mr. Lamza, and he has now been thoroughly discredited as a perjurer motivated by money. There is no forensic evidence against Mr. Mallender. No motive has been proven. All we are left with is the fact that he was—arguably—in the wrong place at the wrong time. Accordingly, I must suggest that the charges against my client be dismissed.”

  Mack found that she was clenching her fists. The anxious anticipation of her own evidence had distracted her, and she had forgotten that the case could end as soon as this morning; right now, in fact.

  “Thank you, Mr. Crow,” the judge said. “I had anticipated that you might make this application, and I gave it some thought overnight. I would have been happy to grant the application if there was no case to answer against the defendant, but, on balance, there is some evidence that a jury, properly directed, could possibly convict upon it. My ruling is that the case should proceed, and any evidence that you might wish to put forward should now be heard.”

  Mack exhaled in relief.

  Crow bowed his head in acceptance of the decision.

  “Are you ready to begin the defence?” Somerville asked.

  “I am, my Lord. I call Mr. Ralph Mallender.”

  70

  The fireworks from Lamza’s evidence yesterday were still fresh in Mack’s memory and, although they had seriously undercut the case against Ralph Mallender, now that the trial was confirmed to carry on to a verdict, everyone knew that what came next was important. It had the potential to be dramatic, too. Mallender had sat in the dock throughout the proceedings and, save his outburst against Lamza—now seemingly justified after the demolition of the prosecution’s star witness—he had been calm and still throughout.

  His cross-examination would test that sangfroid.

  Ralph took his place in the witness box. Mack had been unsure whether he would still give evidence, given that the case against him had been weakened so significantly. The prosecution’s case was precarious now, and she had wondered whether there was more for Mallender to lose than gain by going into the box.

  Crow got to his feet and began the evidence-in-chief. The questions were straightforward and the answers all carefully rehearsed: what happened on Christmas Eve; what did he see when he returned to the farmhouse; how did he feel; what did he think might have happened? Mallender answered them eloquently and with just the right measure of emotion. He took out a handkerchief when he was asked to describe how he felt about what had happened to his family so that he could dab his eye. Crow asked him what he had thought when he had seen his father’s body, and his eyes filled again with tears.

  It was an accomplished performance, but Mack found it all a little bit too perfect. But, she concluded, it probably didn’t matter. Mallender didn’t make any major errors, and, given what had happened with Lamza, just getting through without a gaffe was all that he needed to do.

  “One final question, Mr. Mallender,” Crow said. “Did you shoot your family?”

  “Absolutely not, sir,” he said. “I did not.”

  “Thank you,” Crow said. “Please wait there. I’m sure Mr. Abernathy will have some questions for you.”

  Abernathy stood and pushed his shoulders back. “I do.”

  71

  The atmosphere in the court changed, as if a ratchet had been very subtly tightened. Abernathy got to his feet and made Mallender wait while he arranged his notes on the desk, running his finger down a page, drawing it out, letting the defendant know who was in charge, letting him sweat. Mallender drummed his fingers on the rail of the witness box; Mack could see that he was nervous.

  She started to wonder whether Abernathy might be able to draw something out of him after all.

  “Mr. Mallender,” Abernathy began, “I expec
t you think this is going rather well.”

  Mallender took a sip of water. “Is that a question, sir?”

  “Do you think your defence is going well?”

  “That’s not how I would describe it. This has been the worst ordeal of my life.”

  “Worse than finding that your family had been killed?”

  “Of course not,” he said. “I mean the whole thing—what happened at the house, being investigated, charged with it… then this. Do you know what it feels like?”

  “I do not.”

  “I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t.”

  Mallender took another sip and then put the glass down. Mack could see that his hand was shaking. Abernathy took the sheet of paper, adjusting his spectacles as he looked down at it.

  Somerville cleared his throat. “Do you have a question for the defendant, Mr. Abernathy?”

  “Yes, my Lord. I do. I’m not going to start with what happened that night—we’ll get to that in time. I’d like to start with your relationship with your family.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  Abernathy started in a discursive manner, taking Mallender through a review of his childhood, his teens and then his early adult years. He asked gentle questions, simple enquiries that Mallender didn’t have to work too hard to answer. Mack could see that Mallender was on edge—a mixture of anxiety and suspicion at the affable nature of the questioning—but, as the first half hour passed into the second, he visibly relaxed.

  Abernathy put the paper down on the desk and hooked his thumbs into his gown. “As you know, the prosecution has a witness—a psychiatrist, Dr. Sandeau—who gave evidence that your brother, Cameron, was in therapy in order to deal with his problems with anger. You are aware of that?”

  “I became aware of it yesterday when she gave her evidence.”

  “You didn’t know before?”

  “I did not.”

  “You heard her testify that Cameron told her that your father, Hugo, abused him when he was younger.”

  Ralph’s voice dipped a little. “Yes.”

  Abernathy took off his glasses and stared at Mallender. “Did your father abuse you, too, Mr. Mallender?”

  Mack observed Mallender carefully; he was gripping the rail and, as she watched, he gripped so tightly that his knuckles showed white. He bit down on his bottom lip.

  “Mr. Mallender,” the judge said, “please—answer the question.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Please, Mr. Mallender,” Abernathy said. “Your father—did he abuse you as a child?”

  Ralph looked to Somerville. “Is this really relevant?”

  “It might be. Please—answer the question.”

  Ralph kneaded his hands together.

  “You’re hesitating, Mr. Mallender. Is that because he did?”

  Mallender spoke quietly. “Yes.”

  “Louder, please.”

  “Yes. He did.”

  Abernathy leaned forward. “Could you tell us about that?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What happened?”

  “Why is that relevant?”

  “Please answer the question.”

  Ralph turned to the judge. “I don’t see how this is relevant.”

  Somerville looked down at Abernathy. “Mr. Abernathy?”

  “My Lord, I’m exploring a line of questioning that will, I hope, assist in exploring the motivation that the prosecution seeks to ventilate.”

  “Please make sure it remains relevant,” the judge said.

  “Of course, my Lord.”

  “Please, Mr. Mallender. Carry on.”

  Ralph glared at Abernathy. “He… touched me.”

  “And?”

  “He made me touch him.”

  “Sexual touching?”

  “What other kind is there?”

  “I’d just like to be clear.”

  “I said he abused me.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “When I was a boy.”

  “When did it stop?”

  “When I was ten or eleven. I don’t know. I tried to forget it.”

  “Why did he stop?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No idea at all?”

  “Maybe I was getting older. I don’t know.”

  “And he switched his attention to your brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Speak up, Mr. Mallender.”

  “Yes. I suppose he did.”

  “Did Cameron talk to you about that?”

  “Yes,” Ralph said. “He did.”

  “So when you say ‘I suppose he did,’ what you meant to say was ‘Yes, he did.’”

  “Yes,” Ralph said, his eyes flashing. “He did.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mallender. I’m just trying to set out exactly what you knew.”

  “Fine.”

  Abernathy looked over his spectacles at Ralph. “How did that make you feel?”

  Mallender frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “The fact that he abandoned you for Cameron—did that make you feel less loved?”

  “What?”

  “It’s perfectly straightforward, Mr. Mallender. Did you feel less loved?”

  “Don’t be so preposterous.”

  “I’ve prosecuted cases where victims have testified to that.”

  Mallender turned to Somerville. “Do I have to answer that, too?”

  “Please.”

  Mallender shook his head derisively. “This is ridiculous. Of course not. Of course I didn’t feel less loved. That’s a ridiculous suggestion. Ludicrous.”

  Crow stood up. “I’m not sure why this is relevant. It feels very much like my friend is baiting Mr. Mallender.”

  “I’m paying close attention,” the judge said.

  Abernathy bowed his head. “I am obliged, my Lord.” He turned back to Ralph. “How did you feel when Cameron told you what your father had done to him?”

  “Awful. Dreadful. The main thing I remember is wondering if there was anything that I could have done to protect him.”

  “But you were young, Mr. Mallender. What could you possibly have done?”

  Ralph didn’t answer.

  Abernathy pushed his glasses back up his nose and looked down at his notes. “Let’s move on to your feelings towards your father.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I want you to answer truthfully.”

  “I am answering truthfully.”

  “Did you forgive him for what he did to you?”

  Mallender swallowed.

  The pressure was building. Abernathy was skilfully probing and poking, finding sore spots and digging into them.

  “Mr. Mallender—did you forgive him for what he did to you?”

  “No,” Mallender snapped. “What he did is not the sort of thing that you can forgive.”

  “So it would be fair to say that you were angry with him?”

  “Would you have been angry if your father had…” He swallowed. “If he had interfered with you?”

  “Yes,” Abernathy said. “I most certainly would. But this isn’t about me, is it? It’s about you.”

  “Of course I was angry.”

  “How angry?”

  Mallender started to speak, but caught himself.

  “How angry?”

  Allegra Mallender leaned forward.

  Ralph stammered. “I… I… I…”

  Abernathy rested his hands on his desk and leaned forward. “You hated him, didn’t you?”

  Mallender’s face blanched and his larynx bobbed up and down as he fought a dry mouth. Mack looked at Crow and the solicitors behind him; they suddenly looked concerned. The confidence that they had shown after what had happened to Freddie Lamza looked like a memory now. She felt a prickle of excitement pass up and down her spine. Abernathy was goading him, and Mallender was close to losing his temper.

  Alleg
ra could see it, too. Mack could see that she wanted to tell him to stop, but that was impossible. He was on his own.

  “Mr. Mallender?”

  Ralph was struggling to master himself, trying not to react.

  “You hated your father, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t…” he stumbled. “I didn’t…”

  “Mr. Mallender,” Abernathy repeated, raising his voice, “answer the question.”

  “Yes,” Ralph barked out. “I hated him. He was a sick old bastard and I fucking hated him.”

  There were gasps. Abernathy ignored them; he smelled blood.

  “What about your mother? Did she know what your father had done to you?”

  “Oh yes,” Mallender said angrily, lost amid the sudden welter of his fury. “She knew. She knew from the start.”

  “And did you hate her, too?”

  “I hated them both. He ruined my life and she let him do it.”

  “You killed them on Christmas Eve, didn’t you?”

  Ralph started to speak, then stopped. Realisation broke across his face. His mouth opened and closed as the enormity of what he had just said finally dawned on him.

  “No. No—I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Mr. Abernathy,” Somerville intervened sternly.

  Abernathy ignored the scolding, pushing his luck harder. “You had an argument with them that afternoon, didn’t you? What was said?”

  Ralph was sweating. “It was about my wife.”

  “Just one more thing to add to the long list of things you hated your parents for. Your father abused you. Your mother ignored it. And now, after all of that, after all those years of misery, here they were trying to prevent you from finding happiness with your wife. A litany of things that you hated them for. I can’t imagine how that would have made you feel.”

  “I don’t…” Ralph looked to the judge, then to the jury, then into the public gallery. “No. I didn’t…”

  Abernathy spoke over him. “You waited until you knew you could find them at home, you went back to the house, and you shot them. You knew that you stood to inherit everything if you were the sole survivor, so you shot your brother and your sister, too. That’s what happened on Christmas Eve. Isn’t that true?”