By the closing speeches, the space in my evidence had been described several times.
Twenty thirty-six was written on a screen again. Beneath it: Seen in sitting room. Time of return not established.
The defence relied on uncertainty. There were things nobody had seen, limits in scientific interpretation, accounts affected by fear and the pressure Martin had put on Celia. Suspicion was not proof. Her financial dishonesty did not automatically make her a murderer.
The prosecution returned to what Celia had asked us to believe: an errand completed two days earlier, a return before a recording she accepted placed her at the hall, a pad left where the first people to find Martin saw none. Those lies were not the attack. The clothing and medical evidence had to be considered too. The prosecution asked the jury to put the accounts beside the physical findings and decide whether they could be reconciled.
The judge’s directions returned the responsibility to the jury. The prosecution had to make them sure. They were to consider the evidence, not speculation or public opinion. Lies required care; people could lie for reasons other than concealing murder. Motive was not a substitute for proof of the act and the required intention.
On intention, the judge distinguished an intention to kill or cause really serious injury from mere carelessness. The jury had to decide what the repeated use of that heavy base established, if they were sure Celia had used it.
During a break, I went outside and found Tom waiting with a paper bag containing lunch. He had learnt that asking whether I’d eaten was less useful than making it possible without fuss.
We sat on a low wall, away from the entrance.
“How are you?” he asked.
“I keep hearing the part I couldn’t answer.”
“I wish I’d sent the photo earlier,” he said.
“You couldn’t have known.”
“No.” He handed me a sandwich. “Doesn’t stop me wishing.”
I looked at the court doors. People entered with files, bags, coffee, expressions I could not read. Each brought a life that did not fit neatly into the question being asked in one room.
“I thought telling the truth would feel cleaner,” I said.
“You didn’t sleep last night. Everything’s going to feel awful.”
We ate without discussing what we thought the verdict would be. I did not want to spend the waiting time persuading myself that a preferred outcome was inevitable.
Back inside, I saw Vivienne across the gallery. She had given her own evidence and faced the questions about the notebook. There had been no comfortable version of why she added a time she hadn’t observed. She looked tired, but she no longer watched me as though I might supply a sentence that would make it acceptable.
Beth sat with Rachel on another day of the closings, after her evidence was complete. She chose when to attend and when to stay away. No one was entitled to measure her love, grief or courage by the number of hours she occupied a seat.
When the jury retired, the room seemed to lose its centre. People gathered things, asked practical questions and moved into the waiting that followed.
I went home with my phone turned up loud. During supper it rang twice: a delivery query and a recorded offer to improve our broadband. The second time, I swore. Poppy looked delighted.
The next morning, my phone remained silent through breakfast, the school run and the first hour at work.
Then the call came telling me the jury had reached a verdict.