Spider in the Corner of the Room - [40]

The door opens and the woman from earlier-leather jacket, bob, girlfriend, eyes-enters with coffee. She throws Kurt one brief smile then removes the uneaten sandwich tray and replaces it with a pot and cups. One more smile and the woman exits, leaving a vapour of Calvin Klein perfume behind her. Kurt leans forward, pours a coffee and hands it to me.

‘Drink. It will make you feel better. I know there’s a lot to take on board at the moment. And you seem tired.’

Slowly, I take the cup.

‘Good. Now drink.’

Whether it is the sudden flash of steel in his voice or the cold stream of air lingering from the open door, I do as I am told, and swallow some coffee. It tastes good, steam rising to my eyes, stinging them, slapping me awake. I take a few more sips then lower the cup. Kurt is writing some notes; the curtain at the window is floating up and down. All is normal. I move to set down my cup when my eyes spot something on the ceiling. My heart accelerates. I look to Kurt; he is still writing. I glance back to the ceiling and squint.

Without drawing attention to myself, I inch forward. I place the cup on the table and keep very still.

Kurt raises his head. I do not move. He clicks his pen and smiles. ‘Do you know, I don’t think I’ve said it yet, so I will say it now: you are safe here, Maria, with me,’ he says. ‘I just want you to know that. This is a safe place.’

I do not blink.

Kurt is smiling at me.

There are now two spiders on the ceiling.

Chapter 12

‘The DNA evidence is inconclusive.’

I have been sitting in front of Harry Warren QC for fifteen minutes and thirty-two seconds. He has been recalling all the aspects of my original trial-the evidence, witnesses, timings. I have been jittery and vague. Patricia, her body being shocked with electricity, her head hanging like a limp rag doll, is an image that constantly plays in my mind like a showreel.

Despite my discomfort and confusion, Harry has been very thorough. Four times now he has stated that he is not impressed with the way in which the evidence was portrayed in the original court, so much so, he says, that he cannot believe my counsel were allowed to practise. When yet again I am slow to respond, Harry lifts his eyes from his file. In the flesh, he is stouter than his photos convey. His torso, his arms are fuller, cheeks plump on black skin, skin so shiny, so alive I feel he could last forever, that, as if by sheer force of his rooted, warm-blooded presence, he will always be around, like a house built of timber that never collapses. Safe. A haven.

He smiles at me, revealing large white teeth. ‘Maria,’ he clears his throat, ‘your DNA, it says here, was found in three places, including the priest’s shoe.’

‘They were Crocs.’

‘Crocs?’ He laughs like Father Christmas then sighs. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He shakes his head. ‘There is so much these days I don’t know, so many new things, names.’

I hesitate. There is something about him. Something that makes me breathe more easily. A familiarity. ‘Crocs are shoes,’ I say finally.

He nods. ‘Thank you.’

I watch him for a second then continue. ‘I had purchased the footwear when I first arrived in London. I told the prosecution that they were mine, old ones from the operating theatre. They had never fitted me correctly.’

Harry unlaces the pink ribbon from the legal brief on the table. ‘And why did you give them away?’

‘I had a blister,’ I say, ‘from running shoes I had purchased in haste when I arrived in the UK. The Crocs I bought for surgery rubbed at the blister when moving. They hurt at the heel, so I donated them to the convent. They sell items like shoes to raise money. The priest must have kept them for himself; the trace of blood from my blister was left on the Crocs. The DNA…’

I trail off. DNA. I flip open my notebook, fly to the page, to the diagram-one of many I have instinctively drawn without knowing why. When I find it, my fingers hover. There. Deoxyribonucleic acid. The twisted double helix, the ladder of vertical sugar and phosphate modules. Our human blueprint. I dreamt about it, one of the first few days in prison. Thousands of DNA structures were flying around my head. And now Harry is talking about it, about my case, my DNA.

Harry leans forward a little. ‘Is that…?

My eyes fly to him. ‘What?’

He clears his throat, sits back. ‘You keep notes, many, by the look of it.’ He smiles at me; it reaches his eyes. ‘Good idea,’ he says, jabbing a finger at his brow. ‘Keeps the brain busy. Vital, hmm?’ A smile again.

I slam the book shut and say nothing. I cannot determine if he is being kind. Is he?

Harry clears his throat and consults his brief. ‘So, the DNA is certainly weak, but-and it is a big but, I’m afraid-you have no firm alibi.’

‘I have an alibi.’

He sighs. ‘Ah, yes. That you were at the hospital. St James’s, yes? The trouble is, Maria, that there is no CCTV evidence from that night placing you at the hospital. And there is a witness-’ another file consult ‘-a DVD store owner from the shop opposite the convent. He places you at the gates of the convent at the time of the crime.’