The Scandal
By S. Faith, © 2007
Rating: A strong T / weak M (I never know how to classify these things)
Disclaimer: Sadly, these characters, this universe… none of it
belongs to me except the story. Wish that it did.
Words, Summary, Notes: See Part 1.
Thursday.
Waking and not having any idea what time of day or night it was one of the most disconcerting feelings in the world, aside of being unaware of where one was. Bridget jerked awake and dug an elbow directly into the warm body of a man who, by his familiar scent, she took to be Mark. This not only surprised her—when had he joined her? Why hadn't he awakened her?—but also Mark, who woke with a startled intake of breath and a mild curse.
"Sorry," she said.
"It's all right. You just gave me a start." He'd been sleeping on his stomach, but now propped himself up on his elbows, then rubbed his eyes with one hand. "What time is it?"
It was dark, but the days were still not quite as long as the nights, so it might have been anywhere between six in the evening to six the next morning. "I have no idea."
She got up on her knees and crawled to the head of the bed, where she switched on the small bedside lamp to take a look at the clock on the bedside table. It read that the time was just after twelve, which of course meant midnight. She told Mark. "I guess we needed the sleep," he said, "but now we'll be up all night."
Her stomach suddenly felt cavernously empty. "And we missed dinner."
"I'm surprised Nick didn't come for us." Mark turned around, glancing to the closed door. "Or maybe he did. I'm sure I left the door open."
She was mortified to think Mark's uncle might have seen her at her least impressive, sleeping in undignified positions and drooling onto the duvet. At least she'd been dressed, she thought with a huge measure of relief. She folded her feet under herself to sit cross-legged on the bed, sure that her hair was sticking up at crazy angles. Remembering the list she'd begun pre-napping, she asked in her most guileless of voices, "Did you have any luck with the statements?"
Mark shook his head, turning over to lie on his side, then rested his head on a folded elbow. "I was so tired and unable to focus that I had Nick take a look, and I left him at it, but he hadn't made any progress at all. Really, it's just a list of transactions, like a spreadsheet or something. Really very ordinary—and extremely authentic-looking."
Bridget was crestfallen. "If you like, I could look at it," she offered humbly.
He smiled half-heartedly. "Sure, why not. Who knows. Maybe you'll see something that Horatio and Camilla, my uncle, the analysts with the police or I couldn't see."
Ignoring his sarcastic tone, she gasped. Given her earlier contemplation, she could hardly believe her luck. "Really?"
He chuckled.
"Well come on then," she said, rolling off of the bed and heading for the door. "Let's go downstairs."
"Right now?" he asked.
"Why not? We're already up."
"It's the middle of the night, and I'd really rather not."
She pouted. "Do you really think I'll be able to think of anything else until I see it?"
He smiled. "I don't suppose you will." He rose from the bed and she mused that she had never seen him look so disreputably attired in his life, his shirt halfway pulled out of the waistband of his rumpled and twisted trousers, his hair performing incredible acrobatics for how short it was. Frankly, he looked adorable. He combed his fingers through his hair as if sensing it might be in need of taming. "Lead on."
………
Mark watched her face very carefully, and as expected, it went from hopeful anticipation, to puzzlement as her eyes searched the pages, then on to disappointed sadness as her hands (holding the paper) came away from her face. She looked up to him at last, her blue eyes shining, and sighed. "I see now what you mean."
He pulled his lips tight and nodded, though wasn't himself let down, as he hadn't really expected her to be able to make heads or tails of it. "It's all right."
She folded her arms across her chest, staring down as if in deep thought. "No, it's not. Without a doubt it's fraudulent, and someone must be able to detect how it was done. We just aren't looking for—" Suddenly her head snapped up as if a bolt of lightning had struck her in her bottom. "Oh my God."
"What?"
"Can I take these with me?"
"You planning an expedition?" he said with a grin.
She pursed her lips. "I don't mean right now. I mean tomorrow."
His grin vanished, and he said in a rather dark tone, "Bridget…"
"Mark," she said, in a surprisingly equally dark tone, "what you need is a financial analyst-type person looking at this, and it just so happens that I know one."
"What? Who?"
She looked a little too gleeful at him being at a loss, and drew it out by not speaking right away. To be fair, it was the middle of the night, and he had just woken up, but he couldn't think of who she could be referring to that could spot something that even Horatio couldn't.
At last she smirked. "Head of Futures at Brightlings."
The light came on. Jude. She must have meant Jude.
He reached forward and took her hands in his, but at the same time a familiar panic roiled up in him. He thought of the old saying 'give 'em an inch, they'll take a mile', and figured he'd better nip any thoughts of full-blown investigation in the bud. "You can ask Jude to come over and take a look. I don't want those papers to leave the house. And if she finds anything, anything, we're all going straight to the police."
She somehow managed to look smug and contrite at the same time, and nodded ever so slightly.
"No haring off on your own. No external investigations. I really mean it."
She nodded again, diverting her eyes downward.
"And Bridget?"
She looked up again.
At last he smiled. "Thank you."
"Anything I can do, I will."
He could not suppress a chuckle. "That's what I'm afraid of." He slipped his hand around her waist, planted a kiss on her head, and started to lead her out of the office. "So. It's one in the morning, I'm wide awake, you appear to be as well…"
Her arm went about his waist as they continued walking. "I am. What do you want to do about it?"
"Well. We could play cards," he offered with a straight face.
"Or watch a movie. I'm also very good at board games," she said teasingly, her hand sliding down to cover his back end just before they mounted the stairs to the upper floor. "Or, hm, we could sneak out, escape the eye of the ever-watching media, and forage for food and supplies under cover of darkness."
"Oh. I didn't get a chance to tell you. The reporters have gone." He explained why; she burst out giggling as they reached the landing.
"Tom will be in seventh heaven."
Mark could not suppress another chuckle, then took her into his embrace. For all of his oratorical skill in the courtroom, he was a disaster when it came to expressing his feelings. He thought back to his disastrous first attempt—truly, what man tries to tell a girl how much he likes her by pointing out her flaws?—and sighed. As hard as he might try, he would never be able to convey how much her love and support meant to him when a giant part of who he was remained under fire. Even now he could not find the words.
"Penny for your thoughts?" she asked after a few moments.
He quietly cleared his throat and said in a low tone, "I'm glad you're here."
She chuckled. "You keep saying that."
It keeps being true, he thought; when she brought her hands to his face then kissed him, he realised he had also said it aloud.
………
While she felt for the man, having themselves been under intense public scrutiny the past two days, the Tory scandal was a blessing in disguise for Bridget. She had been contemplating how she was going talk to Shaz to discuss the situation under Mark's loving but persistent eye, but now that she might actually be able to leave his house again it would be easier to accomplish.
When she woke, the sun had risen and Mark had already departed from the bedroom. She sat up, running her fingers through her hair then lazily over the indentation in his pillow, a smile instantly playing upon her lips. They had indeed found a way to tire themselves out, and she was glad for the mutual distraction from their current situation.
"Good morning, sleepyhead," came Mark's gentle voice from the door. He was already dressed and coiffed, and bore a tray with coffee cups and (she hoped) breakfast.
"Is it very late?" she asked, as he sat on the bed. He did in fact have breakfast: scrambled eggs with cheese and mushrooms. It smelled fantastic.
"It's ten, so no, not too late in the morning."
"Oh, good." She took the proffered coffee cup and brought it to her lips. She didn't know how he managed to make such consistently good coffee. "Have the reporters returned?"
He shook his head, bringing his fork to his mouth.
"Excellent, excellent. It will be nice to draw back the curtains and get some light into this place."
She heard him chuckle. "I rang up Jude and she'll be here just before noon. And she wants to know if you want to go to Café Rouge with her afterwards."
"Oh, yes, very much." She loved Mark, loved the amenities his house afforded, but was frankly going a little stir crazy. For a moment she thought she saw disappointment flash in his eyes, so she added, "If you don't mind."
"Don't mind at all," he said without hesitation; she must have imagined it. "I have a meeting with Jeremy at one in my office downstairs to discuss the cases he's taken on for me."
"And, oh, I can go back to my flat too!" she said suddenly, perking at the thought of refreshing her available wardrobe, maybe even grabbing her laptop.
This time he definitely looked disappointed; his eyes shifted to his plate as he scooped up the last of the egg. She instantly knew why and regretted her exclamation.
"Mark?" she queried, and waited for him to raise his eyes to her again; she fixed him with a serious stare before she continued. "I don't mean for good."
He tried to hide it, but he looked relieved. "Of course," he said in an even tone.
She reached out and placed her hand on his knee. "I have every intention of staying here as long as you need me to."
At last he smiled. He held out his hand for her empty plate and loaded them back on the tray. "Well. Probably should get showered and dressed as Jude will be here before you know it."
"And you know how long it takes me to get ready," she teased.
"Hmm," he replied noncommittally.
She could not help but laugh, and leaned forward to kiss him before she rose from the bed and headed for the loo.
………
One thing was true, Nick thought wryly: Mark had certainly developed a finely-honed sense of self-preservation when it came to women. Nick had returned upstairs in search of his errant reading glasses, and had overheard the tail end of their conversation quite by accident. Her willingness to stay with his nephew as long as he wanted her to did bode well for the girl—if she was only after status and prestige, she'd have fled for the hills at the merest whiff of the loss of it. But Nick decided he needed to see her in something closer to her natural habitat—and lunching with her friend might just do the trick.
"Nick," said Mark with surprise as he reappeared into the hallway, his unspoken what are you doing skulking about up here? obvious on his face. Nick held up the reading glasses in answer, and Mark said, "Ah."
"So we have Brightlings' head of investments coming over for a look-see, do we?" Nick asked nonchalantly as they descended the staircase.
"Yes."
"Hope she can help the cause," Nick said.
"As do I," said Mark resignedly.
………
To pass the time until Jude's arrival, Mark decided to immerse himself in work and review the case notes that he would be discussing with Jeremy at one o'clock. Before long, though, his mind had wandered back onto the subject of the allegation by the Peabody technician. He was at a complete loss as to why the man would want to falsely accuse him of such a thing. He'd even thought he and the tech had had something of a friendly rapport, as little as they had spoken.
Someone else must have been behind this. But who?
He scoffed at the notion of a foreign government conspiring to ruin him over a case he'd won in the past—such as the Aghani or Calabreras cases—because when all was said and done, he really wasn't that big a fish to fry. It couldn't have had anything to do with Calhoun himself because he'd been found not guilty; what possible motive would he have to throw doubt on that verdict? From all accounts, Calhoun had been exceedingly pleased with his defence, even if the victim's family had not. But if they wanted to exact revenge, they'd surely go after Calhoun himself, not his lawyer.
Mark believed with all his heart that Calhoun had been unjustly accused—so, Mark postulated, what if the actual killer of Josie Fairfax had decided to set his sights on Mark? Again, he argued with himself, why? It would have been in that killer's best interest to let sleeping dogs lie, not redirect attention to potentially incorrectly analysed evidence that could lead to the police reopening the case and finding the unknown perpetrator.
None of it made any sense, except there it was, on the brink of ruining his legal career… if he could even salvage it at this point. He buried his face in his hands.
He heard a faint knocking on his office door, and he snapped back to the present. He quickly composed his features. "Come in," he called. He saw Bridget break the plane of the door almost timidly; he couldn't help but smile, for she always behaved as if she were entering a headmaster's office for a dressing-down. She offered a timid smile. Behind her strolled Jude, whose dark hair was pulled back in a very elegant chignon, and who wore a tailored wool suit that very much flattered her figure. He stood.
Jude met his eyes and smiled. "Hello Mark."
"Jude, thank you so much for taking time out of your day to come and take a look at this for me." He indicated the chairs on the other side of the desk. "Please, have a seat."
"Thanks." They both sat, and Mark picked up the manila envelope, slipped the statements out and handed them to her.
Her brows drew together as she examined them, her dark eyes flitting from column to column, down each row, for many tense moments. "Well," she said at last. "I'm not a documents examiner, but I'm pretty confident it's not a doctored document. It's an authentic printout. If we were to go to the bank and ask them for another copy, it would look just like this." This didn't entirely surprise him, since the police had received a copy as well, and he was certain their experts would have spotted a forgery. "But…" she added almost tentatively, "there's something not quite right about the data for the transactions themselves."
Mark felt a spark of hope he hadn't dared feel before. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bridget cover her mouth with her hand. Mark asked, "What's wrong with it?"
She scanned the page again, then sighed. "Unfortunately, I can't quite put my finger on it. Not on such a superficial level."
Ignoring entirely that he had not wanted the papers to leave his possession, he said, "Take the printout, do whatever analyses you need to do."
She nodded curtly as he handed her the manila envelope, slipped it into her attaché. "I'm happy to help, Mark."
"Don't be shy about billing me for your time if you need to. I'm willing to do anything I can to clear my name on this and I want to keep everything above board."
She nodded again.
They all rose at once, and Mark came around the desk intending on shaking her hand, but he was so overcome with gratitude that he accepted a hug instead. "Thank you, Jude."
"Don't thank me yet," she said into his shoulder.
"I have every confidence." He released her and with a smile she retreated from him.
"Jude," came Bridget's quiet voice, "I'll be right behind you in a minute." Jude nodded, then stepped back into the hall.
Bridget's eyes were filled with tears and tenderly he took her into his arms for a reassuring embrace, stroking her hair as she cried what he hoped were happy tears. "It'll be all right," said Mark, and for the first time since this had begun, he believed it might actually be true.
………
Never had the crowd at Café Rouge seemed so animated and talkative, and for that, Bridget was thankful. It allowed Jude, Tom and Shaz to speak with a measure of privacy to her.
Draining the bottom of her wine glass, Sharon said, "I can't stay for lunch, Bridge, but I wanted to give you what I dug up on the murder case, and a little bit on the tech himself." She handed her friend a stack of printouts stapled together. "Name's Henry Wilkins. Apparently straight as an arrow, pure as the driven snow. Not so much as a parking ticket in his whole life. I can't figure what he'd have to gain by this."
"Someone else is behind this," said Bridget darkly. "And once you—" Bridget pointed to Jude. "—can prove that the data is fake, then we can try to shake him down for who it is."
Tom laughed. "'Shake him down'? Honestly, Bridge," he said, still chuckling.
"Well?" she said.
"I thought Mark told you not to investigate," reminded Jude.
"I'm not impeding the police investigation one little bit. In fact, I encourage you to take what you find to the police. But there are things I can do that the police can't."
"You've been watching too much telly, Bridge," said Shaz with a grin, then pulled her handbag onto her shoulder. "Well. I'm off."
As she departed, Jude rose as well, attaché practically glued to her left hand. She hadn't let the thing out of her sight since they'd left Mark's house. "I have a meeting at one-thirty, but I promise you, as soon as I'm done, I'll get to work on this."
"I can't thank you enough," said Bridget, standing to embrace her friend, giving her a quick peck on the cheek.
Jude said, "I'll be in touch." With that she left.
Tom perked at the arrival of their lunch—Jude and Shaz had only stayed long enough for a quick appetizer and a drink—but as she picked at her sandwich and chips, her euphoric state deflated.
"What is it?" asked Tom quietly.
"What if the police don't listen to Jude? What if Jude can't find anything?"
"Don't borrow trouble, love," Tom said, reaching across the table to take her left hand. "When it comes to financial what-all, Jude is a bloody genius. Men, however… that's another story altogether." He grinned, then placed his left hand over their clasped hands to reiterate his support. "Let's make a wager right now. If for some reason Jude is unable to find the fraud here, I will…" He paused to draw a dramatic breath, then lowered his voice, and practically shuddered, "I will voluntarily have sex with a woman."
Bridget burst into joyous laughter, squeezing his hand. "You're on."
"That's more like it," said Tom, smiling. "But to make this a proper wager, if she is able to find the fraud…"
Bridget did her best to appear overly thoughtful. "Well, sex with Mark is out of the question." Tom pouted in an exaggerated fashion. "Sorry. But I'll endeavour to get him into swimming trunks this summer just for you." Unsurprisingly, he brightened once more.
As she resumed eating she became aware of voices nearby that were very familiar. She stopped chewing and swallowed, listening intently to see if she could place it, her attention even more piqued when she heard Mark's name enter the conversation. Surreptitiously she listened in.
"If Darcy did it, he's a fool," came the woman's voice. "And if he didn't, he's forever tainted—as is everything he's ever done!—unless he can prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that the charges are baseless."
"I have doubts I'll ever trust him again," came the man's voice. "He's always been so overly eager to win at all costs, and this is the sort of thing that's precisely in line with that philosophy—"
Bridget no longer cared for decorum. She blatantly turned towards the voices, and with a measure of horror saw Horatio and Camilla—from Mark's office!—not five feet away partaking of lunch. Furious, she rose to her feet. Horatio abruptly stopped talking.
"How dare you!" she hissed angrily. "You've worked with Mark for years and years, and for you to even hint that you might believe this ridiculous accusation is appalling!"
Camilla looked wholly embarrassed, but Horatio was obviously angry. "And how dare you eavesdrop, Miss Jones. But I should expect you're used to embarrassing Mark in public by now."
She gritted her teeth, fully cognisant of his reference to the law council dinner, and pulled herself to her full height. "It's hard not to eavesdrop when a fart-arse old windbag like you is practically shouting at top volume." Horatio had gotten even redder in the face and she half-expected to see steam start to pour out of his ears. "When the charge against him is proved beyond the shadow of a doubt to be false," she continued with a pointed glance to Camilla, "then we'll see who's embarrassed."
"Bridget," came Tom's calming voice from behind her. "Please sit down, will you?"
She lifted her chin haughtily then turned on her heel and returned to her table. As her temper cooled, she realised she perhaps should have better kept her anger in check. She had no idea whether or not the press was around and she really didn't want to end up on the front page of the papers.
"Sorry. I couldn't help myself," she said quietly, apologetically.
"Who the hell are those two?"
Bridget explained, then added sadly, "I don't know if I should tell Mark people from his own office think he actually might have done it. It would crush him."
"I think for now, you'd better keep it under wraps," advised Tom. "And let's focus instead on me winning our bet."
Despite everything, she cracked a smile.
Moments later the waiter approached with a champagne cocktail. Bridget was confused. "I didn't order this."
"It's compliments of the man at the bar."
She turned quickly to see a silver-haired man offering her a salute, and she nearly passed out. It was Mark's uncle, and he had undoubtedly seen—and heard—the entire exchange. "Oh my God."
"Who's that? Fwaw! Handsome devil!" Tom mused, sucking his cheeks in.
"Tom, excuse me a moment."
She dashed to the bar to where he was draining the bottom of his scotch glass. "Mr Wentworth. Please. You can't breathe a word of this to Mark. He would be furious with me, and if he knew what those two said…"
"Miss Jones. The drink is merely in appreciation of beating me to the punch in standing up for my nephew."
"Oh."
"I'll see you back at the house, I'm sure. Good day." And with that he took his leave of her.
Bridget returned to her table, slightly stunned.
"Nice arse," muttered Tom, his eyes firmly trained on the retreating Nick.
"That's Mark's uncle," she said darkly.
"Ahh. I thought it looked familiar somehow."
She turned her eyes back to Tom, found herself smiling again. Sometimes she really didn't know what she'd do without him.
"So," he said, indicating the drink Nick had bought for her, "you going to drink that?"
………
The excursion was something of a draw, all in all. Nick knew she had not lost faith in his nephew, and that pleased him immensely. And he was beginning to see the subtle positive effects she'd had on him: the boy used to be wound so tight that a something as simple as a misplaced legal tome would send him (Nick would swear to it) careering towards suicide, but here, in the midst of the biggest crisis of his life, Nick had heard him chuckling with her. He also was much more free about expressing his affection. At one time it would have crippled Mark with embarrassment to kiss his paramour if there was a slightest possibility someone could see; Nick remembered Mark's wedding and how he practically had to be yanked down by the ascot to kiss the bride (which, Nick thought wryly, should have been a sign). But since Bridget's arrival the boy had initiated a kiss with her on more than one occasion where he must have been fully aware Nick was nearby.
Yes. Very positive effects, indeed; he'd thought the boy had been far too repressed for far too long. But she wasn't out from under the magnifying glass yet. For one thing, she was going to have to explain to him (to them, he corrected himself) the handsome man she was with at lunch—more importantly, he wanted to know why she was laughing so gaily, holding hands with him, and taking such obvious comfort in his presence.
………
The reporters were still gone. Bridget sighed in relief as the taxi sidled up to the kerb in front of Mark's. As she popped through the front door, she nearly ran into Magda's husband. "Jeremy! Are you only just leaving?"
He nodded and smiled wearily, as if the meeting was not a meeting so much as a five mile sprint. "Nice as always to see you, Bridget."
"Tell Magda I said 'Hi'," she said, as she closed and locked the door behind him. She set her bag down, thinking she might escape up to the bedroom to read over the things Shazzer had given her. At that moment however Mark emerged from the back of the house, looking equally ragged. "Hello darling," he said quietly. "How was your lunch?"
"Oh, fine," she said, her voice a little higher and more strained than she'd intended.
He didn't seem to notice, and he came closer to her, taking her in his arms. "I'm glad," he murmured into her hair. "I can't wait for this to be over."
"You and me both."
After a moment, he said, "You know, I didn't really get a chance before to ask Jude how she is."
"Oh, she's fine… fine…" Bridget gabbled, hoping she wouldn't mistakenly blurt out about the Horatio/Camilla incident.
A voice behind her asked, "And how about that handsome fellow I saw you with?"
She felt Mark's entire body stiffen and he drew back, his eyes filled with questions, brows furrowed with hurt. But after a split-second moment of disgust (during which any fondness she might have developed for Nick evaporated), Bridget just gave Mark a little wink, then with a broad smile turned to face Nick, who was wearing a supercilious expression. "Oh, do you really think Tom is handsome? He rather thought you had a nice behind."
Mark burst out with a laugh, squeezing her to him. Nick looked nonplussed for the first time in their short acquaintance, then without another word he left the foyer and went to the upper floor.
At least her triumph distracted her from accidentally spilling the beans.
………
The relief that flooded his entire being at the mention of Tom's name was embarrassing in retrospect; Mark did not want to let on how his veins had turned to ice at the mention of Bridget having lunch with a handsome companion after responding so strangely and stiffly to his queries. He never would have admitted to the thoughts racing through his head that involved the bastard Daniel Cleaver, even though logically he knew she wanted nothing more to do with him.
He felt her thumb trace along his brow, heard her quietly say, "Hope your uncle didn't freak you out too much there."
"He and I will have a talk later," he said quietly. With a bob of his head he indicated they should head out of the foyer as well, and went to the sitting room.
She hopped onto the sofa, looking up to him with a studious expression. "Doesn't look like you had a good meeting."
He was tempted to get a tumbler of scotch before joining her, but reminded himself it wasn't yet three, and it was probably much too early for a drink. "Wasn't bad as meetings go, aside from me not being able to do my own work," he said as he sat, taking her hand. "It was the talking after the meeting that wore me down."
She drew her brows together.
He explained: "It would seem that not everyone in chambers is as confident in my innocence as Jeremy, Rebecca, Giles."
Her entire face fell as the reality of what he said apparently set in. She didn't reply right away, and when she did, she only offered a sad, "I'm sorry." Quickly she then stretched to kiss him, catching him a little off guard in a very pleasant way.
"While I would never be ungrateful for a kiss from my beautiful fiancée," he began as she resumed her seat, "you really have no need to apologise for them."
"But I do," she explained in earnest. "When I see you like this I want to do everything I can to make it better."
He tightened his grasp on her hand, wearily smiling. "You already have." But then he sighed, his shoulders falling as he sunk back into the sofa, his eyes closing, the weight of all that was happening hitting him once more like a ton of bricks.
"Mark?" she asked.
"I feel so bloody useless right now," he admitted, pinching his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "There isn't anything I can do as far as work. I don't particularly care to go out in public and feel like all eyes are upon me, and at the risk of sounding completely fatalistic, I can't plan a defence against a non-existent charge."
"Let's not invite that sort of thing just to occupy you," she scolded. She scooted over close to him to put her arm across his waist and rest her cheek on his shoulder. It felt quite nice to sit in silence with her.
"Feeling sleepy?" she asked after a moment.
His lids were in fact feeling quite heavy and his head felt strangely unsupported by his neck, but he was loathe to admit it. "A man can only take so many naps," he murmured. He was forced to admit defeat, however, as his cheek rested upon the top of her head, his eyes became too heavy to open, and he drifted off amidst pleasant thoughts of the woman in his embrace.
………
As much as she enjoyed sitting with him, all she could think of was getting upstairs and reading what Shaz had given her, which, considering their present circumstance and the fact that Mark needed her consolation more than just about anything else right about now, made her feel very guilty.
Not guilty enough though to slip out from under his serenely napping form and sneak away upstairs with her bag, because right now, she wanted action.
She closed the door slowly, ensuring the doorknob latched, then sprawled upon her stomach with the photocopied sheets. There were about five pages in total; the first was a very small blurb about the technician, Henry Wilkins. Married, two children, lived in Notting Hill—supervising a forensics lab must pay pretty well, she thought. All in all, though, there was very little information about him, but it was probably as much as she could find in the time available.
The other pages, an overview of the case, was a much more interesting read. The timeline of the crime, the weak alibi presented by Calhoun, the experts who insisted that Calhoun fit the profile of the killer, the general negative opinion held by the public… until the tide was turned by the DNA analysis that seemed to confirm that Calhoun had nothing at all to do with the crime.
And now the very cornerstone of that defence was being called into question.
………
The public had a right to know. They couldn't afford to forget that they couldn't just dismiss the whole bloody mess because some idiotic politician didn't know the meaning of the word 'discretion' and made a more lascivious mess than Mark Darcy had.
So the public had to be reminded.