No Further Questions

  Gillian McAllister

  * * *

  NO FURTHER QUESTIONS

  Contents

  1: Martha

  2: Becky

  Monday 3: Martha

  4: Bryony Riles

  5: Martha

  6: Judge Christopher Matthews, QC

  Tuesday 7: Martha

  8: Carol Richards

  9: Martha

  10: Becky

  11: Martha

  12: Sophie Cole

  13: Martha

  14: Martha

  15: Becky

  16: Martha

  17: Martha

  18: Jasbinder Kaur

  19: Martha

  20: Devorah Friedmann

  21: Martha

  22: Theresa Williams

  23: Martha

  24: Becky

  25: Martha

  Wednesday 26: Martha

  27: Alison Jones

  28: Martha

  29: Natalie Osbourne

  30: Martha

  31: Amanda Thompson

  32: Martha

  33: Detective Sergeant Keysha Johnson

  34: Martha

  35: Martha

  36: Becky

  37: Martha

  38: Julia Todd

  39: Martha

  40: Becky

  41: Martha

  42: Martha

  43: Judge Christopher Matthews, QC

  Thursday 44: Martha

  45: Marc Burrows

  46: Martha

  47: Becky

  48: Martha

  49: Francesca Lewis

  50: Martha

  51: Judge Christopher Matthews, QC

  Friday 52: Martha

  53: Becky

  54: Martha

  55: Martha

  Monday 56: Martha

  57: Becky

  58: Martha

  59: Becky

  60: Martha

  61: Martha

  62: Judge Christopher Matthews, QC

  Tuesday 63: Martha

  64: Xander

  65: Becky

  66: Judge Christopher Matthews, QC

  Epilogue Becky

  Martha

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  NO FURTHER QUESTIONS

  Gillian McAllister has been writing for as long as she can remember. She graduated with an English degree and lives in Birmingham, where she now works as a lawyer. Her debut novel Everything but the Truth was a Sunday Times top ten bestseller. You can find her on Twitter @gillianmauthor.

  For Tom, who taught me how to do voice in a single summer

  1

  Martha

  Somebody is lying in this courtroom. I don’t know who, yet, but somebody is: the defence or the prosecution. They cannot both be telling the truth.

  The legal jargon seems to swirl around me as I listen to expert after expert being examined, cross-examined, and then re-examined by the barristers. Most of the time, I’m following it. Most of the time, I understand what’s happening.

  But sometimes, like right now, I can’t see how we ended up here.

  Last August, I gave birth to Layla in the middle of the night. It was dark outside and we were sequestered away in a side room at the hospital, Scott sitting on the end of the bed. I don’t remember when they finally handed her to me, but I remember her afterwards: a warm weight in my arms, her hand curling surprisingly around my own.

  I’d texted my sister Becky, and only Becky, between contractions, though I hardly remember what I said. When she came to visit, she brought the late summer night-time chill in with her; I could feel her cold cheek against mine as she hugged me. ‘You did it! Oh, you did it!’ she said, celebrating me, and not the baby. It was exactly what I needed at that moment.

  My sister.

  The woman who used to WhatsApp me first thing, every single day, without fail. The woman whose eyebrows I plucked on the eve of her wedding, both of us laughing as they became more and more uneven. The woman who painted my living room with me one Easter weekend. We didn’t stop chatting for the entire four days.

  My sister. My best friend, Becky.

  And now: here we are.

  Cot death, the defence says – unexplained.

  Murder, the prosecution says.

  I look across at my sister in the dock.

  The woman accused of murdering my child.

  2

  Becky

  Eleven months earlier Thursday, 28 September

  I can’t resist them. My hands shake as I open my handbag and find the packet of cigarettes; their shiny, inviting inner foil unbroken and beautiful.

  My breathing has already slowed as I bring the cigarette to my mouth for the first drag in weeks. I blow the clouds of smoke out into the night air and look at the sky above Dalston. I close my eyes in relief as the smoke hits my lungs. Sweet. Jesus. Poisonous joy.

  There are no stars, but the moon is slung low and sepia-toned. I stare at it for a few minutes as I smoke and try not to cry. I’m not very good at not crying – classic drama queen – so my cheeks are wet with tears within seconds.

  The television people I dress sets for would like a Dalmatian-print chesterfield armchair, and they want it by 9.00 a.m. This is the fourth time this has happened this week: a last-minute request, to be sorted out by me, and only me.

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to end up. I was going to be an Interior Designer. My obsession started with Changing Rooms – God bless those leopard-print walls – but it endured beyond that. I dropped out of design school when I had Xander, my nine-year-old, and spent my twenties languishing on Pinterest, staring at copper lamps and furry throws. I thought set-dressing would give me an in, but instead it’s just a dead end, like everything. One day, I tell myself.

  My manager, Sandra, pokes her head out of the side door of the studio I am standing next to. ‘On it?’ she says. She is tall and slim and believes – very seriously, and very vociferously – in angels.

  ‘Well, yes,’ I say. ‘But there aren’t any. I’ve tried Gumtree, eBay and Etsy.’

  ‘No chairs at all?’

  ‘No.’

  She sighs, her thin hand tightening on the metal door-handle. As I take my last puff and exhale, the smoke blurs her. ‘How’s it going to look, if we don’t have that chair, Bex?’

  Bex. I hate Bex. ‘Bad,’ I say petulantly.

  ‘Have you exhausted every avenue?’

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘Have another think,’ she says, then goes back inside. The door sticks, and she doesn’t pull it to like you’re supposed to. I inch it shut with the toe of my shoe. I look back up at the old paper moon, and find my sister Martha’s number in my phone: she will know what to do.

  ‘Get a chair and some print then,’ she says immediately. She has always been this way: clear-sighted and firm. ‘It’ll be easy,’ she adds nicely. This must be the tenth work problem in a row that I have called her about this week. Inflatable furniture, paddling pools, pug-printed duvet sets. Anything. Everything. She always helps, willingly and immediately.

  ‘What – and cover it?’ I say.

  ‘Yes.’ I can hear Layla crying in the background. Martha has her plate full, too, failing to take any maternity leave at all from her job – a charity that she set up herself – but here she is, answering my calls over a Dalmatian-print chair.

  ‘Never mind,’ I say. ‘God. Don’t worry about this stuff.’

  ‘It’s fine, Beck,’ she says. ‘Honestly.’

  ‘A chair and print,’ I repeat. ‘I’ll report back.’

  We hang up, and I take to Google again. I ring four haberdasheries to see if they can help me, but they don’t answer;
they’re closed.

  Luckily, there is extortionate Dalmatian-print fabric on eBay, sold for mad people. I send one of the sellers a desperate message, and she responds almost immediately, the app ringing in my hand as I light up my second cigarette. I can get it from Islington before eleven tonight. Great, I think sullenly.

  I get the Tube straight there, using the excellent new Tube WiFi to search for a chair on the way. There is an armchair in Balham on Gumtree. The seller’s username is ‘ILoveHarryStyles’ and I think: Well, don’t we all? I arrange to get it at 11.30 p.m.

  The fabric is easy. The woman – short, plump, with a Bristolian accent – hands it to me wordlessly outside the front door of her ground-floor flat. I thank her profusely, and pay her on the eBay app while she watches over my shoulder. She doesn’t move as I put my Verified by Visa account details in – no doubt I will get robbed soon – and then I send a photograph of it to Martha, captioned: One down! She sends a string of applauding hands back, and my mood lifts.

  The chair lives ten minutes from Balham Tube station, at 193a Ravenslea Road. I gather the roll of fabric as the Tube pulls in. On the way up the escalator, a man complains at me for blocking the way – calls me a ‘silly bint’ – and I stand the roll of fabric on the stair in front of me and move out of his way. ‘Don’t bother to thank me,’ I say to his back as he strides upwards. He turns to look at me.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says in a broad Essex accent. ‘I was in a hurry.’

  I walk past him in the foyer as he calls for a taxi. He comes out after me, and I let the door slam on his arm on my way out. He shouts something, but I march onwards. Twat.

  A woman wearing an actual negligee answers the door in Balham. I blink as I take in the black fabric, the thin straps across her shoulders, then follow her in anyway. The chair is faded and green, standing in the corner of the room underneath a reading lamp. Behind it are leather-bound classics. It looks like the set of a Victorian murder novel. Well, at least I will die doing what I love.

  I pay her fifty pounds for the chair, the rolled notes dry and papery in my fingers as I part with them. Her brown eyes linger over the fabric I’m holding, but I don’t explain. She doesn’t help me with the chair, and it thuds clumsily against my leg, squeaking along the wood, as I half-lift, half-drag it across her hallway and down the steps. She stands just inside her living room, arms wrapped around her body, silently watching me, then closes the door.

  I’m already out of breath, having moved both items only a few feet, and I stop and survey the dark street. Two men are walking on the other side of the road towards me, and I stare at them as they move past. I could ask for help. But this is London.

  I have a small rest instead, thinking about interior design school, and where I might be by now if I’d finished. I think about bloody perfect Martha, juggling being CEO of a charity, having a newborn, and dealing with her errant sister’s search for Dalmatian-print fabric.

  At least I have a seat. I perch on it for a few moments, watching the world go by: a madwoman in a green chair on the street in Balham.

  I hail a black cab and the chair sits next to me inside it like an obedient, silent animal. I don’t look at it as I try to recall where I last stored my fabric stapler at the house.

  As the taxi departs London at just after midnight, I text Martha and ask if she is up.

  Of course I am – providing a round-the-clock service to a constantly crying baby she replies immediately.

  I call her and say, ‘I can’t do this any more,’ as soon as she picks up. My voice sounds thick and self-pitying. I stare at the taxi driver. He’s also working late. Think about it: he’s got to drive you to Brighton, then drive back to London, Martha would admonish me. There is always somebody worse off, so she says. She is nice like this. I am not. I have always wanted to be more like her, though not enough to actually try, of course.

  ‘You can,’ Martha says. ‘Staple-gun the fabric. It’ll only take twenty minutes. Then bed.’

  ‘And up at six. For another insane request,’ I say.

  ‘Is Xander with Marc? After school?’

  ‘Yes. It won’t be long. This job is only a week,’ I say.

  Martha makes her sympathy noise. A low mmhmmm. ‘It’s rubbish, Beck,’ she says. ‘It’s so rubbish.’ She means it. She must mean it. But I think of her life, caring for always-crying Layla, and juggling work, too, and wonder how she can mean it.

  ‘How’s your To Do list looking, anyway?’ I say.

  ‘Oh – it’s just impossible. The phone’s ringing off the hook.’

  Martha set up a charity the previous year, and hasn’t quite relinquished control. She never does.

  ‘Layla’s crying all the time while I’m trying to bloody hire people.’

  ‘Oh, oh no,’ I say.

  ‘I interviewed two childminders but they were rubbish. One didn’t know what baby-led weaning was.’

  ‘You should just get a nanny,’ I say. ‘You need staff, not help.’

  ‘I don’t even have time to hire anybody. That’s how bad it is.’

  ‘I see.’

  We don’t say anything for a few seconds.

  Until I say, ‘I want to quit.’

  To her credit, she doesn’t sigh.

  ‘I don’t even like dressing sets,’ I add.

  ‘Quit, if you want to,’ she says. ‘Life’s too short to staple dead Dalmatians to chairs for ever.’

  We laugh at that, for a long time, on the way home.

  The next day, she makes a proposition, and I hand my notice in on the spot.

  MONDAY

  * * *

  Prosecution

  3

  Martha

  My hair has been falling out since it happened. Long, wet strands in the shower. I don’t mind, really. There is more to life than hair.

  I stare out into the public gallery. Mum, Dad, my husband, Scott, my brother, Ethan.

  Ethan, a lawyer, looks relaxed amongst the wigs and the robes. I remember when he used to shake with laughter at juvenile jokes around the dining-room table. Becky used to say he changed, that he let life and its mundane struggles overcome him.

  ‘You’re like a grumpy old man,’ she once hissed at him. It was at the meet-and-greet at my and Scott’s wedding, and Becky hung back, downing her prosecco. I didn’t say anything to either of them, fussing instead with my gown. She was tipsy. Ethan was reserved, preferring one-on-ones instead. It was a microcosm of our family dynamic, my wedding. I don’t remember it fondly. Becky had accused me of being a bridezilla the night before. ‘She’s just organized,’ Mum had said kindly.

  Since Becky was charged, Ethan has been stoic; uncompromisingly uninvolved, refusing to speculate, to answer questions on procedure. ‘Not my area of law,’ he has said, interrupting us mid-question.

  Scott catches my eye and nods, just once, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly, an encouraging expression on his face. ‘You can do it,’ he said to me last night, the night before the first day of the trial. ‘You can, you can. We can.’

  Becky is led into the courtroom.

  I swallow. I haven’t seen her for months and months.

  She has become thin. Her ribs are a birdcage, her hands oversized compared to her arms. I want to reach out and hold those bony shoulders of hers. She was always tall, and broad, which she hated but I loved; I thought she seemed somehow full of life. But today she is diminished.

  She has the same walk. I shouldn’t be pleased to see it, but I am. You expect people will change utterly since the night of, but they don’t. It has been nine and a half months since it happened, and nine months since we last saw each other. We were prohibited from speaking from the moment she was charged. We became opposing witnesses. Me for the prosecution and she for the defence. Two sisters, carved in two by the justice system.

  But here it is, months on: her beautiful walk, in the flesh, as if no time has passed at all. You can’t change a walk like that. She has always bounded, like an overly
friendly Labrador, and she is no different today, standing at the door to the dock, somehow, in an extroverted manner. Loud, without being so.

  Becky always worked hard at being cool. It was important to her. The right sort of bands and nail varnish and movies – ‘No, Marth, the rips must be across the knees,’ she said last year when I tried on a pair of incorrectly torn jeans – and always the thick layer of liquid eyeliner, the pink blusher. But her walk gave her away; her eager walk that I once loved so much. Still do, I suppose.

  I am sworn in and take the secular oath. My voice is clear and loud in the courtroom, which surprises me. I was a geography teacher for years, though. I was used to performing through winter colds and extreme end-of-term fatigue. I pretend the public gallery is a classroom of bright-eyed children, for a moment, and it helps.

  Some water has been placed in front of me in a white plastic cup with ridges around its sides.

  And here we are: I am in the witness box and Becky is in the dock. She is staring straight at me, her head turned to the left, like a very pretty zoo animal. A deer, maybe, or a giraffe. Her eyelashes, they were always so beautiful. So long and curved, like a Disney princess’s. Our eyes meet. I am only going to say what I know, I try to tell her. Afterwards, I’ll join the public gallery, and watch. And, at the end of it, I will know the truth. For Layla.

  Was it only a year ago when she came to the hospital right after Layla was born? I can’t believe it. It feels not just years ago, but as though it happened to some other family; someone I know well, whose movements I’ve known all my life, like cousins or family friends we had over for dinner regularly. But not to us.

  I avert my eyes from hers, and look at the jury instead. Eleven women. One man. None of them looks nervous, or as if they bear the weight of responsibility. One woman has a cat on her jumper, its black ears made of sequins. Becky would want to know what kind of selection process could lead to someone wearing a cat jumper to a murder trial. ‘That is quite the statement,’ she would say.