Guilty

  GUILTY

  JANE BIDDER

  Simon Mills, a solicitor, isn’t the kind of man to go to prison. His new wife Claire, an artist, isn’t the kind of woman to have a husband ‘Inside’. But one night, after offering to drive their dinner guests home, Simon is involved in an horrific crash down a narrow Devonshire lane and is sent to prison for eight months.

  ‘GUILTY’ is written in two parts: the first deals with Simon’s life in prison and the second, with his life once he’s released. It is told in alternate viewpoints: Claire’s and Simon’s as well as the ghostly voice of Joanna, who died in the crash. This is a haunting modern-day story that could happen to you.

  Dedications

  I dedicate this book to that little voice inside us all, that tells us what is right and wrong.

  Also in recognition of the extraordinary skill, talent, dedication and hard work that goes on in prison – on both sides of the law

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to give thanks to the following:

  My agent Teresa Chris

  The team at Accent Press

  Clive Hopwood and Pauline Bennett from the Writers in Prison Network

  Wendy Robertson, a former fellow writer in residence

  Peter Bennett, ‘my’ former governor

  Iain and David for their legal advice.

  Kate Furnivall for her acute observations

  Everyone involved with the Koestler Trust

  Betty Schwartz who started me off

  My husband who gives me space to write and for his support

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty One

  Chapter Forty Two

  Chapter Forty Three

  Chapter Forty Four

  Chapter Forty Five

  Chapter Forty Six

  Chapter Forty Seven

  Chapter Forty Eight

  Chapter Forty Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty One

  Chapter Fifty Two

  Chapter Fifty Three

  Chapter Fifty Four

  Chapter Fifty Five

  Chapter Fifty Six

  Chapter Fifty Seven

  Chapter Fifty Eight

  Chapter Fifty Nine

  IN

  Chapter One

  They were having a summer dinner party! Claire mouthed the words inside her head with a sing-song lightness that matched the warm evening sunshine outside. ‘Simon and I are having a dinner party!’ There had been one or two gatherings, of course, since they’d got married two years ago, but it still felt like a delicious novelty.

  It was so lovely to do things – normal things – together as a couple! Even now, after being on her own with Ben, she had to pinch herself when Simon wrapped his arms around hers at night. ‘This is my husband,’ she would say to herself in wonder. It felt so good. So comforting.

  On impulse, Claire had invited a woman whom she’d recently met at the tennis club and had just moved here with her new husband. It would be nice, she told herself, to have someone else who wasn’t planning a silver wedding!

  Just to be sure everything ran smoothly, she’d asked Alex and Rosemarie too and for once, despite her work deadlines, she was reasonably organised, even down to polishing the old mahogany dining room table with lavender wax. She’d decided what to wear too: those new creamy crepe trousers with the clingy sea green top and the long dangly emerald earrings they’d bought on their honeymoon in Italy. How she loved putting together contrasting ‘clashing’ shades to accentuate what Simon called her pre-Raphaelite hair.

  ‘What are you going to cook?’ he now asked, nibbling her ear as she leafed through her Mary Berry winter recipes.

  ‘Goats’ cheese tartlets for starters and rack of lamb for the main course.’ She leant her head back into his neck, breathing in his warm skin mixed with that citrus aftershave he always wore. ‘Plus a quiche in case anyone is vegetarian. I was going to do pavlova for pudding but I’m not sure now.’

  Simon put his big warm arms around her and pulled her towards him, making her melt. She arched up her face to look at him. When they’d first met, she’d been struck by his brilliant blue eyes and brown skin that had seemed like a tan. It was only later that she found out his father was half-Indian; a heritage which he was both proud and wary of, depending on his mood. For her part, she found him incredibly sexy; a sort of younger Imran Khan.

  Now he spun her round so she was facing him, sending shivers of desire right through her. ‘Vegetarian?’ he repeated. ‘I don’t get people who don’t eat meat! Imagine never having a bacon sandwich again!’ Then he began to move round in circles, slowly, rhythmically, her head against his chest. ‘Dance with me,’ he hummed, ‘dance with me.’

  How she wished they were in bed right now instead of having people round! There was a noise from upstairs, indicating Ben was on his way down. Her son didn’t like it when he caught them showing affection; disloyally, she found herself thinking that it was easier when he was at his father’s for the weekend. But then, when Ben returned on Sunday nights, she could never resist questioning him casually about how Dad was and whether there’d been yet another girlfriend there.

  Ridiculous, really, to be so nosey about her first husband’s private life, considering how good it was with Simon! Besides, as Rosemarie was always saying, didn’t she deserve some happiness after everything? Wasn’t it right that she now had a kind man like this who told her she was beautiful and danced impromptu round the kitchen? Charlie would never have done that! And certainly not when guests were coming.

  ‘I’m really sorry but I just haven’t got time,’ she said, disentangling herself. ‘I’ve still got so much to get ready.’

  Reluctantly, Simon released her, getting out his tool box to sort out the bathroom sink which was blocked yet again. That was the trouble, he was always saying, with these old places, but she loved Beech Cottage which she had filled with her paintings and rugs with their lovely midnight blues and salmon pinks; a much-loved refuge after the divorce.

  ‘Fair enough,’ he shrugged. ‘You do the cooking and I’ll make sure we don’t have a leak during dinner. What are these Goodman-Browns like, anyway?’

  ‘She’s lovely, but I haven’t met him.’ Claire felt a flutter of apprehension.

  ‘Better make sure we’ve got enough booze to liven things up.’

  Drink! She’d been so busy thinking about the food that she’d forgotten.

  ‘No problem.’ He laid a hand on her shoulder and she felt that
warmth seeping into her. ‘I’ll get it after sorting the sink.’

  ‘That would be great.’ Not for the first time, Claire wondered if anything could ever unsettle her husband. ‘He’s very laid back,’ Rosemarie had told her three years ago when she’d announced, rather meaningfully, that an old uni friend of Alex’s was coming down that weekend.

  She, for her part, had protested that it was too soon after her divorce but Rosemarie had insisted she popped in for a pre-Sunday lunch Pimm’s. Somehow, she had found herself staying longer, entranced by this very tall, but not particularly slim, clever, handsome, warm, funny man who told amusing stories and yet also listened to what she had to say.

  ‘Why has he never married?’ she asked Rosemarie curiously afterwards. ‘He must be, what, forty-five?’

  ‘Thirty-nine.’ Dear Rosemarie was keen to promote his case. ‘He’s had a few long-term girlfriends but never found the right person. Seemed pretty struck on you, though.’

  Everyone said it was quick when they were married within the year but it seemed right. So why, Claire would demand of herself every now and then, could she never quite rid herself of that odd feeling when Charlie rang to speak to their son?

  Now in the kitchen, seeking reassurance, she reached out for Simon’s hands. ‘Kiss me,’ she demanded, leaning back. His mouth came down on hers. Hard and yet soft, suggesting possibilities after the dinner party tonight.

  ‘Mum?’ Ben stood at the doorway and they sprang apart. Dear God! His hair looked even more extreme than yesterday when he’d returned from a sleepover with the sides shaved off and the middle section standing up in blue and silver streaks.

  His friends had done it, he’d said casually in a voice that challenged her to make a fuss. She’d freaked out, of course and then Simon had calmly told his stepson not to be rude to his mother. ‘You’re not my fucking father,’ Ben had yelled back and then there’d been another argument, resulting in a cold standoff between her son and husband.

  ‘Mum,’ Ben now repeated, totally ignoring Simon, ‘I’m going out. Can you lend me some money?’

  Claire’s heart sank and she felt Simon stiffen. Her husband, who had never had children, didn’t see why she should constantly ‘top up’ her son. But Ben was in his GCSE year and an after-school job might interfere with his schoolwork.

  ‘You promised last week that you were going to mend the bathroom sink with me to earn your pocket money,’ said Simon tightly.

  ‘I am going to.’ Ben spat out the words without looking at his stepfather. ‘But not now. I’m going out.’

  ‘And I’m doing the sink this minute.’

  ‘I said I’d do it later.’

  Someone needed to sort this. ‘Look, I’ll lend you this and then you can pay me back.’ Opening her purse, she slipped her son a five-pound note. He looked at it as though expecting more.

  ‘What time will you be back?’

  ‘Don’t know. I’ll text.’

  ‘And where are you going?’

  Too late. He’d already gone.

  ‘I thought we agreed you weren’t going to lend him any more unless he earned it,’ said Simon quietly.

  She shrugged. ‘He did help me make the new pudding. And he half-laid the table.’

  Simon put a hand on her shoulder and his touch made her want to both cuddle him and push him away at the same time. ‘He won’t learn this way, you know.’

  But he’s been hurt, she wanted to cry. Damaged by everything that’s happened. If Simon had had children, he would understand all this. ‘He wants to be a child one minute and an adult the next. Please try to see that.’

  Simon turned his back. ‘I’ll just sort out the sink before hitting the shops. See you later.’

  The scene cast a shadow over the rest of the pre-dinner party preparations. It wasn’t that Simon sulked after he had come back with the drink. Quite the opposite. He had breezed in, planting a kiss on her neck, as though nothing had happened, although she was beginning to recognise this breeziness as a sign that he was shutting off.

  Was it, Claire wondered as she laid out the pretty floral place mats, really possible to know someone as well as she had known Charlie? And how long did it take for a man who’d been a long-term bachelor to open up to a new wife or get on with a boy who wasn’t his own?

  A prickle of unease ran down her spine as she wiped one of the wine glasses. Had she been wrong to give Ben money? And why hadn’t her son texted, as promised, to say where he was with his friends. The worry niggled her all evening, although she tried to disguise it by looking after her guests.

  Hugh Goodman-Brown, who had arrived in a blue blazer and cream trousers contrasting with Simon’s casual jeans, was hard work! Initially it wasn’t too bad when they were talking about teenagers and course-work especially as it turned out that his daughter was at the same school as Ben and in the same year. But then, running out of conversation, she desperately turned to careers. ‘What do you do?’ she’d asked.

  His face wrinkled like a pug dog’s with steel-rimmed glasses. ‘I’m an F.A.,’ he announced, draining his glass noisily.

  An F.A.?

  ‘Financial adviser.’ He topped himself up without passing the bottle around. Very naughtily, she couldn’t help thinking that the term ‘F.A.’ could mean something much ruder. The thought made her giggle and she had to pretend her wine had gone down the wrong way. Now what to say?

  ‘I illustrate children’s books,’ she volunteered.

  He nodded, fantastically unaware of a piece of broccoli that had lodged itself between his front teeth. ‘Pay you, do they, or is it just a hobby?’

  ‘They pay me,’ she answered tautly. She glanced across at Joanna who had made the right appreciative noises about their ‘beautiful house’ when she’d arrived, wondering how she could have married a boor like this. Her lovely guest was now laughing gaily at something Simon had said. Irrationally, she felt a pang of jealousy. ‘I would never do what Charlie did,’ he often said.

  Even so, she didn’t like the way that Joanna’s long elegant fingers reached out every now and then, touching Simon’s arm as though to make a point. Women liked her husband! She’d seen the admiring looks in the supermarket and on the school run. When Simon had first told her how many girlfriends he’d had, she had felt both flattered – because she was the one he’d chosen to marry – and also frightened, in case he went off her as Charlie had done.

  ‘Mind if I open another bottle?’ boomed Hugh.

  ‘I thought we agreed that you were driving, darling!’ Her new friend’s voice tinkled across the table disapprovingly. She was truly beautiful, Claire observed, in an ethereal way, with almost translucent pale skin and long blonde hair arranged in an artful knot with the side bits falling over those slender collar bones.

  ‘I’m afraid that I can’t do it!’ She flashed a brilliant smile around the table. ‘Definitely over the limit.’ Stretching out her arms like a cat, Joanna almost purred; seemingly unaware that every man’s eyes were on her.

  Rosemarie raised her eyebrows in disapproval. She’d always been a bit of a prude. Simon called her ‘staid’. Yet she was one of those women who, without being particularly interesting or good-looking, acted in a way that suggested she was. Tonight, she was wearing a calf-length pleated navy skirt. Joanna, in contrast, was in an elegant knee-length black dress, showing off her glossy ten denier legs.

  ‘We could give you a lift,’ Rosemarie continued in that correct clipped voice of hers, ‘but …’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Simon’s dark reassuring voice cut in. ‘I’ve just had half a glass. I’ll take you back. But only if my wife allows me to have one more helping of her delicious syllabub before I go. Home-made you know.’ He looked round the table as though expecting a round of applause for his wife’s culinary skills. So loyal yet also rather embarrassing!

  ‘Divine,’ Joanna laughed gaily. ‘Absolutely melted in my mouth! You must give me the recipe sometime.’

  How old was she? Claire w
ondered as she promised to email it over. From a distance, she looked like a twenty-something model but when you were closer, you could glimpse fine lines, cleverly masked by make-up.

  ‘We could get a taxi,’ growled Hugh. Exactly! But now, Simon in his eagerness to please – too eager for her liking – was already getting up for his car keys.

  ‘Don’t be long, darling,’ she murmured as he bent down to kiss her goodbye.

  ‘I won’t,’ he mouthed back. ‘Love you.’

  Chapter Two

  Where were they? Simon didn’t believe in sat nav. ‘I prefer my own instinct,’ he was proud of saying. He’d been certain that he knew the way to the village where Joanna and Hugh lived but this didn’t seem right. That old farm building and its rickety barn didn’t look familiar. Nor did that garage and its Closed sign.

  No good asking Hugh. The man had had far too much to drink and was asleep now in the front seat, nodding into his pink and white striped shirt and occasionally waking up with a jerk, only to start snoring again. Too late, Simon regretted his invitation to drive them home – a gesture prompted less by generosity than the urge to prevent the evening from dragging on any longer.

  If Claire was here, she’d have asked Joanna for directions by now. But a mixture of his own male pride and her incessant chatter prevented him.

  ‘Lovely evening … so kind of you to have us … so sorry about Hugh not being his usual self … been a bit stressed at work regularly … I hear you moved down from London when you married Claire … So romantic …’

  Trying to block out her voice, he slowed down and looked around. Not a soul in sight. Only the leaves which swayed from the trees on either side of them and an owl which suddenly swooped in front of them, causing him to swerve slightly.

  ‘Hugh and I still wonder if we made the right decision leaving Richmond … We’ve only been down here for six months but I still feel dreadfully homesick and so does Hugh’s daughter … did I tell you that she’d moved down to be with us?

  Please be quiet, he wanted to say. I need to concentrate, especially when your drunken oaf of a husband is snoring like that. The road was bendy without the London street lights he was used to and the hedges were so high that it was like being stuck in the Hampton Court maze. That had happened to him once with a French girlfriend and he had felt inexplicably claustrophobic – almost unable to draw breath – both in the maze and the relationship.