Trial by Fire by Frances Fyfield

Miss West, I mean . .
    `Well, what do you mean?'
    `You are being naïve,' our Brian said indulgently. 'That is what she told you, but perhaps she told in anticipation of exactly this situation.'
    Òh, yes,' said Helen, temper running like a car engine. 'She's a soothsayer as well as a social worker. Bit of double leprosy going on there, Mr Redwood, I mean Brian. And a jury would see it as rubbish coming from a mouth as disingenuous as hers. I'm sorry, I don't believe Antony Sumner killed Mrs Blundell to spare Christine the knowledge of his affair. I just don't believe it. He may have killed her, but not for that reason.' All of this emerged far more sharply than intended in reaction to Redwood's underlying prejudices and also to the fact she had never, but never yet in three whole weeks, had the chance to argue the same toss with Bailey. Our Brian was here; he would have to do.
    `Well.' He was standing now, looking down at her with his best supercilious regard.
    'At least you concede the possibility of guilt. I was beginning to wonder. I imagine it's preferable I don't discuss the case with you, Miss West. And a very good idea if you don't discuss it with . . . with your friend the superintendent, either. In the meantime, if you would send your copy of the file back to me, I'll deal with this case myself.'
    A few seconds of silence, her hand fluttering around the dismembered papers on the desk. She'd had long training in not reacting, had just betrayed it slightly, would not slip further from the self-discipline of calmer silence. He was ready for an unprofessional outburst, disappointed by the brisk, dismissive nod of her head.
    Àfter all,' he added over his shoulder as a mild parting shot, 'you don't want anything to interfere with a conviction, do you?'
    She watched his uncomfortable departure, recovering her smile, slamming down her pen as soon as the door closed, then taking it up again and sketching Redwood's face on the lined pad in front of her. A smooth face, pouched like a guinea pig's with firm round jowls and a precious little mouth. A high, unlined forehead with thin hair, slightly coiffed to one side over creased little eyes. Soon to have tunnel vision, she thought through gritted teeth.
    Nothing must ever interfere with convictions, his or the court's. Nothing. Not even the truth.
    At the back of his head she drew a curly tail.
    Three whole long weeks since the dentist had confirmed that the radiograph of teeth taken from the Bluebell Wood body belonged to the late Mrs Blundell. Life in the Bailey-West household had resumed some semblance of normality. Geoffrey's office hours were as variable as Helen's and were rarely spent in an office. She liked the variety, enjoyed the peace of solitude as much as he, provided there was no tension between them to fill the solitary interludes with unanswered questions, nothing to disturb the trust.
    Which was not the present state.
    She had tried to tell herself not to express undue curiosity in his current investigation, even when Sumner was charged and Christine Summerfield had abruptly avoided her on a Saturday afternoon in Branston High Street. A tension in the Bailey-West household had arisen from a situation in which Helen could not support Geoffrey's opinion, and this tension was quite sufficient to persuade her not to phone him after all for advice on a multitude of cases and questions of police procedure, as she frequently did. Helen was finding difficult the return to greater self-reliance and the gradual denial of the constant turning to Bailey in any moral dilemma that featured one of his tribe.
    He had always done the same to her: What should I do, Helen? What do you think?
    the most precious of things shared was this impeccable trust in the judgment of the other, a complete respect neither held towards any other person. Helen mourned the passing of this mutuality, prayed to her own version of God that its absence was temporary. On the calm surface of their