‘Yes, it is beautiful,’ Mr Wallace replied. ‘Do you garden?’
‘A bit,’ I said, overawed by the comparison.
‘Glenda, my wife, designed it. Place was full of hydrangeas and gladioli when we moved in. She died,’ he carried on, ‘six years ago now. We keep it just as she made it. We could sit outside if you…’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll get the key.’ He strode over to his desk and came back with a bunch of keys. He unlocked the French windows. I gathered up my tray and book and we settled on seats on the patio immediately next to the house.
‘So,’ he resumed his story, ‘I asked to see the person in charge. They made me wait, of course. I told him they’d got the wrong person. I explained how close the boys were, that neither of them got into fights. That Luke would never hurt Ahktar. The man listened, he thanked me, he said nothing. As far as I can see, they’ve got a suspect and they want to make it fit.’
‘But without proof…’
‘Apparently they have two witnesses.’
Bad news. I underlined the word witnesses in my notes.
‘People who saw something that incriminates Luke. How could they?’ he demanded. ‘He didn’t do it; they’ve got him mixed up with someone else.’ His tone was hectoring. In any other situation it would have put me right off, but I made allowances for his desperation.
‘What did Luke say?’
He sighed. ‘Luke can’t remember anything.’ I could hear the despair in his voice. ‘He was pissed, he says he’d taken some tablets, he can’t remember anything. He doesn’t know what happened. Just a blank. He was devastated when they told him Ahktar was dead but he can’t remember a thing.’
My heart sank. With witnesses for the prosecution and a suspect who was out of his head on drugs, it wouldn’t be hard to secure a conviction. Obviously it would depend on what the witnesses actually saw and whether there was any other interpretation of that. But all Mr Wallace could offer in Luke’s defence was his trust, his faith that his son hadn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t have killed his friend. And I’m sure most parents faced with that accusation would say the same.
‘Mr Wallace-’ My uncertainty must have come through because he interrupted me before I could say more.
‘Please,’ he said, gripping the edge of the seat. ‘Please.’ He implored me but there was strength, not weakness in his plea.
Objections leapfrogged over each other in my mind. A hopeless case, I’d be going over the same old ground, I can’t do anything your lawyer can’t do, the trail will be stone cold, it’s months ago, they’ve got a witness, he may be guilty, these tragedies happen. But I couldn’t turn him down. His conviction, his passion about his son’s innocence was too powerful.
