Page 102 of Maybe Tomorrow

When Jennifer and Malcolm Ripley first married, they had a rule that breakfast time was sacrosanct. They’d sit together, eat a healthy cereal, drink their juice and coffee and chat about anything other than work. They both had demanding jobs that meant one, or both, may not be home in time for tea, but they would both be able to make breakfast so that would be their time together as a couple.

It wasn’t long before a newspaper appeared at the table. One morning, the phone rang early and Malcolm spent forty minutes chatting to the head of the council so Jennifer opened her mail. The next day, Malcolm suddenly remembered some paperwork he had to quickly complete before a council meeting so, while he was scribbling away, Jennifer took a few files out of her briefcase and prepared herself for her meetings.

Now, breakfast was had on the fly. Malcolm often threw back half a mug of tepid coffee, grabbed a slice of toast and ate as he was heading for the door. Jennifer stopped eating at home and preferred to have something at her desk at work while going through her letters. They said good morning when they woke up next to each other, briefly stated what lay ahead for them that day, then passed each other on the landing as one went for a shower and the other to get changed.

This morning was different. Jennifer couldn’t sleep. She’d been tossing and turning since two o’clock and eventually got up around five. When Malcolm came down wearing his pin-stripe suit in a wave of Paco Rabanne, he found her at the table in the kitchen with several newspapers open in front of her.

‘You look like you’ve been on a weekend-long bender,’ he said, examining her knotted hair, tired expression and the dark circles beneath her eyes.

‘I wish.’

‘Problem?’ he asked, going over to the kettle and finding it cold. The cafetiere was empty, too. He sighed.

‘I’ve got a meeting with Pauline Winstanley at lunchtime. I’m going through all these newspapers from the past week. They’re saying some horrible things about Anthony.’

‘Well, what do you expect them to say about a rapist and murderer? They’re hardly going to put him forward for an OBE. Shit, that’s reminded me, I need to write my statement for Hilary. Did I tell you we’re recommending Hilary Bailey for an honour?’ he said over his shoulder as he scooped coffee grounds into the pot.

‘Yes. You did,’ Jennifer replied. ‘They’re starting to attack Pauline now, too.’

‘Who are?’

‘The papers. They’re blaming her; saying she mollycoddled him, refused to cut the apron strings.’

‘Well, she did.’

‘He has special needs, Malcolm. He needed looking after.’

‘He’s also an adult. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with a twenty-eight-year-old still living with his mother. I wasn’t in any rush to move out until I met you. I was getting my washing done and my meals cooked for twenty quid a week; what’s not to like about that?’ He smiled. ‘The thing is, she should have allowed him more freedom. If she’d let him go out with people his own age, meet girls, he wouldn’t have been sexually repressed and… ended up doing what he did. Do you want a coffee while I’m making one for myself?’

‘Yes, well, I don’t think he did do what you all say he ended up doing,’ she said, folding the newspapers and putting them in a neat pile.

‘You’re in the minority on that one.’

‘Just because we’re in the minority doesn’t mean we’re wrong.’

‘We?’

‘Me and Pauline. Pauline’s friend, Leo.’

‘Wow. A group of three. You’re hardly going to bring the system down, are you?’ He handed her a mug of coffee. ‘Look, Jennifer, I know you’re desperate for your first big win on a murder case, but you need to let it go. You lost. Move on. Inglethorpe and Bryce won’t thank you for dragging the name of their firm into the mud if you pursue this. And there’s no way you’ll make partner then.’

‘I can’t leave Anthony in prison. He doesn’t deserve to be there.’

‘Jennifer, he was found guilty. In the eyes of the law, he is guilty.’

‘Are you seriously telling me that people aren’t wrongly convicted?’

‘No. What I am telling you is that this isn’t one of those cases. The judge said that Anthony was a great manipulator. Is it possible he’s manipulated you, too?’

Jennifer looked up into her husband’s eyes. For the briefest moment, she considered whether she had been duped by Anthony. No. That wasn’t possible at all.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, standing up. ‘I’m right on this. I know it in the pit of my stomach. Anthony Winstanley is innocent. And I’m going to move heaven and earth to get him freed.’ She pushed past him and out of the room, running up the stairs two at a time with renewed vigour.

Later that morning, Jennifer welcomed Pauline and Leo into her office and explained the appeals process and how long and laborious it was. There was a huge mountain to scale and there was a low percentage rate of cases that reached the summit. The question Jennifer needed to ask was if Pauline, and Anthony, were prepared to put themselves through it.

Pauline didn’t hesitate to answer. She would fight to her dying breath to get Anthony exonerated. Yes, she was speaking from the position of a loving mother, but it gave Jennifer the impetus to crack on and give the appeal everything she’d got. She just hoped she could get Inglethorpe and Bryce on her side.

There was one burning question that needed answering: if Anthony didn’t kill Alice Patterson, who did?