Page 61 of Maybe Tomorrow

He thought for a moment. ‘If Mr Inglethorpe or Mr Bryce had been coming, I would have been worried. The fact they’re sending a woman means it’s a case they’re expecting to lose and are prepared to chalk it down to experience. Keep me informed, Henry.’

‘Will do.’

When Jennifer Ripley had finished speaking with Pauline Winstanley and Leo Mulligan, she felt excited. This was a case with so many holes in the police investigation she would be amazed if it even got to trial. That was her first goal. Despite Anthony’s guilty plea, she was determined to get the confession overturned and the case sent for full trial at crown court. Why hadn’t Anthony been offered a solicitor? Why hadn’t he been allowed to make a phone call to his mother for her to contact a solicitor on his behalf? Why had a man who takes a mood stabiliser not been allowed to call home for his tablets? Why were the police treating Anthony Winstanley like a guilty man before he’d even had the charges put to him?

She shook hands with Pauline and Leo, gave them a sympathetic smile, and told them to leave it with her. As soon as the door closed behind them, she broke out into a huge grin and felt the euphoria rise inside her. She was so close to making partner at Inglethorpe and Bryce, this could be the case that would cement her reputation and seal the deal. She grabbed her briefcase and her handbag, told Sally on reception to cancel the rest of her appointments for the morning and jumped in her Volvo and headed for home. She was wearing the wrong clothes to confront a detective inspector.

Jennifer lived in a semi-detached house in Upgang Lane with her husband, Malcolm. They had been married for five years and had no children. Malcolm was itching to start a family, but Jennifer’s focus was on her career. Once she had made partner, she could relax a little and then she might think about possibly having a baby. She was only twenty-nine, plenty of time to have a child. Just because her sister was pregnant at sixteen and now had four little monsters ruining her home and spending all her money, didn’t mean Jennifer had to follow suit. She would delay it for as long as possible.

She arrived home to an empty house and a note on the kitchen worktop from her husband. She’d left work before Malcolm and this note was obviously intended for her when she arrived home later today.

There’s a bottle of champagne in the fridge. We’ll either celebrate or commiserate. Either way, we’ll have an amazing night together.

Jennifer felt bad for forgetting. Today was the day Malcolm would find out whether he was being selected to stand for MP in the forthcoming by-election. He was already big in the council, but his ambitions, like Jennifer’s, were massive. Together, they would conquer the world.

Jennifer ran upstairs, rummaged through the wardrobe for her favourite power suit, dressed, and was out of the house within five minutes. She paused for breath behind the wheel of her car. That was the fastest she had ever changed. She hoped Malcolm never found out. He was always left drumming his fingers as Jennifer constantly changed her mind about what outfit to wear when they were going somewhere posh and formal.

She pushed a tape into the cassette deck and turned the volume up high as she headed to the police station. She couldn’t hold a note with both hands, but she doubted Bonnie Tyler would mind if she sang ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ with her. She loved Bonnie.

Outside the station, Jennifer climbed out of the car, made sure her outfit was neat and she didn’t have any buttons undone, then walked with her back straight and her head high. She was surrounded by men in her line of work, and while the majority of them welcomed a woman in a position of authority, there was still the odd dinosaur who expected Jennifer to make the tea or get out the hoover. Cedric Inglethorpe was one of them, though he would be retiring soon, so he wasn’t a problem. She knew certain members of the police force who didn’t like women telling them what to do. However, Jennifer wasn’t a woman to be talked down to. She’d done it before, and she’d do it again. She could hold her own against any man.

‘Good morning,’ she said to the woman behind the front desk, offering her best smile. ‘I have an appointment to see my client, Anthony Winstanley. I’m Jennifer Ripley from Inglethorpe and Bryce.’

‘Of course. Would you like to take a seat?’

‘Thank you.’

Jennifer turned and sat down on one of the uncomfortable plastic seats in the waiting room. She sat still, crossed her legs, and tried to maintain an impression of the professional woman she was. The urge to slouch and pick up one of the newspapers on thetable beside her was hard to resist.

She was kept waiting for more than twenty minutes. She noticed people kept coming into the front office, ostensibly to ask an unnecessary question to the woman on the front desk, but really, they wanted to have a good look at the female solicitor who was going to take on the mighty DI Bishop.

‘Miss Ripley?’ Her name was called.

‘Mrs.’

‘Sorry. Your client is ready for you now.’

‘Thank you. Any reason for the delay?’

‘We had trouble finding a room free,’ the woman at the front desk said. ‘A couple of football supporters were arrested overnight and sort of made a mess.’ She pulled a face. No further explanation was needed.

Jennifer was shown into an interview room where Anthony Winstanley was already waiting for her. He was sitting at a table wearing an ill-fitting navy jumper and grey tracksuit bottoms; clothes given to him by the police to wear. He looked up at her, his face impassive. He had dark circles beneath his eyes, tear stains down his cheeks and patchy stubble. He looked scared. He also looked quite threatening. According to Pauline, Anthony was twenty-eight years old and a gentle giant. From where Jennifer was standing, he looked like a man-mountain with huge hands and sausage-like fingers, an intense stare and massive broad shoulders. He looked the stereotypical image of what the public expected a sexual predator would look like.

Undeterred, Jennifer pulled out a chair and sat down. She retrieved a pad and pen from her briefcase, organised herself and cleared her throat.

‘Anthony, your mum has hired me to represent you should your case go to court. Do you understand what that means?’

He nodded. ‘You’re my solicitor?’

‘That’s right. My name’s Jennifer Ripley. You can call me Jen, if you like.’

He smiled. ‘Hi, Jen. You can call me Ant.’

She returned his smile. ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Ant.’ She was warming to him already. ‘Now, do you know why you’ve been charged?’

‘Yes. The detective said I murdered Alice Patterson. But I didn’t.’

‘I haven’t seen the statement yet, but I’ve been informed that you confessed to killing her and you signed the document stating that.’