Keep My Secrets by Elena Wilkes (management books to read .txt) 📕

grey gauzy background told them something was about to happen. The barrister picked up a small remote control and pressed the ‘Pause’ button as a line of white numbers and letters denoted the time and the date frozen onto the screen.

‘This shows the early hours of Saturday the sixth of September at three thirty-seven in the morning.’ He pressed the ‘Pause’ button again and the screen formed a picture. It showed the black and white footage of the stretch of canal where Frankie had walked that night. There was the exit of the tunnel and the lock gates just up ahead. Three boats were moored on the left.

‘Please keep watching.’

All eyes were on the screen as two figures appeared, staggering slightly, from the mouth of the tunnel.

‘The figure on the right of the screen is Charlotte Vale,’ said the barrister.

There was a slight gasp from somewhere in the gallery, making Frankie turn her head. The woman in the pink jacket had her fist pressed to her lips.

‘And the figure on the left is the defendant Martin Jarvis.’

Frankie stared and then stared again. They’d got that wrong. That wasn’t him. He’d told her, hadn’t he? He’d said that… What had he said?

She looked at the back of Martin’s head. He didn’t flinch, he didn’t make any movement at all. A gripe of something acidic washed through her stomach. It felt like fear. Martin had his arm around Charlotte’s shoulders. She had her head bowed. Her hand kept coming up to her face and then dropping to her side again.

‘And here, on the next camera, we have the defendant, Martin Jarvis and Charlotte Vale boarding the narrowboat Morning Mist – the boat that is owned by Mr Jarvis.’

Frankie watched, her horror rising as Martin and Charlotte stepped onto the side of the boat, Charlotte steadying herself as Martin opened the cabin door and they both disappeared down the steps. The footage ended and the barrister turned off the screen.

The judge peered across his bench. ‘Ah, we have further footage from this point onwards, do we, Mr Bain?’

Mr Bain looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘Erm… No… Unfortunately, the Prosecution has been unable to secure the footage from these frames onward.’

The judge continued to peer at him, saying nothing.

‘I believe it got wiped, Your Honour.’

‘Wiped?’

His voice boomed as though he hadn’t heard the word before.

‘Er, yes, Your Honour. We have no further footage of the defendant or the victim from this time-point onwards. An administration error I believe, by the Canal and River Trust.’

The judge looked at him as though he had to be personally responsible. He sat back abruptly.

‘Please continue.’

A tiny trickle of sweat ran down between Frankie’s shoulder blades. Martin looked across to his left so that she was able to see the side of his face. His chin lifted and his eyes batted upwards as if assessing the air. He knew exactly where she was. She willed him to catch her gaze, but knowing, absolutely that he wouldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

He’d lied.

She needed to see his eyes.

He’d lied.

She’d known he was lying all along. She’d challenged him at the party and in her room, knowing, deep down he was lying to her – and she’d wanted him to lie because she couldn’t bear to know the truth.

She was just an impressionable kid: easily duped, easily manipulated. A mug.

And then suddenly he lifted his head and his eyes caught hers and her heart folded.

Her rage and her anger went to war with the hurt and betrayal. She battled fiercely with the tears that burned and stung her eyes.

His head shook slowly as he stared at her. What was he saying? That he was sorry? That the footage was wrong? That it wasn’t what it seemed? What?

She looked away, concentrating on the rail in front of her. How did anyone turn off their feelings? There wasn’t a switch or a button. It was all still there: that pull, that yearning, bringing her back to him again and again.

She would not cry… Find something. Concentrate. Close it down.

‘Can I refer the members of the jury to a particular point to your evidence bundle.’

She lifted her head, blinking. Mr Bain flipped over several papers on the table in front of him and there was a tidal wave of rustling as the jury did the same.

‘Section C, pages eighteen to twenty-one. Can I draw your attention to page eighteen, the photograph labelled “Seven” where you can see the police evidence photo of the interior of the cabin? The next photograph I would like you to consider is the photograph identified as “Number Eight”, showing where the DNA evidence was identified. You will see the red arrows pointing to the pillow on the left-hand side of the bed, the bedside cupboard handle, the drinking glass located on the top of said cupboard; all have been identified as containing DNA evidence and fingerprints belonging to the victim, Charlotte Vale.’

He paused to let that information sink in. ‘I believe none of this information is contested by the counsel for the defendant, Your Honour.’

Mr Saunders, Martin’s barrister, nodded in agreement and looked back at his desk.

Mr Bain turned to address the judge. ‘So I think it is safe to say that we all agree that Charlotte Vale, the victim, was indeed present in that cabin at some point that evening. The DNA evidence is strong and undegraded, thus indicating that her presence there was very close to the time she was last seen – sometime after three thirty-seven on the morning of the sixth of September.’

He carried on speaking, but Frankie couldn’t hear any of the words. She kept imagining and picturing the scene: she saw Charlotte’s naked shoulder just peeking from beneath the covers, the indented pillow, the blonde head that would leave behind those few strands of pale hair, the glass on the bedside cabinet being put there by a slim white hand, the fingertips just trailing, leaving their mark before she slid from the