Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [133]
Then, one day in May, a police officer rang.
‘Cathy, I thought you would want to know, it’s nearly over. The judge gives his verdict tomorrow.’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll be up on the next flight. I’m not missing this for the world.’
I didn’t know where that spur-of-the-moment decision had come from. Before that conversation, I’d had no desire to ever set eyes on that murdering piece of filth ever again. But the moment I heard D-Day had arrived, I knew I had to be part of it. Unfortunately, Tim and I had broken up in July 2006, after ten happy years. There was no fault on either side; it was just another relationship that had run its natural course. But we were still friendly, so I didn’t hesitate to ring him: ‘Do you fancy a trip to Edinburgh?’
‘Lovely. When?’
‘Now. Pack a bag – the flight leaves in an hour.’
I’d received the news at three. By six, Tim and I were on a plane. It was the first time I’d flown to Scotland since I’d been blackmailed into returning to Bathgate. It was the same man responsible this time. The difference was, I wasn’t scared. I knew I was going to see him get his comeuppance at last.
The next morning a police car picked us up from the hotel. Two spaces had been reserved in the gallery. We were in the top row. Angelika Kluk’s family were at the bottom. I felt so desperately sorry for them, but they were so proud, so impressive. They all held hands, giving each other strength even though they’d had to endure hearing every horrific detail of their beloved Angelika’s death and God knows what personal revelations about her life from a defence team struggling to find anything to justify their client’s actions.
Standing directly in front of them but facing the opposite way was Peter, the accused, in his protective glass box.
As soon as I saw the back of his head, I started shaking uncontrollably. I’d seen the same couple of grainy pictures of Peter on TV so many times over the last six months, but nothing had seemed real up to now. The headlines and accusations were so far beyond the parameters of normal expectation that I couldn’t easily process them and it may as well have been a story about a different person. That’s the effect a saturation of TV news has. If I hadn’t made the journey to Edinburgh, I’d have felt like I was living in The Truman Show. But here we were, in the same room, and the man who’d shared my bed for three years was about to be convicted of murder.
The closer the judge got to his conclusion, the more uncontrollably I shook. Tim clutched my hand, but I was a bundle of nervous energy, rocking in fear that the unthinkable might happen. That was when I noticed the court was packed with armed policemen, all with their eyes trained on the gallery. If there was even the slightest chance Peter would get off, they needed to be able to assert control over a dissenting crowd. And one of them had come to stand right next to me.
At that point, I just wanted to shout out at Peter, ‘Turn round! Turn round! I need you to know I’m here.’ But I didn’t dare, not with the automatic weapon a foot from my head.
Finally the judge gave the verdict. Peter was guilty and was going down for a minimum of twenty-one years. Just as in 1994, I felt numb. I wanted it to mean more, but it didn’t. The man in the dock had already stolen so many emotions from me, I didn’t have any left to waste on him now.
TWENTY-ONE
The Terrible Truth
It was nice that Tim and I could put aside our differences to fly up to Scotland together. Another relationship, however, had ended permanently. In October 2006, shortly after Peter’s arrest, my grandmother had died.
It was hard enough saying goodbye to Grandpa. Granny, however, had been the rock in my life for as long as I could remember. She was the one who’d secretly delivered meals without Grandpa noticing when I was a child. She was the one who’d taken on Mark and friends with no thought to her own safety. She’d lent me money to start a business and had given