Tangled Web by Ken McClure

find Mickey Spillane sitting there with his feet on the desk, loading bullets into his gun, but instead found a plump middle-aged woman typing at a computer keyboard. Chloe Phelps, as the plastic plate on her desk proclaimed her to be, wore a thick black cardigan over a fine-mesh, mauve sweater that emphasised the rolls of fat around her middle. She sported lipstick that clashed violently with her sweater and wore spectacles that seemed to have been glazed with the high strength material they constructed aquariums from. An old fashioned brown kettle sat on a small gas ring on the shelf behind her and a cream doughnut lay on a plate by her side. Above her a large wooden clock was mounted on the wall; Gordon could here it ticking when she stopped typing.
    Gordon said who he was.
    Miss Phelps took a bite of her doughnut and said with her mouth full, ‘Mr Roberts is expecting you. Just go straight in.’ She used the doughnut to indicate the general direction of the door he should use before taking another large bite.
    Gordon walked through to a larger office that showed little sign of concession to modern times save for a telephone with a button intercom system. Roberts, a slight, white-haired figure, sat in an old leather chair behind a huge oak desk surrounded on three sides by piles of cardboard files secured with red ribbon. There were even files stacked in the marble fireplace.
    ‘Good of you to see me,’ said Gordon.
    ‘We’re all on the same side,’ replied Roberts.
    Gordon reckoned Roberts was in his seventies if he was a day and reminded himself that he was actually the junior partner in the firm.
    ‘What can I do for you, Doctor?’
    ‘I tried to be in court in Caernarfon when John appeared there on Monday,’ replied Gordon. ‘I couldn’t get near the place. The crowd were like animals: it wasn’t a pretty sight.’
    ‘I can imagine,’ said Roberts with a sigh. ‘The public on a moral high-horse is never a sight to gladden the heart.’
    Gordon was pleased to hear that Roberts sounded far from frail. He had a firm voice which when combined with a Welsh accent, suggested eloquence. ‘It alarmed me, Mr Roberts,’ said Gordon. ‘I had the feeling that John Palmer was on his way to prison before he’d even appeared in court.’
    ‘Crowds can be very frightening,’ said Roberts, ‘but I assure you that Mr Palmer will get a fair hearing and the court will hear statements from a number of expert witnesses, presented in support of mitigation.’
    Alarm bells went off in Gordon’s head at the word ‘mitigation’.
    ‘You’re speaking as if John was guilty,’ he said.
    Roberts looked at him in surprise. ‘Of course, he’s guilty. He’s confessed to killing his daughter. You must know that?’
    Gordon felt himself reel. He couldn’t believe he was hearing this from John Palmer’s solicitor. ‘But you’ve spoken to Lucy, haven’t you?’
    ‘Indeed,’ replied Roberts.
    ‘She must have told you that John only confessed to protect her because he thought she might have killed their daughter when of course, she didn’t.’
    ‘She did favour me with that information,’ said Roberts.
    ‘Well?’ exclaimed Gordon.
    ‘Naturally I reported what she’d said to Mr Palmer but he dismissed it out of hand. He insisted his wife was just trying to help him out of notions of misguided loyalty. He still maintains that he did it and therefore his confession stands. The job of his defence team will largely be to put forward pleas of mitigation. We’ll make sure the court is aware of the tremendous stress involved in bringing up a severely disabled child, fears for the future, feelings of hopelessness etcetera.’
    Gordon felt stunned. ‘But he didn’t do it,’ he exclaimed weakly.
    Roberts adopted the bemused expression of a man hearing another argue that black was white. He eventually leaned back in his chair and brought his fingertips together under his chin. ‘I’m an old man, Doctor,’ he said.