Post Mortem by Gary Bell (inspirational books for students .TXT) 📗

I left the car there along with my phone number and walked a block north to Hackney Wick Station, passing the Lord Napier, the nineteenth-century pub that was now also obscured by graffiti. One of the most noticeable pieces read Shithouse to Penthouse. I was feeling quite the opposite.

From the station, I had to take the Overground west to Stratford, where I would then be able to change onto the Central Line heading back east towards chambers. It was eight o’clock now and the platforms were crowded. I managed to get a seat on the Overground, but my sheer size pressed against strangers on either side, and when my phone rang in my pocket I almost couldn’t get my hand down to reach it. For a split second I imagined it would be Delroy Meadows telling me that they had indeed found part of a child tangled up in one of the wheel arches, and that the Met was on its way.

Thankfully, it was Zara. Conscious of my elbows, I slid the phone up to my ear. ‘Yes?’

‘How did it go?’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘they found one of that little shit’s bicycle pedals caught up in my rear wheel, so I’ll be amazed if I’m not in handcuffs by the end of the day.’ At this, those sitting nearest glanced up from their phones. I resolved to keep my voice down. ‘Where are you now?’

‘Just coming up to chambers. Are we still going to Belmarsh to meet this drug dealer?’

‘Isaac Reid. Yes, I’m on my way to meet you now.’

‘How are we supposed to get there?’

I sighed. ‘I can think of a number of unattractive options involving public transport. Black cab, I suppose.’

‘Uber’s cheaper.’

‘As is using slave labour instead of paying the London living wage, but my conscience votes for black cab.’

‘If only our legal system shared your conscience, then I might actually have an income.’

13

I was watching the taxi meter closely, which mounted higher and higher every several seconds until it was surely bound to equal the Greek deficit figure.

‘Have you learned anything more about Reid?’ Zara asked.

‘Very little,’ I said. ‘Already convicted of double murder and given a life sentence with a minimum of thirty-five years to serve before he’s eligible for parole. His family are paying us privately, a modest amount, to advise on whether or not he has any realistic prospect of appealing the conviction.’

‘He was given to you through Percy?’

‘Not quite. I was actually recommended to him by, ah – by Billy Barber.’

‘Oh, awesome! I love meeting the fascists of Belmarsh.’ She lowered her voice, grumbling. ‘And my ex used to moan about her job at Primark …’

We arrived at the prison and, after paying the taxi driver almost the sum I was being paid to advise Reid, I moodily surrendered myself to the familiar torturous groping of Belmarsh’s security staff.

It was twenty minutes before we were led through the legal visitors’ corridor to the cell where Reid was waiting for us. He was a powerfully built black man of around fifty with dreadlocks as thick as rope. He greeted the two of us with an open, engaging smile; in that smile, his teeth were stained deep yellow.

‘Mr Reid,’ I said, taking a seat across the table. ‘I’m Elliot Rook. This is Zara Barnes.’

‘Isaac,’ he replied softly. ‘And just like that, we’re all friends. So, my good-good people, what are my chances of appealing this shit?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Zara interrupted, raising her hand like a pupil in a classroom. ‘If you don’t mind, there’s one preliminary matter I’d like to ask you about …’

‘Go on, little one,’ he said. It didn’t seem patronising. His tone was rather warm.

‘Our services were recommended to you by an ex-client named Barber, is that correct?’

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Billy Barber. So?’

‘So …?’ She looked between us, frowning. ‘William Barber is a white supremacist, a racist to the core, and you’re – you’re –’

‘A Black man?!’ Reid shouted. Then, after holding out for a second or two longer, he exploded into booming, almost deafening laughter. ‘I’m sorry, little one, but you should’ve seen your face!’ He wiped a knuckle across one leaking eye as the hysterics quietened to a chuckle. ‘Priceless.’

Zara didn’t seem so amused. Her front teeth were set into her lower lip, hands gripping the edge of the table to keep from being huffed and puffed into oblivion.

Once more, Reid was smiling. ‘In here, a man is just another con. Barber was all right by me. We padded together until he was taken into high security, but he told me he was going to get this Rook onboard. Next thing I know, Barber’s a free man. You must have the golden touch, my friend. The question is, will you be doing the same for me?’

‘I hope so,’ I replied. ‘Why don’t you tell me a little more about the night in question. You were somehow connected to the killings, weren’t you?’

‘Unwittingly. I cruised over to Margate with a mate of mine from London to meet a couple of ladies off Tinder. You know how that game goes. Tinderellas, I call them.’ He glanced to Zara and waggled his eyebrows. She didn’t respond. ‘Only, when we got to Margate, this mate of mine started giving me the business. He wanted driving here, he wanted driving there. I must’ve looked like I was Driving Miss Daisy.’ He sat up straight, imitating Morgan Freeman with the steering wheel in both hands. ‘Um, yes’m, boss! Lord knows! I used to rassle hogs down yonder!’

I blinked. ‘Your friend was white, I take it?’

The act quickly vanished, his face flinching as if he’d given too much away. ‘Long story short,’ he said, ‘this supposed mate of mine had promised these Tinderellas a wild night.’

‘What sort of a wild night?’

‘Well, I don’t want to use the term “coke-fuelled orgy” in front of a little one, but …’

‘He wanted drugs,’ I said.

‘You got it. Now, I was pretty baked. The next thing I