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

of months. ‘The magistrates’ declined jurisdiction and sent it to Crown court. I’ve explained to the client that if he pleads guilty he’ll get the standard third off, and if we plead on a limited basis it could be much more than that, but he’s insisting on a trial. He says he’s not guilty.’

‘Lose at trial for intent to supply Class As and his sentence might be approaching double figures,’ I said. ‘He was really caught red-handed?’

‘By the police, but there’s more to it than that.’

‘There always is.’

‘I’ve got a meeting with the client after lunch. I put your name down when I booked in case you wanted to, you know, tag along.’

‘Tag along?’ I frowned. ‘You know I have my own workload, don’t you? My new case goes to trial in a week and I know next to nothing about it.’

‘Yes,’ she said guiltily, ‘but it’s easier for me to turn up at the prison without you than it is for me to add you at the last minute if you did want to come. The client’s asked me to submit a second application for bail, but that requires a change in circumstances.’

‘And you’re not sure if his circumstances have changed?’

‘Pretty much. That’s where I could use a little bit of that silk magic.’

I thumbed through the top pages of her case papers. ‘When do you go to trial?’

‘Next Monday.’

‘Your client can’t tough it out on the inside for one more week?’

‘I think he’s been assaulted in prison. Beaten up. He’s a really interesting guy, actually, and you have such a good intuition for these sorts of things. I’ve been to see him a few times down at Wormwood Scrubs, and –’

‘The Scrubs?’ I glanced up, and then hesitated. Something quiet and almost glacial shifted between us. ‘He’s on remand at the Scrubs?’

She didn’t answer. Just a nod, pseudo-casual.

‘How many times have you been to see him?’

‘Well, not that many …’

She went quiet. Uncomfortable silences were rare between us, but this one stretched a while. Before I opened my mouth to carry on, there was a sharp knock at the door. Our senior clerk, Percy, entered with a buoyant stride.

‘Rook!’ He looked almost ready to clack his heels together. Financially, it had been a very good month for chambers, and as Percy was on a percentage of the turnover, it had been a very good month for him too. He was the image of debonair, with straight teeth and classically handsome features, but he drank and consequently tended to surf through his mornings on suave perkiness instead of allowing any hangover to bring him down. When he approached my desk, he practically yelled. ‘A fine morning to you, my learned friend!’

This was followed by a noticeably stiff yet amicable nod to Zara, garnished with a bemused half-smile. Percy had made no secret of his initial distaste for her, but now he tolerated her as if she was some bizarre pet roaming the rooms of a shared house; he was clearly grateful for the cash our combined efforts had brought into chambers, but no doubt comforted by the belief that her presence was finally drawing to an end.

He produced a clutch of papers from behind his back like a skinny amateur magician. ‘Your instructions in the case of the Crown versus Charli Meadows. Smuggling drugs into prison. Private payer,’ he added cheerily, and laid the papers down directly over Zara’s. ‘You’re scheduled for a conference with the client at ten thirty this morning.’

‘Cutting it fine,’ I said. ‘Where?’

‘Right here.’ He gestured to the space occupied by Zara, and without a word she started gathering up her work.

‘Anything I should know?’ I asked, peering over the cover sheet of instructions, which were bound together with unbroken pink ribbon like an early Easter present.

‘Only that there is plenty more where that came from, so work your magic and aim for a swift conclusion.’

I didn’t have to see Zara’s unimpressed expression; I felt it like a draught over the desk. Percy must’ve sensed whatever silent charge passed between us because he hooked his thumbs under his fine leather belt, hung his head like a sulky adolescent and pushed out his lower lip.

‘Christ almighty!’ he said, forcing an exaggerated sigh. ‘I’ve never seen such disappointment at the prospect of paid work. Lighten up, the pair of you!’ He leaned lower, coming between us in a blond cloud of rich cologne and last night’s vino, and shared with us a sly, devilish smirk. ‘Haven’t you read the papers? Our dear London is once again in the midst of a crime spree! So smile! It’s reaping time for the lawyers.’

3

My client arrived twenty minutes earlier than scheduled, which left me no real opportunity to study the case papers once I’d hurried Zara out of the room, and I went on to blunder our introduction from the start.

‘Mr Meadows?’ I offered my hand to the stocky black fellow waiting alongside two women in the reception area downstairs. ‘Elliot Rook.’

The man returned a firm grip, sealing it into a clasp with his second hand. ‘Delroy Meadows, Meadows Motors, Hackney Wick. Pleased to meet you.’

‘Delroy …’ I glanced down at his hands and noticed oil in the cracks. ‘I thought … You’re not Charlie?’

Behind him, one of the accompanying women cleared her throat. ‘Mr Rook, Delroy is Charli’s brother. I’m Lydia Roth, solicitor for the case. This is Charli …’

With one hand the solicitor gestured to the third in their trio, and I felt heat prickling my features. ‘Of course,’ I said, abruptly switching the aim of my hand like a clumsy cannon. ‘Charli? Is that short for Charlotte?’

‘No.’ She nervously wiped her palm dry on her denim jacket before offering it in return, but it was clammy again by the time she took my hand. ‘Just Charli.’

‘That’s all right,’ her brother assured me, ‘she’s used to it by now, aren’t you, Charli?’

She neither agreed nor disagreed.

I led the three of them up in single file through