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

serendipitous coincidence. They’re struggling to trace him, but he says it’s only a matter of time.’

‘I bet he says that.’

‘Elliot,’ Rupert said, reclaiming my attention, ‘if you need somewhere to stay while this Osman warning is hanging over your head, then you’re welcome to one of my spare rooms.’

I shook my head. ‘I appreciate the concern, but I have to get home to the dog.’

‘You?’ Percy said. ‘A dog?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She’s a fighting dog I stole after flooring a breeder who works for the same county lines drug dealers that ordered the shooting of the witness last night.’

‘Oh forget it!’ Percy snapped, bringing his feet back up onto the neighbouring chair. He reached across his desk, retrieved a couple of new keys and tossed them at me. ‘You know something, Rook, you don’t always have to be such a sarcastic old twat.’

With keys in tow, I returned to the Underground and went home. On walking from the station to my front door, however, the single sheet of paper folded in my pocket seemed to gain weight. At one point I heard a moped in the distance, and the instant of terror almost brought me down to the pavement. When it came time to walk Scout, I did so swiftly and kept my eyes moving in all directions. For a while, I could’ve sworn that I was being tailed by a black Volvo estate, so I cut the walk short, went home and dug out an old cricket bat. Every few minutes I’d peek out of the window in the kitchenette. I filed my latest death threat alongside the last, stuffing it into the drawer with my wedding ring, and sat on the floor with the television off. I opened a bottle of whiskey and didn’t bother to get a glass.

Scout curled up beside me with one eye open, watching the door, and we stayed that way until I drank myself to sleep.

29

Tuesday’s alarm seemed crueller than usual, but that was mostly because it woke me up off the floor of the kitchenette, where I was still sitting with my back against the refrigerator and the cricket bat in one hand. Upon waking, I cried out and swung the bat through the air. It was going to be another long day.

By nine o’clock I was already dressed in my wig and robes, smoking outside the courthouse and waiting for Lydia to arrive. The first person I recognised stomping across the grounds was not the solicitor, however, but Zara, dressed in her oversized hoody and jeans. As she approached, I caught her looking me up and down with an almost horrified expression.

‘You look like shit,’ was how she greeted me.

‘Thank you. What are you doing here?’

‘Did you really think I’d miss your big day?’

‘I wish I could.’

Lydia arrived, heels clacking along the turning circle, weighed down by her shoulder bag and the customary pile of papers under one arm.

‘Right,’ she said, ‘what’s the plan?’

‘We need to convince Charli to give evidence,’ I replied.

‘And if she won’t?’

‘Then I want her to sign an endorsement to the brief confirming that I’ve advised against that course, but she has chosen to ignore my advice. I’d need that signature witnessed by you, her solicitor.’

‘I don’t get it,’ Zara said. ‘Why do you need her to provide evidence so badly? Isn’t that just going to give Garrick an opportunity to rip her apart in cross-examination?’

‘Yes, but our current sticking points are the no comment interview, and the mystery of the damn dog. So far, we haven’t had anybody confirm that there was ever a dog there to begin with, which completely wrecks my theory of Deacon Walker cuckooing the property.’

‘But you saw the dog,’ Zara said. ‘We both did. Can’t you just say that?’

‘As a barrister, I can’t give evidence. It’d have to be her brother, or maybe the neighbour. If we could get one of those two to make a statement, then we could serve that on the prosecution and we’d at least have proof of the dog’s existence, but I’d much rather have Charli just do that this morning.’

‘Makes sense,’ Zara said. ‘Why is the no comment interview such a problem this time? Barber never answered a single question in his case last year. I assumed it was the standard.’

‘The solicitor’s advice can’t be generic,’ I explained. ‘There has to be an understandable reason to advise a no comment interview if we’re to negate any adverse inference from the jury.’

‘OK.’ Zara turned to Lydia. ‘What was the reason in this case?’

‘When I saw Charli just before the interview started, she was in a state of shock,’ Lydia said. ‘I asked the custody sergeant if she could see a doctor to assess her mental fitness for the interview and he declined my request. He told me she’d be interviewed regardless, so I said fine, but I’ll advise her to go no comment all the way.’

‘Was this conversation recorded on the custody record?’ I asked.

Lydia thought about it and then shook her head apologetically. ‘I don’t think so. You know how it is down at the station. Everything happens so bloody fast.’

‘So,’ Zara said, ‘the only proof the defendant has of the reason she didn’t give evidence at the time can only come from you, right?’

‘I am not giving evidence,’ Lydia said, holding up a hand. This wasn’t surprising: it’s not unheard of for solicitors to give evidence, but it is quite unusual, and they generally don’t like it.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Then we need to go and speak to Charli as soon as possible.’

‘Count me out,’ Zara said. ‘This is my day off. I’ll see you from the gallery.’

‘In court on your day off?’ I noted. ‘You sound more like me every day, Rookie.’

‘Oh no,’ she said, dismay clouding her face. ‘Don’t say that!’

Lydia and I went to see if Charli had arrived yet. Luckily, she had. More often than not, the private security firms that have taken over prisoner transport arrive late