Beyond Reasonable Doubt

by Gary Bell

  Contents

  Part One The Pupil

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Part Two The Defendant

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Part Three The Trial

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Part Four The Truth, and Nothing But

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Acknowledgements

  Note on the Authors

  The facts of the case were these, though they were few and far between.

  The Girl was approximately sixteen years old on the night she died.

  Of Middle Eastern origin, with no fixed address, identification, or records to be found.

  No name anyone knew.

  What little could be traced of her final movements existed in a smattering of CCTV snippets, bookended by two eyewitnesses for the prosecution.

  The first, Mrs Donna Turner, saw The Girl wander into the mouth of the storm shortly before midnight on Good Friday, 14 April, in the rural village of Cotgrave, Nottinghamshire.

  The second, an elderly man named Harold Kennard, happened across her more than seven hours later, after she’d been spat out onto a disused railway in the countryside.

  At some point in the horror of those hours in between, somebody had put her there.

  Seven fingernails were torn from her hands. Of the two front teeth lost in the struggle, one was found inside her collapsed left lung. The breakages in both legs had been inflicted posthumously, and there was evidence of fifty-seven blunt impacts upon her naked body.

  A national appeal brought nobody to the morgue to claim her; it was as if she’d been a ghost even before the life was strangled out of her.

  These were the facts, and they were, by definition, indisputable.

  Anything else was nothing more than speculation.

  At first.

  PART ONE

  THE PUPIL

  1

  She’d been dead for more than five months when I found myself reluctantly involved in The Girl’s brutal murder, and it all happened shortly after meeting Zara Barnes.

  ‘You look exhausted, Rook,’ Percy told me. ‘You need to appoint a junior.’

  I’d had my eyes closed for a couple of minutes while he spoke, and now I grudgingly dragged myself back into the room. Around us, early finishers were pouring into the Knights Templar like tanks to the filling station, beasts to the waterhole.

  I drew a heavy mouthful of wine and shook my head. ‘Not this again.’

  ‘Yes, this again. You’ve got the legal aid certificate for another pair of hands, so why not use it? What’s the matter? Too proud to share the glory?’

  I turned to the wilting flower boxes beyond the window, September’s amber light splintering upon them, and shook my head. ‘It’s a fraud case, Percy. I can’t see there being much glory to go around. Besides, I’m doing just fine on my own.’

  This was Friday afternoon and, true to my word, the weekend lay before me like an unfilled crater. All I had to fill those empty hours was work, and plenty of it.

  ‘You’re not still taking evidence home, are you?’ he asked. ‘Jennifer must be going spare with all that paperwork around the house!’

  Ignoring him, I gestured to his own glass. ‘You plan on drinking that this afternoon?’

  ‘Oh, please!’ he scoffed. ‘The house red? I’m a man of quality, not quantity, my learned friend.’

  I had to smile. If ever there was a perfect phrase for the space between us, I thought, it would be just that.

  Percy, the rakish blond mannequin of Savile Row quality, with zirconia veneers and a tight, almost adolescent face beneath that middle-aged hairline, opposite me, the sheer quantity of us two, a couple of years beyond fifty, a few more beyond trim and handsome.

  Even here, in a casual Wetherspoon’s on Chancery Lane, he was dressed sharp as a box-fresh razor, and he bristled at my overcoat and hat, the relic of faded black wool tossed onto the table, which was all I could wield against my floppy hair after so many years under the wig. To put it bluntly – as he so often did – Percy found my appearance increasingly shabby.

  I had little concern to spare. The fraud case I was working on involved almost thirty solicitors who had allegedly come together to rob millions from the legal aid fund over decades, by systematically billing for clients to whom they hadn’t given advice. The prosecution’s case went so far as to suggest that the majority of those clients simply didn’t exist and, acting for the first defendant, it was my job to painstakingly read through thousands upon thousands of letters, bills and bank statements before the trial began, with the daunting task of confirming the legitimacy of every claim.

  The paperwork had been weighed in at seventeen tonnes, and after three months I’d barely made a dent.

  Percy had finally introduced glass to mouth when his attention was caught by something at the bar, and he nodded to the newcomer settling there.

  ‘Ted Bowen,’ he muttered. ‘He’s just lost an attempted murder for the CPS.’

  Like football fans, barristers and clerks often refer to their clients’ indictments as their own.

  ‘Who was he up against?’

  ‘Rigby from Fleet Street, defending. Bowen was sure Rigby would’ve tried to bargain down to a Section 18, GBH with intent, and serve five to six inside, but the man walked out of there with self-defence.’

  ‘Credit to Rigby. Lose, and it would’ve been life. He’s a lucky man.’

  ‘Sure,’ he groused, ‘you can tell that to the victim, if he ever hears again.’

  An uncharacteristic moment of indignation from our senior clerk. It was no secret that he’d wanted the case, and if the defendant had been instructing one of our own, Percy would’ve been first to celebrate, victim be damned. As it had transpired, the only contender from our set of chambers had been Bowen, and it was a relatively big loss for the set.

  ‘Barristers are like golfers,’ I said, shrugging it off. ‘The only shot that matters is the next, and there’s no point dwelling on the last.’

  ‘You hear he’s applied for silk?’

  ‘Who, Bowen?’

  ‘It would be great to get another QC in chambers. You think he’s got a good chance?’

  I looked back over my shoulder and watched Bowen sink neat whiskey without breath. Like most of my fellow lawyers, he was everything I wasn’t: spiny, almost barbed at the edges, with thinning grey hair sprouting from the nape of a long, crooked neck. Even after two decades on the scene, I remained the clear outsider of our legal kettle, with legs bred for lifting, fists designed for labour and casual violence.

  ‘Who can say?’ I sniffed.

  Percy must’ve caught Bowen’s eye, because he sent a mirthless smile across the pub before returning to our conversation.

  ‘Pains me to admit it,’ he said, ‘but you might end up being the final s
ilk in the set, the way these pupillage interviews are going.’

  ‘Really? That bad?’

  A mournful nod. ‘Twenty-four interviews this week, and not a whiff of Oxbridge.’

  ‘Is that such a terrible thing?’

  The look he threw back was as if I’d just cracked a joke about bedding his mother.

  ‘This is Miller and Stubbs Chambers, Rook, not Fagin’s School for Crime. We have certain standards to maintain.’

  I had to laugh; if I didn’t, I might’ve floored him years ago.

  ‘You should try the Copper at the Door conundrum,’ I suggested, a puzzle of my own design. ‘Get them thinking on their feet.’

  He reached for his phone – always face up on the table – and started sifting through emails. ‘There’s a good reason you’re not invited onto the panel any more.’

  ‘Because nobody has ever solved it?’

  ‘No.’ He began hammering a reply with both thumbs. ‘Because we hire by name, grades and calibre, not games, riddles and tricks. Honestly, you should have seen the applicant I had before leaving this afternoon. Zara something or other. A sort of, you know …’ He hesitated, searching for the proper term, and still fell a mile short. ‘Half-caste girl?’

  ‘Mixed race, Percy, for Christ’s sake!’ I glanced around, relieved to find us alone at our table by the windows. ‘Tell me that’s not why you turned her away.’

  ‘Of course not!’ he chided, without apology. ‘She should have been interviewed at one o’clock but didn’t arrive until ten past. Said her train had been delayed.’

  ‘Had it?’

  He paused, bewildered by the query, and then laughed. ‘What am I, the Fat Controller? I told her she should have got an earlier one. You know what she said?’

  ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘Said she couldn’t afford it. Had to wait until the fares reduced at nine thirty. I told her that wasn’t my problem, the opportunity had passed.’

  ‘Tough luck. Where had she come from?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nottingham, or thereabouts.’

  A prickle snaked up between my shoulders. ‘Nottingham? You don’t say.’

  ‘Frankly, I’m not surprised she couldn’t afford an earlier ticket. You should have seen the outfit she chose for the interview; all man-made fibres, not a thread of actual cotton. Or better yet, heard her accent! She sounded like Angela Rayner, a real northern monkey.’

  ‘Nottingham’s in the Midlands, Percy, and the East Midlands at that.’

  ‘Far as I’m concerned, if it’s further than Watford, it’s in the bloody North.’

  I sighed. Percy was one of the few people I could tolerate in chambers, but even he had a knack for becoming quite intolerable after a relatively short amount of time. Half an hour usually did it.

  ‘Our country is a-changing,’ I told him. ‘We’d better start swimming, or we’ll sink like a stone.’

  He huffed, taking a long, measured sip.

  ‘You realise that they can’t all come from Eton, don’t you, Percy?’

  ‘Well, they ought to, damn it!’ He winked. ‘Do they not realise, that’s why we’re the best?’

  I tried a grin, nodded stiffly, and emptied my glass.

  Non-disclosure of evidence in the courtroom is a serious offence. Perjury is worse.

  In the everyday working world, a lie, even by omission, can be classed as fraud.

  If somebody makes an assumption, on the other hand – if the prosecution submits a supposition that actually weakens its own case, for example – then there’s no legal obligation for the defence to correct it.

  I hadn’t specifically told anybody I went to Eton – not for a long, long time at least – but the lies of foolish youth had proven hard to leave behind.

  ‘I should get back to chambers,’ I muttered, reaching for the hat, pulling it down over my hair. ‘Are you joining?’

  ‘No. I have three meetings to get through in –’ he checked his Rolex – ‘a touch over four hours, and then my weekend begins. I’d say I have time for one more. You’re certain you won’t stay for another?’

  ‘Can’t. Those billing receipts aren’t going to read themselves.’

  ‘Worried that Jennifer might smell it on your breath when you get home tonight?’

  ‘No.’ I got to my feet and fished the cigarettes out of my coat pocket. Turned one out into my hand. ‘I can’t say I’m worried about that at all.’

  I left him to his emails, lighting up as soon as I got outside. I couldn’t have afforded an afternoon on the booze even if I had wanted one, but Percy didn’t know that.

  Divorce isn’t cheap, even for a skilled professional barrister, and I was the closest I’d been to skint since my own violent years of sleeping rough on the cold city pavement.

  2

  Chancery Lane is a 500-metre road that runs one way northwards from the Gothic halls of Queen Victoria’s Royal Courts of Justice.

  A hotchpotch of buildings old and new, it remains the backbone of law-land for the Inns of Court, though its renowned legal bookshops and courtroom tailors have been spread thin since the influx of chain restaurants, its barristers pushed out by the unstoppable march of baristas.

  It is the sort of narrow bottleneck often favoured by charity campaigners and for half a moment I thought that’s what she was; one maverick fundraiser braving the hopeless territory of rapacious lawyers.

  I was ambling back from the pub towards Took’s Court, and the young woman had the entrance masterfully covered. I’d only half turned in the right direction when she gave chase, at first tentative and then agitated and indignant, and by the time I’d reached the heavy red front door of chambers she’d managed to squeeze her way into my peripheral vision, waving skinny arms like a marionette strung to a ceiling fan.

  ‘Excuse me! Hey!’

  I paused, flicking what remained of the fag into the gutter, and looked back. ‘Yes?’

  I guessed who she was straight away; as obviously out of place as Dr Livingstone must have seemed to Stanley, I almost tipped my hat and greeted her with Zara, I presume.

  Her suit wasn’t quite as pitiable as Percy had made out, but the off-black jacket and matching skirt did look painfully similar to the clothes I used to buy from Nottingham’s Victoria Centre Market. Ill-fitting, without labels, and averse to direct sunlight due to the 100 per cent polyester count. The look was finished by a flimsy white blouse, laddered tights, and an incongruous pair of black Doc Martens. Occasionally, when a client turns up for court in a suit, it’s immediately obvious that they have never worn one before, nor should they ever wear one again. She wasn’t quite there, but she was treading perilously near.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know if Mr Percy Peck is still in chambers, do you?’ she asked, bobbing on the spot, hands wringing anxiously behind her back. ‘I was supposed to have a pupillage interview earlier and I need to talk to him about rearranging, but I don’t reckon he’s gonna let me.’

  ‘What makes you think he won’t rearrange it?’ I asked, entirely aware that he wouldn’t.

  She shrugged and blinked, dense black hair tamed up into a tight knot, wide eyes the colour of roasted coffee behind thick Ginsberg glasses. ‘I’ve been waiting here all afternoon and he won’t speak to me. I don’t think he knows how far I’ve come.’

  ‘I’m sure he does,’ I said. ‘I’m just not sure he really cares.’

  A low blow. I watched her features melt in the honey-coloured light that managed to break the surrounding rooftops, and she half-heartedly fingered the names on the small brass plaque beside the front door. There were forty-five junior barristers listed there, headed by four Queen’s Counsel at the top. I was second on the list. Above that was another simple plaque, the deeper red-brown of weathered bronze, unchanged since long before I started: Miller & Stubbs Criminal Barristers.

  ‘You a barrister here then?’

  I nodded. ‘Elliot Rook.’

  ‘QC?’ She lowered her head in a hushed combinat
ion of excitement and regret, twisting on her toes. ‘I know who you are! Sorry to take up your time. If you bump into Mr Peck at all – I mean, I know you’re busy, obviously – but if you could just let him know that, well, it really wasn’t my fault I was late, and I am sorry.’ She sighed. ‘My name is Zara Barnes, and I could really use a break.’

  It was her accent that grabbed me. No matter how many years go by, or how much one might’ve changed in the interim, there are always comforts to be found in the tones of home.

  I looked up and saw clouds scudding from the west, just in time for the weekend, and was about to apologise and leave her standing there when I thought of Percy, his derogatory comments, and the Copper at the Door.

  ‘Listen closely,’ I told her, ‘because I’m only going to ask this once.’

  She blinked, suddenly wary, and pulled at a loose thread on her faded sleeve. ‘All right.’

  ‘A uniformed police officer wishes to question a suspicious passer-by about a burglary in the area, but the passer-by disappears through the door of a busy nightclub before the officer catches up with him. The copper attempts to follow, but the doorman – who is soon to be your client, by the way, so pay attention – refuses entry.’

  ‘My – wait – what?’

  ‘What happens next is caught entirely on the club’s camera, with audio. The officer tells the doorman, your client, that he is there to question a suspicious character. Still the doorman refuses entry. The officer barges forward, exercising his right to enter, and your client throws a headbutt, breaking the officer’s nose. Your client is subsequently charged with assaulting a police constable in execution of his duty. Headbutting is considered a weapon equivalent, and our doorman is looking at six months’ imprisonment. Only, you’re going to get him acquitted. How?’

  Part of me knew it was a cruel trick to play. The young woman was a rabbit in headlights, waiting for the tyres.

  ‘W-well.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I don’t know anything about the client! Does he have a record?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. The pieces of the puzzle are all there, and on camera no less. It’s simply a matter of perspective.’

  She licked her lips, adjusted her glasses, and I could see her hands were trembling. ‘Then I’d have no choice but to get him to plead guilty, and have his sentence reduced before the trial ever began.’