by Gary Bell
‘Soon.’ I rapped the side of my beer. ‘Going to stay here a while. I need to make a phone call.’
‘All right,’ she said, untangling a knot of headphone wires from her pocket, and glancing towards the activists still milling around outside. ‘What happened to them? The guys who put you in hospital? Did they get them?’
‘Oh, yeah,’ I mumbled. ‘They got them.’
As soon as she’d left, hurrying away from the area with her face to the ground, I took my phone out of my pocket.
Nothing from Sean. Nothing whatsoever.
29
‘Do you know what happens now?’
All he gave me was a petulant shrug. ‘They gonna tell me off? Take me out there and smack my arse in front of the jury?’
I opened my mouth to answer, but, to my surprise, the young solicitor Fraser Hayes answered for me.
‘No, Mr Barber,’ he began, ‘but if there’s any more of that behaviour, anything at all, then the trial will proceed in your absence, and you’ll be left here, in this cell, to await the verdict.’
Billy slouched, chewing on his lower lip, and glared over at the white paint peeling from the walls, the claw marks in the door. One of the dock officers peered in through the wicket gate, and Billy’s mouth curled at the edges.
‘They were never coppers,’ he leered. ‘Warders. They’re retired civil servants. Hospital porters. One of the senior officers in Belmarsh, he used to drive buses around the East End.’
Hayes glanced to Zara for support, maybe for guidance, but she only rolled her eyes, well used to the man by now.
‘I don’t think you’re taking this seriously,’ I told him. ‘It isn’t a joke. Do you really want to miss the rest of your own trial, just because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut? Didn’t you see Sarah up there in the gallery? Your family? They’ve come a long way, and you’re spitting it back in their faces.’
‘Don’t talk to me about my family,’ he grumbled, and turned his face to the blank wall behind him. ‘Fucking Belmarsh. It’s boring. All that High Security bollocks, as if I can’t handle myself in the main building. I practically ran Nottingham Prison from ’97. Saw the millennium in with a bottle of Jack in the warder’s office.’
He grinned to himself, eyes clouding over, actually pining for days in prison.
‘Really?’ I asked, feigning interest. ‘Well, I saw it in at home with my wife. It was nice.’
He turned back towards me, and his face had dropped an inch.
‘One more chance,’ I said. ‘That’s all you’ve got.’
And we went upstairs, leaving him underground.
On the receiving end of Garrick’s questions this morning was a large Indian man with small button eyes in a soft, round face, his skin mottled by dry patches after a close morning shave. He breathed deeply through his nose, sending a faint whistling down the microphone, and repeatedly straightened his grandad jumper and peppered hair with what seemed to be surprisingly delicate hands.
‘Dr Munjal,’ Garrick said, thumbs buried in the folds of his silk, ‘you are a senior forensic scientist, correct?’
‘Yes. I was a pathologist with the Forensic Science Service for fifteen years until its dissolution, and now I work for Forensic Facts, a private, Home Office-sanctioned company.’
‘And, as an expert witness, can you provide the court with your professional analysis of the fatal injuries sustained by the victim?’
‘I can.’
‘Then, before you do –’ Garrick fed the jury a grave expression, the trace of a glint in his eye – ‘I must ask the members of the jury to steel themselves for the horrific details that are to come …’ Number 4 fished a handkerchief out ready, while Number 6 took a long, apprehensive drink of water. ‘Go ahead, Doctor …’
Munjal nodded, and utter silence fell from the gallery down.
‘The subject was approximately sixteen years old at the time of her death. Toxicological reports came back negative for drugs and alcohol, and examination of the vagina and vaginal material revealed no signs of intercourse; her hymen membrane was still largely intact. Tissue damage to the throat and left side of the body indicated that the attack was committed by a right-handed person, the sheer force suggesting a male with large, powerful hands. There was no evidence to show that any other weapon had been used.
‘The first, most forceful impact came from behind, possibly at speed, connecting with the back of the skull and knocking the victim to the ground. Microscopic traces of rust and iron inside her face and gums suggested that she’d fallen with considerable weight onto the railway, dislodging her upper incisors. At least fifty-seven subsequent blows were recorded, and damage to both sides of the neck revealed strangulation from both in front and behind, suggesting that she rolled several times.
‘Blood pattern analysis revealed primary blood transfer more than twenty metres away from where the body was found, and flecks expelled from the airways were consistent with the damage to her left lung, which was collapsed. Inside that lung was where we discovered one of the broken teeth. The only clothing recovered from the scene was the yellow polyester jacket, torn at the seams after being forcibly removed, and though it was eventually laid over the body, impact splatter and cast-off placed it approximately two metres away at the time of the assault.
‘Seven fingernails were missing from the hands, three on the left and four on the right, and her legs had been broken posthumously. There was a displaced fracture in the femur of the right, and a compound fracture in the left, which had forced both the tibia and fibula out through the flesh. This was most likely the result of either a sustained attack shortly after the point of death, or attempted movement of the body.
‘The post-mortem examination indicated the time of death to have been between two and four o’clock in the morning.’
Clack-clack-clack went the stenographer, still catching up.
I moved to pour myself some water, and realised Zara had drained the whole carafe while he’d been talking.
‘So much blood,’ Garrick sighed, ‘would it be fair to assume that the assailant’s skin, hair and clothes would’ve been covered?’
‘I’d certainly say so.’
A low murmuring rumbled through the court; I distinctly heard the word ‘burned’ whispered by somebody on the jury, and Garrick smiled involuntarily.
‘Thank you, Doctor.’
I stretched as I got to my feet, and several members of the jury seemed visibly surprised.
‘Dr Munjal,’ I said, still racking my brain for a reasonable line of inquiry, ‘perhaps you could shed some light on the realities of the post-mortem process? For starters, did you visit the crime scene yourself?’
‘No. That role goes to the scene-of-crime officers, while my work is largely confined to the laboratory.’
‘But you did conduct the post-mortem examination?’
‘I was one of the pathologists, yes, though such an examination involves a whole team of experts and weeks of analysis, from DNA, bloodstain patterning and toxicology, to studying insects and pollen to determine time since death. That’s without ballistics and fire investigation, where such variables are necessary.’
‘And without identification, how were you able to establish the victim’s age?’
‘Bone and dental X-rays are first used to indicate maturity, followed by analysis of a DNA process called methylation to determine lifespan.’
‘But you couldn’t conclude with absolute certainty on her home country?’
He shook his head. ‘Genetics do not abide by concepts of race. Biologically speaking, all humans are more than ninety-nine per cent identical. Genetics can’t provide a precise birthplace, but they can indicate more relatives in one place than any another. The victim’s ancestry, we discovered, was primarily a mix of Syrian, Jordanian and Iraqi.’
‘Fascinating,’ I said. ‘You mentioned a whole team of experts, but are you personally skilled in DNA profiling?’
‘I am, as w
ell as identifying bodily fluids, textile fibres, and plant, animal and human hairs.’
‘So, it’d be fair to say you spend a lot of your working life with one eye on the business end of a microscope?’
‘Ahem.’ Pike cleared his throat from the bench. ‘Is there a relevant question coming from the defence any time soon?’
‘Yes, My Lord, there is …’ I was stalling, and it obviously showed. ‘I’m just trying to ascertain the expert witness’s opinion on the likelihood of an assailant leaving no trace of DNA in such a frenzied attack, without prior preparation.’
‘The witness hasn’t been brought here for his opinion, Mr Rook, just as you haven’t been brought to pass comment on the evidence.’
I swallowed my retort, nodding, just as the doctor leaned towards the microphone with a frown. ‘But, of course, there was DNA found on the victim.’
I almost fell flat on my arse. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘A microscopic trace of DNA was recovered from underneath what fingernails remained on the right hand …’
I couldn’t say how long I’d been standing there, but all eyes were on me when I came back to the room.
‘You’ll have to forgive me,’ I said, regaining my balance, ‘but the defence weren’t aware of these findings.’
Zara was rummaging through our case papers, scouring every page, while the pathologist looked suddenly panicked. ‘These findings were included in my report.’
‘And the DNA recovered …’ I took a steady breath. ‘Did it match that of the defendant, William Barber?’
You could’ve heard a pin hit the oak. All ears turned towards the man.
It felt like a long time before he shook his head.
‘No. The trace gave only a partial profile, not enough to positively identify anybody.’
‘But was the profile sufficient enough to exclude anybody?’
He nodded stiffly, batting his eyes up to the bench. ‘It was.’
My heart began to beat a vicious tattoo against my throat. ‘Like the defendant, William Barber?’
The first lesson learned in advocacy training is a simple one: never ask a question to which you don’t already know the answer.
The room strained for its response; the kick-drum rhythm in my chest increased.
‘We couldn’t say who it was,’ the doctor replied, ‘but the DNA profile did not come from William Barber.’
‘Thank you, Dr Munjal.’ I said, flopping back into my seat as steadily as I could manage. ‘No more questions. You’ve been very, very helpful.’
I caught up with Garrick and Bowen before they’d scurried back into the robing room.
‘Shabby doesn’t even come close,’ I said, halting their escape along the corridor. ‘Why wasn’t that evidence disclosed to the defence?’
Garrick appeared to be in physical pain, so damaged was his pride, and it took a long time for him to respond through a clenched jaw. ‘I can only offer my apologies, Rook,’ he managed, flashing a disdainful look to Bowen. ‘I left the task of deciding what was disclosable to my junior.’
‘Is that so?’ I said, and turned to Zara. ‘Miss Barnes, do you happen to know the rules on disclosure?’
She nodded. ‘The prosecution should serve all material that potentially undermines the prosecution case or assists the defence.’
‘In which case,’ I continued, shifting my gaze onto Bowen, who had mostly disappeared behind his leader’s shoulders by now, ‘this was either dishonesty or gross incompetence, and only you know which it was.’
‘It’s all right,’ Zara added, turning to lead us off down the corridor in the opposite direction, ‘any time you grown-ups need a refresher, let me know. Otherwise, maybe leave the thinking to the kid in future?’
30
DCS John DeWitt might as well have ridden a Harley into the courtroom.
He came in loud and hard, shiny black shoes stomping, cock and shoulders swinging, determined to let everybody know he meant business, and that business was to see Barber locked up for the rest of his natural life.
It was the first time I’d seen him by the light of day, and his greying, ice-blond moustache made him look like a Victorian prizefighter; I’d almost forgotten how tall he was. Instead of the rugged barn coat and jeans, he’d come dressed in full uniform: an immaculate tunic with insignia on the epaulettes, black tie and a peaked cap with black-and-white-chequered dicing.
He pivoted into the witness box, spat the oath without prompting, and never lowered his glower from the dock. Black eyes met black, separated only by glass, as if the rest of the room, and the world beyond, had suddenly ceased to be there.
‘Detective Chief Superintendent DeWitt,’ Garrick said, after the officer had introduced himself to the room, ‘you led the investigation for this case, yes?’
‘That’s right,’ he boomed, placing his hat by the microphone. It really was a peculiar accent he had, and I struggled to pin it between varying shades of Nottingham, the Netherlands and New Zealand.
‘You’ve been a police officer for …?’
‘Thirty years.’
‘Could you walk us through the morning of the fifteenth?’
‘It’d be my pleasure,’ he said, and I truly believed that. ‘I initially responded to a domestic disturbance at Mr Barber’s residence at around half past six that morning. When I arrived, I found the house to be in disarray. The child was distraught, and Mrs Barber seemed to have suffered a swelling to the left side of her face as a result of the fracas.’
‘And Mr Barber?’
‘He was unconscious in the shower, door wide open, water still running.’
‘Did he stir upon your arrival?’
‘He did not. It was only after maybe two more minutes that I noticed a thin trail of smoke rising from the patio chimney in the garden, and upon going outside to investigate, I noticed what appeared to be the remnants of bloodied clothes smouldering in the flames. Based on this, and the obvious risk still posed to his family, I decided to take Mr Barber into custody, and transported him to Central Station.’
‘And did he, for lack of a better expression, come quietly?’
‘Not exactly, though the effort of dressing seemed to take most of the fight out of him. He was unconscious for the majority of the journey, or else babbling to himself in the back seat.’
‘Babbling?’ Garrick repeated. ‘Did you happen to hear anything of note among these ramblings?’
DeWitt nodded. ‘From what I was able to gather, he spent most of the journey mumbling about some sort of “holy war”.’
An undertone of murmurs swept the court. My stomach stiffened, mind flashing to our last conversation at Belmarsh. Billy and his big mouth.
‘The body of the victim was discovered shortly after we arrived at the station, at which point I had to leave the pleasure of Barber’s company while I went out to the scene. It became almost immediately apparent that there were unquestionable parallels emerging between the two situations.’
‘How long until you were able to make the charge?’
‘It took a little more than nine hours.’
‘An unusually long amount of time?’ Garrick asked, knowing it wasn’t.
‘On the contrary, it was quite fast, a testament to how soon the pieces began to fall into place. The majority of arrest proceedings take between four and eight hours, once you take into account the interviewing, administration and liaising with the CPS for a charging decision. Murder is usually considerably longer.’
‘Were you present for Mr Barber’s interview?’
‘I was, for all it was worth. Two hours we questioned him, once he was sober enough to talk, and he didn’t answer a single question. Not one.’
‘Not one,’ Garrick repeated, adding a theatrical sigh for good measure. ‘And did you warn him that, while he had the right to give no answers, the jury might be invited to draw an adverse inference if he sought to rely upon a defence that he hadn’t mentioned in the interview?’
‘Is that common among suspects?’
‘Common among guilty men,’ DeWitt jabbed.
‘My Lord,’ I groaned, but the judge was ahead of me this time.
‘We want your evidence, Superintendent DeWitt, not your opinion.’
He bristled and shrugged.
‘With neither answer nor explanation,’ Garrick went on, ‘how were you able to narrow down Mr Barber’s whereabouts at the time of the killing?’
‘Once it became clear that we were dealing with a suspected murder case, we were forced to act quickly. Fortunately, Billy – Mr Barber – is well known to us by now. We know where he tends to socialise and who with. We know his drinking patterns, and it took no time at all to pinpoint his whereabouts up until he left the social club. That’s when we learned of his brief interaction with the victim, and how he’d followed her from the club. Intelligence officers were able to use cell-site analysis to show that his phone had been in use in the same rural area that the body was discovered, before it was turned off at half past one in the morning.’
Garrick nodded slowly, leaning forward to set his palms flat on the polished surface of our row. ‘You say that Mr Barber is “well known” to your officers … Would it be fair to say that you have something of a history with the defendant?’
DeWitt smirked, moustache scratching his nose.
‘I have personally arrested Mr Barber more times than I could count. Fifteen of those arrests have led to convictions. He is a blight on the local community.’
‘Opinions,’ the judge interjected once more, ‘please keep them to yourself.’ He nodded to Garrick to continue.
‘Would any of the previous offences for which you arrested Mr Barber fall into the category of hate crimes?’
‘Yes. Most of them, actually.’
‘Could you tell the jury the definition of a racist or religious hate crime?’
DeWitt nodded; of course he could. ‘The Crown Prosecution Service defines a racist or religious hate crime as one that demonstrates hostility based on the victim’s presumed race or religion, typically identified by excessive violence, cruelty, humiliation and degradation, especially when undertaken at a time coinciding with a specific religious festival.’
