Reluctant Consent

by Margaret Barnes

  ‘Was he still breathing?’ Kotzeva asked.

  ‘I don’t know, no, I don’t think so.’

  He started weeping again, wiping his face with the crumpled tissue. Kotzeva asked him what had happened next, and he told her a policeman turned up, followed by an ambulance and they took Albie away.

  Cassie pushed the pause button and looked carefully at the tear-stained face of Christopher Young. She believed him: he was telling the truth, but not the whole truth. He hadn’t seen all the events of that afternoon. Was he confused or was he hiding something? That was what her cross examination should reveal.

  She opened the files and found the first witness statement. It was that of a boy called Jas Wilding. Cassie ignored the declaration that the contents were true and read the first paragraph. His full name was Jonathan Darius Wilding. He admitted he had been in the sweet shop with his two friends Loveday Campbell and the dead youth Albie Young and they had damaged what he described as girlie magazines.

  She continued reading. ‘Then Monty asked us if we had come to pester him or wanted to buy something. I said I wanted some sweets, but Loveday and Albie both wanted cigarettes.’ She thought the interviewing officer had intervened, not only because the next words were, ‘I didn’t know they wanted cigarettes,’ but also she was sure Wilding would have said fags, not cigarettes. The statement continued: ‘Albie said they were for his mum, cause he’s sold them to us before when we’ve said that. This time he told us to piss off, he wasn’t selling us any cigarettes. “You’re too young,” he said. Albie began to argue with him and called him names. We all joined in. Someone called him a wanker and I think Loveday said he was a perv, a paedophile. I think I was the one calling him a wanker.’

  She tried to picture the three boys and Montgomery in the narrow aisle, squashed between the shelves of sweets and the racks of magazines, but without having seen the shop she found it impossible to create the scene in her mind.

  ‘When Loveday said he was a paedo, Monty went mad and told us to get out. We just laughed at him. Then he picked up a golf club from behind the counter and charged out towards us. I ran out of the shop. I can’t remember if I was the first out. Just as I got outside I saw Chris, Albie’s brother, next to the shop window. He’s a nuisance, hangs around, you know. I stopped and turned to see where Monty was, he was still swearing and cursing us, calling us black bastards and stupid niggers.’

  One of the officers must have asked him if he was scared, because the statement continued, ‘I wasn’t scared. I thought I’d be able to keep out of his way.’

  Cassie pushed her hand through her short brown hair, and sighed. How could Montgomery use that kind of language, no matter how offensive they had been? For a second she had visions of refusing to do the case, but that was against the cab rank rule; she had to take it. Then again, it was a leading brief in a murder case and that was a significant step in her career.

  ‘Albie was just outside the door and Loveday was a step or two nearer to me. Monty was in the shop entrance swinging this golf club. He must have caught Loveday on the arm because I heard him yell and then Chris … he started screaming. Both Albie and me ran towards Chris – he’s only nine. I was nearest and as I got closer to Monty he hit out with the club, catching me in the chest. I wasn’t really hurt, but winded like. I moved back a bit. Albie came between me and Monty and I saw the club hit him across his head and he fell to the ground.’ Cassie underlined the words ‘in the shop entrance’.

  She sat back pondering why the police had not video recorded the statements of Jas Wilding and Loveday Campbell. The two boys were under sixteen and could have been treated as vulnerable witnesses, in the same way as Christopher Young. Perhaps the boys were too unruly to put in front of a camera and the police were relying on them being more subdued in the courtroom, or they had simply forgotten to check the age of the witnesses and couldn’t be bothered to start again. Further, they had not been interviewed until the next day. There was nothing to indicate why that was. Had there been the opportunity for them to talk about the incident and agree what to say? Was it just a cock-up or some unfathomable conspiracy?

  She was about to turn over the page to the statement of Loveday Campbell, when the telephone rang. Stephen Burnett, who shared a room with her in chambers, said, ‘Cassie, I hear Jack’s got you a leading brief in a murder. Need a junior?’

  ‘I think it’s a bit of a poisoned chalice – no one else wants to do it. You don’t want to be led by me, do you?’ Before he could reply, she added, ‘You’re far too senior.’ Although she liked Stephen he was the last person she would want as a junior. He would be a distraction, with his practical jokes and silly pranks. She had co-defended with him once when he had brought a glove puppet into the courtroom and played with it on the edge of the work bench, hiding it from the judge and jury behind the rows of files and trying to make her laugh. She didn’t want a repeat of that.

  ‘As usual, Cassie, you’re right. Do you know who Tim is thinking of? It might be good tactics to go for Ayesha. May help with the racist slur to have a coffee-coloured face on counsels’ benches. And she is quite seductive – impress the male jurors even if the defendant isn’t too keen.’

  ‘Stephen, really – and do you have anything other than sex on your mind? Anyway, I gather he won’t accept anyone who isn’t white, Anglo Saxon and probably protestant as well.’

  ‘That rules out quite a lot of the Bar then.’

  Cassie laughed; Stephen was good at making her see the funny side of her problems. ‘Look, the choice of a junior is vital. He’ll not have anyone from any ethnic group. I think it’s one of the reasons he sacked previous counsel. It’s only two weeks to trial and my instructions are to not be sacked before the end, never mind get an acquittal.’

  ‘Actually, that wasn’t why I rang. I heard Eleanor having a real go at Richard, something to do with fees and Jack. Do you know anything about it?’

  ‘I’ve not been told anything. Eleanor doesn’t confide in me. You’d better ask someone else.’

  ‘I’ve done just that and, reading between the lines, Eleanor’s very upset because she has some rather substantial fees outstanding and Jack says he hasn’t time to chase them. When she went to Richard to complain he brushed her off. The consensus is she believes chambers ran much better when Richard was in Hong Kong, and she was acting as head in his absence.’

  ‘Really,’ said Cassie as she tried to work out where the conversation was going; sometimes talking to Stephen was a bit like a game of chess. ‘Well, I don’t want to get involved. I have an awful lot of work to do for this trial. See you soon.’ She put the phone down, pondering over the row between Eleanor and Richard Jago. Was Eleanor hoping to be the next Head of Chambers? And where would Jack stand in all this? If Richard stood down, would Jack go as well? What of her own ambitions for Silk, would she be better with Jack still the senior clerk or not?

  She shuffled the documents in front of her and the bundle of photographs fell against the computer mouse, causing the screen to come to life. She noticed there were a few unopened emails, amongst them one from Malcolm Delaney. She opened it.

  ‘You haven’t replied to my earlier email. I was so looking forward to meeting you in person, but never mind, if you change your mind do contact me – or if not I shall be watching you.’

  Cassie paused; this email didn’t have the same courtesy of the earlier one. Who was Malcolm Delaney anyway? She reassured herself that his pronouncement that he would be watching her was not a threat, just confirmation that he was one of the regulars at the Old Bailey who came to watch the trials or simply to get out of the cold. The staff at the court called them the Bailey groupies and said they each had barristers they preferred to watch. She hoped that was the answer.

  Chapter 7

  Alex was eating breakfast, looking forward to her day off, when the phone rang. Her shoulders dropped, anticipating it was her boss asking her to come to the station.

  ‘You’re at home
.’

  ‘Dad. I do get some time off.’

  ‘Good. Are you working this evening, because if …’

  ‘I’m not on duty again until Thursday.’

  ‘How would you like to go to Covent Garden tonight?’

  ‘What about Mum?’

  ‘She’s got one of her charity functions. So get yourself dressed up and meet me at the theatre at six.’

  ‘How dressed up?’

  He laughed, a deep throaty sound, a sound she’d always loved. It signalled he was in a good mood. She hadn’t seen much of him lately and the last time had been for lunch with both her parents. He had been taciturn. Her mother had chattered the whole time. Things were not right between them. She knew her father had kept a mistress at the flat she now lived in, but her mother had not, to her knowledge, sought a separation or divorce. Financial matters bound her parents together now.

  ‘Definitely not your leathers. How about a cocktail dress? We’ll have dinner at the theatre and you can tell me what you’ve been up to recently.’

  ‘Do people still dress for cocktails? Six at the theatre. See you.’

  She walked into her bedroom with its walk-in wardrobe. It was ages since she’d worn an evening dress. She’d been to a ball in one of the Inns of Court, Gray’s Inn, with her older brother Peter and some of his friends from Cambridge who were reading for the Bar. She sighed; Peter had been killed five years ago in an avalanche. He’d been twenty-seven and it was his death that had made the rift between her parents unbridgeable. She hadn’t helped by deciding to join the police force.

  She foraged through her clothes, the racks of jeans, smart skirts and white shirts she wore for work, until she found the pale blue taffeta dress wrapped in a white linen cover. She tried it on, hoping she hadn’t put on weight from eating in the station canteen. It fitted. She looked at herself in the mirror and held her blonde hair up, emphasising the low-cut neck of blue silk. She hoped her father would approve.

  She got to the theatre early and stood waiting in the foyer for her father to arrive. She must have missed him coming through the doors, because suddenly he was standing next to her. He bent over and kissed her on her cheek.

  ‘You’re looking lovely.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad.’ She beamed back at him. Even at sixty he was a good-looking man. He still had all his hair, although it was no longer dark brown.

  ‘Shall we go to the restaurant? There’s time for the first course.’

  Later, after the music, they were sitting in the dimly lit restaurant having dessert and a final glass of Champagne, when her father took hold of her hand. ‘Alex. I don’t suppose it will come as a shock to you, but we’ve decided to separate, your mother and me. We’ll wait until we can divorce by consent, two years apart.’

  Alex felt tears come into her eyes. She looked away towards the bright lights in the bar that now appeared to be surrounded by rainbows. She blinked. ‘Is there somebody else? Are you leaving Mum for somebody else?’

  ‘As it happens I’m not. But your mother has been seeing another man. That’s not the reason. It’s not been the same since, Peter … well, you know.’

  She squeezed his hand. ‘I know. I just didn’t think we’d all get so …’ She struggled for the right word. ‘So apart. We were a family before …’

  ‘I guess so, but your mum and I, well, we’d not been getting on before and when Peter … that was the final straw. Your mother will stay in Richmond and I’ve bought a flat overlooking the river in Battersea.’

  Alex nodded. She was their child. She didn’t want this to happen. She wanted to be able to go to their home. For them all to be together. She told herself she was nearly thirty, old enough to know these things happened and she had her own life. She stood up. ‘I’d like to go now.’ Her voice sounded, even to her own ears, faint and far away.

  ‘Of course, I’ll get you a taxi.’

  Back home, Alex ripped off her evening dress and poured herself a large glass of whisky. Damn them, she thought. Despite the Champagne she had drunk earlier, the whisky had no effect. She was still sober. She checked her watch. It was too late to phone her mother and she wasn’t sure she wanted to speak to her anyway. But she turned on her mobile and found a message from Mel Haskins, telling her there was a briefing in the CID office at nine in the morning. She was to be there. That was her day off gone. At least she would have something else to think about rather than the announcement her father had made.

  The office was buzzing when Alex arrived. Chris Dundy, her oppo, was already there. She had worked with him for the last four years. He was a tall man and bulky with it, but she found his size reassuring. Mel Haskins, his ginger hair cropped closely, was leaning against the wall. He was the local Intelligence Officer. Part of his job was to man the computers for the drug squad, collating the relevant information gathered on the patch. Alex didn’t know the five other men. The presence of Mel Haskins suggested this was a drugs investigation. She hoped it would be a little more exciting than the routine street robberies that were an almost daily occurrence in the area, and that it represented a return to favour for her after her unconventional involvement some time previously in a murder investigation. Amongst the group, she was the only woman. Mel Haskins leant over her. ‘I didn’t know you’d been moved to the drug squad.’

  ‘I think it’s just for this operation. I was told this job needed more feet on the ground.’

  ‘Nice to have a pretty face amongst …’ Mel looked round at the other officers.

  Alex ignored the comment. ‘Do you know what it’s about?’

  ‘Not really. Something to do with contaminated drugs.’

  Alex looked around the room; it was quite small and smelt of cigarettes even though there were large signs proclaiming that Ladbroke Grove was a no-smoking station. She was sitting with her feet under the table, her navy jacket over the back of her chair and the sleeves of her pale blue shirt rolled up. Chris Dundy was next to her and the rest were lounging around a dilapidated table on which a collection of pens had been slung along with a number of notebooks.

  She didn’t have time to observe all the other officers before a man in his mid-thirties walked into the room with the air of authority that made it clear he was the boss. He unzipped his brown leather bomber jacket and his light blue eyes swept round the group of officers. He perched on the edge of the table at the front of the room, pulled a mobile from his pocket and put it down together with the sheaf of papers he was carrying. There was a shuffling of chairs as the seven men in the room rearranged themselves so that they could all see him. Alex too turned her attention towards the senior officer.

  He introduced himself as DCI Saltburn and then said, ‘I think you all know that a couple of weeks ago, a man called Roger Hales was arrested in possession of a wrap of cocaine. It was cut with a carcinogen. The cutting agent mimics the effects of the cocaine and increases its potency. In addition it makes it dangerous, and the traffickers a lot of money. Until a couple of days ago, it looked like it was one-off, but we’ve now had about twenty arrests, all in the West London area, cut the same way. The aim of this investigation is to find the source. Identify who’s cutting the cocaine, who’s distributing it and who’s importing it. I want all the persons found in possession to be re-interviewed and pressed about their supplier.’

  He handed round lists of those who had been arrested. ‘Can we split them up and interview them again. Only three of them have previous convictions for drug offences. The rest can be told they will be cautioned if they cooperate. Tell those with previous we’ll put letters in saying they’ve helped us find the supplier.’

  Alex looked at the list, which included Roger Hales. ‘Sir, we’ve spoken to Hales. He works for a set of chambers in the Temple and he’s learnt enough law to refuse to answer questions. But …’

  DCI Saltburn screwed up his face. ‘I suppose we can expect some to do that.’

  ‘I was about to say …’ Alex said.

  ‘She has som
e really classy friends,’ Dundy added.

  Chapter 8

  Cassie’s room in chambers was on the top floor overlooking a rather dingy courtyard where a London plane tree’s spindly branches struggled to find the light. Three others shared the room with her; the desks were all arranged higgledy-piggledy and each one, even her own, was covered with papers in untidy piles and half-filled coffee cups. Along one wall were more stacks of paper hoarded from long-finished cases. The room smelt of dusty paper and stale bread left over from half-eaten sandwiches. She didn’t want to have the conference with David Montgomery there. It was unlikely to impress any client, particularly one who had been persuaded that his barrister should be a leading junior, as she was, rather than Queen’s Counsel. Rather reluctantly, she had asked Eleanor if she could have the conference in her room.

  ‘But of course,’ Eleanor had said. ‘Just don’t move any of my papers.’

  The conference was due to start at six o’clock, but Cassie went to Eleanor’s room some ten minutes before. A pupil, Spencer Watson, was working at the desk; he looked at her through thick-lensed glasses as she asked him to leave.

  ‘I was told the room was free,’ he said, trying to explain his presence there, as he moved his bulk out from behind the desk.

  ‘I hope you haven’t moved anything. Eleanor is very fussy about her papers.’

  ‘No, no. I haven’t, I haven’t moved a thing.’ He kept repeating the words as he manoeuvred round the open door.

  Cassie smiled; pupils were very easily unsettled. She knew she shouldn’t tease, but sometimes she couldn’t resist. She put the Montgomery brief on the oak desk. The room faced west and caught the evening sun, flooding it with light that bounced off the highly polished surface. The chair was made of black mesh and rather throne-like; Cassie’s feet didn’t quite touch the floor. She adjusted it to her own height and, once it was at a level that allowed her to write at the desk, she opened her papers.