Reluctant Consent

by Margaret Barnes

  ‘How’s things?’ he said.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to contact you for a few days.’

  ‘I know, but I’ve been very busy working. The Montgomery trial is really hard. He’s so difficult. I’m having to spend too much time controlling my temper, but it’s nearly over. And then the time difference gives such a short window to make calls to the States.’

  Ben’s face showed he thought she was making excuses, but she wasn’t going to apologise. ‘We’ve got speeches and summing up left before the jury goes out. And, well, if he goes down then I’ve done my best.’

  ‘Will he?’

  ‘He shouldn’t, but you never know. He’s such an unlikeable character. I frightened the life out of him before he gave evidence and he got through it without making any major boobs.’

  ‘Are you still having problems with the guy harassing you?’

  She bit her lip. ‘I got an email last night.’ She didn’t tell him the sender had threatened to come looking for her.

  Ben took a deep breath. ‘Look, Cassie, I know it’s a bore, but I think you need to change all your passwords. I think this guy’s hacked your computer. Some of the people here are real techies and they were talking about something called ratting. It stands for remote access technology. It’s the same thing you get with a help line for software. I’ve done that, said I couldn’t get something to work, and they ask to take control of your computer. Quite a number of trustworthy companies in IT do it, but similar programmes are available on the dark web for free.’

  ‘And that gives access to my computer?’

  ‘Whoever wants to control your computer sends an email which is obviously spam. You delete it and that sets off a worm that lets the hacker take control of the computer remotely. You’ve not noticed any changes in the way it’s working, have you?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’ She frowned and her voice trembled.

  ‘No emails deleted? They were there and then they’ve gone.’

  She shook her head. ‘No, no. Nothing like that.’

  ‘It sounds like he’s using your email account to find out what you’re doing and your interests. You’re very easy to find online – chambers’ website, legal directories. I had a quick look and found quite a few sites that could have given a stalker enough to hack into your email account …’

  ‘Do you really think so? It’s supposed to be secure so that I can get the documents from solicitors.’

  ‘That’s maybe what’s limiting what he can do. I guess that software is harder to get into and he can’t do that.’

  ‘He knows I like Lowry paintings. And when I went to the shop the defendant owns …’

  ‘That’s what they do. It’s an intrusion into your life. It’s the same as trolling. Needs similar technical skills and a similar pathology. My guess is you’ve looked at some paintings on the computer, or had an email about the artist?’

  Cassie looked away from the screen and felt her face pucker up. ‘Amanda’s been to see the exhibition at the Lowry Centre. Oh, and I did look at one of the auction houses. Can I stop it?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Change the password on all your accounts and see if that stops him. You may have to disconnect your computer from the internet and get an IT expert to see what’s going on. But try the password route first.’

  ‘Right. I’ll do that. It’s going to take ages.’

  ‘Try not to worry too much. There’s not much you can do over the weekend.’

  ‘I guess not.’ She tried to smile. ‘Anyway, how are you? Missing me?’

  Ben paused and she could see he was looking for the right words, the downside of video calls.

  ‘Like you, in the gaps between work.’

  She let her breath out and they chatted for a few minutes before she said she needed to start on changing her passwords. Before she went into the settings window, she looked at her emails. There was another one from Delaney. Just one word.

  ‘Bitch.’

  Notting Hill Gate Tube Station

  She was standing on the right of the escalator: a young woman, probably about twenty years old. She didn’t notice the crazy frieze along the walls, a strip cartoon of journeys to outer space, strange figures with antennae on their head, and the message ‘Beware of spaceships’. Her eyes were looking inward at something no one else could see. The updraft from the platforms caught her floral print dress, white and yellow daisies on a blue background, and the hem drifted upwards; she didn’t try to hold it down and it settled back in place around her knees.

  Once off the first escalator she walked past the tourists on their leisurely way to London’s heart and joined the throng of workers heading for the City and the West End. The large white handbag she carried hit the shoulder of a woman who was pointing out a poster for the production of Thriller at the Lyric Theatre. She didn’t apologise, even though the other woman swung round and rubbed her shoulder.

  The east-bound platform of the Central Line was all hustle and bustle: males in suits, shirt necks unbuttoned, women wearing colourful cotton dresses. They moved around like flocks of birds as they looked for a little extra space and hoping to find a place where the doors of a not-over-full carriage might stop. On the walls of the tunnel there were large cinema-screen-sized posters. One carried the logo of a well-known bank, another had a photograph of vegetables. Further along was a picture of a can of beer and then the red and white of a mobile phone operator. The waiting commuters were more interested in their own mobiles or copies of the Metro than the advertisements. The woman made her way along the platform towards the western end of the tunnel from where the train would emerge. The time on the information panel was 08:33:04.

  A man in the striped trousers of a lawyer or restaurant manager got in her way and she pushed past without saying anything. She was nearly crushed against the wall by a very tall young man, blond, probably Scandinavian, carrying a large rucksack who stepped back into her path. He apologised but she didn’t acknowledge him. A woman with a child dressed in a school uniform of brown gingham rushed past the woman in the floral dress and the white handbag caught the child in the face. The little girl began to cry. ‘Look where you’re going,’ the mother said. There was no reply and the mother didn’t pursue her complaint; the woman’s eyes were unresponsive as if she had not seen them.

  When she reached the end of the platform the woman stopped and looked back towards the indicator panel which displayed the length of time before the next train arrived. There were three trains on the panel; the first one was due in one minute and was for Epping, the second a minute later was for Stratford. The third was due in six minutes. The time was now shown as 08:34:49.

  As the front of the first train arrived at the end of the tunnel and began to brake, the woman moved forwards but the six-inch heel of her bright blue right shoe caught on one of the studded tiles. As she stumbled an overweight man in a navy suit caught her elbow and pulled her back from the track. ‘Don’t want you going in front of a train, do we?’ he said. She stared at him and shook her head. The man let go of her arm and moved away, his lips pursed. The train stopped and when the doors opened a group of tourists chattering in French got off and pushed past the woman. She dropped back towards the tunnel wall, letting the doors close and the train leave the station. The time on the information display was 08:35:13.

  The platform began to fill again and a young woman carrying a multi-coloured striped holdall was on the left-hand side of the woman. Slightly behind her and to her right was a young male who admired the slim figure in the daisy print dress. The train for Stratford appeared at the entrance to the platform and the woman stepped forward off the platform into its path. She rose in the air like a high jumper about to flop over a bar. The blue dress cascaded around her and vanished under the train. Her handbag somersaulted along the track, spilling some of its contents onto the platform. The sound of the brakes squealing in anguish as the driver brought it to a halt began to impact on the wai
ting passengers. There was a smell of burning as the wheels ground along the track. The train stopped. There was silence. Then someone screamed. The time on the digital display was 08:36:40.

  The screaming rose and fell before turning into a muffled sob as station staff dashed along the platform. The crowds of commuters pressed themselves even tighter together and moved towards the passageway out of the tunnel. The doors of the train opened and those inside huddled together as they stepped onto the platform. Some looked back as they made their way out of the station, but most kept their eyes averted. The woman with the multi-coloured holdall saw a black-and-gold coloured wallet on the ground. She picked it up and opened it. Inside was a credit card with the name Emma Gilbrook embossed on it.

  Chapter 40

  It was Monday morning and the final days of the Montgomery trial were in front of Cassie – just speeches and summing up – then the jury would retire to consider their verdict. If he was convicted she’d let James do the plea in mitigation.

  She set off for Notting Hill Gate Tube station. The sunny weather encouraged her to walk at a leisurely pace rather than scurrying. She checked her watch; she had plenty of time. She strolled along Pembridge Road past pastel-painted terraced cottages, and then, as she got closer to Notting Hill Gate, a couple of retro clothes shops and one selling vintage records. One of the second-hand shops sold handbags cast off by their wealthy owners, which carried such prestigious names they were far too expensive, despite their battered appearance, for her to consider buying. She peered into the window in the hope something might be within her budget. There was nothing. In front of her was the Gate Picture House; it was the cinema she and Ben went to if they fancied seeing a film. He was returning from his trip to the States and she knew the time was fast approaching when she would have to make a decision about their future.

  As she got nearer to the junction she noticed a number of police cars and ambulances stationary in the road around the entrances of the Tube station. She sighed and quickened her pace; she just knew the Underground was closed. She swore under her breath, annoyed that she had loitered along the way. She checked her watch; it was already nine fifteen. She would have to try and get a taxi, although she would be lucky if she did. She wasn’t the only commuter looking for an alternative way to get to work, and most of them were trying to hail a cab. Taxi after taxi sped by but none with their yellow lights on. She began to walk towards Queensway, hoping she was wrong and she’d be able to find a cab. A tall man about her age caught up with her and as he drew level asked her in a polished accent if she was going in the direction of the City. When she replied she was, he suggested they stopped and waited for a moment or two to see if they could get a cab. ‘We can watch both directions,’ he said. They waited on the pavement for about five minutes. Cassie was checking her watch all the time and as the seconds grew into minutes she was feeling more and more resentful that somebody had thrown themselves on the line and prevented her from getting to the Bailey on time. No sooner had the notion crossed her mind than she berated herself for such a cruel thought; no doubt whoever it was had been so distressed that they had felt life was not worth living. By this time Cassie and her companion were facing the entrance to Kensington Palace Gardens. She checked her watch again; it was nine thirty already. She said, ‘I think I’m going to walk through to Kensington and get the Tube to Blackfriars.’

  ‘That’s not much help to me, I need Liverpool Street. I’ll keep walking this way and see if I can pick up a train further along the line,’ he said. He strode away from her, turned and put up a hand in salute. Cassie crossed the road and stepped out along the tree-lined road, past the security booth that guarded the entrance to the most expensive real estate in the country. Further down she passed the sentries at the gates to Kensington Palace. She cut through Vicarage Gate, where she had to skip past a large man with an equally large dog on his way to Kensington Gardens. She was almost running by the time she turned left into Kensington Church Street towards the former department store which was now a trendy organic food shop. At the T-junction she crossed the road and hurried west along Kensington High Street towards the Tube station. Here she was lucky, and she had no sooner reached the platform than a Circle Line train arrived.

  Cassie wasn’t the only one who was late; so were two of the jury, who had been stuck on the Tube. Judge Crabtree thanked them all for the effort they had made to get there and then asked Marcus to make his closing speech.

  Marcus Pike was a talented jury advocate. His speeches were succinct and he could be very theatrical. She’d told James about his speech to the jury in the Barker case, where he’d held aloft the deceased girl’s red high heels throughout his speech, and said she wondered if he would wave the golf club around during the course of his address. ‘Does he play golf?’ said James. Cassie snorted.

  Marcus stood up, moved the lectern standing on the bench in front of him and faced the jury. He picked up his papers, the bundle of photographs and the plan of the shop, and placed them side by side on top of it. The golf club was laid in front of the lectern along the bench where the jury could clearly see it. His eyes scanned each of them. He waited until they were all looking at him.

  ‘Members of the jury, although in due course My Lord will give you directions on the law and you must follow the directions he gives, nevertheless I will say a little about it as I place the prosecution case before you. There are a lot of misconceptions about what the law permits and doesn’t permit. The press seem to take the view that if you protect your person or your property the law will turn against you, and you will be tried and convicted of an offence and the perpetrator of the violence against you will be exonerated. That is not the case.’

  Cassie heard the disapproval in his voice. She had heard his views on the way newspapers reported cases before, and their lack of knowledge of the law. Although she agreed with much of what he said she knew most of the court reporters had very little choice in what was eventually printed. Very few of the editorial staff had sat through a trial, although she had been in a case where she later learnt one of the members of the jury had been the editor of a Sunday broadsheet. The journalist had written an article in praise of the jury system, so she had been prepared to forgive his misunderstanding of the legal principles involved in the trial.

  ‘What the law demands,’ Marcus said, ‘is that any action you take is appropriate and proportionate. What does that mean? It means, for example, that you don’t need the same amount of force against a child as you would against a full-grown man. It means if you have the opportunity to retreat, to escape the violence, you should do so. You are expected to act reasonably but you are not expected to judge to a nicety the exact amount of force you use in order to protect yourself or your property. Is that clear?’

  Cassie looked at the jury and saw a number of them shaking their heads. Of course it was a difficult test to apply but usually the facts of a case made it obvious. She had successfully defended a young man who had used a knife against another youth who was using only his fists and feet in the attack, but the difference in height and weight had been substantial and explained the use of a knife. Each case was different and each depended on the exact circumstances. Was Marcus laying the ground for arguing that her client was a full-grown man and the victim was a mere child? She wasn’t sure the jury would buy that, but it was a valid argument for the prosecution to make.

  ‘What then are the circumstances that you need to take account of in this case? I don’t suppose you will have any doubt that the three youths behaved very badly when they went into the defendant’s shop. They committed a number of offences, criminal damage, yes, theft, certainly. Their language left a lot to be desired, although so did that of the defendant. What there was not was any assault, nor were there any threats of violence, nothing happened to put Mr Montgomery in fear. Yet he picked up a golf club and threatened them with it, chased them out of the shop brandishing the iron.’ Marcus picked up the golf club and raised it above
his head, then brought it back to eye level and inspected the shaft. ‘A number nine iron, I think.’ He halted, his eyes scanning the jury. ‘Was that reasonable, was that proportionate for the theft of a chocolate bar?’ His voice rose towards the end of the sentence as he emphasised the word ‘bar’.

  Cassie had to put her head down to hide her face; she couldn’t help being amused at the way Marcus was approaching this case, suggesting considerable force had been used to prevent the theft of such a trivial item as a bar of chocolate. A quick glance at the jury revealed that one or two of them were openly grinning. She made a note to make sure she placed emphasis on the totality of the three lads’ behaviour.

  ‘I’m sure my learned friend here will say they were refusing to leave the shop, what else could he have done? We say he could have called the police. They may have threatened him, saying they would accuse him of being a paedophile, but that was untrue and he knew it. Indeed it is probable they would have run away if he had picked up the telephone. We will never know. The phone was in the shop and must have been close to where he was standing – he had just finished a call. He could prove they had stolen from him – he had the CCTV recording of the events of that afternoon.

  ‘Not surprisingly, when Mr Montgomery ran at them with the golf club all three boys left the shop and he stormed out after them. What then happened? Did Leon Campbell produce a knife and threaten the defendant with it? You must decide if he did. But the prosecution say that once they had left the premises, the defendant no longer had any need to continue wielding the golf club, swinging it around as he did. We say the reasonable person would have retreated inside his property and closed the door on the young men. This defendant didn’t do that. Mrs Munroe, the headmistress of a local school, thought the boys were trying to get out of the way and the shopkeeper, this defendant, was very angry. He says he didn’t want to risk turning his back on them, particularly as one of them had a knife. Is that right or is he, as we say, simply trying to account for his loss of temper fuelled by his dislike of these young men, for dislike them he did. Think about the names he called them, terms that have been discredited, and rightly so, for a long time now.