by Tony Kent
Kathy span on her heel, her heart was racing. She knew Phillip was not responsible for the window. It had been years since he could reach the pantry without help.
Someone had broken in.
But who? And what for?
Only one man alive knew the answer to that question.
His pale eyes watched her, reading her expression for some hint as to what she would do next. Would she run? Or would she look for the man who had loyally employed her for who knows how long?
She would never know how important this choice would be to her continued existence. Or how lucky she was that loyalty won out.
A smile grew as he watched the housekeeper steel herself to do the right thing. But it grew alone. His pale eyes remained fixed as he watched her take a final deep breath to calm her nerves before starting up the stairs.
The first stair creaked as she took a faltering step into the unknown. The second time it had done so in six hours. Her observer avoided it as he climbed the steps behind her.
Whatever he decided to do in the next minutes, she would have no warning of his presence.
He hung back, watching silently. His mind was made up. Her reaction would be everything. The right scream. The right hysteria. That was what he wanted. That was what would satisfy him. If she gave him that then she would live. If she did not . . . well, then her fate was in her own hands.
Kathy Gray counted herself lucky for many things. But she would never know that her luckiest moment was walking into Phillip Longman’s bedroom and screaming for all she was worth.
FOUR
The first two police officers had arrived in less than ten minutes and had gone straight to Phillip Longman’s bedroom. One had thrown up on the spot. The other had called in the carnage that had awaited them.
The same horror would greet a stream of police personnel over the next thirty minutes. Each was a hardened professional, but still a surprising number were reacquainted with their breakfasts at the sight.
This was no ordinary murder scene.
‘Who’s been cleaning this place?’ Detective Chief Inspector Joelle Levy could smell bleach as she climbed the stairs towards Longman’s room. ‘Someone’s been disinfecting.’
‘No, ma’am.’ The answer came from Police Constable David Wright, who had been one of the first two officers on the scene. The one with the stronger stomach. ‘That smell was strong when we got here.’
Levy gave Wright a quizzical look.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes, ma’am. It was the first thing I noticed. You know, before we went in.’
Might make this interesting, Levy thought.
They continued to the top of the stairs and along the hallway, passing two open doors. Inside each was an immaculate, seemingly untouched bedroom. They suggested diligent housekeeping and a shortage of overnight guests.
The third room said no such thing. Inside it was a hive of activity, filling the air like an electric charge. Here the smell of bleach – now combined with a distinct hint of vomit – grew stronger.
This is what we’re here for, Levy knew.
She stepped inside the room. Her gaze swept from one wall to another, taking in everything in between. An experienced detective, Levy had been prepared for the worst. And the worst was exactly what she got.
In his heyday Phillip Longman had been able to dominate a room. But he had never done so as completely as he did now in death. The sight of his frail body transfixed Levy. His nakedness was shocking. His mutilation was worse. Most appalling, though, was the way he had died. Longman had been crucified against his own bedroom wall. The nails that had been hammered through his wrists suspended him several feet above the floor.
‘Jesus Christ.’
Levy spoke without irony. She had seen terrible things in her professional life. Sights far gorier than this. Yet there was something about the ritualistic nature of this man’s death. It suggested deliberation. Levy had witnessed first-hand the damage a gunshot could do. The injuries caused by a bomb. Even a landmine. But what she was looking at now? Never had she seen such horrific injuries caused so very carefully.
Levy turned away from the still-hanging corpse and scanned the rest of the room. There was a pool of vomit at her feet. Not ideal forensic conditions, but far enough from the body to be no risk of contamination. The other weak stomachs had held out until their owners had reached the hallway and the room looked otherwise untouched.
That won’t last, Levy thought. Already a team of white-suited crime-scene examiners were scouring every inch of Phillip Longman’s last moments.
‘What do you make of it, Steve?’ Levy recognised Detective Inspector Steven Hale through his white suit and hood.
‘Nasty business, ma’am.’ Hale shook his head as he got to his feet. ‘Whoever did this was a sick bastard. This poor old sod had his tongue cut out and replaced with his own balls. Whatever of his own teeth he had left were pulled out one by one. Then he was bled. Slow. They cut vein after vein, up and down his arms and legs.’
‘Any idea which of the injuries killed him?’
‘I think we can take our pick, ma’am. Maybe bleeding him out was what did it, even if it was slow. If that didn’t then the crucifixion would have. No way he could have survived that in his shape.’
‘I’m not sure you or I would have fared much better,’ Levy replied, her eyes never leaving Longman’s corpse. ‘Let me know when we get a definitive answer on cause of death.’
‘Ma’am.’
Hale moved back as Levy stepped closer to Longman. She circled around his body as much as the wall would allow, looking closely at his wounds. Finally she leaned close to one of the open cuts on Longman’s right leg and inhaled deeply through her nose.
‘Yeah, that’s where the bleach seems to have been used,’ offered Hale. ‘No evidence of writhing on the back of his legs or on his back, though. Suggests he was already dead by the time it was thrown over his wounds. Small mercies, I suppose. Would’ve been agony if he’d still been breathing.’
Levy did not reply. Instead she walked to the far side of the room and picked up a chair that sat in the corner. Placing it beside the corpse’s dangling legs, she stepped up. Levy was not a tall woman – little more than five foot five – but then Phillip Longman had not been a tall man. The seat of the chair was level with his crucified feet.
‘Pass me a glove.’
Levy did not look down as she spoke, or as she took the glove from Hale’s hand. Pulling the latex onto her fingers, she carefully opened Longman’s mouth. His castrated testicles had already been removed from inside, leaving a cavity with no teeth and no tongue. A blackened mess.
Levy leaned forward, putting her nose as close as she could without risking contamination of the evidence, and took a deep breath.
‘What is it?’ Hale was intrigued. ‘What can you smell?’
‘Bleach.’ Levy carefully closed the mouth and climbed down from the chair. ‘They filled his mouth with it, too.’
‘After he was dead? Why? What’s the point?’
Levy did not answer immediately. Instead she looked around and caught the eye of PC David Wright, who stood a little more upright under the DCI’s gaze.
‘Has a bleach bottle been removed from this room?’ she asked.
‘No, ma’am. Everything’s exactly as we found it. Other than any investigation of the body, obviously.’
‘What about downstairs? Or in the bathrooms? Have any bleach bottles been taken from any of them?’
‘I’ve no idea, ma’am.’
‘The body was discovered by the housekeeper, right?’
‘It was.’
‘Then go ask her. Take her to the rooms. We need to know.’
PC Wright left the room without another word.
Hale looked bemused.
‘What does a missing bleach bottle matter?’
‘It matters because it kills DNA, Steve.’ Levy had encountered the theory before. She had never seen it used
. ‘The bleach wasn’t thrown over him to torture him. It was done to destroy evidence. That’s why the whole body’s drenched in the stuff. Whoever did this got down and dirty. Maybe that was the point. The thrill. But they also don’t want to get caught. They know what they’re doing, Steve. We won’t find anything on the body. And judging by the smell, the only DNA we’ll find in this whole bloody room is in that pile of sick by the door.’
Hale turned to look in the direction of the vomit. He then looked back at Levy.
‘But I don’t get why it matters if the bleach was taken? They won’t have left an empty bottle with fingerprints on it. Not if they’re that careful.’
‘It matters,’ Levy explained, ‘because if it was taken from here then it was a brainwave. An impulse. But if the killer brought the bleach with him, well, then we’re dealing with a professional. Someone who knew exactly what they were coming here to do. And how to cover their tracks. Important we know that, don’t you think?’
Hale nodded.
‘So what’s the point in examining the room, then?’ he asked. ‘If you’re sure we won’t find any DNA or prints or anything?’
‘Because right now this crime scene’s our only lead. Who knows if the bastard missed a spot.’ Levy took a final glance around the room. ‘We’ve got to clear this one up.’
‘What’s so important about this one?’ Hale asked. ‘The fact he was crucified? Is it a religious angle?’
‘Maybe,’ Levy replied.
She turned to the room and raised her voice.
‘I want that kept out of the press, by the way. Not one mention of how this man died. Not one.’
Levy turned back to Hale, taking him by the arm and leading him out of the room and back into the hallway. She felt a small rush of gratitude that he was beside her in this. Hale had been on her team for three years now. There was no one on the force she trusted more.
‘But no, Steve. It’s not the crucifixion,’ Levy said in a low voice, barely more than a whisper. ‘It’s who this guy is. Who he was, I mean.’
‘You know him? Who is he?’
‘It’s Phillip Longman. The former Lord Chief Justice.’
Levy saw the blood drain from Hale’s face. The name was obviously as familiar to him as it was to her. As she knew it would be.
The role of Lord Chief Justice was as powerful as its holder wished to make it, and Phillip Longman had not held back. In eight years in the role he had been responsible for many of the most controversial legal decisions of modern times. Decisions that had brought down criminal and terrorist organisations alike. The mutilated corpse currently nailed to a bedroom wall had been one of the British establishment’s most influential men.
‘The political pressure on this is going to be a nightmare,’ Levy continued. ‘And so is the suspect list. Longman had a lot of enemies back in the day, and there are plenty of bastards with long memories.’
Hale nodded but said nothing as Levy looked back through the open door, staring at Longman’s corpse.
Nothing about the pale, pathetic body suggested the status of the man it had once been. A man whose shocking death would grab all the headlines. A death that was Levy’s to solve.
There was no time to lose.
FIVE
Wandsworth Prison had barely changed in the seventeen years since Michael Devlin’s first visit. The building itself dated back to the 1850s, and every day of those near two centuries were etched across its imposing façade.
The inside was less grim and more modern, but not by much. The reception area – used by both lawyers and social visitors – was an unfortunate mix of stark and run-down. Metal benches with hard steel seats offered no comfort to anyone unlucky enough to sit upon them, while yellow walls painted perhaps a decade ago were still deemed ‘good enough’.
The same complacency applied to the lockers for the valuables of visiting lawyers. Undersized, insecure and mostly broken, still they were neither replaced nor even repaired.
An original stone staircase led into the building from the quiet street outside. All visitors to any of the 1,900 prisoners had to climb those aged steps and pass through the security that separated the inmates from the freedom that lay beyond the walls.
Michael’s recent promotion to the rank of Queen’s Counsel – the mark of distinction separating the very best barristers from the rest – was no grounds for exception. His first visit to Wandsworth seemed a lifetime ago, when he was aged twenty-two and newly qualified. Back then Michael had been surprised to be searched as intimately as were the social visitors waiting alongside him. Any special treatment he had expected – any goodwill that allowed lawyers to pass through with a nod and a wink – had been missing then.
It was still missing now.
‘Who are you here to see?’
The middle-aged prison officer behind the elevated reception desk was all business. No greeting. No small talk.
‘Simon Kash.’
Andrew Ross was Simon Kash’s solicitor and he answered for them both, passing up a formal letter addressed to the Governor of HMP Wandsworth. It introduced Ross and Michael as solicitor and barrister and confirmed their 9.30 a.m. legal appointment with their client.
‘ID?’
Both Michael and Ross removed their photo identification from their wallets and passed them up for inspection without a word. They were returned within seconds and the two men were nodded through.
‘Phones, coins, keys. The usual.’ This request came from a second officer. A woman, younger than the desk jockey and standing instead of sitting. She was the next stop on the security conveyor belt.
A small black tray was slid across the desk as she spoke, which was quickly filled. Wallet, keys and coins from Michael’s pockets. The same, plus cigarillos and lighter, from Ross. Each retained a lever-arch file that contained the bare bones of the prosecution evidence against Simon Kash, along with a notebook and a pen.
The black tray was placed into a single thin locker beside the reception desk. The locker key was handed to Ross, the only other item either man was permitted to bring inside.
The third security station sat at the other side of the reception area. Manned by two more prison officers, the large X-ray machine was beaten, battered and practically obsolete. No doubt it had once been state of the art and the envy of airports far and wide. But state funding had been falling for decades. Airport security had caught up, overtaken and since lapped what the Prison Service could afford. Antiquated X-ray machines and the occasional metal detector were as good as it now got.
A long metal bench barred their path to the X-ray machine. Designed to provide extra seating for when the reception area was busy, it seemed poorly placed when the room was as quiet as it was today. At six foot one, Michael was tall enough that he did not have to walk around the inadvertent obstacle. Instead he just stepped over. Ross was shorter and so had to take the longer route.
‘Everything in the tray, then step over here.’ A third prison officer reciting his mantra.
Soul destroying, Michael thought. They’ve made these poor sods into automatons.
This time the black tray was larger. One per person. Michael placed his few permitted items at the bottom, followed by his suit jacket, wristwatch and belt. Then he placed the tray into the machine and waited for the tatty conveyor belt to splutter into action.
With his back to Ross, the slowness of the X-ray machine gave Michael time to think. To consider – not for the first time – why he was here at all.
The official answer to that question was a simple one. There are certain cases in which only a Queen’s Counsel was deemed qualified to act. Sometimes they do so alone. Sometimes with a junior barrister to assist. Simon Kash’s was one of those cases: a complicated murder allegation that included elements of revenge, of low-level organised crime and which featured more than one defendant and so carried the risk of what was called a ‘cut-throat defence’.
No, it was clear why the Kash trial required a QC.
What bothered Michael was the fact that he held that rank at all.
It was not Michael’s age that made him question his promotion. At thirty-nine, he was certainly one of the youngest barristers to be elevated to Queen’s Counsel, but it was not unheard of. What was unique, however, was the fact that his promotion had come without application or interview.
Although unexpected, Michael had needed no explanation when he had received the news six months earlier. It was certainly not based on merit. He realised that immediately; he had not applied and so his merit could not have been assessed. Instead it was a thank you from a grateful government. A reward for his silence following the events in London and Belfast twenty months ago. Sarah had enjoyed something similar as a response to the news story she had put out in place of the truth. Her career had sky-rocketed, taking her from a CNN cub reporter to one of ITN’s leading correspondents.
Neither of them had asked for the career boost, but in Sarah’s case it was well deserved. For Michael, though, he would have preferred to have reached his new rank the right way. Through recognition of the hard work, dedication and skill that he had shown throughout his life at the Bar. Rather than because he had kept his mouth shut. Without that recognition, he doubted his right to call himself a QC, the one thing he had always wanted to be.
It means a lifetime of not knowing if I’m actually good enough, he had thought.
This had been Michael’s mindset for six months. But now? Now his wavering confidence had been joined by guilt. The background to the Simon Kash case – how Michael had been brought in to it – had made things worse.
‘Step over here please, sir.’
The voice of the fourth security officer broke into Michael’s thoughts.
He looked up as the speaker gestured towards a lone step. Michael knew the drill. He stepped up, placed his feet shoulder-width apart and raised his arms to shoulder height. The speaker then spent twenty seconds patting Michael down. She checked beneath his collar, then his cuffs, his waistband and the hem of his trouser legs. She even checked inside Michael’s mouth. Satisfied that he was smuggling nothing into the prison, she allowed him to retrieve his belongings from the X-ray machine.
