by Tony Kent
‘Are you ready, Russell?’ Levy remained at the door as she spoke.
Longman did not move. He just stared at her with tired, bloodshot eyes burning into hers. Her arrival had been a respite. But now he realised why she was here.
To take me to Dad.
The thought buckled his knees, forcing him to retake his seat. All without a word.
And somehow Levy seemed to understand. She walked across the room, hooked a chair and slid it close to Longman’s. She did not speak. Instead, her hand began to gently run back and forth across his shoulders. A slow, calming rhythm. He was grateful for the effort and for the continued silence as he tried to gather himself. But still he could not face what lay ahead.
‘I’m not going to be able to do this,’ he finally said, his voice barely a whisper.
‘You will, Russell,’ Levy replied gently. ‘You will for your father.’
‘I . . . I can’t. You don’t understand. I can’t see him like that. I can’t face that. Not with what . . . not with what was done to him.’ Longman felt his voice start to crack.
‘I do understand, Russell.’ Levy’s voice was still gentle, but there was an added firmness that somehow cut through Longman’s initial urge to interrupt. ‘Believe me, I’ve seen some terrible things in my life. When I was eighteen years old I joined the Israel Defense Forces. I spent eight years there, as part of the IDF and then in another organisation called Shin Bet. In those eight years I saw sights I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Innocent people massacred with automatic weapons. Children blown to bits by suicide bombers. Once even the aftermath of a chemical-weapon attack. And then I came back to England and joined the Met Police and ended up in the Major Investigation Team, where I’ve seen nothing but death and violence every day for thirteen years.’
‘I don’t . . . I don’t get it. Is this supposed to make me feel better?’
‘No. I wouldn’t insult you by trying to make you feel better. Not after what you’ve lost. But I do want you to understand this: with all that I’ve seen, with all of the violence and the murder and the gore, the hardest thing I ever did was stand above my grandmother as she passed away peacefully in her bed. The grandmother who had raised me.’
Longman could see the pain in Levy’s eyes as she relived the memory. He was beginning to understand why she was telling him this.
‘You see, no matter what you live through, there is nothing harder than losing our loved ones. And sometimes that loss comes with responsibility. Sometimes to watch them die. Sometimes you have to do what we’re asking you to do now. And no matter who you are – whether you’re a soldier or a spy or a cop who deals with death every day, or whether you’re just a regular guy – you have to bear that responsibility. That’s what you have to do now, Russell. It’s a shitty thing, but you have to. Because your dad deserves at least that. Doesn’t he?’
Longman sat silently for a moment as her words sank in. Her tone had been kind, empathetic, but the underlying message had been unmistakable.
Be a man, dammit.
‘But you don’t have to do it alone,’ Levy offered. ‘We can wait, if there’s someone else to be here to support you?’
They were the words that made him realise he had no choice. The task was his, and his alone.
He took a final deep breath, forced down the anxiety that was rising in his gut and looked Levy in the eyes.
‘What will he look like? Will he be bloody?’
‘No, Russell.’ Levy’s tone had not changed. ‘Your dad’s been cleaned up. He’ll look asleep. That’s all.’
‘But what about his injuries? His mouth? What the officers told me—’
‘That’s all been dealt with. We wouldn’t have left him like that.’
Longman thought he saw a flash of anger cross Levy’s face before she replied. He realised in that moment he had been told more about his father’s manner of death than Levy would have liked. Not that it mattered to him. He had other concerns.
‘And the cuts? Over his body?’
‘They’ve been cleaned and covered up, Russell. You won’t need to see them.’
‘Have they not been stitched? Why have they been left open?’ Longman’s voice began to rise. His mind had found an outrage onto which he could cling.
‘That can’t happen, Russell. It’s a murder investigation. That means we have to carry out an autopsy. Until that’s over there’s only so much we can do to your father’s body, otherwise we risk compromising evidence. I know how it must feel. Really I do. But believe me, it’d be worse if we did something that let this evil bastard walk once we’ve caught him.’
Longman nodded again. This time with more focus in his eyes. The good sense of Levy’s words once again cut through the confusion in his mind.
They brought clarity, but also more questions.
‘Do you have any leads yet? Any at all?’
His voice was stronger now. Less emotional.
‘It’s much too early, Russell, but we will.’ Levy spoke with utter confidence. ‘Your dad probably made a hell of a lot of enemies over the years, what with his position and who he was. But what was done to him? That was a special kind of evil, and that narrows the field. So we’ll find the bastard. He won’t walk away from this.’
‘Will you promise me that?’ The emotion that had disappeared from Longman’s voice had returned. Tears began to fall. ‘Will you promise you’ll catch whoever did this to my dad?’
‘I promise, Russell.’ Levy’s hand began to run back and forth across Longman’s shoulder’s once again. ‘We’ll catch him. I promise.’
Longman did not respond. He could not, not through the tears that were now flowing. Instead he placed his head in his hands, obscuring his face.
Levy stood up and stepped away, back towards the door, where she waited in silence until Longman rose to his feet and wiped the tears from his face.
‘I’m ready,’ he said. His breaking voice was no indicator of his new determination.
‘Are you sure, Russell?’ Levy asked again. ‘We can wait for someone else to be here to support you? Your wife? Brothers?’
‘No one else is coming,’ Longman replied. His voice sounded stronger. ‘Matthew and Peter still don’t know; it’s not something I want to break to them over the phone. And Alice? Well, she doesn’t think of herself as my wife any more so she won’t be coming any time soon.’
‘What about a friend? Anyone?’
‘I don’t want to put anyone else through this, Inspector Levy.’ Longman’s resolve was increasing the longer he spoke. ‘Someone has to do it, and the way it’s worked out that’s me. Like you said, it’s the least my dad deserves.’
TWELVE
Derek Reid reached out for the large packet of salt and vinegar crisps from the small pile near the far corner of his desk. He opened it and devoured the contents absentmindedly, in just a few handfuls. All the while his attention stayed focused on the case papers upon which he had been working, and so it took him a few moments to realise that the bag had been emptied. Once noticed it was quickly remedied. A second pack was open within moments.
The case Reid was preparing was unusual. There had already been a trial and it had not gone Reid’s way. His client had found himself convicted by a jury of a complicated banking fraud. It had been a majority verdict, which usually means that no more than two jurors disagreed with no less than ten others. This case was different. A single juror had been ‘lost’ in the course of the trial; ill-health had forced her discharge. Down to a jury of just eleven, the only majority could be ten against one. Anything less was unacceptable.
This had been explained to the jury. In careful detail and in the simplest of language. There could be no mistake, Reid had thought. Only it now seemed that there could. Following the conviction two jurors had written to the judge, reporting that the jury had been split eight to three. A majority, yes, but insufficient for a lawful majority verdict.
It was an extremely unusual situation. Not to m
ention a difficult one. There are very strict rules governing the absolute secrecy of a jury’s deliberations. Their workings are regarded as sacrosanct. That cannot be broken. And yet it now seemed that those very workings had failed. If the verdict was unlawful then Reid’s client’s conviction could not stand. This made an appeal necessary. But how to prepare that appeal without breaching the sanctity of the jury room? The problems it posed were exceptional and Reid was finding it difficult to see the way through.
Reid took his eyes away from the papers and looked around his room. At nothing in particular. He just needed to see something that was not an A4 typed page or a computer screen. Whenever Reid felt this way the features of his room – some personal, most professional – provided a welcome distraction.
Reid had been a member of the same barristers’ chambers for thirty-four years. An entire career. His pupillage – the same process Michael Devlin had gone through under Reid’s own guidance – had been elsewhere. But he had joined Eight Essex Court immediately afterwards, and he had been here ever since.
In that time Reid had seen the chambers grow from just twenty-eight working barristers to the current number of eighty-three. A huge increase in number, if not necessarily in ability. Successive cuts in legal aid had seen the earnings of publicly funded criminal barristers devastated, driving the best potential applicants elsewhere. Into professions willing to pay market rates for their skills.
But while the ability of many applicants had fallen, their numbers had not. And so Eight Essex Court now had three times as many bodies, shoehorned into a centuries-old building barely big enough for the original number. Most rooms were overflowing, with both paper and with people. Even some of chambers’ seven Queen’s Counsel – which now included Michael Devlin – shared their office space with others.
Somehow Reid had secured a room of his own. Old it might be. Beaten up and with ageing bookshelves creaking under the weight of endless files. But it was Reid’s and Reid’s alone. His brilliant reputation may not have secured him the rank of ‘silk’, but at least it counted for something here.
Reid’s office carried little concession to the modern world. He was proud of that. But for two or three items the room could have existed at any time in the past 150 years. Reid considered himself a throwback to a simpler time. A time when a barrister’s skills in court were all that mattered for success. It was a conscious decision that his room should give the same impression, one only broken by the presence of his laptop, a small flat-screen television and an expensive coffee-machine. All of which were essential as far as Reid was concerned.
It was the television that attracted Reid’s attention as he looked up from his desk and saw the face of Sarah Truman on the screen. This alone would have ordinarily brought Reid to a halt; he enjoyed watching his friend’s work. But the sight he saw behind Sarah banished all thoughts of work from his mind. It was Phillip Longman’s old family home.
Reid reached out for the screen’s remote control. His heart was suddenly pumping fast. He could feel himself beginning to panic as he fumbled with the buttons, desperate to switch off the TV’s mute setting. Finally he managed to make the damn thing work.
The sound of the television – of Sarah’s voice – immediately filled the room.
‘. . . discovered at approximately 8 a.m. this morning by the property’s housekeeper. Police say that the housekeeper remains in a state of some shock at this time, and is currently in the care of her family. She will be spoken to at greater length once she has had time to recover from the sight she witnessed. I understand, however, that the police do not anticipate that she will be able to assist much further in their enquiries.’
Reid could feel the vein in his temple throb. His blood pressure was peaking. Every word spoken was confirmation of his worst fear. Sarah was now speaking directly to the news anchor, which meant it was a live broadcast.
‘As I understand it, David, the exact cause of death has yet to be established. An autopsy will be performed but there is no doubt that the former Lord Chief Justice’s death was violent. This is a murder enquiry, and it’s already under way.’
Sarah’s tone signalled that her report was over, but Reid was no longer listening anyway. He was staring at nothing, paralysed by disbelief as shock started to set in.
Reid had experienced panic attacks before. More often than he cared to remember, and certainly enough to recognise the symptoms. He felt the sensation of his chest tightening, almost like a heart attack. He knew he had to bring it under control; at their worst, panic attacks release enough cortisol that they can tip over into genuine cardiac arrest. Focusing on a single spot above the office door, he began to breathe as deeply as he could. Long, greedy breaths through his nose. Exhaling steadily through his mouth. Slowly. Rhythmically. It was a struggle to bring his heart rate – and with it the flow of cortisol and adrenaline – back down to where it should be; every time he came close the thought of Longman facing his ‘violent death’ returned, causing the attack to strengthen.
It was over thirty-five years since Reid had first met Longman. Back when Longman was in his forties and at the top of his game. He had been less than nine months away from his promotion to Queen’s Counsel then, and still years away from his first appointment as a judge. Reid, on the other hand, was still in training. His Bar Exams passed, Longman had been appointed the younger man’s pupil-master. As it had with Michael and Reid, that pupillage forged a friendship that had lasted ever since. A friendship now ended by tragedy.
As close as the two men had remained, their relationship had differed from the one enjoyed by Reid and Michael. Longman always remained much older in his outlook than Reid. Much more serious. And so it had created a father/son feeling between them, very different from the big brother/little brother vibe that existed between Reid and Michael. But all relationships differ, and those differences do not make one friendship count for less than another. Reid loved Longman as much as he loved Michael. To lose either one of them was unthinkable.
Reid sat back in his chair, suddenly aware that the threatened attack had passed. He immediately reached for his mobile phone and scrolled down through his contacts, thinking of the people who would be finding this even harder. For a moment his eyes rested on the name Phillip Longman. A number he would never call again.
Reid felt tears begin to threaten his eyes at the thought. He wiped them away as he looked at the other names on the screen. Matthew. Peter. Russell. Phillip’s sons. Instinct and experience said that the police would have contacted Russell. He lived closest to his father, by some margin, and so was the logical choice to identify Phillip’s body. Which meant he was the one most likely to know something.
Reid listened to the ringtone chime out six, seven, eight times. He had begun to mentally compose the inevitable voicemail he would have to leave when the call was suddenly answered.
‘Derek, I was going to call.’ The voice at the end of the line sounded both exhausted and bereft. ‘I’m sorry you had to find out through the news.’
‘You have absolutely nothing to apologise for, Russell.’ Reid’s tone was as kind as he could make it. He felt nothing but sympathy for Longman’s youngest son. The closest in age to Reid himself, Russell had always been the friendliest of the brothers to their father’s former pupil. ‘I’m not calling to complain. I’m calling to tell you that I’m here. For anything you need. For anything I can do. You’re not alone in this, Russell.’
Russell did not answer immediately, but the change in his breathing told its story. A story of relief. Russell Longman had needed a friend. Now he had one.
‘Thank you, Derek.’ Russell finally found his voice. ‘I really appreciate it. You have no idea.’
‘Not another word.’ Reid shut off his laptop as he spoke, closed his files and rose to his feet. ‘Now tell me exactly where you are, Russell. I’m coming to you.’
THIRTEEN
Leon Ferris sat back into his leather high-back chair. In front of him wa
s a crystal glass, a large dash of oak-coloured whisky within. It sat on a coaster to protect Ferris’s expensive mahogany desk. It was the only item on there. Ferris’s desk was not for paperwork. He had people for that. Like the rest of Ferris’s dark but expensively furnished office, the desk was there to create an impression.
Ferris reached out and picked up the glass. Savoured the smokey taste of its contents. It had been a long time – eight years – since Ferris had tasted top-end scotch. It was exactly as he had remembered.
As was his office, he noted with satisfaction as his eyes roamed around the room. More a statement of status than a practical working space, it took up an entire floor of the narrow building. And it seemed that nothing had been touched since Ferris was last in the room.
He knew that could not be true. Ferris had been in this room when the Serious and Organised Crime Agency had come through his door. When they had dragged him out in cuffs, accused of crimes both financial and violent. Every inch of the office had been combed as the country’s most powerful police unit searched for evidence to convict him. That the decimated office had since been pieced together so completely showed the respect of Ferris’s subordinates.
The charges Ferris had faced were many: conspiracy to murder, conspiracy to assault, drug trafficking, people trafficking, blackmail, demanding monies with menaces, money laundering. Every crime a gang boss could be accused of. A huge coup for the police. Ferris had known from the start that he could not beat the rap completely. He was a clever man. Clever enough to recognise a lost cause. But he was also clever enough to know when he could win, and he had expensive lawyers to fight those battles he carefully picked.
In the six months following his arrest Ferris had studied the evidence that faced him. Until he knew it better than anyone. Better than his solicitor and his barristers. He was guilty of every allegation, of course, but he also knew which charges the prosecution could prove and which they could not. Ferris used this knowledge to guide his lawyers and by the time the case came to court the most serious charges were gone. No more murder. No more trafficking. All that remained was the allegation of being a drug dealer. Still serious. Still a crime that carried a heavy sentence. But very far from the literal lifetime of imprisonment he would have faced on the original charges.
