by Linda Coles
Michael watched as the long grey ponytail receded and an officer entered to escort him to the van for transportation. He was suddenly nervous, and his tongue felt like it had doubled in size in his mouth, causing his breathing to catch. He tried to gulp air into his lungs as panic took over and realisation of this next step took hold. Whatever happened in the courtroom today would determine how his life would pan out. It was literally in the hands of a stranger, a man or woman who had no prior knowledge of or dealings with him, had never met Michael socially or via business, and yet they were to decide what happened to him next. He hoped they were at least educated.
The officer clipped handcuffs onto his wrists now, and Michael Hardesty was dutifully lead down a much cooler corridor towards the back door and waiting van. As he walked the couple of steps across the concrete, he tried to pause and look up at the sun, which had slid out from behind a cloud. It felt warm on his face and he closed his eyes briefly.
“You’d best get used to not seeing much of the old currant bun,” the officer said snidely. “You’ll be lucky if you get an hour a day where you’re headed.”
Chapter Seventeen
The cell walls that now surrounded Michael were custard yellow, maybe in an attempt to make them feel cheery. Whether or not that was the case, they still smelt of other people’s urine. Michael wondered if the yellow was to cover up the stains or to match them, in some weird form of Feng Shui. Eau de piss. The banality of the custard colour took his mind off what was coming. A soggy egg sandwich and a plastic cup of water had been lunch, and he’d forced it down, not knowing when his next meal would come. Or where. While he liked to think he’d be home with Barb, Cassy and fish and chips, he wasn’t expecting to be.
He sat back on yet another hard, blue-plastic-covered mattress and put his head in his hands. The loud clank of the metal door opening made him sit up abruptly as Howard King and an officer walked in.
“It’s time,” King said, as handcuffs were again attached to Michael’s wrists. “Remember: stay quiet and calm, and let me do the talking. That’s what you’re paying me for.” He smiled encouragingly.
Michael’s face was blank. He felt like he was in a trance; if only he could wake up from it. Putting one trembling foot in front of the other, he walked out of the cell and up the long corridor to the courtroom.
King went on ahead, knowing Michael would be held back for a few minutes until his case was called. It gave him the time he needed to get into the designated courtroom and get ready. He knew Michael Hardesty’s chances of being granted bail were slim, and that the Magistrate was unlikely to make an exception just for him. He had to try, though, and he knew the prosecution would strenuously oppose it. Of course they would. Murder was a serious charge.
As he trudged down the hallway, he remarked that the corridors and waiting areas of courts in every town across the land looked almost identical. While the décor differed—some modern, some old-fashioned—their occupants were of the type that could be found in any busy A&E on a Saturday night after closing time: the serial offenders, the petty-crimers and joyriders, all waiting their turn in front of an over-scheduled magistrate. The repeat offenders, those used to making court appearances, knew how the system worked and generally slumped indifferently in chairs or against the walls; those new to it sat nervously forward in their seats or paced up and down in frustration. The speeding ticketers, the weekend addicts and the other white-collar attendees tended to huddle away in quieter corners away from the riffraff to wait their turn; with their expensive briefcases and tailored suits, they stuck out like red Ferraris in a Lidl supermarket car park.
Howard King nodded towards a tall blonde woman, a barrister called Maxine Kipple whom he’d come up against more than once. She nodded back, giving him a slight smile that could have meant either that she was being coy or mocking him. He preferred the first option. He could never be certain with Maxine; she was a rather unique individual in many ways. They’d had a one-nighter six months ago, though she hadn’t been back for more. He’d wondered why. Maybe he’d taken the wig thing a bit too far.
The courtroom he was heading for was up ahead, and he could see two nervous-looking women, one older, one in her teens, standing by the door—Barbara and Cassy Hardesty. Barbara spotted him first and held out her hands to him; he took them in his.
“How is he?” she asked urgently. “They won’t let me see him.”
“He’s holding up, Mrs Hardesty.”
Her eyes searched his, flickering from one to the other and back again in quick succession, her brow furrowed, tears threatening like storm clouds. Howard hated this part of his job; the grief of his clients coupled with the grief of their loved ones got to him sometimes. Whether he thought Michael was innocent or not was immaterial. His job was to defend him and get him the best outcome he could.
“Let’s talk after, okay?” he said, touching her shoulder gently. She nodded, blinking back tears. He opened the door and walked inside, headed to his spot at the front table, files tucked carefully under his arm.
Fifteen minutes later, it was all over. As expected, the bench had huddled together and, after a few short bursts of whispers, committed the accused in custody to the Crown Court. Michael Hardesty would have to wait it out in another cell.
“But I’m innocent!” he’d shouted as he was led away in handcuffs, back to the cells in the bowels of the courthouse. From there, he’d be taken to his new temporary accommodation, more than likely HMP High Down. At least it was a fairly new building and a far cry from the notorious Wormwood Scrubs.
Howard closed his files, gathered his things and headed back out. He’d pop down and see Michael before he left. He knew what he’d be faced with: Michael’s disappointment, changing to anger then worry. Everyone reacted the same way: the fear of getting through what was ahead of them, the worry about how they’d cope, how they’d settle in. In the court’s eyes, you were technically still innocent until proven guilty, and yet Michael and others like him would now have their liberty infringed. Howard had his work cut out for him. He’d need to get the best criminal barrister Michael could afford.
Buttoning his jacket, he went in search of Maxine Kipple.
Chapter Eighteen
“And he’s still inside?” Amanda asked.
“Yep. He was found guilty and is still serving now. I’d have to check when he’s due for release, but it can’t be far off.”
“And all because he whacked someone. How did it become murder and not manslaughter, then? What was the evidence against him?” Amanda was nursing her mug of tea, though there really couldn’t have been much left in the bottom.
“I never had much to do with it after they charged him that day. It was all Eddie. He liaised with the CPS. You know what’s it like—charge them and move on; another crime solved. There were some threats made, and some witnesses came forward, though I wouldn’t have said they were the most reliable of people. Those willing to testify for either McAllister or Hardesty back then would have been desperate or stupid.”
Amanda nodded. “And you think it was rigged?”
“I had my suspicions. But Hardesty was a bad lad, and, like I say, we did things differently back then. Not a lot could have been done anyway. What does Jack know?”
Amanda smiled at that; it was Jack’s turn to catch on. Jack shit.
“Ha, ha. Funny. True, though. He was a convenient statistic—another crime solved, another criminal off the streets.” Jack thought for a moment or two before adding, “I might just pay him a visit. He’s still in High Down, I think. Only around the corner.”
“Why?”
“Call it curiosity, since we’ve been talking about him. Here’s another fact for you to brighten your afternoon. Gary Glitter was an inmate there for a while. And that cricketer, the drug smuggler guy—I forget his name now.”
“No point asking me. Do I look sporty?” she said, passing her hand over her torso. Sporty Spice she was not.
“Point ta
ken. Anyway, you finished?”
Amanda nodded, and Jack stood and stacked their plates together to take to the trolley parked by the wall.
Amanda stood. “Better get some work done, I suppose, or Japp will be after my ass.” She placed their mugs on the trolley next to their plates. “What happened to your mate Eddie, then?”
“Not a mate. He was a pain in the neck to work with, to be honest. Always skiving off to the pub or climbing into some poor woman’s bed. It amazed me how he got away with what he did. But he left suddenly. It would be about ten years ago now, I expect. There one day, gone the next. I didn’t keep in touch. He was not my favourite boss to work with.”
“Is that my cue to ask who is? Or was?” she said playfully.
“If you like, O favourite boss person,” he said, bowing at her with arms outstretched. It wasn’t like she needed to dig for compliments; Amanda had a skin as tough as bacon rind. That was the side she showed to the outside world, anyway; she was soft as warm brie on the inside, Jack knew.
They walked together back to the squad room; the sunshine streamed in through the grimy glass doors and windows, highlighting the various rub marks and hand prints.
“We need a new window cleaner,” said Jack ruefully. “We’re working in a damned petri dish with all that bacteria smeared around. There’ll be all sorts of crap breathing alongside us.”
Amanda looked at him in surprise. Mrs Stewart’s cleaning habits were rubbing off on him.
“What time is the press conference?” Jack asked.
“Around four pm. ‘Jim-lad’ Japp will be front and centre, and no doubt I’ll get roped in alongside him.”
“Lucky you. Don’t forget your lipstick.”
Amanda turned and raised her eyebrows at him menacingly. Jack quickly stepped off ahead to avoid a swift slap. He teased Amanda mercilessly about her looks. She was a good-looking woman but rarely spent the time to accentuate her features. On the odd occasion she did, she looked knockout. It had come in handy when she’d ventured undercover in the past.
Back at her desk, Amanda watched her friend and colleague sift through the file he’d shown her over lunch. Michael Hardesty’s file was clearly intriguing him: she watched his body language as he scanned the pages, thumb and finger twiddling the left side of his moustache. His reading glasses needed updating, she mused. He lifted his chin and looked off into the distance, past his colleagues and through the window on the opposite side of the office. She could see the smear marks and streaks he’d referred to earlier. She wondered what he was thinking, what was rolling around in that exquisitely educated, fact-filled head of his. Maybe he was reminiscing about the good old days when a cop could get right up close and in the face of a suspect.
Jack’s hunches and keen nose for clues often got him in trouble. But he was also often right. Maybe she’d look at the case herself.
And maybe she’d organise a window cleaner.
Chapter Nineteen
Brian Parker stood at the side of the road, staring at the spot where his son had met his killer, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. It felt like leather on the much thinner and finer skin of his face as he brushed the tears away.
He turned slightly at the sound of a male voice beside him.
“I can’t imagine how tough this is for you and your wife,” the man said solemnly.
Brian turned fully to look at him now; it was the same man who had been in their house only last night.
“How did you find me here?” he asked, surprised.
“I live nearby. I was out for a walk.”
The man stared straight ahead as he spoke, not looking at Brian at all. Brian, however, kept watching the man, studying his features as he stood there quietly, like he was a statue in a stately home garden. His nose was huge and bulbous—a drinker’s nose, it was called, though the condition generally hadn’t much to do with drinking. Brian’s father had had the same condition, and he had never touched a drop except at Christmas, christenings or funerals. Tiny red blood vessels burst under the skin, giving it a bumpy, swollen appearance. It had been ugly on his father; it was equally ugly on the man standing beside him now. He was tempted to tell the intruder to get it looked at before he got much older, but he knew he would sound cruel. Besides, Brian doubted he’d give a damn anyway; he was dishevelled and stank of ancient cigarette smoke.
“You came to my house last night. Why?”
“Thought you should know.”
“You think there’s a cover-up going on?”
“Oh, undoubtedly. Best you’re aware so you can do something about it.” The man still hadn’t turned to face Brian yet; he seemed to be finding the hedgerow across the road of great interest.
“May I ask why you think they’ll cover up my son’s death? I’m sure there are good coppers on the force these days.”
“Some, yes, I grant you. Not like the old days.” He smirked at the hedge. “I would know, I guess.”
“Oh?” enquired Brian. “Did you have dealings with a bad one back then?”
“You could say that, yes. More than one, actually.”
“What’s your interest in this, can I ask?”
“History. I’ll leave it at that.”
The man began to walk back towards the row of houses further along the lane. Brian stood watching as the man faded into the distance and then rounded the bend. It was quiet once again, and Brian sat down on the grassy bank for a while to lament his lost son. He had fallen into the ditch only a few feet away, then got back up and called for a lift home.
And died.
“What happened to you, son?” Brian asked the breeze. “You were fine when you arrived home.” He dipped his head and let the tears roll away down his cheeks again. When the natural flow eased, he wondered again about the man and his motive. He silently reprimanded himself for not asking the man’s name or getting a telephone number. But he knew he must live nearby; he was on foot, after all, and had said as much. Perhaps he should try and catch him up, get his card, find out who he was. He struggled to his feet and hurried back to his car. He could drive down the lane after the man; he’d soon catch him up.
He climbed inside, pulled the door closed and started the engine, lowering the driver’s window to feel the warm air on his face. Winter would be along soon enough; best to enjoy the summer warmth while it lasted. His Jag cruised around the corner, the dappled effect of the sun through the trees dancing on the car bonnet and turning the silver paint almost a deep moss. There was nobody about. Brian carried on, slowly, watching front pathways for the man walking to his door, but there was nothing. Curious, he thought. The man couldn’t have got very far on foot in this short time, and there were no other houses on the stretch before the few in front of him now.
He carried on; maybe the man had run on ahead, though he’d been wearing sandals and shorts, not exactly running attire. There was still no sign of him, so Brian pulled in to the side and prepared to do a three-point turn and head home. Jean would be disappointed he’d missed the opportunity to get the man’s details; he knew she’d be as curious as he was about why the man was involving himself. Jean was the one with conspiracy theories in her head, though; she had her theories about Princess Diana’s death, about the missing airplane with hundreds of people on board, and of course she had her answers to them all.
“I doubt you’ll find the answer to this one,” he said gloomily as he headed for home.
Chapter Twenty
DCI Japp looked like he had a broom handle wedged up his backside. In immaculate police uniform, buttons gleaming in the afternoon sunshine, he stood on the steps of the station and addressed the nation via the cameras and microphones that were set up before him. Past President Obama would have been proud of his poise and delivery. Jack watched on from the sidelines, keeping cool in the shade of the building as his boss tried not to melt in the heat. The thick fabric of uniform dress was not the most pleasant thing to wear during the summer months, and Jack was glad
he didn’t have to suffer it.
“Let me make myself crystal clear,” Japp boomed to the journalists gathered. “As with every case, we do our utmost to get to the truth. Simply because an off-duty officer has found himself involved does not mean anything will change. Every case gets thoroughly investigated.”
“What do you say to those who are crying ‘cover-up,’ Detective?” It was Dan Smart from The Courier, a skinny, nervous-looking man whom Jack knew to have particularly sweaty hands. Even on a warm day like today, Smart kept his sleeves long; his mousy brown hair, which needed washing and styling, hung limply on his collar. He held a microphone with a smartphone attached to it in the air. “Readers have a right to know.”
Jack grimaced at the cliché; why did journalists always haul out the public’s right to know? What good did it do? “Ask a proper question, would you?” he mumbled under his breath.
Japp, also clearly annoyed by Smart’s statement, raised both hands slightly as if pacifying a large, unruly crowd. “Let me assure you, there is not and never will be a cover-up. The officer involved is cooperating fully, and we are in the process of investigating this terrible event. I am not able to tell you any more at this time, as the investigation is ongoing.”
“The Parkers say they’ll sue. What do you say to that?” Dan tried his luck again. His whole body seemed to shake as he shouted his question from near the back of the crowd.
“That is up to the Parkers. We’ll know a good deal more when the autopsy results are all back and we have the facts to work with. I really don’t have much else to say until then.”
A barrage of questions flew towards Japp now; he stood stunned for a moment, looking like he’d been slapped. The gathered press were not ready to leave with the little they had. Silvery microphone heads waved erratically in the air like magpies. Jack tittered quietly to himself as he unwrapped a Werther’s Original and slipped it into his mouth, sucking on it loudly. The crowd in front jostled, and again Japp did his best to quiet the chatter with his hands.
