Gardner-Wells lingered over the heinous nature of the act, using words to paint a picture of Harley as a heartless murderer. His mother and father had nurtured and provided for him, cared safely for him for sixteen years. Harley Carroll had repaid that love and dedication with absolute callousness. The worst kind of filial sentiment–he had murdered them in cold blood. There was no motive. There was no reason.
Gardner-Wells ended his speech with a summation on the sorry state of youth affairs if a crime of this heinousness could be considered run of the mill. His voice sounded brash as he came to his theatrical conclusion, a show for the judge and the media waiting in their seats behind them.
“My Lord, while it is a fact that the accused is still under the age of eighteen, the wickedness of this crime propels me to request that rather than serving the mandatory twelve years detention during Her Majesty’s pleasure, Harley Carroll is sentenced as an eighteen to twenty-one year old and serves custody for life.”
A gasp circled the courtroom. Shock drove Isla to her feet. What Gardner-Wells was suggesting was that instead of handing down a mandatory twelve-year sentence, with perhaps a year or two shaved off if Isla could convince the judge of mitigating circumstances, Harley was now facing a possible thirty years behind bars.
“My Lord, this is preposterous! My learned colleague knows that criminal courts must follow sentencing guidelines–”
Gardner-Wells shot her a triumphant look as he interrupted, “Unless it’s contrary to the interests of justice to do so. My Lord, all I ask is that you don’t forget the shocking circumstances of this murder. The fact that Mr Carroll mutilated his own father by severing his penis is just one of the horrors of his crime.”
Isla’s lips tightened. So, that was the card Gardener-Wells was playing: strike terror into the essence of every man in the courtroom, the judge included, at the appalling idea of losing his manhood. No doubt their bollocks had shrunk to the size of peanuts just at the thought.
“Ms. Standing, Mr Gardner-Wells, please sit down.”
Isla sank back into her chair. She met Gardner-Wells’s smug nod in her direction with a long, cool stare. Both he and the judge expected her to plead for clemency for her client, for a mitigation of his sentence, for them to consider his youth and the fact that the crime did not appear to be pre-meditated but spur of the moment.
“Ms. Standing, what does the defense have to say?”
She rose to her feet. Suddenly the starched wing collar and bands around her neck felt suffocating while the rustle of her black cotton gown was overloud amongst the crackle of papers and muted whispers. Someone cleared their throat in the gallery. She took a deep breath.
The curled horsehair wig she wore was a symbol that no matter her personal affiliations, she had a role to perform. The pair of linen bands around her neck represented on one hand that a lawyer worked for the rich, garnering a fee justly earned after years of study and labor. The second tongue was a reminder that she should be as ready to work without reward to defend the poor and oppressed.
Isla stared steadfastly at the coat of arms behind Judge Rafferty. She was, and always had been, proud of the costume she assumed when in court. She was the daughter of a police officer and it was in her blood to chase justice. In her heart, Isla didn’t believe that the entire truth had been presented in Harley’s case. Too many busy people had grasped at his confession as an easy out and were prepared to let him pay the ultimate price.
Isla cast a swift glance in Harley’s direction. She felt a stab of sorrow seeing his head hung low, looking defeated and guilty and totally wrung out by the court system he’d been through.
Her back tensed. It was her job to wrangle truth out of a courtroom even if that caused unbearable consequences.
Judge Rafferty’s bushy eyebrows buffered together as he regarded her thoughtfully over the top of his half-moon glasses. “Are you ready with your defense, Ms. Standing?” he repeated querulously.
Her palms slick with sweat, she returned his look with calm precision.
“With the greatest respect, My Lord, I request this case be remanded due to the prosecution’s negligence.”
Hubbub broke out amongst the journalists. A quick glance backwards at Celia, the junior lawyer assigned to help with today’s session, told Isla that her decision was going to have nasty repercussions back in the office.
Gardner-Wells pushed himself upright. Consternation fought with astonishment for dominance across his features. “With all due respect, My Lord, I must protest my learned colleague’s statement!”
Judge Rafferty threw a stern glance her way, fierce enough to make a lesser woman quail. But Isla had no intention of being bullied by either man. She was going to stand her ground to see that both truth and justice won out in this case.
“On what grounds are you demanding a remand, Ms. Standing?”
“My Lord, on the grounds that the prosecution hasn’t taken into account factors that could provide a defense to the accused.”
“Ms. Standing, this matter should have been brought up in the pre-sentencing reports if it’s to factor into your defense,” Judge Rafferty snapped. “You have been privy to the prosecution’s evidence in this case and it’s a little late in the day to raise new qualms.”
“Indeed, My Lord, it’s my contention that this case shouldn’t be in court today. The investigation rests almost solely on Harley Carroll’s confession. If I could bring your attention to Dr. Rayansh Chaudri, the court appointed psychiatrist’s, own assessment, Harley Carroll ‘is a very suggestive subject who has a propensity to take adult authority very seriously and was easily swayed during discussions’. ‘Easily swayed’, My Lord,” Isla emphasized, staring boldly back into Judge Rafferty’s beady eyes. “I request that further investigation be conducted into the mental state of the accused. My Lord, if I may quote the case of Hendricks versus–”
“Yes, yes, Ms. Standing, I’m well aware of case law in regards to the mental capacity of the accused and the part that plays in bringing charges against a person of diminished capacity,” the judge said with testiness. “Mr Gardner-Wells, is this true? Have the police been remiss in harvesting evidence for this case other than Mr Carroll’s confession to the crime?”
Gardner-Wells floundered like a fish out of water, seeing his easy victory slipping from his grasp. “Of course not, My Lord. There were also Harley Carroll’s fingerprints on the murder weapon.”
Deep ridges furrowed Judge Rafferty’s brow. He heaved a theatrical sigh.
“Since the knife was from Harley Carroll’s family home it can be argued he had access to it on a daily basis. What else do you have to secure this conviction?”
“The evidence was presented prior to the pre-sentencing court date, My Lord,” Gardner-Wells blustered, his voice hollow.
Isla gloated. Being overconfident of an easy victory today, he had committed the cardinal sin of neglecting to bone up on his notes.
“Mr Gardner-Wells, may I offer the suggestion that you withdraw the current charges until a more thorough investigation into the deaths of Keith and Andrea Carroll can be re-opened? In the meantime, I commit Harley Carroll to an appropriate facility for a twenty-eight day mental assessment.”
“My Lord!” Gardner-Wells’s protest was more of a moan that faded under the judge’s cold-eyed, pragmatic stare.
“Unless you have something to say to refute Ms. Standing’s claims, you should take my suggestion seriously, Mr Gardner-Wells.”
“Indeed, My Lord. I will consult with Detective Inspector Alban about the charges.” Gardner-Wells’s voice reeked of chagrin even as he bowed his head meekly in deference to the judge’s recommendation. As he reclaimed his seat he shot Isla a thunderous scowl.
The icy tone of Judge Rafferty’s voice bit hard into the silence shrouding the courtroom. “As for you, Ms. Standing, I sincerely hope you haven’t bitten off more than you can chew.”
Isla stifled a shiver. It wouldn’t do to appear too confident in fro
nt of the hard-nosed judge, but she hoped the ace in her hand was that Chief Superintendent Vincent Titus trusted his daughter’s instincts.
Chapter 12
Monday 11 December
Bridesmead CID was located in a triangle running between New Scotland Yard on Victoria Embankment, the National Crime Agency in Old Queen Street and the Prime Minister’s residence at 10 Downing Street. It was within walking distance of many tourist attractions had Bex allowed herself the time for sightseeing.
Hidden amongst a smorgasbord of buildings on Little King Lane whose facades were so discreet Bex had trouble guessing if they were residences or businesses, the building rose three narrow stories from its ground floor metallic portico. An alleyway ran down one side to the back of the building where there was room to squeeze in two unmarked police cars. Opposite was Dill’s Sandwich Bar and down the road was the Sail and Ale pub—all the conveniences any copper needed, quipped Eli.
Despite its age, which Bex suspected dated back to the era of the original Scotland Yard/Sherlock Holmes, a recent renovation left it fresher than the New York precinct offices she had most recently worked out of. The Youth Crimes Team was on the second floor, crushed into what had previously been a property holding area, between Bridesmead CID officers on the third floor and the holding cells and interview rooms at ground level. Their office walls had a new coat of yellow paint that was meant to be cheery and compensate for the lack of daylight seeping through the transom windows, but which reminded Bex of custard pies. Reuben’s jibe was that the color could easily hide any “hangover hurls”.
The renovations hadn’t gone down well with Bridemead CID’s Chief Inspector, Nicholas “Cole” Mackinley. The past four months of their tenancy in the building had been marred with constant power struggles as she fought to get her team access to exhibit storage space, holding cells and interview rooms, while any sort of crime support they requested was a process of hoop jumping. She suspected her team’s morale had plummeted since the move from their swanky office space at New Scotland Yard, but Eli told her that was par for the course. With CIDs across the nation being stretched beyond breaking point, any whiff that money was being spent on an “unnecessary” department could only garner sour grapes.
On the plus side they had all been issued with the latest laptops and mobile tablets. Bex supposed this was to offset for the lack of amenities, with four desks smashed up against each other and a cubicle hardly bigger than a traditional red telephone box for her own office.
A briefing room at the end of the hallway held a board covered with information on their latest cases and a large wooden rectangular slab in the center of the room. This surface was plastered with a mishmash of crime scene photos and ziplocked bags containing a variety of objects including a severed penis which had caused a spate of ribald jokes from both Reuben and Eli.
Bex had the door of her cramped office open to ward off claustrophobia and her team’s voices carried down the hallway.
“Tell me again why we’re re-examining the evidence in this case? The perp confessed didn’t he?” Reuben’s grumble held a mixture of curiosity and criticism.
As Bex typed through a summary of their last raid that had netted a substantial amount of drugs, illegal firearms and the name of a dealer, it was hard to contain her own irritability. Her team had four cases on the go and now they were expected to stretch resources to re-open the investigation into the murder of Keith and Andrea Carroll. But the directive had come directly from Chief Superintendent Vincent Titus and couldn’t be bucked.
“I don’t know why you say ‘we’, Sunshine, because you haven’t lifted your nose from your phone for the last fifteen minutes,” Eli protested.
“That’s rich coming from someone who’s dodged a shit-load of work by drinking his body weight in tea,” Idris rebutted.
Reuben sniggered. “Besides, I only look up police news. Take this story on the dire shortage of detectives in the lead up to an expected Christmas crime spree. The Beeb says retention rates have plummeted dramatically and there’s video of an interview with Dresden about the new overseas recruitment exchange. Listen.”
Dresden’s voice echoed with tinny clarity through Reuben’s loudspeaker.
“This eminently sensible scheme cuts down on our training budget and boosts the overall detective ranks. People from other work environments also bring a fresh eye to the service, which is invaluable. It’s a win-win situation. We’ll trial it for another six months to fully bed the system in place before we roll it out full-scale. London is a diverse city and there’s no reason our police force shouldn’t emulate that diversity…”
Quinn snorted and spoke over the top of Dresden’s voice, “These new recruitment processes are bollocks! How else could you have become a detective, Reuben? From estate salesman to detective after eighteen weeks of training? It’s ludicrous! Used to be you had to be on the beat for at least two years before you were considered detective material. You’re still wet behind the ears in policing matters.” Quinn’s voice was brutal with derision. “Now they’re bringing in overseas detectives, giving them a two week orientation course and voila they bung a new detective into the breach. The Met’s going down the plughole. Take my word for it these measures are a recipe for disaster. And that’s the long answer, Reuben, for why we’re here examining an old case. CIDs are under so much pressure we have to check that procedures weren’t skipped and the case was investigated properly.”
“Maybe you should bale out of the job then, Quinn,” Idris said. “No point staying on a sinking ship is there? That’s not your style.”
“I wouldn’t know about style, Idris, because I’m not a clothes horse like you,” Quinn’s voice drawled with insolence.
In her cubby-hole, Bex tensed, wondering if there was going to be a show down between the two men. Despite the disparity in their sizes with Quinn being a running back to Idris’s all-star offensive tackle size, Quinn never flinched from tackling conflict.
“Say, Idris, how do you afford those expensive suits you wear to work on a detective’s salary?” Reuben’s cheeky question broke the brewing friction and Bex blessed his irreverence.
There were a few seconds of silence, before Idris answered with mocking condescension, “Sacrifice, boyo, sacrifice. I live on bread and dripping and I don’t splurge on the expensive techno toys you’re addicted to.”
“Let’s get back to work before the boss starts breathing down our necks,” Eli said.
“I still don’t understand. Doesn’t a confession make further investigation irrelevant?” Reuben persisted.
“Listen, mate, just because someone confesses doesn’t mean they’re always guilty of the crime,” Eli countered. “A guilty charge needs to be backed up by evidence. I well remember a case I was involved in as a young copper. Estevan Olmo, on a visit here from Spain. Walked into our police station one day claiming to have killed three people, namely his travel companions. Ran us around on a merry chase trying to track down his three ‘victims’. In a strange coincidence an unidentified body turned up in the district and some of the lads were quick to put two and two together and make six. Poor sod suffered from mental illness. Only when his companions saw the story in the news and came forward, alive and well, to disprove Olmo’s story did we finally realize he’d dreamed up the whole crime and released him.”
“Bizarre!” said Reuben. “Hey, Quinn, is it true that your missus is the lawyer involved in Carroll’s case? Is she the one we have to thank for this additional workload?”
“Can the negative comments,” Idris interrupted. “If Isla thinks there’s something worth investigating then maybe the police missed something the first time around.”
“It’s not your job to defend Isla, mate.”
At the sound of Quinn’s voice bristling with hostility, Bex’s stomach clenched. Relations between team members had never been easy, but for the past ten days, since her run-in with Quinn at their last drug raid, Quinn had made it his mission to build
the pressure to exploding point.
She flipped her laptop shut and stood up. She was the team leader and somehow she had to find the means to soften the building tension. It was a leadership role she was still coming to terms with. The Youth Crimes Team had never possessed a particularly harmonious working environment, but life in the office was becoming unbearable.
She stuck her head through the open doorway of the briefing room.
“Quinn, I need you to sift through the evidence on that illegal firearms haul.”
At the request, Quinn swung his head in her direction to shoot her a venomous look before erupting from his chair like a missile. He stormed out without a word, leaving behind a cloud of awkwardness the others covered by busying themselves with the evidence bags spreading like a fungus across the wooden tabletop.
Silently Eli lifted his mug in her direction before taking a sip. Reuben caught her eye and gave her a wink. These small acknowledgements caused a quick sliver of relief to lodge in her chest. Not everyone on her team was a grade A asshole who hated her.
The brewing tension had made it impossible to broach Quinn about seeking his friend’s input of gym equipment as she had promised Dresden. She had been stewing over how to ask him about possible donations since the charity event. Several times she had steeled herself to talk to him, only to find herself sidetracked by some sniping argument. Every time she thought she had overcome some obstacle with Quinn, the man seemed determined to find something new to criticize.
Idris examined Harley Carroll’s clothing. A black T-shirt and sloppy blue jeans. A pair of sneakers and mismatched socks. Even his underwear had been provided. Bex moved closer. She didn’t relish returning to the office where she would have to face Quinn so soon.
“Anything stand out to you?” she asked, noting his puzzled expression.
“Yeah. I’ve checked the forensics report which states his clothes have only two areas of blood. See here on the knee of the jeans is a handprint in red, as though he rested his hand there while he was sitting down or rubbed his hand over the area. And here near the cuff, but that might have been when he brushed against the body. No blood splatters, which means he couldn’t have been wearing these particular clothes at the time of the murder.”
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