Cut_Throat Defence

by Olly Jarvis

  It tasted bitter.

  Chapter 64

  Saturday. Jack’s first hazy thought was of Lara. Memories of the slap made him wince. Always saying the wrong thing. Why couldn’t he just explain to her how he felt? Was there even any point? He dragged himself into the shower and tried to find the inspiration for his closing speech.

  Like his father, and despite his reluctance to admit it, Jack was a creature of habit. Saturday mornings were invariably spent in the same way. He would go to his father’s flat and together they would make the short walk to Southern Cemetery to visit Jack’s mother’s grave. He didn’t approve of such regular visits, but it was the only time Mariusz would go anywhere and he understood what these trips meant to him.

  The cemetery was huge. It was situated between Chorlton and Didsbury, on the Parkway, the great road into Manchester from Chester and the West.

  They walked in slowly through the main gate. ‘You very quiet today, Janusz?’

  Jack waited for the inevitable cross-examination.

  ‘What wrong?’

  ‘Nothing much, Tata. I’ve offended Lara, and blown any chance I might have had of winning the trial.’

  Mariusz smiled. ‘Don’t worry. You have lifetime to be a better man.’

  ‘Ever the optimist. Unfortunately, I only have about two days to be a better barrister or I’m out on my ear.’

  ‘Your ear?’

  ‘It’s just an English phrase, Tata,’ replied Jack, his voice trailing off as an idea came to him. He left his father and headed towards the crematorium.

  In the chapel, a priest was putting out some hymn books in the pews. Seeing Jack come in he offered, ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘To be honest, I doubt it.’

  ‘Well, you never know. Try me.’

  ‘I’m hoping to find the funeral records of someone who was cremated here twenty years ago.’

  The priest looked at him quizzically.

  Jack sought to allay any concerns by extending a hand. ‘My name is Jack Kowalski, I’m a lawyer. The enquiry is on behalf of the daughter of the deceased.’

  The priest softened. ‘I love history, don’t you? I find it fascinating reading the old records. Come with me. Some of the headstones in the cemetery go back a very long time.’

  ‘Oh, I know. My mother is buried here.’

  He led Jack into a large room where shelves were stacked with leather-bound registers. ‘We’ve been meaning to put all these records on computer, but who is going to pay someone to do it?’ He waved an arm at the shelves. ‘The registers for all funerals. Right. I need the name of the deceased and the date of cremation.’

  Jack was only able to give an approximate date; he had no documents with him but he remembered the month and year.

  The priest soon found the relevant register and ran his finger down the pages. ‘Here we are! Michael Panassai. Oh dear, bit of a messy entry I’m afraid.’

  Jack examined it. The word ‘burial’ had been crossed out and someone had written ‘cremation’.

  The priest offered an explanation. ‘It looks as if a burial had been booked but then, later, someone decided to cremate instead.’

  ‘Do you know who that was?’ asked Jack a little impatiently.

  ‘Ah, look here, do you see?’ said the priest, enjoying the forensic analysis of the entry. ‘Here, written in the margin, in the same pen as the word “cremation”, is the name “Paula Hughes”. She must have telephoned to change the arrangements.’

  The name meant nothing to Jack. ‘Could anyone ring and do that?’

  ‘Well, not just anyone. We always ask their relationship to the deceased. It’s almost always a close friend or relative. Who else would be interested?’

  Jack didn’t reply but read the entry, hoping against hope for any further information. There was nothing, not even a contact number.

  As he weaved his way through the gravestones to meet his father, Jack phoned Lara. ‘It’s me. I’ve got some info for you. Where are you?’

  ‘In my car outside Clive Walsh’s apartment block. I’m on a stakeout.’

  ‘Wolfy? How did you get his address?’

  ‘Ken got it for me.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  ‘The Ophthalmic Works. A penthouse, no less.’

  Jack knew exactly where it was. ‘I’ll come and find you.’

  ‘OK. Bye.’

  He found Mariusz sitting on his favourite bench, near Kasia’s grave. They sat together in silence for a while. Mariusz could tell Jack was eager to get off. He squeezed his son’s knee and they set off back to the flat.

  Chapter 65

  The Ophthalmic Works was a converted apartment block in Manchester’s city centre.

  Jack got out of the cab a little way from the building and walked up the street. He didn’t want to be too conspicuous. He found Lara quickly enough, sitting in her car, parked just outside the flats.

  Jack tapped on the window and opened the door, moved a flask from the seat and got in. ‘How long have you been here?’

  ‘Since about seven this morning.’

  It was midday.

  ‘Bloody hell! You must be bored shitless.’

  ‘It’s your turn of phrase that sets you apart as an advocate, Jack.’

  ‘What are we going to do if Walsh turns up? It’s not like he’s going to admit anything. He won’t make a witness statement, so even if we served a summons on him there’d be no point calling him, because he would just say nothing; we wouldn’t be able to cross-examine our own witness.’

  ‘He’s going to be very scared though. Scared people behave unpredictably.’

  Jack was amazed at the way Lara understood people. She truly did have a lawyer’s nous.

  ‘Anyway, what’s the information, Jack? I’m desperate for something to wake me up.’

  He recounted his discovery at the crematorium.

  Lara was mystified. She didn’t recognize the name Paula Hughes at all.

  Jack decided to say what they were both thinking. ‘If I were into conspiracy theories, I would say that Paula Hughes wanted the funeral arrangements switched to a cremation as a handy way of destroying evidence.’

  ‘Go on.’ Lara wanted confirmation that her thought processes weren’t fanciful.

  ‘The dinner jacket. If it was on the back of the driver’s seat, it belonged to the person driving at the time of the crash. Whoever that was put Michael into the driver’s seat but forgot to swap the jackets. The police assumed it was Michael’s, so he ended up being dressed in it for the funeral. Whoever owned that jacket realized the mistake and wanted it burnt.’

  Lara’s eyes scanned Jack’s face for more answers.

  Mesmerized, he tried to think of something else to say to distract himself from her beauty. Eventually, he managed: ‘Of course, it’s only a theory.’

  She reached across him, seemingly oblivious to his presence, and opened the glove compartment. He could smell her perfume. She took out Jim’s file, opened it and started to look through the documents with great intensity.

  Jack felt another great wave of compassion and affection wash over him. Would he ever find the courage to express his feelings, properly? Maybe after the case was over. For now an apology would have to do. ‘Lara, I’m sorry about yesterday.’ He blushed.

  Lara’s heart went out to him. ‘Forget it, Jack. You’re under a huge amount of pressure.’ She chose not to say anything more.

  ‘Come on, pass me some of those, Lara.’ He reached over and grabbed at a wad of documents from the file.

  The moment had passed. Lara stopped him. ‘I’ll read. You watch the door for a while. Think about your speech.’

  They spent the afternoon taking shifts watching the door of the apartment block.

  Lara had re-read Jim’s file on her father and found nothing. Jack made repeated attempts to write his closing speech but, as he’d found all weekend, couldn’t think of anything at all to say.

  Jack gazed at the cardboard
file resting on Lara’s lap. The open flap revealed various doodles on the underside. His eyes fixed on some writing, hardly legible. ‘What does that say?’ He peered closer at the flap.

  Lara picked up the file and read with some difficulty, ‘Nurse Hughes – uncooperative.’

  ‘Paula Hughes!’ exclaimed Jack.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘She arranged the cremation.’ Jack offered an explanation. ‘She could’ve been treating Michael before he died. He might’ve told her he wanted to be cremated. Maybe she was just carrying out his wishes. I could have been completely wrong,’ Jack added, anxious that he hadn’t concerned her unduly.

  ‘Shit, he’s there!’

  Lara was staring at a black cab that had pulled up in front of them. Clive Walsh had just got out and was staggering towards the entrance to the flats. He was drunk but dressed as if he’d just come from a shooting weekend: red cords, brogues and a tweed jacket, carrying a leather holdall.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Nothing yet.’ Lara was in complete control.

  After a few minutes, Lara got out of the car. ‘Wait here,’ she ordered.

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Jack got out and followed her to the door.

  ‘Well, stay out of the way then.’ She pushed him to one side so that he wasn’t picked up by the video intercom camera above them. Jack hadn’t even noticed it.

  She pressed the buzzer, then took some lipstick out of her bag and started to apply it, in full view of the camera.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Hi. I’m a present, courtesy of Mr Boyle.’

  A pause.

  ‘Come up, the door’s open upstairs.’

  The buzzer sounded. She pushed the main door open and walked to the lift.

  They came out on the top floor, which afforded a view across Manchester. The skyline was dominated by contemporary, angular, glass-sided offices and apartment blocks. A smattering of great Victorian buildings jostled proudly for their positions, incongruous and distant reminders of a bygone industrial age.

  There was only one door, which had to be Walsh’s.

  Lara knocked.

  ‘Come in, it’s open.’

  The penthouse was huge, with wall-to-ceiling windows all around. There was a large double bed on a mezzanine.

  Clive Walsh – ‘Wolfy’ – was sitting on a leather sofa, leaning over a table, snorting a line of cocaine.

  ‘Come and join the party,’ he called out in a refined public-school accent, without looking up.

  Jack followed Lara inside and shut the door.

  After taking an almighty snort, Walsh sat back in relief and focused on his visitors. He saw Jack for the first time. ‘What’s going on? Who are you people?’

  ‘I am Lara Panassai. I’m Carl Marpit’s solicitor. This is Jack Kowalski, his barrister.’

  Walsh stood up, wobbling slightly. ‘Who the hell do you think you are, coming to my home like this? Get the fuck out, right now, or I’ll ring the police.’

  ‘Hang on, Clive. Think for a minute. This won’t go away now. We know too much,’ Lara lied.

  ‘Like what?’ he demanded.

  ‘Elvis Boyle.’

  Walsh did a double-take, then, composing himself, walked over to a glass-topped sideboard where there were some decanters. He poured himself a large brandy, then downed it. His moustache still had cocaine all over it. With only a hint of embarrassment, he gazed at his reflection in the tabletop and wiped it away, then looked at them with revulsion. ‘On a crusade for justice, are you? You make me want to puke.’

  Lara answered matter-of-factly, ‘You are a witness and I would like to take a statement from you.’

  Walsh gave a manic belly laugh. ‘You are joking. If you know as much as you say you do, you’d know I would never give a witness statement. Never!’

  ‘Look, Clive,’ said Lara, taking out her mobile. ‘We can make things a whole lot more difficult for you. There’s a load of coke on this table. Locked up. No drink, no drugs, and with all those ex-clients you’ve shat on in the past. We’re not leaving without a few answers.’

  Walsh poured himself another brandy and sat down on the sofa. He started to brush the leftover cocaine back into a silver box that held a lot more. He was in a pitiful state, his hands trembling from a combination of alcohol, drugs and fear.

  Jack decided to stick his oar in. ‘Clive, we are prepared to trade. We will treat you as a confidential source. No witness statement, no giving evidence. In exchange we want some answers. What happens in the trial is out of my control. But one way or another you will feature in this case. We’ve got a lot of information about your role already.’

  Walsh’s career of backhanders and dodgy deals had finally caught up with him. He glanced up at the scornful faces of Marpit’s lawyers. ‘You have no idea about the pressures I’m under.’

  The self-pity was stomach churning.

  Finally, out of curiosity: ‘What do you want to know?

  Jack began. ‘Did you get information from Carl Marpit about the drug-dealing activities of an organized crime group called The District?’

  Walsh shifted uncomfortably. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, get out. Go on. Fuck off!’

  ‘Did you ask him to infiltrate their operation?’

  ‘I said get out!’

  Jack ignored the order. ‘Were you working for the NCA?’

  Walsh started to pace up and down, then poured himself another drink.

  ‘Who were you working for?’

  ‘I can’t answer that.’

  ‘Was it Elvis Boyle?’

  ‘You’ll get nothing from me.’ Walsh again fell silent.

  Lara took over. ‘Come on, Clive. Stop messing about. We just need a few more answers.’ She repeated the question. ‘Why would Boyle want information on The District?’

  ‘Which word didn’t you understand? I thought you would’ve got the message by now,’ he sneered.

  ‘What message?’ demanded Jack.

  ‘Didn’t your dad pass it on?’

  Jack grabbed Walsh by the throat and pushed him against the wall. ‘What do you know about my father?’

  Walsh was choking. ‘Nothing. You’re assaulting me.’

  ‘Come on, Jack. Leave it,’ urged Lara gently, pulling on Jack’s arm. ‘Let’s go.’ She was worried about what Jack might do if they stayed any longer.

  Jack released his grip. ‘You tell your people to stay away from my father.’

  Lara pushed Jack out of the flat, before he did something that could end his career.

  They set off in Lara’s car, checking behind every few minutes to ensure that no one was following them.

  ‘So what now, Jack?’

  Jack composed himself. ‘We haven’t got a witness who will give evidence about a possible link between Marpit and Boyle, or even Marpit and Walsh. Spears is dead. Walsh won’t help and Boyle would never incriminate himself. Our only hope is to get Marpit into court. If he gave evidence that he honestly believed Wolfy ‒ Walsh – worked for the NCA, the jury could acquit.’

  Lara thought for a moment. ‘OK, we need to revisit the issue of why Marpit absconded. He said people were looking for Melanie. Purley’s lot. I believe him. Now we know he wasn’t working for the NCA, at least directly. He can’t be running from them. It can only be Boyle or The District. More likely The District. He’s betrayed them – grassed them up.’

  ‘You’re probably right. But no Marpit, no case. It’s over, Lara. That’s it.’

  Chapter 66

  Monday morning. Still no speech, despite spending all of Sunday on it. Jack was sitting at Huntsman’s desk, reading the Spears disclosure documents again. He was sure he had missed something. Too late now, anyway.

  ‘Hello, Jack. Don’t get up.’ Huntsman began rifling through his shelves for a brief. ‘Seen the Harding papers anywhere?’

  ‘Top right.’

  ‘Ah, yes, thanks. You all right? Case going O
K? You look completely washed out.’

  ‘The case is lost, and I’m responsible for a section-eighteen wounding.’

  ‘On who?’

  ‘Maisie Harris. I asked her for information, so some bastard cut her nose off.’

  ‘How do you know it was because of you?’

  ‘It’s obvious.’

  ‘No it isn’t,’ said Huntsman. ‘Firstly, if you are investigating a defence, it is not your fault. Secondly, it probably had nothing to do with you. It was bound to catch up with her eventually. She snitched on a lot of people.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Had Jack misheard him?

  ‘She was an informant, registered with GMP. Nothing big, paid for a few fixes. Had some information about one or two small-time pimps and drug dealers, including her co-defendant on the robbery.’

  Jack couldn’t take it in. ‘Did the judge know ‒ when she was sentenced?’

  ‘Of course. It was a brown-envelope job. Some DC put it together for me. Went to see the judge in chambers with prosecution counsel the week before, so it wouldn’t arouse any suspicions with her co-defendant at the hearing.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘No time. Didn’t matter, the mitigation was in.’

  ‘That’s why she got a walk-out?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me after the hearing?’

  ‘You gained so much confidence from the result and—’

  ‘And you thought there was no point bursting my bubble?’

  Huntsman sighed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I should be angry with you, Simon,’ said Jack getting up and putting on his coat. ‘But selfishly, I’m more relieved that I might not be responsible for her injury. Not that it makes any difference to her. See you later.’

  Chapter 67

  Manchester Crown Court, 10:25am. Jack saw Finch walking towards him along the corridor that led to the police room. A patronizing sneer as he passed. ‘Enjoying the trial, son? All good experience.’

  Jack stopped in his tracks. Something had just occurred to him. A rush of blood to the head. He turned round. ‘Finch!’

  ‘Officer Finch or Mr Finch, to you.’