Mirror Man

by McIntosh, Fiona

  ‘I do,’ Kate said, nodding. ‘For Courtroom Eleven in particular.’

  ‘I must say, I’m shocked by that question.’

  Kate frowned. ‘Why? It has to be asked. Someone is targeting convicted criminals from your courtroom. We need to look at everyone who is familiar with the cases.’

  ‘Well, I . . . I don’t know what to think.’ Kate waited while Judge Leland spluttered her way through, trying to regain her suddenly rattled composure. ‘Good grief, no. I can’t think of anyone from our Crown Courts who is capable of what you’re suggesting.’ Moira Leland picked up her fountain pen and put it down again. She blinked rapidly. ‘Er, is that all, Inspector?’

  ‘I’m wondering about Brian Jarvis.’

  Now the judge just looked disturbed. Kate thought about the text message; what was Jack up to, weaponising her like this?

  ‘Do you mean the clerk of the court from seven?’ the judge said, her voice sounding unnaturally tight.

  ‘I do. I gather he’s clerked in your courtroom?’ She kept the question open and light.

  ‘Oh, well, once or twice. But I hardly know him. Surely you don’t—’

  ‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Kate lied. ‘Er, Mr Jarvis is helping us with our enquiries and I just wanted to be sure we were talking to the right person. He seems knowledgeable.’

  ‘Well, he is,’ Judge Leland said; the ground she’d lost during the topple from her high perch had been regained. Kate imagined her all but stroking down her ruffled feathers. ‘He’s been here an awfully long time and I suspect that if anyone can help you with queries around the North London Crown Court, Brian is your man.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Your Honour. We were simply doing what we call due diligence. We’ve spoken to everyone behind the scenes, so to speak, and we left you till last, just in case you could give us any more insight than those who run the court.’

  ‘Well, quite. You need to understand that as a judge I am entirely focused on proceedings; every nuance, every aspect of law presented and discussed, every question being asked, I must scrutinise and test. I don’t really have time to be looking around and taking a measure of the people who have no bearing on the trial. And we are on trial for someone’s life, usually, in these rather notorious and violent cases. I have a specific and demanding role. If I get it wrong, all hell breaks out.’ She smiled. Kate noted that the lecture had allowed her to gather up her shock and tie it neatly back into a manageable place. It was also an unnecessarily long speech; she was working too hard to impress Kate.

  ‘There would be a section of society that believes you do get it wrong.’

  Moira Leland’s gaze narrowed. Kate felt like a squirming fish on the end of a spear, but she knew she mustn’t show any struggle to hold that stare. How many people on the stand had quavered beneath it?

  ‘Are you criticising my judgements, Inspector?’

  ‘Certainly not, Your Honour. Nor is my statement personal. It was a collective you, as in the judicial system; I am merely observing that you are one of the more liberal judges in this Crown Court and even you would have as many supporters as you might have critics.’

  Judge Leland nodded, touching her perfect bob. ‘That would be true. It’s not easy being a sentencing judge these days, with crowded prisons, the howl for harsher sentencing . . . while the government is setting out plans for earlier and earlier paroles. It’s actually a nightmare.’

  Kate frowned, beginning to understand her better. ‘Do you deliberately hand down more lenient sentences, then?’

  The judge gave her a look of sympathy as though Kate was dimmer than she’d imagined. ‘No. When we have a verdict of guilty, I must weigh up what sort of sentence will not be tampered with. It’s too easy to let these violent perpetrators out believing them to be somehow rehabilitated. Take Davey Robbins from the trial that Brian Jarvis clerked for. He likely would have broken the law again – I saw only arrogance in that young man. If he’s prepared to hurt someone as much as he did Amy Clarke, I have no doubt he would have hurt another woman in a similar fashion. It’s such a grey area. Suffice to say, I handed down a sentence that should have kept Davey Robbins incarcerated for at least five long years. I could have gone for about seven or even eight, but you and I both know he’d have been out in five. I always aim to get it right the first time so no one fiddles with it, but the prison system in its wisdom thought otherwise.’

  ‘It’s happened a lot in your cases, though,’ Kate observed.

  The judge shrugged again. ‘You need to talk to the civil servants at the Department of Justice who let violent men . . . women beaters, rapists, paedophiles, murderers, out earlier than the sentencing judge decided after much consideration.’

  ‘I feel your pain,’ Kate admitted.

  ‘I suspect you do, Detective Inspector. Let’s not forget that we’re on the same side, you and I.’

  Kate nodded. ‘Your time’s precious and I thank you for sparing me some of it.’

  ‘I hope you find your man, although I’m sure many would disagree.’ It was said as a casual remark.

  ‘May not be a man,’ Kate quipped and watched the judge frown. ‘Or at least, not necessarily a man working alone. I’ll see myself out, thank you again.’

  Outside the judge’s chambers, Kate passed another of the clerks of the court. ‘Excuse me. Can you help me find my way out of this warren quickly?’ She introduced herself.

  ‘Ah, one of the police team. Such strange and frightening events. I’m Shirley. Were you just seeing Judge Leland?’ Kate nodded. ‘How was her mood?’

  ‘Testy,’ Kate admitted.

  Shirley grinned. ‘Nice understatement. She’s very good, but she scares a lot of folk. I’m sure she doesn’t mean to, but I think that insular manner comes from years of living alone.’

  ‘Oh, I noted a wedding ring. There was a photo of—’

  Shirley nodded and Kate let her talk. ‘Yes, she was married. He died, some years ago now, I gather. You know Brian, don’t you?’

  There was that name again. ‘Yes,’ Kate lied; she’d not met this man that everyone else had.

  ‘He knows Moira Leland quite well – they often take coffee together in the cafeteria – and tells me the judge’s personality changed after her husband died. It was all very sad.’

  ‘I won’t ask.’

  ‘No, don’t, because I’ve already said too much – I only wanted to explain that she’s exceedingly remote and can be touchy, but she’s one of the best here. We all like working with her for her professionalism.’

  ‘Is Brian Jarvis around?’

  ‘I saw him talking to a journalist in the cafeteria but he might be in court now.’

  Kate thanked Shirley and hurried away, now desperate to reach Jack and let him know they had been lied to about the relationship between Judge Leland and Brian Jarvis.

  Brian Jarvis reached for his phone and read the surprising text message. They were in a break in his courtroom’s proceedings and he quickly sought out the defence team. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘We’re going for a continuance.’

  He nodded; he needed to act, and this break in the trial would help. He moved to Judge Lewis’s chambers and knocked gently. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Your Honour,’ he said. When the judge looked up, he added, ‘Continuance?’

  ‘I thought as much. Yes. Fine.’

  ‘I might take a few hours, Your Honour, as we’re done for today.’

  Judge Lewis grunted rather than answered, already lost to some paperwork he was reading.

  Brian nodded and closed the door quietly. He sent a text back to reassure the recipient that he had everything sorted. Then he made the call. He had to catch the reporter.

  ‘Er, I can, of course,’ Brian heard Lauren Starling say. He could imagine her pretty face frowning. ‘Have all your plans gone awry?’

  ‘No, we decided to meet for lunch instead.’

  ‘Halepi doesn’t open for lunch, though.’

  There was just
a moment’s hesitation. ‘No, I know,’ he lied. ‘It’s such a pity, but we’ve decided to stay close to her home all the same. She’s not terribly well and I don’t want her having to travel too far. Anyway, if you want to see me, I’ll be in your neck of the woods in about two hours.’

  ‘Definitely. I’ll be waiting. Um, let me give you the address.’ Brian pretended to write it down, but he already knew exactly where Lauren Starling’s flat was. He’d seen her name on the list of doorbells, heard her laughter filtering down from the rooftop and he knew the person who had prompted that laughter was none other than the man who was hunting him.

  Maybe the time had come for Detective Superintendent Hawksworth to see life through Brian’s eyes, to understand what it was to lose someone to an unfair and cruel killer.

  ‘Thanks, that’s easy enough. I know the street.’

  ‘Great,’ Lauren said. ‘I’ll have the kettle on.’

  He smiled. ‘See you soon.’

  Just two errands to run. Both tasks required shopping and a trip home. He hurried around collecting all that he needed from beyond his four walls. The first package was seen off to its destination with a bike messenger. He knew the other bike messenger would arrive hot on its heels and the note to go with it needed to be written quickly. He’d settled on Pedro Ximénez San Emilio, which was eye-wateringly expensive. The salesman assured him the fruit was laid out in the sun after picking until the grapes were all but raisins. Then, only a slow fermentation began before being halted to hold all the natural sugars within. ‘Aged for a dozen years, this one,’ the fellow said. ‘Hence the price tag.’

  ‘Ninety pounds,’ Brian said, whistling.

  ‘Worth every penny when you taste it.’

  ‘It’s not for me.’

  Brian returned home and wrote the note to accompany his gift while he awaited the messenger.

  My dear Moira,

  I’ve learned that the original Spanish grape grower of this family was a secretary to the Court of Justice in Cadiz, which feels somehow fitting, as I do know how much you love your daily nip of Pedro Ximénez. And this one is exceptional, as I’m sure you’ll discover. Given we’ve shared many bottles of Pedro together, I wanted to make sure it was as good as the salesman claimed, so I hope you don’t mind that I tasted it. They didn’t have a sampler in the off-licence. Call me sentimental, but with its taste still on my palate, I can imagine it hitting yours and bringing the pleasurable relief I hope it will after one of your long days in court. Taste it soon and enjoy, knowing I am thinking of you as the first bonfire of syrupy deliciousness hits.

  Perhaps you’re sensing farewell. You’d be right. I doubt we shall see each other again as I suspect my time is now very short, but you’ve been a bedrock through my grief and helped me to answer the call of true justice.

  This is sent with only thanks and the love of caring friendship.

  Justly yours, Brian

  The messenger arrived as he was tucking in the flap of the card’s envelope.

  ‘Be careful with this, young man. It cost an arm and a leg.’

  ‘Will do, mate,’ he said and, having placed the bubble-wrapped bottle into his messenger bag on the bike, he roared off for the brief journey to the Crown Court.

  Brian took a moment to savour this day. It was a perfect spring morning, sharp sunlight cutting through the trees, turning the dancing heads of daffodils and jonquils luminous. He inhaled the fresh air of the peaceful Conical Corner he had called home for thirty years or so. He felt as though he should be thinking about how much he’d miss this, but he’d made the decision to give up its beauty many years ago when he stepped onto the pathway of murder. The truth was that he wouldn’t miss his life; it had been nothing but relentless grief for fifteen of those thirty years here. He’d forgotten what feeling happy was like. Instead, he pulled on his facade daily, acting it out for all those around him. Only Moira Leland understood.

  He wondered when Hawksworth’s team had put the pin into his name, into his photograph on the incident room board. Had to be that smart Sarah, spotting the iPod. His mistake. His only one, it seemed, in a string of deaths they would gradually begin to attribute to him, the courteous, willing, unremarkable clerk of the Crown Court. None of his colleagues would believe what they would read, finding it impossible, no doubt, to match up the killer in the news against lovely old Brian from Courtroom Seven. Now his name would appear in news articles as a terrifying murderer, a serial killer. But there would be many, he knew, who would privately applaud his hobby and acknowledge that Brian Jarvis was the only person in the legal system who was doing the law’s true work, answering to its calling – Justice.

  He would die with that thought in his mind. He had no intention of the charming and handsome Detective Superintendent Hawksworth putting handcuffs on him and marching him down to the lock-up. There would be no trial, no sentencing and no prison for him. No way. He’d go out killing and trust that someone would kill him in the process – in fact, he’d make sure of it.

  He congratulated himself that he had left no loose ends, especially no one suffering on his behalf for his actions; he had no affairs to get in order. Everything was now neatly bedded down with his solicitors since the cancer had found him. Nothing had changed in his plan for his estate, the proceeds of which were to be donated towards setting up another home for battered women and children. If they had the courage to escape, then Brian had the means to provide them with somewhere to live for a while. It was the best he could do with what he had.

  He stepped back into the house his wife had adored for one final walk around, allowing all the memories to flood him. It was an assault and his cheeks were wet, his woollen jumper damp from the tears that ran as he remembered. He hadn’t meant to be sentimental at the end but, unlike his family, he’d been able to prepare for it. They’d just been wiped out. Their fragile bodies shattered. The twins had died holding hands. His wife’s face had been unrecognisable despite the best efforts of the funeral parlour. He had not been able to see his daughter at all . . . the police had advised against it. Four lives snuffed out needlessly by a careless, drunken driver.

  The man had got himself well and truly soused for no good reason, it seemed. He’d sobbed in court: he hadn’t meant to hurt anyone . . . boohoo. He wished he could take his time back, he’d begged through his tears.

  Kevin Dewsbury got just twelve years for his carelessness. He served eight and was dead within days of getting out . . . Brian had seen to that. He wondered absently if they’d ever find Dewsbury’s body.

  In each of the three bedrooms he paused to kiss the pillow where a girl he loved had once laid her light-haired head: Emily and Chloe, his granddaughters; Jane, his daughter; and Vivian, his wife . . . all taken too soon. Now they might be reunited if he could be forgiven for his sins.

  ‘A few hours, girls, and we’ll be together,’ he promised.

  Brian Jarvis pulled on his parka and flat cap, tapped his pocket to be sure and left his house in Enfield for the last time. He decided to treat himself to a taxi, which he hailed easily enough.

  ‘Head for Paddington Station,’ he told the cabbie. ‘It’s not far from there.’

  29

  Judge Moira Leland had no courtroom appearance today. The trial was delayed yet again because the prison had sent the wrong prisoner. How did that happen? She cursed quietly under her breath.

  She stared at the tall bottle of sherry on her desk. She knew Emilio’s brand of Pedro Ximénez well – ordered it in restaurants – but had never stretched to spending what she was sure was an alarming price tag for a whole bottle. Brian was a dear. They’d had to keep their close friendship a secret, but they allowed the staff at the North London Crown Court to see that they were friendly colleagues.

  This was the result of the text she’d sent from the spare cheap phone she kept for that purpose. She had needed to warn him about what she’d learned from that Detective Inspector Carter; how could they know about an accomplice? She
had panicked slightly but Brian had reassured her that he would fix everything and, with his imminent death – she presumed the cancer – he would die with her secret. She was not to worry.

  He’d added that the car would be removed within forty-eight hours and scrapped by people who knew better than to mention it again. He suggested she get rid of the spare phone immediately, separating it from its special data card as she’d been taught and destroying that. She’d already done so with no little relief; this was obviously his goodbye.

  She was surprised that the seal had been broken on the expensive bottle but it had made sense when she read his note, and she took no offence. Typical Brian . . . always so fastidious, but she was glad his time was over, if she was honest. He was a man lost to his grief. At the beginning it felt as though neither of them had anything to lose; he was grief-stricken and knew he was dying, while she was grief-stricken and not thinking too clearly, but time had passed. She had perspective on her loss and she was tired of the tension. Now, with the police beginning to close in, what she wanted suddenly was to retire and live out her life quietly . . . away from all things judicial. Perhaps she’d write a book. The thought made her smile.

  She needed to get rid of the evidence of their link. Putting his card into the wastepaper bin, she set it alight with a match from a box she kept in her top drawer. She liked the odd cigarette but less and less these days, so this box of matches had lasted a long time.

  Moira took the wastepaper bin to the window, which she opened, and watched the small card ignite and burn itself to ashes while the short billow of smoke was released into the open air. She checked there was nothing to be retrieved from the detritus and then covered the ashes with some other litter. The smell of burning paper would dissipate soon enough.

  Sunlight was streaming in from the large picture window in her corner office. She rang the switchboard. ‘Hold calls, please.’

  ‘Yes, Judge Leland . . . until?’