Tanner brought up the first document. It was a copy of an email from Kerr to Randall, the Australian GC, and to Spry, the global GC. It was headed Strictly confidential and commercial in confidence. ‘Jesus,’ he said when he read it. He took a deep breath, and started to read the next document.
Lisa came around to his side of the desk and started to read. ‘Do you have anyone in particular in mind? Is there a journalist – ?’
‘I need to finish this trial first,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll work out what we do.’ He opened another document. ‘Are you seeing this?’
Lisa put her hand on the back of his neck. ‘Yeah,’ she said softly.
When they’d finished reading, Tanner told Lisa to go back to his home. He rang Tom Cable.
‘Lisa’s on her way,’ he said. ‘All okay?’
‘Maria’s cooked paella. I’m thinking about moving in here.’
‘Thanks for staying again.’
‘Childcare is much less risky than B&Es.’
‘How’s Karl’s mood?’
‘I think he’s gearing up for a serious father–son conference when you get home.’
‘I’ll be home in an hour.’
When he hung up, he dialled the mobile number of Yinshi Li. It was seven pm in Sydney, five in Shanghai. He got voicemail. He left a message that he knew would guarantee a return call.
Only minutes later, his phone rang.
‘I’m not sure I understand, Peter,’ Li said.
‘You can manage, Li. It is very important.’
‘The people you’ve mentioned –’
‘I’ll email you a complete list. I know who some of their lawyers are. I’ll call them myself. If you could speak to the Chinese directors, though, I’d appreciate it. Even if you just leave a message. I don’t want anything lost in translation.’
‘But what . . . ?’
‘Just tell them what I said in my message. Ask them if they’ve been fishing lately.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Ask them if they’ve been fishing in the Tovosevu River. Tell them I have. Tell them I wasn’t alone.’
It was a long time before Li spoke. ‘That question might lead to a more severe sentence for my client than I have been working towards.’
Tanner wanted to laugh a kind of bitter laugh, but stopped himself. ‘Then at least I know that we’re asking the right people.’
When he ended the call to Li, he drafted an email. It was to Hedley Fontaine, the global CEO of Bloomberg Butler Kelly, who was based in New York. He copied in Dennis Jackson, the Australasian CEO.
In his study later that night, finishing his prep for Klaudia Dabrowska, Tanner received a call from Jackson. ‘What do you mean by – ?’
‘I’m in a murder trial, Dennis,’ Tanner said, cutting him off. ‘I don’t have much time.’
‘What does – ?’
‘I want a meeting with the chairman of Citadel’s board, and the CEO. I’m inviting some of their Chinese friends too.’
‘Why would they meet with you?’
‘They need educating.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Sodium cyanide. Anne Warren.’
There was a long silence. ‘What – who is Anne Warren?’
‘Ask your client.’
‘What – ?’
‘It’s been a hard week, Dennis. I’ll send you an email about where and when to meet. You need to tell your client that if they send someone to my home again, they will never have another mine in this country. Is that clear?’
‘What the fuck are you – ?’
‘Just do what I’ve told you, Dennis. Your client is going to want to meet me,’ he said. ‘The bigger question is whether they want you there.’
54
Klaudia Dabrowska was wearing a black knee-length skirt and a cream woollen top with a white shirt underneath. She looked nothing like a hostess at Pantheon.
Aitken took her slowly through her evidence. She smiled and nodded at him like he was a kindly uncle. He strayed into leading a number of times, but Tanner resisted the temptation to object – he didn’t want to look like a bully. Aggression was fine with Richter, but it could backfire with Dabrowska.
Aitken spent more time than was needed on her background, no doubt hoping that the jury would grow to like her. So he had her tell the court about her Polish parents who’d emigrated to the UK, about her father, who ended up selling menswear in a large retail store, and about her mother, who first worked as a cleaner, then as a cook in a nursing home just beyond the greenbelt of London.
Dabrowska had started modelling when only fifteen, and left school once she did. Her mother died when she was nineteen, and having moved out of her parents’ home, she moved back to be close to her father. She had a sister who was now twenty-seven, and a brother who was nearly thirty.
At twenty-two she decided to travel, and Australia was high on her list. She had a girlfriend who’d moved to Sydney with a boy, and she loved beaches and warm weather. She registered with the same modelling agency she’d been with in the UK. The work was intermittent, and she ran through cash quickly. One of the girls she’d met at Jade worked at Pantheon, and she was soon bolstering her income by working there a few nights a week.
She knew who John Richter was. She’d met him at the club, and was told he part-owned the complex. He was always polite and friendly, she said. She’d known Elena Mancini for five weeks before the night she died. They’d gone to a few parties together on nights off, and teamed up as hostesses from time to time.
She’d never met Justin Matheson until the night of Elena Mancini’s death. He was drunk when he arrived with John Richter. ‘Happy drunk,’ she told the jury.
Aitken played the film of her kissing Matheson, dealing with the weakest part of her evidence head on, so Tanner wouldn’t get a chance to control it.
‘I’m so embarrassed,’ she said. ‘Elena and I had snuck a few cocktails out the back – in the kitchen. I thought he was cute, and he was funny. I was in a happy mood . . . I didn’t expect him to kiss me back so hard.’
She was led through what happened at John Richter’s retreat. Her evidence was consistent with Richter’s, and what she’d told the police in her interview. It was Matheson who’d brought the coke out, not Richter. And when he did, Richter quickly left the room, and went to another part of the house. She decided to go with him.
‘Why, Miss Dabrowksa?’ Aitken asked.
‘Drugs scare me,’ she said. ‘I had a girlfriend at school who died of an overdose. It seemed like really bad taste to bring out drugs . . . I’d read about John’s wife, how she died. It didn’t seem right.’
Richter had gone to his study, and they sat and talked for maybe half an hour. ‘I was checking if he was okay. Then he talked a bit about the funeral, then he started asking questions about me. How long I was going to stay, that kind of thing. I mentioned my visa problem, and he said he’d try and help. I think I yawned at some point . . . I was pretty embarrassed because he was talking about helping me, but he was nice, and said he’d take me home.’
It was a ten-minute drive to her flat. They had one cup of instant coffee, talked some more, and then he left.
‘Where was Justin Matheson when you left Mr Richter’s home?’
‘In the lounge,’ she said, ‘next to Elena.’
‘Did you say goodbye?’
‘John checked if Elena wanted to go. I thought she was going to say yes, but Justin said no, no, and . . . she stayed.’
‘Did you sleep with Justin Matheson that night, Miss Dabrowska?’
She shook her head. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I did not.’
• • •
‘You mentioned that you went to church with your father regularly after your mother died?’ Tanner began his cross.
‘Yes.’
‘Although he went consistently before that?’
‘Every Sunday.’
‘Would you describe your father as devout?’
‘He – yes, he is.’
‘Your father – would I be right if I guessed he’s a man who has fairly firm beliefs?’
‘Um . . . I’m not sure what you mean. Belief about God?’
‘Well, I took that as a given. My apologies. Let me give you an example. He probably doesn’t think women should be priests, would that be right?’
‘That would definitely be right,’ she said, and there was a faint ripple of laughter in the court.
‘You mentioned your sister did some modelling too?’
‘Yes.’
‘You look similar, do you?’
‘Some people think we’re twins. Sofie says I’m thinner, but that’s not true.’
‘Your sister’s married now, you said?’
‘Yes.’
‘She no longer works?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘She’s got a young child?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your elder brother, he’s a hotel concierge, you said?’
‘Yes, in Brighton.’
‘You mentioned your mother cleaned, and then became a hospital cook?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your father retired recently?’
‘Last year.’
‘When your parents emigrated, during those first few years, I imagine money was pretty tight?’
‘We were a long way off rich, if that’s what you mean.’
‘You told us your mother died about four years ago?’
‘Nearly five.’
‘And that’s when you went to live with your father again?’
‘Yes.’
‘When the crown prosecutor asked you to tell us your name, you said it was Klaudia Dabrowska, correct?’
She looked surprised. ‘That is my name,’ she said softly.
‘And the address you gave was your father’s home?’
‘Yes.’
‘But not where he lives now?’
A hesitation for longer than would be expected, as though she couldn’t recall where she lived.
‘Miss Dabrowska?’
‘He mainly lives there.’
‘Do we take that to mean he sometimes lives elsewhere?’
Again a hesitation. ‘Yes,’ she said.
‘There’s a property in Curzon Street. He lives there too, doesn’t he?’
Aitken finally objected, citing a lack of relevance, but Tanner asked for some latitude. ‘I’ll get there, your Honour,’ he said, and the judge allowed him to continue. ‘Miss Dabrowska, the apartment at Curzon Street, it’s owned by your father, isn’t it? It’s in the name of Karol Dabrowska. That’s your father, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s a property he bought quite recently, isn’t it? Only four months ago?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know? Aren’t you on the title too?’
‘I don’t know what my father’s done.’
‘Your mother’s maiden name was Novak, wasn’t it?’
She nodded almost imperceptibly.
‘Yes?’ Tanner said, for the first time raising his voice.
‘Yes.’
‘And you now sometimes call yourself Klaudia Novak?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because . . . a journalist tried to talk to me about this case. I thought it might be easier –’
‘What was their name?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Were they from television, or a newspaper?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Were they from the UK or from here?’
‘I don’t –’
‘Male or female?’
‘A man.’
‘The Curzon Street property was bought four months ago – does that sound right?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Is there a mortgage?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Because we can’t find any indication of a mortgage on the title, Miss Dabrowska. Does that surprise you?’
‘I don’t –’
‘Would it surprise you that another apartment of the same size in the same building sold last year for over six million pounds?’
‘I – it’s an expensive area,’ she said faintly, but the earth was opening beneath her.
‘Could you and your father afford to pay six million pounds for an apartment, Miss Dabrowska?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said loudly.
‘You must have discussed buying this property with your father? Surely you asked him, “Hey, Dad, where’d you get the money from?”’
‘He doesn’t like to discuss money,’ she said.
‘Did someone buy the apartment for you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You didn’t give evidence at my client’s committal hearing, did you?’
‘No.’
‘You were so ill you couldn’t even give evidence by video link?’
‘I had an ear infection. I was in a lot of pain for three months. I had to have an operation.’
‘And your treating doctor was Dr Anthony? Your general practitioner?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who recommended Dr Anthony to you?’
‘I don’t – I can’t remember.’
‘But it must have been an ear specialist who performed the surgery on you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was that Dr Alastair Vaughan?’
She froze. When she failed to answer, Aitken objected, but the judge allowed the question when Tanner assured him the topic would soon show itself as relevant.
‘Dr Alastair Vaughan, Miss Dabrowksa? Did he operate on your ear?’ He said the last four words as though each was a sentence itself.
She kept looking at Tanner, and then, for a moment, shifted her gaze to Justin Matheson.
‘The answer is “no”, isn’t it, Miss Dabrowska?’
‘No,’ she finally said.
‘You know who I’m talking about, though, don’t you? You know Dr Alastair Vaughan.’
‘Yes,’ she said softly.
‘What’s Dr Vaughan’s specialty, Miss Dabrowska? You know, don’t you?’
She nodded, but didn’t answer.
‘You have to answer in words, Miss Dabrowska. You’re under an oath. You have to say “yes”.’
‘Yes,’ she said, as faintly as she could, as though the softness of her voice might mean it wasn’t a real answer.
‘He’s an obstetrician, isn’t he?’
She nodded again.
‘Miss Dabrowska?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your obstetrician, isn’t he?’
She nodded, and said something, which might have been ‘Yes’. Her head was down now, and she was crying.
Tanner didn’t hesitate for her tears. It had to be finished. ‘He delivered your child, didn’t he, Miss Dabrowska. Just over three months ago?’
She sobbed violently for a few moments, and Aitken rose to ask for a short adjournment.
‘I’m going to give her a moment to compose herself first,’ the judge said.
Everyone waited, and Klaudia Dabrowska cried. It was the only sound in the courtroom for a minute – a minute that seemed like ten. Tissues were provided, water poured.
As Tanner waited, a note was passed to him by Jane Ross, who in turn had received it from Porter. Sarah wants to know what’s going on? He looked over to the dock, and saw his client looking at him. He’d looked calm all trial, even on the first few days when the evidence had all been against him. He now wore a look that was equal measures shock and anger. Tanner didn’t care how Matheson looked, but he could only imagine the look on Sarah Matheson’s face.
‘I’m right, aren’t I?’ he continued at the first sign the witness would be able to talk.
‘Yes.’
‘And at the time of the committal hearing, you were nearly six months pregnant, is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘I need you to c
onsider this question very carefully, Miss Dabrowksa,’ Tanner then said slowly. ‘If Justin Matheson was to do a blood test, and that blood was to be compared to your child’s, would that identify him as the father?’
There was no immediate answer. Matheson stood in the dock and yelled, ‘No!’ as if commanding Dabrowska not to answer. Then he looked over at Tanner, anger and fear in his eyes. ‘No!’
At the same time, from behind, Tanner heard a scream. It was Sarah Matheson, doubled over, crying. Judith Matheson tried to grab her, but she pushed her away. She managed to stand. She looked at Tanner like she might kill him, then at her husband. Her face collapsed again, and a man in the row behind her, one of Matheson’s friends, rushed around to grab her and lead her out of court. In the confusion, no one noticed for a few moments that Dabrowska had relapsed into a fit of tears, this time crying more uncontrollably than before. Opposite her, Matheson sat down again, his head bowed, his hands covering his face.
‘We might have to break this time, Mr Tanner,’ the judge said.
‘Yes!’ Klaudia Dabrowska cried before Tanner could respond. ‘Yes.’
Tanner looked at the judge, who nodded at him almost imperceptibly.
‘It’s nearly over, Miss Dabrowska,’ he said. ‘You had intercourse with Mr Matheson on the night Elena Mancini died, didn’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she said clearly, even though she was sobbing.
‘And some weeks later, you discovered you were pregnant?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Mr Matheson is the baby’s father?’
‘Yes.’
‘And . . . the cocaine that night. It was John Richter’s, wasn’t it?’
There was no answer this time, so Tanner repeated himself more loudly. He hadn’t finished the sentence when she spat the answer. ‘Yes.’
‘And you weren’t driven home with Mr Richter, were you?’
‘No.’
‘How did you get home?’
‘I don’t – two men took me. Then someone came to my house.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know his name?’
‘No . . . he said his name was Steve.’
Cyanide Games: A Peter Tanner Thriller Page 37
