by Olly Jarvis
Cut-Throat Defence
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraphs
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Epilogue
Copyright
Cut-Throat Defence
Olly Jarvis
For Kelly
‘Cut-throat Defence’
– A defendant implicates a co-accused in the commission of the offence.
‘To see what is right, and not to do it, is want of courage.’
Confucius, 551‒479 BC
Prologue
Twenty Years Ago
‘Are you going to smile for me, sweetheart?’ asked Father Dolan.
No response.
The wind flicked Lara’s long black hair round the inside of her hood.
An angry Mancunian sky tried to hold back the rain as if it too mourned a terrible loss.
Father Dolan crouched down so that he could see Lara’s face. Even at five years old it was obvious she was going to be a beauty.
The intensity of his gesture had scared her. She reached for her grandmother’s icy hand and gripped it tightly.
‘Who’s this?’ he whispered, prodding the rag doll poking out of her duffle-coat pocket.
She quickly pushed it further in with her free hand.
The priest tried to reassure her with a smile. ‘Everything happens for a reason, sweetheart,’ he said, raising his voice a little to be heard above the advancing storm. ‘It’s God’s way. He loves you, you know.’
Still no response.
‘I know things must seem very bad for you right now.’ Father Dolan gave a knowing glance up at her grandmother before continuing, ‘It is actually a good day today. Your daddy is going to join your mummy in heaven. That’s good isn’t it?’
She looked straight through him, oblivious to his words. Empty.
‘It’s not you, Father,’ offered Lara’s grandmother apologetically. ‘She hasn’t said owt for weeks. Not to anyone. It’s the shock of it all.’
He straightened up before replying. ‘Poor little mite.’
‘It’s just too awful,’ she said, shaking her head, almost in disbelief. ‘I wish I was dead. So I wouldn’t have to witness this. But I’m all she’s got now. I’m too old to bring up a child, Father.’
‘You must be strong,’ he replied, patting her shoulder and then gently steering them along the path.
Father Dolan felt the first drops of rain on his balding head as they hurried up the steps to the stone porch that led into the chapel. He held out an upturned palm and looked heavenwards, as if searching for an explanation.
To little Lara, it was obvious. ‘It’s God. He’s spitting at us.’
Stunned silence. Not just because she had spoken but that she could think such a thing.
Father Dolan wanted to say something, anything to make her understand. But he’d missed his chance; they were being greeted by a dashing young man, impeccably dressed. His imposing presence belied his relative youth. Lionel Katterman was a brilliant barrister, already developing a formidable reputation, not just in Manchester but across the whole of the North of England. Tipped for the very top.
‘Hello, Father Dolan,’ he said warmly.
‘Ah, Mr Katterman. You know Mrs Lodge?’
Katterman immediately switched his attention to the elderly woman, took her hand and closed his other over it. ‘Mrs Lodge.’ He said nothing else. His touch said everything ‒ conveyed such intimacy. Such charm in one so young.
She felt their common grief. It bound them together.
Lionel Katterman knew how to connect with people. Knew what they wanted to hear ‒ sensed it in people. That’s why juries loved him. He reached down and picked up the child, lifting her above his head and then into his arms in a great display of affection. ‘And you must be Lara. Do you remember me? You’ve grown so much since I last saw you. And how pretty you are,’ he said in a voice of mock surprise, reserved only for children.
Lara hated being picked up, being spoken to by all these strangers. Why couldn’t she just go home, or better still, to heaven? Why had she been left behind? It wasn’t fair.
‘Your father and I were best friends, you know,’ Lionel Katterman went on. He needed some kind of recognition, approval, even from a five-year-old child. An understanding that he too had lost. ‘We shared a room in chambers. Do you know what that is, Lara?’
Unmoved by his conversation, she tried to wriggle free.
Feeling a little embarrassed, he placed her gently back on to the stone floor.
She tried to get round him to run inside but Katterman didn’t accept defeat that easily. He stopped her gently with an outstretched arm. ‘Lara, don’t be afraid,’ he said, bending right down just as Father Dolan had done only moments ago. ‘Your daddy was very dear to me.’ His voice cracked. ‘And your mummy.’ He gave her his warmest smile.
She broke free and disappeared through the door.
The pews were full. Michael Panassai had been a popular man. The last few people to arrive were dropping petals into the open coffin.
Everyone was dressed smartly. The men, all in tailored suits, whispered to each other in well-educated voices. They had the demeanour of the confident a
nd successful. Mostly barristers and judges.
Lara and her grandmother took their places in the first pew, near the casket. A small, middle-aged man shuffled past them, catching Lara’s eye. Although suitably attired he seemed out of place. It was his posture – hunched. More humble than the other mourners. One of those people who could pass unnoticed in a crowd. Only Lara was aware of him. He smiled at her. He wasn’t like the others. His smile hid nothing – asked for nothing.
She found herself smiling back, wondering who he was. Was he real? A ghost? Or maybe, an angel.
Her eyes followed him as he took a handful of petals from a basket and moved towards the coffin. Lifting a hand above it, his sleeve revealed a gold bracelet. Obviously polished ‒ deeply treasured. To Lara it shone like the sun. A tiny charm hung from it. A thimble.
As he looked into the coffin, the serenity of his expression altered. Something about the deceased had confused him. Something that didn’t make sense. He reached in to touch it. The material felt all wrong. And the fit. Whose jacket had he been dressed in? It certainly wasn’t Michael Panassai’s.
Suddenly, he looked up. A commotion at the entrance.
‘Get him out of here!’ someone shouted. Then another. The shouts were not directed at Lara’s angel but to someone who had just walked in. Someone well known to all the lawyers – legal reporter, Jim Smith.
Several men scrambled into the aisle and blocked his path.
Smith stood at the entrance. Scruffily dressed. Worn. His cream mackintosh had become grey over time.
Within seconds of entering he was being frogmarched outside by Katterman and some of the other barristers from Paramount Chambers.
‘Please don’t do this,’ he pleaded. ‘I just want to pay my respects.’
‘Can’t you let him be buried in peace?’ hissed one of his escorts as they threw him on to the wet lawn outside.
‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ he called after them, getting to his feet and brushing the grass off his clothes.
He stood for a while, watching the door close. He felt humiliated. Angry. How could they treat him like that? Who did Lionel Katterman and his cronies think they were? Jim hadn’t come for the story. It was to say goodbye to a friend. To one of the few barristers he actually liked – could have a joke with when he was down at court reporting on the trials. He had the same right to be there as them. He made towards the door a second time, then thought better of it. What were they afraid of? Why wouldn’t anyone talk to him? Whenever a criminal barrister died a violent death, questions had to be asked. His readers would always wonder. Was someone he’d prosecuted responsible? Or even an unhappy ex-client? Revenge?
Perhaps there was a story here after all.
* * *
‘Come along, children. Find a seat everyone,’ clucked Mrs Perkins with an unusual gentleness. After all, it was their first day at school. Such an important day. She wanted the children to remember it fondly.
There was a hum of excitement amongst the little ones as they unpacked their satchels and placed new pencil cases on their desks.
‘Settle down, everyone. I must have absolute silence,’ she demanded with more authority. They might as well get used to it right from the start. ‘Now, has everyone found a seat?’
‘Yes, Mrs Perkins,’ came the reply in unison.
‘Very good. First, I want to welcome you all to Chorlton Primary School, south Manchester’s oldest primary. I want you all to have a rewarding and happy time here with lots of hard work and fun.’
The children beamed, delighted to be spoken to in such a grown-up manner.
‘Right. I want us all to get to know each other, so I’m going to ask you to come up to the front of the class, one by one, and say a few words about yourself.’
The children looked anxiously at each other.
‘OK, you can go first,’ said Mrs Perkins, pointing to a little girl sitting in the front row.
She got up and sauntered coyly to the front. ‘My name’s Molly Hardcastle and I have a bunny called Smudge.’
‘Thank you, Molly. Now, who’s next? You I think.’
A boy skipped to the front and announced, ‘I’m John Burgess and my dad is a fireman.’
‘Well, that is interesting, John. Perhaps your father can come in and give us a talk?’
John puffed out his chest with pride.
This formula continued with other nuggets of information until Mrs Perkins reached the back row. She waved an arm at a boy ducked down in his seat, trying to look inconspicuous, invisible even.
‘Well, come on then. Don’t be shy.’
His reluctance had marked him out. An outsider.
The other children turned and stared. Curiosity turned to amusement. They watched the child get slowly to his feet and take the long walk forwards.
His legs felt leaden. He stood at the front, facing the teacher, unable to turn and face the rest of the class.
‘Well, are you going to say something?’
No response. He looked blankly at Mrs Perkins. Her mouth was moving but the sounds didn’t make sense. ‘Do–you–speak–English?’ she asked impatiently.
He shook his head.
‘I’m Mrs Perkins,’ she explained, touching her chest. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked, prodding the boy’s forehead.
He tried to open his mouth but it was glued shut.
Finally, in a whisper, ‘Janusz Kowalski.’
‘Janusz? That’s a mouthful. That will never do.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Hmm, I think we’ll call you Jack.’ She put her hand firmly on his shoulders and turned him to face his classmates.
‘Well, go on then. Tell them what your name is.’
Nothing. Unable to speak. Frozen.
Then, only tears.
Smirks turned to giggles and then all out laughter. Louder and louder.
All laughing at Jack.
Chapter 1
Twenty Years Later
A cold, northern night. The easterly wind brought a smattering of sleet from the Pennines. National Crime Agency Officer Calvin Finch hadn’t noticed ‒ he was too excited. Butterflies in his stomach.
‘Listen. Can you hear owt, gov?’ a junior officer named Saunders shouted out of the darkness.
Finch strained to hear the faint whirring sound high above them. His colleague, Saunders, had been right. This was going to be big. If Finch pulled it off there would be one hell of a promotion. A national job, as well as all the accolades. Months of planning, it had been his investigation from start to finish. His baby. A plane coming in from abroad ‒ there wasn’t anything bigger. And if Finch’s information was correct, there was enough charlie on this plane to keep every nose in Manchester sniffing for a year.
The airfield was only fifteen miles out of town. Officer Finch could see Manchester’s lights sparkling in the distance. He could just make out Beetham Tower. Finch loved his city. Saw himself as its unsung hero – its protector.
But if it all went wrong, he’d be finished. Failure wasn’t an option. Within hours the cocaine would be cut, bagged and moved down the chain from the regional dealers and on to the gangs of Moss Side, Longsight, Rusholme and Salford. Quickly spreading to the nearby towns of Stockport, Bolton and beyond.
‘All right, lads, get ready,’ Finch whispered into his radio, crouching down tightly behind the bushes that marked a perimeter alongside the runway. ‘And remember, radio everything through to Graham as it happens. That includes all verbals from the suspects. I want a totally contemporaneous log. You can bet the defence will be all over it.’
The plane came in to land. Finch could hardly contain himself.
Other NCA officers began to radio through their obs.
The door of the light aircraft slid open. Within seconds, packages were thrown out. A van screeched across the runway, stopping with military precision next to the cargo. Its occupants were soon out and loading the packages.
Finch put his radio to his mouth. ‘Wait for it.’ Finally,
‘We are go! Go, go, go!’
Numerous NCA officers appeared from cover and surrounded the plane, firearms drawn. The suspects scattered in all directions. Outnumbered, they were quickly apprehended. Finch smiled as he watched events unfold – a textbook operation.
* * *
Carl Marpit could hear his heart beating as he slithered along on his elbows. The perimeter fence was only metres away. Freedom. His life depended on it. Exhausted from the crawl, he had to rest, just for a moment. Shivering. The frost melted into his jeans. He looked back towards the runway. The others were being loaded into vans ‒ to a new life of captivity. People he knew, had grown up with. That was it for them. At least a decade inside. Marpit shuddered at the prospect. It spurred him on towards the fence. Adrenalin pumped around his body, making his mind race. Thoughts of his daughter, Melanie, when she was a baby. Simple pleasures. His old life. How he longed for it now.
At last, he reached the sanctuary of some bushes. It grew darker as he crawled further away from the floodlights that shone over the runway. Nearly made it. He couldn’t see much but he could certainly feel the fence; pressing his face up against it, listening intently for the slightest sound. Nothing. He began to pull back the bottom of the wire mesh. The gap was soon wide enough. First his head and then ‒ a weight on his calf. Someone’s foot?
He couldn’t move.
‘And just where do you think you’re going?’
Marpit’s heart skipped a beat. Not prison. Not again. Please God, not prison. And what about Melanie? What would she do without him?
He could feel his hands being cuffed behind his back and then being pulled by his legs from under the wire.
‘You are under arrest,’ declared Saunders, unable to conceal his delight. ‘For conspiracy to import controlled drugs. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’
Marpit decided not to say anything, for now.
Officer Finch had only managed to get halfway to the runway in a tentative jog before stopping to catch his breath. He wasn’t as young as he used to be and his weight slowed him down. He stood for a moment, bent over, hands on knees.
