Ever the perfectionist, Anderson said: ‘But you haven’t numbered the rows?’ He handed the pages back to Connor. ‘It could be a problem, referring the jury to a particular entry.’
Connor’s face turned red, a combination of anger and embarrassment.
Remembering Gary’s words earlier, Anderson was anxious not to humiliate Connor, but winning the case was everything. ‘I’m sorry, Sam, but you’ll have to add a column. It’s not a problem, just come across when it’s done.’
‘But what about the con with the CPS? How will it look if I’m not there?’
‘Tilly can keep a note until you arrive if you like.’ Anderson was already setting off for court with Tilly following obediently, hanging on his every word.
Sam Connor was fuming. He disliked Anderson. Rivals since pupillage, they were the same age, which had made Anderson’s success even harder to come to terms with. Anderson’s parentage and powerful pupil-master had given him a head start; Connor had never caught up. And now, as the second biggest player in chambers, Anderson was leading him in the Crown versus Waqar Ahmed.
Connor had no choice but to live with it.
Chapter 6
Anderson and Tilly walked along the side of the huge 1960s concrete court building towards the entrance. Rectangular pillars spaced along its length with high glass windows between. Anderson knew every inch of it.
His opponent, Tahir Hussain, was already in the robing room – a grand name for a small, unimpressive, dusty space, crammed with boxes of paper exhibits from past cases, pink ribbons and rails of unclaimed coats. To Anderson it was home. He opened his wig tin, embossed in gold with the name B. Anderson – his late grandfather. He thought of his ancestry, of how he was living up to the expectations of his family, coping with the pressure of the big cases. It gave him more confidence, if any were needed, for the day to follow. ‘I hope we’re not going to have any more of your hackish defence antics today, Hussain?’
Sensing trouble, Tilly tried to blend into a coat stand.
Hussain was determined not to let this prosecutor get to him. In fact, he pitied him. Despite Anderson’s success, he seemed lonely. Had an air of melancholy about him. ‘What are you on about now, Anderson? I’m just doing my best to defend my client.’
‘Do you have to try so hard?’
Hussain shook his head at his opponent. ‘I can’t believe you just asked that.’
‘Don’t you ever get fed up defending murderers and drug dealers?’ Anderson loathed Hussain, convinced he suggested defences to his clients. It was the only explanation for his incredible win rate. ‘All the lowlifes from Rusholme and Longsight do seem to come to you. I wonder why? Quite the Pied Piper of the Asian criminal community.’
‘The reason all my clients are of Asian origin is because few white men in England want an Asian barrister and no Asian man in England trusts a white barrister. That says more about society than me, don’t you think?’
Hussain had an answer for everything.
Several advocates came in and began unpacking their wigs and robes. Ignoring Hussain, they were all keen to congratulate Anderson on his award. Hussain on the other hand was an outsider, not a member of any chambers. A solicitor with a run-down office in Rusholme and a highly questionable reputation. Although there was no hard evidence of his dishonesty, there were plenty of rumours flying around various robing rooms about dodgy defences and backhanders.
The two men couldn’t have been more different.
Chapter 7
Anderson strode along the concourse towards the courtroom. His entourage had grown: Connor’s pupil, a CPS lawyer and the Officer In The Case. Last-minute instructions and titbits of information were fired at him.
Court Three, Manchester Crown Court, was heaving. A trial involving the criminal activities of a gangster like Waqar Ahmed always drew a crowd. A large, high-sided wooden dock surrounded by bulletproof glass dominated the back of the courtroom. Steps either side led down into the well of the court and counsels’ rows, rising up again to the judge’s bench. The jury box was situated to the judge’s left so that they could see across to the witness box on the judge’s right. A couple of journalists were still finding their seats in the press box towards the rear of the courtroom, next to the public gallery. Anderson took his place in counsels’ row and began arranging his files. He noticed Hussain turn and nod to the defendant being brought up into the dock from the cells. A tall, overweight individual, Ahmed still had remnants of the physique needed to force a place in Manchester’s villainous underworld. A white shirt and dark suit without a tie was the preferred uniform at court for organised criminals. Anderson had an uneasy feeling that there was more to their relationship than that of a lawyer and his lay client.
Anderson glanced around the courtroom. The buzz of anticipation.
‘All rise!’ called the usher as His Honour Judge Pounder came into court. He was a large man with a ruddy complexion to match his purple robes.
‘Gentlemen, I decided to come in without the jury so that any outstanding issues relating to the next witness could be addressed.’
‘I’m grateful, Your Honour,’ Anderson replied before he was even on his feet. He had to take control before Hussain tried anything. ‘As Your Honour is aware there are special measures in place for this witness.’
‘Yes, screens I believe?’
‘That’s right. He will give his evidence behind a curtain which will be pulled partly around the witness box. Your Honour, counsel and the jury will be able to see him, but not the defendant, or the gallery.’
Hussain was on his feet. ‘I object to the special measures, Your Honour.’
The judge sighed. ‘This matter was argued at the pre-trial review, Mr Hussain. And I ruled against you, did I not?’
‘I accept that, Your Honour, but I wish to renew my objection. The defendant knows what the witness looks like. His identity does not need protecting, and—’
‘Mr Hussain,’ interjected the judge.
Hussain ignored him. ‘And the defendant is in a witness protection scheme, so could not be found, even if anybody wanted—’
‘Mr Hussain!’ barked the judge. ‘You know the test. Will it improve the quality of his evidence if he can give it behind the screen? I have already ruled that it will. The jury are to be given the standard direction to counter any possibility of prejudice. Usher, bring them in, please.’
Hussain turned towards Ahmed in the dock as he retook his seat and shrugged.
Connor, clearly flustered, came into court and hurried to his seat carrying the amended documents for the jury. He passed them to his leader who gratefully acknowledged the supreme effort of being robed and ready before the witness was called.
The jury were brought in and after being given the appropriate direction about screens, Anderson announced: ‘Your Honour, I call Martin Tredwell.’
Martin Tredwell cowered in the witness box behind a velvet curtain which screened off two sides. No hair on his head. Only skin, stretched and uneven as if chewing gum had been pulled across his face.
Anderson began: ‘Would you give the Court your full name please?’
‘Martin Tredwell.’
The answer was difficult to make out. Tredwell’s horrific injuries prevented any facial animation.
‘Would you be more comfortable seated, Mr Tredwell?’ Anderson asked.
‘No, I’ll stand,’ he replied, still defiant.
‘Very well. I would like to start, if I may, with how you know the defendant, Waqar Ahmed?’
‘I had a job at one of his takeaways. He used to come in at closing. About eleven.’
‘Why would he come in?’
‘Just to check on things. Collect the takings.’
‘Where was that takeaway?’
‘Wilmslow Road in Rusholme, on the Curry Mile.’ Tredwell’s voice became clearer as he got into his stride. ‘The Kashmiri Palace.’
‘And did you get to know Mr Ahmed?’
‘Yes. He started asking me to run errands for him.’
‘What sort of errands?’
‘Collecting rent from tenants and shopkeepers, or dropping something off. Stuff like that.’
‘So these people owed Ahmed money?’
‘Maybe some did. Depends how you look at it.’
‘How did you look at it?’
‘I assumed it was protection money.’
Hussain shifted uneasily in his seat.
‘Did people ever refuse to pay?’
‘Yes.’
‘What would happen?’
‘I would tell Ahmed and he would send people round.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Stuff I would hear.’
‘That’s hearsay, Your Honour!’ shouted Hussain.
The judge acknowledged the objection, but the damage was done.
‘I see. How long did this go on for?’
‘A few months, then he asked me to go places with him.’
‘How would he get hold of you?’
‘He’d come into the Palace or ring me on my mobile.’
‘Could you please look at this, Mr Tredwell.’ Anderson handed up his junior’s schedule. ‘We have copies for Your Honour and the jury.’
‘This is most helpful, Mr Anderson,’ said the judge, studying the document.
‘Your Honour,’ interrupted Hussain, before Anderson was able to openly credit Connor for his efforts. ‘I would have been grateful for the courtesy of being shown this document before the witness was called.’
Anderson handed the document to his opponent.
‘Well, now you have it, Mr Hussain,’ said the judge. ‘Now where were we, Mr Anderson?’
Anderson resumed: ‘Can you just confirm that the two numbers at the top of the schedule are yours and Mr Ahmed’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘We can see that throughout last year he would ring you several times a week?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you. If the jury would like to put that document behind divider four in their bundles. Now, where would Ahmed take you, Mr Tredwell?’
He held a cup of water up to his mouth and sipped. ‘Bars, houses; he had some girls.’
‘What do you mean? A brothel?’
‘He had a couple. Sort of. Just houses where they lived. I would drive them out on jobs sometimes or deliver them to a house in Bradford.’
Anderson could see the jury were gripped by Tredwell’s account.
‘Just to be absolutely clear, were people paying them for sexual services?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know?’
‘They gave me the money, after they’d been out on a job.’
‘What did you do with it?’
‘Gave it to the boss − Ahmed.’
‘Mr Tredwell, so the jury understand, you have pleaded guilty to an offence of trafficking women within the UK for sexual exploitation.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know where the girls had come from?’
‘All over. Mainly Asia and Eastern Europe.’
‘How do you know?’
‘They told me. I got to know them. I treated them right.’
‘Were you involved in bringing them into this country?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know who was?’
‘Waqar Ahmed. He had contacts abroad. They were his girls.’
‘Did the women come willingly to the UK?’
‘Hard to say. Some were confused. Some had been sold by their families. Some thought the UK would bring new opportunities. They were very young – eighteen, nineteen.’
Anderson moved on to count two – the GBH: ‘I want to ask you about the events of August 23rd. The jury have already heard how police officers attended at the Kashmiri Palace. You were found in a very serious condition on the floor in a storage cupboard.’
Tredwell nodded.
‘For the tape, Mr Tredwell.’
‘Sorry – yes.’
‘How did you come to be in that condition?’
‘I got to know one of the girls – Naila.’ His distorted face still managed to convey something of his emotions. ‘I loved her and she loved me.’
‘Did Waqar Ahmed know?’
‘No. No one did. Not at first. I decided to speak to Ahmed about it. To say we wanted to live together. Get married.’
‘Where did this conversation take place?’
‘In the Kashmiri Palace. After we’d closed. He came in for the takings.’
‘Was anyone else there?’
‘Another worker called Bilal and a man that came in with Ahmed, don’t know his name.’
‘How did Ahmed react when you told him?’
‘He lost it. Said I’d been helping myself to his property. That I was a thief. He told his pal to grip me.’
‘And did he?’
‘Yes.’ Voice trembling. ‘They both did.’
‘Are you all right, Mr Tredwell?’ asked his Honour. ‘Would you like a break?’
Tredwell shook his head. ‘It’s fine. I can’t cry. They melted my tear ducts.’ Anderson gave a moment’s grace before continuing: ‘What happened next?’
Tredwell held his head up for the first time and looked across at the jury. ‘They pulled me through to the kitchen. Ahmed was screaming at me. Then he…’ Tredwell’s head dropped again. Quietly: ‘He pushed my face into the fat fryer.’
The courtroom fell silent. Some of the jurors, deeply affected by Tredwell’s account, were wiping away tears.
‘I’ll never forget the pain. Then I passed out.’
‘Do you have much more, Mr Anderson?’ asked the judge.
‘No, Your Honour. Just a few more questions.’
‘Very well. Then after that we’ll have a break.’
It couldn’t come soon enough for the defence.
‘What is the next thing that you remember?’
‘Coming round. I was out of it. In agony. I don’t remember anything properly until the hospital.’
‘Have you seen Bilal or the man with Mr Ahmed since it happened?’
‘No.’
‘Just in case the jury were wondering,’ asked the judge, ‘have they been traced?’
‘No, Your Honour,’ replied Anderson. ‘The police have made every effort.’
‘If they ever existed at all?’ said Hussain.
His Honour ignored the comment. ‘Mr Anderson, the jury could be told how the police came to be at the Kashmiri Palace, could they not?’
‘Of course, Your Honour. They received an anonymous telephone call from a woman. The jury will hear a recording of that call. Giving the address where some illegal immigrants were staying and that they should go immediately to the Kashmiri Palace.’
Tredwell explained: ‘It was Naila. She knew I was telling Ahmed about us. I told her if she hadn’t heard from me by 2am she should leave the house – run.’
Hussain was on his feet in a flash. ‘Your Honour, there is no evidence as to who made that call.’
‘Yes, thank you, Mr Hussain,’ was the judge’s clipped response. He too found it impossible to disguise his dislike of defence counsel. He just wasn’t one of them. Didn’t have the polish of a traditional English advocate. ‘Mr Anderson?’ assisted the judge. ‘Perhaps the 999 tape could be played to the jury now? Mr Tredwell may be able to identify the voice.’
The judge was definitely on Anderson’s side. ‘Yes, of course, Your Honour.’ He handed the tape to the usher who put it in the machine. Within seconds the distressed voice of a young woman with an obviously Asian accent was captivating the courtroom in surround sound.
‘Do you recognise that voice, Mr Tredwell?’ asked Anderson.
The witness was distressed. Memories of another life. ‘Yes, that was Naila.’
‘Do you know where she is now?’
‘No. I haven’t seen or heard from her since that night. I don’t know if she’s alive or dead. Anyway, I wouldn’t want her to see me
like this.’
Anderson gave the witness a moment to compose himself. ‘And finally, Mr Tredwell, your injuries? I know the jury can see them for themselves, but perhaps you could just list those that they can’t?’
He nodded. ‘I’m blind in my left eye and my sight’s not great in my right. I can’t smell. My hearing is badly affected too. I’m in constant pain. I just want to die – because of what that bastard did to me.’
‘Let’s be clear. Who?’
‘Waqar Ahmed.’
Anderson remained on his feet long enough to let the final answer sink in.
The judge adjourned for lunch.
The prosecution team remained in the courtroom after the judge and jury had left to give Anderson pats on the back for his smooth examination of Tredwell. Connor reluctantly joined in, masking his jealousy – a skill mastered over many years.
Ahmed shouted across the courtroom: ‘Oi, Hussain. I want to see you in the cells, now.’
Despite his embarrassment, Hussain acknowledged the order.
Anderson turned and had a good look at the man in the dock. Most striking of all were his deep-set eyes, radiating nothing but hate.
Chapter 8
Anderson joined Connor, Tilly and other members of chambers around one of the tables in the advocates’ canteen. Tilly had saved him a seat, much to Connor’s annoyance.
‘John, couple of things I wanted to mention,’ said Head of Chambers, Orlando West QC, across the table. ‘One’s a bit sensitive. In chambers, after court?’ he asked with a wink.
‘Of course,’ Anderson agreed, remembering his commitment to Will’s football match.
‘And the other,’ said West, raising his voice so everyone could hear, ‘is that I’ve just got the Ted Harrison murder. Thought you might like the junior brief?’
Anderson didn’t hesitate: ‘I don’t know what to say. Yes, please.’
Connor almost choked on his sandwich. He never ceased to be amazed by West’s favouritism.
Drawing the rest of the table in with a knowing smile, West continued: ‘We need to keep our future silks on the boil at Spinningfields Chambers.’
Anderson could feel Tilly’s knee pushing against his. No doubt about it, she wanted him.
Death By Dangerous Page 3
