Bleed For Me (joseph o'loughlin)

by Michael Robotham

  ‘Why couldn’t you identify the others?’

  ‘I did not see them clearly.’

  ‘Because it was dark?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mr Hurst exchanges another look with the jury.

  ‘Had you seen Mr Brennan anywhere before?’

  ‘I had seen his picture.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘In the newspaper.’

  ‘During the council elections. You probably saw his campaign posters and his leaflets.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is that why you picked him out of a police line-up?’

  ‘I recognised him, yes.’

  ‘You don’t agree with his politics or his policies, so you decided to punish him.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who told you to identify him?’

  Marco looks at Julianne, not understanding. She explains the question. He shakes his head.

  Mr Hurst braces both his hands on the bar table on either side of a legal pad. ‘You came to this country as an asylum seeker, is that correct?’

  ‘We applied for asylum.’

  ‘Yes, but when you first arrived you told immigration officers that you were tourists.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And that was a lie.’

  Marco looks at Julianne and then at the judge. Mr Hurst prompts him again.

  ‘You lied to immigration officers?’

  ‘I did as my father told me.’

  ‘Have you been promised anything for testifying at this trial?’

  ‘Promised?’

  ‘What is your immigration status now?’

  ‘I have been allowed to remain here for four years.’

  ‘So you can stay?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Isn’t it also true that you’ve been approached by a newspaper and offered money for your story.’

  ‘Objection!’ says Miss Scriber, quick to her feet. ‘Mr Hurst has already suggested Mr Kostin’s immigration status has influenced his evidence. Now he’s suggesting that he’s seeking to profit from these circumstances.’

  Mr Hurst looks affronted. ‘I’m simply trying to establish whether this witness has any ulterior motives that may influence his testimony.’

  Marco’s eyes move back and forth, trying to follow their arguments.

  Judge Spencer intervenes. ‘Unless you intend to introduce evidence of a conspiracy, Mr Hurst, you’re on very shaky ground. Perhaps you should choose another line of questioning.’

  Sitting next to me, I feel Sienna suddenly stiffen. Her fists are clenched and the muscles in her jaw, shoulders and her arms have seized up, locking her into a statue-like pose. She’s not even blinking. Nothing moves except for the fingers of her right hand, which flutter up and down on her thigh. It’s our signal.

  Slowly her head turns and her eyes meet mine. Wide. Scared. She turns back to the courtroom and I follow her gaze across the bar table to the lone bewigged figure sitting above everyone else, tapping at his laptop.

  Ronnie Cray pulls Sienna outside and into a consulting room, almost kicking the door open and leaning hard against it, making sure it’s closed.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  Sienna nods.

  Cray’s lips peel back. ‘Shit!’

  Sienna flinches.

  ‘It’s not you,’ I tell her. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’

  The DCI wants to pace but the room isn’t big enough. She wants to smoke. She wants to dump this box of vipers on someone else.

  Pulling me aside, she whispers angrily. ‘What in glory’s name do I do? Who do I tell? He’s a Crown Court judge!’

  ‘You have to stop the trial.’

  ‘Only he can do that!’ Cursing, she spins away and tries to pace again. ‘I need to think. I need to talk to some people. Take advice. A judge! A fucking judge!’

  She looks at Sienna. ‘You have to be sure, one hundred per cent, do you understand?’

  Sienna nods.

  Cray opens her mobile and shuts it again. ‘Come on - I’ve got to get out of here.’

  Too agitated to wait for the lift, she walks down the curving staircase. Ruiz intercepts me on the landing.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I can’t talk. Wait for me.’

  Minutes later we’re outside. Monk is behind the wheel. Cray doesn’t say a word to him. She’s trying to work out what to do . . . where to go . . . what happens next.

  Opening her mobile, she stares at the screen. It can’t be in a phone call. It’s not secure enough. She flips it closed.

  ‘I’m going to Portishead,’ she says. ‘I need to see the Chief Constable.’

  She looks at Sienna. ‘You need to tell him everything.’ Then she addresses me. ‘Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Not a word.’

  ‘What about Ellis?’

  ‘He’s our problem now.’

  50

  Ruiz is sitting quietly, letting me talk. We’re sharing a wooden bench in Castle Park, overlooking the upper reaches of the floating harbour. Ducks and gulls dot the water, waiting to be fed by toddlers in strollers and older siblings who wobble on training wheels.

  The Old Brewery rises abruptly from the opposite bank. The weathered brick walls are stained with bird shit and soot, yet are still preferable to modern glass and concrete. Somewhere nearer the cathedral a busker plucks the strings of a banjo and a flower seller with a brightly coloured cabin is setting out buckets of blooms, tulips and daffodils.

  Ruiz hasn’t said a word. The sun radiates through a thin mesh of clouds, highlighting the grey in his hair and making him squint when he raises his eyes. His hands are big and square, no longer calloused. A boiled sweet rattles against his teeth.

  ‘What would you do?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You have a suicidal schoolgirl who has been sexually abused claiming that she slept with a County Court judge. She doesn’t know his name. She can’t remember the address. She’s also facing a murder charge. You have no forensic evidence or corroboration.’

  ‘She recognised him.’

  ‘You can’t stop a trial and destroy a man’s career on that sort of evidence.’

  ‘So what’s Cray going to do?’

  ‘She’s going to commit professional suicide.’

  A gust of wind ripples the water and topples the tulips and daffodils in their buckets.

  Ruiz continues: ‘My guess is she’ll go to the Director of Public Prosecutions, who’ll shit himself and call the Attorney General. There’ll be a full judicial inquiry, which is rare, and unless the investigation finds corroboration, Ronnie Cray can kiss her career goodbye.’

  ‘And the trial?’

  ‘They’re not going to stop an expensive, high-profile murder trial on the word of a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl.’

  ‘But the photographs in the suitcase . . . ?’

  ‘Someone took pictures of jurors - it’s not enough. You need evidence of a juror being approached or intimidated. Payments. Threats. Admissions . . .’

  Ruiz stands and works the stiffness out of his back. His body looks too big for his clothes.

  ‘So there’s nothing we can do?’

  ‘Not without evidence.’

  His eyes hold mine for a long time, blue-grey and uncomplicated. They seem to belong in the face of a younger man - a police constable who began his career more than thirty years ago, full of expectation and civic pride. A lot of water has passed under that bridge - violence, corruption, scandal, banalities, mediocrities, absurdities, insanities, hawks, doves, cowards, traitors, sell-outs, hypocrites and screaming nut-jobs - but Ruiz has never lost his faith in humanity.

  I’m tired. Dirty. Weary of talking. My mind is full of fragments of broken lives - Ray Hegarty’s, Sienna’s, Annie Robinson’s . . . I want to go home. I want a shower. I want to sleep. I want to put my arms around my daughters. I want to feel normal for a few hours.

&nbs
p; Ruiz drops me at the terrace and turns off the engine of the Merc, listening to the afternoon quiet and the ticking sound of the motor cooling. Ugly dark clouds are rolling in from the west, moving too quickly to bring rain.

  ‘I thought maybe I’d head back to London,’ he says. ‘Water the plants.’

  ‘You don’t have any plants.’

  ‘Perhaps I’ll take up gardening. Grow my own vegetables.’

  ‘You don’t like vegetables.’

  ‘I love a good Cornish pasty.’

  Wrinkles are etched around his eyes and his slight jowls move with his jaw.

  I ask him to hang around for another day - just to see what happens. Maybe I’m being selfish, but I like having him here. With Ruiz what you see is what you get. He’s a man of few contradictions except for his gruff exterior and gentle centre.

  Ever since I was diagnosed and moved out of London, I seem to have lost touch with most of my long-time friends. They call less often. Send fewer emails. Ruiz is different. He has only known me with Parkinson’s. He has seen me at my lowest, sobbing at my kitchen table after Charlie was abducted and Julianne walked out on me. And I have seen him shot up, lying in a hospital bed, unable to remember what happened yesterday.

  As I get older, friendships become harder to cultivate. I don’t know why that is. Perhaps by middle age most people have enough friends. We have a quota and when it’s filled we have to wait for someone to die or retire to get on the list.

  Glancing at his watch Ruiz suggests it might be ‘beer o’clock’. He waits while I shower and change before we walk as far as the Fox and Badger where I leave him with his elbows on the bar, gazing at a pint of Guinness turning from a muddy white to a dark brown.

  Emma is due out of school. Standing on my own I watch the mothers and grandmothers arrive.

  ‘Billy wasn’t at school today,’ says Emma, when she falls into step beside me. ‘I think he was sick.’ Then she adds, ‘I think I should be allowed more sick days, otherwise it isn’t fair.’

  ‘You shouldn’t want to be sick.’

  ‘I don’t want to be sick. I just want the sick days.’

  Charlie gets home just after four. She doesn’t mention Gordon Ellis but I know his arrest must have been texted, tweeted and talked about at school. She makes herself toast and jam for afternoon tea.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You want to talk about anything?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  She rolls her eyes and goes upstairs.

  At six o’clock I walk the girls down to the cottage. Julianne is home. She’s showered and changed and is cooking dinner. Her wet hair hangs out over her dressing gown.

  ‘I saw you today,’ she says. ‘What was Sienna doing in court?’

  I don’t know how much I should tell her. Nothing is probably safest.

  ‘Ronnie Cray wanted to show her something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can’t really tell you.’

  Julianne gives me one of her looks. It reminds me of how much she hates secrets. Then she shakes it off, refusing to let me spoil her good mood.

  ‘Well, my job is done,’ she says, sounding pleased. ‘Marco finished testifying. He was amazing. They threw everything at him. They tried to confuse him and trick him and say he was lying. It was horrible. I hope the jury saw it. I hope they hated that lawyer for what he did.’

  ‘He was doing his job.’

  ‘Don’t defend him, Joe. I know you’re a pragmatist, but don’t defend someone like that.’

  She takes Emma’s schoolbag from me. I’m standing in the kitchen, which seems to lurch suddenly and I stagger sideways. Julianne grabs me and I straighten.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. I haven’t slept.’

  Mr Parkinson is shape-shifting on me, messing up my reactions to the medications. The segues between being ‘on’ and ‘off’ my meds have become shorter.

  Julianne makes me sit down and begins scolding me about not taking care of myself. At the same time she fills the kettle and makes me a cup of tea.

  Wanting to change the subject, I tell her about Annie Robinson, keeping one eye on the stairs in case Charlie overhears me. At six o’clock we turn on the TV to watch Gordon Ellis answering questions on the steps of Trinity Road.

  ‘I can’t believe he really did it,’ says Julianne. ‘And I let Charlie babysit for him.’

  ‘You weren’t to know.’

  She shivers slightly and her shoulder brushes mine.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ I ask.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Judge Spencer - what’s he been like?’

  She looks at me oddly. ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘Do you think he’s favouring one side or the other?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s just a question.’

  She studies me momentarily, knowing that I’m holding something back.

  ‘He’s a grumpy old sod, but he seems pretty fair. He’s very nice to the jury. I think he feels sorry for them. It’s a pretty horrible case . . . seeing those photographs of burnt bodies.’

  ‘Has he disallowed any evidence?’

  ‘I don’t get to hear the legal arguments.’

  ‘What happens now?’

  ‘The prosecution has finished. The defence begins calling witnesses tomorrow.’ Julianne turns down the volume. ‘I just hope they get found guilty and Marco can get on with the rest of his life.’

  ‘What is he going to do?’

  ‘He wants to go to London. Friends have offered to put him up and help find him a job. He’s applied for university but that’s not until the autumn.’

  For a few moments we sit in silence. Julianne picks at lint from the sleeve of her sweater.

  ‘Would you like to have dinner with us?’ she asks. ‘Or maybe you’d prefer to go home and sleep?’

  ‘No.’

  She stands and pirouettes away from me before I try to read anything into the invitation. Summoning the girls, she serves dinner and we sit together at the table like a proper family, or like proper families in TV commercials for Bisto and frozen vegetables. It feels familiar. The familiar is what I crave.

  It cannot last, of course. Charlie has homework. Emma has bedtime. Julianne says I can read Emma a story but I fall asleep halfway through it. An hour later, Julianne shakes me awake, holding her finger to my lips.

  The dishwasher is humming as I come downstairs. The TV turned down low.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said about the divorce,’ I say.

  Julianne closes her eyes and opens them again, looking in an entirely different direction. She elevates her face. ‘And?’

  ‘I think you think it’s going to change things, but you don’t get rid of baggage, you take more on.’

  ‘You might be right.’ She doesn’t want an argument.

  ‘Do you want to remarry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So why?’

  ‘I don’t feel married any more.’

  ‘I do.’

  Julianne pushes bracelets up her forearm. ‘Do you know your problem, Joe?’

  I know she’s going to tell me.

  ‘You want everything to seem perfect and to seem happy and you’re willing to let “seem” equal “be”.’

  Her admonishment is intimate and so laced with melancholy it leaves me nothing to say.

  ‘You don’t have to go home,’ she says. ‘You can sleep on the sofa.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re exhausted and some nights I get a little scared on my own.’

  ‘Scared?’

  She slips her hand down my forearm and hooks her fingers under my palm. ‘I can have bad dreams too.’

  My head is vibrating. The sensation comes and goes every few seconds. Opening my eyes, it takes me a moment to recognise my surroundings. I am on the sofa in the cottage.

  I re
member Julianne giving me a pillow and blankets, watching the news and feeling a sense of helplessness. Problems in Gaza, global warming, the credit crisis, ozone holes, soaring unemployment, casualties in Iraq and Afghanistan . . .

  I don’t remember turning off the TV or the hallway light. Julianne must have decided not to wake me. I do remember dreaming of Annie Robinson’s breasts encased in a lace bra.

  The vibrations begin again. My mobile phone is wedged between my head and the armrest of the sofa.

  I press green. It’s Ronnie Cray.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Ellis is on the move.’

  My mind is issuing orders. My feet take a little longer to obey. Navigating through the darkened house, splashing water on my face, lacing my shoes. Suddenly, all thumbs, I can’t make the loops and knot the laces.

  Julianne appears at the top of the stairs in a thin cotton night-dress. The light behind her paints her body in a silhouette that would make a bishop break his vows.

  ‘What is it?’ she asks.

  ‘Go back to bed. I have to go.’

  ‘This is what I don’t like, Joe.’

  ‘I know.’

  Two unmarked police cars are waiting outside. Monk holds open a rear door. Ronnie Cray is inside, talking on her mobile. She hasn’t been to sleep since yesterday.

  We travel in silence along Wellow Road towards Radstock and then take a series of B-roads heading west. Kieran the tech is sitting in the front passenger seat, fiddling with an earpiece and tapping on a keyboard. The surveillance vehicles are colour-coded dots on a satellite map displayed on a laptop screen.

  Safari Roy over the two-way: ‘Mobile One: We’re two back, keeping visual. He’s indicating right . . . turning on to the B3135.’

  ‘Copy that.’

  Another voice: ‘Mobile Three: I’m two miles ahead on the A39. I can take over at Green Ore.’

  Sunrise is an hour away. Cray looks at her watch. ‘How soon can we get a chopper in the air?’

  ‘Forty minutes,’ says Kieran.

  We push on through the ink-dark night, listening to the radio chatter and watching the grid lights of larger towns that dot the landscape. Still heading roughly west, we pass through Cheddar and Axbridge and dozens of small villages that appear and disappear, each looking the same.

  Gordon Ellis is heading for the North Somerset coast. Every so often he pulls over and waits or doubles back for several miles before turning and resuming his journey. He’s making sure that he’s not being followed, perhaps checking number plates. Safari Roy gets worried and drops back further. A tracking device on the Ford Focus will keep us in touch as long as Ellis stays with the vehicle.