“What’s in Ireland?”
“Family. My mother, sisters. I’m sick of being alone."
“You won’t be, not any more. I’ll be there."
She shook her head. “It’s too late. It’s been too long. Too much betrayal.” She got to her feet, stood over him, tears in her eyes and her lips shaking. “Too many other women."
“That’s it? We end it all, here? For no reason?”
“There are too many reasons.” She turned and marched away into the crowd.
To follow, or to let her go? He had to do something. He ran after her, grabbed her arm. She screamed. “I’ll call the police."
“I am the police.” People were staring. An old lady tried to intervene with her handbag. He told her to fuck off. Helen apologised to the woman, assured her she was all right.
“You’re not leaving.” He realised he was gripping her arm, too tight.
“You’re hurting me."
He loosened his grip. “Listen, please."
“Get lost. Go away."
She slipped through his hands and disappeared into the crowd once more. He could chase her, or follow her to the office, wait outside until she finished for the day. Spy on her. Was she seeing someone? An ex-boyfriend maybe? Should he confront her?
He stood in the street, jostled by the workers pushing past him as they rushed for their lunches, running their errands in the fleeting minutes of free time. He’d lost her. How long had he been living his lies? How long undercover? He couldn’t remember. What had happened to him? Who was he? Mark. That was the truth. Always keep your given name, it was the first thing they taught you: you need to react to it, when it’s called across a room, or a crowd of demonstrators. Change the surname, take something from the records. From a dead child. He’d done that. Picked Rockford as a joke. No one had noticed. His little jest. His twist on things. The identity stolen from a baby boy who survived a few months and was buried, forgotten by the world, the parents left to grieve alone and never knowing that the name lived on. In him. Mark Waterstone. Mark Rockford. Druggie, hippie, protester. Demonstrator. Rock thrower. Agent provocateur. Policeman, bogeyman, snooper, spy.
Chapter 31
A Face From The Grave
The pavement outside the City of Westminster magistrates court resembled a gathering of the hippie tribes in readiness for a free festival. Of the hundreds of people arrested, detained, photographed and beaten up on the day of the riots, only Emma had been charged. Her friends turned out to support her, and they brought their friends, and word had raced around the eco groups and campaign organisations who arrived with placards and chants, songs and sandwiches.
Tom wished his sister had been here to see this, but she languished in the labyrinth of the court building. The machinery of state held her in its grip. Emma would be with her lawyer by now, in a bleak waiting room.
He scanned the crowds on the opposite side of the road. A face flashed by – he recognised that man. Mark Rockford, but changed utterly — clean shaven and wearing a suit. Was he here out of guilt? Tom strode across the carriageway towards him, weaving in and out of the slow-moving traffic. Their eyes met and Rockford melted away into the throng of passers-by.
Tom sprinted through the lines of cars. Mark was there that day, and had caused it all. He should be dragged into the courtroom and made to tell the truth. Why was he here? To testify? He caught sight of him heading down a side-street alongside the main court building. Capgras scurried in pursuit but as he turned a corner, he stopped dead in his tracks. An older man had confronted Rockford, blocking his way. Tom slipped behind parked cars, watching through the windows. The two men argued. Rockford waved his arms, agitated and angry. The other man wagged a finger, grabbed Rockford’s jacket by the lapels. Rockford twisted his arm away. They shouted at each other, but Capgras struggled to make out the words over the roar of London traffic.
Who was the other man? His face seemed familiar, but older, from years before. Where? How? From a courtroom or a press conference? Might he be a lawyer, a policeman? A politician, perhaps? From nowhere, the thought dropped into place: Rob, Emma’s ex-boyfriend, Ben’s father, missing ten years or more. The man who disappeared so completely it was as though he had never existed. No Rob Jarsdel had ever lived, according to the archives of births and deaths. At least, not for long. One boy of that name died at three months old. No one else. Tom had used all the resources of a major national newspaper. His brother Ollie employed the acumen of a law firm. Their father Ralph relied on the tireless zeal of a parent whose child was hurting, along with the records and paperwork of the British civil service.
Nothing. Nowhere. The man never existed. Yet here he stood, in flesh and blood, wearing a black suit, looking professional and respectable. Gone were the hippie clothes, the long hair and the stubble. A transformation, rather like that of Mark Rockford. Two peas in a pod.
Tom broke cover and hurried towards them. Rob saw him coming, said something to Rockford who glared at Capgras, then darted into a side entrance of the magistrates’ court. How did he do that, through a door reserved for officials and police? Not hippies or boyfriends of the accused, even if they did wear a suit. But Mark could wait. Tom turned his attention on Rob.
The man fled. He leapt into the passenger seat of a black Range Rover with tinted windows. The car shot off, and for a moment Capgras thought the driver might swerve and crush him against the wall.
Gone. After all these years. Changed, older. Smarter. But it was him, no doubt of it. And Rob, the former boyfriend, talking with Mark, the new one, outside the courthouse. There was a tale in all of this and he needed to speak to Emma, to tell her what he had seen. But this day loomed bad enough for her already. Should he make it worse, with news like this?
He ran up the steps to the side entrance where Rockford had entered the building but found it locked, with a passcode. How could Mark know it? Tom scurried to the front of the courthouse, eager to find Mark and shake answers out of him.
A figure stepped out of the crowd, blocking his path. “You Capgras?”
“Might be."
“They told me to give you this."
Tom scrutinised the package, wrapped in brown paper. “Who are ‘they’? Who do you work for? How do you…”
“Hey, slow down, dude. I’m only carrying the message. They paid me to deliver it, nothing else."
“Who?”
“They gave me money, said you’d want this. It’s important."
“What is it?”
The man shrugged. “They said it was dangerous, but it’s not a bomb. Only paper.” He thrust the package toward Capgras.
Tom glanced around, checking for surveillance, eyes watching him, for cameras. But no one could see him in this throng of demonstrators carrying placards. He took the parcel, it weighed three kilos at least, and shoved it into his bag then strode into the courtrooms, determined to find his sister’s lover. And give him hell.
Chapter 32
Cross And Examined
Emma Capgras toured her body, visualising the tight muscles, examining the tension, telling them to relax, to unwind and soften. She’d learnt the essence of the technique during yoga and meditation sessions, had practiced it often, used it daily as a way to keep herself steady and calm. But her mind kept coming back, over and over, to the fear. The dread. And her sinews tightened like rope, tying her in knots until she struggled to breathe.
She sat in a chair at a table in a cramped, windowless room within the bowels of the magistrates’ court building. The door opened and her lawyer slipped in. He seemed distracted. He’d been called away to see someone. Did that mean bad news?
“It’s a professional magistrate hearing the trial,” he said. “There’ll be no hanging around. Be finished today, no matter what."
Was that good? It didn’t sound good. “What does it mean?”
“He’s an ex-lawyer, handles difficult cases. High profile ones. But don’t worry. We have a reasonable case.”
&
nbsp; That wasn’t enough. It needed to be strong. She wanted to believe she would walk free at the end of the day and put it all behind her, go back to her life, to her home. To her son.
“There may be twists later. Don’t worry about those. I want you to give your side of it, as we discussed. But we might have a rabbit to pull from the hat."
“What is it?”
“Better if you don’t know. Be yourself, tell the truth. Don’t get angry or insult the police or call them liars. Not directly, understood? Good girl. Now let’s go do it."
She walked in a waking dream down the corridor and into the court. All eyes turned to her. So many people.
“Press,” the defence solicitor whispered. A gaggle of her friends sat at the back. She waved to Ruby, to Sally and others from the group. The lawyer pointed her towards the raised dock. She scanned the room. Where were her brothers? She had begged her parents to stay away from her day of torment and shame. She stared at the wooden bench in front of her, examining the cracks and the dirt, the grain of the wood and every stain, taking it all in: anything, to take her mind off the reality she faced.
Ollie entered from the back of the courtroom. He gave her a nod of encouragement, then took a seat behind her lawyer, a man he had recommended. And paid for, don’t forget that. She owed him. She owed everyone. Tom arrived and joined the press bench but he barely glanced at her. He sat on the second row of the newsmen, his head down, reading.
The magistrate entered, the crowd stood. He sat down. They sat down. Emma sat down. The clerk of the court ordered her to stand. Then they began the formalities, the way she’d seen it on television a thousand times, asking her name, listing the charges. How did she plead? Then she was sworn in and at last told to sit.
The prosecutor, a man in his thirties with clipped hair and a pointed face like a wallaby, shuffled his papers and got to his feet. He summarised the situation that day: the police faced with a demonstration that spiralled out of control. Emma Capgras was identified as a ring-leader, one of those orchestrating the violence.
Her friends at the back gasped and murmured in protest. The magistrate barked an order telling people to shut up, or they’d be removed.
The prosecutor told how an elite team of officers acting on orders from above had courageously snatched Emma from the throng. She resisted arrest, hurting two constables in the process. She was lucky not to face more serious charges, or the crown court, he said.
A police witness identified Emma as the woman he arrested that day. “Gold Commander told us over the radio to target her, a known trouble-maker, at the heart of the disturbance. When the first brick flew, she was seen giving directions, marshalling the protestors.” He said she kicked and screamed as they grabbed her. “The defendant’s foot hit me in the face.”
Lies. Emma glared at him longing for a lightning bolt to strike him dead or for spells that would turn him to a frog.
A second officer explained how he and three colleagues had to fight to subdue the woman (though he failed to mention that she weighed barely sixty kilos, viewed herself a pacifist and didn’t know how to throw a punch). His story echoed the first, even the phrases and the form of the words coming out pat, as if written by committee.
“She became violent, uncontrolled, and a threat to public safety. We had no choice but to detain and remove her from the demonstration to prevent further outbreaks of violence,” the man told the court.
Her lawyer didn’t bother to cross-examine either of the men. Did he know what he was doing? Emma longed to shout at the coppers and denounce them as liars.
A senior officer described what he had seen on the surveillance cameras and why he gave the order to pluck Emma from the crowd. Finally, her lawyer asked a question. Was there no recording of the incident to play to the court? Might they see the evidence, the film, the tape? No, he said, an unfortunate error meant the coverage was lost. An IT glitch. Regrettable, the superintendent assured the magistrate.
Emma sat with her head in her hands, looking around the courtroom. Ollie gave her encouraging smiles. Many of her friends had slipped outside. Tom sat in the press box, eyes down. Had he paid any attention at all? Why be here if he didn’t mean to listen?
The final prosecution witness took the stand, one of the coppers who’d groped her while barely conscious. She turned away, unable to look at him, with his ferrety eyes sweeping the courtroom like a searchlight. He claimed she had resisted arrest, tried to escape, hit out at him, scratching his face with her fingernails. He painted her as a wildcat, out of control and filled with venom and hatred.
Her lawyer didn’t cross-examine the man. She understood why. It would amount to calling the police liars. And that wasn’t allowed. No courtroom wanted to hear it, or to contemplate that it might be true. So they could do whatever they wished. Tell any story they chose and never be brought to account for the pain they caused.
The prosecution closed, and her defence lawyer addressed the court. He called his first witness: Emma. She stood awkwardly, not knowing what to do with her hands. He asked her why she was there that day. She told of her ideals, her beliefs, her membership of the group, how they wanted to have their voice heard.
“A peaceful demonstration?”
“We don’t believe in violence."
“Yet you were close by, when the trouble began?”
“Yes, that’s true."
“Did you see how it started?”
This was new. They hadn’t discussed this. She’d told the man nothing about Mark, how he caused the riot by throwing bricks. Should she have mentioned him?
“Did you witness what happened? Please tell the court."
“A man threw something. Half a brick, I think."
“Where did he throw it?”
“Towards the police."
“Did it hit anyone?”
“It went over their heads."
“But that was how the riot started?”
“There was no violence, not until then."
“You saw the man clearly?”
“Yes."
“Would you recognise him, if you saw him again?”
She paused, mind whirring. “I think I would, yes."
Her lawyer took off his glasses and peered at her. “Please tell the court, truthfully. Did you know the man?”
Her knees trembled. Her hands shook. She glanced at Ollie: he nodded at her. Was this his doing?
“Did you know him?”
“Yes."
“By name?”
“Mark Rockford."
“How do you know him, Miss Capgras?”
“He’s my boyfriend. He was."
“Not any more?”
“I haven’t seen him."
“You’ve separated?”
“Yes."
“What did you do, when you saw him throw the brick?”
“I shouted at him to stop."
“You didn’t agree with what he did?”
“Not at all."
“Did he hear you, do you think?”
“He was too far away. There was so much noise."
“How far?”
“Twenty, thirty feet."
“So you weren’t by his side? You weren’t hand-in-hand on this demonstration?”
“No."
“But close enough that when the police reacted, you became caught up in things?”
“Yes."
“You understand how they might make a mistake, might think it was you that was involved?”
“I didn’t throw anything."
“But the situation was confused?”
“Chaotic. Insane. They came at us with riot shields…”
“Thank you. You were hurt? In what followed?”
“Yes.” She described her injuries, the cuts and bruises over her body.
“You visited a doctor?”
“No."
“Why not?”
“They can't do much."
He asked about her arrest, her treatment, glossing over
the sexual harassment, the beatings and the abuse. “Are you aware, Miss Capgras, that you are the only person to be charged following the events that day? Do you know why?”
“No."
“Could you guess?”
“No. It seems strange."
“But you confirm, you didn’t hurl anything, hit anyone, try to hurt anyone?”
“No, never. We believe in peaceful resistance."
“Like Ghandi?”
“Yes, like Ghandi."
“Thank you. That will be all. Please remain standing. My colleague may have questions."
The prosecutor stood and scrutinised Emma. “You say you are in a relationship with the man who threw the first stone?”
“Yes."
“There was nothing about this in your statement."
“No."
“You didn’t tell the police?”
“No."
“Even though he had committed a crime? And you wanted to rely on it, in court today?”
“I didn’t think…”
“You didn’t think?”
“That it was important."
“Really? Or were you trying to protect him?”
“Yes, I suppose so."
“But now you’ve separated, and you’re happy to blame him."
“It’s not like that."
“That’s how it sounds. He’s not here to defend himself."
Her lawyer coughed, raised a point of order and asked to approach the bench. He went into a huddle with the prosecutor and the magistrate. They talked, and talked, and talked among themselves for what seemed like an eternity. Emma stood, rigid, unsure if she should sit or not. The prosecutor appeared angry. The magistrate shook his head at the defence lawyer as if he were a naughty schoolchild. He motioned both men back to their positions. “Any further questions?”
There were none. Emma felt her shoulders slump with relief. It was done, at last. Over.
“We will adjourn for forty minutes.” The magistrate gave both lawyers a meaningful stare. “Gentlemen, we need to talk.”
Emma’s defence lawyer turned to her and winked. Then he grinned at her, bundled up his papers and scurried from the room following the prosecutor, the pair of them looking for all the world like truant schoolboys summoned to the headmaster’s study.
Cold Monsters: (No Secrets To Conceal) (The Capgras Conspiracy Book 2) Page 12
