His voice was tense and she was reminded of Rory Alban’s wary reception. It seemed that none of the officials involved in Harley’s case appreciated her digging into the case.
“Dr. Chaudri, right now, I simply want to determine if Harley’s depressive illness could be a result of sexual abuse.”
He lowered his eyes from the window and placed his hands carefully on top of the manila folder resting on his lap.
“Most definitely. Severe childhood trauma is a major risk factor for adolescents, especially if it’s accompanied by a lack of social support or impaired parental relationships. In this mental state it’s very possible to have homicidal ideation as well as self-harming ideas.”
Isla let out a pent up breath. She was certain that something catastrophic had happened to Harley to trigger his murder spree. Exactly how she could use this information to help him with his sentencing she wasn’t sure.
“Did he speak to you about his parents? Did you ever suspect he’d been abused?”
“Harley gave no indication that anything was amiss in his family situation. He’s very reticent about his family life and vouchsafed nothing in regard to his relationship with his parents, except to express regret that his mother was dead. I must add that he appeared genuine in that regret. Unlike many youths in his position, I don’t class him as being manipulative.”
“In your professional opinion, do you think he was sexually abused?” she pressed.
“Ms. Standing, all I can confirm is that Harley Carroll exhibited signs of experiencing severe childhood trauma.”
“Could that trauma manifest as a split personality?”
“I can’t rule it out.”
Isla sat forward. “Is there anything else I should know?”
Chaudri flexed the stick-like fingers of his right hand, scrabbling them over the cloth of the armrest like a crab seeking its hole.
“The only other information I have to offer is that Harley is a very suggestive subject. He also has a propensity to take adult authority very seriously and was easily swayed in our discussions. He didn’t appear rebellious against an authority figure as one would expect of a male in that age bracket.”
Isla frowned. “Suggestive in what way, Dr. Chaudri?”
The doctor’s slight shoulders twitched. “I have some experience with hypnotherapy and to me, Harley has the type of receptive personality that responds well to hypnosis.” He rose. “I hope I have answered all your questions, Ms. Standing.”
Isla stood to shake his hand.
“Thank you, Dr. Chaudri.”
Isla offered him a gracious smile, while inside she bristled with indignation that Harley Carroll hadn’t received a fair hearing. Tomorrow he was being sentenced and all she could do was her best to convince the judge there were mitigating circumstances and he deserved some leniency.
Chapter 11
Wednesday 6 December
Behind the red-robed, bewigged judge reared the richly carved lion and unicorn, symbols of British royal justice. The wood paneled walls reminded Isla less of a theater than a gladiatorial arena. Within these walls people’s reputations had been torn to shreds, lives had been ruined and eminent positions had been rendered null and void. As a law student and trainee barrister, she had witnessed many destructive, though bloodless, courtroom battles.
The witness box stood empty. There was no jury to impress into mulling over innocence or guilt, that was already decided because today’s hearing was the end of a long line of court appearances for Harley.
In the dock to the right the accused sat eye to eye with the judge. Isla had carefully dressed Harley in a plain, dark navy suit, white shirt and midnight blue tie. The outfit looked cheap and new, which it was. She hoped those factors would emphasize his youth. He was still only seventeen after all. She had wanted the suit to be a little baggy, giving the illusion he was still growing into it, hinting that Harley was a vulnerable teen not a vicous killer, that he was humble and serious, not uncaring and defiant.
The Crown Prosecution barrister, Alastair Gardner-Wells, was on his feet. His notes rested in front of him on a portable lectern that his junior had brought and positioned for him. He appeared calm and confident. Why wouldn’t he? The accused had already pleaded guilty. He didn’t have a case to prove, he only had to fight for a tough sentence.
Under Gardner-Wells’s black gown, she glimpsed an expensive pin-striped suit. She could almost smell ambition mixed with his Dior Homme. He wasn’t much older than her but she knew through the grapevine that he was busily brown-nosing his way to becoming a Queen’s Counsel. His appetite for success hadn’t yet allowed him to trade in his black cotton gown for the prestige of a silk one, but she read in his face that he considered Harley Carroll a stepping stone to that goal.
Isla rested her chin on her hands as Gardner-Wells turned a grave face towards the judge. She listened intently as he outlined the facts of the case for consideration. His brevity and the terseness in his words conveyed to the judge that this was an open and shut case.
Gardner-Wells lingered over the heinous nature of the act, using words to paint a picture of Harley as a heartless murderer. His mother and father had nurtured and provided for him, cared safely for him for sixteen years. Harley Carroll had repaid that love and dedication with absolute callousness. The worst kind of filial sentiment–he had murdered them in cold blood. There was no motive. There was no reason.
Gardner-Wells ended his speech with a summation on the sorry state of youth affairs if a crime of this heinousness could be considered run of the mill. His voice sounded brash as he came to his theatrical conclusion, a show for the judge and the media waiting in their seats behind them.
“My Lord, while it is a fact that the accused is still under the age of eighteen, the wickedness of this crime propels me to request that rather than serving the mandatory twelve years detention during Her Majesty’s pleasure, Harley Carroll is sentenced as an eighteen to twenty-one year old and serves custody for life.”
A gasp circled the courtroom. Shock drove Isla to her feet. What Gardner-Wells was suggesting was that instead of handing down a mandatory twelve-year sentence, with perhaps a year or two shaved off if Isla could convince the judge of mitigating circumstances, Harley was now facing a possible thirty years behind bars.
“My Lord, this is preposterous! My learned colleague knows that criminal courts must follow sentencing guidelines–”
Gardner-Wells shot her a triumphant look as he interrupted, “Unless it’s contrary to the interests of justice to do so. My Lord, all I ask is that you don’t forget the shocking circumstances of this murder. The fact that Mr Carroll mutilated his own father by severing his penis is just one of the horrors of his crime.”
Isla’s lips tightened. So, that was the card Gardener-Wells’s was playing: strike terror into the essence of every man in the courtroom, the judge included, at the appalling idea of losing his manhood. No doubt their bollocks had shrunk to the size of peanuts just at the thought.
“Ms. Standing, Mr Gardner-Wells, please sit down.”
Isla sank back into her chair. She met Gardner-Wells’s smug nod in her direction with a long, cool stare. Both he and the judge expected her to plead for clemency for her client, for a mitigation of his sentence, for them to consider his youth and the fact that the crime did not appear to be pre-meditated but spur of the moment.
“Ms. Standing, what does the defense have to say?”
She rose to her feet. Suddenly the starched wing collar and bands around her neck felt suffocating while the rustle of her black cotton gown was overloud amongst the crackle of papers and muted whispers. Someone cleared their throat in the gallery. She took a deep breath.
The curled horsehair wig she wore was a symbol that no matter her personal affiliations, she had a role to perform. The pair of linen bands around her neck represented on one hand that a lawyer worked for the rich, garnering a fee justly earned after years of study and labor. The second tongue was a remin
der that she should be as ready to work without reward to defend the poor and oppressed.
Isla stared steadfastly at the coat of arms behind Judge Rafferty. She was, and always had been, proud of the costume she assumed when in court. She was the daughter of a police officer and it was in her blood to chase justice. In her heart, Isla didn’t believe that the entire truth had been presented in Harley’s case. Too many busy people had grasped at his confession as an easy out and were prepared to let him pay the ultimate price.
Isla cast a swift glance in Harley’s direction. She felt a stab of sorrow seeing his head hung low, looking defeated and guilty and totally wrung out by the court system he’d been through.
Her back tensed. It was her job to wrangle truth out of a courtroom even if that caused unbearable consequences.
Judge Rafferty’s bushy eyebrows buffered together as he regarded her thoughtfully over the top of his half-moon glasses. “Are you ready with your defense, Ms. Standing?” he repeated querulously.
Her palms slick with sweat, she returned his look with calm precision.
“With the greatest respect, My Lord, I request this case be remanded due to the prosecution’s negligence.”
Hubbub broke out amongst the journalists. A quick glance backwards at Celia, the junior lawyer assigned to help with today’s session, told Isla that her decision was going to have nasty repercussions back in the office.
Gardner-Wells pushed himself upright. Consternation fought with astonishment for dominance across his features. “With all due respect, My Lord, I must protest my learned colleague’s statement!”
Judge Rafferty threw a stern glance her way, fierce enough to make a lesser woman quail. But Isla had no intention of being bullied by either man. She was going to stand her ground to see that both truth and justice won out in this case.
“On what grounds are you demanding a remand, Ms. Standing?”
“My Lord, on the grounds that the prosecution hasn’t taken into account factors that could provide a defense to the accused.”
“Ms. Standing, this matter should have been brought up in the pre-sentencing reports if it’s to factor into your defense,” Judge Rafferty snapped. “You have been privy to the prosecution’s evidence in this case and it’s a little late in the day to raise new qualms.”
“Indeed, My Lord, it’s my contention that this case shouldn’t be in court today. The investigation rests almost solely on Harley Carroll’s confession. If I could bring your attention to Dr. Rayansh Chaudri, the court appointed psychiatrist’s, own assessment, Harley Carroll ‘is a very suggestive subject who has a propensity to take adult authority very seriously and was easily swayed during discussions’. ‘Easily swayed’, My Lord,” Isla emphasized, staring boldly back into Judge Rafferty’s beady eyes. “I request that further investigation be conducted into the mental state of the accused. My Lord, if I may quote the case of Hendricks versus–”
“Yes, yes, Ms. Standing, I’m well aware of case law in regards to the mental capacity of the accused and the part that plays in bringing charges against a person of diminished capacity,” the judge said with testiness. “Mr Gardner-Wells, is this true? Have the police been remiss in harvesting evidence for this case other than Mr Carroll’s confession to the crime?”
Gardner-Wells floundered like a fish out of water, seeing his easy victory slipping from his grasp. “Of course not, My Lord. There were also Harley Carroll’s fingerprints on the murder weapon.”
Deep ridges furrowed Judge Rafferty’s brow. He heaved a theatrical sigh.
“Since the knife was from Harley Carroll’s family home it can be argued he had access to it on a daily basis. What else do you have to secure this conviction?”
“The evidence was presented prior to the pre-sentencing court date, My Lord,” Gardner-Wells blustered, his voice hollow.
Isla gloated. Being overconfident of an easy victory today, he had committed the cardinal sin of neglecting to bone up on his notes.
“Mr Gardner-Wells, may I offer the suggestion that you withdraw the current charges until a more thorough investigation into the deaths of Keith and Andrea Carroll can be re-opened? In the meantime, I commit Harley Carroll to an appropriate facility for a twenty-eight day mental assessment.”
“My Lord!” Gardner-Wells’s protest was more of a moan that faded under the judge’s cold-eyed, pragmatic stare.
“Unless you have something to say to refute Ms. Standing’s claims, you should take my suggestion seriously, Mr Gardner-Wells.”
“Indeed, My Lord. I will consult with Detective Inspector Alban about the charges.” Gardner-Wells’s voice reeked of chagrin even as he bowed his head meekly in deference to the judge’s recommendation. As he reclaimed his seat he shot Isla a thunderous scowl.
The icy tone of Judge Rafferty’s voice bit hard into the silence shrouding the courtroom. “As for you, Ms. Standing, I sincerely hope you haven’t bitten off more than you can chew.”
Isla stifled a shiver. It wouldn’t do to appear too confident in front of the hard-nosed judge, but she hoped the ace in her hand was that Chief Superintendent Vincent Titus trusted his daughter’s instincts.
Chapter 12
Monday 11 December
Bridesmead CID was located in a triangle running between New Scotland Yard on Victoria Embankment, the National Crime Agency in Old Queen Street and the Prime Minister’s residence at 10 Downing Street. It was within walking distance of many tourist attractions had Bex allowed herself the time for sightseeing.
Hidden amongst a smorgasbord of buildings on Little King Lane whose facades were so discreet Bex had trouble guessing if they were residences or businesses, the building rose three narrow stories from its ground floor metallic portico. An alleyway ran down one side to the back of the building where there was room to squeeze in two unmarked police cars. Opposite was Dill’s Sandwich Bar and down the road was the Sail and Ale pub—all the conveniences any copper needed, quipped Eli.
Despite its age, which Bex suspected dated back to the era of the original Scotland Yard/Sherlock Holmes, a recent renovation left it fresher than the New York precinct offices she had most recently worked out of. The Youth Crimes Team was on the second floor, crushed into what had previously been a property holding area, between Bridesmead CID officers on the third floor and the holding cells and interview rooms at ground level. Their office walls had a new coat of yellow paint that was meant to be cheery and compensate for the lack of daylight seeping through the transom windows, but which reminded Bex of custard pies. Reuben’s jibe was that the color could easily hide any “hangover hurls”.
The renovations hadn’t gone down well with Bridemead CID’s Chief Inspector, Nicholas “Cole” Mackinley. The past four months of their tenancy in the building had been marred with constant power struggles as she fought to get her team access to exhibit storage space, holding cells and interview rooms, while any sort of crime support they requested was a process of hoop jumping. She suspected her team’s morale had plummeted since the move from their swanky office space at New Scotland Yard, but Eli told her that was par for the course. With CIDs across the nation being stretched beyond breaking point, any whiff that money was being spent on an “unnecessary” department could only garner sour grapes.
On the plus side they had all been issued with the latest laptops and mobile tablets. Bex supposed this was to offset for the lack of amenities, with four desks smashed up against each other and a cubicle hardly bigger than a traditional red telephone box for her own office.
A briefing room at the end of the hallway held a board covered with information on their latest cases and a large wooden rectangular slab in the center of the room. This surface was plastered with a mishmash of crime scene photos and ziplocked bags containing a variety of objects including a severed penis which had caused a spate of ribald jokes from Reuben and Eli.
Bex had the door of her cramped office open to ward off claustrophobia and her team’s voices carried down the hallwa
y.
“Tell me again why we’re re-examining the evidence in this case? The perp confessed didn’t he?” Reuben’s grumble held a mixture of curiosity and criticism.
As Bex typed through a summary of their last raid that had netted a substantial amount of drugs, illegal firearms and the name of a dealer, it was hard to contain her own irritability. Her team had four cases on the go and now they were expected to stretch resources to re-open the investigation into the murder of Keith and Andrea Carroll. But the directive had come directly from Chief Superintendent Vincent Titus and couldn’t be bucked.
“I don’t know why you say ‘we’, Sunshine, because you haven’t lifted your nose from your phone for the last fifteen minutes,” Eli protested.
“That’s rich coming from someone who’s dodged a shit-load of work by drinking his body weight in tea,” Idris rebutted.
Reuben sniggered. “Besides, I only look up police news. Take this story on the dire shortage of detectives in the lead up to an expected Christmas crime spree. The Beeb says retention rates have plummeted dramatically and there’s video of an interview with Dresden about the new overseas recruitment exchange. Listen.”
Dresden’s voice echoed with tinny clarity through Reuben’s loudspeaker.
“This eminently sensible scheme cuts down on our training budget and boosts the overall detective ranks. People from other work environments also bring a fresh eye to the service, which is invaluable. It’s a win-win situation. We’ll trial it for another six months to fully bed the system in place before we roll it out full-scale. London is a diverse city and there’s no reason our police force shouldn’t emulate that diversity…”
Quinn snorted and spoke over the top of Dresden’s voice, “These new recruitment processes are bollocks! How else could you have become a detective, Reuben? From estate salesman to detective after eighteen weeks of training? It’s ludicrous! Used to be you had to be on the beat for at least two years before you were considered detective material. You’re still wet behind the ears in policing matters.” Quinn’s voice was brutal with derision. “Now they’re bringing in overseas detectives, giving them a two week orientation course and voila they bung a new detective into the breach. The Met’s going down the plughole. Take my word for it these measures are a recipe for disaster. And that’s the long answer, Reuben, for why we’re here examining an old case. CIDs are under so much pressure we have to check that procedures weren’t skipped and the case was investigated properly.”
Courting Death Page 6
