by Gill Mather
He brushed aside all attempts to change his methods or ethos and one glare from him was enough to nip in the bud any attempts at camaraderie. In the days when he practised, Solicitors still had some standing in the community, fees were substantial, clients weren’t so demanding, the litigation culture and tendency to apportion blame hadn’t yet taken off, professional indemnity insurance was cheap and stifling over-regulation was many decades in the future. He had had by today’s standards a very easy run but none of it made him any happier.
He had bought his end-of-terrace cottage aged twenty six and still lived there. He had seen off many many neighbours, unable to live satisfactorily next door to someone who complained non-stop about anything and everything; the TV was too loud, the weeds were spreading under the fence into his garden, the plums from the overhanging tree were making a mess, the barbeques they held for their friends disturbed him, their cats messed on his land, their chimneys billowed out too much smoke or the wrong sort of smoke, and on and on and on. He tried to prevent them extending and improving their home, objected to planning applications, frightened their children, threw stones at their cats, poured weed-killer over any vegetation that strayed from their sides of the boundary fence, refused to reach any accommodation about the maintenance of boundaries, services, etc and parked his car on the road right in front of their gates making it difficult to get in even though he hardly used the car and could have parked in front of his own gate. It was none of his concern that a mother needed to get her children safely to and from her car, or that neighbours had to walk further than they needed to with their heavy shopping. It was a public highway, he said. They could get lost.
This evening he had tried to leave the pub without paying as he had on many previous occasions and his gloom had deepened at being called back and having to get out his purse and count out the fivers and pounds and as usual he argued the toss as to the amount. As an after-thought, he had purchased an extra bottle of beer to take away and had rammed it in his coat pocket. Had he been able to do without the custom, the landlord would have cheerfully excluded him from the pub ages ago. This particular evening he had arrived earlier than usual and stayed longer and had consumed two extra bottles of beer as a result. Hence he was unsteadier on his feet than normal.
Having got through his latch gate he counted the fifteen paces up his path to the three steps that led up to his front door. Or was it fourteen paces? No it was fifteen for sure. He stopped half way up the path, so he estimated, and peered ahead of him. He couldn't see a thing. He still had on his reading glasses anyway. He had spurned a suggestion to have a security light fitted above his own front door and had bullied his current neighbour Jim Bolton into taking down Jim’s own recently erected light. Therefore it remained impenetrably Bible-black in front of and around him.
He started up again with a lurch and, planting one foot carefully in front of the other and gaining confidence, he speeded up a bit anxious to get inside as the night was chilly. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fift…. His right foot hit the hard vertical stone surface of the first step that shouldn't have been there and his old body pivoted forwards, his boots slipped from beneath him and his head hit first the bottom of the door and then the top step. His grizzled hands clutched at thin air at first, then were bruised and grazed on the trellis each side of the top step and the climbing rose plant growing over it and after that on the rough steps themselves. He heard a bone crack as his leg twisted as he went down and another faint crack as he hit the path with one hand, wrist and arm trapped at an odd angle underneath his body. The beer bottle in his pocket fell out and broke cutting his hands further and the contents soaking into his clothes. He cried out weakly and then slumped and came fully to rest on the path, his face and hands bruised and bleeding and his head spinning until the cool night and the pain and his troubled thoughts receded to nothing and oblivion took over.
That same night, Madge the neighbour opposite was awoken by a car stopping and the door slamming and about fifteen minutes after - she couldn't say exactly how long, it might have been more or it could have been less and she might have dropped off in between - she finally gave way to the urge to empty her bladder and got up out of bed. As she passed her landing window on the way back to her room, she glanced out and saw a torch light bobbing down Jim’s path, out of his gate, through that of the Solicitor next door and up the path. She shook her head as she dropped the net curtain back into place. Jim and his neighbour were constantly arguing. Little wonder when Sharpe was such an awkward old bugger. The rest of the street got a deal of entertainment out of Sharpe’s odd ways and mannerisms and his endless feuds with his immediate neighbour or neighbours at any given time but everyone acknowledged that it mustn’t be very comfortable to actually live next door to him. The pace of the disputes seemed to have ratcheted up in the last few days and Jim and Sharpe had almost come to blows the day before yesterday then Jim had had to go away and had stayed away the night so it had been unusually peaceful during yesterday and today. She wondered what it was this time. She hadn’t had a chance to speak to Jim other than to wave him goodbye as he drove off to, he told her, go and visit his daughter. He was a widower in his early seventies and such a nice man who’d come to the village apparently after his wife died hoping to spend a happy peaceful retirement in what he had hoped would be a small friendly community and by and large it was but no-one would have anticipated living next door to such a difficult man. It was very late to be visiting to remonstrate with a neighbour but she knew Sharpe was driving Jim to utter distraction. She wondered how much longer Jim would be able to stand it and would move away like all the rest had done previously. Nursing these thoughts, she went back to bed without looking at the bedside clock properly.
IT WAS NEARLY going home time but the internal phone was ringing.
“Orielle,” said Hugh, “we’ve had a call from the nick. Could you get over there. An old conveyancing client of PWT has been arrested and has asked for me to represent him. I can't go just now. So can you go and see what’s up.”
“What’s he supposed to have done?”
“Not really sure. Something about attempted murder.”
“What?”
“I know it’s a bit heavy for you but I’ve got to go now. Call me on my mobile if you absolutely have to.”
Thanks a lot thought Orielle!
SHE’D ONLY ATTENDED relatively minor crimes on her own so far, but it would be good experience and now Triss was ill and thought he would be too unreliable to carry on working at PWT, she had to keep her own income coming in. Hugh and Amanda were kind and considerate but she hadn't felt able to tell them quite how ill Triss was. Indeed it had barely sunk in properly for her and after the initial shock and despair of Triss’s diagnosis, denial started to take hold. And anyway she didn't want charity or oceans of sympathy from people at work. So she tried to get on with things the best she could.
Jim Bolton looked worried when she was shown into the interview room. Where’s Dr. Sutherland he wanted to know. Orielle tried to look competent and confident and introduced herself, asking as always at the outset about the use of first names and he readily agreed in a distracted manner. She explained that she was only here to assist in the first instance and that Hugh would be dealing with the case. Jim Bolton didn’t look like an attempted murderer and he was of course frantic with worry. Having spoken to the SIO, she’d been told that Jim and his neighbour a retired Solicitor by the name of Sharpe had a stormy relationship, that their animosity had escalated recently and that they had been seen fighting two days ago. Now the Solicitor was in hospital in danger of losing his life and it appeared he had been attacked outside his front door the night before and badly injured. He had a head injury, facial injuries, a broken hip, a broken wrist, some fractured ribs and contusions all over his body. He had been severely beaten, or at least it appeared so. A neighbour had told the police that she had seen Jim visit Sharpe’s home and the police calculated that it would have been ab
out the time Sharpe would have been attacked last night. Sharpe hadn’t been found until the following morning when an early riser on the way to the railway station had glanced out of his car window and had noticed the body huddled at the bottom of the steps up to the front door and had called the police.
Sharpe was just clinging onto life at this time. Blood had been found on the clothes Jim had been wearing the night before and it was being tested even now for a match with Sharpe’s DNA. More blood and tissue had been found under Jim’s finger nails and on his torch and that too was being tested. If Sharpe should lose his battle for life, then a post mortem was expected to reveal that the cause of death was probably trauma to the head from a blunt object, quite likely the torch. But of course he wasn’t dead and his condition prevented any extensive examination for the time being.
Orielle sat down opposite Jim and asked him to tell her in his own words what had happened. Jim shook his head and, staring into space, falteringly at first, then with more gusto in his Yorkshire accent, he gave his version of events.
“I got back late from visiting my daughter. She’s having a baby soon and I like to see her as often as possible at the moment. It’s what her mother would have wanted. We had her later in life. She’s our only daughter and it’ll be our first grandchild. Soon as I got in the house, I looked at the post on the doormat and this one brown envelope caught my eye. It looked official so I opened it and it was a summons or something. The evil old bastard Sharpe was taking me to Court to try and stop me from having access to his property to mend my drain. It’s almost completely blocked now. Christ I soon won’t be able to have a sh….I won’t be able to use the toilet at all in my own home! What the devil’s the matter with the man? My Deeds say there’s a right to use the pipes etc and go next door to carry out repairs. It’s in some old 1920s Deed. This summons said something about the right being extinguished due to unity of….I don't know…..something or other. I haven't got a clue what he’s talking about. But anyway it’s completely unreasonable. How am I supposed to live normally without…..”
“Yes. I see,” cut in Orielle. “So did you go to his house as alleged and if so what happened?”
“Damn right I did.”
“It was rather late wasn’t it? Wouldn't it have been better to wait until the morning? What time was it exactly?”
“About eleven, eleven thirty. But I’m not that sure really.”
“The neighbour who saw you said you had a torch. Why was that?”
“It was black as the Ace of Spades. I left my front door open but the light only lit up a few feet away from the door. So I got the torch. And that’s another thing. The old sod threatened me with legal action over the security light I installed over the front door a few months ago so I removed it in the end. He’s mental. He wants putting away,” said Jim failing to grasp the import of his words.”
“Hmm,” said Orielle. “But surely you would have expected him to be in bed by then. What made you think he’d still be up?”
“He goes out to the local pub most nights `til quite late. `Course, I don't have to mind about him coming back after ten most nights crashing about. Now if the boot was on the other foot….”
“Thanks Jim. But were there any lights on in his house?”
“No there weren't. It was pitch black.”
“So why not wait until today when you might have calmed down?”
“I was so angry. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind while I felt like it. Usually I just get so wound up I can't say anything to him or I just feel defeated and he just gets away with everything.”
“But you apparently came to blows the other day or nearly. Was it about this same issue?”
“Yes it was. Well he came at me with a hammer when I went round there. I had to defend myself. I only pushed him away. Not very hard then I got out of there as quickly as possible.”
“So you took a torch to light your way and what happened then?”
“Well I just found him lying there. I only saw him when I was virtually on top of him. He stank of drink, beer. I thought he was wasted through drink and that it’d do him good to lie there for the rest of the night.”
“Did you touch him?”
“Well I must’ve. The police say they found blood on my clothes and hands and torch. Honest to God, I didn’t even know he was injured. They dug my clothes out of the linen bin this morning where I put them when I got back in and went to bed. I was still in bed when they came round and arrested me early today. I’ve been here ever since and I want to go home.”
“But you had a torch. Couldn't you see the blood? He must have been lying oddly to have sustained all those fractures. And you’re saying you didn’t notice?”
“Look, whose side are you on?”
“The police will ask Jim. You know they will. I want to know what you’ll say to questions like that.”
Jim sighed. “I suppose so. Anyway the torch was fading and it went out. It was pitch black out there. I could hardly see anything. I mostly had to feel my way. The path was all slippery and I fell over once myself. And I dropped the torch once or twice. That was all slippery too. I didn’t realise it might be….. blood on it.”
“So when you got back to your house, didn’t you notice the blood then?”
“No. I wiped my hands on my clothes. I thought it was condensation. It’s a four and a half hour drive from my daughter’s. I was that tired honestly I didn’t even turn the bathroom light on. I just dumped my clothes in the linen bin, splashed my hands and face with water and went straight to bed. The water ran dark in the wash basin but I thought it was mud and stuff. I’d no idea there was any blood anywhere.”
“What about the hall light?”
“I turned it off as soon as I got in and shut the door. I could see just enough by the light from my open bedroom door. It’s an old cottage. There isn't a switch downstairs for the landing light and there isn't a switch on the landing to turn off the hall light so I had to turn it off downstairs, the hall light.”
“And what did you do with the torch?”
“Honestly I can't remember what I did with it. I wasn’t thinking about it. I obviously put it somewhere. The police have got it now so it must’ve been about somewhere.”
“Well at the very least, didn’t you think you should try to get him, Mr. Sharpe, indoors when you found him? It was probably cold out there.”
“I don’t much feel the cold myself. And it’s the way he is. I no longer have a shred of sympathy for the old bastard. He’s the most unpleasant person I’ve ever come across. And if you want to know honestly, I hope he does die.”
“Though from your point of view you must realise it would be better if he doesn’t.” Jim looked stubborn “Look Jim it may not have sunk in yet probably, but you’re potentially in serious trouble.”
“But I haven't done anything wrong,” Jim wailed. “I didn’t do anything to him.”
“Try to think how it looks from the outside though. Just think about it. It doesn’t look good.”
There was silence in the small room while he digested what she’d just said. Orielle was thinking that the story was at least plausible. Maybe the old Solicitor had fallen over and cracked his head on the path or steps. Maybe someone else had attacked him earlier. He seemed to be the type who might make enemies from what little she’d heard about him. Jim was an older man living alone, maybe not too houseproud or particular. He might quite easily fall into bed after a long drive without bothering to assiduously clean and tidy up. If he’d hit someone hard enough with his torch to seriously injure them, he might at least have been expected to try to hide it and any other evidence but apparently he hadn’t.
“On balance,” she told Jim, “I think you should agree to be interviewed by the police and tell them what you’ve just told me. But you’re going to have to calm down and modify your language. You don’t have to pretend to like your neighbour but don’t say you hope he dies or…what was the other thing you said?
” She looked down at her notes. “Don’t say he wants putting away. Try and keep off the subject of what you’d like to happen to him. Just stick to what actually happened. I’ll try and help you as much as I can. You don’t have to agree to be interviewed but personally it’s my opinion that to get your side of events over at this stage would be helpful to you in the long run, especially if you don’t change your account at all. And then, depending on what the forensics show, you’ll hopefully have a good defence.”
“So I’ll be able to leave here after that will I?”
“I didn’t say that. I know it’s difficult for you to absorb but it’s an extremely serious matter. I imagine you’ll be kept here for the night. You may be charged after the interview or maybe not. They may wait for more forensic information, give you bail and perhaps charge you later or perhaps not. If you’re charged now this evening, you’ll probably have to appear before the Court tomorrow to ask for bail. Hugh’ll have to deal with that. Or they might charge you tomorrow. I don’t know. It depends who’s available to make a decision.
“So do you want to agree to an interview and if so will you try to keep your temper and not say anything rash?”
“Yes. Yes to both.”
“The police may try to trip you up. Don't get angry if they do. Just stick to what actually happened. They may suggest for example that if you didn't actually hit Sharpe over the head yourself, then you pushed him so that he fell and knocked his head and sustained the injuries.”
“Oh,” Jim went grey and looked aghast. “I hadn't thought of that. Oh God. I’m gunna get done for it aren't I!”
