Prey to All

by Cooper, Natasha

  ‘Maybe, Guv. But you know what struck me most in there, apart from Gibbert’s almost certain innocence?’

  ‘No. What?’

  ‘That there had to be something personal in Chaze’s antidrugs campaign, and that would make it our business.’

  ‘Why personal?’ He wasn’t that interested, and Caroline’s energy made him feel tired, but he sympathised with her resentment at the thought of handing over good information to another incident room.

  ‘No one would make himself ridiculous, like Gibbert said Chaze did, unless he had a real urgent, personal reason to care so much about drugs.’

  Femur began to breathe more easily. That was the thing – one of the things – about Caroline Lyalt that made her such a rarity. She knew when to stop and when to push, and he’d trust her judgement anywhere.

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘If Chaze had had a lover, or a sister maybe, even a friend who’d been damaged by drugs, that could have set him off. Don’t you think, Guv?’ She seemed to be driving him to some kind of enthusiastic response.

  ‘Could be,’ he said, doing his best for her.

  ‘So, what if the dealer’s become respectable now, and doesn’t want his past revealed? Say he’d just put two and two together and realised that the MP who’s always banging on about drugs is a bloke who could blow his cover.’

  ‘So he had him shot? Come on, Cally. Be reasonable.’

  ‘Someone had him shot, Guv. You’ve said all along that it must’ve been drug money that paid for the hit.’

  ‘Right. It’s a thought,’ Femur said, managing to grin at her. He sympathised with her need to be involved in the discovery of the killer. ‘How’s Jess? You haven’t mentioned her for weeks.’

  Caroline’s face softened. All the muscles around her mouth flowed into a smile that blazed through his own greyness to the part of him that was still capable of pleasure. Or at least optimism. ‘She’s great, thanks, Guv. Working. Successful. Happy.’

  ‘And you?’ he asked, with a gentleness only she could wake in him these days. And then only sometimes.

  ‘I’m happy, too.’

  He leaned towards her, then stopped as he realised he’d been about to kiss her in gratitude that someone in this whole miserable bloody world should have got so much that she deserved. Since he couldn’t do that, he patted her shoulder instead.

  ‘It’s a telly she’s doing,’ Caroline said, looking as though she knew pretty well what was in his mind, ‘so she’s around in the evenings. Why not come back and have some food with us tonight? She’s cooking. And she’s a damn good cook, too. You need a break, Guv. And the flat’s not that far from the incident room. Anyone wants either of us, they can phone. How about it?’

  ‘Won’t I put you out?’ he asked, wondering how much she knew or guessed about Sue bunking off.

  ‘Never. Jess always cooks for the five thousand. And she’d like to see you.’ Caroline grinned. ‘She’s always banging on about how much she likes you. Come on. Get the prison out of your nostrils and off your tongue.’

  ‘Put like that, how could I resist?’ he said, then remembered that ‘put like that’ was a phrase Trish Maguire used.

  He must get her out of his head. The Malcolm Chaze killing had nothing to do with an alternative suspect for the murder of Deborah Gibbert’s father. Caroline was right: Spike Hamper, who could have supplied Gibbert’s cell-mate with enough smack to put her in hospital for weeks, was a much likelier bet. And Caroline’s second scenario had possibilities, too; a few anyway. And more than Gibbert’s family. He grinned at her.

  ‘Let’s go.’ And sod Trish Maguire, he added to himself.

  Chapter 14

  Trish was sitting in her favourite chair in El Vino’s, absorbing the full blast of Phil Redstone’s resentment. She wasn’t surprised, and she didn’t blame him for it, which was one reason why it was so excruciating. The other was that she was still feeling as though she’d had at least three layers of skin peeled away. She had to forget Malcolm Chaze’s murder and her own fear and make Phil relax; otherwise she’d never last long enough to get anything out of him.

  She had bought an expensive bottle of burgundy and watched him down two glasses before she’d even begun on her first. She refilled his glass and took advantage of a short pause in his diatribe to say, ‘Phil, I’m not doing this in some kind of attempt to prove you incompetent.’

  ‘No? Then why? I know you were furious two years ago over that child-killing case. Isn’t this some kind of revenge?’

  ‘God, no!’ But I was angry, she thought. For about an hour after we left court, I felt as though it would be your fault if that paedophile maniac killed anyone else after you’d rubbished our case and set him loose again. ‘I’m a professional. I know how it works. What you did then wasn’t personal. And this isn’t personal either.’

  ‘That was a case,’ he said, swallowing the wonderful raspberry-like wine as though it were any old plonk. Trish sipped and let the taste – sunny, fruity, amazingly elegant – burst open in her mouth. ‘This is different. This is holding me up to ridicule on television for your own greater media glory.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ Trish felt as old as his great aunt. ‘Come on, Phil. Give me a break. The producer wants to change the climate of opinion surrounding your erstwhile client, who seems to be known to everyone who noticed the original case as the all-time witch who took revenge on her fragile elderly father for trivial – and imaginary – childhood difficulties. The loss of Malcolm Chaze is going to—’

  ‘You mean he was involved in this pantomime of yours?’

  Trish swallowed the insult with difficulty. ‘It’s hardly that, and yes, he was. His death is going to hurt Deb in more ways than one.’ Seeing how surprised – even shocked – Phil looked, Trish explained a little of the background, adding, ‘Did you ever meet him?’

  He shook his head, but he looked worried. ‘Have you talked to the police about this?’

  ‘Of course I have.’

  ‘And do they think there’s a connection?’

  ‘No. They treated me like a melodramatic girlie, wasting their time.’

  Phil leaned back against the chair and stretched out his legs with a satisfied sigh.

  ‘But I still think there could be a link,’ said Trish, watching his knee tighten under the smooth black cloth of his trousers.

  ‘I can see it would be bloody convenient for you.’ Phil laughed almost convincingly. ‘But I have enough faith in you to be sure you’d never swallow anything as ludicrous as that.’

  ‘You’re very flattering. And I may be wrong. Either way, we still need a lot of answers before we can start shooting the film.’

  ‘D’you really think any TV company is going to buy a project about an obscure domestic killing without a high-profile personality like Chaze to front it? I know you’re doing well these days, Trish, but not that well.’

  ‘The story’s as powerful as it ever was,’ she said coolly, not giving him the satisfaction of even showing she’d noticed the insult. ‘An innocent woman’s serving life for a murder she didn’t commit.’

  ‘OK. Ask your questions.’ He shrugged. ‘But I doubt if anything I can tell you will do you much good.’

  Trish drank again, trying to concentrate on the wine for a second.

  ‘You didn’t have to prove Deb Gibbert innocent in court, so you didn’t try,’ she began. Phil nodded kindly, as though she’d proved to be brighter than he’d expected. Patronising prick, she thought. ‘All you had to do was show that the prosecution hadn’t proved her guilty. I understand that.’

  ‘That’s something, I suppose.’ He was looking down into his glass, so she couldn’t see his eyes.

  ‘But this film is different. It’s designed to show that Deb shouldn’t be in prison, so it will try to establish her innocence. It’s a different kind of animal altogether.’

  ‘I can accept that. But I don’t like the idea that a fellow member of the Bar is out to criti
cise my work. Would you?’

  ‘Frankly I’d hate it,’ she said. ‘Especially if I’d always thought my client guilty and getting no more than she deserved.’

  Phil had begun to smile, but as the sense of what Trish had said reached him his face hardened. Something began to flicker in his eyes, like the first few tiny flames that might, unchecked, grow into a fireball.

  ‘You did, didn’t you?’ Trish said, pressing now because she thought his petulance was unprofessional. And because he was being greedy with her splendid wine.

  ‘I honestly can’t remember,’ he said, clearly lying through his teeth. Trish began to think more kindly of Deb’s.loathing of him, and Anna’s determination to expose his failings.

  ‘I took the view,’ he went on, with quite unnecessary pomposity, ‘that the police had a confession from someone else, and my client had given a statement that included a wholly credible explanation for their only bit of scientific evidence against her.’

  ‘Did you believe it yourself? That story of the poly bag, I mean.’

  ‘That’s irrelevant.’ The flicker in his eyes had been doused. So, she thought, it’s not the question of Deb’s guilt that worries him.

  ‘True. And what about the conflicting antihistamines?’

  ‘There was no evidence to prove that my client had administered them. And her mother confessed to that, too. There was no reason for my client to have been charged, tried or convicted. No reason at all. The prosecution had not established anything whatsoever beyond a reasonable doubt.’

  The little speech had been delivered with conviction and clarity. Trish wondered whether Phil had practised it in those awful moments of wakefulness at three in the morning, when memories of lost cases can return like a torturer’s favourite instruments to keep you conscious while he extracts all the horrible facts you’ve hidden even from yourself.

  ‘That seems eminently reasonable, Phil,’ she said, smiling to placate him. He didn’t respond. ‘I assume you had a second autopsy done before you decided to call no evidence?’

  The flicker started again. He must have had an autopsy done, Trish told herself, wishing Anna had managed to get hold of a full set of case papers. Had somebody lost part of them? Or shredded them?

  Phil began to laugh and ruffled his hair. It would have been a picture of an untroubled man, but for his eyes. They betrayed him.

  ‘You did have one done, didn’t you, Phil?’

  ‘Trish, for heaven’s sake. I know this is for telly, but come on. Give me a break. No one ever disputed the fact that the poor bugger was suffocated after being given an overdose But of course I had the autopsy results checked.’

  ‘Good.’ Then why are you so worried?

  ‘Unfortunately, as is so often the case with defence autopsies, our man merely confirmed the prosecution’s findings. What’s so odd about that?’

  ‘Nothing. What did he say about the extra antihistamines in the body? Was there any explanation apart from malice aforethought?’

  Phil smiled luxuriously, reaching out to pick up the bottle to refill their glasses. But he didn’t look at her. She was sure he knew that he couldn’t control his eyes in the way he managed his mouth, his breathing, and even his hands. He was an excellent performer. But everyone has one betraying habit.

  ‘The antihistamines never seemed to me to be the crux of the thing,’ he said, sounding casual again. ‘OK, the old man should never have been given both sorts, but no one – not even the prosecution’s pathologist – ever suggested there was enough astemizole to kill him.’

  ‘I’ve been missing a subtlety then,’ Trish said, realising that Phil must have been rereading his notes of the case. Without checking, he couldn’t have remembered the name of the drug that hadn’t been prescribed. He really must be worried. ‘I thought it was the very presence of astemizole that persuaded everyone they had a case of murder on their hands.’

  ‘Not in itself, Trish. This was where the line between fact and interpretation became almost impossibly narrow. As I said, there was only a very small quantity of astemizole, not enough to do him harm, even with the terfenadine overdose, but quite enough to suggest that someone had been giving him things they shouldn’t.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. The prosecution’s theory was that my client had tried to make her father dopey enough not to fight back – or make enough noise to wake her mother – when she put the bag on him. They alleged that she could have noticed that his terfenadine hadn’t made him sleep deeply enough on previous nights, so when she was intending to bump him off, she added a bit of her own astemizole to help things along.’

  Trish, who had read all this in the trial transcript but wanted to see how Phil presented it, swigged some more wine.

  ‘Phil,’ she said, a little later, ‘don’t take this wrong, but why didn’t you call any evidence?’

  ‘You know very well that it’s the prosecution’s job to prove—’

  ‘That would do very well for the media,’ Trish said quickly, ‘and it might do for the TV film, but this is me. Were you afraid Deb would crack under cross-examination?’

  Phil produced a sound that was half-way between a sigh and a laugh as he sagged against the leather chairback. ‘Trish, put yourself in my place. You’re faced with a client so angry she feels as though she’s permanently wired. She leaps down your throat at every question, however innocuous. You know she savaged the doctor before her father died, apparently begging for him to be killed – or put out of his misery, if you prefer. You know the police detest her – and suspect her – because of the things she’s said to them. You know her own sister’s given statements about her verbal cruelty to their father. Would you dare expose a woman like that to cross-examination by Mark Savory, of all people?’

  ‘Maybe not.’ Trish liked Phil better now that he was being frank. And he had a point. ‘But weren’t there any witnesses you could have produced to speak for her?’

  ‘Such as who? The teeth-and-bag episode, if it ever happened, took place in her father’s bedroom. The only other person in the house that night was her mother, now dead. I could have called character witnesses, but if I’d done that and not called my client, it would have been even more obvious why. The only safe way of conducting the case was to major on the hopelessness of the prosecution’s evidence and the barminess of the police refusal to believe in the mother’s confession.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And their case was hopeless. You must admit.’

  ‘Yes, I do, even though the jury didn’t. But didn’t your pathologist come up with anything you could have used?’

  He sighed. ‘No. What I wanted was something to prove that the suffocation had been by means of a pillow, not a bag. That would have clinched it, despite what they all said about the mother’s physical weakness. Unfortunately our pathologist couldn’t give me anything.’

  ‘In that case, why did you put the question, in exactly those terms, to the prosecution’s man in court?’ Trish asked, trying not to let any of her astonishment show.

  Phil was lifting the glass to his lips again, but at the end of her question he banged it down on the table again. ‘So you are trying to rubbish my work. I thought so.’

  Trish felt his anger, cold now but very sharp, and tried not to recoil.

  ‘All I’m saying, Phil, is that with hindsight it might have been better for your client if you’d asked merely whether or not there was anything in the autopsy to prove that suffocation had been effected by means of a plastic bag. If you’d asked it like that, he’d have had to admit there wasn’t.’

  His eyes were flickering again. So, he knew he’d cocked up. Good. That also explained, of course, why he was quite so angry at the thought of Anna’s film and Deb’s solicitors’ attempt to get leave for the new appeal.

  ‘I don’t need you to tell me my job, Trish.’ His tone was ostensibly polite, but the subtext was that she was a child of no account, daring to question a great man, who would one day si
t on the bench and eat little girls like her for breakfast. She just looked at him.

  ‘I managed to make the police officers who had taken my client’s statement admit that there was nothing to prove her story false,’ he said huffily. ‘Unfortunately I couldn’t get the jury to accept what I’d shown to be true. That was my client’s bad luck. But you know how it goes as well as I do.’

  ‘Win some, lose some?’ Trish said, remembering Dave’s casual comment. The thought of all the work that was piling up for her in chambers, and Dave’s likely punishment for the last few days’ unscheduled absences, made her stomach lurch.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Trish tried a brief smile. There was a slight relaxation in his facial muscles, but not enough to make him look at ease. ‘Will you come on the programme?’ she asked.

  ‘To be made a fool of? Certainly not.’

  ‘No,’ she said patiently. ‘To explain the limits of what counsel can do with the evidence that exists, how a defence case is conducted, and why you chose to offer no evidence.’

  ‘Who’ll be the presenter, Trish? You?’

  ‘God, no. A professional. I’d be hopeless. And anyway I wouldn’t want to do it. I’m just a backroom gofer.’ And I’m not sure I’m ever going to forgive Anna for involving me – or myself for taking it on.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly agree without knowing who would conduct the interview, and until I’d seen the script.’

  Trish hardly heard him, because George had appeared in the doorway. She was on her feet, wishing that there was still some burgundy left for him. He kissed her, then shook hands with Redstone.

  ‘I hadn’t expected to find you involved in this particular party, George,’ he said, looking thoroughly put out.

  So, thought Trish, Phil must get quite a lot of briefs from George and not want to piss him off. Why didn’t he tell me?

  ‘I’m not,’ George said cheerfully. ‘I’ve come to collect the little woman and take her off to cook my dinner.’