by Nick Stone
And as for what I now thought about VJ:
Well…
I won’t lie.
I wished he was guilty. That had been easier to accept, and easier still to believe.
I was disappointed he was innocent. The tag didn’t suit him. Good people were ‘innocent’. Not him. He wasn’t ‘good’. He wasn’t even blameless in the fate that had befallen him. If anything, he deserved it. Actions have consequences. You can’t cheat karma, and all that.
But, now, above all, what I really wanted to know was who was behind it. And – especially – why? What had VJ done to them?
58
June
Another month of pure drudgery. I didn’t leave the office at all.
It was sunny, then it rained, then it was sunny again.
I got my CV together and sent it out to law firms and recruitment agencies. I had no response from the former, and a few introductory meetings with the latter. Those all ended the same way – nothing for someone with my skillsets at the moment, but they’d call me back if they had anything.
So – when the verdict was rendered, irrespective of how it went, my law career was looking over.
What was I going to do?
Karen suggested I retrain, pick a trade specialising in something people would always need, that I didn’t need to be young to do, or lie my way into; something it wasn’t too late to start.
Like what?
‘Plumbing,’ she said. ‘There’ll always be a future in shit.’
59
Friday, July 8th, 2011
With the trial starting in just over two weeks, I was finally let out of the office to do some real work. Christine and Redpath were prepping VJ for the witness stand. They needed me to sit in as a notetaker and soundboard.
VJ had aged another half-decade since I’d seen him last. His face was seemingly held together by wrinkles and an untamed black-and-white beard covering his neck and creeping up his cheeks in a patchy spread.
‘You look tired,’ Christine said, diplomatically.
Not that she could talk. Her eyes were pink-rimmed and glassy. She’d dozed off on the train over and filled the carriage with phlegmy and hissy breathing, occasionally punctuated by a heavy cough that exploded midway in her chest.
‘Haven’t been sleeping much,’ VJ said. ‘I keep having these dreams. Nightmares, really.’
‘You need to focus,’ she said, gently.
‘I know.’
He ground his teeth and rubbed his chin. I noticed he’d chewed his nails to the quick.
‘You’re going to have to give evidence. The jury will want to hear you say you didn’t kill Evelyn Bates. We’re going to make you convincing. You need to work on everything, from what you say to how you say it. Voice, attitude, posture, eye contact.’
‘Will that make any difference?’ he asked.
‘The British jury system is inherently flawed. It’s based on the assumption that an ordinary member of the public is intelligent enough to follow hours of complex legal argument delivered by men and women in powdered wigs, spouting a version of English last spoken in 1811. The assumption’s wrong. Nine out of twelve jurors don’t understand what’s going on. So they look at things they can understand. Simple things. Do they like the accused? Does he look guilty? Does he sound guilty? Could the victim be their daughter? At the end of the day, a trial is nothing more than a high stakes reality show, a popularity contest where your fate gets voted on by idiots.
‘You’re going to have to be ready for Franco Carnavale in a way you’ve never been ready for anything and anyone in your life. He not only possesses a fine legal mind, but he has that special thing too – he has a performer’s sense of audience. He knows how to work a jury, how to get them on side. But if you get through one of our sessions, you’ll make it through ten of his.’
VJ looked around the room, at those now very familiar four pale-yellow walls, pausing at the panic button.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Let’s have it.’
‘Carnavale’s going to wind you up,’ she said. ‘He’ll come at you from all angles. He’ll do everything to unsettle you. His objective will be to make you angry, to provoke you into losing your cool. Fall for that and the jury will see a man who lacks self-control, a man who could kill in anger. So, the first rule is to stay absolutely calm. Don’t ever raise your voice.’
‘OK.’
‘Next, when answering questions, always remember the word “squid”.’
‘Pardon?’
‘S.Q.U.I.D. Squid,’ she said. ‘Keep your answers:
Simple – Answer yes and no at all times. If you have to say more, use as few words as possible.
Quick – Don’t hesitate. If you do, it means you’re thinking. And if you’re thinking, it means you’re inventing.
Unambiguous – Stick to your version at all times. Don’t go off statement.
Informative – Answer the question asked. Tell him exactly what he wants to know.
Decisive – Be firm when answering. Remember you’re telling the truth.
‘SQUID. Got it?’
‘Got it,’ VJ said.
Christine leaned in.
‘Now we can begin. Terry, ask the first question, please.’
I hadn’t been briefed on any of this, but I knew what she wanted. Something that would put him on edge and get a rise out of him. I had quite a few of those – not all of them relevant. Like ‘Who really stole your diary?’ and
‘When did you first cheat on your wife?’
VJ tensed up immediately.
‘What?’
Christine jumped in.
‘Never answer a question with a question, Vernon. It looks like you’re playing for time. And watch your tone. Keep it flat. Emotionless. Ask him the question again, Terry.’
I did.
‘We weren’t even married the first time,’ he said, scowling at me.
‘So why get married at all?’
‘It was her idea,’ he said. ‘We both wanted children, a family. I thought she’d make a good mother.’
‘But not a good enough wife?’
‘Melissa’s a perfect wife,’ he said.
‘But you’re an imperfect husband?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Excellent!’ Christine said. ‘Remember that, Vernon. You’re an “imperfect husband”.’
‘I will,’ he said, giving me a cutting look.
‘Good. Let’s carry on.’
Monday, July 11th, 2011
I got into the office early, buzzing from Friday. I was renewed, determined, primed. I really wanted to be a lawyer. I was going to fight for it.
And then, the instant I saw my desk, I deflated faster than a balloon colliding with a hedgehog. There was the now habitual pile of to-be-typeds teetering in my in-tray, but two box files had been left on my chair, with a Post-it note from Janet on top: ‘For archiving.’
‘Archiving’ was a fancy euphemism for one of my other tasks – filing.
Both boxes related to VJ’s case. I went through them, sorting bills, invoices, copies of Janet’s correspondence and unused CPS material. There was plenty of the latter – evidence Carnavale had discarded.
I went through it, just in case. Plenty of crime-scene and post-mortem photographs, statements from witnesses who wouldn’t be called or used, lab reports about carpet fibres.
And then…
This:
VJ’s bill from the Blenheim-Strand.
There were only two things listed. The cost of the room – £2011 – and a bottle of Grey Goose vodka for which he’d paid £275. That was about ten times what it cost in a supermarket.
But where was the champagne he’d supposedly ordered?
I opened my case file and found the list of evidence the police had taken from the suite.
1 bottle Cristal champagne 75cl (unopened) in a bucket, two glasses.
Rudy Saks told me he’d entered the order into the office computer as soon as he’d tak
en it, ‘so it would be billed to the room’.
In his statement to the police, Saks hadn’t mentioned doing that. His witness account focused on delivering the champagne to the room before 1 a.m., and seeing Evelyn Bates on the couch.
From Fabia’s account, I knew that Saks was in on the set-up.
How to prove it?
First up, if VJ really ordered the champagne, how come it hadn’t appeared on his bill?
The CPS had entered the phone log from Suite 18 into evidence, showing that a call was made to room service at 12.47 a.m.
Second, there were no signs of forced entry. The CPS had included a print-out of the log from the suite’s keycard lock.
The log was a simple table:
S18 – Door Lock
Day
Time
16.3.11:
17.38pm (gk040973)
16.3.11:
20.52pm (pk15t)
16.3.11:
23.57pm (gk040973)
17.3.11:
08.03am (pk15t)
gk – Guest Key
pk – Passkey
Conundrum:
17.38 p.m. – VJ entered the suite.
23.57 p.m. – VJ entered the suite with Fabia.
The door to Suite 18 was not opened from the outside again until the maids went in at 8.03 a.m. the next day.
So how did Evelyn get in the room?
Theory:
Someone let Evelyn in, someone already inside the room.
Not VJ. He was unconscious on the couch.
Then who?
Fabia was supposed to call room service for champagne – that was to let Saks in.
Saks could have killed Fabia alone, but there was always the risk of something going wrong – Fabia fighting back, or getting away, as she had.
So there must have been at least one other person in the room, to make sure everything ran smoothly.
When had the second person come in?
The answer was right in front of me.
I took out the crime-scene pictures and went through them until I came to the shots of Evelyn in the bedroom; the close-ups of her head resting on the crisp, unruffled pillows with the Marquis chocolates still on them.
I rang Albert Torena at the hotel.
‘What time is the turndown service?’ I asked him.
‘Between 7 p.m. and 9.30 p.m.’
‘What’s the process?’
‘The topsheet and duvet are turned back and a mint is placed on each pillow.’
‘A mint? Not a chocolate?’
‘No, the chocolate’s for when the guests arrive. A little welcome gift.’
I knew it.
The photograph of the bed showed it hadn’t been turned down at all.
VJ told us a maid had knocked on his door while he was getting changed for the awards dinner. It was the turndown service, and he’d sent her away. She hadn’t come into the room.
Yet someone had entered Suite 18 at 20.52 p.m., after VJ had left, using the maid’s passkey.
And they hadn’t left. They’d stayed there the whole time.
Would this stand up in court?
No. It was pure speculation.
I needed evidence.
And I needed to find out what had happened to Evelyn in the last two hours of her life.
Tuesday, July 12th, 2011
Fabia had met Evelyn Bates once, in the bathroom near the Casbah nightclub. She’d then seen her in the corridor, talking to a man who looked like hotel security.
At some point after that Evelyn had returned to the room she’d shared with Penny Halliwell and left her a note on the side table:
@ Private party @ Suite 18. Evey x
Penny hadn’t noticed it until she left the next morning.
Timeframe:
Evelyn left the nightclub at 11.13 p.m.
Went to the bathroom. Seen by Fabia (circa 11.15 p.m.).
VJ left the club at 11.19 p.m.
Met Fabia in the corridor (circa 11.22 p.m.).
Evelyn talked to hotel security man in the corridor (circa 11.22–11.25 p.m.)
VJ and Fabia went upstairs to the Circle bar (circa 11.30 p.m.)
Evelyn was murdered between 12 and 3 a.m.
Slightly over an hour and a half for her to:
1)
Accept an invitation to Suite 18.
2)
Go to her room, leave Penny a note.
3)
Get drugged with Rohypnol – which starts to take effect within ten minutes of ingestion.
4)
Go to Suite 18.
There were two ways up to Suite 18 – via the fire escape, which was alarmed and would have sounded if the door had been opened; or the VIP lift, which was only operable with the right keycard – either a room key or a staff passkey.
Where to start?
Here:
Talk to the security guy.
Get keycard info for Evelyn’s room for March 16th and 17th.
Back to Torena I went.
‘Do you have someone working for you who’s well built and has a shaved head?’ I said, after I’d got him on the phone.
‘That’s most of them. Even the girls,’ he quipped.
‘I need a list of all security personnel who worked the night of March 16th. And I’ll also need the keycard data for Room 474 on the same date. Can you help with that?’
‘Sure. I’ll have the information for you in a couple of days. Give me your personal email.’
Back on reception duty.
The Gang of Three went out to lunch in formation, led by Adolf.
Edwina left ten minutes later.
The office was quiet.
At times like these, when I had nothing better to do, I thought about my future. If I wanted to be a lawyer, I’d need a degree. I didn’t need KRP for that. There were plenty of courses for mature students. I could apply for a loan. I had a fair chance of getting one too, seeing as I’d once been good enough to get into Cambridge.
I looked up courses on the internet.
The phone rang.
‘It’s Edwina. I think I may’ve left my mobile upstairs. The trouble is, I don’t know where. If I call the number, can you locate it for me? You’ll recognise my ringtone. It’s “The Dambusters March”. I’ll hang up and call now.’
I trotted off upstairs.
I didn’t hear anything ringing around Edwina’s desk. I wasn’t even sure I’d recognise the theme from The Dam Busters. Hadn’t seen it since I was a kid.
I looked on the floor around her desk, tried the drawers. Had she even called the number?
And then I heard a faint sound.
It was coming from Kopf’s office.
I put an ear to the door.
A tune was playing. One I recognised all too well, but I remembered it better from an insurance advert. Or was it carpets?
Dam Busters.
Kopf obviously wasn’t in, but I knocked anyway.
No reply.
I tried the door. It was unlocked. I pushed it open a crack, enough to see his desk.
I walked in.
The ringtone was coming from deep in the room.
The phone was on top of the filing cabinet.
I picked it up.
I saw Adolf’s name on the screen.
‘Hello?’
‘Took your time,’ Edwina said.
‘It was in Mr Kopf’s office,’ I said.
‘Oh… Can you leave it on my desk?’
‘Sure.’
She hung up.
So, she’d gone out to lunch with Adolf and Crew: I’d never stood a chance here.
I should’ve turned and left then, but my curiosity got the better of me. I was standing in the middle of Sid Kopf’s inner sanctum, the brains and soul of the company. What was it that made someone like him tick, exactly? Why was he so interested in photographing crumbling old London buildings – therefore preserving the past; therefore prone to reflection and sentimentality – yet so ru
thless in the way he ran his business?
Kopf’s personality was all over the room. The furniture was antique and obviously expensive, but as tasteful as it was solid and durable. There were no framed degree certificates here, no photographs of him with any of his famous clients, and no pictures of the family I knew he had from stray office gossip. This was his seat of power. This was where he ruled.
I went and stood behind his desk. I sat down. The backrest of his chair resisted my attempts at getting comfortable, refusing to yield, so I found myself leaning precariously over the desk, on the verge of tipping over.
I pushed one of the levers under the seat. The chair dropped down suddenly with a hydraulic hiss. I tried another and the chair sprang back up and bucked forward, slamming my kneecaps painfully into the desk.
OK. Time to go.
I readjusted the chair to roughly how I’d found it. Then I scanned his desk to make sure I hadn’t displaced anything.
All in order.
Except for Edwina’s phone. I’d left that on top of the filing cabinet.
As I got up to fetch it, I noticed that the bottom drawer of the cabinet wasn’t quite closed.
I opened it.
There were two hanging files, one pretty much stuffed to capacity, the other only partially filled. The files were index tagged 2008–10 and 2011–.
I reached into the latter.
There was a single document. A will, made by Scott Nagle. It was a three-page document. I scanned it quickly. The man was worth multi-millions. He’d left his estate to his three sons, and put ten million in a trust for each of his seven grandchildren. He’d bequeathed money to his PA, his driver, cooks and cleaners. Decent bloke, I thought.
