Family Reunion

by Robert F Barker

  Whatever it was, it had worked. Kisic’s conduct throughout was in stark contrast to that Carver had witnessed the last time they faced each other across a courtroom. On that occasion as the trial neared its conclusion, the several angry outbursts the court had already witnessed gave rise to concern that, if convicted, Kisic might have a go at any official he could lay his hands on - including the Judge. It led to the courtroom being surrounded by a full Police Support Unit, shields and all. With someone like Kisic, no one was willing to take chances, not even the burly young PCs who long for the sort of hot summer and undercurrents of social unrest that spark riots on Britain’s streets every decade or so. Carver had even overheard the Court Security Manager, an ex-Police Custody Sergeant, ask the PSU Inspector if he could arrange, surreptitiously, an armed presence so that, ‘You can at least take him out before he reaches the Judge.’ As it turned out, quarter-inch-thick steel cuffs and three Dock Security Officers who would have done justice to a rugby-scrum second row were enough. Between them they ensured that, despite the Croatian’s oaths and curses to the effect that everyone from the ushers to the Judge himself could, ‘Rot in Hell’ - and which began as soon as the words, ‘Six years,’ passed the Judge’s lips, the PSU was able to stand down without being called to action - much to their collective disappointment.

  But during this trial so far, Kisic’s behaviour had been exemplary. Presumably for that reason, the only obvious restriction upon his ability to have a go if he felt like it was the pair of flanking security guards. Heavier-built than Kisic and taller by inches, Carver suspected - hoped - they had been specially chosen. Before the case began, he was concerned to hear that the Judge had accepted the defence team’s argument that the sort of Security Contingency the police had recommended – and which the jury could not have failed to notice - would be seriously prejudicial to their client’s interests. Carver hoped that the judge wouldn’t live to regret his decision - no reverse pun intended.

  As the Court Clerk stood to utter the time-honoured phrase, ‘Will the foreman of the Jury please stand,’ Carver sat forward. He didn’t want to miss a word of the exchange about to take place, especially not what would follow. Earlier in the day he had seen the Clerk return to the court where he retrieved several thick texts from the Judge’s table, amongst them the Lord Chief Justice’s Recommendations On Sentencing and the Home Office Guidelines on Tariffs. During the hours the jury had been out, Carver suspected that Henry Willard had been refreshing his memory regarding the copious advice contained within them. Carver was looking forward to one thing in particular. Seeing the change in Kisic that would mark the moment when realisation finally hit. The moment when Kisic would know that his brutal reign was over. That no longer would he be free to engage in the sort of activities that had seen him rise from mere former-Crime Squad, ‘Target’, to one of the National Crime Agency’s ‘Top Twenty’. Only then would Carver, SMIU, and the other agencies who made up Operation Golan be able to mark their files on Jadranko Kisic, ‘Closed’ - something they had not been able to do even when he was doing time in Belmarsh. Two and three quarter years counting parole wasn’t that long. Rigorous though the regime within The Bell’s Maximum Security Wing is, even it wasn’t enough to loosen Kisic’s grip on those parts of England’s north where his influence reigned supreme; sex-trafficking, drug-dealing, armed robbery and the sort of protection rackets more often associated with larger American cities.

  Now, as the man upon whose words Kisic’s fate rested unfolded the piece of paper containing the Jury’s verdicts, Carver held his breath. Across the court and behind the cadre of three Barristers who made up the Crown’s Prosecuting Team – QC, Lead and Junior - Carver just caught the confident nod and wink that Darius Hook, the CPS Solicitor in the case, threw his way.

  As the Clerk to the Court made ready to read through the list of indictments, he reached back over his shoulder to adjust the black cloak that hung on his bony frame so it looked less like an ill-fitting curtain.

  ‘Count One,’ he began. ‘That on or about the twenty-fifth of April, two-thousand-and-twelve he did murder Bernard Thomas Grucott. Do you find the accused Guilty or Not Guilty?’

  The silence that filled the short gap before the foreman gave his response marked it as The Big One. Next to it the others on the indictment barely mattered. Not that conspiracy to murder and GBH weren’t serious. But this, the charge relating to Bernie’s grisly slaying was the one that counted. It was also the one Carver was most confident about. It wouldn’t bother him a jot if the Judge ruled that the others should, ‘Lie on file.’

  The eagerly awaited response came. ‘- guilty.’

  Yes.

  But wait. A commotion about the room. Murmurings, growing louder, of the ‘What did he say?’ variety. There was a collective holding of breath.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Foreman,’ the Clerk spoke up. Again, for the record, if you please.’ He made a half-turn towards the young stenographer sat below the Judge. Her ring-bedecked fingers still hovered over the keys. Confusion showed in the pretty face.

  The foreman cleared his throat, loudly. ‘S-sorry,’ he stammered, as if realising that his badly-timed Colonel Blimp impression had just cocked up what should have been his Big Moment.

  For Carver, everything seemed suddenly to happen in slow motion. God no! Surely not...

  The foreman repeated the words only those nearest had heard clearly and which they had scarcely believed.

  ‘Our verdict is, Not Guilty.’

  Carver barely heard the clamour that erupted, the whoops from Kisic’s entourage in the gallery, the clapping, the gasps of outraged astonishment from everyone except the Jury, Lawyers and Judge - too busy calling, ‘Order.’ Nor did he hear the Clerk’s gallant attempts to continue in his appointed duty despite the chaos. Instead it seemed as if all of Carver’s visual and auditory faculties focused in on one thing - the face of the man in the dock. For several seconds it stayed impassive. Then it turned, slowly, on the thick bull neck. Only when their eyes met did the killer’s rough-hewn features give way to the leering smile Carver had seen many times, though not during this trial. And Carver never knew if he actually heard Kisic’s words above the tumult or merely read his lips and imagined he had, so clear was the message.

  ‘FUCK. RIGHT. OFF. CARVER.’

  As the two men’s gazes remained locked on each other and the Clerk went through the rest of the indictment, the repeated phrase, ‘Not Guilty,’ barely registered in Carver. By then their import was lost and he had but one thought.

  What the Hell just happened?

  Chapter Three

  Across the tracks on Platform 4, the young man in the worn anorak lowered his new Canon DSLR Camera to stare across at the face that was so familiar, worried about the sudden change that had suddenly come over her.

  Throughout their relationship, such as it was, the thing Wayne Clarke had always liked most about Sarah was her self-assurance. Whether sitting at one of the Coffee House’s round tables sipping cappuccino, talking animatedly, into her mobile or just waiting for her train, Sarah always showed herself as the sort he liked best. Businesslike, oozing confidence and with beautiful blond hair - his favourite, though he had been known to stretch to redheads and, once even, a brunette.

  Wayne was twenty-four. Unusually in one so young, his work-life balance was everything he wanted it to be. The reason was simple. Wayne had but two interests in life; attractive women, and trains. The first came from nature, the second from a time-served, Network Rail Signalman-grandfather who went out of his way to make sure his only grandson shared his life-long passion for railways. In this regard, Crewe Station’s Signal box Number Three had substituted well for pre-school. Through luck or judgement, by the time Wayne was twenty and working as a Station Booking clerk, he had hit on a strategy through which he could indulge both interests at once. And while many would have regarded it at the very least, distasteful, it involved nothing more than doing what like-minded people do day-in
, day-out at railway venues up and down the country. Taking photographs.

  Wayne had learned long ago that provided he remembered to focus first on those quirks of railway architecture, rolling stock and platform furniture that are only visible to the enthusiast, no one ever noticed when he shifted his attention - and camera - to his other interest.

  Work-shifts allowing, Wayne had been ‘seeing’ Sarah for almost three months now. In that time he had taken hundreds of pictures of her. For that reason, he noticed immediately when the face that was so attractive he sometimes ached, suddenly began to crumble, as if she had just received the most awful, shocking news.

  Lowering the Canon, he swung his gaze around the platform, checking to see what has happening that would explain her distress. But there was nothing. Everyone was just stood around waiting, quiet as usual, reading, sipping from cardboard cups, staring into space.

  He lifted the camera again and zoomed in, checking he wasn’t mistaken. But now she’d turned away and for seconds all he could see was the back of her head – a beautiful curtain of shimmering gold. As he waited, he wondered what she was looking at, if she was speaking to someone, though he couldn’t see who. The nearest was an older man bundled up in a dark coat and hat pulled low, but he was engrossed in his paper. Eventually she started to turn. The camera’s mode was set to ‘continuous’ as he pressed and held the ‘shoot’ button. What he saw as her face came into view sent Wayne’s stomach into free-fall.

  Tears streamed her cheeks. The look on her face was one of utter hopelessness. Yet less than a minute before she had seemed at ease, happy even, if maybe a little distracted.

  What the hell’s happened, he thought? He wondered if perhaps she had received some tragic news on her mobile. But he’d witnessed the moment the change began and was sure she wasn’t using it. He zoomed in on the face he knew so well, but at that moment she turned again to look over her shoulder. But not all the way this time. He could still see her, three quarters-profile.

  Her lips moved.

  She was talking to someone.

  Using the viewfinder he checked those around. But the only person close was the man in the hat, and he was still reading his paper, paying no attention. Wayne wondered how he could be so near, yet not notice her distress.

  About to move back onto Sarah, he stopped, suddenly. Though the hat shielded most of the man’s face, the camera was focused in close. And as Wayne started to swing away the man’s lips moved, as if he was talking, but without looking up or shifting his gaze from the paper.

  What the Hell?

  Returning to Sarah, Wayne saw the vacant look was even more pronounced than before.

  ‘What’s wrong, Sarah?’ The words sprang unbidden from his lips, driven by the illusion she was right before him. A few feet to Wayne’s right, a woman in a green Macintosh and with a stash of plastic shopping bags at her feet turned to look at him. Nudging the bags with her foot, she shuffled further away, but still keeping him in her field of vision.

  As Sarah turned suddenly to loom large in the lens, Wayne rocked back, tricked into thinking she was about to bump into him. Panning out a couple of stops he saw she was swaying slightly from side to side as if she was dazed, or even drunk. She lowered her head and he followed her gaze, tracking down until he came to the mobile in her hand. She stared at it for some while, before going through the rapid finger-thumb thing young women are so expert at. Finished, the hand dropped, loosely, back to her side.

  About her, people stirred, beginning to pick up cases, shifting their positions. Wayne swung the camera onto the monitor above where Sarah was stood. It still gave the ETA of the Stafford train as three minutes, but showed the next train through Platform 3, the Inter-City Glasgow to Euston Express, as due in one. Something crawled in Wayne’s gut. He returned to Sarah. She wasn’t there.

  Lowering the camera, he swept his gaze over the platform. He picked her up thirty yards away, walking stiffly, arms at her side, staring straight ahead. He brought the camera to bear just as something bright and shiny fell from her hand. Her mobile. She didn’t stop to pick it up.

  Where’s she going? He followed her progress away from the main body of commuters.

  The public address system blared. An man’s voice, echoey, ethnic, heavily accented, warned of the imminent approach of the Glasgow to Euston Express. Passengers on Platform 3 should stay well behind the yellow line. Sarah carried on several yards then stopped, close to the North end of the platform. She stood there, not moving. Away to his right, through the station and beyond, Wayne could see the express approaching, its bright light piercing through the evening dark. At the same time a rushing noise began to fill the station, growing louder.

  ‘Sarah-’ Wayne tried, but stopped. There was no way she could hear him. He watched her turn ninety degrees right to face the tracks. Even without the camera, he could see her cheeks streaked by tears.

  The approaching light grew stronger.

  This time he shouted, ‘SARAH’. Those nearest cast wary glances in his direction. He started jogging down the platform just as she took three zombie-like paces forward, taking her over the yellow line. She stopped at the platform’s edge. Wayne quickened his pace.

  ‘SARAH!’

  The bright white light from the approaching express cast her shadow behind her. She turned towards it, as if gauging the right moment. Wayne broke into a sprint.

  ‘SARAHHHHH!’

  The noise grew to a crescendo as the Glasgow to Euston Intercity Express rushed into the station.

  At the same time, Sarah Brooke stepped out into space.

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  Robert F Barker was born in Liverpool, England. During a thirty-year police career, he worked in and around some of the North West’s grittiest towns and cities. As a senior detective, he led investigations into all kinds of major crime including, murder, armed robbery, serious sex crime and people/drug trafficking. Whilst commanding firearms and disorder incidents, he learned what it means to have to make life-and-death decisions in the heat of live operations. His stories are grounded in the reality of police work, but remain exciting, suspenseful, and with the sort of twists and turns crime-fiction readers love.

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