Текст книги "Jessica Daniel: Locked In / Vigilante / The Woman in Black"

Автор книги: Kerry Wilkinson

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 60 страниц)

21

Manchester has two Crown Courts. Jessica had been to the Minshull Street one in the north of the city centre a few times in the past as that was generally where the cases from her district were heard. But the most serious crimes and anything referred up from magistrates’ courts were usually heard at Crown Square. Given it involved a police officer as the victim, Harry’s case was always likely to end up there.

The building was largely the same as any other court precinct Jessica had been into. It was disorganised with groups of people anxiously checking boards to make sure they were in the right place, with solicitors and ushers racing from various side rooms to the courts, checking on witnesses and defendants. Other sets of people sat on the uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs, checking their watches and fiddling with mobile phones.

If you were in uniform, court officials generally liked having police witnesses in the various public waiting areas. It offered a clear disincentive for anyone in the room who might want to cause trouble. Jessica was in her regular suit but the prosecutor dealing with Harry’s case came enthusiastically bounding across the reception area as if appearing from nowhere. He shook her hand, reintroduced himself and assured her everything in court was going well. That wasn’t what she had heard, of course . . .

Harry was nowhere to be seen but, as the prosecutor led her into court one, she saw him sitting at the back in the public gallery. The court itself was a beautiful creation. It had enormous high ceilings with everything exquisitely wood-panelled. The judge’s bench at the front was long and ran the full width of the room, with a huge seal on the wall behind it. From his view out onto the court, the jurors sat on his right, with the dock, probation seats and press box on his left. The middle of the room was set aside for the lawyers and assorted legal workers, with the public area at the back. The witness box was between the jurors and the judge.

Jessica went to sit next to Harry at the rear. He looked fairly scruffy in a suit but had no tie and was unshaven with uncombed hair. As she sat, he offered a ‘hello’ but wouldn’t be drawn into any more conversation than that and didn’t seem too keen to engage. She wondered if he would still be up for that drink later, or if he even remembered agreeing?

She watched Peter Hunt swan into court with an air suggesting he believed the case was already won. As ever, he was immaculately turned out. He glanced towards her and Harry but acknowledged neither of them before quickly turning away and taking his seat. Being called as a character witness meant Jessica was last in line for the prosecution. Given Harry had self-destructed on the stand, she was possibly a last chance to turn things around before Hunt had the chance to call his own witness, namely Tom Carpenter. The prosecution knew Hunt would claim Harry had provoked a reaction from the accused by threatening him and that, even though a weapon was involved, that knife was a necessary part of Carpenter’s job as a joiner. They would say he had just forgotten to take it out of his trousers and things had got out of hand with disastrous consequences.

Jessica watched the twelve jurors enter court from a side room and made snap judgements on all of them. She could instantly tell the two people who weren’t too bothered by the case. One of them was fairly young, a man in his early twenties or so. Earphones were just about visible hanging by his neckline, indicating he had only just had the decency, or been told, to turn the music off. He scuffed his feet and looked at the floor throughout, showing no enthusiasm on his way in. There was a woman too, much older in her fifties, who looked utterly bored as they filed in. Jessica thought she was probably annoyed she’d had to put her book down or something like that. When the time came to make a decision, Jessica marked the two of them down as going along with whatever the majority would do – especially if it would get them discharged quicker.

The older man at the front, likely the person who would be foreman, was sharply dressed in a suit, although it wasn’t a necessity when you sat on a jury. He was undoubtedly the one who would take the most interest and lead all the discussions in the retiring room. He probably watched a lot of courtroom or police procedural television shows and thought this was his big moment in the sun. He would no doubt be taking copious notes and sticking rigidly to all the judge’s instructions about not reading about the case in the media or talking about it outside of the court. He certainly wouldn’t have seen her on the front of that morning’s paper.

Jessica would have bet money that, although he hadn’t spoken about the case, he had told anyone who would listen that he was a juror on the case and then insisted he couldn’t talk about it. He looked exactly the type who would delight in the fact that he knew things other people didn’t – and revelled in letting them know that. Jessica figured he was a good person to get on side. He would vigorously put his point across after they had retired and be hard to sway away from that.

There were two women around Jessica’s age sitting on the end of the front row of jurors. It looked as if they had bonded during the course of the case. They spoke quietly together while everyone awaited the judge’s arrival. They were exactly the kind of people who would be key swing votes on a jury: interested enough to listen throughout, forthright enough to not be bullied, but open-minded to take on other people’s views.

Jessica had no idea if she was right but working as a police officer gave you a pretty good grasp of the type of people you could be dealing with on any given day. She figured the foreman and these two women would be the key people to convince. These two females especially would stick together and argue their points of view. It was often that fair-mindedness that would get others to agree with you.

The judge entered and everyone stood. He was an enormous man, his robes bulging under the strain from his belly. Some people wore their weight well and managed to hide it but the judge definitely did not. His portly, rounded face was red and he looked out of breath merely walking into the room. He nodded to acknowledge the court and everyone sat down.

Jessica was asked to step out of the court as the two sides bickered over some point before she was called back in and introduced by the prosecutor. As she made her way the few feet to the witness box, she felt the jury’s eyes on her. She looked over towards them and, as she would have expected, the potential foreman was feverishly making notes, despite the fact she hadn’t even taken the oath yet.

As she reached the stand and took a copy of the Bible, she made a special effort to make eye contact with as many of the jurors as she could. The potential foreman was still writing while headphone boy was looking at his feet. She managed to look at the others and held the eyes of the two female jurors on the front row for a fraction of a second longer.

She confirmed her name, age and rank and then began to answer the initial clarification questions. When you appeared as a witness, your side would want to make sure the judge and jury knew you were a reliable, trustworthy person. That often involved a brief rundown of your entire life story and history. It was dull to pretty much everyone involved and, if Jessica had been asked to confirm her conception date, she would have only been half-surprised.

She saw Tom Carpenter in the dock watching her. The first time she had seen him was after the stabbing when he had been questioned after handing himself in. Jessica wasn’t involved in that but had seen him walking through the station with Hunt. He looked very different then, unshaven with a sneer and contemptuous look for the officers around him. Now he was smartly turned out in a suit, shirt and dark-coloured tie. He was shaven and had shorter hair. Back then he looked exactly the type to carry a knife ready to stab anyone who looked at him the wrong way. Now he looked the height of suburban respectability, someone you could trust and rely on. If you compared him to Harry’s unkempt appearance and demeanour in court, you would easily mistake the accused for the supposed veteran police officer.

Jessica answered each question as clearly as she could, directing her answers towards the jury. The prosecutor’s examination was as extensive as it could be. He asked her how long she had known Harry, what her relationship had been with him when she joined CID and other standard questions to establish that she knew him pretty well. Considering Harry kept to himself, she figured she knew as much as anyone. She confirmed she had never seen him act unprofessionally in the course of duty, nor seen him be aggressive.

After the prosecutor had finished speaking, Peter Hunt stood up for the cross-examination. He looked straight at her, the first time she had noticed him do so. If he was annoyed about what had happened a few days previously he didn’t show it, speaking with an even tone and steady pace.

He confirmed a few of the details she had already spoken about and made a special point to let her re-emphasise that she had become the person Harry was closest to on the force. The lawyer then asked one of the questions she had been worrying about. ‘If you know the victim so well, how many times have you spoken to Mr Thomas in the last six months?’

It sounded odd hearing Harry called ‘mister’. He was no longer a detective, so it was technically correct but to her ear didn’t sound right. She knew her answer would sound bad but had no intention of lying. ‘Once,’ she admitted, perhaps slightly more quietly than some of her other responses. She bowed her head almost subconsciously while she said it. In the way legal professionals seemed to be trained to do, Hunt recoiled in mock surprise. Jessica thought that look of horror or shock must come on day one of legal training. Before you opened any books or took any exams, you had to be able to show you could look stunned even when being told information you were already fully aware of. If he did ever get booted out of the legal profession, Hunt could at least go for a job as a daytime soap actor.

‘Just the once?’

‘Yes.’

Hunt gave a smaller recoil and then looked directly at the jury to make the argument that she couldn’t know Harry that well if they had only been in contact once in recent times. She had to concede he had a point.

The man on the end was frantically adding to his notes as Hunt continued. ‘In your experience, is Mr Thomas a big drinker?’

‘How would you define “big”?’

‘Let me rephrase it. Have you ever seen Mr Thomas drink while on the job?’

‘Not really.’

‘So yes?’

‘It’s not as simple as that.’ Jessica had seen most officers technically drink while on duty. She explained to the jury that sometimes it was easier to talk to sources or witnesses in somewhere like a pub, where they themselves felt comfortable. She left out the part that, on occasion, you would have a drink or two with your colleagues a little before you had theoretically finished for the day. It was a fairly common practice and, although Harry didn’t really drink with the other officers, she had certainly seen him talk to people in the pub who could give him information.

Hunt listened to her and nodded slightly, apparently feeling as if his point had been made. Just for good measure, he added: ‘Even if you were to meet with witnesses and the like in a pub, you wouldn’t have to drink yourself, would you?’

‘No,’ Jessica had to admit.

Hunt was on a roll. ‘Have you ever seen Mr Thomas act in a questionable way while on duty?’

It was the type of question that was difficult to answer. She had often seen Harry give his homeless contact money and food in return for information and what about the sealed brown envelope he had given to the same man whose tip had led directly to an arrest? Was that ‘questionable behaviour’? Technically it could be seen as bribing a witness. She had seen him make vague statements in interviews, perhaps claiming to know more about a situation than he actually did. It was definitely a tad dishonest but was it ‘questionable’?

‘No,’ she answered.

‘Never?’

‘No.’

Hunt’s next question threw her. ‘Have you ever acted in a questionable way yourself while on duty?’

She saw the steely twinkle in his eye as he asked, almost as if he had winked at her. He probably hadn’t but there was an awful lot behind the question. She remembered Wayne Lapham and the interview room. The prosecutor leapt to his feet, objecting and pointing out Jessica herself wasn’t on trial. The judge interjected but Hunt hadn’t asked the question because he wanted an answer, he had asked it to wind her up.

He had switched from looking at the jury to looking at her, fixing her with a steady stare. If his previous question had rattled her, his next one was designed to push things even further. ‘Have you ever been romantically involved with Mr Thomas?’

This time there was definitely half a smirk on his face as he eyed her. The jury wouldn’t have been able to see it from the angle they were at. Another objection came but this time Hunt assured the judge it was a legitimate question to find out how closely the two knew each other. He pointed out that it could prejudice Jessica’s answers if they had been romantically involved.

The judge ruled the question didn’t have to be answered but Jessica looked at the jury and said ‘no’ in any case. She looked at the man on the end and the two women on the front row, the three people she wanted to convince, but knew her answer was irrelevant. Hunt hadn’t asked it because he thought it was true, he had asked it to put the idea in their heads and make them doubt her. Jessica turned back to Hunt, who looked at the jury and then at her. ‘No further questions.’

His smirk had gone but his eyes told the story. ‘Take that.’

22

As she suspected, a catch-up drink with Harry never happened. The court broke for lunch shortly after her evidence and Harry had already left court by the time the prosecuting lawyer had finished speaking to her. Jessica thought there was every chance he simply didn’t remember their conversation from Saturday. She hadn’t smelled it on him but, given everything that had happened, maybe he had been lost to drink? He wouldn’t be the first police officer to have succumbed to its lure.

Back at the station, everyone was already fully aware of how her appearance had gone. The desk sergeant’s usual source, whoever it was, had apparently been spot-on about her showdown with Peter Hunt and everyone was well aware that, while she hadn’t lost her temper and blown it, Hunt had got the better of her. Feeling in the mood to take her frustrations out on somebody, she tracked down Rowlands in the canteen. He was sitting at one of the tables chatting to the now not so new girl from uniform he reckoned he was taking out the previous week.

The girl laughed at whatever had been said to her as Jessica sat next to Rowlands opposite the female officer. She was young, blonde and good-looking, still clearly enjoying being a member of the police force. Jessica thought it wouldn’t take long to disappear. Eighteen months maximum was generally what it took before fresh-faced optimism was replaced by cynicism and reality. Often it came as soon as you saw that the domestic violence victim you had spent time consoling had changed their minds about appearing in court and taken back their rat-faced boyfriend. Either that or some drunken scumbag who had called you every name under the sun had gone to magistrates’ court and got off with a slap on the wrist. It wouldn’t take long . . .

‘You should watch this one,’ Jessica told the girl, nodding towards Rowlands. ‘I’ve heard that a lot of the girls he’s ended up with complain of feeling a bit, erm, “itchy” down below not long afterwards.’

‘Hey,’ Rowlands said, putting down the fork he had been eating with.

The girl didn’t seem too fussed. ‘I’ve not had any of that.’

Jessica rolled her eyes and shook her head, nodding towards Rowlands again. ‘Whatever. I need a few minutes with him.’

The female officer took the hint and stood up. ‘See you later?’ she asked him.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ he replied unconvincingly. ‘I’ll text you.’ The girl scuttled off, beaming.

‘Poor girl,’ Jessica said to the constable now they were alone.

‘What?’ he responded with apparent indignation but a big grin nonetheless.

‘Whenever you do muck her about, can you try not to muck her career about?’

‘What makes you think . . . ?’ Rowlands began to say but Jessica just looked at him, eyebrows raised. ‘Yeah, all right,’ he conceded. She went to speak but he carried on.

‘I thought you were in court all day?’

‘I’ve done that, now I’m back.’

‘What do you want me for?’

‘You remember your magician mate?’

‘Yeah.’

‘I figured that, as I’m off the clock anyway, it would be as good a time as any to go find out what the weirdo’s got to add.’

‘I’ll have to check he’s free.’

‘How busy can he possibly be?’

It hadn’t taken long for Rowlands to establish his pal wasn’t over-encumbered with work and was happy to see them that afternoon. Jessica told Reynolds she was going to be out for the afternoon but didn’t say where, making sure she reminded Rowlands to keep his mouth shut too. He insisted they go in his car, saying he didn’t want to risk breaking down on the way if they went in hers.

‘Haven’t you got any original material?’ Jessica asked.

‘You’re the gift that keeps on giving.’

‘At least I don’t drive some souped-up GTI twat-mobile.’

Rowlands’s vehicle was exactly what she would have expected it to be: a smallish car that had been upgraded with any number of over-priced ridiculous parts.

‘And you take the piss out of my exhaust?’ Jessica said as he started up the engine. His sounded as loud as hers, if not worse.

‘Mine’s deliberate.’

Rowlands’s magician friend lived in a flat above a bookmakers’ shop in the Stockport area of the city. The neighbourhood was pretty grim but her partner didn’t seem too bothered by leaving his car outside, which at least said one thing. They went around the back of the bookies’ and the constable buzzed the intercom. The main door unlocked itself and Jessica followed Rowlands up the stairs to the inner door. As they reached the top and were let into the hallway, Jessica had to concede it didn’t look like the typical type of accommodation you would expect to find over a shop. The first thing she saw was an enormous stuffed tiger’s head hanging above the door facing them as they walked in.

‘Oh yeah, he’s into taxidermy too,’ Rowlands said, as if that explained everything.

The man who greeted them was thin with shoulder-length long brown hair. He was dressed unassumingly in jeans and a T-shirt with some pattern she didn’t recognise. Jessica did notice he was wearing a watch on each wrist as well as odd shoes. One was a bright white trainer, the sort you might go running in, the other blue and made of some kind of canvas material. He greeted Rowlands with a hug and an ‘all right, Dave?’ He also hugged Jessica. At first, she thought she would push him away but then just let him without reciprocating. She gave him a slight tap on the back as if to say ‘all right, that’s enough’ but he was already in the process of letting go and hopped away, almost skipping through the door underneath the tiger’s head. Rowlands was following him, so Jessica shrugged and did the same.

The room they had walked into was seemingly the living room. At first it didn’t look as if there was anywhere to sit, just an assortment of throws and beanbags. The room was dark, with big thick curtains pulled at the back of the room and the only light coming from a selection of small electric lamps that looked like candles placed around the floor. There was a large elaborate chandelier on the ceiling but it was either turned off or didn’t work.

The room was surrounded by tall heavy-looking bookshelves, most of which were packed with hardback books. On one of the shelves was something that looked decidedly like a stuffed chicken. Jessica was going to ask if it was a chicken but figured she didn’t particularly want to know the answer.

Most living rooms had some kind of central point – people pointed their furniture towards a television or something like a fireplace or fish tank. This room seemed to have nothing like that, not that there was any furniture anyway. There was certainly no TV and the only thing potentially central was a large round white shaggy rug. The colour stood out sharply against the rest of the dark shades in the room.

The whole flat smelled faintly of a substance Jessica would assume was incense but certainly had the air of something decidedly more illegal. She figured she would let it go . . . unless this guy really annoyed her.

The magician literally jumped onto one of the beanbags and sprawled himself out, bobbing up and down before arranging himself into a cross-legged sitting position. Rowlands seemingly thought nothing of this behaviour and sat on another beanbag the other side of the rug. With little other option, Jessica sat on a different beanbag. It reminded her of Caroline’s flat at university when they first moved to Manchester with a distinct lack of furniture. There were beanbags then too.

Rowlands was smiling at her but Jessica didn’t want to admit she felt a tad out of her depth, so asked the obvious: ‘What’s your name then?’ She thought it was a simple enough question but the response made her less sure.

‘My actual name is Francis but you can call me Hugo.’ They had been there for less than two minutes but, not for the first time, Jessica figured she didn’t want to know the answer. How could those two names be in the slightest bit connected? As if reading her mind, he added: ‘Hugo’s my stage name.’

‘Are you on stage often?’

‘Life’s a stage, don’t you think?’

She tried not raise her eyebrows but could see Rowlands smiling out of the corner of her eye. She ignored Hugo’s response but shot the constable a look to let him know they would be having words later. ‘Okay then, erm, Hugo, Detective Constable Rowlands says you may have some information that could help our investigation?’

She wanted to add: ‘I personally doubt that very much, you mental case’ but held her tongue. It was as if he hadn’t heard her question anyway.

‘Can I show you something first?’

‘I’d rather you didn’t.’

Rowlands took that moment to chip in. ‘He’s good, y’know.’

Jessica rolled her eyes. ‘All right, whatever, go on.’

She was trying not to be sarcastic or obviously hostile but had felt her tone slip with that.

‘Okay, hold this,’ Hugo said, pulling an orange out from his pocket and tossing it towards her.

Jessica hadn’t realised what was happening at first but caught the piece of fruit one-handed. If she hadn’t, it would have smacked her square in the face. She shook her head but Hugo wasn’t looking. He had leapt to his feet, motioning for Rowlands to do the same. Jessica stayed sitting on the beanbag, feeling more and more uncomfortable.

‘Right,’ Hugo said to his friend. ‘How much money have you got on you?’

Rowlands fiddled through his pockets, pulling out his wallet. He opened one of the flaps and turned it upside down into his hands. A few coins fell out and he snatched a couple of notes out from the main part. He counted it all back into the correct place.

‘Thirty pounds and eighty-two pence,’ he said.

Hugo nodded along. ‘Good, good. And you, Miss, er, Detective Daniel?’

Jessica didn’t need to check. ‘I’ve only got a tenner.’ She didn’t bother with change and only ever kept notes and cards in her purse.

Hugo kept nodding. ‘Good, good.’ He turned back to Rowlands. ‘How much is that in total then, Dave?’

The magician’s friend obviously didn’t need much time to think. ‘Forty eighty-two, I guess.’

‘Hmm yeah, sounds about right,’ Hugo said, plopping himself back onto his beanbag before instantly leaping to his feet again. ‘Right, tea?’ he asked, looking from Jessica to Rowlands and then back again.

‘I’m fine,’ Jessica replied, clearly confused.

‘Me too,’ confirmed the constable.

‘I fancy some tea,’ said Hugo, making his way back out of the living room before either of them could object.

Jessica was still holding the orange but, with the magician out of the room, looked to Dave. ‘What are we doing?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know yet.’

She nodded towards the shelf. ‘Is that a real chicken?’

‘Probably. I told you, he likes taxidermy.’

Jessica continued to shoot her colleague dirty looks while looking around the rest of the bizarre room. She thought there was something that looked like a stuffed rat or mouse on one of the other shelves.

A couple of minutes later, Hugo re-entered carrying a tray. On it was a small metal teapot with steam coming from its spout and three china teacups on individual saucers. Each was white with a flowery pattern. Jessica thought it was the kind of set you might expect somebody’s grandmother to have. Hugo set the tray down in the middle of the white rug in between them. ‘Right, tea,’ he said.

Jessica started to remind him she didn’t want any but figured it wouldn’t do much good. ‘Okay,’ he added. ‘I like mine with a hint of orange. Have you ever had it like that?’ He was looking directly at Jessica.

‘No.’

‘Could you peel that for me?’ He was indicating the orange still in her hand.

‘Okay . . .’

Hugo threw her a handkerchief and Jessica started to peel the fruit, putting the pieces of skin into a nearby bin. As a kid she always tried to peel the skin off in one piece. Here she didn’t care, tearing small strips off and tossing them away. When it was complete, she glanced back at the magician who stared at her. ‘Can you squeeze a few drops into the pot?’

She was pretty much past caring what this obvious madman asked her to do. She got to her feet and went over to the tray. Hugo removed the teapot’s lid and she gently squeezed the fruit, allowing a few drops to fall into the pot. As Jessica did that, she noticed something solid in the centre of the orange. She looked at the magician sitting on the floor in front of her who had an expectant grin on his face. Jessica pulled the segments apart and could now clearly see something that looked like a small poker chip. She pulled it out and set the orange down on the tray. The chip was round and black but on it was imprinted a pound sign, four digits and a decimal point.

‘£40.82.’

She looked at Hugo, who was grinning smugly, and then at Rowlands, tossing him the piece of plastic. He caught it and looked at the number before exploding into laughter. ‘That is fan-bloody-tastic,’ he said.

Hugo didn’t say anything but continued to smile. Jessica had to admit it was impressive. ‘Pretty good. I’ve seen better,’ she said.

Rowlands was still laughing. ‘Love it, mate. Love it.’

Jessica let the mood settle. ‘Okay, can we do what we came here for?’

Hugo had a knowing smile on his face but nodded at her. ‘What would you like to know?’

Jessica didn’t want to go into too much detail about the case, while Rowlands was still giggling to himself and rolling the chip around in his hand. ‘What do you know about getting in and out of somewhere that is completely locked?’ she asked.

Hugo nodded, taking her question in. He looked straight at her and she noticed that he was quite a good-looking guy despite his frame and weirdness. His face was nicely symmetrical and his smile was appealing and kindly. ‘With any act of illusion, the obvious answer is almost certainly the correct one. Nobody can walk through walls or disappear from one spot and reappear in another. As an entertainer, my job is to make you think I can.’

‘But how . . . ?’ Jessica started.

‘Think. When you’re watching someone perform, it’s not what you do see that matters, it’s what you don’t see. Is someone really flying just because you can’t see the wires holding them?’

‘But I know a man can’t fly. I know somebody can’t walk through walls.’

‘We all know what a human being can and can’t do. The art of illusion is to make you question that. Look at me. What are the first things you noticed?’

Jessica rescanned him but knew what she was going to say. ‘You’re wearing two watches and odd shoes.’

‘Exactly and while you’re busy looking at my feet and wrists you’re missing far more fundamental things.’

Jessica finally got it. ‘So you’re saying we’re overlooking something straightforward?’

‘I don’t know; that’s not for me to say but I do know that with anything that looks impossible, the obvious answer is almost certainly the correct one.’