Post Mortem by Gary Bell (free children's ebooks pdf .TXT) 📕

are they, pirates?’ Her laugh simmered to a smile. ‘Elliot, as much as I’d like to chat about the pirates of the East End, are we really going to talk about work all night?’

This made me feel a little embarrassed, and I hesitated. ‘No, not at all.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘So, what else is going on in the life of Elliot Rook?’

I considered it for a moment, sure that something other than work still existed in my world. ‘I got a dog this week,’ I said brightly.

‘A dog?’ She raised her brows, eyes shining playfully. ‘That’s cute.’

‘You haven’t seen the thing.’

And the conversation went from there.

Over the next couple of hours, I felt very much like a chauffeur behind the wheel of an unfamiliar car; as a professional orator I could keep conversation going, but not without the occasional stall. Lydia didn’t seem to mind. In fact, for somebody who didn’t want to discuss work, whenever the threat of silence loomed she simply talked for the both of us, filling empty air with gossip about various judges and solicitors, which I enjoyed much more than I probably should have.

Between us, Lydia and I were a little more than tipsy when we staggered out of the Dog and Duck. The evening had turned cold, and she tightened a thin jacket over her dress while I lit myself a cigarette. Her green eyes glowed as she tracked her Uber’s advance on her phone. There was dead air between us again, but it wasn’t so awkward now. Still, I found myself wanting to fill it.

‘This was nice,’ I said. ‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’

She looked up from the phone and rolled her eyes. ‘You don’t have to thank me, Elliot. This isn’t charity. I asked for your company, remember?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose you did. In that case, you’re welcome.’

She laughed softly, ‘Wow, thanks,’ and pointed to approaching headlights. ‘This is my car.’

‘I’ll walk you to it,’ I said, and when we got there I opened the door for her.

‘The perfect gent,’ she chuckled, climbing into the back. A moment passed, something electric between us, but it had gone almost before I’d even noticed it. She held the handle from the inside, preparing to close herself in. ‘So, where will your evening take you now?’

I checked my watch and smoked. ‘I’d like another look through the case papers before I turn in. Apart from that, just trying not to get myself killed will keep me plenty busy.’

‘Good idea.’ She shook her head, started to close the door and paused. ‘The case isn’t going anywhere. You should give yourself the rest of the night off. Life’s too short, Elliot.’

I smiled, nodded, and patted the pocket with the death threat inside it. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s getting shorter every day.’

I closed the door and waved her off, and she slipped away into the night.

I held the smile until she was gone, and only then did I really start to worry about the warning on my life.

17

With Snaresbrook hearing approximately seven thousand criminal cases every year, it came as no great surprise that both Zara and I would be there at the same time on Monday.

Across England and Wales, court listings are published electronically via CourtServe. Even if a case has been scheduled for months, the trial details – including court number, judge and position in the court list – are only confirmed on the database in the listing officer’s ‘final list’ the workday before starting. This information is then also displayed on large electronic boards for those arriving at the court. Fixed trials – as ours were – tend to start on Mondays, whereas ‘floaters’ are listed to float over a two-week period and depend upon another trial finishing short, which can happen on any day. Our final list had been published on Friday afternoon: Zara’s case with Andre was scheduled for a courtroom in Snaresbrook’s outer annexe, while mine was in the main building.

The two of us agreed, quite optimistically, to rendezvous while changing trains at Oxford Circus on Monday morning. I walked the four blocks from my front door to Baker Street and entered the Underground via the Station Arcade, which had survived since the nineteenth century and was now crammed between a Boots and a Yo! Sushi. Zara had messaged to say that she’d be taking the Victoria Line up from Brixton at a little past seven o’clock and would be changing onto the Central Line at Oxford Circus from which I was only a three-minute ride away on the Bakerloo. We managed to find each other on the crowded eastbound platform below Oxford Street, and then had to squeeze ourselves into a stifling, packed carriage that stank of countless deodorants working hard to cover human sweat.

It was half an hour from there to Snaresbrook, and the only sounds apart from the screech of tracks were the overspill of earphones, the occasional chesty cough and Zara’s low, muttering voice as she went over and over the evidence in her case. I watched her knuckles whiten around the nearest handrail, occasionally loosening only to ensure that both her usual canvas shoulder bag and blue damask barrister’s bag hadn’t vanished from her side. I wasn’t in any sort of a position to offer advice, being blasted as I was by a suited chap’s coffee breath from about an inch away, but I hoped that my presence was providing her with at least a little comfort.

The courthouse opened its doors at eight, and we were in the security queue a few minutes after that. Court hours are generally in session from 10.30 until 4.15, unless there’s a sick juror or the judge has something else to do, but we had both arranged early conferences with our respective clients. We got ourselves coffees in the Bar mess and waited quietly for our defendants to arrive. Charli would be able to walk freely onto the premises, as a defendant on bail only has to surrender themselves