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

her allotment for a post-mortem, I don’t think we’re likely to find that out.’

‘The allotment? Shit. This is turning into a mess.’

‘You can say that again.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Do?’ I considered it for a moment. Around us, the lawyers were rushing off to various courtrooms to make their opening plays. ‘If somebody really is behind this, then they’re trying to drag the fight out of the courtroom. So that’s precisely where I’m going to keep it. As far as I’m concerned, the key to this case is Deacon. I just need to find a way to expose him. And when I do, we can win this case.’

That was what I said to the solicitor in the courthouse, but I didn’t believe it myself. Things seemed to be repeating in an ominous fashion; Garrick, Bowen and all the same cursed stars of last year were aligning once more.

It didn’t matter what I told Lydia or what I told myself, because I couldn’t ignore the feeling that this was going to end in violence, and nowhere near any court of English law.

18

Half past ten came around and court was in session.

I hadn’t managed to catch up with Zara, which I was a little sorry about, though I had enough faith in her ability by now not to let it worry me too much. Sooner or later, we are all sent plummeting out of our nests. I knew that, in her moment, Zara would fly.

The clerk started off the trial of Regina v. Charli Meadows with the usual formalities.

‘All persons who have business before the Queen’s justices draw near and give your attendance. God save the Queen.’ We stood for the entrance of Judge Evelyn Allen QC, who was kitted out in her full violet and lilac robes with a red sash, and then Charli was asked to confirm her identity. As prosecuting counsel, it was Garrick’s job to introduce us both to the court.

Trials, and their traditions, take time. After the protracted jury swearing come the legal arguments, case opening and agreed facts; witness statements have to be read and live witnesses to be called. While televised legal dramas have the luxury of being able to dip in and out of the action for pacing’s sake, a genuine trial is a meticulous, occasionally arduous affair that stretches over days, weeks and even months. This is mostly because of the judicious care required, but it’s also because barristers really do like to talk. We are professional orators, after all. The prosecution have to fight a tactical trench war, covering every conceivable defence, painstakingly laying any plausibly relevant evidence before the jury. They carry the burden and standard of proof; the defence only need to cast doubt on a single element of their case. A defence campaign, then, should be a blitzkrieg; we hold back, look for the weakest point, and then smash through it. At least, that’s the idea, but the odds are always in the prosecution’s favour for one simple reason: they choose the fight. The CPS considers the evidence and only charges people when the evidence reveals a realistic prospect of conviction.

We adjourned for lunch after the jury had been sworn, and ten minutes later I was sliding a plastic tray along the length of the counter in the Bar mess, peering down at the selection of food dehydrating under heat lamps. I settled on chips, bread and butter and, after noticing her unpacking her meagre lunch onto a table in the back corner of the room, an extra cup of tea for Zara.

‘Thought you could use this,’ I said, placing the steaming mug in front of her.

She glanced up from a noticeably dry cheese sandwich and smiled. ‘Thanks.’ She’d removed her wig but still looked older than usual in her professional black court suit; if it wasn’t for the rather pitiful lunch of one sandwich and only half a KitKat, it would be quite hard to believe that she still lived in a shared student house in Brixton. ‘Don’t they do anything stronger than tea?’

‘That bad?’ I dropped into a chair, and used my teeth to rip into two sachets of sugar. ‘How was Bowen? Do you need me to rough him up a little bit?’

‘He’s been all right. As boring as ever. His opening speech had all the flair of being lifted word for word from the CPS guidelines.’ She lowered her voice to a pompous drawl. ‘“Intentional obstruction of a police constable exercising his powers to search and obtain evidence, contrary to Section 23(4) of the Act. There is a strong public interest in prosecuting those who destroy or conceal evidence of serious drug offences, blah, blah, blah …” I swear, the man could kill Shakespeare.’

I had to chuckle, tapping my teaspoon dry on the edge of my mug. ‘And Andre?’

‘Alive, which is a bonus. Not especially happy that he has to share a cell while he’s here.’

‘Who’s he sharing a cell with?’

‘I don’t know. Just some bloke. Belmarsh, I think. This Osman warning seems to have messed with his head a little. He’s … scatty. Not that I can blame him. They warn the lad that somebody is going to try to kill him, then lock him in a cramped, dirty cell with a morally ambiguous stranger. Seems backward to me.’

I started fashioning my food into a butty. ‘Did you submit the Section 8 application? The disclosure request?’

She nodded, chewing her sandwich. ‘Not that I expect anything positive to come of it after that PII ruling. It’s so stupid. A participating informant set up the crime in league with the police, and somehow that’s not disclosable to the defence!’

‘Maybe Bowen will have a change of heart.’

‘He’d need to have a heart first. What happened with Meadows?’

I shook my head, still not quite managing to believe it myself. ‘You may want to strap yourself in for this one.’

Her eyes lit up and she froze with the sandwich halfway to her lips. ‘Go on.’

‘Deacon, former