Death By Dangerous (11 page)

The door flew open. ‘Have you heard?' shouted Detective Chief Inspector Armstrong, directing his question to DI Taylor, sitting at his desk.

Instinctively, Taylor glanced over at Waters, who was equally bemused and replied: ‘No, Chief, heard what?'

‘Anderson, he's gone not guilty.'

‘You're joking?'

‘Do I look like I'm joking? Thought you said the evidence was overwhelming. Got experts coming out our ears, you said.'

‘It is. We have.'

‘You can hardly blame 'im, Chief,' Waters chipped in. ‘Got a lot to lose. Worth having a punt on a trial.'

‘Did I ask your opinion?' Armstrong snapped.

‘Sorry, Chief.'

Taylor didn't appreciate his officers being spoken to like that, but decided to let it pass this time. ‘All we can do is prepare the case, Chief. How he pleads is out of our hands.'

‘I suppose so,' Armstrong replied, calming down. ‘Is it watertight? That's all I want to know.'

‘Yes,' Taylor replied firmly. Unable to resist winding up his boss, he added: ‘But you know what lawyers say? There's no such thing as bang to rights.'

‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?'

‘Well, we haven't been able to bottom the identity of his passenger.'

‘Thought you had some Indian name?'

‘That's from a library card found in her handbag. There's no other ID. It doesn't matter technically, as long as we can prove the death, and we've got a body, but it might give the defence something to play with.'

‘And who do you think she was?'

‘Dunno, Chief, but if I was a betting man I'd say she was a prostitute. We may never know.'

‘And the five-year-old girl in the other vehicle? I take it you know
her
identity?' Armstrong asked.

‘Yes, obviously,' Taylor replied.

‘Good, because I want you to go and tell her parents there's going to be a trial. It's the least you can do.'

‘Yes, Chief.' His stomach churned.

Tom and Sandra Granger had aged in the few weeks since DI Taylor last saw them. The house was the same − spotless. Even the magazines on the coffee table were arranged in a perfect fan.

Taylor sat on the settee, noticing the freshly ironed arm-caps. A way of life, deeply ingrained – great pride in their tiny home − as they must have had in their beloved daughter.

Still in his overcoat, Anderson refused the offer of a cup of tea, not wishing to prolong matters. ‘As you know, the plea hearing was today. I wanted to tell you in person that—' He paused. There was no way to make this easy. ‘The defendant is denying it. He's pleaded not guilty.'

It took a while for the information to compute. Then: ‘Denying it?' Tom Granger couldn't understand. ‘How can he deny it? Our Molly's dead.'

‘I know,' Taylor sighed. ‘So there's going to be a trial.'

‘Does that mean we'll have to give evidence?' Sandra asked, fiddling with a tissue in her sleeve.

‘Yes, you will.'

‘Good. I want to, if it helps. For Molly.'

‘Of course. Is there anything else you've remembered about what happened?'

‘No.'

Something made him ask, ‘Or anything you think you could have got wrong in your statement?'

‘Like what?' asked Sandra.

‘Oh, I don't know. Anything?'

‘No, I don't think so.'

‘OK, just checking,' Taylor replied.

‘I've heard he's an important man,' said Tom Granger. ‘The bloke who did it?'

‘No more important than you, Mr Granger.'

‘A barrister, isn't he? If he knows the law, might he wriggle out of it?'

‘Not if I can help it,' Taylor replied. He got up to leave. ‘If there's anything you want to ask, please, feel free to call me anytime.'

‘I just can't understand it,' said Mr Granger.

‘Understand what?'

‘Why it couldn't have been me.' His face broke up. Sandra held him. They held each other.

‘It should've been me,' he said. ‘It should've been me.'

Taylor showed himself out.

Hussain left a set of papers in
R v Anderson
with Adey. He'd managed to scrounge a full bundle of depositions as well as transcripts of the interviews. They were only missing the unused material.

Adey couldn't wait to get to work. She didn't believe a word of Anderson's account to the police. To her it was obvious – he'd messed up. Probably had a fight with a hooker over money and crashed the car. If anyone knew how to get out of a situation like that, it was a prosecution barrister. He might be able to take Hussain for a ride, but not Adey Tuur. She'd been around the block too many times. She'd uncover the truth soon enough. But there was something about John Anderson that drew her. An austere man, yet such a commanding presence. His quiet charisma was almost magnetic. She remembered him bursting into the office full of anger. Adey had never met anyone remotely like him before. Like her, he seemed so lost, yet their lives to date couldn't have been more different.

Born in Somalia during the civil war, Adey knew little about her father, only what her mother told her, and that was almost nothing. A white Englishman, he'd said he was an aid worker, but was more probably a gun-runner. Adey had never got to the bottom of whether her mother had had a one-night stand on the evening of her conception or whether she'd been raped. She would often look into Adey's eyes before she died, and comment on the miracle of how someone so beautiful had come out of something so terrible. Her uncle, who lived with them in Mogadishu when she was young, had been involved in politics. She still had nightmares about the men who came to their home during the night. Tattooed on her memory, peeping out from the bedroom door with her brother, Bahdoon. She remembered the torchlights glistening off the machetes, raining down on her uncle. The sound of flesh being chopped – blood-spattered walls. Her mother sobbing as she surveyed the dismembered corpse, confused as to which body part to cling to.

After the withdrawal of UN forces in March 1995 her mother had fled, taking Adey and Bahdoon to the UK as political refugees, eventually settling in Moss Side, Manchester.

Unable to come to terms with the traumatic events in her life, Adey's mother committed suicide when Adey was fourteen, leaving her and a sixteen-year-old brother to fend for themselves.

With Hussain out at court she treated herself to an extra notch on the electric heater, then set about trying to find out something on Heena Butt.

She started with the basics: Facebook and Twitter. Nothing. Maybe she'd made a mistake with the spelling. She flicked through the brief. To her surprise, there was a hole in the prosecution case − no death certificate and no evidence to prove the identity of the deceased. Paramedics described finding a body in Anderson's vehicle, pronounced dead on arrival by doctors at the hospital, but no one had confirmed her name. The only reference to the name Heena Butt was from the police officers in Anderson's interview, but she couldn't work out where they got it from.

Even basic searches of the electoral role were hopeless without a date of birth or address. And with no details to go on, other searches were pointless. She was stumped, unable to progress this aspect of her preparation until the prosecution disclosed the schedule of unused material. She could only hope that would turn up something. Fortunately for the client, it meant a stay of execution.

Anderson caught the bus from town. He wiped away the condensation on the window and took in the bright lights of the Curry Mile. His senses revelled in the different sights and smells as he alighted in the centre of Rusholme, a welcome respite from the monotony of sitting in West's flat. The swelling to his face had reduced and his movement was less restricted.

Surviving on what remained of a £1200 cheque for a trial he'd prosecuted six months before, he was now formally suspended from practice by the Bar Standards Board − not that the clerks had been giving him anything anyway. At least Mia wasn't pressurising him for maintenance. She seemed to understand his predicament. That was something to be thankful for. God knows what she and the children were living on.

Anderson's spirits had been lifted. He still couldn't quite believe how Hussain had driven all the way to Bradford to persuade him not to plead guilty. A man Anderson had despised more than anyone else in the legal profession. He'd thought he had good judgement about people, a sixth sense. How could he have got things so wrong? Anderson found himself actually looking forward to seeing Hussain, being able to talk about the case to someone who wanted to hear his take on things. He hurried along the icy pavement, only the grit keeping him upright.

Before going into Hussain's office, Anderson stopped and stared across the road at the Kashmiri Palace. Remembering the beating, he shuddered. Was that where the answer lay? Or was he closing his eyes to the obvious – that he, John Anderson, was responsible for the death of two people?

The office was freezing but Hussain's greeting was warm. He stood in the reception area, holding a kettle. ‘Fancy a brew?'

‘Yes, please. Black, no sugar,' Anderson replied, undoing the buttons on his overcoat.

‘I hardly recognised you,' said Hussain, grinning.

Anderson didn't get it.

‘In your civvies. You look almost relaxed – almost.'

For some reason he had chosen to dress down for the conference: sports jacket, white shirt, jeans and Italian loafers. This uniform was usually only reserved for weekends.

Hussain had taken off his day collar and tie. His suit jacket was replaced by a thick woollen jumper with holes in the elbows. ‘Sorry about the temperature. We put the heating on in the boardroom especially for you!' he said, gesturing towards a closed door. ‘We've never had such an important client.'

Anderson was flattered.

‘I've got every lawyer and trainee in the firm working on your case, waiting in the conference room. Come through.'

Anderson followed Hussain into the back room. Peeling, white wallpaper and a dirty red carpet in the centre of which was an oval-shaped wooden dining table with six mismatched chairs. Only one seat was taken – by Adey Tuur.

‘Hi, only me I'm afraid,' she said, expecting disappointment.

Her instincts were wrong. He'd hoped she would be at the conference.

‘Take a seat, John. You remember Adey, don't you? She will be doing the day-to-day case prep as well as some digging.'

Anderson was sure he blushed as he gave her an appreciative smile.

Wasting no time on pleasantries, she asked, ‘Who did that to your face?'

‘It's nothing. I was drunk.' Anderson was embarrassed by his pathetic explanation.

Adey tutted. She didn't like being lied to.

Hussain changed the subject. ‘Right, let's get started. You'll be pleased to hear that I stayed behind at court and managed to beg a full bundle of deps and transcripts of both interviews. It's not paginated and I haven't got the unused material, but it's a start. I've only skimmed it, but Adey's had a proper read.'

Adey handed Anderson a copy of the bundle. ‘You'll see that they haven't been able to formally identify the deceased yet. It's clear from your interview that the police are assuming it's someone called Heena Butt. So we'll work on that basis for now.'

Hussain agreed. ‘There were probably some documents on her. They'll be in the unused material. We'll let you know when the schedule is served.'

‘OK. Initial thoughts?' Anderson asked.

‘A very compelling case compounded by two terrible interviews.' Hussain saw Anderson's disappointment at the analysis, then added: ‘I won't lie to you.'

Anderson agreed with the approach.

‘The Crown's case is that you drove knowingly tired, fell asleep, veered across the carriageway into a vehicle travelling in the nearside lane, causing the death of rear seat passenger Molly Granger, and your own passenger, Heena Butt.'

Anderson winced every time he heard the enormity of the allegations against him.

‘John, before we start going down the road of potential defences, is there anything that you didn't tell the police that we should know?' Hussain paused. ‘Or any lies you told?'

Anderson hadn't expected this so soon. It was a critical moment. If he didn't come clean with his legal team, his whole case would be based on a false premise. And if it came out later, all trust between them would be lost. He dreaded having to admit it.

No choice, he had to grasp the nettle: ‘There was a lie in my interview.'

‘OK, which was?'

To Anderson's relief, Hussain seemed unsurprised by the admission. ‘I didn't mention Tilly in the first interview. I always remembered going for a coffee with her. The last thing I remember, always remembered, was leaving Starbucks.'

‘Why lie?'

‘I didn't want anyone to know I'd been having a quiet drink with a twenty-five-year-old woman. People might have thought…' He checked himself. ‘Mia might have thought that I was having an affair.'

‘And were you?'

‘No.'

‘Were you hoping to?'

‘Maybe. Yes,' Anderson replied. ‘But I changed my mind and left.'

‘Got cold feet, did you?' Adey asked, grinning. ‘If you'd shagged her you might not be in this mess.'

‘That thought hadn't escaped me,' he replied. Adey's frankness, as well as his own, was curiously liberating.

‘Anything else?' asked Hussain.

‘No that's it.'

‘OK, do you have any medical conditions?'

‘Not that I am aware of.'

‘All right, so there are three potential defences here. The first is medical. Something happened, beyond your control, that caused you to lose consciousness; some kind of seizure, or neurological event. Or possibly a pre-existing medical condition of which you were unaware, such as sleep apnoea.'

‘Which would raise the defence of non-insane automatism?'

‘Yes. We'll have you examined over the next week or so by various medical experts.'

‘OK,' replied Anderson, pleased with the way his lawyers were attacking the case. ‘And the other two defences?'

‘That Butt was in some way responsible. Whether it was a robbery, a fight or whatever. And the third,' he said, getting up and going over to a white board fixed to the wall, ‘is that somehow you were set up.' He picked up a marker pen and wrote at the top: ‘Suspects'. ‘Adey is going to see what she can turn up. It's a massive job, so let's try and narrow down the field for her?' Hussain wrote the name Heena Butt.

Anderson was in no doubt about the next name on the list. ‘You can add Waqar Ahmed to that list.'

Hussain wrote the name, then said, ‘The third name is my own.' He wrote ‘Tahir Hussain'.

‘Don't be ridiculous,' said Anderson. ‘I know you didn't have anything to do with it.'

‘Do you? You think I'm a bent lawyer, too close to my clients. Acquittal for Ahmed was acquittal for me. Don't tell me it didn't cross your mind that I was involved?'

Anderson was embarrassed. ‘OK, it did briefly, but now I know better. Know you better. Cross it out.'

‘There's no room for sentiment here, John. Only an unanswerable argument will remove any name from the list.'

Anderson felt ashamed. Out of practice, he racked his brain for an argument. Eventually: ‘All right then, you're not mentally unstable, so your motive could only have been ambition or money. Not being caught would be crucial. My pleading guilty would have ensured that, buried the truth, and yet you came to court and persuaded me to change my plea. That would risk exposing you in the trial process. Doesn't make sense.'

Hussain smiled. ‘Very good.' He crossed out his name.

Anderson was impressed. Right at the start, Hussain had smoked out any nagging doubts Anderson had about his lawyer and then cleared the air. ‘Following that through, a lot of people advised me to plead guilty: Dewi Morgan, Forster, my head of chambers, and even my father.' It pained him to reveal his lack of support from elsewhere.

‘I think we need more than just negative advice on plea at this stage to make them a suspect. After all, the evidence is, on the face of it, overwhelming.'

Anderson was relieved, particularly about his father; not that he thought for a moment he could be responsible.

‘What about your wife?' suggested Adey, again with a cheeky grin.

‘Mia? Why?'

‘I heard she's thrown you out. This is one way to get you out of the picture.'

‘Who told you that? It was
because
of the crash that we separated, and besides, she'd be destroying her only form of income.'

‘What's she living on now?' she asked.

Anderson paused before answering: ‘I don't know.'

‘I don't think we can eliminate her yet,' said Hussain. He wrote the name Mia Anderson.

Adey didn't hide her amusement.

Anderson couldn't figure her out at all.

‘Anyone with opportunity?' asked Hussain.

Anderson considered the question. ‘I don't know what that means? I suppose you would have to say Tilly Henley-Smith. She was the last person to see me before the crash. But opportunity to do what? Hit me over the head? Drug me? When you say set me up, does that include trying to kill me?'

‘We'll work that one out later. For now she goes on the list.'

Anderson typed the names on his iPad, as did Adey.

Hussain continued: ‘Does anyone hate you enough to do this to you?'

Anderson scoffed. ‘Of course not.' On reflection, in jest, he offered, ‘Unless you count Sam Connor? He told me the other day how much he dislikes me.'

‘And he got to take over for the prosecution in Ahmed,' said Hussain.

‘And he saw you cosying up to his pupil in Starbucks,' said Adey.

‘What?' asked Anderson in surprise.

‘His statement is in the full bundle. He saw you there with Tilly. The statement you thought Tahir gave to the police − it was actually Connor.'

Anderson leaned back in his chair and took in the information. ‘Connor? Why would he come back? He said he was going back to chambers, and his car was in the opposite direction. He thought Tilly had gone home. They both turned down my offer of a coffee. Then Tilly came back.'

‘To avoid her pupil-master finding out she wanted a servicing from you?' observed Adey. She had an uncanny insight into human nature.

‘Probably,' replied Anderson.

‘Maybe Connor changed his mind? Felt bad, came back to join you?'

‘No chance,' said Anderson.

Hussain added Sam Connor to the list. ‘Anyone else?'

‘Yes,' said Adey. ‘Everyone Anderson has ever prosecuted to conviction.'

‘Everyone?' Anderson replied. His head was full of the worst kind of memories. It came with the job. He'd seen the photos, heard the testimony of countless victims, parents. So much depravity had been pushed into his head over the years, he even felt uncomfortable bathing his own kids.

Hussain considered Adey's suggestion. ‘Let's limit it to everyone that got sent down. I know it will be lengthy, John, but you've got the time to do it. Write on the list the sentence they got so that we can know if they were still serving on the date of the crash.'

Anderson agreed to undertake the task.

‘John, Adey will take a full proof from you in due course, but is there anything else we need to know now?'

‘No, I don't think so.' Anderson was encouraged by the methodology of their preparation, compared to that of Dewi Morgan, who seemed to have done absolutely nothing.

‘There's something else,' said Adey.

‘Go on,' replied Hussain.

‘The central feature of this case is the mystery of Heena Butt. Who was she and why you don't know who she was.'

‘Yes, I agree,' said Anderson, pleased that someone was getting to the heart of the matter.

‘It may be suggested that she was a prostitute you'd just picked up. You know, kerb crawling, and maybe you lost your memory of that due to the head injury?'

‘I'm glad you asked me that,' he replied, looking deep into Adey's eyes. ‘Dewi Morgan was of the same view. There's just no way. I was going home to watch my son play football, but also, I don't use prostitutes. Why would I suddenly change the habit of a lifetime?'

‘Everyone has a dark side, you know? Secrets? You can tell us.'

‘There's nothing more to tell, I swear to you.'

Adey appeared to accept his answer.

They all agreed to have another meeting the following week to monitor progress.

Anderson expressed his heartfelt thanks to both of them.

Things were finally moving.

*

Anderson caught the bus back to town. He sat down on the top deck and phoned Mia. He wanted to speak to the boys before bed. As usual she fobbed him off. Lately, they were always out, asleep or busy doing something important. He offered an apology about his inability to give her any maintenance. Maybe that was why she was making contact with the boys so difficult, but she seemed so relaxed about it. She had to be getting money from somewhere.

He listened to his voicemail. Only a message from Orlando West saying that he'd heard about the plea, that he understood Anderson's decision and that he was there to help in any way he could. It was a relief to know someone from chambers was still in his corner.