Death By Dangerous (2 page)

Lost in thought, Anderson sheltered from the winter downpour in the hotel entrance. Streetlights illuminated a deserted St Peter's Square. The trams had long since stopped for the day. Rods of northern rain crashed into the great dome of Manchester's central library, then bounced off and slid down the grey Portland stone pillars.

The taxi rank was empty. Five more minutes, then he'd make a dash for Albert Square and catch one from there. Anderson didn't want West or his father to realise he'd snuck off and come looking for him. John Anderson loathed these events. He'd never been good at having fun – relaxing. Boozy nights out with colleagues were to be avoided at all costs. Nothing made him more uncomfortable. Only the potential receipt of an award had made his attendance that evening unavoidable.

It was the job he loved. The courtroom. Working to a script. Somehow, in court, he always knew what to say. Within a framework, everything had its place. Everyone had a role. The awkward silences were always someone else's.

‘Penny for them?' A female voice.

Anderson turned. That girl from chambers. Connor's pupil. He recognised her, but hadn't really noticed her before. She'd made the odd appearance at court during the trial to see her pupil-master, but Anderson had been focused on the job in hand. Now, seeing her properly for the first time, her figure silhouetted against the lights from the lobby, he could see how attractive she was. Beautiful, even. Hair groomed. Soft features and definitely a twinkle in her eye. Defensively, Anderson replied: ‘I'm just waiting for a taxi.'

She returned an impish smile. Already in control. Holding out her hand: ‘Tilly Henley-Smith.'

Reciprocating, Anderson enjoyed the physical contact. ‘John Anderson.'

‘I know who
you
are. Anyway, I thought barristers weren't supposed to shake hands?' she teased.

Without humour, Anderson replied: ‘Only when robed.' No one knew the etiquette of the courtroom better than him.

What was she thinking? Why was she smiling? Was she flirting with him? In a moment the great prize-winning barrister had been replaced by a nervous adolescent.

‘I live two minutes away, in Spinningfields. You can call a cab from mine if you like?'

He gave her a double take. She had some nerve – to make a pass at a senior member of chambers. The confidence that came from being well-bred. Almost arrogance. Anderson felt a rush of excitement. He looked down Quay Street towards Spinningfields, contemplating the offer. ‘Must be handy for chambers?'

Still smiling: ‘Yes. That's why I got it.'

An awkward silence – only for Anderson. She was enjoying her dominance.

A black cab pulled into the rank.

Relief. ‘Here we go. That's me,' he said. ‘Do you want a lift?'

Coyly: ‘Yes, please.'

Holding the door open, Anderson caught sight of her lightly tanned calves as she stepped up and into the taxi. She slid across the back seat, leaving a place for her new friend.

Anderson climbed in and gave her a meaningless smile, unintentionally conveying anxiety. Filling the silence, he said: ‘How's the pupillage going?'

‘Very demanding of course, but fascinating.' Wasting no time, she swivelled round to face him as the cab made its thirty-second journey down the street. ‘I'm so lucky that Connor's been on the Ahmed trial.' She paused. ‘So I could see the great John Anderson in action.'

Deeply flattered, Anderson laughed off the praise.

‘This is me. Just here, please.'

Suddenly disappointed, he said: ‘Oh, of course. Right. See you tomorrow?'

‘See you tomorrow, John Anderson.'

Anderson watched her take an extendable umbrella out of her handbag, then skip delicately around the puddles and into her building. She didn't look back.

Waking from the reverie of their brief encounter, Anderson said to the driver: ‘M56, please. To Wilmslow.'

5.45am. John Anderson was already up, thinking about the case. Tredwell was going in the box today, turning Queen's evidence in the case of the Crown versus Waqar Ahmed. Tredwell had been a subordinate and latest victim of local gangster Waqar Ahmed. His evidence could seal victory for the prosecution. The success of Ahmed's various illicit activities had catapulted him from small-time pimp to undisputed king of Manchester's Curry Mile in only a few short years. Those that knew him believed Ahmed to be untouchable.

Anderson had other ideas. Studying himself in the bathroom mirror, he thought of Tredwell's face – grotesquely disfigured. Anderson had no sympathy or compassion for the man, but considered the effect the sight would undoubtedly have on the jury. It could only help the prosecution. John Anderson was a cold-blooded prosecutor, almost a machine. He knew how to get a conviction better than any barrister in the north. His determination and uncompromising approach to his cases had earned him a great deal of respect over the years. He had plenty of acquaintances, but few real friends. Some of his contemporaries mistook his shyness for arrogance.

‘John?' Mia was awake.

A conversation would be required, taking his mind off the day's work.

‘You're up early, John. Are you staying for breakfast?'

She must want something.

Anderson left the en suite for the bedroom and started the excuses. ‘I can't, Mia, I need to be in chambers before court. It's a big day.'

‘Isn't it always?'

‘You know I'm against that dodgy bastard, Hussain. I'm going to have my hands full.' He took his day collar out of a drawer and put it on the stud.

She watched him slip a link expertly through the cuff of his tunic shirt. A handsome man, especially in a suit. He never seemed to look quite right in anything else. ‘Will has got his first match tonight. You will be there, won't you?'

Anderson took too long to reply: ‘What time?'

‘Six, on the school field.'

‘I'll do my best.'

She waited for the usual caveat.

It came: ‘But I can't control the judge. He decides when we rise.'

‘Shut up, John. I know it's always by around 4.30.'

‘Look, Mia, you know how important this case is for me – for all of us.'

‘How could I not, John. It's the only thing you ever talk about. You need to do a good job… you've put in for silk… if you're going to get it before your fortieth birthday… blah, blah, blah.'

‘We might run over. Like I said, I'll do what I can.' He took the opportunity to exit the bedroom. Paradoxically, a master at dealing with confrontations in the courtroom, he would do anything to avoid them at home.

‘I need some money, John. There's nothing in the joint.'

‘What for?' he replied, stopping at the door.

‘Clothes. You want me to look like a silk's wife, don't you?'

He couldn't face another argument. ‘Use the Visa.'

‘Hi, Dad!' His boys had trapped him on the landing. Still in pyjamas, the argument had woken them. His eldest, Will, gazed adoringly up at him. ‘Dad. It's my first game tonight. You will come, won't you?'

‘I'll certainly do my best, Will.'

Will's head dropped slightly. He knew what
do my best
meant.

Angus, four years younger than his twelve-year-old brother, held up a red toy car – his best attempt at communication with his father at such short notice.

‘Wow! I bet that's fast,' said Anderson, crouching down. Something made him pull the boys into an embrace. Motionless; for a brief, delicious moment, time stood still. ‘I'm sorry I've been so busy at work lately, boys. Just a few more weeks, OK?'

‘Yes, Dad,' replied Will, hugging tighter.

‘Have a great day at school. I'll see you tonight.'

If only they understood. A month from now and he would be in silk, then things would be easier. More time with them. And Mia could buy whatever she wanted. That would take the pressure off; change everything.

Anderson shut the front door then cursed as he saw the smattering of snow that covered the path. Pulling up the bottoms of his pinstripe, he trudged towards his car and started scraping the frost off the windscreen. An old Volvo, he couldn't afford anything newer or more exciting. Not after the latest slashing of legal aid rates for criminal barristers. Mortgaged to the hilt, he'd be lucky if they could hold on to the house. Silk would change everything. His only way out.

Despite only just making ends meet, the boys were at private school. His father – His Honour Judge Anderson QC – who had enjoyed a career at the Bar in more affluent times, paid the fees. It had given him an unspoken control over them. Anderson had wanted them to go to the local primary, but their grandfather, with Mia's support, had got his way. No Anderson had ever been to a state school. It was unthinkable.

John had learnt from an early age that it was much easier to adopt the opinions of those around him. That's why he was so good in court. Putting forward someone else's point of view. He didn't need an opinion of his own.

Oxford at eighteen had been his first taste of freedom. He joined the student union and began to think for himself about politics. One Saturday, his parents made a surprise visit, only to find him selling copies of
Socialist Worker
on campus. His father cut off his allowance, refusing to support a communist. Only a promise to join the Young Conservatives restored the equilibrium. That's the way it had always been; following a well-trodden path and living up to expectations. A career at the criminal Bar and, as the years rolled by, all energies became focused on winning trials. That made a difference, gave him meaning.

Anderson set off through Wilmslow on the road that snaked down the hill past open fields towards the M56 and Manchester. Driving on autopilot, his mind wandered. Thoughts of Mia. Was he happy, had he ever really been happy? Had she? He'd met her at university. From good stock, as his father would say; they got on well, had lots in common. They seemed the perfect match. His parents encouraged it. Mia happily swapped a History of Art degree for nappies, coffee mornings and hair appointments.

Uncomfortable with these reflections Anderson addressed his mind to safer things: the trial, his examination-in-chief.

Adrenalin was building, just how he liked it.

Out of nowhere, something on the road − a figure − crossed Anderson's path. A school boy.

No time to think, he braked hard. The rear end of his car sat up and lurched from side to side, skidding over the wet surface towards the youngster. Anderson's hands gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. Consequences flashed before his eyes: career, jail, to have killed someone.

Eventually he came to a stop with only inches to spare, collision avoided.

An embarrassed wave from the pedestrian as he reached the other side.

Cursing, then a deep breath from Anderson.

Hoots from the vehicles behind.

Anderson checked his mirrors, then, after a moment, went back on his way. It was over in the blink of an eye.

Already forgotten.

Anderson parked his car behind chambers and walked into Spinningfields to buy a coffee. Rain had turned the dawn snowfall to slush, making the pavements treacherous. A quick browse through the local paper whilst waiting for his drink, just in case he got a mention, then on tiptoe back through the sludge to chambers.

‘Morning, John,' came a choir of enthusiastic young voices – junior tenants and pupils, waiting around in reception for a late brief. Deep in thought, he hardly noticed them and headed straight to the clerks' room, the heart of chambers. In its usual state of organised chaos, phones were ringing, bookings being taken and fees agreed.

Senior clerk, Gary Arnold, stood almost to attention on seeing the rising star. ‘Morning, Mr Anderson. Another new case just came in for you. A one-punch manslaughter.'

‘Prosecuting?'

‘Of course. God knows when you'll read it. Conference Thursday evening in chambers.'

‘Don't you worry about that. I'll find the time,' Anderson replied.

‘Good man.' Nothing pleased a barrister's clerk more than a workhorse. In that regard, Anderson had no equal. ‘How are you getting on with Mr Hussain, sir?' Gary asked with a grin on his face.

‘Badly, as ever. I can't stomach bent defence barristers. Gives us all a bad name.'

‘Well, don't let him throw you off your game, sir. This is a very important year for you.'

Anderson nodded.

‘Of course you do know, sir, if you take silk this year,' Gary whispered with a smile, ‘you would be younger than your father and grandfather were when they took it?'

‘That hadn't escaped me, Gary,' Anderson replied. The pressures of living up to the achievements of his family, alive and dead, had been with him since prep school.

‘You've got a con at court with the CPS. They just want to go over a few things before you put Tredwell in the box.'

‘Right, where's my junior?'

‘He does have a name, sir,' Gary replied in a gentle rebuke. ‘When all is said and done, he is a chambers colleague. We all know how much you expect when you are lead counsel, but try and go easy on him, especially in front of his pupil.'

‘Of course,' Anderson replied, conscious that his single-minded approach to cases could sometimes appear insensitive.

Orlando West, Head of Chambers, appeared at the door of the clerks' room. ‘Go easy on who? My protégé never goes easy on anyone! That's why he is the best junior in chambers.'

Anderson appreciated the compliment from his mentor. His old pupil-master was one of Manchester's top silks. Godfather to both of his children, Anderson worshipped the fifty-year-old QC. Another workaholic, chambers was West's life. People said he'd never married because he didn't want a family, that he hated kids, but many suspected he was gay, with a particular affection for John Anderson.

Anderson gave West a pat on the back as he left the clerks' room and joined his junior, Sam Connor, in the conference room, where he was studying a document. Connor's pupil, Tilly Henley-Smith, impeccably dressed in a black two-piece, was typing ferociously on a laptop. They both stopped what they were doing. ‘Morning, John,' came the greeting, only from Tilly.

‘How did you get on with the schedule, Sam?' Anderson asked.

‘It's done.' Connor handed his leader a bundle of papers; columns with figures.

Ever the perfectionist, Anderson said: ‘But you haven't numbered the rows?' He handed the pages back to Connor. ‘It could be a problem, referring the jury to a particular entry.'

Connor's face turned red, a combination of anger and embarrassment.

Remembering Gary's words earlier, Anderson was anxious not to humiliate Connor, but winning the case was everything. ‘I'm sorry, Sam, but you'll have to add a column. It's not a problem, just come across when it's done.'

‘But what about the con with the CPS? How will it look if I'm not there?'

‘Tilly can keep a note until you arrive if you like.' Anderson was already setting off for court with Tilly following obediently, hanging on his every word.

Sam Connor was fuming. He disliked Anderson. Rivals since pupillage, they were the same age, which had made Anderson's success even harder to come to terms with. Anderson's parentage and powerful pupil-master had given him a head start; Connor had never caught up. And now, as the second biggest player in chambers, Anderson was leading him in the Crown versus Waqar Ahmed.

Connor had no choice but to live with it.