Death By Dangerous (6 page)

Anderson managed to dress himself and limp downstairs, using only one crutch.

The kitchen was standard for an upwardly mobile Wilmslow family. Large farmhouse table and chairs, central island with matching units, presided over by an Aga.

Mia ignored his entrance and continued to lay the table. Then: ‘Did you find out who she was then?'

‘Her name was Heena Butt. That's all I know.'

Mia scoffed, tossing a box of Shreddies onto the table.

They stood in silence, until the sound of her mobile phone vibrating on the worktop. She glanced over, then picked it up and slid it into her pocket.

‘Who was it?'

‘I want you out, John. Tonight. No, today.'

‘What? Mia, please!'

She picked up a cereal bowl and threw it at the wall. Pieces cascaded over the table. ‘Get out! Get the fuck out!'

Confused, Anderson got to his feet and moved clumsily into the hall. ‘I don't understand, Mia! Why can't we talk about it? All of a sudden our marriage is over?'

Mia passed him and opened the front door. Will and Angus came running down the stairs almost crashing into him. He silently touched their heads as he left. Standing on the garden path, he took out his mobile and called a cab. He caught sight of the boys staring out of the window, tears rolling down their cheeks. Anderson forced a smile.

Inside, he was falling apart.

The Grangers lived in Wythenshawe on a vast, sprawling housing estate just off the M56.

DI Taylor had no problem finding the address; he knew the estate well, having walked this beat as a wooden top. ‘You wait in the car,' he said to DC Waters. ‘Don't want to come back and find it sitting on bricks.'

Waters was glad to leave this job to Taylor. He pulled a Greggs sausage roll out of his pocket and took a bite.

‘Bloody hell, Waters,' said Taylor, getting out. ‘That's going to leave bits everywhere.'

‘What? I'll be careful. Oh, and chuck us the keys, gov − for the heater. It's bloody freezing.'

Tutting, Taylor obliged then walked towards the house, a terraced two-up two-down.

Mr Granger opened the front door.

‘Hello, Mr Granger? I'm DI Taylor.'

Tom Granger gave a languid nod. For him, life was moving in slow motion – still in shock.

Taylor followed him into the lounge where Mrs Granger was standing, wringing her hands. The house was immaculate. Taylor wasn't surprised; he'd come to learn how grief affected people differently. Some just gave up and dropped everything, while others clung to old routines like vacuuming, ironing or washing themselves. Trinkets on the mantelpiece and photos on the walls told a story of family life.

Taylor could see at a glance that these were hard working, modest people.

Mrs Granger's eyes followed Taylor's to a photograph of Molly on the coffee table. ‘We only had the one. IVF. We got lucky,' she said, without any hint of irony.

‘Beautiful little girl,' said Taylor, and he meant it. ‘I'm sorry for your loss.'

She ignored the condolences. Must have heard them a thousand times. Nothing would bring Molly back. ‘Would you like to see her room?'

Taylor was about to explain that it wasn't necessary, but Mr Granger got there first: ‘Sandra, he don't need to.' Mr Granger turned to Taylor and said, ‘She's been dusting it all morning, ever since you phoned to say you were coming.'

Taylor's heart went out to them. Showing a policeman her dead daughter's room was a way of keeping her memory alive, paying tribute. ‘Yes, I would like to see it. Thank you.'

Taylor followed Sandra up the stairs to Molly's bedroom. Everything left just as it was, perhaps a little tidier. Crayon drawings on the walls. ‘She was an artist?' Taylor observed.

Sandra didn't reply, but surveyed the scene as if seeing the room anew, noticing everything, marvelling at the wonder of it. Then: ‘I don't know what I'll do now.'

Taylor had no answer. Seeing Molly's room hit home. He felt guilty for turning his nose up at the case. Whether their little girl was murdered by a serial killer or killed by a dangerous driver, the loss to the Grangers was the same. Either way, they wanted justice.

Back downstairs, without waiting for an invitation, Taylor sat on the sofa. His hosts no longer considered such formalities.

Taylor began: ‘I'm afraid I'm going to have to take witness statements from you, about what happened. I hope it won't take too long.'

‘Is it true he fell asleep at the wheel?' asked Mr Granger.

‘Who told you that?'

‘A police officer at the hospital.'

‘We don't know at this stage, still investigating.' Taylor was annoyed. He didn't like witnesses being given information before they had made statements. There was a way of doing things. He thought the Grangers should have been asked to give an account at the hospital but according to the officer in charge of the investigation at that time, they were in no fit state.

Mr Granger explained to Taylor that the impact was the first he knew about it, and that he was briefly knocked unconscious, remembering little after the crash. Sandra Granger had a much clearer recollection: ‘I could see it, in my mirror, just gliding towards us.' The agony of remembering the critical moment was etched on her face. ‘Then it smashed into the side, at the back. Molly were in 'er booster. After we stopped, I were afraid to turn around. Scared of what I might find. And when I did…' She broke down, sobbing into her husband's shoulder.

Taylor changed the subject: ‘Just one more question, then we're done. Could you see into the vehicle at all, before the impact?'

‘Yes. There were an Asian lady in the passenger seat and a man in t' driving seat. He were asleep?'

‘You actually saw that?'

‘Oh aye.'

‘How could you tell he was asleep as opposed to being, say, unconscious?'

She paused. Eventually she answered: ‘Cos he woke up. Saw him open his eyes, just before he hit us, but it were too late.'

‘Are you absolutely sure, Mrs Granger?'

‘Oh, I'm sure,' she replied.

Taylor now had an eyewitness to the crucial moments before impact.

A cast iron case.

‘Mr Anderson!' Gary got out of his chair. ‘Welcome back, sir. We didn't expect to see you so soon.'

Anderson had missed the buzz of the clerks' room. ‘You know me, Gary,' he replied, forcing a smile. ‘Work is the best remedy and all that.'

‘Yes of course, sir.' Gary didn't sound so sure.

‘Where's the trial up to?'

‘What trial?'

‘You know what trial, Gary. The Crown versus Waqar Ahmed.'

‘Mr Connor is in the middle of cross-examining the defendant.'

Connor appeared in the doorway, having heard the conversation. ‘Glad to see you're up and about.'

Anderson noted the indifference in Connor's voice. ‘Thanks for holding the fort, Sam. You finish the cross and I'll work on my speech.'

Connor stared at Anderson, open-mouthed. ‘Are you insane?'

‘Don't be silly, sir,' said Gary, trying to defuse the situation. ‘You're in no fit state.'

‘You're off the case, Anderson,' said Connor. ‘Don't you get it? The CPS don't want you anywhere near that courtroom.' Connor had never spoken to his colleague like this before. Anderson was on the way down and Connor was enjoying being one of the first to make him see it.

Anderson looked to his clerk for an explanation.

‘You understand, sir. They can't hand the defence any ammunition that Hussain could use against the prosecution. Once this driving business has been put to bed, everything will be fine.'

Anderson said nothing as he took in the further implications of the crash.

‘Don't worry, sir. Things will soon be back to normal.'

Connor allowed a smirk to creep across his face.

Why hadn't Anderson ever realised the depth of this man's hatred of him? He was supposed to be perceptive – a canny advocate – yet he'd missed the glaringly obvious.

‘Mr West is in his room, sir. I know he'd like to see you. Been very worried about you,' said Gary, trying to break up the meeting.

‘OK,' Anderson replied with an air of resignation. ‘Good luck then,' he said to Connor. Anderson had surprised himself. He'd never normally be so gracious to someone who had just crossed him. Had the accident mellowed him a little?

Connor ignored the gesture and disappeared off down the corridor.

On seeing Anderson stagger into his room, West got to his feet with the spring of a much younger man. ‘John! Sit down. How did it go last night?'

‘Not great,' he sighed, taking the weight off his stronger leg. ‘It doesn't look good.'

‘Chin up, old chap. You will get through this.'

‘Mia's thrown me out.'

‘I know, she phoned me. She's worried about you.'

‘Really? I'm not so sure.'

‘Why don't you borrow my flat, just until you get back on your feet? I'm always at the house in Alderley Edge. I never use it. You'll be near chambers. No need for taxis.'

‘That's really kind but I need to be near the kids.'

‘Mia will drive them over. So will I. We'll sort something out. Don't worry.'

In truth, Anderson couldn't afford to rent anywhere. ‘Thanks, Orlando. I don't know what I'd do without you.'

‘Forget it,' he said, tossing Anderson a set of keys. ‘Go to the flat, get plenty of rest and come back when you're ready for action.'

Orlando West's pep talk lifted Anderson's spirits. He was going to fight this. John Anderson wasn't beaten that easily. He had friends. People who cared. He put his head through the doorway of the clerks' room on his way out. ‘I'm off, Gary. Going to recharge the batteries for a few days.'

‘That's the ticket, sir,' he shouted above the noise from his chair at the other end of the room.

‘Where are the papers in the Harrison murder?' he asked, casting an eye over the sea of briefs wrapped in pink ribbon on the table next to Gary. ‘Might as well use the time productively.'

Silence suddenly descended over the room.

The junior clerks all turned towards Gary, then to Anderson.

Gary got up and gently ushered him out to save his blushes. ‘I'm sorry, sir. The CPS can't use you whilst the driving matter is hanging over you.'

‘I haven't been charged yet!'

‘I know, but the Harrison trial is a long way off. If you were charged, you'd have to return it. They need to be guaranteed continuity of counsel. It's out of my hands, sir.'

‘So who got the brief?'

Gary paused before replying: ‘Sam Connor.'

Another crushing blow. He tried not to let it show. ‘Oh well, at least we kept the brief in chambers.'

There was nothing else to say as Gary watched the former star hobbling towards the exit.

Anderson stopped and turned. ‘Gary, my wig and gown, and my laptop? Are they in chambers?'

‘Er, no, sir,' Gary replied, embarrassed that he had already cut the service to one of his former stars. ‘They must still be in the robing room. I'll send someone over for them right away.'

‘No, it's OK, I'll get them.' He limped out of chambers; once a sanctuary, now just a reminder of his downfall.

Anderson stopped outside Starbucks and tried to peek through the window, hampered by the condensation, reminding passersby of the warmth inside. He examined the baristas behind the counter, the customers, and then the sofa where he'd been with Tilly. Hoping for something to jog his memory, he went in and ordered an Americano, then sat by the window, racking his brain for a trace of something. Anything.

Nothing.

He looked out at the Mancunian morning passing him by. Commuters scurrying past. All with somewhere to be. A job to do. How he envied them. Head throbbing, after an hour of trying to remember, Anderson could take no more. He pulled himself up and set off for the crown court.

He acknowledged a few nervous ‘how-are-yous' from the security guards at the entrance. No one quite knew what to say. Should they mention the crash? Was it a taboo subject? News certainly travelled fast in the Manchester legal world.

To his relief, the robing room was empty: everyone was already in court. Anderson put his things into his red bag and made his way back down to the concourse on the first floor. He stopped to rest outside Court Three. What was going on in there? He longed to know how the cross-examination of Ahmed was going. He wanted to see justice done, above all else, even if it meant Connor getting the glory.

‘Hello, John.' It was Tilly. Impeccably dressed, as always, in a pinstriped two-piece under her gown. Nails perfectly manicured on slender hands. A few rogue blond locks poked out from under her new white wig, softening her formal attire.

Anderson clocked the shocked expression at the state of his face, so quickly rummaged for something to say as a diversion: ‘Hello, running late?' He immediately realised how it sounded − a poor attempt at a joke.

She saw it as a dig. Anderson wasn't even in the case anymore. In fact he'd nearly derailed it. ‘How are you feeling?' she asked.

‘So so,' he replied, putting up the usual barriers when anything vaguely personal was to be discussed. ‘I'm on police bail.' He considered asking if the police had been in touch but decided against it.

‘No one's asked me for a statement yet.'

He was grateful for the unprompted disclosure. Then he worried that she'd worked out he hadn't mentioned her being in Starbucks in interview.

She studied his face. ‘Who was the woman that died?'

What a question from a pupil he hardly knew. She had a boldness that hadn't existed before. Or at least, that he'd never noticed. The power had shifted.

Now that she was completely out of reach, he found her even more attractive. ‘I don't know.'

She didn't seem surprised by the answer. ‘They are saying your career is hanging in the balance.'

Anderson thought he caught a flicker of excitement in her eyes. The rush of adrenalin at being the one to tell him how bad things were. He didn't respond.

‘Good luck, John Anderson. You'll need it.' She gave him a deliberately pitiful smile then disappeared into Court Three.

Was that it? Gone already? Just like that? She used to hang on his every word. Everyone did. Now he was nothing. A nobody.

Anderson hobbled over to the door and held it open a few inches. No one could see him. The wooden, high-sided dock at the back of court blocked any view of the entrance. He could hear the buzz of the courtroom. For the first time in his career, it felt foreign to him. Now he was an outsider, on the wrong side of the law.

Connor was coming to the end of his cross-examination of the defendant. ‘Mr Ahmed, not only were you trafficking women for prostitution, you were running a protection racket?'

Anderson cringed – two questions in one.

Ahmed didn't answer.

The judge helped Connor out. ‘Mr Ahmed, were you trafficking women for prostitution?'

‘No I wasn't, Your Honour.'

Connor tried to regain control of the cross-examination, hiding his embarrassment. ‘Were you running a protection racket?'

‘No I wasn't. Where's your evidence?'

A question – Connor was thrown − lacking the sharpness of mind to bat it away.

The judge came to the rescue again: ‘It is prosecution counsel's task to ask the questions, Mr Ahmed, not to answer them.'

Ahmed wasn't going to let it go. ‘But where are the records? There'd be books, ledgers, wouldn't there, Mr Connor? I couldn't have known the police were coming to arrest me. Did they find anything? The jury should be told.'

The judge peeked over his glasses at Connor as if to say: what have you started?

Connor made the mistake of ploughing on with his questions.

Ahmed took advantage: ‘Why are you ignoring the question, Mr Connor? Don't you want the jury to know that nothing was found?'

Prosecution counsel had completely lost control of the defendant. He cut it short and sat down with Ahmed riding high. A total disaster.

Hussain hardly re-examined. Why ruin a great finish for the defence?

Connor didn't have the courtroom presence to prosecute a case like this. Anderson wondered what the rest of his cross had been like.

The jangle of keys signalled that the prison officer was leading the defendant from the witness box back into the dock. As he was about to take his seat, Ahmed looked down and caught Anderson peeping through the door below. They held each other's gaze for a split second. Ahmed's mouth widened into a demonic grin, then he winked. Despite his predicament, it was he who held the power. Was it the power of knowing something that Anderson didn't?

Anderson jolted, felt a shiver. He shut the door, almost falling back.

Did Ahmed have something to do with the crash?