The Verdict
OLIVIA ISAAC-HENRY
Published by ONE MORE CHAPTER
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019
Copyright © Olivia Isaac-Henry 2019
Cover Design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019
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Olivia Isaac-Henry asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © August 2019; ISBN: 9780008317768
Version: 2019-07-19
For Keith
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1: 2017 – Central London
Chapter 2: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 3: 2017 – Central London
Chapter 4: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 5: 2017 – Central London
Chapter 6: 1994 – Archway, London
Chapter 7: 2017 – Archway, London
Chapter 8: 1995 – Archway, London
Chapter 9: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 10: 2017 – Archway, London
Chapter 11: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 12: 2017 – Archway, London
Chapter 13: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 14: 2017 – Archway, London
Chapter 15: 1995 – Archway, London
Chapter 16: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 17: 2017 – Archway, London
Chapter 18: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 19: 2017 – Maida Vale, London
Chapter 20: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 21: 2017 – Central London
Chapter 22: 2001 – Kingston upon Thames
Chapter 23: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 24: 2017 – Guildford Police Station
Chapter 25: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 26: 2017 – Guildford Police Station
Chapter 27: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 28: 2017 – Guildford Police Station
Chapter 29: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 30: 2017 – Guildford Police Station
Chapter 31: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 32: 2018 – Bronzefield
Chapter 33: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 34: 2018 – Bronzefield
Chapter 35: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 36: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court
Chapter 37: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 38: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court
Chapter 39: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 40: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court
Chapter 41: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 42: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court
Chapter 43: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 44: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court
Chapter 45: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 46: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court
Chapter 47: 1995 – Archway, London
Chapter 48: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 49: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court
Chapter 50: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 51: 2017 – Dulwich, London
Chapter 52: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court
Chapter 53: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 54: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court
Chapter 55: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 56: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court
Chapter 57: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 58: 2017 – Dulwich, London
Chapter 59: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court
Chapter 60: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 61: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court
Chapter 62: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 63: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court
Chapter 64: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 65: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court
Chapter 66: 1994 – Guildford
Chapter 67: 1995 – Flaxley, Worcestershire
Chapter 68: 2019 – Guildford
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Publisher
Prologue
Stumbling down the hill, filthy and too exhausted to even lift the shovels dragging behind them, they looked up to see a red glow starting to stretch along the ridge above. Dawn was breaking.
‘Hurry up,’ he said.
At the bottom of the hill, she managed to haul herself over the stile, only to tumble down the slope on the other side and fall face down in the road, her fingernails bloodstained, her mouth and nose clogged with dirt. She could have fallen asleep there and then, not caring if she were seen.
A hand reached under her armpit and hauled her to her feet.
‘Keep moving.’
What was the point in moving or any attempt at concealment? He wouldn’t lie buried for ever. Someday, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week or next year, someone would find him.
Chapter 1
2017 – Central London
It feels like centuries since I was young. I look around my office; Miranda is scrolling through Tinder while drinking a coffee. Her lithe body falls across a hard-backed wooden chair as if it were a hammock.
Paulo wears mustard-coloured jeans, his feet up on the desk, the soles of his boots splayed towards me. The urge to kick them off becomes so great, I have to look away.
‘Yeah, I know, yeah,’ he drones into his phone, too loud and irritating to tune out.
What right do they have to youth? They do not value it. They will waste it, as I did mine, and one day wake up, middle-aged, in an office full of people who believe them to be obsolete, an irrelevance. They will stare at the calendar and not believe the year – how did we reach 2017 so quickly? And then the day, Wednesday – how many hours until the weekend?
I used to wonder what these millennials thought about me, then I realised, I’m invisible, they don’t think about me. On the first day Miranda made some polite enquiries. I tried to ignore her lisp as she asked, ‘Are you married, single?’
‘Separated,’ I say.
‘So, what you gonna do about it?’ she asked.
‘About what?’
‘Being single?’
‘Nothing,’ I told her.
She gave me an odd look.
‘Well, Jonathan’s going to be on the desk next to you,’ she said. ‘It’s easier if you’re together.’
Easier because we’re around the same age? I’m sure Jonathan would balk at the idea. He wears slim-fit maroon trousers and goes sockless in slip-on shoes, believing he’s not so different from the kids around us. At least I’m not suffering under that delusion.
Since that first day, Miranda’s barely spoken to me. And whenever I ask what she and other members of the team are
laughing about in the corner, she says, nothing, and slopes off, like a kid caught cutting class.
She chats to Jonathan, despite his age, but then he is her boss. Today she’s telling him about her cousin’s upcoming trip to Vietnam.
‘My son was there in his gap year – loved it,’ Jonathan says. ‘But Cambodia’s more interesting. Took a trip out there a few years ago – Angkor Wat – amazing.’
Bless Jonathan. If you’ve been to the moon, he’s been there twice.
‘My cousin’s going to be working, not just travelling,’ Miranda says.
‘I suppose your son’s at that age now, Julia,’ Jonathan says.
He catches me off guard. I’m unused to being included in conversations.
‘Sam’s only seventeen, still doing A levels – not sure what he wants to do afterwards,’ I say.
‘Uni, gap year?’
‘Still undecided.’
‘You need to look into it now,’ Jonathan says. ‘At least a year in advance. Have a chat with him. Are you close?’
You’re a whore. I hate you.
‘He’s growing up. Doesn’t need his mum so much these days.’
‘You always need your mum,’ Miranda says. ‘I’m twenty-five and I still talk to mine every day.’
I wish you were dead.
‘I think you need some independence, before you become close again,’ I say.
‘That’s difficult these days,’ Miranda says. ‘Because no one can afford to leave home. I only managed it because I found this property guardian job.’
Jonathan turns the conversation back to his son and the flat he’s helping him to buy. I make a coffee and slip out of the door. No one notices.
Outside, it’s a bright day, with only a hint of rain in the air. A man in a padded jacket enters the Sensuous Bean next door, my co-workers’ preferred coffee shop. Sometimes they take their laptops and work in there. My café is the green in the square of Georgian houses behind the main road. A small patch of grass with benches provides fresh air and somewhere to sit and drink. The tall poplars surrounding it are turning to rust in the early October chill. Their leaves swirl around the square, hugging its corners and clogging its drains. A toddler jumps into a great pile of them, kicking whorls into the air and giggling with glee. He reminds me of Sam at that age, in his red jacket with the hood falling back from his head.
Loitering by the bin is a man dressed entirely in khaki. He’s constantly hanging about the square, a roll-up wedged between his forefingers. I’ve always suspected he’s a drug dealer. People come and stand and talk to him for half a minute or so, money changes hands, and the people wander off. It all seems very friendly, not how I imagined the trade to be carried out, with knives and Rottweilers. I’ve spent so many coffee breaks here, khaki man and I are now on nodding terms.
Today, a few workmen, in thick boots and high-vis jackets, are sitting around chatting and drinking tea from polystyrene cups. One of them, who hasn’t bothered to take off his hard hat, is chatting to a man in mustard-coloured jeans. I do a double take and realise it’s Paulo from the office. He turns and sees me, gives me a nervous smile and looks a little embarrassed. Is the man in the hard hat Paulo’s bit of rough? Not everything’s about sex, my mother, Audrey, always tells me. She’s right, not everything, but it’s what most things boil down to. That and greed.
A bleep from my phone distracts me. I check straight away, in case it’s Sam.
Jules, we’re back! Come over tomorrow and we’ll talk. XXX
My oldest friend, Pearl, is the only person I can forgive for not being Sam, but I wish he’d contact me. Missing him has become a physical ache. I’ll text her back later.
I’m walking to the next free bench when my phone beeps again. An unknown number this time, probably informing me I’ve been mis-sold PPI – whatever that is.
I open the message. I must have misread it. I stare at the phone and force my eyes to focus. I read it again.
It’s a photo link to a news website, a picture of lush, rolling hills, dotted with clumps of beech trees. Clouds cross a bright sky, casting shadows over the dells and copses. Above the photo is a headline: Surrey University Students Discover Body Buried on North Downs.
My throat constricts. Black spots start to float in front of my eyes. The square, its leaves, its inhabitants disappear. I drop the coffee.
Chapter 2
1994 – Guildford
Julia stood outside Guildford train station, twisting a flimsy A–Z in her hands and trying to orientate herself towards the six locations, ringed in red biro, where she’d arranged viewings. Her two criteria were that the room must be clean and close to the train station. Guildford was to be a place of work only, the room she sought somewhere to rest her head. Her life would be in London. At weekends, she’d stay over at Pearl’s, and catch the late train back on weeknights.
After a couple of wrong turns, Julia found the first place. What the advert had described as a charming cottage was, in fact, a tiny terrace house. The landlord was waiting outside. Rotund, and in his late fifties or early sixties, he was more of a yokel than the Surrey stockbroker type she’d expected.
‘Jeff,’ the man said and stuck his hand into hers.
‘Julia,’ she replied.
‘You’re the first to see it. If you like, you can help choose the other tenants.’
So far, so good.
Jeff wrenched open the rusted gate into a small front garden, overrun with weeds. Inside, the house was empty, except for a thick-pile beige carpet on the floor.
‘I’ve ordered new furniture,’ the landlord said once inside.
A sofa and coffee table may have helped to hide some of the stains or distracted from the thick dust on the skirting boards.
‘Did the last tenants wreck it?’ Julia asked.
‘Who?’
‘The previous tenants, it doesn’t look like they took care of the place.’
The man scowled. ‘My wife’s always been a stickler for housework,’ he said. ‘If it’s a little dusty, it’s because we moved out a couple of weeks ago and there’s been no chance to run a cloth over it.’
Julia eyed the sticky mug ring on the mantelpiece and caught a whiff of dog hair rising from the carpet.
‘What do you think?’ Jeff asked, after giving her a tour.
‘The bedroom’s a bit small,’ she said.
The second room on her list was in a similar Victorian terrace to the first. Two male PhD students, from Surrey University, were already living there. It annoyed Julia that she hoped at least one of them was good-looking and single. The first hope was wiped out as she entered the house, and she never got around to asking about the second.
Ewan, twenty-six and reading physics, showed her the room, which was large and had its own sink. Promising. And while the place couldn’t exactly be called clean, it wasn’t filthy, and the location was convenient.
Ewan sat her down in the kitchen and made her a cup of tea.
‘This is Simon,’ he said. ‘He’ll be your other housemate.’
Simon sat at the other end of the table to Julia, his face hidden behind some academic tome.
‘Hi,’ Julia said.
Simon lowered the book, peered over the top, but didn’t respond.
‘So, what do you do?’ Ewan asked.
‘I’m about to start as a …’ Simon distracted her by putting down his book, placing his elbows on the table, his head in his hands and devoting all his energy to glaring at her. ‘As a software developer at Morgan Boyd Consulting.’
Had she done something wrong? She looked directly at Simon and smiled. He continued to glare. Ewan appeared unaware of his housemate’s open intimidation.
‘We’re kind of quiet in the week, but go out on Friday and Saturday,’ he said.
Simon’s expression remained fixed and hostile. A mild panic ran through her. Was this a trap? Did these men lure young women in with the offer of a room, do away with them and stash their corpses under the
floorboards? Perhaps her tea was drugged. Perhaps Simon kept his dead mother mummified in the basement. She’d seen Psycho.
Julia put down the mug. ‘You know, it’s lovely but … er … too far from the station.’
‘It’s a three-minute walk,’ Ewan said.
‘Thanks.’
Simon was still staring at her. Julia picked up her bag and ran out down the hall, towards the door.
‘Is it the mess? We’re thinking of getting a cleaner,’ Ewan called from the kitchen.
Julia slammed the door behind her and ran to the end of the road before turning back. She almost expected to see Simon racing from the house to hunt her down. The front door stayed shut. She walked around the corner and out of sight before stopping to catch her breath. As soon as her breathing had slowed down, she laughed out loud. Psycho – she was being ridiculous. People aren’t murdered in cosy commuter towns. Perhaps all Simon had wanted was to keep Ewan to himself. Perhaps he’d end up murdering Ewan in a fit of jealous rage. Again, Julia laughed. Her mother, Audrey, always told her she had an overactive imagination and it was possible that, for once, she was right.
Three more places were left on the list. One turned out to be more of a cupboard than a room, the other was next to an MOT servicing garage, open six days a week. By the time Julia headed towards the last potential room, she had scratched ‘clean’ and ‘near the station’ from her list. As long as there was no heavy machinery next door and it was free from homicidal maniacs, she’d take it.
Downs Avenue was a steep, winding road on the edge of town, further from the train station than was ideal. On one side of the road, houses of varying styles and sizes stood at the bottom of sharply sloped drives. On the other lay the open hillside of the Downs.
Julia had not seen them before, the low-rolling hills, covered with meadow flowers interrupted by clumps of trees, lusher and more inviting than the hills at home.
On reaching number 72, she thought she had made a mistake and rechecked the address. Downsview Villa, 72 Downs Avenue – it was the right place. The house was in a modern style, with a nod to Georgian, detached, double-fronted and set over three storeys. Far grander than anything she’d expected. Julia rang the bell and waited a moment before swathes of fabric floated across the frosted glass of the front door. A slender woman of medium height opened it. A classical beauty, with high rounded cheekbones and long curled eyelashes. Around Audrey’s age, Julia thought, fifty or so, but her mother would never dress like this. A printed silk scarf was wrapped around the woman’s head and fashioned into a turban and she wore a matching dress, long and flowing. Was she on the way to a fancy-dress party, or perhaps rehearsing for a play? Julia waited for her to speak, but the woman remained bolt upright at the door, one arm stretched across its frame.
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