by Linda Coles
Jack and Eddie walked back out to the fresher air of the car park, where Eddie lit a cigarette. Jack watched on, glad to be out and above the surface again. The bowels of the station felt like being in a submarine at times, and the lack of fresh circulating air made him feel unclean. Prison would be a terrible place to spend the rest of your life, he thought.
Eddie drew on the white, papery stick as though it was his last breath, and Jack watched as the smoke trickled through his nostrils. Eddie licked his lips. They looked cracked and sore and needed some Vaseline. Jack had some in his desk drawer that Janine had given him, but he wasn't going to volunteer it; he didn't want Eddie’s germs transferred on to his own lips. He shuddered; Eddie did his bit on the sleeping-around front; for whatever reason, the ladies seemed to like him.
The sun came out from behind a concrete-coloured cloud, and for a few moments it was almost too bright without sunglasses on. Instinctively, both men turned their backs on the glare, making use of the shade their bodies created. Neither of them spoke, each enjoying the feeling of cleansing air wafting around their faces. It had been a long 24 hours. Two motorbikes sped past on the main road out front, weaving dangerously in and out of traffic, their engines spluttering loudly as gears changed. They sounded like phlegm clearing in a mechanical throat.
“So that's that, then,” said Jack. “Magistrates next up, then off to the big house to wait it out. The McAllister family will be chuffed, but I do feel sorry for Hardesty’s wife, Barbara, and their daughter Cassy. This could hit Cassy especially hard; she’s a vulnerable 16-year-old now, and she’s quite close to her dad. I think he had designs on her taking over one day.”
“A bit of a looker, too. She’ll be in hot demand in another couple of years,” Eddie said, and leered.
Jack made a disgusted face and ignored him; the man had no class at all. “Aren’t you a little surprised at the CPS charging him?” he said. “I didn’t think there was much usable physical evidence of him planning the murder. Lots of circumstantial, but not much else. I must admit I’m wondering why; aren’t you?”
“Not particularly, and quite honestly, as long as the man’s going down, I couldn’t really much care.”
“Do you think he’ll plead guilty or not?”
“If he’s any sense, he’ll plead guilty. It’s stacked against him.” Eddie sucked the last of the nicotine out of the stub of cigarette between his fingers, and then flicked it away. It landed alongside a strewn pile of other butts, and Jack watched it as it slowly smouldered, a tiny stream of smoke rising and dissipating. A butt graveyard.
“Did you know it takes near on five years for a cigarette stub to finally degrade? So, you tossing your butt is no different than you tossing your gum paper out the window.” Jack turned to meet Eddie’s eyes as he said the last words, waiting for a reaction.
“Pick it up, then,” Eddie said, and turned to head back inside.
Jack sighed and left the butt where it was. He had a modicum of respect for his direct boss, but that didn’t include picking up his rubbish. As they headed back indoors, his thoughts turned to Hardesty again. He would wait for his brief appearance before a magistrate, then would be off and out of the way—and Jack would move on to more pressing cases. Idly, he wondered who the magistrate would be and who Eddie had been dealing with at the CPS. But it didn’t really matter; decisions had been made, and the legal ball was rolling. If Hardesty pleaded guilty, it would pass for sentencing and his life would carry on behind bars. If he disputed the charges and pled not guilty, he’d get his time to explain and defend himself in the Crown Court in front of a judge and twelve of his peers.
“Rather him than me,” Jack said as the doors shut behind them. “On to the next case.”
Chapter Sixteen
Michael sat back on his mattress. His solicitor, Howard King, hadn’t seemed particularly hopeful he’d be going home mid-morning, and the prospect of life confined by grimy concrete walls was daunting. Yes, he’d done a stint some years ago, but he’d been younger then. He hadn’t had a family to worry about and indeed hadn’t had anyone other than himself to think about. But that was then and this was now. He rolled the scenarios, the two possible choices he had, around in his head. If he pleaded guilty, he’d never get bail, but would get a shorter sentence when the judge heard his case for saving valuable court time and costs. It would be all over and done with in the blink of an eye, but he’d be incarcerated for the next who knew how long. He’d be at least ten years older when he got out. But Barb and Cassy would be safe—until he was released at least, though after that they’d have to reassess. Maybe move away, move to another country even, somewhere warmer. Australia was a possibility, or New Zealand even.
On the other hand, if he pleaded not guilty, bail was doubtful, but he would get a trial in front of a judge and jury. Surely, they’d see there wasn’t enough evidence to convict him of murder. That it had been an accident, nothing premeditated about it. He could be set free, then run off to start fresh with the two women in his life, maybe run a nice bar in the Mediterranean.
He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. Either option was frightening—there wouldn’t be a man or woman on earth who would find his situation appealing. And so, the turmoil in his head tossed about like washing in a tumble drier, bits and pieces bashing against the metal drum and falling to the bottom of it to be picked back up and tossed around again. In another hour or so, the tumble drier in his head would have to stop, and wherever the thoughts settled, that would be the decision he’d have to choose.
The now-familiar sound of a key turning in his locked door brought his attention back to the stinking room he’d spent the night in. The welcome whoosh of fresh air once again pushed into his space, and Howard King filled the doorway. His hair seemed to be even greyer than when he’d left earlier on, and his expression was even more hopeless, if anything. He did however, hold a clean shirt, a tie and a suit for Michael to change into for his appearance.
Michael stood. “Any chance of a shower and a shave?” he asked.
Howard entered the room fully, and the door closed behind him. “Afraid not. But look at it this way: you’re not in a dry cell. At least you’ve been able to wash your hands and face.”
“I’ll count myself lucky, then. Do I get my shoelaces back?”
Howard produced them from his own pocket and handed them over. “We leave shortly, so get yourself changed,” he said. He handed the shirt to Michael and laid the suit and tie on the mattress behind him.
“Have you come to a decision?” Howard asked. “Only it would really help me if I knew what you were going to plead,” he said dryly. “I’m on your side, remember?”
Michael took off the sour shirt he’d been wearing so far, dipped it under the tap and used it as a makeshift wash cloth, wiping it under his arms and around his neck. It wasn’t much, but it was all that was on offer. Fragrant hot showers were not part of the en-suite facilities in police custody cells. He tossed the sodden shirt to the floor and slipped the fresh one on; he felt better immediately. He was conscious he still hadn’t answered Howard’s question, but he focused on switching his trousers over and then threaded his shoes with the retrieved laces. The tumble drier in his head was still churning.
When he’d slipped his jacket on, he stood tall and, facing his solicitor, took a deep breath before he spoke. “I’m not guilty. I didn’t do this. I’m not going to say I did.” He sniffed loudly, wrinkling his nose and upper lip like a boxer putting his fight face on before he entered the ring, his neck thrust forward, shoulders back. At his full stature, he could easily be a basketball player, and he towered over Howard King, who had to look up at him slightly when he spoke.
“That’s all I need to know. Now, do you understand what will happen this morning?”
“Yes.”
“But as I say, a murder charge means bail is unlikely. Your reputation as a party pill dealer doesn’t work in your favour, I’m afraid.”
“I’
m a businessman.”
“That might be so, but the court won’t like your business model. So, I’ll see you in your cell just before you’re called, then again at the proceedings, and finally after the ruling. How are you feeling?”
Michael wanted to roll his eyes. What a dumb question. “Have a guess.”
Howard looked slightly embarrassed and broke eye contact with his client as he banged on the cell door to be let back out. “I’ll see you shortly.”
Michael watched as the long grey ponytail receded and an officer entered to escort him to the van for transportation. He was suddenly nervous, and his tongue felt like it had doubled in size in his mouth, causing his breathing to catch. He tried to gulp air into his lungs as panic took over and realisation of this next step took hold. Whatever happened in the courtroom today would determine how his life would pan out. It was literally in the hands of a stranger, a man or woman who had no prior knowledge of or dealings with him, had never met Michael socially or via business, and yet they were to decide what happened to him next. He hoped they were at least educated.
The officer clipped handcuffs onto his wrists now, and Michael Hardesty was dutifully lead down a much cooler corridor towards the back door and waiting van. As he walked the couple of steps across the concrete, he tried to pause and look up at the sun, which had slid out from behind a cloud. It felt warm on his face and he closed his eyes briefly.
“You’d best get used to not seeing much of the old currant bun,” the officer said snidely. “You’ll be lucky if you get an hour a day where you’re headed.”
Chapter Seventeen
The cell walls that now surrounded Michael were custard yellow, maybe in an attempt to make them feel cheery. Whether or not that was the case, they still smelt of other people’s urine. Michael wondered if the yellow was to cover up the stains or to match them, in some weird form of Feng Shui. Eau de piss. The banality of the custard colour took his mind off what was coming. A soggy egg sandwich and a plastic cup of water had been lunch, and he’d forced it down, not knowing when his next meal would come. Or where. While he liked to think he’d be home with Barb, Cassy and fish and chips, he wasn’t expecting to be.
He sat back on yet another hard, blue-plastic-covered mattress and put his head in his hands. The loud clank of the metal door opening made him sit up abruptly as Howard King and an officer walked in.
“It’s time,” King said, as handcuffs were again attached to Michael’s wrists. “Remember: stay quiet and calm, and let me do the talking. That’s what you’re paying me for.” He smiled encouragingly.
Michael’s face was blank. He felt like he was in a trance; if only he could wake up from it. Putting one trembling foot in front of the other, he walked out of the cell and up the long corridor to the courtroom.
King went on ahead, knowing Michael would be held back for a few minutes until his case was called. It gave him the time he needed to get into the designated courtroom and get ready. He knew Michael Hardesty’s chances of being granted bail were slim, and that the Magistrate was unlikely to make an exception just for him. He had to try, though, and he knew the prosecution would strenuously oppose it. Of course they would. Murder was a serious charge.
As he trudged down the hallway, he remarked that the corridors and waiting areas of courts in every town across the land looked almost identical. While the décor differed—some modern, some old-fashioned—their occupants were of the type that could be found in any busy A&E on a Saturday night after closing time: the serial offenders, the petty-crimers and joyriders, all waiting their turn in front of an over-scheduled magistrate. The repeat offenders, those used to making court appearances, knew how the system worked and generally slumped indifferently in chairs or against the walls; those new to it sat nervously forward in their seats or paced up and down in frustration. The speeding ticketers, the weekend addicts and the other white-collar attendees tended to huddle away in quieter corners away from the riffraff to wait their turn; with their expensive briefcases and tailored suits, they stuck out like red Ferraris in a Lidl supermarket car park.
Howard King nodded towards a tall blonde woman, a barrister called Maxine Kipple whom he’d come up against more than once. She nodded back, giving him a slight smile that could have meant either that she was being coy or mocking him. He preferred the first option. He could never be certain with Maxine; she was a rather unique individual in many ways. They’d had a one-nighter six months ago, though she hadn’t been back for more. He’d wondered why. Maybe he’d taken the wig thing a bit too far.
The courtroom he was heading for was up ahead, and he could see two nervous-looking women, one older, one in her teens, standing by the door—Barbara and Cassy Hardesty. Barbara spotted him first and held out her hands to him; he took them in his.
“How is he?” she asked urgently. “They won’t let me see him.”
“He’s holding up, Mrs Hardesty.”
Her eyes searched his, flickering from one to the other and back again in quick succession, her brow furrowed, tears threatening like storm clouds. Howard hated this part of his job; the grief of his clients coupled with the grief of their loved ones got to him sometimes. Whether he thought Michael was innocent or not was immaterial. His job was to defend him and get him the best outcome he could.
“Let’s talk after, okay?” he said, touching her shoulder gently. She nodded, blinking back tears. He opened the door and walked inside, headed to his spot at the front table, files tucked carefully under his arm.
Fifteen minutes later, it was all over. As expected, the bench had huddled together and, after a few short bursts of whispers, committed the accused in custody to the Crown Court. Michael Hardesty would have to wait it out in another cell.
“But I’m innocent!” he’d shouted as he was led away in handcuffs, back to the cells in the bowels of the courthouse. From there, he’d be taken to his new temporary accommodation, more than likely HMP High Down. At least it was a fairly new building and a far cry from the notorious Wormwood Scrubs.
Howard closed his files, gathered his things and headed back out. He’d pop down and see Michael before he left. He knew what he’d be faced with: Michael’s disappointment, changing to anger then worry. Everyone reacted the same way: the fear of getting through what was ahead of them, the worry about how they’d cope, how they’d settle in. In the court’s eyes, you were technically still innocent until proven guilty, and yet Michael and others like him would now have their liberty infringed. Howard had his work cut out for him. He’d need to get the best criminal barrister Michael could afford.
Buttoning his jacket, he went in search of Maxine Kipple.
Chapter Eighteen
“And he’s still inside?” Amanda asked.
“Yep. He was found guilty and is still serving now. I’d have to check when he’s due for release, but it can’t be far off.”
“And all because he whacked someone. How did it become murder and not manslaughter, then? What was the evidence against him?” Amanda was nursing her mug of tea, though there really couldn’t have been much left in the bottom.
“I never had much to do with it after they charged him that day. It was all Eddie. He liaised with the CPS. You know what’s it like—charge them and move on; another crime solved. There were some threats made, and some witnesses came forward, though I wouldn’t have said they were the most reliable of people. Those willing to testify for either McAllister or Hardesty back then would have been desperate or stupid.”
Amanda nodded. “And you think it was rigged?”
“I had my suspicions. But Hardesty was a bad lad, and, like I say, we did things differently back then. Not a lot could have been done anyway. What does Jack know?”
Amanda smiled at that; it was Jack’s turn to catch on. Jack shit.
“Ha, ha. Funny. True, though. He was a convenient statistic—another crime solved, another criminal off the streets.” Jack thought for a moment or two before adding, “I might just pay hi
m a visit. He’s still in High Down, I think. Only around the corner.”
“Why?”
“Call it curiosity, since we’ve been talking about him. Here’s another fact for you to brighten your afternoon. Gary Glitter was an inmate there for a while. And that cricketer, the drug smuggler guy—I forget his name now.”
“No point asking me. Do I look sporty?” she said, passing her hand over her torso. Sporty Spice she was not.
“Point taken. Anyway, you finished?”
Amanda nodded, and Jack stood and stacked their plates together to take to the trolley parked by the wall.
Amanda stood. “Better get some work done, I suppose, or Japp will be after my ass.” She placed their mugs on the trolley next to their plates. “What happened to your mate Eddie, then?”
“Not a mate. He was a pain in the neck to work with, to be honest. Always skiving off to the pub or climbing into some poor woman’s bed. It amazed me how he got away with what he did. But he left suddenly. It would be about ten years ago now, I expect. There one day, gone the next. I didn’t keep in touch. He was not my favourite boss to work with.”
“Is that my cue to ask who is? Or was?” she said playfully.
“If you like, O favourite boss person,” he said, bowing at her with arms outstretched. It wasn’t like she needed to dig for compliments; Amanda had a skin as tough as bacon rind. That was the side she showed to the outside world, anyway; she was soft as warm brie on the inside, Jack knew.
They walked together back to the squad room; the sunshine streamed in through the grimy glass doors and windows, highlighting the various rub marks and hand prints.
“We need a new window cleaner,” said Jack ruefully. “We’re working in a damned petri dish with all that bacteria smeared around. There’ll be all sorts of crap breathing alongside us.”