‘I know, and that’s the other reason I’m here. First, I don’t think it will help you. No one is going to admit it. There are fifty-three tenants, six pupils, seven staff, as well as any clients, both professional and lay, who come to chambers. What’s more, they are on an open staircase that leads from Middle Temple Lane into Burke Court. So any number of passers-by would have access to them.’
‘I’d like to interview your boy …’
‘Don’t call him a boy. It’s patronising.’
‘Ok, Ok. I’d like to interview him under caution.’
Cassie nodded. ‘Sorry I was a bit sharp, but the trial I’m doing at the moment has a strong racial dimension. The defendant is a racist and I’m having to keep quiet so that he doesn’t sack me.’
‘Right. Do you want to be present when he’s interviewed?’
‘He’s entitled to a lawyer. I haven’t advised him to refuse to answer questions, but I don’t think he’ll say anything different.’
Cassie waited in the interview room while Alex went and got Roger Hales from the custody suite. She pulled the file towards her and began to read the document on the top of the bundle. It was a copy of a police officer’s notebook and, as she had guessed, referred to Hales turning away from him as if concealing something. When he was searched the packet was in the right-hand back pocket of his jeans. How had the wrap got from his suit to a pair of jeans?
Roger repeated his account of finding the wrap, and although Alex pressed him he didn’t change it. Cassie thought Alex had missed the inconsistency regarding Roger’s clothing, but then Alex asked, ‘Do you normally wear a suit to work, Roger?’
‘Yes, miss.’
‘When you were arrested you were wearing jeans.’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘You must have taken the wrap from your suit and put it into your jeans?’
‘If I was wearing jeans that night. I can’t remember. I know I found the packet in the toilets in chambers and put it in my pocket, that’s all I can tell you. I don’t know where it came from.’
Alex looked at Cassie and pulled her lips into a wry smile, before saying the interview was over and the case would be referred to the Crown Prosecution Service for their consideration.
Chapter 12
The next day as soon as Cassie got home, she changed out of her dark suit into jeans and a bright yellow jersey. She wanted to look at the scene of the alleged murder. It had started to rain quite heavily and she reluctantly decided to drive. Moving her coffee-coloured Mini out of the parking slot she had secured four days ago meant when she came back she would have to drive around until she found a different space. She checked the status of the traffic along Ladbroke Grove on her mobile. The app advised her it would be slow. The evening traffic was building up, and it took her nearly fifteen minutes to cover the mile or so to the row of shops at the junction of Barlby Road and Ladbroke Grove. She turned into a side street close by and found a resident’s parking space; fortunately, her permit allowed her to park there.
The brick-built terrace looked worse than it did in the photographs. Sandwiched as it was between the car park of the supermarket, the railway line, the canal and the Harrow Road, not even a bright summer sun could have made the scene attractive, never mind under the grey clouds of a rainy day. One of the houses could have been occupied but it was difficult to judge; instead of curtains, a sky-blue sheet had been hung across the windows on the first floor. The remainder were protected from prying eyes by dirt. The property to its right was boarded up, covered in graffiti by an untalented artist. Cassie couldn’t tell if it had been a shop or another house. Next to that was the building she had identified as a hardware shop in the photographs. She had gone with her grandfather to a similar shop in Lancaster when she was a child. She recalled wandering around while he chose a tool he needed for his work as a cabinet maker. She was curious about all the tins and tubes she could see, and trying to read the labels she had accidently moved one that was propping up a small pyramid. There was a clatter as they fell to the floor. Her grandfather had apologised to the salesman and ushered her out of the shop. Montgomery’s newsagents too gave the impression of being from a previous era. Her client’s despair at the loss of business was tangible to her as she surveyed the row of properties. This small corner of London had missed the jaunty progress of the nineties and the continuing austerity would in a short time, she guessed, sound its death knell.
The sweet shop was still open and, without really thinking about what she would do, she pushed open the door. There was a smell of decay, aniseed balls, methylated spirits and stale tobacco, a smell she had not anticipated from the pictures she had examined. A bell sounded at the back, a snatch of ‘Hearts of Oak’ which she recognised from her schooldays. A woman in her late fifties, not much younger than her own mother, came into the shop and stood behind the counter. She was clutching at the sleeves of a dark grey cardigan and wrapping it round her body. She didn’t smile in welcome, but asked Cassie if she could help her.
‘I was looking for Mr Montgomery, or rather I wanted to look at the shop.’
‘Why would you want to do that? Who are you snooping around here? Another reporter? My husband’s not seeing anyone.’
Of course, Cassie thought, dressed like this no one would think she was a lawyer. ‘Sorry, I should have explained. I’m Cassie Hardman, the barrister representing your husband. I wanted to get a feel for the place. To know what the shop is really like. You must be Valerie.’ She hadn’t expected her client’s wife to be there, he had said she hated the place, and wouldn’t work in the shop because of the abuse they both got from their young customers.
Cassie held her hand out in anticipation of shaking hands with the woman; Mrs Montgomery did not respond but let her arms fall by her side, and then put one hand on the counter and said, ‘He’s not here.’ Her voice trailed off. ‘Have a look round. I’m sure there’s not much to see. We’re trying to keep going. We don’t get much from it, but apart from his pension from the navy, and these days it’s not enough, it’s all we have.’
Cassie walked up one side of the central gondola and looked at the racks of magazines, the shelves of sweets and cigarettes, the three-dimensional view that the photographs had recorded in two. She reached up and took down one of the magazines from the top shelf; she had to stretch to pick it up. The boys captured on the CCTV had not.
When Cassie turned towards the counter she became aware of Mrs Montgomery watching her every move. ‘It must be very difficult for you …’
‘It’s awful, just awful. We’ve had dog dirt through the letter box and abuse scrawled on the windows. He’s not really evil. For years he was away at sea for weeks, months and then home for a few weeks. When he finally left the navy … well, the world had changed. Changed too much.’
Cassie didn’t know what to say to the woman. Seeing the newsagent’s shop in context had made her feel a little more sympathetic to her client. He was trying to keep his father’s business going against the pressure from supermarkets and with vandalism rife in the area. He didn’t have enough money from his time in the armed forces to give up the business, and he was too old to start something new. The best he could hope for was that the whole terrace would be sold for redevelopment, but this was not the time.
Cassie thanked Mrs Montgomery and made her way to the shop door. She opened it, took a step forward to the threshold and stood for a few seconds as she thought her client must have done. The pavement in front of her was quite wide, plenty of space for the three boys to stand in a circle around the entrance. She looked to her right to where Chris Young had been standing at the moment his brother received the fatal blow. The distance between them would not have been more than twelve feet. As she turned to walk back to her car she glanced back into the shop and saw Mrs Montgomery still standing behind the counter hugging her cardigan to her.
On the way back to her flat, she thought about the difference between her life and that of her cli
ent. She lived in a more prosperous part of Kensington, in a home she could afford from her earnings in the profession she enjoyed. It wasn’t the first time she had compared her own life with that of her client and been thankful for her good fortune.
Once inside, she went over to the desk. It was the last piece her grandfather had made. He had lost his job with Gillow’s, the furniture manufacturers, when he was fifty-five, almost the same age as Mr Montgomery. Even with his skills, her grandfather had found it difficult to get another job and had scratched a living making the odd piece of furniture. He had known what it was like to struggle late in life, but she could not imagine him expressing the sort of views her client did. Then again, Lancaster in the nineties probably didn’t have the same sort of racial mix as London in the early part of the twenty-first century.
In addition to the Montgomery brief another one was open on her desk; she had promised to do an advice on evidence for her instructing solicitors, but the visit to the sweet shop had taken longer than she anticipated and she was hungry. She checked the contents of her fridge and decided to have some prawns with feta cheese, parsley and lemon on some pasta. Pasta again, but it was quick and tasty. While she prepared her meal, she sipped at a glass of Chianti.
David Montgomery’s reaction to immigrants had been expressed very forcefully to her in conference and she had wanted to argue with him, to protest that whatever anyone’s skin colour, we were all part of the same species, that the difference in our DNA was negligible. She hadn’t, because she didn’t want to be sacked by him, and she knew it would be a waste of time. He wasn’t for changing. She wished she hadn’t accepted it, but getting a leading brief was too good an opportunity to turn down.
Once she had eaten she turned on her computer to start work on the advice she had promised to have ready by the end of the week, but first she checked her emails. Her sister had sent some photographs of her two nephews and the sandcastle they had built on the beach. The two boys were standing either side of the turreted cone of sand, holding their spades aloft, waving them in triumph, and in the background was Blackpool Tower, apparently growing out of six-year-old Jeremy’s head. The next email was from Delaney. Cassie shuddered. Her unknown admirer was becoming a nuisance. At first she decided against opening it, and went on to the next email on the screen, but her curiosity prompted her to see what he had to say – perhaps it would help her to identify him. It was still headed Paul Sadler but the contents appeared to be unrelated to that trial.
‘As thorough as ever, I see. Did you enjoy your visit to Montgomery’s this afternoon? I hope you found what you were looking for. I’ll be seeing you. Yours, Delaney.’
Cassie swore to herself. How could he have known she had been to the shop? She hadn’t told anyone, not even her clerk. He must be following me. All thoughts of work vanished. She went over to the windows from which she could see the street. She looked down; there was no one loitering outside. Then she studied the cars; she had managed to find a parking space only a few bays away from the one she had left earlier. In front of her car was the blue Peugeot belonging to one of her neighbours and behind, the Volkswagen Golf driven by the lady who lived opposite. On the other side of the road was a white van; for a moment Cassie thought it had been there earlier, but one white van looked like another and they were ubiquitous in London. She saw a man leaving the front door of one of the houses opposite and get into it. Once it had vacated the space, a black-and-cream Smart car belonging to a local firm of estate agents dashed forward from where it had been hovering. Mr Delaney couldn’t possibly be one of the not over-bright but terribly well-connected young men employed by them. What was his interest in the Sadler case?
As she finished work on the advice, a pop-up told her Ben was online, and seconds later she heard the ringing tone telling her he wanted to speak to her. She ignored it; she didn’t want to tell him she had been sent another email by Delaney. He would want her to go to the police and she didn’t want to do that. It would be too distracting. Then she felt guilty but by that time he was offline. She would contact him later. She opened up her inbox, looked at the message from Malcolm Delaney, shuddered and hit the delete button.
Chapter 13
Standing in the doorway of 3 Burke Court, Alex ran her eyes down the board with the names of barristers painted in black on a white background. About a third of the way down was Miss Cassie Hardman. Alex pushed open the swing door and walked into a dark hall. Facing her was another door that led out into a dismal-looking square and to her left was a wooden stairway. Painted on the wall was a hand pointing up and next to it the words ‘The Chambers of Mr Richard Jago QC.’
At the top of the stairs there were four doors. Three of them were unmarked but the fourth had a brass plate with the word ‘Reception’ on it. Alex looked for a bell or knocker but couldn’t find one. She hesitated and then pushed the door open. She found herself in a small hallway with a glass screen on her right and a large open office behind it. She could smell toast and coffee as well as a heady perfume. Sitting round a group of desks were five men and one young woman, each wearing head phones and each studying a computer screen. One of the men was Roger Hales. He blanched. She shook her head to indicate she wasn’t there to see him.
‘Can I help you?’ said a woman sitting at a desk to the right of the doorway to the office area. Alex hadn’t noticed her until she spoke.
‘I’d like to see Miss Hardman, please.’
‘I’m not sure …’ The receptionist picked up a phone and punched in a short number. ‘I’m not sure she’s back from court.’ While she waited, Alex took the opportunity to observe the activities in the clerks’ room. She had never been in a barrister’s chambers before and wasn’t sure what to expect. There weren’t any signs of affluence; the desk and chairs a little smarter than the ones in the station, the computers a little more up to date. There was a pause while the phone rang. ‘Is Miss Hardman there?’ Whoever it was who’d answered must have said yes. ‘There’s a lady here to see her.’
The person at the other end relayed the message, and then said something Alex couldn’t hear.
‘Your name?’ said the receptionist.
‘Alexis Seymour.’
The receptionist repeated her name and then put the phone down. Seconds later Cassie was at the door of the hallway. ‘Alex, come on, this way.’ Cassie held the door open and ushered Alex out. She led the way across the landing towards the door on the opposite side of the stairway. As she did so she pointed towards the other two doors. ‘Those are the toilets. I think Roger found the wrap in the one on the right. Do you want to see?’
‘Not at the moment.’
Coming down the stairs towards them was a tall man dressed in a dark grey suit. Alex thought he was probably about the same age as she was, and although she would not describe him as good looking he was striking, with dark hair and lively hazel eyes. He held her gaze, smiled and lifted one eyebrow, then he nodded at Cassie and pushed open the door to the reception.
Cassie took Alex into a large room, the walls of which were lined with bookcases. ‘We don’t really need these now. Virtually everything is online, but sometimes … sometimes it feels right to use a real book. Now, what’s brought you here?’
‘I was hoping you might help me. More of the contaminated cocaine has turned up and we need to find the supplier quickly. We’re trying to interview the buyers, but I’m doubtful we’ll get anywhere with that. Even offering them a caution won’t mean much.’
‘What are you getting at? Someone here is more vulnerable?’
‘Barristers can’t afford a conviction for possession of a Class A drug. Wouldn’t they be disbarred? Is that the right word?’
‘Probably. But nobody will admit having any drugs. They know their rights.’
‘I’m sure they do. But they might tell you.’
‘Are you asking me to question my friends?’
‘Yes. Look, I know it is rather, well, underhand, but …’
; ‘I’m not going to grass on any of the other tenants. I’m not an informant.’
‘It looks like there’s a large quantity of this contaminated drug. Serious addicts are at real risk, and that might include some of your colleagues. I’m not asking for names, just where they get it from. I’m assuming none of them is the supplier.’
Cassie put her hand up to her face and looked down. ‘I don’t know of anyone who takes drugs regularly. Alcohol, yes, but not hard drugs.’
‘How much time do you spend with them when you’re not working?’
‘Not that much. Mainly I’m with Ben.’
‘You’re still seeing him?’
‘We spend most weekends together and …’
‘And?’
‘I’m not their type. Brought up in a different world.’
Cassie noticed the screen on her mobile showed she had received an email from Delaney. She shook her head.
‘So you wouldn’t know who might use cocaine at the weekends or when they’re burning the candle at both ends?’ Alex said.
Cassie only vaguely heard her. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’
Alex repeated her question.
‘I don’t spend much time with the other tenants apart from after work when we might go to one of the pubs or wine bars round here. The Cheshire Cheese, El Vino’s, the Devereux. The weekends … most tenants are with their families. Like I spend time with Ben.’
‘Look. It’s up to you.’
‘Fine. That’s it then.’ Cassie looked at her mobile again and tightened her lips into a thin line.
‘I know it’s rather a lot to ask of you but I didn’t expect it to upset you …’
‘It’s not that.’ Could she tell Alex without it going any further? ‘I’ve been getting emails and notes and things from some guy called Delaney. I don’t know who he is, but he heads the emails “Paul Sadler”. That’s the name of a defendant in a rape trial I did about six weeks ago.’
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