He was outside Ken Goodman’s house, a three-storey house in the middle of what had once been a row of hotels opposite some bowling greens. The grass had been replaced by a car park and the hotels turned into small flats occupied by those people who drifted towards the coast, because being unemployed by the seaside was just about more palatable then being unemployed in an inner-city slum.
Ken complained about the deterioration around him, blaming the collapse of legal aid for his inability to move upwards. Porter just put it down to choosing the wrong side. He’d seen so many defence lawyers move to the prosecution, attracted by the hours and the pay, but Ken had stuck fast. That had always been Porter’s problem with him. The police had been about being on the right side of the law, being able to say that he’d been a good man, however much the job had blurred that line. Ken Goodman had only ever been about the money.
That was always the worst reason to do anything.
Porter had called Ken minutes earlier and he was about to ring again, the lack of sleep making him impatient, when the front door opened. Goodman waddled towards his gate, his hair sticking up, his stomach spreading in the gap between the bottom of his T-shirt and the top of his jogging bottoms, his slippers making loud slaps on the path.
The irony, Porter thought, of Ken Goodman in jogging bottoms.
He wound down his window as Goodman got close, and received a blast of stale whisky as he bent down to say, ‘What do you want this early?’
‘I’m going to Highford.’
Goodman rubbed his eyes and spluttered, ‘What the hell for?’
‘To deal with this. This needs to finish.’
‘Don’t you dare.’ He slapped the car door in frustration. ‘Don’t you bloody well dare.’
‘I’m going, but I wanted you to know that I’m putting a stop to this, whatever the cost.’
‘No, you can’t do this to me. To yourself either.’
‘What’s the panic, Ken? Your job is to keep your clients’ dirty secrets. The town won’t come after you.’
Goodman started to pace, his hand in his hair. ‘You don’t know that, because people won’t be bothered about legal ethics. They’ll think of how the two of us conspired to let a killer stay free.’
‘That’s the problem, Ken, because it’s exactly what we did.’
At that, Porter set off, leaving Goodman coughing into the fumes, looking after him, bewildered, his hands on his hips.
As he headed for the road out of Brampton, his mind was filled with fresh resolve, but with no idea about what lay ahead.
Chapter Sixty-Four
The door to the cafe tinkled as Dan walked in.
Rosie’s was a small place close to the town centre that had once served milky tea in cracked mugs but had remodelled itself to compete with the coffee chains on the main street. It had gone for a French vibe, with dried lavender pinned to the walls and bistro tables outside, but the clientele hadn’t changed. Labourers and office workers still needed their bacon sandwiches.
The person he was looking for was sitting in a corner, his infamous usual place.
Mike Summers was the local coroner, a judge who decided on cause of death in those cases when a death didn’t have a natural cause. It wasn’t a job for the squeamish.
Mike still had his own firm and made occasional appearances in the local criminal courts as one of Highford’s defence lawyers, but his coronial work was a route out of a collapsing industry.
Dan had always been surprised that a man who saw so much death seemed determined to drag his own a little closer. He’d always struggled with his weight, his arrival in the courtroom usually preceded by panting and wheezing, but his morning breakfast routine had never changed. His wife once put him on a diet, packing him a salad and believing his promises that he’d cut down. It had merely provided a colourful garnish to his regular fried breakfast.
Dan wanted to catch him in Rosie’s, because the atmosphere at his office might make him close down. Lined by law reports, never read, his office was aimed at the more traditional clients, those who expected law offices to resemble Victorian parlours, low-lit and wood-lined. Then again, that was much more Mike’s client base, helping out farmers and landowners in neighbour disputes.
Mike looked solemn as he sliced a sausage. His expression was always serious, his movements slow and deliberate, wearing his responsibility like a funeral director. He’d earned the nickname Dr Death, although never to his face.
Dan slid in opposite him.
He looked surprised. ‘Dan? What can I do for you?’ He gave Dan a smile, but it was brief and polite, with little warmth.
‘Mike, I need a word, if you’ve got time.’
‘Will it take long?’ He raised his fork, the sausage glistening. ‘As you can see, I’m busy.’
‘I hope not.’
‘Is it to do with what happened to your office, and to you?’
‘Loosely.’
Mike sighed and put his fork down. ‘How can I help you?’
‘I need some information in relation to past inquests.’
‘They’re matters of public record. Have you tried the local newspaper? Just because we pass each other sometimes in a courtroom doesn’t mean that you’ve earned a shortcut.’
‘My needs are more urgent than that. I’m on day two of a murder trial and the alternative suspect has a history of talking people into suicide.’ Dan hoped he wasn’t overselling it. ‘I’ve found one from Wakefield, a vulnerable young man persuaded to kill himself, but there might be a pattern.’
‘And if you’ve come to me, you must think there is a case like this in Highford.’
‘I do, but I don’t know who or when.’
‘What’s his name, this alternative suspect?’
‘It’s not a he. It’s a she. Leoni Walker was her name, but I wonder if she’s changed it.’
‘How far back are we going?’
‘Perhaps as far as fifteen years, because people like Leoni don’t stop.’
Mike’s eyes narrowed. ‘When you say talked him into it, how do you mean?’
‘Just pushed and pushed, made out like it was a joint thing, two lost souls sharing their pain, but he was the only one who killed himself. She was on the phone to him when he died, claimed she was screaming at him not to do it, and by the time she hung up, to call an ambulance, he’d died.’
Mike paled.
‘What is it?’ Dan said.
He pushed his plate to one side, as if his appetite had gone. He stared at the table, deep in thought. Dan sat patiently.
When Mike looked up again, he asked, ‘If there is such a case, are you trying to say I got it wrong and should have spotted she’d talked him into it? I’m not going to help you if it’s any kind of witch hunt against me.’
‘I’m not here because of a dodgy inquest. I’m here because I have a murder trial that might result in an injustice.’
Mike nodded to himself as he thought whether he should say anything. ‘All right, there was this one case, around ten years ago. A musician. Sensitive, one of those people who was good at what he did but didn’t have the drive to be successful. I admit that it troubled me at the time, because he was part of a suicide pact, except one side backed out.’
‘A young woman, then just turned twenty or so?’
‘Yes, that’s her. She gave evidence, but I was there to establish cause of death, not determine fault. It was clearly suicide. His parents were pushing for misadventure, that he’d been goaded into it against his will, but there just wasn’t enough evidence of that. The young woman said that they were both going to kill themselves, but she panicked at the last minute. She was talking to him on the phone, imploring him to get help, until eventually she rang for an ambulance.’
‘An exact copy.’
‘So it seems.’
‘Why do you remember it so well? You must deal with so many.’
‘Just something, you know, some disquiet, that niggle in the back of my head. Her
messages read exactly like a suicide pact, but it was how she was. Cold. I couldn’t imagine her being so low that she’d consider suicide, because she was so matter-of-fact, but then again, I’m no psychologist and I work on evidence, not on how I think someone should behave.’
‘Rehearsed, is perhaps the answer. She knew what to say, because she’d been there before.’
‘How long before?’
‘Five years or so before yours.’
‘The parents were going to appeal my finding, but I think they lost heart, decided that it wasn’t healthy.’
‘Can you remember his name? Or hers?’
‘I don’t remember her name, but I do his. We don’t get that many tricky ones a year, so you remember the ones that make the press. Lee Bridges.’
Dan smiled and said, ‘Thank you, Mike.’
Just as he turned to go, Mike said, ‘If you’re right, speak to Lee’s parents. I’ll look again at my decision, reopen the inquest even. Getting it right is more important than me trying to hide that I got it wrong.’
Now, it was time to find Leoni.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Jayne was pacing as she waited for Suzy Bridges, Lee’s mother, Dan having passed on details of his case after his visit to the coroner, and a quick Internet search had done the rest.
Suzy Bridges ran a memorial website for parents who’d lost children through suicide. Jayne guessed it was therapeutic, her way of finding some good out of what happened to her son. It took one email and the mention of Leoni’s name to get a meeting with her.
Jayne was by a war memorial on the edge of the town centre, a stone plinth and an embossed rose by an open park fringed by large trees, and she recognised Suzy from the website as soon as she walked towards her. The Internet photograph showed her posing with her husband, both holding a photograph frame, with Lee in his graduation cap and gown. It spoke of unfulfilled promise.
In the flesh, there was more life in her eyes, a ready smile when Jayne greeted her, although grief was etched into her tired eyes and the lines around her mouth. It aged her much more than her fifty years, the age she advertised on social media.
As she sat down on a bench next to the memorial, she said, ‘Sorry we had to meet out here, but I’m at work and I didn’t want to disturb anyone. You said it was urgent and about Lee.’
Jayne sat alongside her. ‘Lee’s girlfriend, the other one in the suicide pact. Was her name Leoni?’
Suzy cocked her head, suspicious, but answered anyway. ‘Yes. Leoni Revell. Why?’
‘Revell? Wow.’
Suzy reached out and grabbed Jayne’s forearm. ‘What is it?’
‘She’s changed her name, disowned her father.’
‘What is it about Leoni?’
‘Your son wasn’t the first.’
Suzy’s mouth dropped open and her eyes filled with tears, letting go of Jayne’s arm. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Leoni talked a boy her age into killing himself, when she lived in Wakefield. She had a different name then. Walker, not Revell. She was on the phone to him when he died.’
Suzy’s hand went to her mouth and she let out a small sob. She wiped her eyes before saying, ‘Don’t tell me, trying to talk him out of it?’
Jayne didn’t think she had to answer.
Suzy stared at her hands for a few seconds before she said, ‘What’s your interest?’
‘Trying to get justice for a man accused of a murder; we think Leoni might be the culprit, because he was digging up her past, was going to write about her. He never got the chance, battered to death in a park not far from here.’
Suzy sat forward, her eyes alive with rage. ‘If I can do anything to nail that bitch, I’ll do it.’
‘Tell me how to find her.’
‘That’s easy. She works at a suicide crisis centre. Yeah, I get the irony, but what can I do? She plays at being the victim, the poor girlfriend left behind, who had to listen to my Lee take his life. If anyone believes that, they’re a fool. I saw how he changed when she came along. She wore him down, made him look into himself too much rather than reach out. I told him to seek help from a professional, but he said the same thing each time, that Leoni was all he needed. She knew what to say to push him closer and closer.’
‘Where is this place?’
‘Part of the council offices; it’s run by the council. Leoni got the job because she was the victim in Lee’s death, as far as everyone is concerned.’
‘Have you ever had any doubts?’
‘None. I know what she did, and how much she enjoyed it. Someone needs to stop her.’
Jayne remembered the torment of Doreen Green, back in Wakefield, and she saw the same in Suzy Bridges.
‘I’ll do what I can, Mrs Bridges, whatever it takes.’
* * *
Dan was waiting outside the courthouse for Zoe Slater, the prosecutor. He’d called her moments before, and her office wasn’t far away.
She appeared, holding a disposable coffee cup, the soft breeze blowing her hair over her face. As she got close, she raised her cup and said, ‘I don’t keep any decent stuff at the office, so thanks for calling me out. What’s so urgent?’
‘I need you to get a prisoner to court tomorrow, for when the defence case starts. He’s a witness.’
‘You could have gone straight to the police. They make the application to the prison, not me.’
‘They’ll tell me to go away, or just forget to do it, perhaps deliberately. If you ask them, it’ll carry more weight.’
‘Why should I?’
‘What’s in it for you, you mean? Justice, for a start. If I play the long game, your refusal to help might be my first appeal point.’
Her eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Don’t be such a dick. We’ve known each other too long for that, and not everyone gets this level of personal service. I’m on the other side, remember.’
He sighed. ‘Okay, I’m sorry. This case has got a bit rough and I’m short on patience.’
‘Yeah, I know, and I’m trying to help, but don’t make me wish I hadn’t bothered. What are you going to do?’
‘About my office? Get this case out of the way and then decide. For now, I just don’t know.’
‘Do they know who did it?’
‘I think I do, but there’s no proof. There’s time yet, but I need this first.’
‘Who’s the prisoner?’
‘Rodney Walker.’
Her face screwed up in concentration. ‘I know the name.’
‘He’s in prison for two child murders.’
‘Oh, that Rodney Walker,’ she said, her eyes wide. ‘The Brampton Murders.’
‘And Brampton was where Mark Roberts had been not long before he died. Roberts went to see Rodney before he was killed. He has relevant information.’
Zoe laughed. ‘You think it’s that easy? The police have got to justify it to the prison governor, and the governor can refuse.’
‘I know, I’ve looked it up. Interests of justice and all that, but a murder trial must be important enough.’
‘We could just get him on the video link.’
‘You could, but we both know that being played on the big screen doesn’t have the same impact as being in court.’ Dan handed over a piece of paper. ‘That’s his prison number and location and date of birth, all the information you’ll need.’
Zoe looked at the piece of paper. ‘This is all very short notice.’
‘I wish it were different, but the way I came about the information made it that way. And I’m not treating it lightly.’ He smiled. ‘But thanks, Zoe, I do appreciate it.’
‘Okay, leave it with me.’
She turned to go but Dan stopped her.
‘One more thing,’ he said, and passed over an envelope. ‘That’s a statement from my investigator, with some exhibited photographs. Can it be read to the court?’
Zoe opened the envelope and pulled out the paperwork. Dan stayed silent as she read it, until eventually she said
, ‘Is she willing to give this evidence, if I don’t agree it?’
‘If you don’t allow it to be read, she’s no choice, but is there a need? Are you saying she’s lying?’
‘Well, no.’
‘That’s your answer then.’
She sighed. ‘Okay, if you think it’s relevant, but it seems like Brampton is becoming the centre of the universe today. I’ll let Frank know it’s agreed.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Are you wearing make-up, Dan?’ She tapped her cheek. ‘I caught a sheen when you turned.’
‘Just something to take the attention away from my bashed-up face.’
She waved the piece of paper. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
He watched her go and he realised why he wanted to stay in the job. There was something human about it. The people he helped, and even those he couldn’t. The lawyers he met, from both sides. They dealt with the dark side of human nature and it created a bond between them all, as if they clung on to whatever warmth they came across.
He turned to the courthouse. For now, it was about the day ahead.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Dan sat poised and ready as Frank McAllister questioned one of the final witnesses. Jayne had been right, that he’d been too disinterested the day before, his focus being on himself, not the case. Nick Connor didn’t deserve that. This was the witness who counted though. The Senior Investigating Officer.
This case had always been about what the police didn’t look for, Nick’s defence built on the police fixation on his guilt, to the exclusion of all other possibilities. That remained the same, except there were now additional avenues to explore. For the first time in the case, he felt that Nick stood a chance.
Graham Hogg was wearing his best suit, grey and sober, too well-pressed to be an everyday office suit. His shirt still bore the creases from when it was in the packet, not fully ironed out.
Dan had come across him a few times before. For some detectives, Dan was part of the game, someone they could engage with away from the courtroom battlefield. Hogg was different. He was rigid and stiff, only ever seeing Dan as the enemy.
The Innocent Ones Page 27