The Darkness Around Her

by The Darkness Around Her (retail) (epub)

  The judge pointed at a chair. ‘Sit down, Mr Grant.’

  Dan nodded and gave a small bow before sitting down. He crossed one leg over the other and placed his bag next to his chair as he waited for the grilling. Always wait for the judge to speak.

  The judge looked up. ‘You’re doing this alone, I understand.’

  ‘I am, My Lord.’ Dan’s voice contained no apology and he ticked a mental box. A High Court judge is always ‘My Lord’, not ‘Your Honour’. That was reserved for the everyday judges.

  ‘First murder trial without Queen’s Counsel?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Should it be?’

  ‘It’s how my client wants it.’

  ‘I thought it was for you to assess if you have the required competence, not your client.’

  ‘It is, and I have assessed. If my client wanted Queen’s Counsel, I would have sought one. He didn’t, and I know the case. I was there at the beginning and I’m competent enough to be there at the end.’

  The judge put his fingers together. ‘Your client stayed silent in his interview.’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘On your advice?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to disclose my advice. I’m sure Your Lordship understands that.’

  ‘Don’t play games, Mr Grant.’

  ‘I understand, but I’m not prepared to disclose whatever my client has said to me in the presence of the prosecutor.’

  ‘I’m trying to manage the case, not tease out evidence.’

  ‘Teased or not, if it is evidence, I’ll disclose it when the time comes to disclose it.’

  There was a glimmer of a smile, but Dan knew that there was no warmth in it. ‘Does your client agree with your assessment of your own competence?’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘Mr Grant, for your sake, I hope you’re right, because if I see a man out of his depth, I cannot guarantee that I will throw out a lifebelt.’

  Dan didn’t respond, but he knew the judge would test his ability during the trial, and that he had better stand up to scrutiny.

  The judge turned to the prosecutor. ‘Are we ready to go, Ms McIntyre?’

  ‘The prosecution is ready.’

  ‘Mr Grant?’

  He nodded. ‘I’m ready to start.’

  ‘Good. I don’t want any delays or tricks. This is a simple case.’

  ‘I agree, My Lord,’ Dan said. ‘There is only circumstantial evidence tying my client to the murder.’

  ‘Save your cutting asides for the jury, Mr Grant. We don’t argue the case in here.’ He waved his hand to indicate that the meeting was finished.

  As they both walked along the corridor back to the courtroom, Francesca said, ‘Why do you do it, Dan?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Look for a fight in everything.’

  ‘The judge, you mean?’ He smiled. ‘I get it from my father, I suppose.’

  ‘Do you know the real skill of being a prosecutor?’

  ‘Enlighten me.’

  ‘Spotting the cases we can win and the ones we can’t, and only fighting the winners. It’s not how you fight, but which fight you choose. You’d do well to remember that.’ And with that, she set off ahead, down the steps and into the well of the court.

  The courtroom was no longer empty. There were people in the public gallery, reporters and members of Lizzie Barnsley’s family.

  Just then someone else came in and made his way to the furthest corner of the courtroom. It was the man who’d been watching Dan outside. His baseball cap was in his hand, his hair matted and unkempt. As he sat down, he stared straight at Dan, his jaw clenched.

  Dan switched his gaze to the front, his mind working fast.

  He pulled out his phone, already set to silent so as not to disturb the court, and sent Jayne a message, his fingers working quickly. As he did, there was a knock on the door and everyone rose to their feet as the judge made his theatrical entrance, shuffling towards his chair.

  He was able to put his phone away before the judge looked around the courtroom, delaying the moment when everyone could join him in taking a seat.

  Dan hoped she got the message. Jayne had enquiries of her own to make, but if there was someone in court who could present a danger, he wanted to know what the danger was, and why.

  Sixteen

  The Hyundai showroom was a bright glass box on an out-of-town business complex. Jayne parked in the customer car park and wandered over, her hands in her jacket pockets. If Sean Martin had a new car, he must have traded in the old one. She’d a vague idea of how to get the information she wanted, but she knew she’d be mainly making it up as she went along.

  There were three men visible through the glass, all dressed the same: black trousers, white shirts and corporate ties, black fleeces keeping them warm whenever the large doors opened.

  She knew she didn’t look like the normal kind of customer and wondered whether they’d just shoo her away, but as she went inside two of the men exchanged glances and did a quick rock-paper-scissor routine. The rock beat the scissors and walked over, a broad grin on his face.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, clapping his hands in the cheery way of seasoned salesmen. ‘What are you looking for? New or used?’

  She tilted her head and smiled, making him blush. ‘My daddy is getting sick of me driving that old tin box around,’ and she gestured towards her car. ‘He’s paying, so impress me.’

  ‘New it is, then.’ He grinned as he glanced over her shoulder to her car. ‘It looks like it’s been a loyal friend for a long time, but we all have to move on. What kind of car are you looking for?’

  ‘What would suit me?’

  ‘Sporty, most definitely.’

  ‘Sporty is small. I’m thinking of something a little bigger. Not a four-by-four, but similar.’

  ‘I’ve got just the car.’ He walked over to a large black car parked on the bright tiles in the middle of the showroom, Jayne following. It was the same as Sean Martin’s car, a hatchback, but bigger than the usual five-door. Jayne imagined it parked on the driveway of a modern estate, all red brick and shiny double glazing, rather than bouncing along a farm track. ‘These are very popular.’ He opened the door. ‘Get in, see how it fits.’

  Jayne clambered in, the salesman leaning on the roof, looking in. His cologne was too strong.

  ‘What do you think?’

  For a moment, Jayne got a snapshot of the lives other people led, where they could look for new cars and think about buying them and where life wasn’t a daily struggle to pay the bills.

  ‘I like it,’ she said, and ran her hands round the leather steering wheel, cool under her fingers.

  ‘If you like it, this could be yours. We can always find a way to make you afford it. Or rather, Daddy.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about Daddy. And I know someone who’s got one. He’s just bought it, and says he likes it. That’s why I came, but I didn’t know the model name, just how it looked. It’s so different from what he had before.’

  ‘These are big sellers.’

  ‘Sean Martin, he’s the guy. You might have sold it to him?’

  The salesman frowned. ‘The one who went to prison for killing his stepdaughter?’

  ‘That’s him, although he didn’t do it. We all know that now. I wouldn’t be friends with him if he had.’

  ‘I didn’t sell him the car. It was my boss, I think.’

  ‘He thought the same as me, though, that what he said he liked about it was the contrast with his old car. I just can’t remember what he had before. Weird that, how you forget something you’ve seen so many times.’

  The salesman stepped back. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sean Martin went through the manager because he wanted privacy, because of his public profile. Me, I don’t care about stuff like that – he’s buying a car, that’s all – but it was a big deal to him and the customer is always right. Now you turn up, and within a
couple of minutes you’re trying to find out what car he used to drive, when you’d know that if you were his friend, because you’d just ask him.’

  Jayne sighed. ‘Okay, I’m not buying a car, but this is the chance for you to help out your manager. I’m a private investigator and I’m working on a murder case.’ She dug out a business card from her jacket and handed it over.

  He glanced at it before making as if to put it in his shirt pocket. ‘No, you don’t,’ she said, and snatched it back from him. ‘I don’t make enough money to give those away. The car he was driving earlier this year might be crucial. I need the make, model and colour, that’s all, and you either tell me or I get a witness summons to make your manager turn up at court and hand over the information. He can do it from the witness box and lose a whole day when he could be selling cars, or you could get it now and I’ll be gone.’

  He looked around the showroom, his arm still on the roof. ‘Wait here.’

  The salesman walked over to an office visible through a window. Jayne stepped out of the car as a door opened and an older man, sandy-haired and with his stomach hanging over his belt, a keychain dangling from it, headed towards her. When he got close, he said, ‘Tell me again what you want.’ He planted his feet apart and folded his arms, pushing his stomach out even more.

  ‘I’m guessing you know, if you’re adopting that tone. What car did Sean Martin trade in for his brand-new Hyundai?’

  ‘We don’t give out customer information to someone who just wanders in like you did, waving around a reusable business card.’

  ‘You’re wasting your own time, because the court will make you hand it over. As I’m going to get it anyway, you might as well tell me.’

  The manager pursed his lips. ‘If you could get it through official means, you’d have written to us or sorted out the court summons already. Instead, you come here, all tits and teeth, trying to flirt your way to it. You’ll have to do better than that. Now leave.’

  ‘And that’s your last word?’

  He pointed towards her car. ‘Go.’

  She shrugged and said, ‘Fine,’ and turned to go. She tried to look nonchalant as she made her way back across the car park, but she was angry. It hadn’t gone as she’d hoped and all she’d done was to make her intentions obvious.

  As she got back into her car, she saw that all the salesmen were standing by the windows in the same pose, feet apart, arms folded, glaring at her. Her phone buzzed.

  She pulled her phone from her pocket. A message from Dan.

  The message was simple. Man watching Box trial watching me. I need to know who he is. Don’t let on or speak to me but who is he?

  She started her engine. Her plans for the day had just changed. She smiled. She was starting to feel alive again.

  * * *

  Trudy Martin was in her garden when the phone rang.

  The morning had been quiet. The first good spring burst of grass had arrived, so she’d mowed the lawn and was tending to the flowerbeds. The cherry tree was starting to show its pink blossoms, just a few weeks until when they’d be scattered all over the garden by one of the cruel breezes that drove across the hillside.

  Sean wasn’t answering it, so she put down her small garden fork and went inside, taking off her gardening gloves as she walked towards the phone.

  It was the showroom that had sold Sean his new car.

  She put her hand over the mouthpiece and shouted, ‘Sean?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘The phone.’

  There was a short delay and then there was the steady clump of his footsteps as he came down the stairs.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘The car showroom.’

  She passed him the phone and went to go back outside, picking up her gardening gloves.

  He held up his hand, making her stop.

  She put her gloves back down and waited.

  He thanked whoever had called and put the phone down. He took a deep breath.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Someone’s been asking about me, wanted to know what car I was driving before I bought the new one.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A young woman. Jayne Brett was her name. One of the salesmen remembered it from her card.’

  ‘Why did she want to know what car you’d been driving?’

  ‘It’s to do with a court case this week. A murder case.’

  ‘What did the showroom say?’

  ‘They told her to go away.’

  She put her gloves on and went back outside, sliding the door closed and letting the hush of the outdoors take over. The tranquillity was gone. She stabbed the ground with the fork, leaning down to yank out the weeds, her jaw set.

  The door opened behind her, followed by the soft clumps on the lawn as Sean made his way over. She didn’t look round.

  ‘It’ll be okay,’ he said.

  ‘How do you know? Dan Grant was here yesterday, and this woman today asking about you. Why? And what was all that bullshit from Dan about Pat Molloy?’

  ‘The man at the showroom said that he could be summoned by the court to say what car I was driving before my new one.’

  Trudy stabbed her fork into the ground. ‘Why, though? I don’t get it. Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  ‘You trust me, don’t you?’ He was behind her, and there was a tremble of anger in his voice.

  ‘Of course I do. I just worry about you. About us. The rumours never stop. We’ll never get away from this.’

  He took her hand. ‘No one will split us up again, I promise.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  He stepped closer. ‘Because I won’t let them.’

  He went back into the house as she dug at the soil again. Eventually, she threw her gloves and fork down and followed Sean into the house, although she didn’t speak to him. Instead, she headed for a shower, to wash away the garden grime.

  Once inside the bathroom, she closed her eyes and put her head back against the door. She wanted it all to end, but still people kept on digging. Why can’t they leave him alone? The court cleared him. That should be enough.

  Don’t make him angry. Don’t let them get too close. She swallowed back tears as she thought of his anger. She couldn’t stand that.

  Seventeen

  The prosecutor rose to begin her opening address to the jury.

  The atmosphere in the courtroom was tense. Lizzie’s friends and family filled one side of the public gallery. Liam, the boyfriend, was sitting further along, apart from them. That space said what everyone thought, that he’d caused it, that if he hadn’t been such a petty and jealous thug she wouldn’t have run off into the night, towards her death. Liam didn’t see it that way, his glare alternating between Dan and Peter Box.

  Dan looked away. He expected that. Instead, he tried to focus on what lay ahead, the words of the judge stamped hard onto his memory. He couldn’t mess this up. The judge had warned him that he was being watched, ready to report him if he turned out to be not good enough.

  As Francesca turned to the jurors, Dan closed his eyes for a moment, just to get some focus. He tried to shut out the atmosphere and tension in the courtroom, so that all he heard were the soft creaks of the carpet under Francesca’s feet along with the occasional rustle of clothes as people settled down in the public gallery. Concentrate on the evidence. Let the facts speak for themselves.

  He opened his eyes and turned to look back towards the dock. Peter Box was sitting up, rigid in his posture, staring at the prosecutor, his head cocked to listen to what was about to be said.

  Francesca held out her papers, but they were more of a prop than an aide. Her speech would come from years of experience. Like Dan, Francesca used a laptop in court, all the police statements and exhibits on it, but would use a paper bundle when on her feet. Holding out a witness statement was more dramatic than scrolling with a mouse.

  ‘Members of the jury,’ she said. Her tone was slow and rich. The jurors craned
forward. ‘I’m going to take you back to just after midnight, the early hours of New Year’s Day in the town of Highford. Once the fireworks had died down, Elizabeth Barnsley was assaulted by her boyfriend in the car park of a local pub. She was Lizzie to her friends, and over the course of the next few days, you’ll hear details about her life. Some of it happy, some of it not so. You’ll hear details about her death too. Violent and brutal and senseless.’

  Murmurs from the gallery accompanied her words.

  The judge looked up from the notes he was making and leaned forward. ‘A reminder to the members of the public in the gallery that you are here because you have an interest in this case and because it is your right. It is not unqualified, however, because the bargain you make with the court is that you remain quiet and do not disturb the proceedings.’

  He let his words linger for a few seconds before he nodded at the prosecutor to continue.

  Francesca turned back to the jurors.

  Dan stared at his notepad as she spoke. He knew what Francesca was going to say because the opening address had been sent to him two weeks earlier, part of the pre-trial protocol.

  Francesca moved on. ‘Unbeknownst to Lizzie, in her desire to escape the violence of one man, her search for a place of supposed safety led her into the path of another violent man: Peter Box, hiding in the darkness. Her friends sought to stop her from being followed, but it meant that she was alone, and it was in that solitude that Peter Box attacked her. He fought with her and forced her into the water on that freezing night.’

  One of the jurors swallowed and the look of intrigue had been replaced by something much darker: sorrow for the ending of a young life, anger directed at the man sitting in the dock, and fear at what they were about to be confronted with.

  ‘Members of the jury, Peter Box held her under the water until she drowned.’

  Francesca looked each juror in the eye to let that fact sink in before continuing.