The Darkness Around Her

by The Darkness Around Her (retail) (epub)

  ‘The prosecution has to prove the case against Peter Box beyond any reasonable doubt, so that you are sure of his guilt.’ Her voice softened. ‘It is a high burden, and in this case the evidence is circumstantial.’ She smiled. ‘Do not be fooled by that word. No one saw Peter Box murder Lizzie Barnsley. Instead, you will look to the circumstances of the case and you will be drawn to one unavoidable conclusion: that Peter Box murdered Lizzie Barnsley. You will hear from witnesses who watched her break away from her violent boyfriend. You will hear how no one from that public house followed her, and how her boyfriend was prevented from going after her. You’ll hear from forensic specialists who will explain how she was assaulted and held under water, from the marks on her neck and body, and then on her legs and feet as she struggled against the canal bank. And most importantly of all, you’ll hear from the Crime Scene Investigator who discovered Lizzie’s shoe with blood on its stiletto heel, and from the nurse who tended to a wound on Peter Box’s head. The blood on her shoe, members of the jury, belonged to Peter Box.’

  Francesca softened her tone even more, so that the jurors leaned forward, drawn in by her address. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Peter Box murdered Lizzie Barnsley. When you’ve heard all the evidence, you will be sure that this is the truth. The only truth. Nothing but the truth.’

  As she moved on to calling the first witness – one of the men who’d been drinking at the Wharf pub that night – Dan made a tick on his notepad. It had been a strong opening statement. Not so detailed that the jury would spot her case going wrong if a witness didn’t give evidence as well as she hoped, but with enough detail to let them know what the case was about.

  Dan looked back to the public gallery, gazing beyond Peter towards the seats along the back row, to the man who’d been watching him outside the court that morning. Whoever the stranger was, he wasn’t concentrating on Francesca. Instead, he was staring at Dan and then back at Peter, his brow furrowed, his finger tapping his lip.

  Dan picked up his phone, which he’d secreted under some papers. As everyone waited for the usher to come back from the witness room with the first witness, Dan scrolled through his messages. No response yet from Jayne.

  He checked quickly that the judge wasn’t watching him and then sent another message before he put his phone back under his papers.

  He sat back as the usher returned with the witness. All he could do was put aside whatever thoughts he had about the danger sitting in the gallery. He had a murder case to deal with and his focus had to be on that.

  As the witness stepped into the box, he lifted his papers to check again for the small flashing light that would tell him he had a message. There was none.

  He was frowning as the witness took the oath.

  Eighteen

  Trudy was outside Pat Molloy’s office, pacing, trying to work out what to say. Her reflection in the window didn’t reveal her anger. She looked the same as ever. Dark hair, her eyes softened by round glasses, a scarf around her neck. Inside, however, she was furious at the sudden flurry of interest in Sean. Her fortunes were too wrapped up in his, and if there was trouble coming her way, she wanted to know what it was.

  As she walked in, the crisp spring air was replaced by smothering warmth, spewed out by the central heating. The receptionist looked up and gave her a quick appraisal in the process.

  ‘Is Pat Molloy in? I’m Trudy Martin, Sean Martin’s wife.’

  The receptionist looked surprised. ‘Yes, of course. Please wait there,’ she said, and made a quick call to Pat as Trudy looked out of the window, not sitting down.

  ‘How is Sean?’ When Trudy turned back to her, she said, ‘I’m Margaret. I was here during Sean’s trial, and I remember the party when they released him, but I don’t think we met then.’

  ‘Sean is fine, thank you. I came along afterwards really. We knew each other years ago, and when I contacted him to congratulate him, well, things rekindled.’

  Before Margaret could reply, a door burst open and Pat Molloy was standing there. ‘My dear Trudy. I’ve heard all about you.’ The bounce in his voice didn’t match the grey in his skin and the bones in his shoulders, visible through his shirt. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I need to ask you some questions. It won’t take a minute. It’s to do with Sean.’

  ‘Of course, come through.’

  Trudy followed him through a room used for interviewing clients and into a grotty office behind, the Venetian blinds pulled down and a desk piled high with files. Her nose twitched from the dust. As Pat opened the blinds, it swirled in the light.

  She took off her scarf and coat, her blouse unbuttoned far enough to keep Pat interested. Sean had told her before that he had a reputation for being a flirt.

  ‘Take a seat,’ he said, and moved some legal textbooks from a chair. ‘I don’t normally see clients in here but, well, you’re different.’

  ‘I’m not a client, for a start.’

  ‘Well, yes, absolutely, and I hope it stays that way.’ His weak smile was broken by a cough.

  ‘You don’t look well, Mr Molloy.’

  ‘Just getting old. But you didn’t come here to ask about my health.’

  ‘No, that’s true. It’s about Mr Grant. He’s your employee, right, not a partner?’

  ‘Dan? He’s been with me since he started. He’s a good man. He helped with Sean’s case.’ He steepled his fingers under his nose and his gaze grew sharper. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘He came to see Sean yesterday, and today an investigator has been asking questions about Sean. Jayne Brett? Does she work for you?’

  Pat waved his hand. ‘Oh, I might be his boss, but I leave it to Dan who he uses for investigations. I trust him.’

  ‘But you can see how it would bother me, right?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Dan was at our house yesterday, and this morning Jayne Brett went to the showroom where Sean bought his car, asking questions about it. I don’t understand why she’d do that, but she said the questions are connected to a murder case. Is it Sean’s case? Why is she interested in Sean’s case?’

  Pat’s eyes narrowed. ‘Dan has a murder case starting this week. It might be connected with that. Someone called Peter Box.’

  Trudy blinked and sat back. ‘But I don’t understand why. Peter Box has no connection with me, or Sean.’ She tilted her head. ‘Has Peter Box said his case is connected to Sean?’

  ‘Why would he?’

  ‘I don’t know, but Dan and this Jayne are digging around Sean, and I want to know why.’

  Pat leaned forward, hands gripping the arms on his chair. His eyes grew hard and he spoke in a tone that belied his frail appearance. ‘Dan is a damn good lawyer and whatever he does, it’s because it’s the right thing to do. I wish I could say the same about my career, but I can live with my mistakes. Can Sean?’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean?’

  ‘Ask him.’

  ‘I don’t need to ask him. Sean was cleared.’

  ‘Because of an expert I found.’

  ‘And he’s done so much good since then. You helped to make his life matter. There’ll be talk of honours soon; especially now he’s got his book out. He’s campaigned, helped people escape injustice.’

  ‘So have I, all of my career, but I can’t think of many people who I thought were completely innocent.’

  Trudy pursed her lips. ‘What are you trying to say?’

  Pat coughed, his hand going to his mouth, his cheeks turning red once more. ‘Just ask him.’

  Trudy stood up and grabbed her coat and scarf.

  ‘You be careful what you do, Mr Molloy,’ she said, her cheeks flushed with anger. ‘Sean is innocent.’

  ‘What could I possibly do? Reveal his secrets?’

  ‘I thought a client’s secrets died with you.’

  ‘They do, but then again, they can’t touch me when I’m gone.’

  Trudy slammed the door behind her.

&n
bsp; She didn’t speak to Margaret on the way out. She marched out on to the street, her jaw clenched, tears in her eyes, but they were tears of rage, not distress.

  As the cold air hit her, she stopped. She closed her eyes and tried to regain her poise. Anger was destructive, she knew that. She had to stay calm and work out what to do.

  As she opened her eyes, she looked back towards the office. Pat Molloy was watching her.

  Nineteen

  Jayne was sitting on a bench near the war memorial when the court broke for lunch. It gave her a good view of the entrance.

  She’d decided not to sit in the courtroom, because whoever she was supposed to be following would recognise her if she had to go after them. Despite what the movies showed, public galleries in courts were mostly empty. Murder cases brought more of a crowd, bereaved relatives and their supporters, but even in those cases the seats were rarely full.

  There was a street market in full flow just down the road, and for a few moments she’d been enjoying the bustle of the city, so different from Highford where the town centre was just a tunnel for the wild Pennine winds and everyone looked pinched and red-faced. It told her that her feelings were right, that Highford had served its purpose and it was time to leave. Her life had held more promise when she was a young psychology student, before Jimmy took away her confidence and she took away his life.

  She was wearing a baseball cap, with her long hair pulled into a ponytail and hidden underneath. There was enough sunshine to justify sunglasses and it was warm enough that she could wear a white T-shirt without feeling cold. Her black jacket was in a small rucksack, so that she’d be able to instantly make herself look different if she thought she’d been spotted.

  Some people spilled out of the court building. A small group in tight shirts and gold jewellery dug into their pockets for cigarettes, but no one like the man described in Dan’s second message. He’s tall and scruffy, old, all in black, green baseball cap.

  Perhaps Dan had got it wrong and it was just some local obsessed with court cases? There were people like that, who saw court as local entertainment, and what could be better than a murder?

  She waited for another fifteen minutes, her phone in her hand, making it look as if she was checking for messages, but her eyes never left the front door.

  As she held her phone, the light started to flash. There was a notification on her Facebook account.

  It was an account she used purely for business. There were no pictures of her, just periodic announcements to keep her page in peoples’ timelines. It didn’t have many followers, but it was another way of spreading the word and for prospective clients to contact her. It was dormant most days, apart from people asking her what it was like to be a private investigator.

  Her page had a new like. She clicked on it, wondering whether it was more work, or perhaps one of her old conquests wanting to hook up again.

  When she saw who it was from, her hand trembled.

  She’d had this great plan at the car showroom, but she’d been clumsy and given herself away. And here it was, the proof.

  Her new like? Her new follower?

  Sean Martin.

  She cursed, angry with herself, but as she looked up from her phone, she saw her target. A man dressed all in black leaving the courthouse, scruffy and furtive as he looked up and down the street, his hands in his coat pocket. Dan was right, there was something shifty about him.

  He made swiftly for the street market. She pushed the thought of Sean Martin away and followed the man, hanging back, wary of being seen. He weaved through the stalls, past racks of cheap clothing and boxes of knock-off microwaves, not stopping to look. He seemed to know where he was headed.

  There was a small side street next to the market and he ducked into it. Jayne shot after him, worried that she’d lost him. Perhaps he’d seen her and run away.

  As she reached the alley, she looked along, breathless, but he was there, in a doorway, his phone in his hand, dialling a number. He paced as he waited for an answer. Jayne backed away towards a stall filled with second-hand books and DVDs and pretended to browse. Whoever he called must have answered, because he was talking quickly, his face animated.

  The stallholder came over and was about to start his patter when the man hung up and walked out of the alley. Jayne held up her hand in apology and followed again. He was walking quickly, straight back to the courthouse.

  As he rushed back inside, past the small group of smokers by the front door, Jayne pulled out her phone to message Dan.

  The man had left the building just to make a phone call, but he’d gone somewhere quiet, where he could be certain no one was listening.

  Dan was correct. Something wasn’t right.

  Twenty

  The afternoon passed with no real surprises from the witnesses for the prosecution. Just before four thirty, the judge rose from his seat and gave his final bow of the day, aped by the lawyers, the tension in the courtroom released as he shuffled through the small door and into the corridor behind. The jurors were released for the night, all sent home with a warning not to look at any news about the case or discuss it with anyone. Some would comply, acknowledging the solemnity of their oath, whereas others were bound to spend the evening messaging friends.

  Peter Box was taken to the cells below the court, waiting for his transfer into a secure van, then on to the prison just further along the ring road.

  As they gathered their papers and put away their laptops, Dan looked over to Francesca and rolled his eyes. ‘It’s going to be a long week.’

  ‘For you, perhaps. For me?’ She smiled. ‘It seems pretty straightforward. See you in the morning, Mr Grant.’

  She paused on her way out to exchange pleasantries with another prosecutor who was coming into the courtroom. It was Zoe Slater. Dan had come up against her many times and their scores were pretty even. She appeared in the Crown Court occasionally, but Zoe spent more time in the office, doing all the background work on cases, other lawyers doing the trial work. It had been Zoe’s name on all the correspondence related to the case.

  Zoe carried on into the well of the courtroom. ‘Hi, Dan, how’s your first solo murder case going?’

  ‘I might as well cut my teeth on a no-hoper. No one will be surprised if he’s convicted. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Just checking my case has got off the ground.’

  ‘Francesca is doing a good job.’

  ‘She always does. You could make it easier for yourself, though, and get him to plead guilty.’

  ‘How do you know I haven’t tried?’

  ‘What’s his defence?’

  ‘I’m making you prove it. I’m still allowed to do that.’

  ‘Is he going to give evidence?’

  ‘Perhaps. We’ll decide that when the time comes.’

  Zoe chuckled. ‘He’s going to need to come up with something good.’ Before Dan could say anything, she held up her hand. ‘I know all about the burden of proof, that any doubt goes in your favour, but do you really think a jury will let him walk out if they think there’s a good chance that he’s done it? No matter what direction they get from the judge, they’re human beings who will be scared about freeing a murderer.’ She folded her arms and leaned back against the desk. ‘Can I tell you about my experience though?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘I’ve been a prosecutor for fifteen years, and you know me well enough to realise that I don’t back away from tough decisions. And do you know what the toughest decisions of all are?’

  ‘I’m intrigued.’ Dan didn’t hide his sarcasm.

  ‘Those cases where I think the suspect has done it, but I can’t see that piece of evidence that will put him away. I have to look police officers in the eye and tell them that all their work has been in vain because, in my opinion, and that’s all it is, an opinion, we can’t prove it. And I watch someone who has committed a heinous act walk free, ready to do it again. It’s much easier to just go along with the
police and rubber stamp a charge, get them before the court and let the jury decide, but that isn’t how I do it.’

  ‘What’s your point, apart from fluffing yourself up?’

  ‘That this isn’t one of those cases. I have never prosecuted anyone I believed was innocent. That’s a luxury you don’t have, Dan, because you know most of your acquittals involve people who’ve done it but squirm through a gap in the evidence.’

  ‘Usually because you didn’t collect the evidence you needed. There’s no guilt trip coming my way, and now you’re getting twitchy, because this case hasn’t got any stronger since you started it, and yet here you are, waiting for the speech on the court steps.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean I think he didn’t do it,’ she said, irritation in her voice. ‘When I look at this case, at your client, I’ve no qualms about seeing him locked up for life. None at all.’

  Dan shrugged. ‘All you’ve got is his blood on a shoe. If there’s an explanation for that, he walks free, and you know it.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘Isn’t it? If the DNA evidence doesn’t get used, you’ve no case.’

  ‘And why shouldn’t it?’

  ‘The lab you used, Meladox, is dodgy. Two people went to prison for doctoring test results, prosecuted by your office. How will that look?’

  ‘That wasn’t about DNA and you know it. That was about alcohol and drug levels in blood.’

  ‘A dirty lab is a dirty lab. Once the jury hears that, they might start questioning what they hear.’

  Zoe pushed herself away from the desk. ‘I hope you can sleep well, because you know you’re blowing smoke, nothing more.’ She smiled without warmth. ‘Have fun, Dan.’

  ‘Has he ever been suspected of murder before?’

  Zoe stopped. ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘Like I said. You’ve got access to all the secret stuff. Has Peter Box ever been suspected of anything before?’

  ‘Tell me which case and I’ll look into it.’