by Tony Kent
Michael slipped his jacket back on and moved to the back of the visiting crowd. Ross joined him within a minute, having suffered the same indignity. They waited in silence while Michael let his mind drift back to that first visit.
Seventeen years ago.
Back then he had been surprised to endure the strict security he had faced. Almost two decades later and the only surprise was how little things really change.
SIX
Simon Kash made an uncomfortable chair look downright painful. He looked younger than his twenty-one years. Much younger. His grey prison-issue tracksuit did not help. It swamped Kash’s small frame as he fidgeted in his seat.
Michael’s eyes swept up and down as he surveyed the figure in front of him. What there was of it, anyway. Kash was accused of a crime of extreme violence – double murder. Already it seemed unlikely, and not just because of Kash’s size.
True, the skinny boy did not look strong enough to overpower a teenage girl, let alone two brothers with violent reputations. But that impression alone meant nothing. Michael had encountered men half his own size who somehow possessed twice his strength. No. It was everything else about Kash that gave Michael pause. His nervous manner. His haunted expression. Michael just could not reconcile this frightened child with the animal who had massacred the Galloway twins.
‘Tell me about Darren O’Driscoll, Simon.’
Kash seemed to shrink at the mention of the name. Michael had expected no less. Darren O’Driscoll was Kash’s co-defendant and yet in the thirty minutes they had been in the small, dirty room in HMP Wandsworth’s legal visits block, Kash had neither mentioned O’Driscoll’s name nor alluded to the man’s involvement in the case.
And Michael thought he knew why.
Together, Kash and O’Driscoll were accused of hunting down and killing two brothers in South East London. In their thirties and strong from a working life of manual labour, the Galloway twins were not among life’s obvious victims. Yet they were now dead. Murdered – according to the prosecution – for the grave crime of disrespecting Darren O’Driscoll’s uncle on a construction site in the City.
The motive behind their death was not surprising. Michael had seen many killed for much less. But how they had died? That was another story entirely.
London can be a violent city and Michael had been involved in his fair share of criminal trials arising from that violence. There was little he had not seen. Yet even he was shocked by the attack upon the Galloway twins.
The jury would never see the autopsy pictures.
They should be thankful for that small mercy, Michael thought.
The details would have haunted them. The sight of Martin Galloway alone – his body beaten so badly that every bone in his torso was either fractured or crushed entirely; his hands removed; his knees shattered; his skull caved in from one side – was horrifying. The injuries inflicted on his brother Mark Galloway were worse still.
According to the prosecution it was Mark Galloway who had ‘disrespected’ Darren O’Driscoll’s uncle. If true, the man had more than paid for his ‘crime’. Suffering the same treatment as his brother, the second Galloway had received much more attention after death. The machetes that had been used on both men had focused on Mark Galloway once the twins had breathed their last. His head, arms and legs were all removed, before his broken body was torn apart through sheer ferocity.
It brought to mind nothing less than a medieval execution. An execution that Michael’s mind refused to connect with the nervous, unusual young man ahead of him.
‘Tell me about him, Simon. Tell me about Darren.’
‘What do you want to know?’ Kash did not look up as he spoke. The words were mumbled into his chest.
‘Everything,’ Michael replied. ‘But for now, do you think he was capable of what happened to the Galloways?’
‘Nothing to do with Darren.’
Kash’s answer was quiet. Inaudible, almost. And as short as he could make it. It was a pattern that had developed over the past thirty minutes.
‘I didn’t ask if he did it. I asked if he was capable of it. If he can be this violent.’
No answer. No eye contact. Kash’s gaze did not leave the floor.
Michael pushed his seat back and exhaled heavily. He lifted his hands to his head and ran his fingers through his thick blonde hair.
The sound of Michael’s chair scraping the floor as it moved backwards made Kash jump. It did not make him speak.
‘Look around you, Simon.’ Michael gestured around the room as he tried again.
A small, rickety table and three plastic chairs filled it to capacity. It was hot and dirty. The walls were covered in laminated rules that governed a prisoner’s life.
‘This is your future, son. If you’re not careful you’re going to be stuck in rooms like this for the next twenty-five years. At least. This isn’t a game, Simon. You either help us on this – help us to help you – or you’ll be in here until you’re fifty.’
Kash looked up, his eyes following Michael’s gesture. It took a few moments for the words to sink in.
‘I didn’t do it.’ The words were soft when Kash finally spoke. Like a schoolboy disputing a punishment. ‘I shouldn’t be here.’
‘We know that, Simon.’ Andrew Ross cut in. His voice was more sympathetic than Michael’s. ‘That’s why we’re here. That’s why Mr Devlin’s here—’
‘But we can’t do it without you,’ Michael interrupted. He needed Kash to understand. ‘We can’t just make this stuff up. We need you to be honest with us. If you give us the weapons then we’ll go to war for you. But if you hide things from us – if you keep quiet to protect Darren O’Driscoll – then we’re fighting a losing battle.’
‘And if we lose, it’s you that pays the price.’ Ross took up the charge. He no longer sounded sympathetic as he followed Michael’s lead. ‘Us? We both go home. We’ll be disappointed, but we’ll move on. But you get a life sentence. Twenty-five years inside. Maybe longer. And certainly longer than you’ve been alive already.’
Kash did not respond. He just sank further into his seat, seeming to grow even smaller still as Ross’s words settled.
If Kash had been too afraid of Darren O’Driscoll to help himself – and Michael was sure that he had been – then that fear should no longer be his number-one concern.
SEVEN
It was midday as Michael walked down the prison steps, Ross still at his side. The sun had come out in force while they had been inside. It was hot for noon. A few more hours and the tarmac beneath their feet would be melting.
Michael removed his suit jacket and loosened his tie as they passed the building’s boundaries and stepped into the street.
‘Where are you parked?’
Michael watched as Ross fingered a car key.
‘In the garden centre,’ Ross replied, indicating to the left.
Michael’s route would take him right. Towards Earlsfield train station. Which meant that any further conversation needed to happen here.
‘So what’s your take on this?’ Ross asked.
‘The boy’s a mess.’
Michael leaned back against an uneven brick wall as he spoke. The past two hours had been exhausting. Sometimes a client saying nothing is harder than a client who won’t shut up.
‘He knows what happened. And he knows who did it. He’s just too scared to tell.’
‘You think it’s Darren O’Driscoll he’s afraid of?’ Ross asked.
‘Without a doubt.’
Michael had formed a case theory after reading the evidence. His morning with Kash had done nothing to change it. What it had done was strengthen his determination to protect the boy from himself.
‘Darren O’Driscoll killed the Galloways,’ Michael offered. ‘Him and whoever else; I don’t believe he could have done it alone. But I don’t buy that Simon was part of it. Not hands-on, anyway. Not in the role Colliver gives him.’
Terry Colliver was the prosecution’s m
ain witness, and certainly Simon Kash’s biggest problem.
‘So you believe him?’ Ross sounded pleased. ‘Simon, I mean. You think he might actually be innocent?’
Michael did not answer immediately. Instead he took a few seconds to compose his thoughts. It was important to get this right.
‘Derek thought so,’ Michael finally replied. ‘He spent a lot of time with the boy and he’s a better judge of character than I’ll ever be. I’ll go with his gut.’
Derek Reid had been Kash’s barrister until two days earlier. That had changed when the trial judge ruled the case was suitable for a QC. Reid had never reached that status, and so the case had been taken from him and given to Michael. None of which would be unusual were it were not for the fact that Reid was Michael’s close friend, his former pupil-master and the man Michael consistently rated as the most talented advocate he had ever seen.
It was another reason Michael felt uncomfortable – and a little guilty – about his premature promotion. The fact that he was now deemed – wrongly, Michael felt – a safer bet than Derek Reid.
He wondered if Ross perhaps shared the same view.
‘About Derek,’ Ross began. ‘You know I didn’t want to lose him, right? It wasn’t my call.’
‘I know.’ Michael needed no explanation. ‘But Simon would’ve been better off if it had been. Your call, I mean.’
‘He has you now, Michael.’
‘He would still have been better served. There’s no one better than Derek.’
‘Not even you?’
‘Not even me. Especially when I have less than a week to get myself ready for trial.’
A clanking mechanical sound interrupted Ross as he opened his mouth to respond. Both he and Michael turned to face its source.
The prison’s automated metal gate was slowly opening. It was the one route in and out of the complex that did not sit at the top of a staircase. As it slid aside, the sound of aggressive rap music filled the air.
For a moment Michael thought it was coming from inside the gate. He quickly realised his mistake as he spotted the source of the harsh lyrics.
A black BMW M760Li sat barely thirty feet away, parked against the kerb in a long line of cars. Until now its tinted windows had hidden its occupants and suppressed the beat of its stereo system. But now its doors had opened.
Three young black men in their early twenties – if not younger – stepped out.
‘Seriously? They’re in a hundred-thousand-pound car? Outside of a bloody prison?’ Ross did not keep the disbelief from his voice. ‘They turn up here of all places, in that thing, blaring out music about guns and gangs. And then they wonder how the police find them?’
‘You know them?’
‘Not those three. But plenty like them.’ Ross indicated the car with a nod of his head. ‘I remember when villains had to be smart to earn that kind of cash.’
‘Maybe someone else is smart.’ Michael gestured towards the prison gate as he spoke. Subtly, so only Ross could notice.
The gate was now fully open. Large enough for a prison van to pass through. The width and height were unnecessary. A lone figure stepped out as the gate began to close. He was older than the BMW’s occupants by a generation. Tall with broad shoulders, he carried the few belongings he must have accumulated in prison in one hand, inside a transparent plastic sack.
One of the BMW men approached and was handed the sack without a word of greeting. A clear indication of rank. The man ignored the car’s other occupants, too, as he climbed into the front passenger’s seat and closed the door. The music that had filled the quiet street stopped an instant later.
The newly released prisoner had asserted his unquestioned authority.
‘Christ,’ muttered Ross.
They watched the original three men climb into the car. The air of menace that had surrounded them minutes before had been utterly dispelled. Replaced by complete subservience.
‘Have you ever seen anything like that?’ asked Ross.
‘A few times.’
Michael’s answer was half to himself. Ross had no idea how intimately Michael understood such criminal hierarchies. What they had just witnessed had been the reality of his childhood and it brought back unwelcome memories of his father. And of his brother.
‘I’d best be getting back to chambers,’ Michael announced abruptly as he tried to force the memories down. ‘There’s a lot to do to be ready for trial.’
‘Understood. Anything you need from us, I’m on the end of the phone.’
The sound of the BMW’s engine interrupted Ross’s reply. It roared as the car sped south from its parking space. The 20 mph speed limit was broken in barely a second.
‘I’ll probably call tomorrow, I expect.’ Michael spoke again once the sound of the engine had faded. ‘First I need to read the rest of the evidence and see exactly where we are.’
‘I’ll be waiting, then.’
‘Good to know.’ Michael reached out his large hand, grasped Ross’s own and shook it firmly. ‘Speak soon.’
Their observer had never believed in fate. In any guiding force other than his own will. His own determination. That certainty had never been shaken, and it was not shaken now, as his pale eyes took in the unexpected sight of Michael Devlin.
It could be no one else. Devlin was as distinctive now as he had been then. Maybe more so. Older, certainly, with a few extra pounds on his frame. A few more lines on his face. The difference between a man and a boy. But he had kept both his thick blonde hair and his slim, strong build.
He had always wondered if he would see Michael Devlin again. Now he had. But would Michael Devlin ever see him? That was the question.
He had not yet decided. But whatever the answer, Devlin was not his concern today and no unexpected appearance outside of Wandsworth Prison would change that. There were other priorities. Other people much more deserving of his attention.
There was no fate. Only coincidence. He would follow his own path. And today that path led elsewhere.
EIGHT
Sarah Truman felt the first trickle of sweat as it passed the base of her neck.
June in London. It should not be this hot. The city traded in the mild. A little snow in winter. Rain when it was least wanted. Sunshine so weak that the English had invented warm beer instead of cold lager.
The lack of extremes had been a selling point for Sarah. Too many Boston winters made the predictability of the British weather attractive.
But for the past three weeks the climate had been off-message. Day after day of cold mornings leading to extreme dry heat. Today offered no reprieve. It was barely noon and so the heat would only increase as the hours passed.
Sarah looked back longingly at the outside broadcast van in which she had travelled. Remembered fondly the feel of its air conditioning.
It had been less than five minutes.
‘How long do you think?’
Sarah turned to face the questioner. Nathan Benson. One of the network’s new breed of cameramen. Technological whizz-kids without a lick of experience or a jot of common sense. Sarah missed the old guard. One in particular. She felt the familiar pang of sadness that hit her whenever she thought of Dan Maguire. He had been killed in an explosion less than two years ago. Just before Sarah had started running for her life. Just as she had met Michael.
‘How long for what?’ she asked, shaking off the distracting thought.
‘How long will we be here? There’s nothing happening.’
‘It’ll take as long as it takes,’ Sarah replied. Advice she had been given years ago, by a cameraman Benson could never hope to be. ‘We’ll wait until they’re ready to tell us something.’
Benson nodded. Sarah’s tone was clear: no follow-up questions were welcome. Instead he concentrated on his state-of-the-art equipment. Digital adjustments that would mean nothing to anyone outside of his industry.
Sarah watched for a few seconds, bemused, but Benson’s camera could only hold h
er attention for so long. Quickly bored by his tinkering, she walked back towards their van. It was parked on the nearest kerb. Five others – identical but for the network logos – were parked close by.
Sarah passed them all. Across the street. Far enough now, she turned and looked back at the scene she had left behind.
The house itself was impressive. Big, even for the location. Sarah would expect perhaps six bedrooms, none of them small. The driveway was visible from the road, behind automated iron gates. A large space, block-paved across. An intricate jigsaw that had no doubt taken patience and back-pain to complete. Everything about the property said ‘Family Home’.
Sarah knew that it was no such thing. Not any more.
Wiping a sheen of sweat from her brow, Sarah looked around. The neighbouring houses seemed quiet. Not a single face at a single window. Not that Sarah expected anything else. When Scotland Yard’s Major Investigation Team come to a community like this, no one’s head comes above the parapet. Friends become acquaintances, acquaintances become strangers. With MIT around, the best neighbours would rather be left alone.
The heat was rising. Sarah could feel it. She crossed the street once again, this time heading straight for a small huddle of three reporters, one man and two women. From the visible effects of the heat, all three had been here a while.
‘Miss Truman.’ The male reporter greeted her. He was perhaps the same age as Sarah. Certainly not yet thirty. But like the others, he was on a much lower rung of the career ladder. ‘We don’t usually see you at this sort of thing.’
‘What can I say? I thought I’d catch some sun.’ Sarah smiled as she spoke. Hoped friendliness would disguise the fact that she knew none of their names. ‘Has anyone heard anything from inside?’
‘Only what Joanne overheard.’ The CNN reporter. A tall, pretty American. Maybe twenty-two years old. Everything Sarah had been back when she was a CNN cub, only this one must have started even younger. ‘Is that why they sent you?’