He smiled but hesitated just for a moment to test whether he should load this onto her shoulders. He decided in a heartbeat that Lauren would likely be devastated if she ever learned he hadn’t relied on her. ‘We want to test a theory, but it needs to come from a different source than the police.’
‘Go on.’
‘Would you be prepared to suggest to the clerk you’re seeing that you’ve become aware of a prisoner about to be released who will likely cause a media frenzy?’
‘Is it true?’
‘No.’
‘Why would I lie?’
He didn’t wait for her to make the right connections, needing to throw her off the scent. ‘I just want to see if that news travels back through the administrative team.’
‘Oh, right. Do you have a suspect?’
‘There’s someone we’ve got eyes on. Nothing concrete, though. But I wondered if I could take the opportunity of seeding an idea through one of the clerks. They are in touch with all the admin team but also the security services, doormen, front reception staff.’ He deliberately made it sound as though they were the real target.
‘Okay. What do you want me to say?’
He hated to lie, but Anne’s idea to set a trap was still large in his mind. ‘That a child predator and paedophile called John Murphy might be coming up for parole, having served nine years of a fourteen-year sentence. He’s agreed to wearing a cuff for the rest of his life, among other invasive requirements.’
‘John Murphy?’
He nodded. ‘He was sentenced by Judge Leland at North London Crown Court.’
‘Okay.’
‘One more thing.’ This was it; he felt a momentary rush of bile that he might be placing Lauren in danger, but he was sure they could protect her. He also needed to share a nagging notion. ‘Can you reveal to him you’ve heard through your sources that potentially there may be a woman accomplice involved.’
‘What?’
‘Lauren, just seed it into the conversation.’
‘But—’
‘I promise I’ll explain tonight. Watch for his reaction and we’ll watch for how it germinates and spreads.’
‘I will want the full story tonight.’
‘I’ll pick you up at six. Unless the day unravels spectacularly,’ he qualified, suspecting it might. ‘It might have to be a casual dinner somewhere as I may be working again tonight.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘Lauren, thanks for this. Remember, not too much detail – just throw it in, keep it vague . . . you already know how to do that.’
Lauren was seated opposite the genial clerk of the court for Courtroom Seven, discussing what she knew over a bacon sandwich with plenty of tomato ketchup. It was an indulgence she rarely allowed herself, but Brian Jarvis had made it sound like a sin to deny herself the treat. Besides, he had insisted on paying, given he’d kept her waiting.
‘I have to agree, I’ve never tasted better,’ she admitted, easing a dab of ketchup from the corner of her mouth. ‘Mmm, really delicious.’
‘And you’ll still fit your jeans.’ He grinned.
‘How do you know how a woman’s mind works, Mr Jarvis?’
‘Wife and daughter . . . and twin granddaughters,’ he said, eyes sparkling behind large glasses.
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘I’m betting they all keep you busy.’
He chuckled and sighed. ‘Now, Ms Starling – such a lovely name – or may I call you Lauren?’
‘You may, of course. Thank you for taking the time.’
‘A pleasure. It happens a lot that cases are delayed, pushed back, wrong documents, incomplete documents, juror ill, prisoner problems . . . there’s an endless array of pressures on the court’s time.’
‘And today?’
‘Today is incorrect paperwork.’ He grinned again. ‘But it means I now get a few minutes to share with your good self. It’s not great coffee, I’m afraid, but tell me how I can help a journalist?’ She gave him a smile that came easily from years of being noticed for her looks and she suspected he knew it. She was convinced the smile he was giving her was practised too. ‘I should add,’ he said, as she took a breath to explain, ‘that we’re already doing all we can to help the police with this case. You said this was an exclusive feature?’
She nodded and explained to him how circumstances had given her this opportunity. ‘And so with Detective Superintendent Hawksworth’s blessing, I have the chance to do this right and present a balanced, informative, well-researched feature piece.’
‘My, my . . . that’s a big leap for you and how thrilling. I certainly know Britain’s Voice. I think it’s very well read here by the legal community. Good for you. I’ve actually been consulting with Jack Hawksworth’s team too.’
‘Is that right?’ she said, playing ignorant.
‘Mmm, yes. In fact, I had one of his team at my house yesterday collecting my thoughts on some mugshots.’
‘There’s no suspect yet, as I understand it?’ They both knew she was fishing. She shrugged. ‘Sorry, I have to try, and I doubt they’ll mind me knowing, given the access I now have.’
‘No, I don’t believe there is a firm suspect.’
‘So you were in the incident room? Gosh, I wish they’d let me in,’ Lauren said, hoping her admission might play to his vanity and give her more. ‘What’s your role?’
‘Oh, just identifying the regular patrons of the public galleries in our courts. I was helping with CCTV.’
Lauren nodded. ‘Smart. Anything?’
‘They’re looking closely at a couple of lads who have a thing for courtroom seven but, if I’m honest, Ms Starling, they really don’t strike me as killers. More that they’re fixated.’ He chuckled. ‘Still, I like Detective Superintendent Hawksworth’s attitude to leave no stone unturned.’
‘He always gets his guy, I gather,’ she baited him.
‘Is that so? No disappointing cold cases for Hawksworth?’
‘Not as I understand it . . . certainly not on the big cases he’s worked. One of his notorious ops was to track a serial murderer who turned out to be a woman. They were friends, even lived in the same apartment block.’
‘Truly?’
She nodded. ‘Right now she’s doing her time at Holloway.’
‘Ah,’ he said, smiling to himself as if understanding something.
‘Is that intriguing?’ she asked, wondering why it sounded like a dawning to him.
‘No, I’ve just never participated in a murder trial where it was a woman perpetrator. I wonder if that changes anything for all the participants?’
‘If you mean judge or jury, I should hope not,’ Lauren said.
‘I agree but it’s a fascinating thought.’
‘Anne McEvoy – you must know the case.’
‘McEvoy, of course.’ Again he smiled, but to himself, she noted. ‘Notorious, as you say. But perhaps I’m jaded – I have been involved in several murder trials in my time.’
‘Which is why I’d like to talk to you, Mr Jarvis. As I explained when I rang, there’ve been a mystifying number of deaths of released inmates who originally faced trial in these courts.’
‘You make me feel guilty.’ He chuckled.
He was such a colourless fellow: smallish, presumably overlooked in life, and if he was always this pleasant, then he was definitely going to be stepped on. Nice people didn’t fare well in the dog-eat-dog world of 2007.
‘Would it be possible to interview you formally, Mr Jarvis?’
‘You mean quote me?’ he asked, dabbing at his mouth with a paper serviette.
‘Yes, that’s what I mean.’
He looked uncertain. ‘I’m not sure that’s my place.’ He shrugged, suddenly coy. ‘I don’t mind helping the police, Ms Starling; that feels like civic duty. But giving some sort of exposé would go against my conscience. Courts might be open to the public, but lives are being laid bare and it’s hard enough for victims and their families anyway – and indeed the perpetra
tors have rights as well – so I’m not sure I need to be helping a wide audience to poke around in their lives.’
‘I applaud that; I do respect your position and theirs. What if I asked you to comment in a more generalised way?’
He shook his head. ‘No, because that would then open it up for something more political. I would say it’s better to talk to someone higher up the food chain than a clerk of the court. Look, the truth is, we simply make sure that the cases run smoothly, so I have no place making remarks about trials or policing in general.’
She bit her lip, trying to find a way in, and watched as he smiled back benignly.
‘I’m sorry to be such a fizzer for you,’ he said, clearly sensing her frustration.
‘You’re not at all. You have the knowledge I need to give the article some weight . . . its credentials, so to speak.’
He gave a light laugh at the compliment.
‘What if we made it highly specific, then? Picked out, say, two cases tried in Courtroom Seven and two from another court that you might like to point me towards, where convicted criminals were considered to have received lenient sentences and then early release.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded. ‘That has merit. I don’t think there’s a clerk of any court who hasn’t felt the pain for victims and their families when a sentence feels horribly light compared to the sentence the victims are serving. We’d be lying if we pretended not to experience that despair. But we more than most understand that judges have to work within the constraints of British law. And, I might add, that nods to government pressure to empty out our jails, find new opportunities for rehabilitation, get them out of a system that can potentially only make them worse over time, not better . . . and so it goes.’
‘Exactly! Even just what you’ve said there is marvellous and carries some power in it.’
He gave a soft laugh. ‘Really? Well, you need to speak to my colleague, Shirley; she can be quite outspoken on the topic.’
‘I will. In fact, I heard through my contacts that the paedophile John Murphy is about to be granted an early release.’ She was thrilled with herself for how well that came out; not as a question, just a casual statement. ‘I can imagine he’s exactly the sort of early-release prisoner who can polarise the population.’
She watched Brian Jarvis reach for the paper serviettes in the middle of the table and carefully dab at his lips again. ‘Murphy?’ He nodded to himself. ‘I . . . er . . . I hadn’t heard.’
‘Well, I’ve got my ear to the ground on the bad guys being let out early or being given sentences that the public at large believes are much too lenient for their crimes.’
He frowned. ‘Where did you hear this?’
‘I have a contact at Wormwood Scrubs. Anyway,’ she said, waving that away, ‘I have heard something juicy. I don’t think I was meant to discover this, but I overheard a phone conversation . . . Apparently Hawksworth’s team are toying with the notion that the killer may have an accomplice.’ She deliberately didn’t look at him directly; instead she began brushing away crumbs from her lap before sneaking a look. He was watching her. ‘What? Does that shock you?’
‘No, but what makes them say that?’
She shook her head. ‘Like you, I’m very much on the fringe, but I got the sense it was a woman. I’m sure I heard that Inspector Carter say “she”.’ Lauren flipped her hair back. ‘I could be wrong. Anyway, about that formal interview, Mr Jarvis?’
He glanced at his watch. ‘Not right now, Ms Starling. It is time I returned to my desk.’
Did he look rattled? ‘Can we arrange a time to meet?’
‘Of course. So long as we understand the boundaries of what I can and can’t get involved with regarding your feature.’ He sounded composed but eager to be gone.
‘We’ll lay them out carefully before we begin, I promise, and you can ask me to strike something off the record if you feel our conversation is moving into a territory that makes you uncomfortable.’
‘That’s fair.’
‘Good. When?’
‘Tomorrow, perhaps. Just not sure, er . . .’
‘Here?’
He shook his head. ‘No, er, wait . . .’ He lifted a narrow diary from an inside pocket and, holding it up so she couldn’t glance at it, he turned to the day in question. ‘Oh . . . that may make it awkward.’ He sighed. ‘A colleague and I have to be at the Central Criminal Court for a meeting tomorrow afternoon.’
‘Central Criminal Court?’
He looked over the top of the diary. ‘Old Bailey to you.’
She laughed. ‘Ah, yes, so in the city. I could—’
‘And then I’m meeting a friend for dinner at some Greek place she assures me is the best in London.’
‘The best in London is called Halepi,’ she remarked, not expecting the response that came.
‘Well, that’s it! I’ve written down Halepi for six-thirty.’
Lauren felt her excitement ping like a firework exploding within. ‘Mr Jarvis, that restaurant is within walking distance of my flat!’
‘Oh, you’re joking,’ he said, sounding as astonished as she felt. ‘You live in Bayswater?’
She nodded and gave him a gleeful grin. ‘I’m barely five minutes away from where you’ll be.’
‘Good grief. Isn’t life curious when it does this to you?’
Curious or not, she wasn’t going to overlook an opportunity like this. ‘We can meet at mine, can’t we? I mean, perhaps we can get together for half an hour before your dinner engagement? It’s honestly just a short stroll from the restaurant. I promise not to make you late.’
Jarvis scratched his head. ‘Well, I don’t know what to say . . . It’s rather irregular, Ms Starling.’
‘Lauren,’ she insisted. ‘I’ve invited you to my home.’ She shrugged. ‘Friends. And the fact that we happen to discuss your work is simply conversation.’ She could see he was undecided but she didn’t want to wait for him to choose the option that cut her out. Lauren dug in her bag for a card. ‘I’m sorry, that says My Day. Not for long, I promise. But the mobile number is mine. Can we try for tomorrow any time after five? I’ll be at my flat and waiting.’ She grinned. ‘Kettle on and wine in the fridge or breathing comfortably at room temperature – whatever your preferred poison is.’
‘Tea is fine,’ he insisted, and she realised just how colourless a man sat before her. Pleasant but so very lacklustre in any aspect of his personality. Don’t judge, Lauren, she warned herself. He may have the secrets you need.
He took the card. ‘Righto. I’ll call you, provided our meeting won’t run long, and I’ll mention this to Shirley.’
‘That’s great. I’ll look forward to seeing you early evening. Er, no, I know you offered but please, let me,’ she said, waving him away as he reached for the bill. ‘It’s the least I can do.’
28
Kate sat across from Judge Moira Leland in her chambers. They were surprisingly minimalist. Modern, too . . . if you considered the late seventies modern. Kate had always thought of the seventies as a rather ugly era of furniture, the colour brown everywhere, often teamed with a ghastly burnt orange and teak veneer. Granted, this was a honey-coloured wood veneer, its shelving full of leather-bound volumes of law, but there were touches from the judge that spoke of her elegance: a beautiful vase of fresh spring flowers on her well-ordered desk; a silver-framed photo of the judge leaning back against a handsome, smiling man with hair greying at his temples. They looked effortlessly happy on a yacht. Near the photo was a fountain pen and a squat bottle of Parker Quink in green. She’d never seen anyone write with emerald ink before, so this made Moira Leland even more interesting, if her tall, arrestingly sophisticated presence was insufficient.
Kate was used to feeling like the best-dressed person in the room but the judge would give her more than a competitive race to that finish line. Her outfit was tasteful, modest and yet screamed its expense through its tailored line and quality fabric. The charcoal dress she wore fitted he
r immaculately and, teamed with neutral nude heels, was perfect. Kate spied the Burberry coat hanging on the stand and that too was a clue to this woman. Taste, money, confidence. The green ink was a lovely extra flourish of arrogance, Kate thought as she watched Judge Leland finish her telephone conversation and place the receiver back onto its cradle. Her long fingers had oval-shaped nails, manicured with a pale French polish; to Kate she was perfection in an older woman.
‘I’m sorry about that, Detective Inspector Carter.’ Even her voice was schooled elegantly to a mellow pitch, slightly raspy in a way that suggested she liked a drink or a cigarette now and then . . . or both.
‘No, that’s fine, thank you for seeing me at short notice.’
‘I’m sure I can guess what this is all about; the courts are abuzz,’ she remarked, her gaze level, a smile crinkling the edges of it.
‘Does it trouble you?’
The judge rightly looked back at her as though she were simple. ‘Yes, of course. It’s baffling and scary at once.’
Kate nodded. She walked the judge through a series of questions that she already knew the answer to, but it was important that the same ground was covered by all their enquiries.
Moira Leland shrugged as Kate’s phone pinged a text message. She glanced at it; it was from Jack. She blinked quickly back up at the judge, who was speaking. ‘It goes without saying that I would have contacted you all immediately if any of this had set off alarm bells in my mind. I can’t say I am aware of anyone in the gallery during the cases you’ve mentioned who might be threatening. I mean, these are all violent criminal cases we are referring to, Inspector. But in answer to your question, there is no stand-out person that I recall from the regulars in my courtroom.’
Jack wanted Kate to introduce Brian Jarvis into the conversation. ‘What about officials?’ she asked. There, it was out.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Is there anyone within the official courtroom or administrative staff whom you might consider suspicious or indeed capable of such violence?’
‘I . . .’ The judge looked knocked off balance. ‘Do you mean someone on my team?’
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