Although he’d never been a religious man, he felt that he was about to be punished for a life built on exploiting the weakness and frailty of others. He’d defended the men who deserved punishment, paid ravaged addicts to satisfy his base needs while he enjoyed their degradation, and his family meant no more to him than the expensive trappings in his house; they were lifeless shells who’d received all the privileges he could provide yet left him with no feeling of pride or contentment.
He rose from the damp sheets, regretting the nightcap that had become the best part of a bottle. The whisky helped him to drop him off but there was no peace to be found in that sleep, and he would wake again within an hour, exhausted and trembling.
He searched for answers constantly, a way out of the trap that had swallowed him whole, but his demons were all around the gates and he knew there was no escape this time. He was having to come to terms with the truth, and it was shocking – there wasn’t a single human being who could shelter and reassure him. Professionally, he was admired, hated and respected as an outstanding advocate, but no one would want him with the baggage he now carried round his neck like a leper. He couldn’t even call on the criminals who owed him their freedom because they already knew too much about him, and there would be nothing in it for them. What could they do anyway apart from sneer at the humiliation of a legal star who’d proved he was far more corrupt than the worst of them?
When he heard the car wheels crunching the stone chips outside he felt relieved – anything was better than this endless self-torture. Whatever the future held, at least it would be real, not the swirling doubts and fears of his imagination.
He checked himself in the mirror, surprised that on the surface at least he looked presentable, although his shaving had been less than successful and the alcohol had taken its toll on his skin. Apart from the slackness under his eyes, he would do.
He heard his wife answer the door. If anything, she was probably sleeping less than he was, but the thought gave him no comfort.
He walked downstairs with his coat over his arm. He was light-headed – the scene was surreal, and it was as if he was sitting comfortably, watching a drama through the gaze of one of the actors. He blinked several times, his eyes dry and irritated by the combination of insomnia and alcohol, to see Macallan and O’Connor dripping wet and standing next to his wife. They stared at him. O’Connor was saying something, and although the voices were muffled, he didn’t really care. He knew why they were there, and he was ready. In any case, he knew the words off by heart and could spend a day in court explaining this procedure to a bored jury. He was under arrest.
He felt his hands being pushed behind his back as the handcuffs were snapped into place. Macallan was saying something to his wife, but he still couldn’t separate the words into a meaningful form. His legs worked on their own, but when he walked out of the door, the rain splashed his face and the cold water cleared his mind.
A hand pushed the top of his head down and he was helped into the back of the police car. He winced at the dull pain that had started to grip the skin where the handcuffs were biting into his wrists and then stared out the window. There were blue lights tracing the dark morning air, and as he looked towards his neighbour’s house, he saw lights starting to click on – witnesses to his downfall getting in on the show.
As the car moved off he looked back towards his front door and watched as his wife pulled it closed and the light within was extinguished. He knew that whatever was in front of him, it was unlikely that he’d ever walk through the entrance of his home again. His wife was beyond forgiveness (and why should she forgive him?), and that house would be her prison as much as whatever cell they would put him in.
He settled back into his seat, a uniform either side of him, and his thoughts started to clear, the adrenalin pushing his exhaustion to the side, at least for a time. They all stared ahead as the city drifted past in streams of light, watching the odd lonely soul tramping to an early-morning job that probably paid no more than the minimum wage. He never saw the city at this time; he rarely started his day until ten, and he wondered if that was a privilege he would ever have again?
56
The car swung through the gates into the station yard, ploughing through a pond of water where the concrete surface had been waiting to be repaired for years. Barclay was helped out of the car and he was led inside, his shoulders aching from the handcuffs dragging his arms out of position. A heavy steel door closed behind him, the noise startling him, and his heart thumped against his ribcage. He was sure the uniforms must have heard it.
He was eventually pushed into a plain grey room and he was thankful that at least it was warm. The uniforms unclasped his handcuffs and he rubbed the red flesh as relief flooded through his shoulders and arms. There was nothing in the room but a table, chairs and a tape recorder.
His lawyer showed up, put his hand on Barclay’s shoulder and sat quietly beside him. Barclay almost recoiled; he knew the man despised him – he was only there for the money and the drama he could recount to his friends at the golf club.
A few moments later, the door opened and Macallan and O’Connor walked in. With difficulty Barclay held himself back from his lifelong ritual of standing and shaking someone’s hand when in one of these places. He looked at O’Connor, but he’d already worked out that the man had presence and intelligence a few levels above the normal police evolutionary chain. Having done his homework, he also knew that O’Connor had education and money behind him, so trying to impress him with a lawyer’s bag of tricks would probably be a waste of time.
He turned his attention to Macallan as O’Connor ran through the formalities and caution. Her background had intrigued him, and he wished they could have met before all this had happened. She was an unusual package, not beautiful yet wonderfully attractive, with luminous green eyes that must have seen all that was dark in the human spirit during her time in Northern Ireland. He’d read about the trial where she’d given evidence against another police officer and understood the price she must have paid to take that course. Traitors never came out well in a war zone.
Whatever happened he knew he was faced with a formidable team and that he would have to be careful with any comment, although he intended to say as little as possible. Nothing different than the advice he’d given to almost every client he had ever defended. It wasn’t this process he feared – he knew he could survive it, but his past was now going to be poured into the gutter for the mob to examine in fine detail, and he knew the press would be out there with their wallets open, trying to track down the women he’d paid to abuse and forget. The red tops would have a field day with their headlines, there was so much to expose, and he wondered which maggots would soon crawl into the light and gnaw at the facade that had been the public face of Jonathon Barclay QC.
‘Is there anything you’d like to say, Mr Barclay, before we proceed?’ O’Connor asked him.
He had regained his composure, knowing that he would have to deal with this one way or another. The lawyer accompanying him stayed quiet; he would stay out of the drama unless his client asked for his assistance. He was only there as a witness for Barclay, and there was nothing he could teach the great advocate beside him.
‘No thank you, Superintendent, but as you would expect, I don’t intend to make any statement other than to say that I have nothing to do with the crimes you are about to put to me.’
He sat back and waited for the list of questions that would form the interview. O’Connor handed over to Macallan, and he watched and admired her cool professional delivery, imagining her in another setting.
‘Mr Barclay, you are aware that we have been investigating a number of crimes including murder, attempted murder and serious assaults against a number of young women in different parts of the country. These investigations showed, as you have admitted, that you have personal knowledge of some of these women. In addition, a warrant was granted to search your home, and a number of items of clothing we
re taken and examined. As a result of these forensic examinations, we have identified DNA from Pauline Johansson and the girl known only as Anna who was murdered in Glasgow. I am going to charge you with attempting to murder Pauline Johansson and murdering the woman known as Anna.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Other charges are likely to follow.’
Her words landed under his heart like a hard set of knuckles and pushed the breath out of his lungs in a short uncontrollable gasp. Macallan continued to speak but he lost track of the words. His heart started to pump a flood of adrenaline round his system, and his breathing rasped through his teeth as he tried to control the shock. His thoughts had fragmented again, and he struggled to make sense of what had just been said. He’d expected a long tortuous series of questions then release to face public humiliation, but for his morals rather than what had just crashed into his life. The pieces started to coalesce and the jigsaw locked into place with a picture of the reality that would leave him damned. But somehow the truth of what was happening calmed him, his breathing slowed and his mind returned to the words that Macallan read without emotion as she formally charged him with murder and attempted murder, and told him that investigations were continuing into other crimes.
He sat back in his chair, looked round at his lawyer who had turned very pale and noticed that his writing hand was trembling. He leaned forward and put his arms on the table.
‘I have nothing to say at this time, Chief Inspector.’
Macallan walked to the door and called for a couple of uniforms. As they came into the room, Barclay stood up, feeling a strange sense of relief. What he faced was awful – he was trapped with few options – but at least his tortured worries and imaginations could be put aside.
‘Is there something you want to say, Mr Barclay?’ Macallan asked, and he found himself smiling for the first time in days.
‘I’m just getting a very bad joke. Unfortunately I can’t share it with you.’
They left the room and the uniform walked him along the cold tiled corridor to the cell area, the echo of his footsteps rattling around the dull white walls. He hated these places; they were always so chilly and drab. Most criminals agreed that they preferred being in prison to lying in police cells, and he could see why.
He stood before the charge bar as a seriously overweight sergeant ran through the formalities of detaining a man for murder. He knew the police would delight in this one – watching the fall of an A-list QC would make their day.
Endless forms followed, and as his belt and shoelaces were taken, his dignity dropped away a piece at a time. He knew that as with all murder suspects he would be given no privacy in case he tried to top himself, and the thought of sitting with a couple of uniforms revolted him.
Every part of his person was searched before he was moved into a side room to have his fingerprints and DNA taken. He started to shake with the cold air, which stank of the despair that seemed to hang over every police cell block.
‘Why do these places always stink of bleach?’ He asked the question without thinking and to no one in particular.
The sergeant studied him for a few seconds, enjoying every moment, before he replied, ‘You don’t want to know.’
He was then taken into his cell, and he reeled at the thought of the trap that had snapped closed on his life. He sat on the stained mattress with his head in his hands, trying to gather his thoughts and work out how he’d have to respond when he faced the judgement of his fellow citizens.
‘Would you like some tea or coffee?’
He looked up, startled by Macallan’s voice. He hadn’t even realised that she was in the cell. His stomach ached with the stress of hunger and the alcohol that had inflamed his insides.
‘Yes, thanks,’ he replied. ‘I could do with that. Don’t suppose you could put a brandy in it?’
She ran her fingers through her hair and he realised that she looked as exhausted as he felt, but at least she could go home to find some kind of peace. When would he ever find peace again?
‘I’ll fix the coffee, and if you need anything in the way of clothes or a visit let me know. The cell staff should be able to get a hold of me anytime.’
‘I appreciate that. I’ll let you know what I need. Unfortunately I can’t think of anyone that will want to visit me. I’ve a feeling that whatever friends I might have had will be hard to find in the coming days. The lawyer who sat in the interview will take care of any needs I have. I’ve given him instructions. Poor man was out of his comfort zone in there but charges the earth so I’m sure he’ll manage.’
Macallan took in the once handsome face that seemed to have collapsed under the weight of his reality and almost felt sorry for him, though that feeling passed as soon as she remembered Pauline Johansson’s face.
She closed the cell door behind her and he lay back on the mattress, trying to ignore the uniform who’d entered and sat down without a word, studying a red top with some story about a footballer and a model on the front page. He closed his eyes and shivered again.
Ten minutes later and Macallan was on the phone to Bell, who was drinking coffee and in the middle of her second cigarette of the day. Macallan gave her as much as she dared, and Bell grinned at what might come her way if she played this one right before she pulled her jacket on and headed for the office.
57
Barclay appeared at court the following day and was remanded in custody. The press were going into hyperdrive, but Bell had already run a story on the cases that mentioned details about the lives of some of the girls who had been attacked – and it was more than she could have found out without inside help from Lothian and Borders Police.
O’Connor walked into the squad room and threw the paper down on the table. ‘If I find out that any of this was passed from this team then whoever it was had better resign before I get to them.’
He slammed the door of his office shut behind him and stared out of the window across the rugby pitches that were the backdrop to the Lothian and Borders HQ. Macallan tapped the door and walked in.
‘You okay?’ she asked.
He looked round and shook his head. He’d lost it in front of the team, and he knew he’d just made a big mistake. The squad lived on the credibility of the people who led them, and if you lost it in front of the troops, they lost it on the ground.
‘I’ve just had all the grief I can handle from the ACC, who took delight in blaming me for the leaks. This force has leaked like a fucking sieve for years, and suddenly I get in it the neck? I just wanted this case to run as tight as possible – no fuck-ups and straight down the line.’
‘It doesn’t happen that way – you know that. The stuff that’s in the papers isn’t that bad and won’t prejudice the case. Look, we got the bastard, so let’s just ease off a bit and put it in perspective. Lasagne and some happy juice at my place? What do you think?’
His shoulders eased off and he smiled. ‘You know the way to my heart, Grace.’
She turned and walked out of the room, guilt gnawing deep in her gut. There was something else though: she kept seeing Barclay’s face in the cells. There’d been something in his expression that troubled her, but what was it?
That feeling again – it was just instinct, but she knew instinct was there for a reason. There were too many other things to do though, so she filed it away and forgot about it for the time being.
58
The court sparked with the energy and excitement of watching a killer who’d inhabited people’s nightmares – it was the most basic form of voyeurism, being close to something or someone terrible yet in complete safety – a zoo where the citizens could stare at a dangerous predator from only a few feet away. It wasn’t that far removed from the days of public executions, where a holiday mood had been the order of the day and the accused would have dropped just yards from the same court.
The trial had captured the public imagination and the tabloids were loving it. The revelations about Jonathon Barclay were sensational – yet another
pillar of the establishment had been shown to be the stuff of nightmares – and they gripped the public squarely by the throat. MPs’ expenses were one thing, but this was the real deal – a criminal defender exposed as a brutal killer. Even if he was found not guilty, his life was now a legend, and what people didn’t know about him they would just make up, such was the media frenzy. And if the verdict went against him then he would take his place in Edinburgh’s dark history and compete with Deacon Brodie, who’d stirred the imagination of Robert Louis Stevenson to such a state he’d created the legend of Jekyll and Hyde.
Whatever Barclay’s fate, it was clear there was nowhere for him to go – the only options he had were guilty and a life inside, or not guilty and disgrace, so either way he was ruined.
Barclay fought hard and got the best out of his legal team – but he was facing rock-solid evidence, and though his defence tried to discredit the forensics, the lab staff had worked the samples with absolute care and the jury was convinced. After all, most of them watched modern detective programmes where DNA equalled guilt. DNA was the silver bullet, and as Barclay watched the jury’s reaction to the lab technician presenting the evidence, he knew he was well and truly fucked.
Whatever was said, the burned-out car looked damning, and his knowledge of the victims was too much for the jury to ignore. He took the stand, and his performance was immaculate, but he couldn’t deny the evidence stacked against him. Macallan and O’Connor had been immovable on the stand and delivered their testimony with few problems, so when his lawyer had tried to suggest they might have planted the evidence, it had sent a clear message to the jury that the defence was struggling.
In the end, Barclay looked beaten and walked back to the dock like a man who knew the jury’s mind. It was enough – someone had to pay and there was a good candidate standing trial.
Cause of Death Page 21