His father, His Honour Judge Howard Anderson, had arranged to meet up, obviously to discuss the case. Anderson was dreading it. Even he was surprised at how long it had taken his mother and father to make contact after the crash. Hardly the actions of doting parents. Too painful, he pushed such thoughts to the back of his mind and stopped to check out the window of Kendals department store. Anything to delay the inevitable. The Manchester Evening News stand caught his eye. It was on the front page. He bought a copy and opened it to read the full article. A photo of Molly Granger jumped out at him. A beautiful little girl. Smiling, happy. Was he really responsible for her death? He prayed to God that he wasn’t.
Bracing himself, Anderson crossed the road and into the restaurant.
His coat was soaked. As he waited for the maître d’ to relieve him of it he saw his parents sitting in one of the booths. Someone else was with them.
He handed over his coat and joined them at the table.
His father stood up to shake his hand. ‘Hello, John.’
Anderson’s mother, Mary, shot her husband a nervous glance, seeking his permission to give her son a hug, which she did. Forty years of marriage to a cold, insensitive man had taken its toll on Mary Anderson. Dulled by decades of anti-depressants, she did nothing without Howard Anderson’s approval. A tired, washed-out face on a petite frame. Mary had learnt how to blend into the background to survive the endless rounds of social engagements. Always careful not to irritate her husband, or steal his thunder. Now she had no energy left for anything. Disguising her unhappy marriage for so long had drained her of all zest. She noticed her son’s scar, then put a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, John.’
The third member of the group, Stephen, John’s older brother, gave Anderson a lopsided, knowing grin, in the way brothers do. They had never been close. Childhood arguments and fights had developed into jealous rivalry, particularly on Stephen’s part. He’d watched his little brother’s successful legal career for over a decade, whilst as a Tory MP he’d languished in opposition.
John took a seat and reached for the bottle of Chardonnay nestled in an ice bucket and poured himself a large glass, then braced himself for the inquisition to follow.
His father was never one to mince his words. ‘What the bloody hell were you thinking, John? Who was she?’
Mary placed a hand on her husband’s sleeve and said, ‘At least let him have a drink first, Howard.’
Howard flinched and moved his arm away.
‘I don’t know who she was,’ Anderson replied, tired of giving people the same answer. ‘Anyway, how did you know about her?’
‘Don’t be so naive, John,’ barked his father. ‘I’m a judge. I hear things. In fact everyone is talking about it. I don’t know how I’ll get through it. It’s all very embarrassing.’
‘How you’ll get through it?’ replied Anderson, aghast at his father’s selfishness. ‘Dad, I could lose everything.’
Howard Anderson didn’t see the irony in his remark. He leaned forward and spoke with less volume: ‘Look, John…’
Anderson could tell that a mandate was about to be issued.
‘I know it’s the preliminary hearing tomorrow. You’re going to have to plead guilty.’
‘What?’ John reeled back in horror. ‘Not you as well, Dad! That would mean prison. And the end of my career.’ His eyes searched his father’s face for a reaction.
The judge sat motionless, waiting for his words to sink in.
Anderson felt the same emptiness he had the day his father told him he had to go away to school. Remembering how Howard Anderson hadn’t been able to connect with his eight-year-old son’s fear and anxiety at the news. He’d almost wallowed in it.
Still that lost little boy, Anderson pleaded: ‘Dad, don’t you want to know my side of things?’
Howard was unmoved.
Anderson turned to Stephen for support, who remained tight-lipped.
Howard Anderson continued to abandon his son: ‘Stephen’s career is at a crucial time, to say nothing of my own hopes for elevation to the High Court Bench. He’s now a junior minister. There’s talk of a place in the cabinet.’
‘Still just talk at the moment,’ Stephen stressed, delighted to confirm the truth of their father’s account of his recent success.
Howard said, ‘We need to bury this with as little fuss as possible.’
John was stunned. To his own family he was nothing more than an embarrassing news story. For the first time in his life he felt rage rising up in him. Unadulterated anger at his predicament, his parents, everyone. ‘I don’t think I can do that, Dad. I could’ve been set up. I need to know.’
His father still wasn’t interested. Raising his voice: ‘You can and you will, John.’ Then he added, ‘I’ve heard about the split by the way. I’m prepared to carry on paying the school fees, but not if you persist in this madness.’
Anderson sat back in his seat, then slowly shook his head. ‘Oh, Dad, was that your ace card? Were you saving it until the end? To use my children’s education to blackmail me?’
Howard Anderson avoided eye contact. Even he could see the indignity in it.
The waiter broke the silence. ‘Are you ready to order?’
John replied, ‘I’ve just lost my appetite. My coat please.’ He stood up, but before leaving, said to his father, ‘You break my heart.’
John Anderson walked out of the restaurant without looking back.
Chapter 29
John Anderson spent the rest of the afternoon perched on a bar stool in Mulligan’s, off Deansgate, downing pints of bitter and thinking about his plea, and his family. He was deeply wounded by their abandonment of him, their selfishness, yet strangely, he was not surprised.
He noticed the other drinkers, men sitting alone in darkened corners. His own loneliness had rendered them visible to him. A common bond. Lost souls with nothing better to do than drink away the daylight hours. Everything had changed. The foundations on which he thought he had built a life were turning out to be an illusion. Not just his parents, everyone. His thoughts turned to Will and Angus. He missed them so much. Remembering all the wasted weekends spent working in chambers. And now it could be too late to make amends. To be the father he should have been. He took out his phone and rang Mia. Maybe she’d allow an impromptu visit. No answer. He left a garbled voicemail.
Obsessively, his mind inevitably returned to the crash. He couldn’t have been that tired, could he? To fall asleep with a passenger he didn’t know? It didn’t make sense. Was it possible that someone else had made this happen? If so, Waqar Ahmed had to be the prime suspect. He more than anyone had something to gain from Anderson being out of the way. And as a result, he was acquitted. But how could he have been involved? Maybe Anderson was being paranoid, starting to lose his mind. All these thoughts made his head ache. And what about Hussain? Would he stoop that low? At the very least he might know something.
With a renewed alcohol-fuelled determination, he stood up, knocking the bar stool over in the process.
He staggered out to find some answers.
*
It was after five o’clock by the time Anderson had walked into Rusholme from town. His leg throbbed, but the journey had given him time to think. Wet through, he was oblivious to the rods of sideways rain illuminated in the neon signs on the shops and restaurants along the Curry Mile.
At last he reached Hussain & Co. A tiny ramshackle frontage, squeezed between an Indian takeaway and a shop selling saris. The Kashmiri Palace was directly opposite.
He could see Hussain through the window, at his desk, shuffling papers. Anderson burst in and stumbled into a filing cabinet.
‘John Anderson!’ Hussain exclaimed. ‘You’re soaking. Give me your coat.’
Anderson steadied himself, then waved a finger at his old adversary. ‘Thanks for going to the police and making a statement,’ he slurred.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘About seeing me in Starbucks.’ Anderson didn’t
wait for a reply. ‘Did Waqar Ahmed set me up?’
Hussain moved towards Anderson and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I don’t know, John. I really don’t know.’
Anderson was taken aback by Hussain’s refusal to defend his old client with more fervour.
Adey came out of the back, having heard the commotion. ‘What’s going on?’
Anderson was instantly distracted. Mesmerised.
Hussain seized the opportunity to change the subject. ‘John Anderson, meet my trainee, Adey Tuur.’
‘So you’re the famous Anderson?’ He was much better looking than she had imagined, despite the angry scar that snaked down the side of his face. His eyes were sad, lost. She moved across the room towards him with a serenity that was instantly calming and ran a finger down his scar. ‘Does it hurt?’
He was lost for words. It felt wonderful. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him, displayed any tenderness. He wanted to cry, wail, until there was no pain left.
In fact, he did and said nothing, suddenly feeling a fool for turning up like that; ranting, drunk.
He turned on his heel, pushed open the door, and disappeared into the streaming rain.
Hussain puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. Neither he nor Adey said anything.
Chapter 30
Anderson watched the Bentley pull up in a side road, next to the Kashmiri Palace. He checked his watch: 11pm, just as Tredwell had described in his evidence. Waiting outside in the winter cold and rain had been gruelling. Shivering, Anderson was soaked to the skin; his leg throbbed, but nothing would stop him now. Not knowing was destroying him.
From across Wilmslow Road, he could see a young, muscular Asian man get out of the driver’s side, and walk round to the passenger door whilst opening an umbrella. With his free hand he reached for the handle. Waqar Ahmed, wearing a black cashmere coat, stepped out of the vehicle, careful to avoid the gutter.
Anderson’s eyes locked onto him, fury rushing through his veins.
Uninterested in anything else, the minder’s attention was focused on keeping the umbrella over Ahmed’s head on the short walk into the Palace.
Anderson could see them through the front window, Ahmed giving a few orders, pointing, and then stuffing what looked like a wad of notes into his coat pocket. Within minutes they were back outside, walking towards the car.
Once they were off the main drag and back into the side road, Anderson seized his opportunity. Clumsily dodging a few cars, he crossed the main road. ‘Waqar Ahmed, I want a word with you.’
About to climb into the passenger seat, Ahmed looked up. At first he didn’t recognise the bedraggled figure approaching, fists clenched by his side.
‘John Anderson? The barrister?’ Ahmed grinned at the realisation.
‘What did you do?’ Anderson demanded.
Ahmed laughed.
Anderson carried on towards Ahmed, now only feet away. The minder stepped between them but Ahmed waved him back. ‘Come on, Johnny boy, let’s see what you got.’
Anderson swung a punch with his right hand. Ahmed casually tilted back, preventing contact. The momentum caused Anderson to lurch to the left. He felt a blow to the top of the head, then a fist in his face. Crashing to the ground. Kicks to the stomach, legs. Again and again.
No resistance. Pain.
Ahmed used his foot to roll Anderson into the gutter, diverting a channel of rainwater around his body. Just enough strength to turn his submerged head, allowing him a breath.
The bottom of Ahmed’s shoe sunk into Anderson’s cheek, pinning him down.
Agony.
‘Look, Omar,’ said Ahmed. ‘I’m above the law.’
They both chuckled.
Ahmed removed his foot and crouched down over the lawyer. ‘This is where you belong now. It’s where I started, and where you’ll finish.’ He grabbed Anderson’s hair and lifted his head to make sure he could hear. ‘And if I get pulled in over this little beating, I’ll cut up your family.’
Ahmed released his grip, letting Anderson’s head flop back onto the road.
Car doors shutting, then the noise of the Bentley pulling away.
Alone, only the sound of rain glugging down the drains.
Anderson lost consciousness.
Chapter 31
Anderson opened his eyes. A familiar feeling. Everything ached, especially his ribs. He’d been here before. Where was he? He sat up. In hospital, on a ward full of patients.
A young female nurse saw him and came over. Hair tied back in a ponytail, a picture of efficiency. ‘Feeling better, Mr Anderson?’
‘What happened?’
‘You were unconscious when they found you. Looks like you’d been attacked. In Rusholme. Can you remember?’
Anderson gathered his thoughts. ‘What time is it?’
‘Just after six-thirty in the morning.’
‘I need to go.’ He drew back the covers. ‘I need to go home and change. I’m in court this morning.’
‘Yes, admissions said you’re a barrister, but you’re in no fit state to work today.’
‘No, I’m not working, I’m…’ He paused, then rubbed his forehead, hoping the headache would stop. ‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said, sliding off the mattress onto his feet. Feeling giddy he reached for the bed frame and steadied himself.
‘Mr Anderson, please, get back into bed, you need to rest.’
Anderson reached for the pile of damp clothes, folded neatly over the back of a magnolia metal chair.
‘At least wait for Doctor Nesbitt. He wants to see you.’
Anderson remembered him – from his stay after the crash. ‘OK, if he’s quick, I’ll wait.’
The nurse pulled the curtain along the rail to give Anderson some privacy then hurried off.
Anderson took off the hospital gown and began to dress himself. After the effort of bending down to get his trousers on he sat back on the bed, catching sight of himself in the circular mirror on top of an MDF cabinet. His face was a mess. Red and swollen. The cheek laceration from the crash had been re-stitched.
‘Mr Anderson? You decent?’ He was already pulling back the curtain. ‘Do you remember me?’
‘Yes, of course, Dr Nesbitt?’ he replied, getting to his feet.
‘That’s right. I hear you are adamant that you’re leaving? Well I won’t try to stop you. They’ve cleaned you up as best they could but I thought I ought to come across and see how your memory was?’
‘What do you mean?’
Nesbitt put a hand under Anderson’s chin and scrutinised his face in a way only a doctor can. ‘Do you know how you got these injuries?’
Anderson hesitated. A thought flickered across his mind, only for a moment; to lie, pretend he’d had another blackout. He dismissed it. ‘I remember.’
An awkward silence.
‘But you’d prefer not to say?’ asked the doctor.
Anderson nodded.
‘You really aren’t having the best of luck lately, are you, Mr Anderson?’
‘You could say that,’ he replied.
‘What about the car accident? Anything? Sometimes a head injury can jog the memory.’
It hadn’t even occurred to Anderson. He strained to think. Closed his eyes. A fleeting image. Heena Butt’s face. In conversation. A feeling of fear. Was it real? Or had his mind constructed something from the post-mortem photo? Anderson sighed. He thought about Ahmed. How he’d admitted nothing. If he’d had something to do with the crash wouldn’t he have enjoyed telling Anderson? Wallowed in it?
‘No, nothing, doctor. Maybe it’s because I was asleep at the time?’
Dr Nesbitt didn’t reply. Only a sympathetic nod. Then: ‘Good luck, Mr Anderson.’
Chapter 32
The preliminary hearing was at Bradford Crown Court on the north-eastern circuit. A barrister could not be tried for a criminal offence on his own circuit. The train journey across the Pennines from Manchester Victoria only took an hour. In any other circumst
ances Anderson would have enjoyed taking in the snow-covered mountains as the train chugged over the top. Today his stomach was in knots.
The courts were across the road from Bradford Interchange, behind The Great Victoria Hotel. Morgan found Anderson sitting in the public canteen. He immediately noticed his bruised and swollen face. ‘Jesus Christ! What happened to you?’
Anderson ignored the question. ‘Have you got any papers yet?’
Dewi handed his client the advanced disclosure he had just received from the prosecution. ‘Are you all right, John? What’s going on?’
‘Where’s the rest?’
Realising Anderson wasn’t going to divulge anything, he replied, ‘That’s all they’ve given me. It’s only a prelim, remember. I think we’ve got two eyewitness accounts there, and the experts on sleep and the reconstruction.’
‘I would have liked to see all the witness statements, and a transcript of my interview.’
‘It was awful – trust me.’ He regarded Anderson, who was still turning the pages of the Advance Disclosure. Morgan put his hand over the papers. ‘Stop, John. You need to tell me what we’re doing. As far as credit is concerned, the clock starts ticking today. Are we going to indicate a guilty plea?’
‘Morning, gentlemen.’ A tall forty-something barrister, wigged and gowned, was standing over the table.
Dewi jumped to his feet to make the introductions. ‘John Anderson, meet your barrister, Michael Forster.’
Anderson recognised him vaguely but hadn’t known him to speak to.
‘Michael is from the Bradford Bar. I thought it was important to have someone local, who knows the judges.’
Anderson tentatively nodded his approval, hiding his embarrassment at being the defendant in a client/barrister relationship. ‘Michael, who’s prosecuting?’
‘A silk. Hannah Stapleton from Leeds. A right ball-crusher. What happened to your face? Is that from the crash? It looks recent.’
‘I fell. A silk? A death by dangerous wouldn’t normally justify Queen’s Counsel.’
‘It would if you’re prosecuting one of your own. To show you’re not getting any special treatment,’ Forster replied, still wondering about his lay client’s explanation.
Death By Dangerous Page 9