The Aladdin Trial

by Abi Silver

  ‘What about the doctors?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, Dawson’s been oh so interested in the nurses and other staff, but just because they’ve taken the Hippocratic oath doesn’t mean we should ignore the doctors in our evidence gathering. I mean, Harold Shipman clearly forgot his responsibilities.’

  ‘Yes. Dawson said that the patients see lots of different doctors up here on the private ward.’

  ‘OK. That may be. But there must be someone in charge. Find out who that was and let’s also examine her medical records. I want a list of every person who saw Mrs Hennessy, and what they prescribed from the time she arrived until she ended up down there on the ground.’

  * * *

  ‘Can I help you, ladies?’ a slim doctor in a white coat, with the beginning of a grey moustache, opened the door to the balcony and leaned out. The nurse stood, red-cheeked, behind him; he had probably alerted the doctor to their presence.

  ‘Oh, thank you. No. We were just admiring the view from up here. And you are?’

  Constance had to hand it to Judith. They were the ones who were trespassing and she was giving the doctor the third degree.

  ‘I’m Doctor Wolf. Who are you?’

  ‘I am Judith Burton and this is Constance Lamb. We are lawyers in the case involving the late Mrs Hennessy. Chief Inspector Dawson sent us. It helps with our preparation of the case. You know, sometimes even judges and juries visit the crime scene these days.’

  Doctor Wolf folded his arms.

  ‘If you say so. But you should have told us you were coming. We can’t just have people wandering in here any time of day or night.’

  ‘Just what I was saying to Constance…’

  ‘It’s been almost impossible to look after my patients since, well, since Mrs Hennessy died. Do you know when we will get her bed back? We are very short of space.’

  ‘I have been reassured it will be very soon, doctor,’ Judith cooed sympathetically. ‘And I can only imagine what it must have been like for you; and that’s before the media circus begins.’

  ‘Media circus?’

  ‘Oh yes. There’ll be lots of speculation about how Mrs Hennessy met her end – conspiracy theories, that kind of thing, I’m afraid. Think of Kennedy or Marilyn Monroe. Was she one of your patients?’

  ‘She was, yes.’

  ‘Did you prescribe any medication for her?’

  ‘It’s all in the statement I gave to Inspector Dawson and in her log if I did.’

  ‘Did you see her the night she died?’

  ‘Like I said…’

  ‘Humour me, Dr Wolf,’ Judith said. ‘I have other clients too, and Inspector Dawson is busy fighting crime.’

  Dr Wolf took a deep breath and his shoulders relaxed. He stepped back into the staff room and Judith and Constance followed. The nurse scuttled off in a hurry.

  ‘Her wound was healing well, her blood pressure was normal.’

  ‘And how was she?’

  ‘I am a surgeon not a therapist but she seemed perfectly fine.’

  ‘She had just had an operation, presumably she had some pain?’

  ‘She was prescribed pain relief.’

  ‘And were you in the hospital that night?’

  ‘Yes. I was here till around midnight. Then I went home.’

  ‘Thank you. We won’t take up any more of your time. Come on Constance. Let’s fly.’

  21

  Joe was waiting for Tracy as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Bitch,’ Joe muttered as he grabbed her arm.

  ‘Joe, stop it. I’m cross too, but we shouldn’t let him see us like this.’

  He tightened his grip. ‘You don’t care. You’re in the money and if you’re not, your kids are, which is just the same thing. For one moment there I thought she was treating us the same.’

  Tracy gave a deliberate and anxious glance back up the echoing staircase.

  ‘Let’s go and calm down and talk somewhere else.’

  Joe followed her gaze. Upstairs a door clanged in the distance. He released her arm, slammed the flat of his hand against the door onto the street, which swung open obligingly, and exited into the welcome fresh air. Tracy followed.

  ‘I walked past a Nero on my way. Let’s sit down and talk about it there,’ she suggested.

  They staggered along in silence, Joe’s anger failing to abate, so that he attacked the pavement at each step, chin thrust forward, arms swinging.

  Seated at a table near the back of the café, Tracy began her campaign to keep Joe on side. ‘What were you thinking about going off on one in front of Mr Bateman?’

  ‘Trace. The guy’s a complete tosser. Mum didn’t think up that stuff on her own. You know as well as I do that she wasn’t capable of that kind of…well…logical thinking. And all that jargon: “bequest”, “forfeit”. He put her up to it. What’s his game then?’

  Tracy bit her lip, and then remembered her lipstick too late. She ran her tongue over her teeth to try to remove it and then gave up and rubbed at them with her index finger.

  ‘I don’t know, but I know that we need him sweet so we can get our money. He’s the executor. He will decide if we can have it. That’s why it was stupid to get angry in front of him. If we’ve got nothing to hide, we wouldn’t be bothered by Mum’s ridiculous conditions, would we?’

  Joe stared at his sister and his anger began to subside. He ordered two black coffees and returned to his seat.

  ‘Listen, if anything, I’m the one in the shit, not you,’ Tracy began, ‘assuming you can show you saw Mum since Christmas?’ she said pointedly. ‘What did you tell the police?’

  ‘I can’t remember now. I said a few months, I think.’

  ‘Well I can’t see Brian talking to the police to check up. He’s a strange one. Do you remember Mum ever mentioning him?’

  ‘No. But it’s not the kind of stuff she would tell me about, is it? By the way, my solicitor is helping me make a will and if you get into any more trouble you don’t get a penny.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear? He said in the last five years. Unless there’s something else you’ve been nicked for that I don’t know about, then you’re in the clear.’

  Joe collected the drinks and returned to the table.

  ‘No, Trace. I’m completely clean,’ he replied. ‘And Janice will remember when I last saw Mum.’

  ‘There you are then. We just need to keep calm and not shout at Brian again, just to make sure.’

  ‘But you saw her at the hospital. And you and Pete, you fixed everything you owed and you don’t even cheat at cards, so why aren’t you on the phone now telling dear Peter that he’s finally hit the jackpot? That our side of the family is the one with the money, for once.’

  Tracy covered her face and sat very still. When she finally removed her hands and blinked, Joe was staring at her.

  ‘What’s up, Trace? Is it something bad?’

  Tracy couldn’t help but wonder if his question was tinged with secret pleasure at her discomfort. She stifled a sob.

  ‘We’re in debt,’ she said.

  ‘You were, I know. But you sold everything, to pay it off?’

  ‘We did. The house, the car. Bastards at the school insisted on keeping a whole term’s money because we didn’t give them “sufficient notice” but our lawyer said we wouldn’t win that one. Stupid cow of a secretary enjoyed telling me that. Sold those gorgeous sofas, the Italian ones, the curtains from Florence. Pete had borrowed so much. He was expanding.’

  ‘But he had insurance?’

  ‘It’s not come through yet. They said it will take a few more months if they agree to cover him. You remember he went up that ladder to unblock the drainpipe and they snapped him. Now he’s paranoid. He hardly goes out, unless it’s very early or very late. He th
inks they’re watching him all the time, through binoculars. He’s become obsessed.’

  Joe stifled a giggle. He had never liked his brother-in-law much. Such a big shot with his Gucci shoes and Patek Philippe watch. He doubted that had been relinquished.

  ‘How much?’ he asked.

  ‘Our credit card debts are about three thousand, still. Business debts much more – Pete won’t even say, although he gave personal guarantees, too, all over the place, and you heard what Brian said: the debt condition includes “spouse”. I’ll have to get some more advice on what the will means. God, more lawyer’s fees.’

  She swirled her coffee in its cup. She really wanted milk and two sugars but she wasn’t going to ask. ‘Maybe you could give me the money, the three thousand. That may be all I need to get my share from the will. Then I can give you it straight back.’

  Joe regarded Tracy carefully. She had been good to him when they were kids. She had been the one who had reminded Mum to buy his uniform, on occasion had taken him shopping for clothes herself with money from Mum’s purse. She had tried, with limited success, to help him with his maths homework so he could pass his GCSE, and had even cajoled one of Mum’s boyfriends to give him some impromptu coaching. And she had intervened when Mum had wanted to throw him out after the Mackenzies’ business. But recently, well, for the last twenty years, what had she done for him?

  ‘It’ll probably come good for us both. You heard – he said it might take months for the distribution. I’m sure you’ll be fine by then. But I’ll talk to Janice and see what we can spare.’

  ‘Nooooo!’ Tracy shrieked out her response. ‘Please don’t tell Janice about…well…Pete would be so embarrassed.’

  ‘So you’ll take her money but you don’t want her to know where it’s going.’

  ‘That’s not fair. And unless you’ve changed a lot I doubt you two have a joint account.’

  Joe stood up and fixed the lid on his coffee, ready to go. Tracy could always see through him. She was cleverer, always had been. The brains had gone to the girl. Still, he had the gift of the gab and the better looks by far. And at the moment, he held all the cards.

  ‘All right. I won’t tell Janice if you don’t want me to. Did he say he was sending us the will?’

  ‘Yes, by email.’

  ‘We can speak again when we’ve received it and talked to the man with all the money.’

  22

  Constance approached her own front door on tiptoe, turning the key in the lock in super slow motion to avoid the mandatory click when the levers finally released their hold. She had even dawdled as she descended the steps to the Underground platform, missing an earlier train, delaying her by an additional six minutes, so as to increase the chances of Mike being asleep.

  But he was propped up in bed with a can of beer next to him on the bedside table.

  ‘You’re up late,’ she called to him through the open door, peeling off her jacket and dropping it by the door.

  ‘You too.’ He didn’t move and Constance decided to attempt a joke.

  ‘At least you have a beer,’ she said.

  Mike’s eyes flitted to his right. He picked up the can, drank from it and returned it to the table where it nestled in a pool of liquid. Constance undressed quickly, splashed her face in the bathroom, cleaned her teeth and hurried to bed.

  ‘How was your day?’ she tried cheerily, the image of Judith rubbing disinfectant over her hands and forearms as they left the hospital indelibly imprinted on her mind.

  Mike drank some more beer as Constance burrowed her way into his armpit.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ She sat up and stroked his shoulder.

  ‘I was worried,’ he said. ‘You didn’t say you’d be late.’

  ‘No. I got delayed and I forgot the time. You could have called me.’

  ‘I did. Twice.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry. I didn’t notice. I was so busy.’

  ‘Then I called your office. They said you’d been at St Marks Hospital but that was hours ago.’

  Constance shifted her weight away from him.

  ‘I was. I went there with Judith earlier today, on a case.’

  ‘The Syrian cleaner.’ Mike spat out Ahmad’s title with a curled lip.

  ‘Yes.’ Constance was on her guard now. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I saw it in the paper. You’re not defending him are you?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You can’t tell me?’

  ‘Everyone has the right to legal representation.’ Constance stuck out her chin.

  ‘That’s just words to make you feel like it’s all worthwhile.’

  ‘Important words.’

  ‘Really? Even if he’s a terrorist.’

  ‘Ahmad’s not a terrorist.’

  ‘You’re already on first name terms? Take a look at tonight’s Standard then. I left it for you, on the table.’

  Constance scrambled out of bed, located the Evening Standard and turned its pages furiously. She found the article and read through it hurriedly, following the text with her finger. Then she remembered Mike and returned to the bedroom with the paper clasped tightly in her hand.

  ‘Did you see what it says?’ he challenged her. ‘You’re defending a killer, a person who kills indiscriminately – this time an old lady, next time maybe a school full of children.’

  ‘I need to call Judith.’

  ‘Go ahead. Call Judith. Tell her the Syrian cleaner’s a terrorist. I bet she’ll drop him like a stone. She won’t want her career ruined by association.’

  ‘There’s nothing in the article of any substance. It just says that “an unnamed source” said his brother was an ISIL commander and that he and his brother were close. It’s almost certainly not true.’

  Mike took a deep breath and pulled off the covers. He walked around the bed, went to Constance and put his hands gently on her shoulders.

  ‘You are such a good person,’ he said, ‘and you always try to do what’s right. And I love you for it. But some of the people you defend, they don’t deserve you or your time or your efforts. You must see that. You need to be a bit less charitable and a bit more hard-nosed.’

  Constance pushed him away and hunted for her mobile in her bag.

  ‘Now you’re being selfish,’ she said.

  ‘Really? I’m being selfish in not wanting you to associate with this low life? You’ve got sucked in, Con, but you can’t see it.’ Now he was waving his arms around. ‘And, OK, maybe I am being selfish, because you’re never here and the whole point of us being together is so that we can be together, at least some of the time. And if I thought you were doing something really worthwhile then I might understand more.’

  ‘And your job is so worthy.’

  ‘I’m an actor. That’s what I do. I entertain people, for fun. I’m not…Martin Luther King, OK?’

  Constance’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘Sorry.’ Mike realised his mistake. ‘I didn’t mean…I just meant I’m not someone on a personal crusade all the time. And maybe you shouldn’t be, either.’

  ‘Wow!’ Constance spoke quietly, finding her phone but laying it down on the bedside table. ‘Well, I appreciate you getting all of this off your chest. How long have you been feeling like this?’

  ‘Oh come on. You’ve known I was pissed for a while now. You missed my first night in Macbeth when that fight kicked off in Newham.’

  Now Mike crushed the can to a pulp before throwing it across the room to land with a clang in the bin in the far corner.

  ‘I’m not going to change what I do.’ Constance spoke softly.

  ‘Other stuff I can deal with. But this Syrian terrorist is one step too far. You must be able to see that?’

  ‘I’ll assess the case in the normal way, but I won’t drop Ahmad just because a newspaper, which may not
have done its homework, doesn’t like him. That wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘Even if he’s a terrorist?’

  Constance turned her head away and bit her lip.

  ‘OK. I get the message. Here’s what I think,’ Mike said blandly, grabbing a blanket out of the top of the wardrobe and flinging it from the doorway across the living room on to the sofa. ‘You’re right that I can’t tell you what to do. And I don’t want it to be like that.’ He picked up his pillow and tucked it under his arm.

  Constance sat down on the bed. Was the fight over? A message beeped on her phone and she struggled not to acknowledge it. Mike gathered the crumpled copy of the Standard and scanned the article again. Then he folded it up and dropped it into the bin, hovering by the door with his back to her for a few seconds. When he turned around his expression was sad.

  ‘This isn’t working for me any more,’ he said. ‘You’re hardly ever here, and when you are, you’re totally preoccupied with work. We don’t have any fun together. I’ll move in with my brother for a few weeks from tomorrow. We can make arrangements to see each other like before. See how things go.’

  Constance hadn’t expected this from Mike, not this depth of feeling or the willingness to act on it. A muscle in his left cheek along the jawline pulsed once and was still. She imagined him practising his lines and his facial expressions over and over before the mirror, like he did before an audition, while she was running around the hospital, holding her breath to stave off the smell of death.

  ‘I see. You’ve told Nick before me.’

  Mike shrugged.

  ‘I asked if his spare room was free, that’s all. I’ll pack in the morning. We’ll see how things go. Maybe it will be better if we have to make a date. Maybe we’ll make more effort with each other.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Constance replied inside her head, but she doubted it very much.

  23

  David Wolf was loitering in the corridor for what seemed like an age. Finally, Dr Mahmood appeared from his ward round, holding a paper file under his arm. David fell into step beside him as naturally as he could manage, trying not to appear agitated or anxious.