by Abi Silver
‘Our daughter,’ Aisha had mumbled to him, her eyes entreating him to understand. ‘Ah jeez,’ he had exclaimed. ‘He won’t find her.’ But they had waited patiently while Ahmad had plunged below the waves and screamed and shouted till, exhausted, he had been dragged onto the rowing boat and the medic had stuck a needle in his side to sedate him.
‘What happened then?’
‘We came to England. We were lucky. Some of the others had to go back to Turkey. Ahmad got the job at the hospital.’
‘Why does Ahmad worry about leaving Shaza with you, Mrs Qabbani?’
‘Shadya couldn’t swim. She was a quiet girl, well-behaved. Not so physical. Shaza could. She was always more…active. When the boat tipped I reached for Shadya but Shaza grabbed me instead and Shadya was gone. I told Ahmad that night what had happened. He thought I blamed Shaza for Shadya’s death. I couldn’t believe he would think that of me. I stopped speaking or going out. Most of the time I am OK. I can care for Shaza. Some days the blackness comes and I need to be alone.’
‘You say the blackness comes. Does your husband also suffer from what happened?’
‘Yes. When we arrived in London, the captain on the ship was very nice. He wanted to help us. My husband had such terrible nightmares and shaking; he couldn’t control it. The captain paid for my husband to see a psychiatrist. He gave Ahmad some breathing exercises and he carries a photo with him, a photo of me and Shaza. It is supposed to help him, to bring him back to the present. There are pills but he won’t take them. It never goes away.’
‘Why did your husband hide from people here the fact that he was a doctor in Syria?’
‘He is a proud man, even after all that has happened to us. And he didn’t want pity from people, I think. Much better to just be doing the job he has and doing it properly.’
‘What do you say to the people in this country who have accused you and your husband of being parasites, of biting the hand that feeds you?’
‘My country Syria was a beautiful country. It is a beautiful country; it’s just that the beauty is covered up with a big, grey blanket and I’m not sure when we will see it again. We had a beautiful life there. We didn’t want to leave. We had to leave. We will never forget that England has given us a home. Ahmad and I, we can’t contribute so much; it’s always this way for refugees. Everything is so different from our way. But our daughter and the sons and daughters of all who came with us, they will always remember the kindness of the people, their humanity. I hope my daughter will be a doctor like her father. Then she can help people here too.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Qabbani. No more questions.’
‘Mr Chambers?’
Andy Chambers shook his head to indicate he would not question Aisha, all the time staring hard at Ahmad.
Aisha rose slowly and descended from the witness box. She had only taken three steps across the floor of the court when the back doors opened and Shaza came barrelling towards her with a police officer in pursuit. She raced towards her mother but then, on seeing the judge and all the other people, she skidded to a halt. The police officer stopped too, and Aisha put out her hand to rein her daughter in.
The public gallery erupted and Judge Seymour was forced to bang his gavel, but to little effect.
‘Your honour, can my learned friend and I approach the bench?’ Judith fought to be heard over the noise.
‘Yes. Good idea,’ Judge Seymour replied.
‘Your honour. There is now no evidence against my client other than a single hair from his head and he has explained how it might have found its way onto Mrs Hennessy’s clothing. And this has been endorsed by none other than the expert for the prosecution. There is nothing else to link my client to the murders any more than any other person working in the hospital. The rings, the “curious behaviour”, as my learned friend liked to call it, we now know its tragic origin; the misogynistic literature, all found to be nonsense or easily explained. There is only one course open to your honour.’
‘Mr Chambers?’
‘I will have to take instructions but I suspect the prosecution will withdraw the case.’
‘You suspect?’
‘I will need to take instructions overnight.’
‘Oh no!’ Judith’s hackles were raised. ‘You can’t possibly let this family go through one more night of hell because of your desire to control the fallout from this ridiculous circus.’ She allowed her voice to rise loud enough for the microphones to pick it up. A hush fell over the courtroom.
Mr Justice Seymour chewed the end of his pen. Judith had drawn herself up to her full height, nostrils flaring wildly before him. In contrast, Mr Chambers was red-faced and shrunken. But Judith had rejected the deal he had offered first thing this morning, and now everything would be so much more public.
He mused things over again. He wasn’t stupid. This is what Judith had wanted for her client. A very public acquittal – and before her client was cross-examined by Andy Chambers. And he didn’t like that; he didn’t like being manipulated. But he also disliked the very public humiliation he himself had endured after his last murder trial, and it was clear where the public’s sympathies would lie once the court journalists had had their say.
He turned his attention to Ahmad, who was standing in the dock, tears pouring down his cheeks, Shaza calling to him from the floor of the court, unable to extract herself from the vice-like grip of her mother and the police officer.
‘Dr Qabbani.’ The judge was firm but not unkind.
‘Officers, please take the handcuffs off Dr Qabbani. I am sure he is quieter now.
‘Dr Qabbani, I rule that there is insufficient evidence against you for this trial to continue. In fact, the evidence was so flimsy in the first place that I venture to suggest it should never have been brought. Members of the jury, thank you for your patience but you will not need to rule on this case today or, indeed, at all. You are discharged. Dr Qabbani, you are free to go.’
And he banged his gavel once, stood up and left the court.
The police officers uncuffed Ahmad slowly and Aisha and Shaza ran to him and embraced, Shaza repeatedly kissing his cheek.
‘We could walk out the front if you like,’ Constance was at Ahmad’s side asking him what he wanted to do next, ‘give a formal statement to the press?’ Ahmad stroked Shaza’s hair, hugged Aisha close, then he shook his head.
‘We go quietly,’ he said, ‘please, Constance. We just want to go home.’
PART FOUR
59
Inspector Dawson sat in his office with the blinds down. Constance and Judith sat opposite him. He had invited them in without giving any reason.
‘Thank you both for coming. You know, Judith, I didn’t think your guy did it. But there were no other suspects.’
Judith and Constance waited. They knew Dawson would get to the point eventually and Judith didn’t want to embark on a conversation based on recriminations.
‘The mayor has asked for a formal apology to be made to your client,’ he said.
‘I see.’
‘He wants me, as the officer leading the investigation, to make a statement on television. I have written something out. Would you take a shufty at what I prepared?’
He handed a piece of paper to Judith who read it quickly and handed it back.
‘Make whatever statement you like. I’m sure you know what to say. Are you any closer to finding out what really happened?’
‘I can’t say.’
Judith leaned forward. ‘Charlie. This investigation was flawed from the start. We helped you save an innocent man from a grave miscarriage of justice. Now, we do want to feel reassured that the investigation is progressing expeditiously and along the right lines.’
‘Dr Mahmood, Dr Wolf and Dr Bridges have fully cooperated with the police.’
‘Oh come on, spill the beans Charlie.’<
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‘All right. Just high level. Wolf didn’t erase the consent form. Dr Bridges did. The Trust didn’t want it to come out that St Marks was trialling the robot.’
‘Why?’
‘They were worried about a law suit and how complicated it might be if it involved new technology.’
‘Ha! Hilarious!’ Judith quipped. ‘They don’t mind throwing their human employees to the lions but they want to protect their robots. That’s loyalty for you.’
‘But why did Dr Bridges do it?’ Constance asked.
‘She says she was instructed to ensure that any evidence mentioning Aladdin should disappear. She felt comfortable that Aladdin was nothing to do with Mrs Hennessy’s death, so she did as she was told. Her log-in was down so she used her husband’s.’
‘Hmm. All this anonymous ‘Trust’ stuff is very convenient,’ Judith complained.
‘And Dr Mahmood?’ Constance asked.
‘He is the one who asked Dr Bridges to delete the form. A Ms Lucy Farmer in the Risk team instructed him as head of the team. He then instructed Dr Bridges. Dr Wolf didn’t know about it, which I am told is what he said in court. The evidence of the three doctors ties up.’
‘And…’
‘And what?’
Constance pouted. ‘So we know why the consent form was deleted. To hide the fact that Aladdin was involved in Mrs Hennessy’s operation. Big deal. Dr Wolf told us in court that it was involved. I thought you were going to say you knew who killed Mrs Hennessy. The killer may still be out there.’
‘We have all we need, Connie,’ Judith said. ‘We had it the moment Ahmad walked free. We can’t help everyone. She was probably depressed; lived alone, couldn’t paint any more, husband getting remarried to a younger woman, estranged from her son. Maybe, like Charlie said to you at the beginning, she decided to end it all. Let me know when you’re going to be broadcasting the apology, Charlie, so we can make sure everyone sees it.’
60
Tracy was sitting in her kitchen, with a mug of coffee in her hand. Before her, on the worktop, were two official letters. On the left, was the long-awaited formal letter from Ealing Primary, confirming ‘with great pleasure’ the offer of the position of Head of Key Stage 2, starting in September, together with responsibility for child protection. The new salary was an extra £5,000. If she and Pete were very careful with money, she could probably pay off her personal debts by next spring.
She still felt keenly the guilt of having attended the interview on the afternoon of Thursday the 11th of May, the day her mother died. But she had been up against a male competitor and she had feared that cancelling at the last minute would count against her. It has to be said that her remorse was not sufficient to make her contemplate turning down the job.
On the right, was a curt letter from Indis Insurance, advising that Pete had been seen undertaking a whole range of strenuous physical activities at Barbara’s funeral, and that, as a result, no further sums would be due from his insurance policy. They had the right to sue or go to the Insurance Ombudsman if they were dissatisfied with the decision.
While she had cried when she first opened the Indis letter, now she was being philosophical. Pete’s histrionics over the last year had worn her down. She thought they should accept the decision and move on with their lives. She wanted to be able to walk down the street with Pete, without him glancing over his shoulder every five paces. And if he wasn’t worried about surveillance, he could take another job too.
She knew now that if she wanted to inherit her cool one million pounds she could either put off the distribution as long as possible, in the hope they could pay off the debt in time, or the only other real alternative was a divorce; Brian’s throwaway line had been endorsed by her own lawyer. If it came to the crunch – and she desperately hoped it would not – Pete would understand, she was sure of it. They could get remarried a respectable amount of time afterwards for no one to smell a rat. Elizabeth Taylor had done it. Tracy couldn’t give up the life-changing money because of the mess Pete had got into. She just needed to find the right time to bring this up for discussion; that was all.
But then, as she nudged the two letters and shuffled them around the table top, she had a further thought. Clearly, the person who had ‘shopped’ Pete knew more than a little about their family and had almost certainly attended her mother’s funeral. It may well be the same person who had ‘tipped off’ Trading Standards to raid Joe’s showroom. And, as she sat and reflected on the tragic events of the last three months, one person’s face came into her mind: Brian.
Tracy shook her head. She was being silly. Brian was a plodding, nit-picking lawyer and he had no reason to wish her or Joe ill, although he had been cross with Joe for lying to him, she knew that. And the nature of his relationship with her mother was also unclear. She wondered if she should call Inspector Dawson and mention Brian, although the police had proved singularly unimpressive so far, and decidedly absent since the end of the trial. But as she sat there, evaluating and pondering and sipping at her steaming drink, she realised that there was someone else who might be interested in her predicament and prepared to help her out. She scrolled through the contacts on her phone until she found Constance’s number.
* * *
Brian was sitting in his office. Every thirty seconds or so, his head would jerk around to check that the portrait, the wondrous portrait, painted with flair by his favourite former client, forever in his thoughts, was truly hanging on the wall behind him. He thought of Barbara often now, and his thoughts were warm, all bitterness vanquished. Barbara sitting opposite him in this same office, Barbara meeting him in the park when her children were still young and tearing around, Barbara in that red dress in Spain.
He was contemplating retiring in the next couple of months. In fact, he had asked his accountant to check over the figures and do some projections, and his secretary to ensure that she chased all outstanding bills, especially those more than sixty days old. Maybe he would try Spain; the climate was so warm and the people friendly and he had picked up a few words from his previous trip.
He heard a light step on the stairs and stood at the knock of his latest client. Perhaps he shouldn’t have accepted her request; he had almost decided not to take on anyone new. But this woman had sounded interesting, and her reference to ‘foreign investments’ had piqued his interest.
Judith entered Brian’s room, replete with headscarf and dark glasses. Once she was seated, she removed both smartly. Brian gulped. He had no idea why Judith had come, but he sensed it was not to ask him for legal advice.
‘Hello, Mr Bateman. Or can I call you Brian?’
‘Brian, please.’
‘I’m Judith Burton. You may remember me from the Qabbani trial.’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
‘Oh good. That makes things a lot easier. I’m sorry I didn’t give my real name when I rang. I was worried you wouldn’t want to see me and I do have something important to talk about. Oh!’ Judith’s shriek disconcerted Brian, until he realised that she was staring at his picture.
‘What a fabulous portrait!’ she cooed.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Was it painted by anyone famous?’
‘Barbara Hennessy painted it,’ he muttered. Judith beamed at him.
‘Could be quite valuable then, in the circumstances. I’ll get straight to the point, should I?’ she said. ‘Let’s begin with your Cayman Islands trust.’
‘Ah!’
‘It’s the ultimate beneficiary in Mrs Hennessy’s will and in a number of other wills prepared by you for your clients.’
‘How do you know what’s in Barbara’s will?’
‘Tracy Jones sent me a copy, via Miss Lamb, my instructing solicitor. You may remember her from the trial too. Tracy is in rather a pickle working out how to comply with all those conditions you put in the will.
Poor woman, not only has she lost her mother, she’s even contemplating losing her husband now. After I read it, I thought we really needed to speak.’
‘It’s a confidential document, the will. She shouldn’t have shared it.’
‘She also told Miss Lamb that someone, who had attended Barbara’s funeral, had written to the insurance company handling her husband’s personal injury claim, insisting that her husband is fit and sprightly and that, as a result, his policy won’t pay up. Any idea who that might have been?’
Brian was silent, but Judith detected a trace of a smile; he couldn’t hide his pride at that part of his scheme bearing fruit.
‘And that Trading Standards raided her brother Joseph’s car showroom recently, on the basis of an anonymous tip off. She is wondering, as am I, if it was someone close to the family who was responsible for both those unusual occurrences.’
‘What is it precisely that you want?’
‘Well, that isn’t the extent of your involvement, is it, this whistle-blowing activity? I would never have thought of you as a violent man, but do you want to tell me how it happened or should I ask Inspector Dawson to come and join us?’
Brian said nothing but he ground his teeth.
‘Why don’t you make things better and explain things, from your side?’
Brian’s glasses slipped off and fell onto his lap and then to the floor. He picked them up and placed them on the table.
‘I’m sure you’ll feel better once you’ve got things off your chest.’
‘All right,’ he replied angrily. ‘I asked an enquiry agent to do some digging around Tracy and Joseph. I accept that I shouldn’t have trusted a man I had never met before with such sensitive tasks but I did not tell him to take the law into his own hands and damage that man’s property. I just gave him the article and asked him to find out where Mr Qabbani lived. Naturally, he, like me, was upset by what he read and he unfortunately responded in a very basic way. But no one was hurt. And all I did with Tracy and her ne’er-do-well brother was tell the truth, and no one can criticise me for that.’