Next to Die

by Neil White

  He opened his eyes when Gina came into the room.

  Gina’s office was two floors above, in the old roof space, squeezed below the sloping timbers with all the law clerks. She was there to keep an eye on them, to report back on who was really interested in impressing, or who was just seeing out a training contract. Sometimes the noisy and the brash get noticed the most, but it was the ones who did the billable hours that the firm would keep on.

  ‘How was Ronnie Bagley?’ Gina said, leaning against the door jamb.

  Joe tapped his fingers on the desk for a few seconds and then said, ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You think you might have an innocent one?’

  ‘I always believe that they might be.’

  ‘That’s one of your failings. You’re always looking for the client who will redeem you, because you saved him, proof that the system isn’t just about people getting away with it.’

  ‘And you’ve still too much of the ex-copper in you.’ He sighed. ‘None of that matters when they look at the figures, does it? We will decide what is best for Ronnie, and we get paid along the way.’

  ‘That’s the game, Joe. That’s what you keep telling me. And I’ve spoken to the prosecution. They’ve got some more papers for us. What you were given in court was just a summary. They’re arriving by courier later, so you can read them before tomorrow.’

  ‘Call me when they arrive. I’m going to draft Monica in on it.’

  ‘I thought you might.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Gina laughed. ‘Come on, Joe, I’ve seen how you look at her. I can’t blame you. She’s a pretty young woman.’

  ‘I don’t look at her in any way,’ Joe said, a blush creeping up his cheeks.

  ‘I’m a woman, Joe. I know how men look at other women. Just promise me one thing: don’t make a fool of yourself,’ and then she turned to walk away.

  He didn’t answer that. He just looked away as the door closed slowly, listening as Gina’s footsteps receded faintly down the corridor.

  Joe turned in his chair to look out of the window. Monica was on a bench eating some salad in a plastic tray, a book open in front of her, her hand constantly pushing her hair back behind her ears as she dipped her head to eat, so that it was like a routine, her fork going to her mouth and then her hair teased back, and then it would fall forward again as she looked down to her tray. Joe smiled to himself. He had enjoyed her company during the day.

  She looked up and he pulled his head back quickly, panicking that she might see him watching, not wanting her to get the wrong idea. He closed his eyes. It was his window, with a good view, so everything was normal.

  Joe eased himself back in front of the window, and he saw that she was on her feet now, walking across to a litter bin, her food finished.

  He was about to turn away again, but then something attracted his attention. He leaned closer to the window and scoured the park. Then he saw it. It was a man sitting on a bench further along from Monica. He looked smart, in a blue V-neck and grey slacks, his hair parted neatly. But it wasn’t his clothes that had caught Joe’s attention. It was the way he was looking at Monica.

  No, that wasn’t right. It wasn’t just that he was looking at her. He was studying her. He was sitting bolt upright, with his hands on his knees, his head turned towards her, watching as she put her food in the bin and started her walk back to the office.

  Joe kept watch on him as Monica went through the park gate and crossed the road to the office. As she skipped up the office steps, the click of her heels reaching up through the open window, the man got to his feet and walked away.

  Thirteen

  Joe noticed the silence as he clicked the door closed in his apartment. No tick of a clock or the sound of conversation from another room. There were noises from elsewhere in the building – the mumbles of a television from the apartment above, and someone was shouting a few doors down – but his home had none of that.

  He was carrying a box filled with papers, Ronnie’s file, sent over from the prosecution an hour earlier. It was no way to spend his birthday.

  He walked through to the living room and put the box on the floor. The low evening sun flooded in as he opened the blinds. The apartment was sleek and minimalist, although more by accident than design. He wasn’t interested in decorative clutter. A sofa. A television. A computer. It was all he needed, because it was the view that he came home for.

  The apartment was in Castlefields, once the heart of the industrial revolution, the hub of what had built England, where waterways and railways converged, with the end point for the world’s first industrial canal, the stopping point for the cotton sent over from the Deep South, unloaded at Liverpool and sent along the canals to the Pennine towns that stretched all the way into Yorkshire, where deep green valleys became choked by smoke, and moorland grasses were replaced by long stretches of terraced housing, like deep gashes across the countryside. The history had created a landscape of reclaimed warehouses and wharf buildings, some of it new but built to the same design, to blend in, but a lot of it was the modern crammed into the old, creating a beautiful knot of water, brick and steel all built on the footprint of the Roman fort of Mancunium. The city centre and busy roads were just on the other side of the apartment block, but his view was the tranquil stillness of canal water and pleasure barges, two willow trees gently sweeping at the surface, the calm disturbed only by the rumble of the trams as they went back and forth over the viaducts.

  Manchester had been built on textiles, but it had been a tough upbringing. The city had grown too quickly, meaning people had been crammed into small houses, a family to a room, sometimes more, so that for a while the whole city choked on fumes and human debris, the streets nothing more than a network of slums and factories that killed its inhabitants too young, cholera thinning the population. Joe knew it as a proud city though. The squalor had grown the labour movement and the Manchester people had almost starved when they supported the cotton blockade of the Southern States during the American Civil War. They knew what was right and stood up for it. The mills and factories were gone now, and the few that remained were just brick shells used for art studios and craft fairs, but it was that mindset that had framed Joe’s upbringing.

  It was the canal that had drawn Joe to the apartment. He enjoyed evenings on his small balcony, watching the sunset shimmer across the water, the murky water gleaming as the light caught it.

  He opened his fridge and found a sauvignon blanc, the product of an internet wine club he had joined a few months before and hadn’t bothered to leave. The swish of the balcony door as he opened it brought in the sound of early evening. The clink of glasses and sound of laughter from the open restaurant in Catalan Square on the other side of the canal mixed in with the creak and squeal of the tram wheels.

  He poured himself a glass and then went back for Ronnie’s file.

  As he set the box down on the balcony, he picked up his glass to toast it. ‘Happy birthday,’ he said, and then sat down, pausing to take a sip.

  He let the late-evening warmth bathe him for a moment, knowing that he would lose it soon, because once he started to read he would become immersed in the case. It was always the way, that he thought of nothing else but winning. It didn’t matter what type of case, from a minor fight to a murder like this one. It was the result that counted.

  There was a buzz on the intercom. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He thought about not answering, but then curiosity got the better of him. He went back inside to the panel, and when he pressed the button, he heard his brother’s voice, Sam.

  ‘Joe, it’s me. You can’t have your birthday alone.’

  Joe wondered whether to answer. He guessed that Sam wasn’t there for his birthday, and that it was about what had happened earlier, when he hadn’t gone to Ellie’s grave with him. But Ellie’s memory had been with him all day, and so it was good to hear a voice from the family.

  He pressed the button to let Sam into the buildi
ng and then opened his apartment door to let him walk right in.

  Joe returned to the balcony. When Sam appeared, he was holding some beer cans, smiling.

  ‘Happy birthday. Again.’

  ‘I don’t normally get all this.’

  ‘We parted badly earlier,’ he said. ‘I thought I should try to make amends.’

  Sam pulled a can from the ring and offered it to Joe, who held up his wine glass and said, ‘I’ve got this.’

  ‘I thought you were a beer drinker,’ Sam said, looking at the can in his hand and then at the wine glass.

  ‘I am, but I like a glass of wine sometimes.’

  Sam sat down on the chair opposite and put the cans on the floor. He tried to slot the can back into the ring, and Joe watched amused. Once the four-pack was reassembled, Sam frowned and said, ‘You’re changing.’

  ‘People do.’

  Sam looked at the view and then back at the wine glass. ‘You can’t reinvent yourself, Joe.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘This,’ Sam said. ‘Apartment on the canal, wine, like you’re some kind of city sophisticate. You’re just like me, from the same bland part of the city, our family trashed. This isn’t you.’

  ‘You’re turning my booze preference into a class war,’ Joe said. ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Sam said. ‘Is that why you wouldn’t come to the grave today? You’re moving onwards and upwards, leaving us behind.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Joe said. The smile disappeared. He could feel the darkness tugging at him. Ellie. A woodland path.

  ‘I just think our family should matter more,’ Sam said.

  ‘It does matter, it’s just that…’ and then Joe paused. There were too many things he carried around with himself, a secret he couldn’t share with Sam. ‘I had to be somewhere. It’s work, Sam. It’s what I do. It pays my bills.’

  Sam sighed. ‘I worry about Mum. And Ruby. Mum can’t cope with her. She goes out all the time, doesn’t do her homework, and Mum just ignores it, because she can’t stomach the fight.’

  ‘Should we speak to her?’ Joe said. ‘Teenagers left to make their own decisions get into trouble, and I don’t want to get called out to the police station for her.’

  ‘Yes, I think we should.’

  Joe let the silence grow as Sam looked out over the water. There was something troubling him. Finally Sam said, ‘Talking to Ruby would make a change from talking to a murderer, I suppose. That must sit heavily, after what happened to Ellie.’

  Joe took another sip of wine. There it was, the reason for the visit. ‘You said “murderer”.’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Do you mean Ronnie Bagley?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Sam sat back. ‘Why was he more important than your family today, so that you had to squeeze us in before a prison visit?’

  ‘It’s not a competition,’ Joe said, and put down his glass. ‘How did you know I’m involved in Ronnie’s case?’

  Sam looked surprised by that. ‘Well, you are, aren’t you?’

  ‘From today I am, but how did you find out?’

  Sam didn’t answer at first, and so Joe waited, knowing that Sam would fill the silence.

  ‘Someone mentioned it at the station,’ Sam said eventually. ‘They asked me what was going on.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘Nothing. What else could I say? I don’t know anything about your cases.’

  ‘How did they say it to you? The last I heard, you were on the financial unit, shuffling papers. So what was it? An email, or a phone call? Or just whispers in the canteen?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘I’m not stupid, Sam. I’ve had one court hearing and a prison visit and you find out, when I can’t think of any reason why you should. So why? Is my involvement making people nervous, because I get results?’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody arrogant.’

  ‘Or is there something about the case that you don’t want people finding out?’

  ‘Now you’re being ridiculous. Someone just mentioned that you had picked up the case, that’s all. You being my brother is a conversation piece, something to say when you pass people in the corridor.’

  Joe didn’t respond. Sam wasn’t going to reveal anything.

  ‘I don’t know how you can do it anyway,’ Sam said.

  ‘If you’re saying what I think you are, we’ve had this conversation before.’

  ‘It still needs saying. You defend murderers and rapists and thieves and fraudsters. How can you do that? How can you go to sleep at night, knowing the people you help keep on the streets?’

  Joe closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  The question bored him. It was the one all defence lawyers got, especially from the police. His answer changed, depending on who was doing the asking. Sometimes he gave the truthful answer, that he thought that it was a mark of civilisation that people could have a fair trial, because the crook would be convicted if there is proof, regardless of what he did. The police had to follow rules, just like everyone else did, and the rules gave everything order. Other times, he went for the shock value and said that he didn’t care, that it was fun, rocking the system, but he didn’t really think like that. Cases did keep him awake sometimes, when he had to walk past the families of the victims when the person who took away someone precious walked free, but those were the exception. As much as he tried, most of his clients took a long walk down the cold steps, and some would never walk back up them to the harsh blink of freedom.

  But this was Sam asking.

  ‘You mean how could I do it after Ellie?’ Joe said, and his thoughts flashed back again to fifteen years earlier, sitting there surrounded by birthday cards, 18 Today banners pinned up around the living room, the house filled with police officers and the sound of his mother’s screams.

  ‘He’s still out there,’ Sam said, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the table, a sign of his agitation. ‘And when he’s caught, he’ll get someone like you to help him get away with it.’

  Joe didn’t respond at first. There were secrets he had kept for fifteen years, and it was too late to change things now.

  He took another sip of wine, a longer one this time. ‘I don’t have to defend myself,’ he said. ‘I’m beyond all that. I just help people.’

  ‘What do you think Dad would say if he knew?’

  Joe turned to him, anger flashing in his eyes. ‘That’s a low blow, and you know it.’ When Sam responded only by looking at the floor, Joe said, ‘It’s time for you to go.’

  ‘What, we can’t enjoy a birthday drink together?’

  ‘You didn’t come here for that.’

  Sam looked at him, stern-faced. ‘If that’s how you want it.’

  Joe kept his gaze focused on the water as Sam scraped his chair back.

  ‘Don’t leave your family behind,’ Sam said, and then his footsteps faded as he went through the apartment.

  When he heard the apartment door close, Joe reached across and took a beer can from the holder. When he popped the ring pull, he raised it in salute. ‘Happy birthday, Joe Parker.’

  The evening was spent lost in paperwork, and it was nearly eleven before he took the box back inside. The beer was gone, as was the wine, and the wobble he felt as he walked back in told him that he would feel the booze in the morning.

  The case was just as he had first gleaned from Ronnie – that it was conjecture and guesswork, because Carrie and Grace’s bodies hadn’t been found – but the evidence was stronger than Ronnie hoped.

  Ronnie and Carrie lived on the ground floor of a tall Victorian house, with stone-silled bay windows and stained glass around the front door. The crime scene photographs made it look grim and cramped, with just one bedroom, Grace’s cot in one corner, squeezed in alongside the double bed. The other main room was the living room, with a kitchen beyond, the bathroom just a small room at the other end of the ki
tchen. The doors were plain and flat, the paint on them bubbled at the bottom, the white now a dirty cream.

  The living room was dingy, everything in brown shades, the light provided by a window opposite the fireplace, although they looked like they were cleaned rarely, with dust and cobwebs on the outside. The carpet was faded brown swirls, with worn out patches from the door. Carrie had made some effort to make the flat look nice, with some flowers in a vase on an old dresser, although the varnish on the wood was cracked and old. There were photographs of a young baby Grace in clip-frames, but the pictures looked dulled by cigarette smoke even though Grace was only two years old. The ashtrays were piled high with old butts, and in the bin in the corner of the room there was the neck of a vodka bottle, the red label just visible.

  The crime scene investigator had been thorough. The flat surfaces of the doors made for good fingerprints and acted like a blank canvas for the blood splatters. The attack had started at the entrance to the bedroom, because there were smears on the door, as if someone had made a bad job of cleaning up. It was the same on the fireplace, with contact marks and then tiny spatters that were consistent with Carrie’s head being banged on the granite hearth. The landlord’s statement was graphic, making the argument seem beyond the routine bickering they normally engaged in. The prosecution case was simple: Ronnie had killed Carrie in their apartment and then removed her, dumping her somewhere. They just didn’t know where he had taken her, or his daughter. If they found Carrie, they expected to find Grace buried alongside her.

  And then there was the visit to the police station, when Ronnie walked in and said that he had killed his girlfriend. That gave Ronnie a problem. All the jurors needed to believe was that Ronnie killed her. The lack of a body was a problem, but juries don’t like to let killers go free.