Bleed For Me (joseph o'loughlin)

by Michael Robotham

  ‘What happened to Guilfoyle?’

  ‘He got twelve years for the glassing.’

  ‘He was a juvenile.’

  ‘Doesn’t make much difference in the States.’

  I study each of the photographs. It’s like watching a Hollywood make-up artist transform an actor, putting on a prosthetic mask, altering their age and features. Only Guilfoyle’s eyes have stayed the same, rimmed with a quivering energy. I remember how he looked at Sienna’s photograph, committing her face, her hair, her budding body to memory. I could smell his aftershave and something else, crawling beneath.

  ‘Ever heard of the Aryan Brotherhood?’

  ‘The white prison gang.’

  ‘They make up one per cent of the US prison population and they commit nearly a quarter of the prison murders. That’s where Guilfoyle got his tattoos - the teardrops are supposed to signify a kill.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A black guy called Walter Baylor. Carl shanked him in a meal queue in front of a hundred and forty-seven witnesses - and nobody saw a thing. That’s the thing with the Brotherhood. People seem to suffer collective amnesia and mass blindness whenever anything happens inside.’

  ‘Are there any links between Guilfoyle and the men on trial?’

  ‘The Aryan Brotherhood has been associated with Combat 18, the armed wing of a British neo-Nazi organisation called Blood and Honour. The eighteen comes from the first and eighth letters of the alphabet: Adolf Hitler’s initials. C18 was formed in the early nineties as a breakaway group from the BNP after certain members became disillusioned with the party going soft on the armed struggle and focusing instead on politics.

  ‘This breakaway group launched a string of attacks on immigrants and ethnic minorities, but most of the ringleaders were rounded up a decade ago during an undercover operation by Scotland Yard and MI5. Some of them were serving British soldiers.

  ‘Tony Scott was a member of Combat 18. When it was broken up in the nineties it fractured into splinter groups, but managed to survive, linking itself with racist organisations in Russia, Germany and America.’

  ‘Groups like the Aryan Brotherhood?’

  ‘Exactly. They also set up chapters in cities like Belfast where some of the former Loyalist paramilitaries were quite sympathetic to the racist agenda.’

  ‘Brennan grew up in Belfast.’

  ‘He and Guilfoyle lived only a few streets from each other.’

  Cray closes the folder and locks it in her filing cabinet.

  ‘So they could have known each other?’

  ‘MI5 has run a check on Guilfoyle. He and Brennan were on the streets of Belfast at roughly the same time, but they were never arrested together or linked.’

  A WPC knocks on the office door and hands Cray a DVD. Putting the disk into a machine, The DCI presses a remote and a TV screen illuminates. She hits fast forward. Stop. Play.

  ‘This was taken outside Annie Robinson’s place.’

  The time code on screen says 15.24.07. The blurred figure in the frame is wearing a hooded sweatshirt or a parka, walking away from the camera. It could be a man or a woman. Carrying something.

  Thirty yards along the road, the person climbs three steps and presses a buzzer. What button? Lower half. Nothing clearer. The door unlocks. Someone must have released it.

  Cray presses fast-forward again. The time code says 15.26.02. The same person on the street again, head bowed, this time walking towards the camera. I can only see the hood and empty hands.

  ‘That’s what I hate about the morons who install security cameras,’ says Cray. ‘They get the angles all wrong. This is next to useless.’

  Rewinding, she runs through the footage again. A left hand reaches out for the buzzer. The right hand holds a waxed paper bag.

  ‘How far off the ground is that intercom panel?’ I ask.

  ‘Standard height.’

  ‘How tall does that make him?’

  ‘It depends on the focal length of the lens and how far they’re standing from the wall. A photographer could tell us.’

  Pressing fast-forward, the DCI advances to the second lot of footage, taken by a different CCTV camera.

  ‘This was taken two blocks away on Warminster Road.’

  A silver Ford Focus is on screen, heading away from the camera.

  ‘We can’t get a number - the plates are obscured.’

  She presses eject and glances at her watch. It’s one o’clock.

  ‘How’s Sienna?’

  ‘Holding up.’

  Cray turns back to the window. An unlit cigarette dangles from her fingers.

  ‘I want to take Sienna out of here. We’ll sneak her into the Crown Court. Quietly. Let her see the jury foreman.’

  ‘And then what?’

  The detective doesn’t answer. Maybe she doesn’t know. Shifting slowly, she grabs her coat and opens her office door.

  ‘First we have to cut Gordon Ellis loose. See where the rabbit runs.’

  The hospital receptionist has a voice like an automated message.

  ‘Are you family?’

  ‘No, I’m a friend.’

  ‘Details are only available to family.’

  ‘I just want to know if she’s OK.’

  ‘What is the patient’s name?’

  ‘Annie Robinson. She was brought in last night.’

  ‘Her condition is listed as stable.’

  I stop her before she hangs up. ‘Does she have any family?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Is there anyone with her?’

  The receptionist makes a decision and her tone softens. ‘Her mother and father arrived a while back. They’re with her now.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Hanging up, I feel a mixture of relief and guilt. Everything I do nowadays seems to have untoward consequences. I expect my bad decisions to have downsides but even my good calls are starting to look shaky. Small things, details I pick up almost instinctively, are beginning to elude me. I should have recognised Sienna’s vulnerability. I should have warned Annie about Gordon Ellis.

  Next I call Julianne.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ she asks.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Charlie said Vincent had to bring her home.’

  ‘I got held up. Annie Robinson is in hospital . . . it’s a long story.’

  There is a pause. I want her to say something, to tell me what she’s thinking. Instead she says, ‘I have to go. I’m due in court.’

  I have time to make one more call. Ruiz rattles off twenty questions, talking in a kind of police shorthand.

  ‘Is the dyke looking after you?’

  ‘She’s on our side. I need another favour.’

  ‘How many you got left?’

  ‘Keep an eye on Julianne. She’s in court today.’

  ‘What about the Crying Man?’

  ‘His name is Carl Guilfoyle. They’ve just issued a warrant for his arrest.’

  The footpath outside Trinity Road has become a makeshift media centre for dozens of photographers, reporters and TV crews. There are outside broadcast vans parked in the street and takeaway coffee cups lying crumpled in the gutter.

  I’m halfway across the foyer when Natasha Ellis appears in front of me. Dressed in black, her lips bloodless and thin, she looks like a legal secretary with her hair pulled back severely and her eyebrows arching in complaint.

  ‘Why are you doing this to us?’ she demands, hatred filling her tiny frame.

  I try to step around her. She moves with me.

  ‘That little bitch is lying. Gordon never touched her.’

  ‘Don’t make things worse, Natasha. I know what Gordon did to you.’

  ‘You know nothing about me.’

  Twisted in anger, her face no longer pretty or pleasant.

  ‘I know that he groomed you as a schoolgirl. I know that he got rid of his first wife so he could marry you. I think you know it too.’

  ‘How dare you patronise me!’

>   ‘I apologise if I gave that impression.’

  ‘It’s not an impression.’

  ‘I’m sorry just the same.’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  She turns, stumbling on her high heels, before correcting herself. I have no antidote for her distress. Her life is crumbling around her and she can’t do anything except watch.

  Moments later, Gordon appears, flanked by his lawyer. Natasha throws her arms around her husband’s neck and he peels them away. They have reached the main doors. The lawyer tries to cover Gordon with a coat, but the schoolteacher brushes it aside.

  ‘I’ve got nothing to hide,’ he mutters.

  More than thirty reporters, photographers and television crews are waiting outside. Clicking shutters and camera flashes greet Gordon’s every footstep, gesture and facial expression. When he brushes his fringe from his eyes, when he tries to smile, when he puts his arm around Natasha.

  Beyond the media scrum, I see a separate crowd of bystanders who have come to watch, having heard the news on TV or radio or Twitter. Among them are girls in school uniforms. Gordon takes a piece of paper from his pocket, smoothing it between his fingers. Clearing his throat, he smiles with a boyish shyness. The cameras respond with a fuselage of clicks and whirs.

  ‘Firstly I want to say that I have devoted nearly fifteen years of my life to teaching and I cherish every child that I have taught. I am being victimised here. I am being hounded. I am being punished for caring too much.’ He pauses, composing himself. ‘I have a lovely wife and a son. I would never do anything to embarrass them or hurt them.’

  The quake in his voice, his sense of disbelief, the hurt in his eyes, all seem genuine.

  A reporter yells a question: ‘Did you sexually assault a student?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why has she made a complaint?’

  ‘I think she has been coerced and coached by a psychologist who recently assaulted me and has been charged by the police. Professor Joseph O’Loughlin has launched a vendetta against me. He has threatened and harassed my wife.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ asks a reporter.

  ‘You should ask him that.’

  Another journalist shouts louder than the rest. ‘Are you standing by your husband, Mrs Ellis?’

  Natasha nods.

  ‘So you’re saying this girl is lying?’

  Gordon answers. ‘The girl who has made these allegations is a very troubled teenager with a history of cutting herself. She is also accused of a serious crime and could be trying to deflect attention from herself.’

  ‘Why would she blame you?’

  ‘She developed an infatuation. She stalked me.’

  More questions are shouted. ‘Was she your babysitter? Did she ever travel in your car? Were you ever alone with her?

  A female reporter yells, ‘Is it true she was pregnant?’

  Gordon stammers.

  ‘Did you try to arrange an abortion for her?’

  The atmosphere has subtly altered and Gordon’s contrived façade is beginning to crack. This has become a blood sport and the hounds are baying.

  A photograph appears in his hand. ‘This is my son, Billy. He’s my joy. I love children. I would never do anything to hurt a child.’

  It’s an appeal for understanding rather than a defence. In the beat of silence that follows it’s clear he hasn’t swayed his audience. His lawyer tries to intervene but the questions keep coming.

  ‘What happened to your first wife, Mr Ellis?’

  ‘Were you suspected of her murder?’

  ‘Why did you change your name?’

  Gordon blinks at the cameras - out of words. Pushing past the photographers and reporters, he manages to cross the flagged concrete path to a waiting car. The crowd has swelled, almost blocking the road.

  ‘We love you, Mr Ellis!’ yells one of the teenage girls, triggering a chorus. ‘We believe you.’

  Gordon stops, squares his shoulders and gives them a grateful smile. The girls squeal as though acknowledged by a film star.

  The car pulls away. Photographers run alongside, shooting through the tinted windows. Natasha Ellis has covered her face. Gordon defiantly sticks out his jaw.

  Ronnie Cray appears alongside me, lighting a cigarette and exhaling.

  ‘He acted like a rock star and they treated him like a scumbag. That’s how life balances itself out.’

  ‘You briefed the reporters.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’

  49

  There are three unmarked cars and two motorcycles following Gordon Ellis. Neither too old nor too new, the vehicles blend in with the traffic and constantly change positions.

  Safari Roy is two-up in the lead vehicle, dressed like a businessman on his way home from work. Car two is a Land Rover Discovery, half a block behind, driven by a woman officer who looks like a typical mother on a school run. There is also a tradesman’s van, a motorcycle courier and a minibus.

  Gordon Ellis will expect the police to follow him, but this fact won’t ease his anxiety. He’ll still look over his shoulder and study the vehicles and faces of the drivers. Each time he’ll see a different car and a different face. Nobody familiar. Nothing out of place.

  ‘It’s costing a fortune,’ says Cray, as she watches coloured dots on a computer screen - each one representing a different surveillance team. I have to swap vehicles and personnel every twelve hours.’

  ‘How long have you been given?’

  ‘Forty-eight hours. He has to make a move by then.’

  ‘He will.’

  We’re being driven down Newgate Street past Castle Park. The narrow harbour slides by, sluggish and brown. A handful of boats are tied up along a dock, most of them moored permanently and painted with advertising.

  Sienna is next to me, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes. Leaning her head against the window, she watches joggers dressed in Lycra circling the paths and mothers pushing children on tricycles with handles. Most are wrapped in waterproof jackets and look tired of waiting for the warmer weather to arrive. That’s the way it is with Bristol. In winter it’s full of weary, pinch-faced urbanites, but come the summer they grow a smile.

  The car pauses at a police checkpoint and we wait for the plastic barricade to be pulled aside. The Crown Court precinct is quiet. Most of the protesters have dispersed but a token few are sitting on the steps of the Guildhall, outnumbered by police officers.

  We walk Sienna through the main entrance and the security screening. The clock in the foyer has just gone two. Court One is due back in session.

  Taking Sienna upstairs, we push through the doors. She slides on to a bench seat in the public gallery. Her baseball cap is pulled even lower. Rita Brennan is two rows in front of us. Ruiz is off to the side. He glances at me and barely nods.

  In the main body of the courtroom, Novak Brennan, Gary Dobson and Tony Scott are sitting in silence in the dock. Julianne waits at her microphone and Judge Spencer has his head down, tapping the keys of a laptop. His silver horsehair wig gleams under the hanging lights.

  A door opens at the side of the court. The jury enters in single-file, moving to their usual seats. The foreman sits nearest the judge.

  Cray whispers to Sienna. ‘Tell me if you recognise any of them.’

  Sienna raises her eyes, looking from face to face. She shakes her head.

  ‘What about the guy in the front row, far left?’

  She leans forward. Studies him. Shakes her head again.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  A nod.

  Cray looks at me.

  Marco Kostin is being recalled to the witness box. He shuffles this time, less confident than I remember. Diminished. The light has washed out of his eyes and his skin is blotchy and damp.

  Novak Brennan’s barrister, Mr Hurst, QC, has a narrow, choleric face with small busy eyes. Pacing back and forth in front of the jury box, he makes eye contact with individual jurors who seem to look down or away. He turn
s to the witness box.

  ‘Before the break, Mr Kostin, you were describing the house. You said you were sleeping when you heard the sound of glass breaking. Is that correct?’

  Julianne translates the question.

  Marco nods and answers in a hoarse voice.

  ‘If you were sleeping, how are you certain it was glass breaking that woke you?’

  ‘I heard it more than once.’

  ‘How many times did you hear it?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You’re not sure. I see.’ Mr Hurst exchanges a look with the jury. ‘Are you sure you went to the window?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From the second floor you claim to have seen my client sitting behind the wheel of a van. How far do you think that was?’

  Marco looks from Julianne to Mr Hurst. He doesn’t understand the question.

  ‘What was the distance between you and the van? Fifty feet . . . a hundred feet . . . more?’

  Marco blinks and his mouth flexes uncertainly.

  Mr Hurst: ‘Perhaps you’d prefer to use metres?’

  ‘From the second floors,’ says Marco. ‘I don’t know how far this is - maybe ninety feets.’

  ‘Ninety. You don’t seem very sure.’

  ‘I did not measure it.’

  There is a sprinkling of laughter in the courtroom. Mr Hurst allows himself a brief smile.

  ‘It was dark - after midnight, in fact. You must have remarkable eyesight.’

  ‘I see OK.’

  ‘You told the police that you couldn’t see the number plate on the van because it was too dark.’

  Marco hesitates. ‘I don’t understand?’

  ‘Did you tell police it was too dark to see the number plate?’

  ‘It was in shadow.’

  ‘It was too dark - yes or no?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yet you could see my client through a dirty second-floor window from ninety feet away in the dead of night?’

  ‘There was a light inside the van when the door opened.’

  ‘You told police there were three men?’

  ‘Yes.’