Killing Pretties

by Rob Ashman

  She’s coming to the end of her testimony and has spent the last twenty minutes painting a warts-and-all picture of the Bairstows’ relationship. Greening was once a model and as such she understands all too well the horrendous pressures and crippling work schedules that are forced onto those in the profession. The rejection, the starvation, the punishing gym sessions, the high-octane lifestyle has been skilfully laid bare for all to see.

  Greening had tears in her eyes when she described how the Bairstows’ relationship was tempestuous, passionate and aggressive at times. But that was all part of the fabric that held them together. The very fact that Tracey and Brendan had stayed married for so long was a true testament to their love and devotion for one another. Tracey would never murder her husband because she worshipped the ground he walked on, He idolised her in return. Yes, there was infidelity, yes there was drink and drugs; but then no couple’s marriage is the same. Through all of it they were each other’s soul mates.

  Greening is delivering a clever portrayal, because at no time does she excuse their bad behaviour and at no time does she seek to diminish what others might find repulsive. She is, however, delivering a plausible story of two people who loved each other so intensely that on occasions it boiled over.

  ‘No more questions,’ the defence lawyer says, nodding to the judge before sitting down. I get to my feet. Greening gives me a look that says, ‘Come on then, let’s have it.’

  ‘Ms Greening, you’ve been a close friend of both Tracey and Brendan Bairstow for how long?’

  ‘About ten years,’ she says, returning my glare.

  ‘You were friends with them before they were married.’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct.’

  ‘Who were you friends with first?’

  ‘I knew Tracey before I met Brendan.’

  ‘Would it be fair to say you struck up a strong friendship with the defendant?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Tracey and I have been close for years.’

  ‘So, when Brendan came on the scene, what did you think?’

  ‘There was always going to be fireworks but as I stated earlier, they were made for each other. You only had to look at them to realise this was a couple who were going to go far.’ She turns to the jury as if to drill home her point.

  ‘How do you mean — go far?’

  ‘By that I mean they were always going to be successful.’

  ‘That’s right, Ms Greening. They were, and you spotted that potential straightaway. Would you tell the court what you do for a living?’

  ‘I own a fashion gallery.’

  ‘How long have you owned it?’

  ‘Coming up for six years.’

  ‘Is it fair to say that in the early years business was tough?’

  ‘Yes. The fashion industry is a tough place.’

  ‘In fact, you had several lean years until you began exhibiting the Bairstow-branded products. That’s right, isn’t it, Ms Greening?’

  ‘It’s a good partnership. My gallery and shop are in a good location and at the time their brand was taking off, so it worked. Sometimes in business you need a bit of luck.’

  ‘Yes, luck indeed. The Bairstow brand now accounts for thirty eight percent of your revenue stream, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, something like that. I couldn’t tell you the precise figure.’

  ‘Well, let me remind you. In your last set of company results your relationship with Tracey and Brandan Bairstow was worth over eight hundred and forty-five thousand pounds. That’s a lot of money, Ms Greening.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘What, I mean is, that’s a lot of money to lose if the Bairstow brand ceases to trade.’

  It’s the first time I see her blink. She looks over to the defence lawyer. He’s no help.

  ‘Let me put it another way, if the Bairstow brand goes into liquidation there’s a fair chance you will too.’

  ‘It would be a blow to the company but it would be up to me to find new business and plug the gap.’

  ‘Plug the gap… I put it to you that if you lost their trade it would hole your company below the waterline and you would sink without trace.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it like that.’

  ‘I suggest that replacing almost forty-percent of your turnover, when by your own admission the fashion business is a tough place to be, would be almost impossible.’

  ‘It would be difficult, but—’

  ‘I want to move on, if I may, and take you back to the evening of Friday, the ninth of September last year. Do you remember it?’

  ‘Err, no.’

  ‘Let me refresh your memory. You were holding an event at your gallery to launch a new range of ladieswear designed by Tracey Bairstow. Do you recall the evening?’

  ‘Yes, we hold a lot of events which is why I couldn’t remember that specific one.’

  ‘You couldn’t remember it… okay, we’ll move on. Would you like to tell the jury what took place that evening?’

  ‘Umm, the place was packed. We had about a hundred and fifty people there. I sold some product and we took a lot of orders. It was quite a while ago.’

  ‘Sounds like a successful night. Was the champagne flowing?’

  ‘Yes. I think we had drinks and canapés.’

  ‘Were Tracey and Brendan Bairstow there?’

  ‘Yes of course they were. It was her collection.’

  ‘Would you like to tell the court what else happened that evening, apart from making sales and taking orders?’

  ‘Tracey and Brendan had a disagreement. They had one of their rows.’

  ‘A disagreement. I think it was a little more than a disagreement. Let me jog your memory. Tracey and Brendan had a blazing argument which resulted in him storming out of the venue. He went out into the street to have a cigarette and calm down. Five minutes later he’s joined by Tracey and the argument continues. The CCTV footage shows them screaming in each other’s faces. Would you like to tell the court what happened next?’

  Greening is shuffling on the spot and looking down at her shoes. They aren’t going to help her. She glances up at her barrister — he’s not going to help either. The judge intervenes.

  ‘If you could answer the question, Ms Greening?’ he says.

  ‘Tracey hit Brendan.’

  ‘Sorry, could you speak up, please?’ I say to her.

  ‘I said, Tracey hit Brendan.’

  ‘I think she did a lot more than that. She came out of your gallery swigging from a bottle of Krug champagne and smashed it across the back of his head. That’s right, isn’t it, Ms Greening?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t there.’

  ‘No you weren’t there, but you have seen the CCTV footage. Haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could you speak up again, please?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen the footage.’

  ‘You saw the footage because the police showed it to you when you were called to make a statement. That’s right isn’t it, Ms Greening?’ She stares at her shoes again, says nothing. ‘You seem to be struggling with this part of your testimony, Ms Greening, so let me help. Tracey Bairstow struck Brendan over the head with a bottle, knocking him to the ground. The CCTV footage shows her standing over him shouting while he struggles to get to his feet. Hardly the actions of a wife who worships the ground her husband walks on. She continues to yell at him when you appear, that’s right, isn’t it, Ms Greening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You turn up and pull Tracey away. You take the bottle from her and send her back inside. By this time Brendan is bleeding profusely from the gash he’s sustained to the back of his head. You remove his jacket and ball it up to stop the bleeding then flag down a taxi to take him to the A&E department of University College Hospital where you drop him off and return to the event. Is that right, Ms Greening?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Sorry, say that again.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘T
hat’s right, you don’t remember. At this point I think it’s only fair for me to confirm to the jury that you are being wholly consistent in your testimony. The day after the attack the police turned up at your house for a statement and, after consulting your lawyer, you used the phrase ‘I can’t remember’ eight times. That’s right, isn’t it, Ms Greening?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘There were no charges brought by Brendan Bairstow, so there was no case to answer. Your statement was never used. But I put it to you that you were lying in that statement for the sake of your business. I put it to you that you couldn’t remember what happened that night because you chose to not incriminate your friends. And by saying ‘I can’t remember’, it let you off the hook.’

  ‘I’d been drinking… it was late… we’d all been drinking… I was pretty out of it.’

  ‘You said you couldn’t remember finding Brendan Bairstow lying in the street; you couldn’t remember ushering the defendant away from the scene and neither could you remember taking Brendan to A&E. And yet… and yet — members of the jury — Ms Greening had the presence of mind to stem the bleeding from the wound on Brendan’s head; she paid for the taxi with the exact change, saying to the driver ‘That will make my purse lighter’; and she then asked the driver to wait and told him, if he did, she would pay him double for the return journey. Does that sound like the actions of a woman who is pretty out of it?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that. I don’t remember.’

  ‘Well if you don’t remember, Ms Greening, how can you be so sure?’

  ‘I can’t remember. I said so in my statement.’

  ‘Yes, you did, Ms Greening, you did indeed. You are here in this courtroom to vouch for the loving relationship that the defendant had with her husband, so your credibility is of crucial importance. I put it to you that you’ve painted a picture of the relationship between Tracey and Brendan Bairstow that is simply not credible. It was a relationship scared with ferocious outbursts of jealousy and rage. You have characterised it as being tempestuous and passionate. I put it to you that it was one where violence and abuse was commonplace; and you have done everything in your power to hide that from public view. Including covering up what happened when Tracey Bairstow attacked her husband in the street causing him to have five stitches in his head. And you’ve done this to protect your business interests, that’s right isn’t it, Ms Greening?’

  ‘No… I wouldn’t… I can’t remember…’

  ‘You have painted a picture of the Bairstows’ relationship that has zero credibility and you have shown yourself to have zero credibility in this court. No more questions.’

  I glance across at Tracey Bairstow. Her face is two shades paler.

  Chapter 14

  M alice arrived at the station suited and booted. He’d not been to the gym, choosing instead to do a little early morning cruising, looking for Wrigley and Bullseye.

  The events of the previous evening troubled him, not solely because he now had a cut above his eye, but because men showing up with baseball bats was out of character with the local drug fraternity. There were occasional fights and regular disagreements, but this felt different. This felt like someone was sending a message.

  He berated himself as he toured the streets. His mind was occupied with Wrigley when it really should’ve been concerned with letting his daughter down on her birthday. He salved his conscience by telling himself he would make it up to her. Deep down, he knew this was his first lie of the day.

  Tracking down Wrigley and Bullseye was a little like trying to catch vampires. These were people who slept in the day and worked at night. Once the punters had filled their veins and lungs with their drugs of choice, Wrigley and Bullseye would often get pissed on cheap lager at five o’clock in the morning. Malice had once asked Wrigley why he did it.

  ‘Don’t you like a beer after work?’ Wrigley had replied. Which seemed fair enough.

  Malice had stopped to ask a couple of people if they had seen them. They shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders. Either no one had seen them, or no one was talking.

  Malice marched past the door marked CID on his way to the forensics lab.

  ‘Mally!’ Waite yelled from her office.

  ‘Yes boss?’ he stopped and poked his head around the doorframe.

  ‘Got a minute?’

  ‘I’m on my way to forensics to see what they’ve turned up from the stuff I took away from Garrett’s place.’

  ‘It’s not about that.’

  Malice sauntered in, standing in front of her desk.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘We’ve got a new starter and I want—’

  ‘Oh come on boss, I’ve got my hands full with this missing woman. The last thing I want is for you to put me on babysitting duty as well.’

  ‘Interesting… what I was going to say, is… I want you to meet Kelly Pietersen,’

  Waite stood up and waved her hand towards the back of the room where a young woman was sitting in the corner, filling in paperwork on her lap. She was in her late twenties, dressed in a navy blue trouser suit with dark shoulder length hair pulled back in a pony tail. She looked up, put her head to one side and gave half a smile.

  ‘Kelly’s joined us and I want her to work with you on the Garrett case. As you said — you have your hands full, so I thought you could do with the help.’

  Malice cast his eyes to the ceiling and held out his hand.

  ‘Sorry, I’m Khenan Malice. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Hi, I’m Kelly.’ She stood up and shook his hand with a firm grip. ‘Here you go ma’am, I think this is the last of them.’ Pietersen handed over the completed forms.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll catch up with you in a few days to see how you’re settling in,’ Waite said, returning to her seat.

  ‘Thank you, ma’am.’ Pietersen turned to Malice. ‘Forensics then?’

  Malice nodded his head.

  ‘Forensics.’

  ‘Have fun,’ Waite called after them as they left the office. Malice stomped down the corridor with Pietersen close behind. The silence between them was deafening.

  ‘Who’s the missing person?’ asked Pietersen, determined to get off the mark.

  ‘Her name is Belinda Garrett. Her housemate called it in. I visited the property and took away a bunch of things. Forensics rang to say they’ve finished with them.’

  ‘How long has she been missing?’

  ‘This is the fourth day.’

  ‘Any activity on her phone, bank accounts or social media?’

  ‘Nothing. Her housemate confirmed she’s never done this sort of thing before.’

  ‘What’s her last movements?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to piece together.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’

  ‘No one special.’

  ‘Parents?’

  ‘Spoke to them yesterday and they haven’t seen her in eighteen months. I got the impression there’d been some sort of family feud.’

  ‘Are any of her clothes missing?’

  ‘The housemate said she remembers Belinda had a red overnight bag, which is not at the property. Not done a check on her clothing.’

  ‘What happened to your eye?’

  ‘Do you always ask these many questions?’

  ‘Normally… yes.’

  Malice shook his head and pressed on. They arrived at forensics and donned a set of coveralls.

  ‘In here, Mally,’ said a voice. They went inside to find a middle-aged man dressed like a Teletubby hunched over a large monitor screen.

  ‘Alright Jez?’

  Malice went over and slapped the man on the shoulder.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’

  Malice glanced over to a large table set against the far wall. On it sat the contents of the waste bin plus the other items from the house.

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘My name is Kelly Pietersen,’ Pietersen forced her introduction.

/>   ‘Oh hi, I’m Jez Lewis,’ Lewis replied nodding his head. He got up and walked over to the table. ‘There’s nothing remarkable about what you brought back.’

  ‘Where did you find them?’ Pietersen asked.

  ‘The waste bin in her bedroom and this group of post-its were attached to the fridge door,’ Malice said, pointing to a collection of eight notes laid out separately to the others.

  ‘How many are there?’ Pietersen asked.

  ‘One hundred and thirty-one. Plus, these odds and sods.’ Lewis pointed to the other assorted items on the desk. ‘And there’s this…’ He crossed the lab, perched himself on the chair and produced three printouts, each one showing a black and grey square. ‘Thankfully this woman writes with a heavy hand. These pictures show the imprints of what was written on the last post-it to be taken from the pad.’ He spread them on the desk. They stared at the words: Council tax; Condoms and Mexborough.

  ‘What is all this stuff?’ Pietersen asked.

  ‘Belinda Garrett was paranoid about forgetting things,’ Malice replied. ‘According to her housemate she wrote notes to remind herself and, presumably, when they’d served their purpose she binned them. Hence all this…’ He picked up one of the pictures and walked back to the coloured notes spread out over the desk. Pietersen joined him, then pulled on a pair of gloves and started moving the pieces of paper around.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Malice asked.

  ‘Collating them into groups. Garrett may have been paranoid about forgetting things, but not everything, just certain things. I think there’s a pattern.’ Malice gazed down as Pietersen moved the notes around. ‘I think these are items that she wanted to buy: Condoms, tooth paste, milk, bread etcetera. These are people’s names: Michael, Lucy, Chis. There is a grouping that is about places: Kings Cross, Hammersmith, Guilford and these are things she needs to do: Pick up dry cleaning, sort phone, call Cindy and then there are a few that don’t really fit into any group.’

  ‘This stands out like a sore thumb.’ Malice handed Pietersen the picture of the post-it note pad with the word Mexborough scrawled across it.

  ‘How?’