He was in a bar the next day, on his second pint of Guinness, when the police arrested him for assault.
"Has your wife gone?"
"Of course she’s fucking gone."
The last thing John wanted to do was to upset Jack. So he tried not to stare too hard at him. There was a screw heading towards the door, a set of keys jangling in his hand.
"You better go now," said Jack.
John got his first wage, £1.50 per week. The next day he was surprised to wake up to something most unpleasant: a splash of warm water through his cell window. No one had warned him about this: Those inmates who did not have a toilet in their cell, rather than queuing to slop out, threw urine out of their window and straight into another one.
If it hadn’t been for Jack, John would have had a very hard time in prison. Jack looked after him, almost treating him like a boy. Can you imagine a bowl of yellow-brown liquid, a slop of lumpy watery mashed potato and a spoonful of lumps of mince meat on top of the pile, and a quarter of a carrot? Believe it or not, this was supposed to be a cottage pie. But actually, it wasn’t that bad. It just looked as though someone had used their hand to scoop it onto the plate. They didn’t use salt in the food for some reason. Luckily the inmates were allowed to buy little packets of salt and sugar from the shop with their £1.50 wage. Okay, he was a chef, so yes, he was fussy. Prison food was bland and it did not need a sophisticated palate to recognise slop.
A few weeks later, he was back in court. His solicitor told him not to worry.
"Why?"
"They never found the blood-stained handkerchief, so I don’t think the prosecution will object to bail."
John flashed his lawyer a lopsided grin. He didn’t feel so confident; looking in the mirror in the morning, he’d thought, That’s it. His moustache was trimmed short but he’d skipped the razor today, so he had the sort of scruffy stubble which looked like it could be used to sand wood.
A young uniformed police officer told him to stand right at the entrance of the door into the court. The lawyer said,
"Yes, we really need you right here, I will try to call you to the stand as soon as possible."
The police officer told him to sit on the bench by the door. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He stroked his moustache with both hands and folded them under his chin. The room, small to begin with, was cramped by a rectangular wooden table that filled almost the entire space. The police officer was friendly, and he could see that John was nervous. "Try not to let it get to you."
John limited his response to nods and friendly grunts.
* * *
There was a knock on the door. When she unbolted and opened it, Sonia was greeted by a sturdy looking woman in a dark grey overcoat. Sonia thought it was a saleswoman trying to sell door to door.
"Hello. Can I help you?" she asked politely.
"No, but I can help you," the woman replied. "Get your coat. I'm from Dunns: Your husband is in court this morning."
Traffic slowed to a crawl at the junction of Holland Park. Then it stopped completely as two lanes became one. There were road works all over town. The driver checked her watch.
"Twenty minutes."
"Be patient."
She smiled apologetically as she moved through this crowd outside the courtroom, repeating "excuse me," turning this way and that to shuffle by. People stared curiously. Someone said, "That's his wife." The press were there; shouting questions and snapping photos and generally being their irritating selves. They were not interested in the details of the investigation, only in the raw fact that an innocent person was dead. Sitting on the other side of the courtroom were the dead man’s grief-stunned family: They sat still and quiet, talked softly, and stared. The face of one of the girls was tear-smeared by mascara. A trio of energetic elderly ladies arrived in the galleries, one looking at her face in the mirror, all wearing sleeveless tops that revealed their wobbly arms. They nodded at Sonia respectfully, then flicked a glance of disapproval when the defendant was called up from the cells below.
"Don't worry," said the woman who’d brought Sonia to court. "Mr Brown is a good lawyer. He identifies with the crowd, and somehow gets them on his side."
"All rise for His Honour, Judge Barnes," the court clerk called.
"Good morning, Your Honour," said Miss Davies, the court prosecutor. "Your Honour, Mr Scott is charged with murder and is on remand. If I can begin firstly by handing over the documented evidence so far, and I would like to point out that the case does not have a date for a committal hearing as yet."
"Thank you. Mr Brown, do you have a copy of this?" the judge asked.
"Yes, Your Honour, we have."
"Your Honour, we're here on behalf of the defendant John Scott and we would like to make an application for bail. It is our belief that this case would fail in a crown court, because of the lack of evidence. After discussing with Miss Davies we are in agreement that this case should never have been brought before you. We therefore ask if this case could be heard today, if there are no objections."
"Thank you Mr Brown. This is certainly an unusual request. Are there any objections from the prosecution or the police?"
"We have no objections," Miss Davies replied.
"I'm happy to hear the case," Judge Barnes declared. "So if we can keep it precise and brief. I expect decorum at all times. No outburst. No one leaves until I dismiss the court. Are there any witnesses, Mr Brown?"
"No."
Brown never flinched one bit. He simply stood very still and was entirely focused on the judge. When he sat down he looked over his shoulder and said quietly to his assistant,
"I will call Mr Scott on the stand and start with a few questions. Can you have a chat and bring him up to speed."
"Mr Scott, I would like to take you back to 27 April 1997. In your own words, can you tell me why you entered the premises."
"Yes, Sir, I had to go and see a work colleague who had lost her job. Her name was Sue West."
"So what happened afterwards?"
"There was a knock on the door and it was the woman from the other flat. She was upset. I entered the room and found the body lying on the floor, I thought he might have fallen off a stool."
"What made you think he had fallen from a stool?" Mr Brown asked.
"I'd done something very stupid. The stool was lying on its side next to the body, and I pushed the stool with my left hand to one side so I could pass by the body."
"Mr Scott, I refer to the statement of DC Nolan, which confirms that the stool was found upright at the other side of the room. Can you explain how that could be?"
"I'm very sorry, Mr Brown, I can't explain that. While I was in the room the stool was lying beside the body."
"Thank you, Mr Scott. No more questions." Brown paused for a moment before addressing the judge.
"Your Honour, as I referred to earlier, this case should never have been brought to court. The evidence is weak and there is no real proof that my client has done anything wrong, any more than what he has already omitted to. Yes, he pushed the stool to one side. Yes, his fingerprints have been found on the stool. That does not make him a killer."
"I would like to adjourn for one hour," Judge Barnes said.
After one hour of waiting, the judge was still in conference.
"Why is he taking so long, how long will I get?"
Just as his lawyer opened his mouth to tell him not to worry, the court clerk emerged through the large heavy wooden door.
"All rise for Judge Barnes."
The judge closed his eyes and let out a deep, satisfying sigh.
"After careful consideration, I don’t think there is sufficient evidence to prove that the defendant is guilty. Not only is there a distinct lack of forensic evidence, but the key witnesses have either passed away or disappeared. In view of these facts, I have no choice but to find Mr Scott not guilty."
In the gallery, Sonia cheered before breaking into tears.
Feeling
emotional himself, John rolled up his pinstriped shirt sleeves, walked over to her and kissed her all over. “Can it really be all over?” His voice was muffled. The exhaustion, the stress, the sleepless nights, the scrutiny, the time away from Sonia and the children. The whole event had felt like being plunged with a weighted belt into a dark and weedy pond. You managed to scramble up for air, but the rest of the world didn’t matter. And you were constantly thinking you were drowning.
They both knew it would take time to get back to normal. Money was tight. He had to keep focused, keep busy. When he got into the car, the fuel gauge was showing less than a quarter full, something that he would barely have noticed a month ago. Now it was a more serious matter. Before, when he needed fuel, he simply pulled into the station, filled up and paid with his credit card. His restaurant had to close when he was arrested. Gone were the credit cards, gone the bars and nights out, the restaurant dinners. They had to tighten their belts for a while.
Chapter 40
John hadn’t heard from Pedro since his arrest, and believed he was out of the country, called back to the States for whatever reason. But it seemed unlikely he’d never hear from him again. This was far from over.
Not long after John’s release, Pedro flew in from Boston and landed at Heathrow at 7.30 a.m. The rain was torrential, and the plane was not allowed to taxi to the gateway. The passengers were forced to wait patiently on the plain, as the cabin staff brought out the carafes of steaming hot coffee and Danish pastries. Finally, the captain announced,
"We are very sorry for the delay as we are waiting for a gate to become available, but we should be able to move very shortly."
Security was very tight. Pedro managed to get off the plane at 9.30 a.m. and rushed down into the baggage hall to get his bags. Approaching passport control, he muttered to himself that he probably be delayed another two hours, but thankfully, he was waved right through after showing his documents.
He urgently needed to contact John to complete his mission and was under great pressure to end the matter quickly.
Pedro was the last person John wanted to talk to. By now he was hoping against hope that he had gone away for good. But that was not to be.
As soon as he’d checked into his hotel, Pedro called him.
"I’m back and we must talk. Can we meet at the Wolseley Bar tomorrow?"
"Alright." John hesitated.
He arrived before Pedro and sat in the corner. The waitress came over to ask what he would like. He ordered a small beer, feeling increasingly apprehensive: You never knew what to expect from Pedro. Having to wait for thirty minutes did little to calm his nerves.
Pedro arrived carrying the same leather briefcase the man had given him at the bar in San Francisco all those years ago. He avoided eye contact with John and ordered another beer for him and a glass of white wine for himself. Sounding deceptively casual, Pedro mentioned that he remembered coming here just over a year ago and the same waitress serving him, something which seemed to make him feel uncomfortable. He reached into his pocket to touch the one-way ticket back to the States which he was going to show John, but decided to wait. He always arranged the smallest details in his life so he could move on at a split second's notice. It was an obsessive habit. He owed nothing and cared for nothing.
John was surprised how civil they were towards each other, considering their shared past and how much he had learnt to hate him. Pedro seemed less demanding today.
After silently looking at him for a long time, Pedro suddenly spat on his fingers and wiped the side of his face.
"John, you know I need this tape. Let’s make a deal, I am willing to leave the country and say nothing."
John recognised the look on his face: One side of Pedro’s mouth twitched as he attempted a smile. A body language expert would probably be able tell you his life story from that look.
"I’ll let you know."
"No, John. You misunderstand me: ‘I’ll let you know’ won’t do.”
He watched Pedro's eyes narrow as he was trying to keep calm.
"John, you're a second-rate man, not the shining star required for hard core, high-risk intelligence. So don't play with me."
"Can I ask you something, and will you answer honestly?"
"Yes," Pedro replied evenly.
"Why did you try to set me up?"
"What do you mean?"
"I'm talking about the old man who fell and banged his head and died. Did you call the police and tell them it was me who killed him?"
"Why do you ask, when you already know the answer. Yes, I did, I have the handkerchief with your blood on it. You notice things," Pedro shrugged his shoulders. "And I notice things. We're two of a kind."
"Answer this: Was Sue part of the set up?"
"Yes. She gave me the handkerchief, and I did not give it to the police."
"Do you still have it?"
"Of course. But you don't have to worry, I have no intention of handing it to the police. At times we have to play dirty, but I am hoping that we can avoid any more unpleasant situations."
The gall of this man, John thought to himself. When he’d met him fifteen years ago, he had been drawn to his confidence, but now he realised that what looked like confidence was actually the façade of a cold, calculating, manipulative bully. Whatever was going on inside his head was starting to feel freakish. He had to wonder what made this guy tick as there was definitely more to him than you could ever imagine.
Pedro had wordlessly placed the one-way ticket on the table, and for a split second John was tempted: Like everyone else, he was flawed. But not as flawed as the man opposite him whose self-deprecating manner and melancholic conversation he was now starting to find defeatist in ways he didn't like or understood.
He asked him again why he couldn’t just be honest and tell him why he needed the tape, but in reality, it did not really matter that much to him. Pedro had already tried his hardest to hurt him and his family, and very nearly caused the break-up of his marriage. Deep down, John knew that if he really wanted to, he could just keep rooting around until he found out for himself. And he would find out eventually.
With a wry smile, Pedro said, “You’re very persistent.” Was he starting to trust him a little, let him in even?
There was something very strange about all of this. It was not in Pedro's nature to back down. Something about his pale face told John that his nerves were frayed to the breaking point. Sensing the questions in John’s eyes, Pedro put his fingertips together and placed his elbows on his knees before he explained the situation to him again.
John used to see Pedro as a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker, but right now he looked almost defeated as he started talking. His story sounded like something from The Killing Fields.
He would be standing still blinking, his ears ringing and his brain failing to immediately register the carnage around him. The scene was littered with arms and legs and unidentifiable chunks of – who? He would just drive around and see people lying on the ground. One man had had his leg cut off and was lying there screaming in agony. All Pedro could do was keep going, although it was difficult. Some people just got used to the pain, the anger. There was one child running around who’d lost his parents, running through the crowd, a baby really, although he must have been five or six. People were just running around aimlessly, all they cared about was their own. It was hell, but then one day, it got even worse.
By now tears were running down Pedro’s face.
"You know, the first thing I saw was a butchered male body. The fellow's torso was twisted horribly and partly submerged in water. I had seen plenty of gore before, but this was possibly the worst."
But the full extent of the massacre, the carnage, was much worse than thought. A second corpse was cut and ripped open with the mother’s baby still attached inside her.
"I shouted, ‘Who the hell can tell me what happened?’ But it was just mayhem, and everyone was confused."
"Somebody must h
ave witnessed these murders," John said.
"Look, John, I don't mean you any harm. I come from a country where you have to do what you have to do. I have spent the better part of my life keeping secrets – state secrets, even family secrets, emotional secrets. Moving between the extraordinary and the ordinary, and now it's wearing me out. Believe me, my time has come and I don't want to do this any more. I would rather we part as friends. Just let me do what I need to do and I am gone."
John’s mind struggled to take it all in. What was he talking about? Was it really possible?"
"I'm offering a truce."
"And if I say no to your offer?"
"Please don't. I too, at times, have felt great hate for those that have taken so much, with no sorrow for what they did. But hate wears you down, and does not hurt your enemy. It is like taking poison and wishing your enemy would die. I have struggled with these feelings many times."
After a brief pause, he continued,
"It is as if there are two persons inside me, John. One is good and does no harm. He lives in harmony with all around him and does not take offence when no offence was intended. He will only fight when it is right to do so, and in the right way. But the other person inside me, ah! He is full of anger. The smallest thing will send him into a fit of temper. He fights everyone, all the time, for no reason. He cannot think because his anger and hate are so great. It is hard to live with these two people inside me, because both of them try to dominate my spirit."
"Odd."
"That is another one of your odd notions," said Pedro. "You have a fashion of calling everything ‘odd’ that’s beyond your comprehension."
John sensed deep-seated anger in Pedro, but should he feel sorry for him?
"I’ll let you know."
"Please, you must bring this tape to me."
"Okay, I’ll meet you."
Pedro let out a sigh of relief. But John hadn’t quite finished.
The Assassin's Keeper Page 29