It Should Have Been Me

by Susan Wilkins

  Foley turned to her. ‘Is he watching? Has he seen me?’

  She glanced over her shoulder out of the smoked back window. ‘Oh yeah.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  At Nathan’s insistence, he and Briony took a detour to Oxford Street. He had little brand awareness but still gravitated naturally to the more expensive shops. He refused Briony’s suggestion of a cheap suit. Suit, he argued, was not the right image, he’d look like an old lag. He opted instead for well-cut black jeans, a charcoal grey sports jacket and a Ted Baker shirt.

  Briony tried not to dwell on the burden this added to one of her many over-extended credit cards. She had to admit he looked much better, a glimpse of the old Nathan, the boy who once stole her heart. She considered suggesting a haircut and a return to the aviator shades. But then realized she was getting carried away. This wasn’t about turning back the clock, much as that appealed. The motif for the film was waste, the lost years, the gaunt cheeks, the haunted eyes. A complete makeover certainly needed to be resisted.

  While he was trying on shirts she called the lawyer and he agreed to join them for lunch at an Indian vegetarian restaurant in Rathbone Street.

  To someone who’d been living on prison grub and coffee shop muffins, the Keralan menu was exotic and confusing for Nathan. Briony took charge and ordered several starters while they waited for the barrister to arrive.

  Nathan watched her tuck in. ‘So they’re going to make your film?’

  ‘They’ll pitch it.’

  ‘I thought that’s what we were doing.’

  ‘They’ll pitch it to a broadcaster.’

  ‘Then what?’

  Briony wiped her lips. ‘We get a commission and we make the film.’ No mention of the development money, Nathan noted.

  ‘So “we” is us and Tania and Gordon?’

  ‘They’ll produce, I’ll direct. But we’ll have creative control.’

  ‘Did she say that?’ This was one part of the conversation Nathan had definitely understood. Tania Jones had deliberately fudged it.

  The film-maker shrugged. ‘You’ve just got to trust me on this, Nathan. No one’s going to sell you down the river.’

  He said nothing, he was thinking about the development money and how to get a 50:50 split. Picking up a vegetable samosa, he took a bite.

  Briony grinned at him. ‘Aren’t they great?’

  He nodded. ‘You probably think I’m stupid, but to an outsider it’s difficult to figure out what’s going on.’

  She reached across the table and covered his hand with her own. ‘That’s why you’ve got me.’

  He couldn’t help noticing the oily sheen on her fingers.

  ‘I’ll be honest with you, Briony, all this clearing my name stuff seems like a lot of effort for nothing. What will I really gain? I’m already out.’

  ‘For a start, they won’t be able to revoke your licence and send you back.’

  ‘True enough, but I don’t intend getting in any trouble.’

  ‘Nathan, this is a miscarriage of justice. Going to the CCRC, overturning your conviction, that’s your quest, it’s what it’s all about.’

  ‘I know but—’ He sounded peevish.

  Briony gave him a speculative look. ‘And if it succeeds, of course there’ll be compensation.’ She watched the sulky protruding bottom lip loosen. She was learning which buttons to press. ‘Wrongful conviction, sixteen years inside, could be a tidy sum.’

  ‘I never thought of that.’

  ‘Why would you? You’re not a mercenary sort of bloke. I understand how fed up you must be with the judicial process. It’s let you down. Chewed you up and spat you out. But one last push, eh, surely it’s worth it?’

  He was staring thoughtfully at the cuffs on his new shirt. The underside was paisley and contrasted with the fine blue line on the rest of the shirt.

  He frowned. ‘Not sure about these cuffs.’

  Briony watched him, a tetchy boy, turned middle-aged and disappointed before his time. ‘Fashions change. There’s a lot of things for you to get used to, Nathan. And it’s not easy, I know that.’

  Nathan shot her a surly look. He preferred it when she was hustling him, he didn’t want her sympathy, still less her pity. ‘So what’s the deal with this bloody lawyer?’

  Briony accepted the rebuff with a smile. ‘Okay, this is how it works. To get the lawyer to work for nothing we have to offer him something he wants.’

  ‘But I thought this unit was pro bono? Isn’t that the idea, they do it for nothing?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ She sighed. ‘But to get someone good, and persuade them to spend time on your case, we need them to think it’s worth their while. The legal aid budget’s gone down the toilet so there are loads of people who want their help, deserving people. How do they choose?’

  He nodded. ‘But if they get to go on television that boosts their profile and helps their career?’

  ‘Exactly. You see, you do get it. It’s basic psychology.’

  ‘How do you know the one you’ve got is good?’

  ‘I’ve checked him out. Very high-profile chambers, so he’s got smart people who’ll help him out. Dad’s a QC, ditto. First from Oxford. But most of all he’ll want to be the guy who proved, when he was only twenty-five, that Nathan Wade was innocent.’

  ‘Twenty-five? Jesus wept! Don’t we need someone more experienced?’

  ‘Experience is expensive.’

  ‘Can’t we ask Tania to pay for it?’

  ‘No, Nathan! She can’t interfere with the case, that would be unethical.’

  Nathan pondered this as he munched on his samosa. That seemed ridiculous. What had ethics to do with any of this? It was the same as in the nick, a trading game. In order to get people to help you, you had to give them something they wanted. Everything came with a price tag. He thought of his friend, Lech. And Mateusz and Danuta. They’d offered him their friendship and asked nothing in return. But then this was why they were stuck in Littlehampton doing the shit jobs no one else fancied. Nathan knew one thing, he wasn’t ending up like that.

  Briony beamed at him. ‘Don’t look so down in the mouth. This is all good.’ She glanced at the door and waved. ‘Ah, here he is!’

  Henry McNair-Phillips came scooting round the tables towards them like a young puppy, full of vim, who hadn’t yet learnt how to avoid bumping into things. He had an over-stuffed briefcase, a wayward tie, and a six-foot-six rake-thin frame that he had trouble controlling, causing him to have to apologize to several other diners before he made it to their table.

  Briony had known the moment she’d set eyes on him that he’d be perfect. His chaotic energy, the unruly hair, the glasses, created just enough of an impression of a certain popular boy wizard. Which was good because his job was to come up with the magic to set poor Nathan free.

  Plonking down his briefcase, the lawyer held out his hand. ‘Harry McNair-Phillips. Terrific to meet you, Nathan.’

  The day had already provided him with enough challenging experiences – he was trying hard not to think about the Bodens – so the arrival of his new legal champion wasn’t as much of a shock to Nathan as it might’ve been. He managed a smile and a handshake. Then he sat back as Briony took over.

  ‘Fantastic meeting with Gordon and Tania. They’re definitely up for it.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘Miscarriages of justice are a hot topic. I don’t think it’ll take long to get a broadcaster on board.’

  ‘Great PR for the pro bono unit. Thanks for choosing me.’

  Having sat down, the lawyer was rooting around in his briefcase. ‘Now, let me see, where is it?’ He finally extracted a sheet of A4 with slightly crumpled edges. ‘Right, now I’ve been through the list of trial documents, and guess what I’ve found?’

  Briony and Nathan glanced at each other.

  Harry read from the sheet. ‘Item ten: CCTV from station, no ID possible.’

  Briony nodded as if she understood.

&nb
sp; Nathan frowned. ‘What does that mean?’

  Harry beamed. ‘Well, it means that in the case file, which the police will have in storage, there is recorded CCTV footage from the railway station. And you said in your statement that on the night in question you ran across campus and got to the station just in time to catch the last train back into town. Am I right?’

  ‘Yeah. But my lawyers said we couldn’t prove it.’

  ‘There’s a chance that now we can. We get hold of that CCTV.’ He brandished the sheet. ‘And according to the record, they’ve still got it. Then we get it re-examined by some shit-hot techies. They’ve got all kinds of digital kit nowadays that can take old CCTV and get an image, where it was too blurry before. So my friend, if they come up with a picture of you getting on that train, then that’s the new evidence we need to get through the door and persuade the CCRC to review your case.’

  Nathan stared at them. It took him a few moments to absorb what the lawyer was saying. In recent years he hadn’t given much serious thought to what had actually happened that night, or even what he could remember of it. There was no point. The ghost of Sarah was always floating around somewhere, teasing and taunting him as she always had. But the sequence of events had ossified into a tale that had hardened with repetition.

  At this remove, it was impossible for him to sort fact from fiction. He’d had a lot of dope that night, quite high-grade stuff that he’d bought from a dealer in town, and had been selling on to his mates to chill the pre-exam nerves. He didn’t tell the police any of that, because he didn’t want the dealer to get arsey for ratting him out. That seemed absurd now. Blood tests had revealed both alcohol and cannabis in his system. He’d told them he’d only smoked a couple of spliffs and had stuck to that line.

  The train he did remember. Someone had puked in the carriage and the acrid reek of it had almost made him chuck up himself. Then he’d fallen asleep.

  What would any court make of it all now? The argument for the defence had always been that if he’d caught the last train he couldn’t have killed her. The jury hadn’t bought it then and Nathan seriously doubted that any high-tech wizardry was about to change that.

  The Crown Prosecution Service, the police, the media, the family, the university, everyone had needed a result. Didn’t much matter if it was the right result. The system had to be seen to work. In Nathan’s view, that was the only truth you could rely on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  There were a dozen people in the room for the briefing; Jo sat at the back, tucked away. She found it odd, hearing her own disembodied voice. It sounded simpering and girly, which made her squirm, but everyone else listened attentively to the recording. The quality was excellent, considering she’d made it on a phone dumped casually on the table with all the background rumpus of a busy coffee shop.

  It ended abruptly when she’d jumped up, grabbed the phone and left. Ivan Rossi’s last words: If you need somewhere. I mean it – were quite distinct, his tone heartfelt, but hearing them again, in this impersonal context, left her with an uneasy feeling. The ploy of exploiting his sympathies hadn’t been her idea, but she’d executed it. Listening to the recording now, it felt devious. She had to remind herself that there were much larger issues at stake here and the fact he was nice to Charlotte didn’t mean he wasn’t a criminal. Gun smugglers were the worst kind of scumbags, so why was she even doubting the strategy? The end certainly justified the means.

  Steve Vaizey lounged at the head of the conference table twizzling a gel pen round and round between his fingers. ‘Slick work, DC Boden. Well done.’

  Slick. Yes, this was her role, to be professional and detached and to serve the greater good. A couple of envious glances strayed in her direction, but she’d deliberately placed herself out of Vaizey’s sight line.

  He got up. ‘Okay, what about this boat. Sandra?’

  The analyst was a matronly figure with an exploding mop of frizzed grey hair and half-moon glasses. She’d been doing the job for aeons longer than the steady stream of warranted officers, who came and went on an operation like Grebe, and commanded respect. She drank coffee from an outsized mug and to get in her good books, Jo had soon discovered, required Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

  With a raspy smoker’s cough, the analyst cleared her throat. ‘Quite a few marinas and moorings off Southampton Water. We’re working through them. Some have a more formal registration process than others. But, from the description, it’s a biggish boat, forty-footer, so it would probably require a pontoon mooring, which should make tracing it marginally easier.’

  Vaizey was pacing, he rarely stood still. He shot a glance at Jo. ‘Anything else you can give us?’

  Colleagues craned their necks, suddenly all eyes were on her. Foley had already berated her over her failure to get an actual picture of Ivan’s boat.

  In their drive from Shepherd’s Bush back to the office she’d filled him in on what she’d discovered. His response, as on previous occasions, was hypercritical. She was still trying to decide if always undermining her was a reflex action or a conscious tactic on his part. Either way, it was becoming a major pain in the arse.

  Her reaction had been to keep her head down until she could find an effective way to combat him.

  But with Vaizey addressing her directly she had to take the bull by the horns.

  She stood up. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get a shot of it, boss. It was too risky. But I’ve got a good mental picture and Sandra and I have already identified some close parallels.’

  They’d also come up with another lead, but Jo decided to hold on to that for the time being. She wasn’t giving any hostages to fortune. Her gaze met Foley’s across the table. He was staring at her blankly, a simmering anger behind his black eyes. Jo wondered briefly what that was all about. It felt personal. But why? What had she ever done to him?

  Vaizey went on to issue some further instructions about setting up liaisons with the coastguard, Border Force and Hampshire Police. If Ivan’s boat did turn out to be the one used for smuggling arms, they would all be needed. The meeting finished shortly after five o’clock.

  Jo was gathering up her notebook and peripherals when Vaizey came over, flanked by Foley.

  The boss grinned. ‘Well, you two seem to make a good team.’

  Foley’s smile looked more like a baring of fangs to Jo as he placed his hand on her shoulder. But his tone was chummy. ‘She’s a fast learner, aren’t you, kiddo?’

  She felt the weight of his palm; his height – well over six foot – seemed to pin her down. She forced a smile.

  Vaizey stroked his chin and nodded. ‘I leave it to you two to decide how and when we go back to Rossi.’

  Foley responded immediately, the hand still heavy on her shoulder. ‘I’m sure Jo would agree with me, the sooner the better. We need to ramp up the pressure.’

  Shrugging herself free of his grasp, Jo stepped back and focused on Vaizey. ‘Actually, sir, I think we should give him some space. Find the boat. Then a phone call before another visit. We don’t want to spook him.’

  ‘Okay.’ He glanced at Foley. ‘Cal?’

  The DS shrugged. She could see he hated being contradicted. ‘Clock’s ticking. As long as we don’t forget that.’

  His eyes had narrowed and Jo felt triumphant. If the bastard thought he could bully her, he needed to think again.

  He immediately painted on a smile. ‘You coming for a drink, Jo? Celebrate our small victory. My shout.’ He beamed benignly at her, his new best friend.

  But it was clear that this whole performance was for Vaizey’s benefit. Jo smiled, she had the measure of him now and would be ready for his tricks. ‘No, thanks, mate. I’ve got a few bits I need to do.’

  Foley chuckled and turned to Vaizey. ‘You’re my witness, boss. I did offer to pay.’ He laughed heartily. The hollowness of it reverberated through Jo but served to strengthen her resolve.

  Vaizey patted his shoulder. ‘Can’t say fairer than that. Have a good eve
ning, Cal.’

  Foley had little option but to join the stream of officers already filing out and dispersing. Jo watched him go; she’d won the skirmish but it was only the first tussle in what she suspected would be a long campaign. The thought wearied her.

  Vaizey was about to follow but hesitated and gave her a quizzical look. ‘Everything all right?’

  The room was emptying and there was a gentleness and genuine concern in his tone, which slipped seductively under her guard. He was inviting her confidence, maybe even offering protection. How she’d love to be protected by him.

  Foley’s attitude to her was certainly weird. Plus he was a bully. But she didn’t want to come over as weak or unprofessional to her new boss.

  She shrugged and smiled. ‘Absolutely fine. I’m just thinking. I’ve got a theory about the boat I want to test out.’

  One of the support staff was unplugging and packing up the projector used for the PowerPoint presentation. Everyone else had left the room.

  Vaizey carefully slotted his pen into the breast pocket of his shirt. ‘Don’t let Cal unnerve you. He’s a bit over-enthusiastic at times, but an excellent DS.’

  ‘He doesn’t bother me, sir.’ She sounded ultra cool and collected, which was a relief.

  ‘Well, that’s good. I always had a hunch you’d be tough. And that’s what this job demands. Not for the faint-hearted.’

  His gaze was hard to decipher. The eyes were grey with a bluish tinge, they had an uncompromising directness and she suspected he used the rimless glasses to make himself seem more urbane. The look held her for hardly a second, but Jo felt a flicker of desire. With an awkward smile he immediately turned away.

  He seemed embarrassed. ‘I should get on.’

  ‘Yeah, me too.’

  He stood back for her to go first. She walked out of the room and down the corridor without a backward glance. But the scent of something expensive and masculine drifted past her.

  He was such a contrast to Foley. None of that drive to sublimate because she was a woman who triggered some uncomfortable carnal desires. Office politics were only ever about two things: competition and sex. Both were traps for the unwary.