The Verdict

by Nick Stone

  ‘And the emails,’ Janet said and sighed. ‘Why didn’t you tell us you’d been blackmailed?’

  ‘I… I didn’t think it… I didn’t think they’d find out.’

  ‘Well, they have,’ she said.

  VJ had used his personal laptop and the mobile phone they’d found with it to set up meetings with escorts. He contacted them via email. He kept their names, contact details and photographs in a database on the laptop.

  The women were all the same type – tall, blonde, athletic, well proportioned. High-class hookers, working out of expensive rented flats in expensive parts of town. Yet they weren’t the standard courtesan types. They were into S&M.

  The police had tracked down and interviewed eight of the eleven women he’d been with. All told a similar story. VJ’s thing was ‘rough sex’, specifically slapping and choking. Fine, but not the way he did it, they said. He’d always start gently, testing the boundaries the first few times, then he’d go further and further – and then way too far. He liked using his belt to choke them.

  Four of the witnesses had agreed to testify in court, on condition of anonymity. They’d been codenamed Witness A, B, C and D.

  VJ had been rougher with them than with the others, and they’d decided to do something about it. They’d each originally threatened to go to the police and report him for assault. They’d emailed him pictures of their swollen faces and bruised necks. He’d offered to pay them off. They’d made a deal.

  Witness A had received £20,000 for her silence.

  Witness B, £15,000.

  Witness C, £30,000.

  Witness D, £100,000 – in three instalments.

  All the women said the money was delivered by an intermediary – a man they met somewhere public. Witness D had a friend photograph her meeting, ‘just in case’.

  The man was David Stratten.

  To make the point absolutely clear, Carnavale had reincluded the autopsy photos of Evelyn Bates, along with the ones of the battered women they’d dredged up from VJ’s laptop. All the women had bruising around their necks.

  VJ put the statements down.

  ‘It’s not what it looks like,’ he said.

  Janet pulled an expression of mock-surprise. Or maybe it was genuine surprise with an overtone of mockery.

  ‘This was about sex not violence. It was consensual. They knew the risks. That’s what I paid them for.’

  When she didn’t reply, when the harsh stare she was giving him started to burn, he looked at me. I glared at him. I was thinking about Melissa. She was all I’d been thinking about since the second I started reading the witness statements. Had he done these things to her too – slapped her, choked her, battered her? He clocked the disgust on my face and turned his head away quickly.

  ‘I never meant to hurt them – beyond what we’d agreed,’ he said. ‘I might have got a little carried away on occasion. I may have squeezed a little too hard, once or twice. I could have slapped them a bit harder than they… than we’d agreed. But it wasn’t deliberate. It was never deliberate. It was an accident. Heat of the moment. We were having sex – intense sex – and I… maybe I didn’t hear the safety word.’

  ‘Because your belt was around their throats?’ Janet said, calmly and quietly, but her tone was pure ice, sharp at both ends, frozen in-between.

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Who arranged the pay-offs? You?’ Janet asked.

  ‘Ahmad Sihl, through a private investigator.’

  ‘David Stratten?’

  VJ nodded.

  ‘So Ahmad knew?’

  He nodded.

  Janet scribbled something. Why hadn’t Sihl told her?

  ‘Did you kill Evelyn Bates?’ she asked him.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘The jury’s going to see this.’

  ‘I know,’ he said, slowly.

  ‘Do you want to change your plea?’

  ‘To what? “Guilty”? I’m not. I didn’t kill her. I’m innocent,’ he said, but without any kind of force or energy, or much in the way of emotion, a non-believer reciting a creed from memory.

  What had happened to him? When had he started doing these things to women? And why? Did it have something to do with his childhood, something he’d seen or gone through and never told me about? Had Rodney abused him? I was repelled, sure, but I really wanted to know how he’d got so twisted.

  ‘Do you only go with prostitutes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you’ve slapped and choked non-professionals too?’ she said, her voice all serrated edges.

  She’d never told me, never given it away, but she’d never liked him.

  Now she flat-out hated him – hated him for what he was, and what he liked doing to women. And she hated him because she had to represent him. We weren’t just going to lose this trial, we were going to lose it big. We were going to have to defend the indefensible, and look stupid doing it. This would get KRP noticed for all the wrong reasons.

  ‘Not the way you mean it,’ he said.

  ‘How do I mean it?’

  ‘Like it’s an act of violence.’

  ‘I do retort,’ she said, sarcastically. ‘Let me rephrase that: did you ever lovingly slap and choke women you didn’t pay for the privilege of doing so?’

  ‘Not unless they were into it. If it’s not consensual, it’s assault and battery. And that’s not me,’ he said, through clenched teeth. And without a hint of irony.

  She could have had fun with that one, but at that moment the guard outside banged on the door. We had five minutes left.

  ‘Where does this leave us?’ he asked.

  ‘About a hundred miles up shit creek,’ she said. ‘Not only does the prosecution now have all the motive it needs, but we’ve also lost any possibility of impartiality from the judge. He must feel like a bit of a tit right now. He made the wrong decision in excluding the thong from evidence. He’ll make us pay for that in court. And when it comes to his summary, at the end of the trial, just before he sends the jury away, he’ll direct them to find you guilty.’

  ‘Can he do that?’

  ‘In so many words, yes. He can’t tell them what to do, but he can drop big hints as to what he thinks. The smarter juror will know he has the evidence in front of him – used and unused, admissible and inadmissible, and that he’s made his mind up.’

  VJ looked at the wall next to him, then the ceiling.

  ‘What are my options?’ he asked.

  ‘Much narrower than they were at the start,’ she said. ‘You can go to trial and say you’re not guilty, or you can change your plea and take your chances. The sentence will now be the same either way. With this new evidence, you’re looking at a minimum of twenty-five years.’

  For a split second I swore I saw his soul leave his body; and he became an upright, unkempt shell in a baggy white T-shirt, waiting for his brain to switch off the rest of him.

  ‘The defence is client-led. We can only be as good as you make us,’ Janet said. ‘If you withhold vital information from us – as you’ve done twice now – we’re going to get blindsided by the prosecution. So I’m going to ask you again, for the last time, is there anything else we need to know?’

  ‘That’s it,’ VJ said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about his dad’s murder?’

  That was Redpath, talking to Janet like VJ wasn’t in the room.

  My mouth went dry. And my heart stopped and my blood froze in my veins.

  ‘He was questioned but neither arrested nor charged,’ Janet said. ‘It’s completely irrelevant. It won’t come up.’

  I let out the breath I’d caught and held.

  ‘What do you think, Terry?’

  That was VJ, looking right at me with a blank expression.

  Both Janet and Redpath turned to me, puzzled and questioning.

  ‘About…?’ I managed.

  ‘The case,’ he said. ‘How does it look to you? What do
you think?’

  Here’s what I really think:

  I wanted you to be guilty, not so you could be punished for killing Evelyn, but so we could be even. That was hatred corrupting my judgement.

  Yet, I wasn’t sure you actually were.

  I had a reasonable doubt.

  It shrank, then it grew again. Then it shrank back.

  But now, with all this evidence…

  I think you’re guilty. I think you’re fucking guilty.

  I think you took Evelyn Bates up to that suite of yours, with its two huge rooms and its devil’s-eye-view of London. You spiked her drink with Rohypnol, and then you strangled her.

  And here’s what else I think.

  You’re a sick depraved twisted fuck who deserves to go away for life meaning life.

  But, do you know what else I think?

  You killed your dad too.

  We lied for you.

  We kept you free… so you could kill again.

  So you could kill Evelyn Bates.

  I wish I’d listened to Quinlan.

  He said you’d do it again.

  And he was right.

  You did.

  That’s what I think.

  ‘I think I’m going to need all the information you can remember about Witnesses A to D,’ I said. ‘Names, descriptions, where you met, how you met, any phone numbers and email addresses that come to mind. Everything.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m going to put our investigator on this. Christine’s going to cross-examine those witnesses on the stand. She’s going to need to know everything about them.’

  Janet looked at me, surprised but a little impressed.

  To her, to VJ, to the outside, it looked like I was keeping my cool in the face of mounting pressure.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question,’ VJ said.

  ‘It doesn’t look good,’ I said. ‘But when did it ever?’

  51

  One glance at me and Adolf knew my case had gone to bits. Defeat was on my face, in my body language, pinned to my sleeve. She didn’t hide her glee. She cracked a big grin that mixed spite and cruelty with pure joy in one ultra-brite explosion of small, imperfect teeth.

  To think, another lifetime ago – a parallel one where everything had worked out – I’d actually been looking forward to coming into the office today, all flushed with success and propelled by that pat on the back from Sid Kopf. I was going to go one better than last Tuesday, work on getting us another big win. For a brief instant it had seemed that this was going to stop being about VJ, and start being about me – doing a good job and getting that promotion.

  Oh, well…

  I sat down. My mind was blank. I didn’t know what to do or where to go from here. Did I stick to being a note-taker and bag carrier to Belmarsh? Strictly fetch ’n’ carry, while I got my CV together and started planning for life after KRP? Or did I work on somehow turning this nosedive around? The other question was – did I want to help out a double murderer?

  On the way back Janet had talked about getting in an expert witness to testify that S&M practitioners rarely became killers, that it was all a bit of harmless fun, adult play-acting. It wouldn’t sway the jury at all. Never did. They always saw through mercenary mouthpieces. But the case was now purely about maintaining appearances; so we had to be seen to be mounting a defence, doing everything possible. She’d put me in charge of finding and recruiting a courtroom psychologist, someone who sounded good and didn’t cost the earth.

  I dug out the witness directory from my bottom drawer, thumbed through it until I found the relevant section and started marking up potential names.

  As I reached for the phone to make the first call, it rang right under my fingers.

  ‘Is that Mr Flynt?’

  ‘Speaking?’

  ‘This is Grenville Allen of Allen & Sons. We spoke about a Rolex a few weeks ago. The Three E?’

  ‘Yes, I remember. How are you?’

  ‘I have some very good news,’ he said. ‘The watch has turned up. A colleague of mine phoned this morning, to say someone brought it into his shop.’

  I sat up.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It matches the watch you described in every way.’

  ‘What’s your colleague’s name and number?’

  He told me. It wasn’t a London number.

  ‘Where’s he based exactly?’

  52

  Southend. Forty-five miles outside London, right on the coast. Sand, sea and sun, British style – so, grim beaches, freezing iron-coloured water and zero sun.

  It was here that Cecil Norcross lived and worked. He owned a pawn shop, specialising in cheap and shiny bling, which was why he hadn’t shown up on my radar. But he also doubled up as a private Rolex collector. To those in the know, he was the go-to man for the rarest models – the one-offs, the recalls, the limited editions, which he’d either flip to collectors, or sell back to the company in Geneva, if it was on their wanted list.

  When I’d spoken to him on the phone he’d told me this:

  A French-sounding woman had brought the watch to his shop yesterday afternoon. He’d asked to see ID, as he always did with strangers. She’d shown him a passport and driving licence. He described her as tall, youngish, with short and spiky black hair. She’d left the watch with him overnight for authentication. She knew the drill. She also knew about the company reward.

  Her name was Fabia Masson. And she was due back this afternoon at around 4 p.m. to hear his offer.

  ‘Mr Flynt?’ Norcross said when I walked in at 4.15, dishevelled, soaked and dripping on his parquet floor. It had been spitting rain when I was on the train, and the skies had opened up as soon as I came out of the station.

  Norcross was a skeletal man in browline specs, a silk cravat and a double-breasted grey pinstriped suit. He was on his own. The shop was a glorified cupboard, most of the space taken up by an L-shaped glass counter with silver and gold chains, bracelets and rings displayed on upright red felt stands. There couldn’t have been room for more than two customers at a time.

  ‘Have I missed her?’ I asked.

  ‘Sort of, I’m afraid,’ he said, frowning. ‘Look, I’m sorry you’ve come all this way, but… I did try and tell you when we spoke.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘That I was going to call the police. I run a respectable business, and I have a reputation to maintain.’

  He wasn’t the same jolly jovial old chap he’d been on the phone. The accent and manners were all there, but I saw the wheeler-dealer behind the façade, the type who drove a very hard bargain and prided himself on squeezing everyone down to the last penny.

  ‘Where is she now?’ I asked.

  ‘The police station, I suppose. They took her away about fifteen minutes ago.’

  ‘Where is the station?’

  ‘Victoria Avenue,’ he said, and gave me directions.

  ‘And the watch?’ I asked him.

  ‘The police took it,’ he said. ‘You know it’s worthless, don’t you?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I also tried to tell you that on the phone. It’s a fake.’

  ‘That’s impossible,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen the case, the paperwork… That watch is older than I am.’

  ‘Maybe it is. But that only makes it an old fake,’ he said. ‘It’s an occupational hazard, in this circle of ours. For every rare and sought-after item, there are always twenty counterfeits. The Three E is no exception. Your client’s is one of the best I’ve ever seen, admittedly, but a fake’s a fake. The more serious counterfeiters will go to some length to pass their goods off as genuine. It’s easy to get real cases and easier to falsify paperwork.’

  Had Rodney James known his Rolex was fake?

  As I ran out of the shop, I allowed myself a smile. I wondered if VJ would see the funny side too.

  53

  The custody suite was in an annexe around the side of the main building, ac
ross a parking lot scattered with police vehicles.

  I rang the intercom. It was answered as soon as I took my finger off the button. I asked if they still had Fabia Masson in custody.

  I was buzzed in.

  The only people at reception were police, working behind the big desk at the back, tapping at computers. No surprise to find it so quiet. It was early in the week, still daytime and pissing down with rain.

  ‘You got here quick,’ the desk sergeant said. He was a big bloke with all his white hair. Boxer’s nose, faded forearm tattoos, still in good shape, but only five years from his pension and war stories.

  As I reached the desk, the penny suddenly dropped. He thought I was a duty solicitor, the state-paid lawyer.

  My gut told me to walk away.

  My balls told me to stay.

  My brain abstained.

  ‘What are the charges again?’ I asked.

  ‘Trying to sell counterfeit goods, possession of a fake driver’s licence and possession of stolen credit cards,’ he said. ‘Sign in and come through.’

  The interview room was warm and poky and smelled of burned plastic and spilled coffee. There were no windows or any kind of ventilation, just the white walls, bolted-down furniture and strip lighting.

  As I’d rushed over from London, I’d brought no pen and paper, or a tape recorder with me. And I’d had to leave my phone with keys at reception.

  A young officer poked his head round the door.

  ‘Mason?’ he asked.

  I nodded.

  She came in. The door was shut behind her. We were alone.

  Dressed in black jeans and a V-neck jumper over a white T-shirt, she could have passed for a catwalk model in her downtime. Her hair was a mess – too short for her long face, and dyed too dark for her complexion – but that didn’t make much difference. She was stunning. I knew exactly what VJ had seen in her.

  She sat opposite me.

  Up close, she was even more beautiful. High cheeks, bright hazel eyes, long lashes, naturally pouting lips.

  Right then, looking at her, my brain froze. I lost the power of thought and speech. She saw it too. Smiled, very slightly.