by Ruth Mancini
Will smiles. ‘Ah, yes. Because that would be a breach of the Call Girl Codes of Conduct. But,’ he holds up one hand as I snigger into my coffee. ‘No, no – don’t laugh. It’s very admirable that she wishes to abide by the ethical standards of the...’ He taps his head. ‘No, sorry, I just can’t recall the name of her professional body. But you’re right. It would be career suicide. She doesn’t want to get struck off the... the Roll of Escorts and get found guilty of attempted murder.’
‘You want me to ask her?’ I say, still laughing.
Will grins. ‘Yeah. Go on. Let’s expose him.’
‘Well, the agency won’t tell. It would be career suicide for them. And anyway, whoever he is, he’ll deny it.’
Will smiles and folds his arms. ‘Then we’ll run the “Mandy Rice-Davies defence”.’
‘Which is?’
‘“He would say that, wouldn’t he?”’
When I don’t answer, Will peers at me. ‘You’re too young to remember that, aren’t you? It’s what Mandy-Rice Davies said, in the witness box, during the Profumo affair. She gives evidence that Lord Astor has been having an affair with her. He denies it. When the prosecutor puts it to her – his denial, that is – she says, “He would say that, wouldn’t he?” It made her famous.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘It was irreverent, for the times. The upper crust were still above scrutiny, protected by the class system, and here she was, an ordinary young woman – a call girl, according to the press – telling it like it was, in public. “Dissing him”, I think you’d say, these days.’
‘Good for her.’ I smile. ‘But Ellie’s not Mandy Rice-Davies, and she doesn’t want to be famous. So maybe we could just exhibit her passport instead? With the stamps to show she went in and out of the country at the relevant time.’
‘You are absolutely no fun whatsoever,’ Will reprimands me. ‘OK. Well, at least we’ve got something to work with now.’
‘Exactly,’ I agree. ‘It also gives us the opportunity to refute any suggestion that Ellie was holed up in a tiny flat with Finn all day, going stir crazy, unable to cope. Far from it. She was getting glammed up and dining out in swanky hotel restaurants, drinking expensive wine and taking compliments from rich men.’
Will raises his eyebrows. ‘Taking compliments? Is that a euphemism?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’ve never been in that line of work.’
‘Well, I’m sure you’d be very popular,’ Will replies, puckering his mouth to stifle a smile. ‘If you ever wanted a change of career, that is.’
I laugh. ‘Funny. That’s what Ellie said.’
Will’s face breaks into a grin. ‘Seriously? Well, she’s right. I’d be your number-one customer.’
‘You’re a legal aid lawyer,’ I say, thumping him on the arm. ‘You couldn’t afford me.’
‘No,’ he says, pensively, and sighs. ‘Ain’t that the truth.’ He glances at his watch. ‘OK, so, assuming we can show that Ellie left the baby with Marie, who was under the coercive control of her boyfriend... what about the sodium poisoning? Accusing Darren of getting drunk and thumping the child is one thing, but why would he want to poison him?’
‘Well, maybe he wouldn’t; not deliberately, anyway. There are lots of things that can cause hypernatraemia. Salty food, mistaking salt for sugar in feeds. Dehydration. It was hot in July. Maybe they didn’t give him enough to drink. And then there’s drugs.’
Will looks up. ‘Drugs?’
I nod. ‘Word is that Darren Webb is a drug dealer. Finn might have swallowed something.’ I reach into my bag and pull out my iPad. I locate the web page that I’ve bookmarked. ‘This is the most up-to-date medical report I can find on drug-induced hypernatraemia. It’s written by a committee commissioned by the LCP – the London College of Paediatrics – and I’ve compared it to the findings in the toxicology report. It says that there have been several reports of drug-induced electrolyte abnormalities and that they can eventually cause congestive heart, liver and renal failure. Failure to drink enough water can also elevate the sodium levels in the blood plasma. The combination can be lethal.’ I put down my iPad and look up at Will. ‘The whole poisoning thing... it may have been an accident.’
Will hesitates a moment before saying, ‘OK, that’s helpful.’
I frown. ‘Well it is, isn’t it? Or at least it will be if we can instruct an expert to say the same. Reasonable doubt is all we need, surely?’
‘A confession from your man Darren would be better.’ Will smiles. ‘And if you can get him to admit to pulling the dialysis line at the hospital while you’re at it, we’re home and dry.’
I look him in the eye. ‘You don’t think much of this as a defence?’
Will shrugs. ‘We’ll ask for the full prosecution toxicology report and run our own tests. But even if they show the presence of drugs, it doesn’t prove that it was anyone but Ellie who gave them to him. We’re going to need more evidence of Marie and Darren and their involvement if we want to run with it.’
‘Well, it’s all we’ve got at the moment,’ I tell him. ‘So it will have to do for now.’
‘All right.’ He stands up. ‘I’d better get into court. Let me know when she’s here.’
Ellie arrives ten minutes later. I collect her from security and show her to a seat in the alcove before slipping into the courtroom and passing a message to the usher for Will. When I get back Ellie is scrolling through her phone. ‘Look,’ she says. ‘I just got this from Marie.’
She reads the message out loud: Split up with Darren last night. Feel like shit. Call me?
‘Good,’ I tell her. ‘So, do you think she’ll talk to me now? About Darren?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll meet up with her later. I’ll find out.’
Will enters the alcove and pulls out a seat.
‘OK,’ he says, leaning forward and shaking Ellie’s hand. ‘We’ve got a bit more time.’ To me, he says, ‘Judge wants to hear the prosecution’s hearsay application today.’
‘Really?’
‘What does that mean?’ Ellie asks.
‘The police can’t find the nurse,’ he tells her. ‘Mary Ngombe, the one who says she saw you holding Finn shortly before his dialysis line was removed. She’s left the hospital and they’ve no idea where she’s gone. The prosecution are going to ask the judge if they can have the nurse’s statement read out at trial.’
Ellie’s face falls. ‘Can they do that?’
‘They can if the judge agrees.’
‘So the judge has waived notice?’ I ask him.
‘Yes. He’s put the application back to this afternoon to give us a bit of time. I couldn’t reasonably object and it’s probably in our interests to get this dealt with sooner rather than later, so that we know where we stand as regards Count Three.’
Ellie frowns. ‘What do you mean, where we stand?’
Will turns to her. ‘If the judge kicks the prosecution application into touch, then it might be hard for them to prove that you were the last person to have contact with Finn before his dialysis line was tampered with.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘Then the case against you is a lot stronger.’
Ellie’s eyes flicker between us. ‘So everything is riding on this?’
‘Not everything,’ I say, quickly, sensing her panic. ‘But if the nurse’s evidence goes in, we’ll have to work much harder to try and convince the jury that it wasn’t you.’
‘We need it out, ideally,’ says Will.
‘So what’s the basis of their application?’ I ask him.
‘They’re relying on subsection d,’ says Will, ‘that she can’t be found and they’ve taken all reasonable steps to find her.’
‘And have they?’
‘She’s left the nursing agency she worked for. It seems her UK sponsorship and working visa may have expired. They’ve concluded that she’s gone back to Africa. I expect that’ll be enough for the judge.’
&n
bsp; ‘So you think they’ll win?’ asks Ellie, aghast.
‘No, not necessarily. But I think the judge will have sympathy with their application, within the context of the case as a whole. Mary Ngombe names you as the person who picked up the baby. It’s a material piece of evidence in the prosecution case.’
‘The description is all wrong, though,’ Ellie protests. ‘She says I’m fifteen or sixteen and that I’m wearing a blue scarf. I don’t own a blue scarf. And I’m twenty. What, she thinks I had Finn when I was fifteen?’
‘It happens. And people aren’t always very good with ages,’ I tell her.
Will looks at her kindly. ‘The problem is that she names you. She says your name is “Ellie” and that she knows you as the baby’s mother.’
‘But she’s lying,’ Ellie insists. Her eyes widen and her mouth falls open. ‘I don’t remember her. I’ve never even spoken to her, and I never picked up Finn. Why would she say that I did?’
‘Well, that’s the million-dollar question,’ says Will. ‘And we aren’t going to be able to ask her that if she’s not here. But, we have a reasonable chance of kicking her statement out, OK?’
I ask him, ‘Is there anything I can do?’
Will chews on his bottom lip. ‘You could make enquiries with the agency and find out about the work visa and when it expired. And check her immigration status. If we can show that she’s overstayed or worked illegally then it may call into question the reliability of her evidence, her credibility as a witness.’ Will pushes his chair back and stands up. ‘Let’s reconvene at one o’clock. That will also give us time to complete the pre-trial forms and discuss your pleas.’
‘There’s nothing to discuss,’ Ellie says. ‘I’m pleading not guilty, all the way.’
Will smiles. ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘We’ll talk at one. Don’t be late.’
*
I say goodbye to Ellie outside near the main entrance and walk down Ludgate Hill and onto Fleet Street, where the nursing agency is located. It’s a tall, modern building constructed of seamless black glass with uninviting privacy windows. Given its popular location, I’m expecting to enter a bustling office where no one really has the time or inclination to speak to me, but when I push open the glass door to the entrance, the office is small and virtually empty, apart from a woman with silver-grey hair, cut into a neat bob, who is wearing a yellow cashmere sweater. She is sitting at a desk in the corner of the room, peering at her computer screen, and doesn’t look up.
‘Bear with,’ she says, as she finishes tapping her keyboard. A small smile plays on her lips when I let out a snicker of laughter at her parody of upper-class Tilly, one of my favourite Miranda TV characters. She finishes typing and looks up. ‘Done. Fabulasmic.’ She removes her half-rim spectacles and beams at me. ‘I’m Allison. How can I help?’
‘Ah. Allison Davies?’ I ask hopefully.
She blinks. ‘Yes?’
‘Just the person.’
I had been expecting a whole bundle of data protection red tape, but when I show her my identity card and my copy of the statement she’s made to the police on behalf of the agency, Allison simply nods, gives me a brisk handshake, and offers me a seat. She tugs at a gold eyeglass-chain around her neck and props her spectacles back onto her nose before tapping at the keyboard again and bringing up Mary Ngombe’s file on her computer screen.
‘Miss Ngombe,’ she says. ‘I remember her well.’
‘You do?’
Allison contorts her mouth in an exaggerated manner and bites her lip. ‘I’m not saying it’s right – because it’s not,’ she explains, ‘but there just aren’t many experienced black specialist nurses, working in paediatric intensive care. When she came onto our books, she stood out. But she was good. A hard worker. Reliable. The reports back from the hospitals were generally excellent.’
My heart sinks. Hard-working. Reliable. This isn’t looking promising. We needed Mary Ngombe to be unreliable and untrustworthy, her evidence dubious at the very least.
Allison peers at the computer screen. ‘She has a tier-two general visa – three years, term unexpired, but drawing close to the deadline for extension.’
‘So, is that maybe why she’s disappeared?’
‘Well, possibly, although she can apply to extend it for a further two years – more in some circumstances. Her sponsorship has ended, but she’s registered with the NMC, and PIC nursing qualifies her to work independently for up to twenty hours per week.’ She takes her spectacles off her nose and looks up at me. ‘It’s a shortage occupation.’
‘I see. So... she’s in demand.’
‘Quite.’
‘And, as far as you’re aware, she’s not overstayed or worked illegally at any time?’
Allison shakes her head. ‘No. We vet our nurses very carefully. That wouldn’t be allowed to happen.’
‘So I wonder why she hasn’t come back to you for work?’ I ask.
Allison raises her eyes and squints, pensively. ‘It was all quite odd, really. Her contract at Southwark St Martin’s was due to finish on the Friday, but they wanted to renew, and she’d indicated her intention to do so. Then, out of the blue, she phoned and said that she was leaving us.’
‘And she didn’t say why?’
‘Nope.’ Allison shakes her head. ‘She just said that her plans had changed. Of course, it’s possible that she got a better offer via another agency, but she may have just decided to return home to Ghana. That would be my guess. Possibly she couldn’t afford the visa renewal fee.’
‘You’d have thought she could have been sponsored again.’
‘You’d have thought,’ Allison repeats, but it’s clear she knows no more than this.
‘Who was her first sponsor?’ I ask.
‘St Bartholomew’s. The PICU there. Do you want a name?’
I consider this for a moment. ‘Yes. Yes please.’
Allison nods, then turns back to her computer screen, clicks on a link and scrolls down a little, before scribbling a name on a piece of paper and handing it to me. I fold the paper and put it into the zip pocket of my handbag, then reach out and shake her hand.
‘Thanks, Allison. You’ve been extremely helpful.’
‘No problemo,’ she replies. ‘Ciao for now.’
Outside on the street, I look at the clock on my phone. It’s half past eleven. There’s still an hour and a half before I have to be back at court and I’d noticed signs to St Bart’s on the corner next to the Old Bailey, which would mean that it was probably only a short walk away and a matter of minutes back to court again afterwards. It might be cutting it fine, but I have nothing else to do between now and one o’clock, and if I can get any sort of lead on Mary Ngombe’s whereabouts, that will at least give Will an argument to present to the judge this afternoon.
As I walk back past the court building, I spot Will on the corner of the street, smoking a cigarette. He has his wig on and his back to me, but I can tell it’s him. One of his legs is propped up against the wall outside the building, and I can see a bright green sock protruding, which makes me smile. He turns as I approach him.
‘You’re not wearing your lucky socks,’ I accuse him.
He looks down at his feet and smiles. ‘Not today,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to wear them out.’ He takes a last puff of his cigarette and squashes it against the railing. ‘So where have you been?’
‘To the agency.’
‘And?’
‘No go.’ I shake my head. ‘Mary Ngombe is a reliable, hard-working paediatric specialist nurse, with a full working visa and a UK sponsor, who I’m just on my way to talk to.’
‘Crap. Who’s the sponsor?’
‘St Bart’s ICU. I have a name.’ I fumble for the zip of my bag and pull out the piece of paper. ‘Mark Greenhalgh,’ I say. ‘Head of Paediatrics.’
Will nods. ‘Good work, Ms Kellerman. Worth talking to him, if you’ve time.’
‘Do you want to come with me?’ I venture.
Wil
l shakes his head. ‘I’ve got another mention in Court Eight before lunch. Judge is just out reading the papers. I’d better get back.’
*
My trip to St Bart’s paediatrics department is unfruitful. Mark Greenhalgh, it seems, has left the department and moved on to the John Radcliffe Hospital at Oxford to combine his clinical work with a teaching post at the university’s Department of Medicine. I’m given a number to call, but it rings out for several moments before eventually diverting to the voicemail of a secretary that I can’t be sure is his. Attempts to get through to him via the main switchboard are equally futile and I spend a good forty-five minutes on the phone being passed from department to department and having to start all over again with my explanation as to why I need to find Dr Greenhalgh today, rather than tomorrow. Eventually I extract a promise from a helpful assistant to a consultant in the outpatients department that she will track down Dr Greenhalgh and have him call me back as soon as she can.
It seems that Will should have worn his lucky socks after all because on my return to court, and after a twenty-minute hearing – during which Ellie becomes increasingly agitated at the prosecutor’s assertions against her – the judge finds that Mary Ngombe’s statement should be admitted in evidence as ‘a reliable account from an independent medical professional’ which, if excluded, would result in considerable unfairness to the prosecution.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Ellie proclaims loudly as he delivers his judgment.
‘My Lord,’ Will leaps up. ‘The probative value of this statement, as weighed up against the prejudice to the defendant—’
‘Any prejudice to the defendant,’ interrupts Judge Collins, who is suntanned and irritable, no doubt wishing himself still on his holiday in Malta, ‘can be dealt with by way of a direction to the jury. They’ll be made fully aware of the circumstances behind the statement’s admission and the weight that should attached.’
‘But, My Lord—’
Judge Collins simultaneously lifts one hand and takes off his glasses with the other. He rubs hard at each eye in turn, before putting his glasses back on. ‘I’m satisfied that it’s in the interests of justice to admit this statement, Mr Gaskin. I’m persuaded as to its importance in the context of the case as a whole and by the fact that it’s a statement made immediately after the event by an independent professional witness. I’ve given my judgment.’