“That is their business, not yours, Nathan...”
I disagreed and suggested politely that Laura cycle off to the surgery, with mug and dregs, and put a name to whatever they’d used to knock Grogan out. I’d go upstairs and tell him what had happened in the last eight hours. Fee should make some fresh coffee.
“Your answer to everything?” she said.
“Everyone’s answer to everything. Yours right now, if you know what’s good for you.”
Grogan needed that coffee too. As we sat on the stone bench he occasionally shook his head violently in an attempt to clear it, to bring back the events of the previous twenty-four hours. Unsurprisingly they were a blur. Laura explained to him, later that day, that it was a typical side effect of the drug he’d been given in his bedtime drink: Rohypnol, the date rape drug.
“If you need an ally, Bill, someone to vouch, remember I was there at the time,” I said. “You were right all along. We should have chained the bastard to the wall and kept him there.”
“Why would I need help?” he asked.
“Blackwell’s kicked us both into touch.”
“Suspension?” He stood up, joints creaking, coffee running to his head. When he was sure of his balance he asked what we were going to do about all this, finding Fairchild, Kinsella.
“Nothing,” I said.
“We’re leaving it there? That little sod, he’s taken the piss out of me, out of you...”
“What do you suggest?”
He thought for a moment, unproductively, and again he shook his head. Without being too blokish about it, we were experiencing our first moment of mutual understanding. ‘Leaving it there’ wasn’t an option for either of us. We agreed on something else as well. Blackwell may’ve had all the right motives for what he’d done, using me, lumbering Grogan with a novice, but he didn’t have the expertise to put our mistakes right. The case needed a more ... freestyle approach, less hidebound by protocol. Regardless of his imminent suspension, Grogan said he’d help me ... once I’d decided what to do next.
An hour or so later Grogan received a text from Blackwell, sent from the back of a car heading towards Grimsby. It was apologetic in tone but nevertheless suspended him forthwith. Formal notification would follow in the post.
“Fucking bastard,” Grogan muttered, then he went on to admonish the internet as a place for cowards like Blackwell to hide in. I asked him to write his phone number on the blackboard. He scratched out an Oxford number, just under Bewley’s.
“Matter of interest, what did you want hers for?” he asked.
“Nice to have first-hand intel when the trial begins.”
He nodded and went upstairs to pack.
“Where does he live?” Fee asked, once he was out of earshot.
“He’s got a house in Summertown, I think.”
“On his own?”
“Blackwell describes him as one of nature’s bachelors. Make of that what you will.”
She went back to her e-mails, hoping for one from Yukito, presumably, just as I was. I asked a silly question.
“You really think I ... put it away too readily?”
She gave me an old-fashioned look. “The word is ‘drink’, Dad, the answer is yes.”
I brooded for a moment or two. “Bill’s right...”
“Bill now, is it?”
“...Kinsella’s taken the piss, made fools of us.”
“What’s that got to do with drinking?”
“Both depress me.”
- 21 -
Over the next few days I slipped down another cog or two, nothing to do with gears on a Land Rover, everything to do with my frame of mind. I’d lost the only witness in a double murder trial and any likely trace of a £15 million haul of heroin. I tried to look at it the way Laura did: it hadn’t been my problem to begin with and certainly wasn’t now. The logic of that worked for five minutes at a time, then I returned to being the centrifugal force, the main reason it had all gone wrong. Maybe she was right. Pure vanity.
It didn’t help, of course, that there was absolutely nothing I could do about Kinsella, even though I’d implied the opposite to various people: Blackwell, Grogan, Sillitoe, Bewley, Laura, Fee. Since then, Tom Blackwell had told me to step back; Henry Sillitoe believed he shouldn’t have asked me to step forward in the first place. Those two views made sense, but again in five-minute bursts, so it wasn’t long before I found myself studying the Old Bailey hearings list online to find out when the case against Flaxman was due to start. September 27th, three days on from the depth of self-pity, injured pride and resentment I’d reached. And I’d reached it in my own company. My mood had given Laura an excuse to go to work early, return late, sometimes to Plum Tree Cottage. Her house, not mine. Fee had taken the opportunity to visit her brother Jaikie again, in Chiswick. She’d taken a suitcase with her, anticipating a long stay. Even the bloody dog was steering clear of me.
What I needed was a distraction, Laura said, one that would take my mind off Liam Kinsella and be a target for any residual anguish I felt, and, lo and behold, one appeared in the shape of an e-mail from Yukito Kagayama, the man Fee had broken up with. And I’d got in touch with. Something I was now beginning to regret. His message was brief and to the point.
“Mr Hawk, I arrive at Heathrow, 20.15 hours BST Tuesday. Best wishes to you.”
My response was even briefer, though not heartfelt.
“Good.”
I knew Fee was at a low ebb and my interference in her private life wouldn’t go down well. If I’d simply told her that Yukito was coming to England to reassess their future together she would’ve packed her suitcase, headed for Nepal and her sister Ellie, or Haiti in a search for Con. The situation needed a subtle approach, but I chose to hide it beneath an elaborate disguise. I did some research centred around Yukito’s arrival time, 20.15 on Tuesday, then e-mailed Fee, via Jodie Falconer, her sister-in-law in waiting.
“Fee, I’ve got a slight problem,” I wrote. “Laura’s aunt is arriving from Venice on Tuesday, Heathrow, 20.35. Terminal 5. I’ve said I’ll pick her up because Laura’s standing in for Sheila Bright that evening and you know how rough Sheila’s been. Thing is this aunt’s a bit infirm and ‘difficult’ according to Laura. Would you mind meeting us there? More a safety precaution than anything...”
It was a simple enough request but produced a barrage of questions from Fee. What was this aunt called? Eileen. Did she live in Venice? Yes. Where would she be staying? Plum Tree, with Laura. How old was she, how infirm, what exactly did I mean by ‘difficult’? It all sounded like the Fee I knew, which was a good sign, and eventually she said yes, she would meet me at Heathrow, Tuesday, 7.45 in the evening. She was thinking of coming home anyway; she had things to talk about concerning Jaikie and Jodie.
If I’d been her I would’ve smelled a rat at the first mention of Heathrow, but I’d briefed Laura on the deceit so when Fee checked with her, the following morning, the story about Aunty Eileen checked out.
Tuesday came and I was nervous. An e-mail from Yukito said he was about to board the plane at Narita. I replied immediately, reminding him that we’d agreed not to tell Fee of our plans. He didn’t respond.
The day crawled by and much earlier than I needed to I drove to Heathrow in Laura’s car, parked and settled in Carluccio’s. It wasn’t just the pastries I was after. The place offered a long-distance view of arrivals.
Fee showed up bang on 7.45, by which time I had enough sugar and caffeine in my veins to fly to any of the destinations on the board, without a plane. She’d brought her suitcase with her, which meant she was returning to Beech Tree, but as if to make out that she’d never been away she insisted on putting her stuff in the car immediately. As we went to the multi-storey I was jittery, she said. No need. We had plenty of time. Eileen’s flight was due at 8.35. She wouldn’t clear customs till at least nine.
It wasn’t 8.35 I was bothered about. It was 8.15.
Back at Carluccio’s Fee ordered coffee
and cassatedde and I sat back and watched her drink one, eat the other. I’d found us a different table, with an even better view than I’d had before. I could see right down to the sliding doors marked ‘Arrivals’. Fee had her back to them.
“You’re still on edge, Dad. It’s only an old lady, for God’s sake.”
“No, it’s Jaikie and Jodie,” I said.
“What about them?”
“You wanted to talk, I guessed that meant a problem...”
“No, no, just ... more change. I think they’ll marry.”
I thought we’d had this conversation before. I nodded all the same. “He’d be mad not to ask her.”
“Would she be mad to refuse, though? I mean can she cope with him flying off to work with some of the most beautiful women in the world?”
“Or being out of work?”
She sighed over her coffee cup. “Half-empty, eh, Dad, not half-full? Give me just one positive, for a bloody change.”
“Good-looking grandchildren.”
She shook her head with pleasure disguised as weary resignation. “The vanity of the men in my family...”
“You’re the third person this week to use that very word to describe me.”
“First?”
“Laura. The second was Grace Fairchild.”
“Hey, didn’t I always say you’d find Petra?”
“No, you said I should give it a go.”
She nodded at the top of my head. “No wonder you’re losing it, all that hair splitting.” She was licking the ends of her fingers now, wondering whether to get another pastry. “Will you recognise this Aunt Eileen?”
“Oh, yes. She’s sort of tall, smartly dressed ... bit like her niece.”
“You said she was infirm.”
“I think she’s got a touch of arthritis. I mean, eighty years old? Apart from that, much like any other elderly woman.”
“And the ‘difficult’ bit?”
“Outspoken, spade a spade, doesn’t suffer fools.”
She smiled. “Dad, that isn’t difficult, that’s normal.”
I pointed down the concourse to a clump of arriving passengers who’d just come through the doors. “There she is.”
Fee turned and, like I had done, she focussed on a young Japanese man pushing a wire trolley with a couple of bags in it. She looked back at me. I looked down at the floor. Grey carpet tiles with Carluccio’s insignia woven into them. She rose from the table and glared down at me.
“Look at me, Dad, look me in the eye.”
I did.
“How bloody dare you interfere in my life?”
I mouthed an apology and expected her to accept it before she walked out to greet Yukito. She stayed put.
“I am sick to death of people trying to shove me around!”
“Who else does it?” I whispered.
“Jaikie.” She rocked her head to indicate his nagging. “Why don’t I stop slagging the guy off, step back and ask myself if he’s the one?”
“Sense.”
She head-butted the air in front of her. “What’s it got to do with any of you? Was Laura in on this?”
I shrugged. It could’ve meant yes or no. Yukito was getting closer, still thirty or forty yards away. People in the café were looking at us. Fee gave it one last burst of fury.
“Jesus!”
She turned and walked out onto the main drag, turned to face the oncoming traffic. It was a toss-up at that point. Would she stay or would she go?
Strange as it may seem, those approaching appeared to catch on instantly to what was happening and melted away to the sides, the better to watch this magic lantern show of lovers reuniting. When he caught sight of Fee, Yukito stopped and pushed his trolley aside. He was certainly an impressive-looking bloke. He wasn’t tall, but neither was he as short as she’d led me to believe. Full head of black hair, slim, fit, wearing a classy suit. And I’m pretty sure it wasn’t my imagination, they really did walk slowly towards each other, pause with a yard or so between them and exchange a few words. Then, without smiling, they stepped in close, he took her in his arms, and they kissed. In public, as my mother would’ve added. It was the best thing I’d done for about three weeks.
And as I watched them my phone vibrated and moved a fraction across the table. It was a text from Marion Bewley, informing me that all the preliminary to-ing and fro-ing was over, the trial of Aaron Flaxman began in earnest tomorrow. His parents were anxious to meet me.
- 22 -
I’ve been to the Old Bailey many times down the years, mainly to give evidence, but it’s my first ever visit that stands out and against which all others are measured.
My father would take me into London once a week, in school holidays maybe twice, to see the sights, to become familiar with my heritage, the one he’d fought for as a teenage conscript. He believed, without voicing it as such, that it was part of my education, and looking back I can’t think of many places we didn’t visit, usually just the two of us, without my mother. Perhaps that was the attraction for him, the quietness, the chance to be himself as opposed to living up to her expectations. We took in places as varied as Madame Tussauds and the Tower, the British Museum and Lord’s Cricket Ground, St Paul’s Cathedral and the Inns of Court, and he was surprisingly knowledgeable about them all. Either that or he made it up as he went along...
The day we visited the Old Bailey, we walked up from the river towards St Paul’s and he suddenly took me to one side, twisted his cigarette end under foot and told me that for the next two hours I was to be fourteen years old. Did I understand? Not fully, but it gave me an unfathomable sense of pride that in his eyes I would have no trouble playing two years older than I actually was. The reason for this charade was that then, as now, a child under the age of fourteen wasn’t allowed into the public galleries.
As we turned into Old Bailey, the actual street, I was overcome by the building’s power which to this day I can’t explain. It seemed to stand alone – indeed there was no extension to it then – and it demanded a quiet respect, a kind of fear which my father honoured by speaking in a whisper for the next three hours. I can’t remember the case we saw, or the court it took place in. A butcher had been robbed, my father managed to tell me, and two policemen were being cross-examined, but why these bewigged adults were so formal to one another, talked in such stilted language, bewildered me. My father explained later that it was custom, principle, tradition, and where would we be without them? I didn’t understand that either. At lunch time we went to a nearby café and I had baked beans on toast and a cup of tea.
On the morning I chose to attend Flaxman’s trial, I went into a Caffè Nero on Newgate Street, one I’d used in my police days. It was much the same as I remembered it: large, dusty, big leather sofas and hardback chairs at wooden tables, and on two walls hung black-and-white photos of celebrities who had drunk the coffee and lived to tell the tale. The third wall had the chalked-up prices of what was on offer. They’d gone up since my last visit.
At the counter I asked an Australian barista if he would look after my rucksack which contained my phone, an illegal self-defence spray and keys to the Land Rover. The first two were pure anathema to any court in the world. That would be twenty quid, the Aussie said. To a charity. Baristas in Need? I suggested. He smiled. I handed him both bag and money and he gave me a card with the number 3 on it, then asked if I wanted coffee. Was that extra or thrown in? It was £3.40. I loosened my collar, despite the fact that I was wearing a T-shirt under the leather jacket.
When I turned into the Bailey, the sense of awe I’d felt as a boy had become more one of foreboding. The quietness I’d recalled still prevailed, broken occasionally by the clang of scaffolding being dropped nearby, voices a hundred feet in the air shouting instructions. Outside the main entrance the press had gathered, not all for the Flaxman trial but mostly. From experience, I could pick out relatives of the accused, their faces betraying a mess of raw emotion, mainly fear disguised as bravado. A co
uple I took, from their age and self-consciousness, to be Flaxman’s parents were dressed in their finest and stood apart, strangers to London if not to courtrooms. I was just about to go over and introduce myself when the front door was opened and we entered at a shuffle. I was last in the queue.
When you step from the pavement into that oppressive little reception area you become an immediate cause for concern. Fair enough, given the Provos’ attempt to flatten the place in 1973. But there are ways of voicing that concern, and the guy who came over to me before I’d taken my third step wasn’t familiar with the polite versions.
“Yes?”
He was four inches taller than me, ten years younger and completely bald from choice to give himself an edge he didn’t really need. He had a complexion similar to my kitchen table: grainy here, a darkened knot there, scarred in several places and scrubbed to a false shine. He was dressed in a black suit, white shirt and house tie.
“I’m here at the request of Henry Sillitoe, solicitor in the Flaxman hearing, court 4.”
“Name?”
“Nathan Hawk.”
He held up a hand. “Wait.”
He turned to his superior behind the desk. The superior was dressed in the same garb; he was older, fatter, and his head was gleaming with sweat even this early in the day.
“You can’t,” he said.
“Can’t what?”
“Sir James Garrod has asked that you be kept out of the courtroom.”
“Can he do that?”
“He has done. The judge has ruled.”
The last of the visitors had gone through the scanners, leaving just the three of us and a huddle of security cameras watching our every breath.
“I’d like to talk to your head of security,” I said.
“He’s in a meeting.”
“Then will you call Marion Bewley? She’s Sillitoe’s assistant...”
Evil Turn (Nathan Hawk Mystery) Page 16