The Last Girl

by Casey, Jane

  Inside the cubicle, Lydia was curled up on her side, her head buried in the pillow, her bandaged arm stretched out beside her. Liv was standing by the bed and shook her head at me as I came in. No luck.

  I shook Lydia’s shoulder, not in the mood to take no for an answer. ‘We know you’ve been awake and talking, Lydia, so just give us five minutes and we’ll leave you alone. I promise.’

  Ten long seconds ticked by before she rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling, still mute.

  ‘The doctor says you did it to yourself. Is that right?’

  A nod.

  ‘When? Last night?’

  ‘No.’ I could barely hear her say it.

  ‘Before the murders?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When, then?’

  ‘This morning.’

  ‘Before breakfast?’

  A nod.

  ‘Why, Lydia?’

  I wasn’t really surprised not to get an answer.

  ‘The doctor said he thought you’d done it before.’

  Her face was immobile, like a mask.

  ‘Did your mother know you did this kind of thing to yourself?’

  A flicker of pain passed over her face before it returned to the mask. She looked more like her sister, strangely, despite the lack of animation – far more beautiful than I had thought her before.

  ‘What about your father? What should I tell him?’

  Again, her face changed, but this time it wasn’t grief, or pain, or the hard-edged composure I’d seen earlier. This time it was something closer to anger. Something that might have been hatred. And if I’d thought I was misreading it, what she said next would have confirmed it for me.

  ‘He won’t care.’ The three words were distinct, unmistakable, and her voice was suddenly stronger. Her eyes met mine and I felt a definite chill at what I saw in them. ‘Tell him what you like. He won’t care at all.’

  By dint of driving as if I was the lead car in a high-speed pursuit and then running the half mile from where I got parked, despite the heat and my heels, I made it back to the office in time to meet Derwent and Godley on the front steps, heading out. Both of them were grim-faced, but that wasn’t unusual after a morning with Glen Hanshaw.

  ‘You missed the show.’ Derwent didn’t look impressed.

  ‘I was stuck at the hospital.’ Which he had known, since I’d phoned. I wasn’t capable of being in two places at once, and even if I’d had a choice I’d have been happier to sit around on waiting-room chairs drinking bad tea for endless hours than watch the autopsies.

  ‘How was the girl?’ Godley asked.

  ‘Damaged.’ I didn’t have the breath for anything more.

  ‘Tell us about it in the car.’

  ‘Did you find out anything useful?’ Derwent sounded truculent, still nursing the chip on his shoulder about being left out.

  ‘Depends what you mean.’ I really needed to do something about my fitness levels; I was still struggling to breathe normally. ‘Nothing more about the murders.’

  ‘So we still have no idea who killed them?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘Fucking marvellous.’

  I couldn’t have put it better myself. ‘Did you find out anything at the post-mortems?’

  ‘They both died of blood loss arising from multiple injuries inflicted with a bladed object or objects.’

  ‘Did you find out anything we didn’t know already?’

  ‘He confirmed Laura wasn’t a virgin, but we had plenty of evidence of that from what we’d seen on her camera. She had a bruise on her cheek that was a bit older than her other injuries – a day, maybe. Nothing to say how she got it.’ Derwent shook his head. ‘Better hope Kennford’s had a change of heart about how helpful he’s prepared to be. At the moment, we’ve got nothing.’

  Philip Kennford’s chambers were in Unicorn Court, a narrow paved yard in the Inner Temple, just off the Strand. I always felt as if I’d stepped back in time when I went to the Temple. As an outsider, it didn’t seem to me as if the warren of courtyards, cobbled roads and walled gardens had changed much since the nineteenth century, except for the cars that were parked everywhere. A lot of it dated from much earlier than that, which accounted for the spellbound tourists wandering around, cameras at the ready. According to the panel above the archway Unicorn Court had been built in 1732 and was made up of six narrow buildings, wavering red-brick structures that each housed a separate set of chambers.

  ‘Kennford is at this one,’ Godley said, stopping outside the third. A board on the wall proclaimed it to be the chambers of Timothy Kent QC and Pelham Griggs QC, with the barristers who worked there listed below. ‘They’re a top defence set. They mostly do crime but they’ve a sideline in human rights. I don’t expect you’ll have worked with anyone here, but you might have come across them in court.’ Translation: this is the other side’s territory. ‘Josh, you’re still on your best behaviour. I want to give him a chance to cooperate. Pissing him off at this stage is not going to help anyone.’

  ‘Whatever you say.’

  We trooped in and up the narrow staircase to the first floor, where there was an extremely modern reception desk with an equally up-to-date receptionist sitting behind it. She showed us into a small, stuffy meeting room that was dominated by a dusty fireplace big enough to accommodate a roasting ox. Four leather armchairs were placed around a coffee table; it was all very comfortable and civilised and far removed from the more unpleasant realities of criminal law. The narrow window overlooked one of the Temple’s secret gardens, a stamp-sized square of lawn surrounded by white-flowered shrubbery and climbing plants. I opened the window, letting in the smell of new-mown grass and a breeze that was marginally cooler than the air in the room.

  ‘Give me a key to that garden, a deckchair, a cold beer and a radio tuned to the Test Match and I’d be happy.’ Derwent had come to stand beside me, peering down at the lawn below.

  ‘I don’t see the point in cricket.’

  ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’

  ‘It goes on for too long. It’s just not exciting.’

  Derwent reeled back, clutching his chest theatrically. ‘How can you say that? It’s pure poetry.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I wouldn’t listen to poetry for four or five days either.’

  A knock on the door made me jump and I turned to see a silver-haired man, long-limbed but with a distinct paunch. He had a high colour in his cheeks and generally looked as if he knew his way around a pint. ‘Welcome to Three Unicorn. I’m Alan Reynolds, chief clerk.’

  Which meant that he basically ran the place, as I understood it. The clerks handled work coming in and bills going out – the business side of things. There were no secrets in the clerks’ room. They knew far more about their barristers than the barristers might realise, or like to admit. The position of chief clerk in a big set of chambers was a powerful one, and they were paid accordingly. For all that it was losing the battle with his gut, Reynolds’ pinstripe suit looked as if it had cost serious money, and his shoes were handmade.

  Godley had jumped to his feet and was shaking hands with Reynolds. ‘Chief Superintendent Godley.’ He introduced us and I just managed not to wince after experiencing the brief but powerful pressure of the clerk’s grip. His clothes gave off a waft of cigar smoke as he moved. Someone who liked the finer things in life, I thought.

  ‘I’m sure you know why we’re here,’ Godley said once the formalities were out of the way.

  ‘Mr Kennford will be with you shortly.’ Reynolds sank into one of the armchairs and crossed his legs at the ankle. ‘It’s a bad business, this.’

  ‘Very upsetting,’ Godley agreed. ‘How is Mr Kennford today?’

  ‘Same as ever, you’d think. But he’s not the sort to show how he feels. He’s at the Old Bailey next week for a murder and that’s his main focus at the moment.’

  ‘You’d have thought he’d have better things to think about,’ Derwent said.

>   ‘I offered to take a few things out of his diary. Give him time to come to terms with what’s happened. But he’s a professional.’ Reynolds sounded approving rather than censorious. ‘He’s had these cases for months. He doesn’t want to back out now, and if he wants to work, I’m not going to stop him.’

  ‘I don’t know if I’d want him defending me in the circumstances. His mind can’t be on his job.’

  Reynolds bristled, which was doubtless what Derwent had intended. ‘You’d want him because he’s the best there is. Simple as that. I’ve had solicitors on the phone all morning to check he can still do their briefs, panicking in case he might return them.’

  ‘He sounds popular.’

  ‘Very well respected.’

  ‘And liked?’

  Reynolds hesitated. ‘He’s got his admirers. There’s a few who don’t like him, but that’s personalities clashing, not work.’

  ‘Does he always win?’ I asked.

  ‘No. No one does. You can be the best advocate in the room and be unable to get the jury to agree with you if they choose not to.’

  ‘But he’s successful.’

  ‘Very. I could have him on his feet every day of the year if I gave him every brief that came in with his name on it. He’s old-fashioned, though. Likes to prepare cases. He actually reads the papers, which is more than I can say for some QCs.’

  Derwent was looking out the window again. Without turning around, he said, ‘Mr Kennford told us he’d had death threats as a result of his job. Who would they be from?’

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ Reynolds said levelly.

  ‘Presumably you knew about them.’

  ‘Some of them.’

  ‘So you can tell us who threatened him.’

  ‘Some of them, we never found out who it was. He did some work in Northern Ireland on a tribunal to investigate the British army’s involvement in paramilitary hit squads. He was counsel for the army. That didn’t make him too many friends on the Republican side. We had bomb scares here – had to evacuate the building. It all turned out to be rubbish but you’ve got to take it seriously, don’t you?’

  ‘The Irish are capable of anything,’ Derwent said gravely, without looking in my direction. He had been in the army and had done tours in the Six Counties, I knew, but he never talked to me about it, and he certainly gave no hint of it to Reynolds.

  The chief clerk wagged a finger. ‘I’m not saying anything against the Irish. But if someone rings you up and tells you there’s a load of Semtex hidden in the building, you’ve got to listen. Especially if they sound like a Paddy.’

  I probably spoke more sharply than I needed to. ‘Right. So we’ll put all Republican terror groups on the list.’ Or maybe just anyone with an Irish accent. ‘Who else?’

  ‘There was one gentleman.’ Reynolds spoke slowly, reluctant to give us the details. ‘It was a rape. A minor. He was a teacher and the alleged victim was one of his students. He was acquitted on appeal, but unfortunately he blamed Mr Kennford for his original conviction.’

  ‘What was his name?’ Godley asked.

  ‘Christopher Blacker.’

  The boss caught my eye. You can look into that one. ‘Did it amount to anything?’

  ‘It never became a police matter.’

  That didn’t mean much. It wouldn’t have been good for Kennford’s reputation – or that of his chambers – if word got out that a dissatisfied client was gunning for him. I could imagine them deciding to handle it themselves, whatever had happened.

  ‘Anyone else we should know about?’

  ‘The father of a young lady who was murdered some years ago. Her boyfriend was tried and acquitted, and the father felt he shouldn’t have got off. Understandably, you know. He thought that Mr Kennford owed him an apology. Vandalised his car. Now that did end up in court, but he pleaded guilty and got a suspended sentence for criminal damage, which was fair enough given the circumstances. Mr Kennford was very understanding of his position and made a statement asking for leniency. So that ended up being all right.’

  Except for the dead girl and her grieving father. ‘Do you have his name?’

  ‘Gerard Harman. The daughter’s name was Clara. Mr Kennford’s client was Mr Harry Stokes.’

  ‘Did they ever catch anyone?’ Derwent asked casually.

  ‘For her murder? Not as far as I know.’

  In other words, they’d had the right man in the first place, in spite of the fact he’d been acquitted.

  ‘That was a good day’s work, then, wasn’t it?’ You couldn’t miss the sarcasm in Derwent’s tone and Reynolds didn’t. Nor did he get upset.

  ‘That’s the system.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, you don’t make the rules.’

  ‘That’s right. And Mr Stokes was entitled to be defended to the best of Mr Kennford’s abilities.’

  ‘That’s what I don’t understand. Why would Kennford spend his time and energy defending a piece of shit like that?’

  ‘Because he’s good at it, and it needs doing.’

  ‘Sewer maintenance needs doing too, but I don’t see him queuing up to volunteer.’

  ‘I don’t think he’d be much use in a sewer,’ Reynolds said mildly. ‘But he knows his way around the Central Criminal Court.’

  ‘It’s worth looking into Mr Harman’s whereabouts.’ Godley was tapping his pen on his notebook. ‘Kennford’s daughter was killed. If he blamed Kennford for his daughter’s killer being let off, maybe he wanted him to see what it was like to lose a child.’

  ‘What about his wife?’ Derwent asked.

  ‘Accidental. She walked in on the murder.’

  ‘It’s possible.’ Derwent didn’t sound convinced. ‘We should check him out, though.’

  Reynolds sat forward in his chair, preparing to stand up. ‘That’s all I can think of at the moment. Mr Kennford might be able to come up with some more.’

  As if on cue the door swung open to reveal Philip Kennford, tieless and with rolled-up shirtsleeves. His hair was ruffled as if he had been running his hands through it, but he didn’t look distraught – more as if he had been interrupted at work and was keen to get back to it.

  ‘Apologies for keeping you waiting. Alan, what are you doing in here?’

  ‘Offering the police any assistance I could, that’s all, sir.’ Reynolds grinned at his star QC. Calling him ‘sir’ was convention, not respect, but I thought he genuinely liked Kennford.

  ‘Going through my worst failures, you mean. I thought I could hear the rattle of skeletons tumbling out of cupboards.’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Who did you mention? Blacker?’

  ‘And Harman.’

  ‘That poor old sod.’ Kennford winced. ‘One of those times you wish you could leave the law out of it.’

  ‘As with Mr Blacker?’ Godley inquired.

  ‘One dissatisfied client is not worth involving the energies of the Met. As I’m sure you’d be the first to agree, Inspector.’ Kennford raised his eyebrows at Derwent. I had the uncomfortable feeling that he was issuing a challenge, even though so far Derwent hadn’t said a word, hostile or otherwise. He had definitely made an impression the previous night. Perhaps mindful of Godley’s warning, Derwent didn’t respond directly.

  ‘How are you today, Mr Kennford?’

  ‘I feel okay. Bit of a headache. Nothing serious.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ Derwent paused for a moment. ‘I actually meant to ask how you are coping with your very recent bereavement.’ He leaned on very recent, not needing to add ‘you heartless git’ but clearly implying it.

  ‘I’m trying not to think about it.’

  ‘Really? I’d have thought it would be the main thing on your mind. In your shoes I’d be trying to work out who had it in for me, or my family. I’d be wondering if I’d missed a chance to save them. I don’t think I’d be able to concentrate on work.’

  ‘Do I really need to point out that we’re quite different in temperament? As I said
last night, I am prepared to leave you to find out who did this. It’s not my job to investigate crimes. It is my job to prepare trials and be an advocate for my clients, so that’s what I’m doing. It takes my mind off the frankly horrible experiences I’ve endured in the last day or so, and it makes me feel less helpless in the face of an apparently random act of violence, because if I allowed myself to think about it properly, I have to tell you, I don’t think I could be responsible for my actions.’

  Kennford’s voice had been rising as he delivered his speech, his accent thickening, and he finished by thumping his fist on the back of the chair nearest him, as if he had no other vent for his emotions. Reynolds looked down at his hands, embarrassed by the barrister’s loss of control. A quick look around the room confirmed that Godley, Derwent and I were maintaining the same studiedly neutral expression. What they were thinking, I didn’t know, but I was admiring Kennford’s ability to pull a big scene out of the bag when required. Heartless workaholic? No, just too devastated to confront the reality of his loss. How horrible of us to suggest anything else. A jury would have loved it, but Philip Kennford was playing to a tough crowd.

  Reynolds brushed some imaginary fluff off his knee. ‘Would you like me to stay, Mr Kennford?’

  ‘To make sure I don’t say anything stupid?’ Kennford shook his head. ‘No, Alan. You’ve got better things to do.’

  The chief clerk stood and nodded to Godley. ‘If I can do anything to help, just ask.’

  ‘Appreciated.’ He waited until Reynolds had left the room. ‘Do sit down, Mr Kennford.’

  Rather to my surprise, Kennford took over the armchair the chief clerk had vacated. Maybe he was going to cooperate after all.

  ‘If you haven’t been thinking about the crimes, I take it you don’t have any more suggestions for our list of suspects.’

  ‘No, I don’t. I’ve told you what I can, and Alan has given you some more names, though I think you’ll be wasting your time if you chase after someone like poor old Harman.’