Malice (Rina Walker Book 3)

by Hugh Fraser

  As we arrive at the front door, it swings open and a man in a grey suit comes out followed by two uniformed police and a WPC. The uniforms grab me and push me face first against the wall. One of them cuffs my wrists, the other one turns me round and the plain clothes man stands in front of me.

  ‘Katherine Walker. I am arresting you for the murder of Jonathan Brindle. You do not have to say anything, unless you wish to do so, but what you do say may be given in evidence.’

  24

  They walk me to the kerb and put me in the back of an unmarked car between the WPC and one of the uniforms. Lizzie follows us to the pavement and I see her stricken face as we drive away. With my wrists cuffed behind my back I have to sit forward in the seat and I can feel the woman’s breath on my cheek as she looks me over. The driver bombs along Marylebone Road, does a left turn onto Penton Street, goes round a corner and stops outside Islington nick. I’m pulled out of the car, walked in through a side door, my cuffs are taken off and I’m told to sit down at a desk. A sergeant comes in, sits opposite me and asks me to confirm my name and address. After he’s written them down he asks me if I want legal representation. I tell him I do, he says that a solicitor will be appointed, shown the evidence against me and that I will receive a visit from him shortly. He asks me if I want anyone informed of my arrest. The only person I’d want to know is well aware of it already, so I say no and the sergeant picks up his paperwork and leaves.

  The WPC steps forward and takes me to another room where my fingerprints are taken. The contents of my shoulder bag are tipped onto a table and inspected by the male copper, and I’m glad I took the brass knuckles out before I went to Sports Day. He puts the bits and pieces back in the bag and leaves. Another WPC comes in, leans against the wall and watches while the other one makes me hold my arms out and gives me a body search, which she clearly enjoys, while getting a couple of knowing looks from her mate.

  When they’ve had their little bit of entertainment they take me downstairs to the cells. I walk past a couple of old blokes lying on bunks and a young lad standing behind the bars, looking lost and sorry for himself. They take me to a cell at the far end of the block, unlock the door and tell me to take my shoes off. I step out of my slingbacks and go into the cell. One of them picks up my shoes, the other locks me in and they walk off down the corridor.

  I stand by the bunks, clasp my hands together and press my wrist against the edge of the metal frame until I’m feeling nothing but the pain. When it’s driven the anger away I let go, lie on the bottom bunk and massage my wrist while I try to work out how I can have got nicked. It can’t be anyone on the film because they were all in the corridor when it happened and if someone on the ground saw anything they’d be too far away to identify me. As I’m trying to think of any other angle I hear footsteps and the WPC appears and unlocks the door.

  ‘Your brief’s here,’ she says, swinging the door open and jerking her head in the direction of the corridor. She gives me my shoes and I follow her upstairs to a room with a desk and a couple of filing cabinets. She tells me to take a seat and leaves. Moments later a short man in a suit and tie, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and carrying a briefcase comes in.

  ‘Katherine Walker?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Duncan Mayfield. I’ve been appointed your solicitor.’

  ‘That was quick,’ I say.

  ‘My practice is nearby and I happened to be working late.’

  He opens his briefcase, takes out a file, opens it and puts it on the desk in front of him. ‘You are charged with the murder of Jonathan Brindle on the 18th of June 1964. The police have shown me the evidence they have to support that charge and I must tell you that they have a statement from an eyewitness who claims she saw you throw Brindle off a tenth floor balcony at the Brunswick Close Estate, Islington.’

  ‘I didn’t do it.’

  ‘Very well,’ he says, looking at me steadily for a moment before writing something down.

  ‘Were you present in the building at the time of Brindle’s death?’

  ‘I was in a film that was being made there.’

  ‘Ah yes, the film. I believe the death occurred during a break in filming?’

  ‘That’s right. Brindle was in the flat on his own while we were all in the corridor.’

  ‘Are there those who can testify that you were in the corridor the whole time?’

  ‘I reckon.’

  He writes something down and then looks past me for a moment, tapping his pen on the desk.

  ‘You will shortly be questioned by the police, and in view of what you’ve told me, I would advise you to remain silent, which you have the legal right to do. I shall be present and able to intervene should there be any departure from correct procedure.’

  ‘OK,’ I say as he puts the file in his briefcase and bangs on the bars. Moments later the WPC arrives and unlocks the door. Duncan Mayfield gives me a courteous nod and leaves.

  When I’m taken back to the cell, I lie back down on the bunk, wondering who on earth this eyewitness can be. I’m thinking that maybe one of Brindle’s mob or the Teales are trying to nail me.

  My next visitor is a man in white overalls, who parks a tray with a bowl of soup, a piece of dry bread and a cup of tea on the shelf opposite the bunks. He leaves without a word and pushes his trolley on along the corridor. I sniff the soup and decide to give it a miss. When I’ve drunk the tea, I’m taken back up to the office where I met my brief and told to sit at the desk. The same sergeant who took my name earlier comes in, sits opposite me and opens a notebook. He’s followed by Mayfield who takes the chair next to me. The sergeant asks me where I was on the night of Brindle’s death and I say nothing. After a few more questions that I don’t respond to, Mayfield tells him that I’ve got nothing to say to the police at this time and the sergeant snaps his notebook shut and walks out. Mayfield stands up, says he’ll be back to see me soon and I’m taken back to my cell. I lie on the bed, close my eyes and listen to the boy in the next cell crying softly.

  The man in white overalls is back the next morning with a bowl of porridge and tea. The uniform who lets him in tells me that there’s an identity parade in half an hour and I’m in Bow Street magistrates court at midday. I wait for him to leave, use the bucket in the corner, then I drink the tea and try the porridge. It’s just about edible and by the time I’ve finished the uniform’s back with a WPC. They take me upstairs and a long way through the building, to a room with a tinted window along one wall, where five or six women, all with blond hair and about the same height as me, are standing talking in a group. They fall silent when they see me. The WPC asks them to form a line against the wall opposite the tinted window and she tells me to stand in third place from the left. When I’ve joined the line, a voice comes through a speaker somewhere and tells us to stand still and look at the window. A few minutes later the voice thanks us and tells us we’re done. The women troop out and I’m taken back to my cell.

  Mayfield arrives after a bit, looking gloomy. ‘I’m afraid they’ve got a positive identification.’

  ‘Who from?’ I ask.

  ‘Her name is Doris Webb. She lives in the flat next door to the one you were filming in and she’s given a statement to the effect that she saw you strike Brindle and throw him off the balcony.’

  I remember the ginger-haired woman with the pram and two boys who got into the lift and I wonder how much Brindle’s team must have paid her to offer me up.

  ‘She’s lying,’ I say.

  ‘In that case I would advise you to plead not guilty.’

  ‘I intend to,’ I say.

  ‘There is a prima facie case against you, which means there is no need for the evidence to be tested, so your matter will be sent straight to the Old Bailey. I shall make an application for bail on your behalf, but I doubt it will be granted.’

  ‘Do your best.’

  ‘Very well. I shall see you in court.’

  Mayfield leaves, and it hits me that I’
m going to be hanged, or spend the next twenty years of my life in prison.

  • • •

  At Bow Street, I’m taken from the paddy wagon and put in a cell. About an hour later I’m brought into court by an attendant and told to sit on a bench with some iron railings in front. It’s a big wood panelled courtroom and there are three older gents sitting opposite me who look like the magistrates. There’s a silver-haired one in the middle, on a high backed chair, talking to a clerk who’s standing beside him. I can see Mayfield sitting at a table on the floor of the court. He’s deep in conversation with another serious looking bloke, in a dark suit and tie, who glances over at me now and again. The silver-haired magistrate clears his throat and taps on the desk with a little wooden hammer. The clerk comes over to me and tells me to stand. ‘Are you Katherine Walker?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply.

  ‘Of 22 Welby Court, Maida Vale, London West 9?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sit down.’

  I do as I’m told and he goes and sits at the table. The man Mayfield was talking to stands up and turns to the magistrates.

  ‘Sirs, I represent the Crown in this matter. The defendant Katherine Walker is accused of murder and has been identified in the act by an eyewitness of good character. I would respectfully suggest that in view of the serious nature of the charge and the weight of evidence to support it, the matter be committed for trial at the Old Bailey.’

  The magistrate looks to his left and right and receives nods from the two others. ‘Thank you very much. We commit the matter to the Old Bailey,’ He taps the desk with his hammer and the prosecutor sits down. The magistrate writes something and then looks up. ‘Is there an application for bail?’

  ‘Indeed there is sir,’ says Mayfield.

  The prosecutor stands up again. ‘I oppose bail on the grounds of seriousness of offence, possibility of absconding due to likely length of sentence if found guilty, and risk of interference with witnesses.’

  Mayfield stands. ‘The accused has no previous record, has agreed to occupy an alternative address until trial and will accept any conditions that the court might wish to put in place, including curfew,’ says Mayfield.

  The magistrate confers briefly with his colleagues. ‘Bail denied. For the reasons cited by the prosecution. Take her down.’

  25

  Holloway hasn’t changed since I was on remand here eight years ago. It looks like a big ugly medieval castle and it’s a maze of corridors and different wings. I get fingerprinted, then I’m told to strip and a mean-faced screw with a bald patch gives me a rough body search. I get a white overall and grey cardigan to wear, and a pair of uncomfortable leather shoes. I’m taken across the yard to a wing on the far side and put in a single cell on the first landing. There’s an iron bed, a bucket in the corner and a small sink with one tap that gives a measly trickle of water.

  After a while Mayfield comes to visit me and tells me it’ll probably be a month before I get my trial date and I ask him to contact Lizzie and tell her where I am. I’m so shattered by what’s happened that I lie on the bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering how I can survive this and cursing George Preston for making me do a job that I knew was too risky, on the promise of Dad’s money. I must talk to Lizzie and tell her where the cash is for Georgie’s school fees that need paying for the extra term she’s doing, and ask her if she can look after her when she’s alone in the flat in the holidays, and help to get her sorted out in Cambridge, if she’s going there. I know Lizzie will do everything she can for Georgie, and for me, and I thank God for her.

  My head’s full of a million thoughts about how I can defend myself in court, and if I’ll be able to get any witnesses on my side, when I hear the lock turning. There’s the sound of doors opening and shutting all over the landing and the screw opens mine and says it’s exercise. I don’t feel like moving but it’s the only chance I’ll have to get any fresh air for the rest of the day, so I get off the bed and follow the prisoners walking along the landing, round the corner and down the centre stairs to the floor of the wing. We’re made to wait until all the prisoners have come down and then the screws open the doors and let us out.

  It’s a bright day and I’m glad to be out of the cell as I walk round the outside of the yard. I haven’t spoken to anyone yet and I’m wondering if I should talk to a slim dark-haired girl, about my age who’s walking near me, when something sharp jabs me in the back. I turn round and Marlene’s there with a toothbrush in her hand. She looks about ten years older and a foot shorter than when I last saw her.

  ‘You’re going to wish you never come in here, you evil bitch, and if you ever get out my boys’ll be waiting to tear you apart!’ she snarls.

  ‘Fuck off Marlene,’ I say, and walk away. She follows me and jabs me in the back again. There’s a screw near so I keep walking, with Marlene behind me. When I get to the corner of the yard I turn on her and snatch the toothbrush out of her hand. I throw it on the ground, take hold of her skinny arms and look her in the eye. ‘If you give me just one bit of aggravation in here Marlene Teale, you won’t see your next birthday.’

  I walk away before she can reply. The girl I was thinking of speaking to before comes alongside me. ‘She’s a nasty little cow, but you need to be careful,’ she says.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘She’s got a couple of screws well satisfied, so she gets away with a lot.’

  ‘That’s good to know, thanks.’

  ‘And she’s got a team.’

  We walk on a bit and then a scuffle in the middle of the yard turns into a fight, women start cheering and I see Marlene scuttling towards the action. Whistles are blown and the screws move in, drawing their truncheons, and pull the fighters apart. More staff come onto the yard from different doors and order the rest of us back inside.

  ‘That was a couple of hers, in the ruck,’ says the dark-haired girl as we go up the stairs. We get to the landing and she goes one way and I go the other. When I get to my cell, I see that hers is opposite mine, on the other side of the wing.

  The screw who’s been standing by the door locks me in and I go to the window and hold the cold bars. I look across the yard at the rows of barred windows in the wing opposite and think of how many women are banged up in here and all the anger and frustration and loneliness these buildings hold. Someone swings a line with a paper bag on the end from one window to another, a hand catches it and a shout goes up. I lie down, close my eyes, listen to the sounds of the prison and drift off.

  The wooden walls of the courtroom are bulging inwards towards me and the dock I’m sitting in shudders and starts sinking. I try to stand up but I can’t. The silver-haired magistrate is rising up out of his chair and floating towards me with his arms outstretched. His hands are claws and they’re reaching for me, and Mayfield’s jumping up and trying to catch hold of him, but I’m sinking so fast the magistrate can’t reach me. I’m plunging down a long dark shaft, past flaming windows, where women with screaming faces are trying to escape through the bars. My chair starts burning. I leap out of it and I’m falling faster and faster, and now I’m in the sky, and I can see the prison below me, and there’s a blinding bright light, and I crash through the roof and it goes dark. I open my eyes and see a pair of black shoes in front of me.

  ‘What are you sleeping on the floor for, you daft little cow?’

  The black shoes turn and I watch the screw walk onto the landing. I get up slowly and go to the door. Prisoners are walking past and I follow them downstairs and across the hall. When everyone’s down from the landings the screws open a gate and we file along a corridor to the dining hall. I get in the queue for food, look round for the girl I spoke to in the yard and see her a little way back in the line. We exchange smiles, and as I turn back I see Marlene coming through a door behind the counter. She hands a paper bag to one of the women serving, then she goes and stands at the head of the queue. They start dishing out the food and everyone moves forward. When Marlene�
�s been served, she turns and stares at me for a second, then she picks up her tray, goes to a table of younger women and sits down among them. I recognise one of them from the fight in the yard.

  The women behind the counter are giving out plates of some kind of stew with mashed potato. When it’s my turn the one serving hands me my tray without looking at me. I take it, pick up a plastic cup of water off the end of the counter and make for an empty table. I don’t feel like eating, but I know this will be the last chance I’ll get until morning, so I sip some water and try a bit of the mash. It’s a bit dry but I’ve had worse. I’m just about to attempt the stew when I see the dark-haired girl coming towards the table.

  ‘Join you?’ she says.

  ‘Please do,’ I reply.

  She puts her tray on the table and sits down opposite me.

  ‘I’m Trudy.’

  ‘Rina.’

  ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘First time?’

  ‘Second.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘How long have you been in?’ I ask.

  ‘Just a month.’

  I notice Marlene clocking me from her table. She says something to the girl opposite, who turns and looks at me.

  ‘Remand?’ I ask Trudy.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Same as me. Have you got your trial date?’

  ‘It’s three months away.’

  ‘Could be worse.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  I’d like to ask her what she’s in for, but I don’t want her to know why I’m here just yet, as she seems nice and it might frighten her off. She pays attention to her plate, and I give the stew a try and find the meat tough and gristly. When I put my fork into the mashed potato it touches something hard in the middle. I use my knife to investigate and uncover something brown and revolting, which gives off a foul smell. Trudy reels back as I spit the stew out of my mouth, pick up my plate, stride to the nearest bin, open the lid and dump the contents into it. A screw standing by asks me what I’m playing at. I tell her I’ve just thrown away a shit sandwich and she walks away, not wanting to get involved. I sit back down and see Marlene and the girls at her table pointing at me and laughing. Trudy has a quick look round at them. ‘That’s one of her favourite little tricks.’