Tug Of Law (Bernadette Mackenna Cases Book 4)

by D. R. Bailey

“Welcome aboard,” said the pilot, “Our flying time will be approximately one hour and twenty-five minutes. I wish you a pleasant flight and thanks for using World Jet.”

  The flight attendants went through the standard safety briefing while Bernadette relaxed back into her seat and smiled at her fiancée. The jet completed its taxi manoeuvres and the pilot kicked up the revs on the engines which started whine loudly. He released the brakes and the jet launched itself down the runway. Unlike the larger planes, Bernadette had flown in the G force from this was quite intense, and they took off at a steep angle. She looked out of the window and watched the city of Dublin fall away. A glance around showed her the others were doing the same. She could just pick out the Criminal Courts of Justice and a couple of other buildings before Dublin disappeared from view. The flight attendants were buckled up impassively in their seats, paying scant attention to anything, they no doubt performed this type of flight several times a week.

  Shortly after take-off, the plane levelled off. The attendants unbuckled and went to the galley in order to prepare some refreshments.

  “I suppose you fly like this quite often,” Eve said to D’Arcy.

  “Well, sometimes, darling, yes, depends on the movie company. I mean, it’s better for privacy obviously and I can slip in and out without all the press. But otherwise, I fly first or business on the long hauls,” said D’Arcy in matter of fact tones.

  “How the other half lives,” murmured Imogen.

  “But, darling, you are now the other half,” D’Arcy reminded her.

  “Oh, yes, so I am.”

  The flight crew served them each with a glass of wine or a soft drink, with a prawn cocktail, a small salad, and slices of teriyaki chicken with rice. There was a chocolate mousse for afters. The meal was nicely served on china plates with proper cutlery unlike the usual plastic arrangements of scheduled airlines. Bernadette and Imogen did not take the wine, and they all pronounced the food delicious.

  They whiled away the flight chatting about London, and D’Arcy said she hadn’t been there for some time. D’Arcy had done quite a bit of filming there so knew it quite well. Bernadette had been a few times in her youth, Eve had predictably spent a bit of time there, and for Imogen, this was her first trip to the UK. D’Arcy was happy because she would be able to introduce Imogen to the big city.

  Shortly they flew over the City of London and D’Arcy pointed out all the sights to her fiancée, then they turned south and finally landed at Biggin Hill. The airport consisted of a large two-story white building proclaiming itself as “Biggin Hill Airport”, plus several other buildings for the various private aircraft companies which used it. They taxied to a standstill and the steps were let down.

  To Bernadette’s surprise, a stretch limo was waiting for them. The flight attendants bid them fair well and they disembarked. Carragh put the bags in the boot and sat up front with the driver.

  “You pushed the boat out on this trip, D’Arcy,” said Bernadette entering the Limo and looking around it with interest.

  “Oh darling,” D’Arcy said, “I just thought a bit of comfort would be nice.”

  “Very nice, the last time I was in one of these was for a very rowdy hen party.” Bernadette instantly regretted the words leaving her mouth.

  “Oh gosh, yes, you and Eve, you need to have a hen party,” said D’Arcy at once.

  “Oh, no, no, no, we don’t need…”

  “But you do, darling, even if it’s just us four, we can get really drunk and…”

  “D’Arcy, no! You know about you and drinking. That’s in the past, remember,” said Imogen firmly.

  “But, honey, it’s for Bernadette,” said D’Arcy beginning to pout.

  “Put your lip away!”

  “Oh you, I’m not a child.”

  “But you behave like one sometimes,” Imogen replied implacably.

  D’Arcy shot her a look of defiance and reached for the bottle of champagne which was provided for their use. It had not been opened, and Imogen simply removed it gently from her grasp. She poured out a glass of diet coke, put some ice in it and wordlessly handed it to D’Arcy.

  “You see how strict she is with me,” D’Arcy said to no one in particular, and looked as if she was going to stamp her foot.

  “I’m giving you a warning,” Imogen said quietly into her ear, “You know what’s going to happen if you carry on like this.”

  Eve and Bernadette looked from one to the other. Eve decided to come to the rescue before things escalated.

  “Listen we don’t have to get drunk, honey, we can have a nice hen night though, have fun, maybe watch old movies, stuff like that, at your house, hey?”

  “Ooh yes, we could have a sleepover in the living room, like teenagers. I never had one of those.” D’Arcy brightened up at once, forgetting her earlier petulance.

  “Well then, we shall, won’t we, darling,” said Eve looking at Bernadette for confirmation.

  “Of course,” said Bernadette, “We can all wear matching pyjamas.”

  “And go skinny dipping in the pool,” D’Arcy said, getting carried away.

  “Of course,” said Eve looking at Bernadette. Her fiancée shrugged. They both knew it wouldn’t be the first time.

  Imogen relaxed and sat back with an indulgent smile, now her fiancée seemed to have settled down. The route took approximately an hour and they drove up through Brixton, across Vauxhall Bridge. They turned right up Millbank and past the Houses of Parliament. Eve entertained Imogen with her knowledge about the London landmarks and sights, pointing things out right and left. They went up Whitehall past Horse Guards and D’Arcy informed them that one person she had never met was the Queen, although she had apparently met several dignitaries, and other members of the Royal Family in her time at premieres and parties for the hoi polloi. They drove past Nelson’s Column, up Piccadilly via Regent Street arriving finally at Portland Place and pulling up at long last outside The Langham Hotel. This was their destination although, Eve and Bernadette had been unaware they were staying somewhere quite so plush.

  As they got out of the limo, they gazed up at the massive stone building in front of them, with an arched columned entranceway which went all the way up to the first floor.

  “Jesus, are we staying here?” Eve exclaimed, looking at it in awe.

  “Oh, yes, darling, and wait until you see where,” D’Arcy told her.

  “What happened to bijou and a boutique hotel?” Bernadette asked.

  “I decided this was so much better and Imogen agreed,” D’Arcy said to her, “It’s my treat, anyway.”

  “Then, thank you, darling,” said Bernadette realising there really was no stopping her at all. Imogen would have gone along with D’Arcy’s plans because she only reigned her in when she felt strongly about something. D’Arcy did as she wanted most of the time with Imogen’s full approval.

  “Just wait, wait until you see what’s in store,” D’Arcy said again in animated tones.

  When they entered the foyer, D’Arcy certainly turned a few heads being instantly recognisable, but she was treated like a VIP with great deference, and after a brief check-in they were escorted personally to the second floor. They were then shown into what proclaimed itself to be the ‘Infinity Suite’ and as they walked up the polished buff tiles of entrance the corridor, Eve exclaimed out loud, “Holy fuck, D’Arcy, this is amazing.”

  The corridor opened out into an atrium with a master bedroom to the left, and a second bedroom to the right. In front of them was a semi-circular lounge cum dining room. The décor was tasteful and muted, with blues and creams, and ceilings with moulded covings. The living area provided a view of the city.

  “Do you like it?” D’Arcy asked.

  “I do, very much, darling. But it must be costing you a fortune,” said Bernadette with a frown.

  “It’s nothing really, honestly, sweetheart,” said D’Arcy airily.

  “Don’t worry ab
out it, darling, she can afford it I promise you, and she wanted to give us a nice treat,” Imogen told Bernadette in a way which communicated that Imogen didn’t want her to make a big deal about the expense.

  “Well, but thank you so much for this. I mean, it’s quite a surprise,” Bernadette said to D’Arcy.

  “A good one though?”

  “A very good one, it’s marvellous.” Bernadette kissed her and gave her a hug, which left D’Arcy wreathed in smiles.

  Carragh left the bags in their respective rooms, and then retired to his own one-bedroom suite next door. D’Arcy had an emergency walkie talkie which he provided for her so she could use to contact him at all times of the day or night. He would also make sure they were secure at night and check the suite himself regularly in case of intruders.

  “Shall we have a tour?” D’Arcy said.

  The master bedroom proved quite sumptuous, with a king size bed, a day bed, and a table and chairs. The furnishings were again subdued, and in a similar fashion to the hallway but expensive. There was a beautiful bathroom with a mix of mosaic tiles, large wall tiles, a walk-in shower, bath, toilet and basin. All well-appointed. The second bedroom was similarly furnished and also a good size. The bathroom was smaller with a Victorian bath, a smaller shower, basin and loo. The tiles on the walls were similar to those in the other bathroom. Each room also had a walk-in wardrobe for hanging clothes. There was also another toilet just off the hallway. The décor had a synergy and was tastefully done without being too opulent.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Bernadette said when they had seen everything, “I’ve never stayed anywhere half as grand or luxurious as this, you’re spoiling us, D’Arcy.”

  “Because I love you, both of you, so very much, and of course my Imogen. My darling, darling beautiful Imogen, I love her the most,” said D’Arcy simply.

  Imogen kissed her then, blushing at the compliment.

  “I love you too, and you are exceptionally beautiful, my darling. Now, we should unpack, and then what about lunch? I mean, I’m kind of hungry,” said Imogen.

  “Oh, we’ve got private dining if we want and that man who escorted us is our personal butler, who will sort everything out we need.”

  “Great, then let’s get settled in and order something up.”

  Imogen and Bernadette opted for the Chicken tikka pie, and cauliflower puree from The Wigmore, and Eve the braised pork belly, hispi cabbage, and smoked sausage, while D’Arcy had the plant-based vegan cheeseburger, with pickled jalapeño in their living-cum-dining room. After lunch, Bernadette and Imogen left in a taxi for the offices of an organisation handling accommodation and all other matters for asylum seekers.

  The offices of the Refugee Assistance Organisation were in an area of east London. The offices were in a non-descript grey sixties style building just north of Docklands. The taxi dropped Bernadette and Imogen outside. They entered the premises through a glass double door and found themselves in a carpeted area which was quite well fitted out. Although it wasn’t plush, it wasn’t cheap either. The reception had posters all over the walls, leaflets, and booklets in many different languages. Sitting at the two reception desks were two women.

  “Can I help you?” asked one of them looking up. She was wearing a hijab and Bernadette thought she had pretty eyes.

  “Imogen Stewart and Bernadette Mackenna, we have an appointment with Damsa Adi, we are lawyers from Dublin,” said Imogen handing over her card.

  The woman examined it briefly and then asked them to take a seat. She picked up the phone, presumably to call Damsa.

  “Nice place,” said Bernadette looking around.

  “Yes, it’s a charity organisation, they exist on donations and they get some lottery funding,” Imogen told her.

  “You’ve done your homework.”

  “Just like you taught me. I can tell you who the head of this NGO is, the patrons, whatever you want.”

  “I’m impressed.” Bernadette smiled.

  At that moment Damsa Adi appeared. She had shoulder length black hair, hanging free. She was wearing a black skirt, and a blouse with a flowery pattern, and black mules.

  “Hi, Imogen, Bernadette?” she said with a smile.

  “Yes,” said Imogen standing up.

  “Come this way, please.”

  She led the way through another set of doors and down a corridor to what they assumed was her office. It was chock full of filing cabinets, and shelves with legal books. Her desk was a typical light-coloured wood with aluminium legs. A computer and screen sat on the desk, which had many files on it too, reminding Bernadette of Andrew’s desk and office. Behind Damsa’s desk was a shelf with what looked like family pictures and personal items. In one corner of the office by the window was a small round table with some chairs.

  “Take a seat,” Damsa said in a friendly tone indicating the meeting table. She picked up the phone and spoke to someone about coffee and then came to sit down. “Now, I’ve read your emails, Imogen, but just explain again why you want to see these refugees.”

  “We are representing a client, Callum Jenkins, a truck driver, an attempt is being made to extradite him back to the UK for trafficking these women,” Imogen explained.

  “Sure, I get that part but what possible help can they be to you?”

  “Well, there are two things really. The first is whether they might recognise Callum, and the second is where they got on board the truck. Whether it was in Ireland or somewhere in Europe.”

  “Is that important?”

  “Yes, because we are working with the Garda on an investigation into the depot where the truck was picked up in Ireland. If there is evidence the truck was loaded there, then it becomes an Irish based crime which helps us and helps them.”

  “I see.”

  Just then a man entered the office carrying a tray containing three coffees, milk and sugar, and a plate of digestive biscuits. Damsa distributed the cups and they helped themselves to milk and sugar. Imogen took a digestive and nibbled it.

  “What I’m concerned about,” said Damsa frankly, “Is how is this helping our women and our girls? They are vulnerable people, what is your client to them? Your interest is with your client and not really with people who suffered incredible hardship and a lucky escape from a life of sexual slavery.”

  It seemed to Bernadette that Damsa was verging on saying no to their request. Certainly, it appeared the way things were heading. She felt perhaps it might be prudent to intervene.

  “Damsa,” she said, “What exactly is it you do?”

  “We work for refugees here, I’m sure you must know that.”

  “No, I mean what do you do, personally, here?”

  “I’m a lawyer, qualified some time ago, I started working for this organisation because nobody was really helping these people.”

  “And what drives you to do that?”

  Damsa looked at her as if she didn’t feel this was relevant to the discussion but she answered anyway, “I was a refugee myself. I come from Iran. My family fled when things became difficult. My father was outspoken, he was a very successful businessman, but he was also good at getting into trouble. We knew perhaps one day he would end up in prison, so we left, with nothing. My father did not want me brought up there. So, we came here. In Iran we were rich, we came with just the clothes on our back.”

  “Then you felt somehow you had to give back to people who had suffered a worse fate than you?”

  “Yes, exactly, and so I am very protective of their interests.”

  “Why do you think I do what I do?”

  Damsa regarded her curiously. “You’re a defence counsel, it’s your job.”

  Imogen laughed at this. “I guess you haven’t researched her.”

  “Well, no,” Damsa admitted, “I was pretty chocka with work, to be honest, so…”

  “You probably have a cynical view of our profession, although you are a lawyer yourself.” Bernadett
e was equally blunt. “I can see you probably do. It is my job, but I do it because I believe in justice. I believe in making sure someone who is innocent doesn’t go to prison.”

  “OK, and you think your client is innocent?”

  “Yes, yes, I do, because otherwise, I wouldn’t be representing him. I’m not one of these lawyers who tries to get guilty people off. I try to make sure justice is done for those who deserve it.”

  “She does more than try,” Imogen added, “She succeeds most of the time.”

  “What makes you so sure your client isn’t guilty?” Damsa asked her.

  “I can’t really share the evidence we have but I don’t believe he is. I have a nose for these things. If I thought he was, I would not be representing him.”

  Damsa took a sip of her coffee.

  “You know these women are afraid. The police have already interviewed them, and they told them very little. They said they don’t know anything. These sexual gangs are predators, they have a long reach. We can’t protect them completely. If they talk to you, then they might become targets.”

  Bernadette glanced at Imogen. This was a breakthrough. Damsa was leaning more now towards saying yes.

  “Can’t we at least try? Even if we can get one of them to speak it might help us. I promise you if they won’t talk or anything then we’ll walk away,” Bernadette said.

  “What is your ultimate goal, are you expecting them to give evidence in court?”

  “If it was relevant then yes, but there may be ways we can arrange for them not to be identifiable or done via a video link, something like that. At the least, an affidavit would help us.”

  “OK, well, that would only work if they were willing to put themselves on the line.”

  “So, in principle are you saying you’ll help us?”

  “In principle, you’ve convinced me. God knows why but I believe you are sincere.”

  “Thank you.”

  “When do you want to see them?”

  “Tomorrow? If we could?” Imogen asked her.

  “It’s a tall order, but I’ll do my best. Let me talk to them, and I’ll bring them to the centre here, if they will talk or perhaps at their accommodation, if they feel more comfortable there. I’ll call you later or in the morning, OK?”