by Mark Dawson
The process was repeated with the other eleven. They were an assorted bunch: eight men and four women, varying in ages, mostly white, mostly—at least to Atticus’s eye—drawn from the middle class. They sat in their seats, some of them shuffling uncomfortably as the gallery assessed them. Atticus cast his eye over them, too. The man at the end of the row—Gardner—looked forward, his elbows resting on his knees and his fingertips pressed together. His posture suggested confidence, and Atticus made a bet with himself that he would be elected to be the foreman. Winters—the woman next to him—was smiling, but the smile was stronger on the right, suggesting that it was false. The woman to her left was stroking her hair, a classic gesture from pacifiers who were nervous and trying to maintain an air of calm. Atticus studied them, one after the other, and absorbed the details, building a picture of each. It was an automatic reaction, instilled by years of study and practical application. He would consider them a little more carefully as the trial began. Assumptions would form. He might be able to offer useful directions to the defence based upon what he observed.
The jury now duly sworn, attention turned back to the judge.
“Mr. Abernathy,” Somerville said, “shall we begin?”
10
Abernathy got to his feet and arranged his notes on the desk in front of him. He clasped his hands behind his back and thrust out his chest.
“My Lord, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, as you will no doubt have heard, this is a case of the utmost gravity. Mr. Mallender stands accused of the murders, that being that he, as a person of sound mind, unlawfully killed four members of his own family with intent to kill or cause grievous bodily harm. My colleague, Miss Masters, and I will present witnesses to you, and they will provide the evidence in this case that, we will say, demonstrates beyond a reasonable doubt that Mr. Mallender is guilty. I am addressing you now simply to give you an overview of the Crown’s case and the theory of the Crown regarding the murders. I hope this overview will give you an indication of our evidence before we call our first witness.”
Atticus watched as Abernathy settled into the rhythm of his speech. He was dressed in a fine suit beneath his robes. His horsehair wig was old and grey, darker than the white of the wig worn by the junior counsel assisting him. It was a mark of his seniority; he had evidently owned it for some time, whereas the wig that Masters wore was fresh. Abernathy spoke with a confidence that strayed close to pomposity, but there was no question that he cut an impressive figure. Mallender’s barrister would need to work hard to dispel the sense of gravitas that clung to him; his natural authority would be persuasive to a member of the jury not used to hearing someone like him present an argument.
“You will find that the police investigation of this case started in one direction and then took another turn altogether. The police who had responded to the defendant’s 999 call on Christmas Eve reached the conclusion that his brother, Cameron, had stolen a pistol from his father’s gun safe and then used it to shoot their mother, father and sister before putting it to his head and shooting himself. The conclusion was reached because, amongst other reasons, the house was found to have been locked from the inside, and Cameron’s body was found near to the weapon that was confirmed to have been used in the killings. It is a conclusion that you might well believe to be credible—the police certainly thought that it was. However, we will demonstrate that Cameron Mallender could not have killed his family and that, in fact, the murders were committed by the man you see standing before you in the dock today—the defendant, Ralph Mallender.”
Atticus watched Ralph, looking for any reaction to the accusations that were being made against him. He remained pale, his hands clasped in his lap, his thumbs pressed together. His eyes darted left and right, back and forth, a clear sign of insecurity. That was to be expected.
Abernathy jutted out his chin. “The defence will try to persuade you that Cameron was responsible. The defendant has made that argument consistently ever since the murders took place. But the prosecution will demonstrate the flaws in that suggestion, not least that forensic evidence suggests that Cameron did not shoot himself, as might otherwise have appeared to have been the case, but that he was shot and that his body was arranged to give the impression that he had taken his own life.”
Atticus looked at Allegra. She was stiff-backed, her hands clasped in her lap and her face set hard, save for the bulge at her jaw where she was clenching and unclenching her teeth. Her legs were crossed at the ankles, and her arms were folded across her chest. She looked angry and uncomfortable.
Abernathy continued. “We will bring additional evidence to show that Cameron Mallender had no experience with firearms, yet the defendant has suggested that he would have been capable of using a pistol—not just using it, mind, but using it with a degree of accuracy that meant that every one of the shots that were fired that evening found their mark. We will show you how there was no forensic evidence on the body of Cameron Mallender that would have gone towards the claim that he was responsible. There was no blood, even given the fact that the gunshots had produced a good deal of blood on the bodies of the victims and in their immediate vicinity. We will show you Cameron’s clothing, and how it was free of any evidence that might suggest that he could have been involved in a struggle. We will show how swabs of Cameron’s hands did not show the gunshot residue that would have been expected from someone who had loaded and fired a weapon. And we will show that the defendant was aware of a way to enter and exit the property without detection, thus allowing him to leave the exterior doors locked so that the assumption would be that the murderer remained inside.”
Atticus looked over to where Mack was sitting. She was listening intently, her eyes flicking between the jury to her right and the judge. She still hadn’t noticed that Atticus was there.
“Finally, and most damning of all, we will hear evidence from a close friend of the defendant—a Mr. Freddie Lamza—who will say that the defendant had confided in him that he hated his family and intended to kill them so that he could inherit their estate.”
Ralph shifted in his seat at the mention of Lamza’s name. Atticus remembered reading about that in the papers: Lamza was a former lover, and the prospect of their relationship being aired in front of all these people must be causing him tremendous embarrassment.
“The Crown will prove that the defendant had the means to commit the crimes. He knew how to leave the house secured so that it looked like the murderer must still be inside. We will show that he knew where his father kept his firearms and that he knew how to use them. And, when it comes to motive, we will show that there was a strong financial reason behind the murders. The defendant stood to inherit a great deal of money. And, finally, we will show that he had the opportunity to kill them. The defendant was already at the farmhouse when Detective Sergeant Lennox arrived.”
Abernathy left a meaningful pause, glancing over at the jury with a sombre expression on his face. Those who were taking notes were busy with their pads.
“The facts of the case suggest that only Cameron Mallender or Ralph Mallender could have carried out these murders. We will show you how Cameron Mallender could not have been responsible. On that basis, there can only be one verdict. We will demonstrate, beyond all reasonable doubt, that the defendant had the motive, means and opportunity to murder his family on Christmas Eve last year.”
Abernathy went on to outline the Crown’s case in more detail, telling the story of what they said had happened on that night. He took his time and still had not finished two hours later, as the clock on the wall edged around to one.
“I have another half an hour,” Abernathy said to the judge. “Perhaps now would be the time to adjourn for lunch?”
“I agree,” Somerville said. “We’ll continue at two o’clock.”
The usher stood. “All rise.”
Atticus got to his feet with the others in the gallery, waiting for the judge to leave the court, and then anxiously watching as Allegra was on
e of the first to make it to the door.
“Excuse me,” he said as he bumped into his neighbour in an attempt to step around him. “I’m in a bit of a rush.”
11
Allegra was waiting for Atticus in the reception space outside the courts. There was a clutch of reporters there and, as one of them recognised her, they all moved in her direction. Atticus shouldered his way through a gap and got to her first.
“We should go somewhere else,” he said. “You’re about to get hassled.”
“Where?”
He knew the locale well. “There’s a café down the road. We’ll be okay there.”
She didn’t argue and followed him as he led the way outside. It had started to rain during the proceedings, and Atticus regretted that he had left both his jacket and umbrella in the back of his car. Allegra had an umbrella and she raised it, sheltering beneath it as Atticus led the way down Wilton Road towards the city. The reporters followed for a moment, until only the two most determined remained in pursuit.
“Mrs. Mallender,” one called out, “how do you think it went this morning?”
They reached the building used by the Quakers for their meetings.
“Keep walking,” Atticus said.
“Did he do it? Allegra!”
“Keep going.”
“Mrs. Mallender! Did Ralph do it?”
“Jesus,” Allegra said.
“It’s down there on the right,” Atticus said, pointing down the street. “There’s a roundabout. I’ll see you in there.”
Atticus turned round and blocked the pavement. They were being followed by a journalist and a photographer, most likely working together. The two men had no choice but to stop.
“Do yourselves a favour, lads,” he said. “Piss off.”
“Who are you?”
“Mickey Mouse, and I asked you nicely. She doesn’t want to talk.”
“Are you a friend?”
Atticus didn’t reply.
“Does she still think Ralph’s innocent?”
“Come on. She doesn’t want to talk to you. Neither do I. I can’t make it any clearer than that.”
The reporters didn’t look as if they were going to pay attention to Atticus’s suggestion. Instead of turning back, one of them tried to step around him. Atticus stood his ground and put up his hand, resting it on the man’s shoulder. The reporter reached over and grabbed his wrist, moving his arm out of the way. Atticus stepped across to block the man’s path again. The reporter’s face clenched in anger, and Atticus readied himself for an escalation. The man squared up to him, but, before he could do anything other than bump shoulders, Atticus saw someone approaching them quickly from the direction of the court.
“Detective Chief Inspector,” Atticus said, deliberately loud.
The reporter frowned, backed away from him, and turned.
Mackenzie Jones was behind them.
“What’s going on?”
The reporter prodded his finger into Atticus’s chest. “He’s trying to stop us going down the street.”
“And you are?”
“Steve Hawkins,” the man said.
She turned to the second man. “And you?”
“Mark Lewis.”
“Which newspaper are you from?”
“Freelance,” Hawkins said.
Lewis added, “I work with him.”
“They’re bothering the wife of the defendant,” Atticus said. “They want to ask her about her husband. She doesn’t want to talk to them.”
“All right, then, lads,” Mack said. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You go back to the court and I’ll give you a quote and a picture, but best leave Mrs. Mallender alone. This morning would’ve been difficult enough for her without you two making it worse. Her husband’s on trial—not her. All right?”
It wasn’t really a suggestion, and both men were sensible enough to realise that.
“Fine,” Hawkins said.
“Just give me a minute,” she said. “I just want to have a word with Mr. Priest.”
Hawkins and Lewis glared at Atticus, but did as they were told and made their way back to the court building.
Mack waited until the men were up the road before she turned to Atticus. “Causing trouble again?”
“Hello to you, too, Mack.”
“I saw you in the gallery.”
“I was trying to keep a low profile.”
She looked at him with the concern that she seemed to reserve for their interactions. “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” he said.
“I heard you got into trouble at the Wig and Quill.”
“Last week?” Atticus shrugged. “Just a misunderstanding. I said the beer was off. Barry disagreed.”
“And called the police when you wouldn’t pay?”
“What is this? Are you keeping tabs on me?”
“No, Atticus, I’m not. But you still have something of a reputation at the nick, and when you make a scene and an officer is called to take care of it, it’s the kind of thing that gets shared during the morning briefing. There are people there who take pleasure in your mistakes, as you know.”
“Thank you for the concern. It’s very touching, but there’s nothing to worry about.”
“You’re still doing the… you know, the detective thing?”
He sighed. “Yes, Mack, I’m still a detective. It’s going very well, thank you very much. In fact, I was just with my client.”
That brought Mack up short. “What?”
“Allegra Mallender wants me to look at your investigation.”
“And what does that mean?”
“She wants me to make sure that nothing was missed.”
“Good luck with that.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s open and shut. And no, before you ask, I’m not going to tell you anything.”
“She says he didn’t do it.”
“Of course she does. She’s hardly impartial. She’s his wife.”
“You must have spoken to her?”
Mack rolled her eyes. “For hours and hours and hours.”
“And?”
“Weren’t you listening? I can’t talk to you about the case. Ask her.”
“But you think he did it?”
“We wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, would we? There’s a ton of evidence. Were you listening this morning? He’s got the motive; he had the opportunity; he doesn’t have an alibi. Read the papers. That’s all you’ll need. It’s all there.”
Atticus looked up at the rain clouds and shivered.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine. Really. Never better.” He paused, looked down, then looked back up again. “How about a drink tonight? Just for a catch-up? We haven’t seen each—”
“No,” she said, cutting him off. “Not a good idea.”
The rain fell more heavily, drumming against the pavement, the tarmac and the passing cars.
Mack found a small umbrella in her bag and raised it. “If you need anything on the case—anything I’m able to help you with—then come in and see me. Make an appointment. I’m sure the others would be pleased to see you, too.”
“Yeah.” He grinned. “I’m sure they’d be delighted.”
She laid her hand on his arm. “See you later.”
“Bye, Mack.”
“And, Atticus?”
“Yes?”
“Stay out of trouble.”
12
Atticus jogged along Wilton Road until he reached St Paul’s Roundabout. The café he had in mind was between a shop selling window blinds and an Indian takeaway. He opened the door and went inside. Allegra was sitting at a table in the back. She had two cups of coffee in front of her. He went over to join her.
“Honestly,” she said as he sat down. “It’s ridiculous.”
“The reporters?”
She nodded, her face set in a grimace of annoyance. “They’ve been outside the hou
se all week. It’s a farce. An absolute farce.” She sipped her coffee, put the cup down and turned to look straight into his eyes. “Ralph didn’t do it. You have to help me to get him out.”
The change of subject and her earnestness took Atticus by surprise.
“I’ll do my best.”
She reached across and laid her hand over his. “It’s just such a relief to have someone to help. I can’t begin to tell you how much.”
He gently withdrew his hand. “I can’t offer any guarantees. I haven’t seen any of the evidence yet. I’ll approach it objectively and independently, and if I see anything that looks questionable—anything at all—I’ll investigate it. All we need is to raise a reasonable doubt. That’s it. They have to be sure that he did it. Not confident. Not satisfied. Sure. If they’re not, they have to acquit. That’s what I’ll try to do—find the doubt that your husband needs.”
She stared out of the window at the handful of pedestrians hurrying along the sodden street. Cars swept around the roundabout, throwing up parabolas of spray in their wakes. Allegra’s enthusiasm seemed to melt away, replaced by an abstraction that Atticus couldn’t quite place. He picked up the coffee, warming his hands against the polystyrene cup.
“What do you need from me?” she asked.
“I need to speak to Ralph’s solicitor. It’s Dafyd Cadogan, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“I do,” he said, deciding not to impart his opinion of the lawyer and his firm. “Tell him that I’m working for you and Ralph. I don’t need long with him.”
“Before the trial starts again this afternoon?”
“Perfect.”
“Do you want me to be there, too?”
“It’s up to you,” he said. “It’s not important—I just want to get a look at the files.”
She looked at her watch. “We’ve got twenty minutes. Let’s go and see him now.”
Atticus finished his coffee, stood, and dropped the empty cup into the bin. Allegra took her coffee with her. Atticus opened the door for her and joined her in the drizzle outside.