by Mark Dawson
“But you thought he was telling the truth?”
“I don’t know why he would lie about something like that. I thought it was helpful to Ralph’s case. He could’ve said that he had thought about what he thought he had seen and had decided that he was mistaken, but he didn’t. It’s an element of doubt.”
She smiled. “That’s what I said to Dafyd. We only have to introduce reasonable doubt.”
“That’s right,” he said, “but you’re not there yet. They still have a lot of evidence. It was a good morning, but you’ll need a few more like that before you allow yourself to be confident.”
She laid a hand on his arm. “That’s why we have you.”
The afternoon in court was taken up with the evidence of the firearms officers who had attended the scene that night. Atticus would have liked to have watched all of the evidence, but time was not on his side; he needed to find weaknesses in the case before the trial came to a conclusion, and the pieces of evidence he needed to attack were the big ones, not the minutiae of how the crime scene was administered in the early stages of the investigation. That was a job for Cadogan, not him.
He decided to skip it. Instead, he left the court and made his way back to his car. He drove to the Washing Well launderette on Chipper Lane, took the bag of dirty clothes that he had packed earlier, and found an empty machine. He loaded it up, poured in powder and conditioner, and thumbed four pound coins into the slot. The programme would take a couple of hours to complete. He walked to the gym, went inside and showed his card to the receptionist—hoping that she didn’t check the date, since his membership had expired six weeks ago—and then made his way through into the changing rooms. He stripped off and showered, standing under the tepid water for fifteen minutes and using soap from the dispenser until he was clean.
Atticus opened the door to the office and let Bandit go in first. He followed, kneeling down to cuddle the dog, then got up and opened a tin of food for him. The sight of the dog clearing his bowl reminded him that he hadn’t eaten today, so he went down to the coffee shop on the High Street, ordered a flat white and a sandwich to go, and took both back to the office.
Bandit had settled on the leather sofa. Atticus went to the desk and fired up his laptop. He navigated to Chess.com to check whether his opponents had played a move in the three games that he was engaged in and saw that they had. ChessCompressions16 had accepted that his position was hopeless and had given up, departing the game with a flurry of insults. SansLimite had tried to defend against Atticus’s attack by sacrificing a pawn; Atticus ignored his clumsy trap and set up checkmate in the next move.
Jack_of_Hearts had resigned his position, as Atticus had predicted, and had created a new game, opening by pushing out his pawn to e4. Atticus considered the options and decided to try the Alekhine Defence, where black allowed white to chase his knight all over the board. White would be allowed to gain control of the centre of the board, and black would counter by undermining white’s overextended pawns. Atticus had been studying the defence and had been looking forward to experimenting with it. Jack was a good enough player to test him properly. He moved his knight to f6 and logged off.
He started to work. He had decided to begin with Cassandra Mallender. Cameron’s life had been dissected and splayed out in the defence’s case, yet Cassandra had seemingly been ignored, at least by comparison. Mack’s investigation appeared to have been thorough, but he had found nothing in her background that had given him pause.
That made Atticus suspicious.
Everyone had secrets.
He started to read the documents that had been disclosed by the prosecution, cross-referencing them with information supplied by Ralph. Just like Cameron, Cassandra had been studying at Bath University. They were both in their second year: she was studying law while he studied business management. The police had interviewed her tutors, and they had all reported that she was an excellent student: hard working, intelligent, diligent. She had applied for a training contract and had secured a place at one of the most impressive firms in the City. They would pay for her to study at the College of Law and then take her to London to begin her career.
Atticus read through the witness statements and ended up with an almost clean page of A4 where his notes should have been. There really was nothing of interest. No loose edges to pull at, nothing to prod or poke. She was bland. Boring, even. There was an interest in religion; she liked to run; she was an avid reader. But that was that.
He didn’t buy it for a moment and, undeterred, moved on to her friends.
Once again, the police had been thorough. Cassandra had a small collection of acquaintances, most of whom were drawn from Bath City Church. He read a statement from one of the church elders that said she had only recently become religious, with her conversion coming between the end of her first year and the start of her second. She had never shown any interest in religion before, they said, but she had embraced the church with enthusiasm and vigour. She had volunteered to work at the soup kitchen attached to the ministry and had been an active participant in the weekend services. Atticus looked back through the statements for anything that might suggest why she had turned to God, but found nothing. That, too, struck him as odd: there must have been a reason, some precipitating event that persuaded her that she needed religion in her life. He noted that he should speak to Ralph about it, and moved on.
He opened up his laptop again and started with Google, searching Cassandra’s name in the hope that she might have posted something that would give him a better insight into her character. There were pages and pages on the court case that had shrouded her in posthumous infamy, but little else; Atticus found it grim that the sum of the young woman’s life had been distilled to her grisly end, but it was something that he had seen before.
He moved over to Facebook. He had often found success there, often because its users posted things without thinking, and those things were never really gone, especially if you knew how to look for them. Atticus had taught himself how to interrogate the platform in a forensic fashion, using a number of software tools that allowed him to build a detailed picture of the person he was studying.
He found Cassandra’s profile—it had been memorialised under Facebook’s recent policy for deceased users—and started to scroll back through the public posts that had been left on her timeline. The tributes started to appear on Christmas Day, the day after the murders. Friends told of their shock and of how much they would miss her. There was much talk of God, and how He moved in mysterious ways, and how He would take her to Heaven to be with Him. Atticus read them, taking down the names of the posters and noting relevant information beneath them, and then scrolled further back.
Cassandra’s own posts were not unusual: an article from the Independent on ‘How to Tell A Good Lawyer from Bad’; a post to a video that had dubbed Donald Trump quotes over a clip from Star Wars; links to music mixes on Soundcloud. He scrolled further back still and found more personal updates: photographs taken at church, at the soup kitchen, at a football match, a post linking to a petition to prevent Coldplay from playing at Glastonbury.
He went further back and saw a marked change. The posts during the last year of her life were frequent, but then there was a period of time—six months—when Cassandra seemed to have neglected her account. There were no posts, no photos, no updates at all.
Atticus scrolled back until the posts began again. He straightened up in his chair. The updates that preceded the period of silence were different from the ones that followed it.
The earlier posts showed the kind of typical student life that was absent from the latter ones. Atticus saw nothing unusual in them, save they were so different to what came after. Cassandra appeared to be a typical student, doing typical student things. She was pretty; she smiled a lot; she had a lot of friends. There were pictures in bars and pubs. She looked drunk in some of them. There was a series of pictures taken in Ibiza with Cassandra looking very much the worse for wear
. There were references to drugs, and Atticus found one picture with her smoking what looked like a joint.
He noted down some of the names that had been tagged to these pictures and compared them to the names of the witnesses who had spoken to the police. There was no crossover at all: the police had concentrated on her current friends and did not appear to have spent significant time with those whom she had known in her first year, before she had found religion. He started to feel the first buds of optimism, the possibility that he had a fresh line of enquiry.
He opened his notes application and composed a quick message, explaining who he was and how he was working on the investigation into Cassandra’s death. He was intentionally vague beyond that, leaving it to the natural curiosity of the recipients to respond. He pasted the text into Messenger and sent it to the half-dozen people who appeared most often in the timeline.
He crossed his fingers and waited for a reply.
33
Atticus looked at his watch: it was six thirty. Time had run away from him. He cursed: he needed to make his way to Winchester for his appointment with Ralph. He took Bandit to the launderette to collect his washing, and then made sure that he had enough food and drink for the evening. He took the things that he would need for his visit: his notepad and pen, a digital recorder and the summary of the prosecution evidence that he had prepared.
“I’ll be back later,” he said to Bandit. “Be a good boy.”
The dog wagged his tail, hopped onto the sofa and curled up.
Atticus locked the office door and got back into his car. He set off, heading east for the second time that day. He plugged his phone into the stereo, selected Genesis’s ‘The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway,’ and set it to play. He thought about the notes that he had taken during his review of the disclosure in the case, distilling them into the most salient points and then considering the questions that he wanted to ask Ralph. The trial was already well underway. He didn’t have very much time. In the event that he was able to find evidence that might cast doubt on Ralph’s guilt, it would be better for everyone if that evidence could be presented before a verdict was reached. It would be easier to dismiss the charges against Ralph now rather than seek to introduce them later at an appeal. Allegra should have hired him earlier, but there was no point in dwelling on that now. It was what it was.
He would just have to ensure that he made the most out of this visit; there might not be time for another.
Winchester Prison was on Romsey Road. It was a category B establishment, housing both adult prisoners and young offenders. He had been here several times before, but only in his capacity as a detective. This was the first time that he had visited as a civilian. He knew that there was no parking on site, so he left his car in the city’s park-and-ride and took the bus.
He got off outside the hospital and walked the short distance to the prison. It was a bleak building, with four large wings that met in a central hub. It was not a particularly well-regarded facility. The inspectorate’s most recent report had noted that it was ‘teetering on the edge of a major incident’ and had placed it in special measures. The cells were small and unpleasant, and violent altercations among the inmates were regular. Mallender was middle class and out of his depth; Atticus suspected that he would be eaten alive by the more experienced lags.
He walked up to the guardhouse and waited for the man inside the booth to notice him and toggle on his microphone.
“Sorry,” he said. “Visiting time’s finished.”
“I’m here professionally,” Atticus said.
“Still got to make an appointment.”
“You have a prisoner here who’s on trial at the Crown Court. Ralph Mallender. I’m working for him. You should have a Visiting Order for me.”
The man grumbled something under his breath. “Wait.”
The guard clicked off the microphone and referred to a clipboard that he picked up from the desk. He took a telephone receiver and held it to his ear as he conferred with another member of staff and, seemingly satisfied, he replaced the receiver and toggled the microphone again.
“Go on,” the man said. “They’ll sort you out in reception.”
The guard opened the gate and Atticus walked through, following the signs to the visitors’ centre. He gave his name and waited as the woman behind the counter checked his identification against the Visiting Order that had been arranged for him. She told him to take a seat while she sorted out his credentials. To his surprise, Atticus found that he was nervous. He had met murderers before, but their crimes were usually spontaneous. Ralph Mallender was different. He had been accused of a premeditated plot to murder four members of his family and, from Atticus’s review of the evidence and his faith in Mack’s investigation, he believed that there was a good chance that he was guilty as charged. The prospect of the meeting had him on edge.
“Atticus.”
He looked; Allegra Mallender had just come inside.
“Hello,” he said.
She looked tired. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her cheeks were pale; it didn’t look as if she was getting enough sleep.
“I know,” she said, anticipating him. “I’m done in.”
“How was the afternoon?”
She shook her head. “Not as good as the morning. They’re making it look as bad for him as they can.”
That’s their job, he thought, but he kept it to himself.
“Who was it? Anyone other than the armed response officers?”
“No—just one of them after the other. It was ruthless.”
“Did Crow get anything out of them in cross-examination?”
“Not really,” she said glumly. “I spoke to Ralph afterwards—with the lawyers. He’s desperate. We need to offer him some hope. I don’t know if he’ll be able to get through this unless he thinks there’s a chance.”
She looked beaten already.
“It’s never easy to hear the prosecution case,” Atticus said. “They’re going to make Ralph look as bad as possible. That’s the whole point of it. The defence will balance it out.”
It was as if she didn’t hear him. “Do you have anything for us to go on?”
“Not yet,” he said.
“But you reviewed the files.”
“Yes.”
“And visited the house.”
“I did,” he said patiently. “I’ve got some angles I’d like to explore.”
She looked expectantly at him.
“Lamza’s testimony is the most damaging. He’s my focus. I’m looking at Cassandra and Cameron, too. But a lot of it will depend on what Ralph tells me now.”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” she said, “but you need to move faster. They think the case will be finished this time next week. If we haven’t been able to introduce something new, and if they find him guilty…” The sentence drifted away.
“I’m working as quickly as I can. You have my exclusive attention—this is all I’m doing. The only case. If there’s anything to find, I’ll find it.”
She nodded, at least putatively satisfied, and then exhaled, her shoulders slumping as she looked down at her feet. Atticus felt sympathetic. He had never been in her position, but he had watched the families of defendants that he had brought to trial, and he could imagine the sense of helplessness that they must all have felt. The criminal justice system was like a machine. Their loved ones were passed through it, chewed up and spat out, and there was nothing that they could do to influence the result that was eventually dispensed.
“Hello?”
Atticus looked up; the woman behind the counter beckoned them both over. She gave them laminated badges with their names on them.
“You can go through to the visitors’ hall,” she said. “Mr. Mallender will be brought through in a moment.”
34
The visiting room was separate from the space where visits usually took place. It was much smaller, with just a pair of tables and chairs rather than the several rows that were in
the main area. It shared the same air of drabness, with the same shade of magnolia on the walls, the same cheap tiled floor, and the same grime and dirt that had accreted over the course of years without proper cleaning. Atticus held out one of the chairs so that Allegra could sit down, and then took the one next to her. He ran his fingertips over the pitted surface of the table; the vinyl had been scratched, with graffiti scored into it.
He turned to Allegra; she looked nervous, her face pinched, as she bit her lower lip. He was about to offer something to reassure her when the door opened and her husband was ushered inside.
She stood, bumping clumsily against the chair as she made her way around the table so that she could get to him. He was a little taller than she was, and she had to reach her arms around his neck to draw him down so that she could kiss him.
“How are you, darling?” she asked as soon as she had disengaged.
“How do you think?” he said sourly. “Bloody dreadful.”
“I know,” she said, immediately sympathetic. “I’m the same.”
“How can you possibly be the same?” he snapped. “You’re not the one about to go to prison for the rest of your life.”
“You’re not going to prison,” she said.
“Really? Not what it looks like from where I’m standing.”
Atticus had already guessed at the state of their relationship from the things that Allegra had told him and what he had observed in court, but the diagnosis was all the more obvious now. Ralph was curt and impatient, with Allegra quick to intervene in order to deflect his temper. Atticus had investigated cases of domestic abuse before, and he saw plenty of symptoms that were grimly familiar.
“This is Atticus,” Allegra said, taking a quarter turn so that Ralph could look down at him.
Atticus stood and extended a hand. “Hello.”