But something just didn’t fit.
Eloise thought she and Grant were reconciling, she didn’t know he would be in Beesands that night. Did June? Were they really having an affair? Everyone said Eloise was gentle and kind. And… and, when Harriet looked into her eyes, she saw honesty and truth, not a killer. June, on the other hand, seemed edgy, strained. And now an unaccounted for car. It was probably nothing, but it showed the DPP weren’t being above board, they’d left out some details. What else had they omitted?
She might not have all the answers yet, but she sure had something.
Ammo, Harriet grinned. There is more to this case, she thought. And I’m going to find out what.
9: To play the game
Harriet’s heals clacked loudly, echoing down the hallway of Lees Chambers Exeter. She’d woken early this morning, taken care in preparing her appearance: black tailored suit, modest length skirt, tiny pearl earrings. Minimal makeup, hair pulled back in a slick ponytail. Heels: high. She strode briskly, heels striking the tiled floor confidently, face impassive. Harriet was meeting with the DPP on the Lane-Huxley case, Stephanie Emmetts. She had never appeared opposite Stephanie before, but her reputation as a viper proceeded her. 25 years in the job hardened a person. This meeting would be an hour of posturing and intimidation.
Harriet paused at Stephanie’s office door and squared her shoulders. Taking a deep breath she knocked. Without waiting for an invite she stepped through the door, stomach flipping.
She loved this part.
Stephanie looked up sharply from her desk, whipping off her glasses and leaning forward in her chair.
‘Well, come in then,’ she said, voice cool as she gestured to the chairs before her desk. Harriet stepped confidently to the desk and took a seat. Stephanie’s eyes, lined by experience, surveyed her across the heavy wooden desk from beneath a brow peppered with grey. She steepled her hands, resting her head on her finger tips, her sharp brown gaze measuring Harriet in silence as she shuffled her shoulders adjusting the fall of her silky cream shirt. Harriet sat straight and returned her stare, unfazed. The corner of Stephanie’s mouth quirked up and the older woman leaned into her chair back, hands now resting on the table top.
‘Ms Bell.’
‘Ms Emmetts.’
‘Thank you for coming,’ Stephanie began, voice efficient. ‘It seemed a good time to discuss the direction of this case, given the report from The Orchard…’
‘Eloise Lane-Huxley has been an exemplary inmate,’ Harriet said. ‘Doctor Taylor says she is responding well to treatment.’
‘A little too well, wouldn’t you say?’ Stephanie raised a thick eyebrow and flashed Harriet the briefest of smiles. ‘Her memory of the days leading up to, and events surrounding, her husband’s murder are exceptionally clear. Odd that it is just the event itself she seems to stumble over.’
Harriet remained calm. She would not be rattled that easily.
‘She is not of sound mind. The memory lapse makes that clear.’
‘Or she simply doesn’t want to remember.’
‘Finding out your husband has been murdered would be a shock to anyone.’
‘“Finding out?” Come now Ms Bell, she had the murder weapon in her hand. She was covered in her husband’s blood.’
‘The murder weapon fell to the floor, and June Lane was also covered in blood.’
‘Ms Lane was indeed covered in the blood of Mr Huxley. From finding her sister in distress. She has a solid alibi. Was on the bus back from Salcombe at the time of the murder. Checked her car into the garage at 4:30 p.m. We confirmed of course.’
‘Doesn’t prove it was Eloise who killed Mr Huxley.’
A slow smile spread across Stephanie’s brown face. She leaned forward, eyes glinting. ‘Her finger prints were found on the scissors. Her DNA in Grant Huxley’s room.’
‘So was June’s,’ Harriet said, probing. Had the DPP heard the rumours about June and Grant?
Stephanie waved a hand in dismissal, ‘Easily explained. The sisters live together, their jackets on the same rack sharing hair follicles, the scissors could reasonably have been be used by both sisters. And again, June Lane was in Salcombe that afternoon…’
‘So you checked she caught the bus? Found a witness?’
Stephanie blinked. Before she could open her mouth to reply, Harriet continued, ‘She didn’t, say, hire a car from the garage for the evening, to return home? It was a very timely bus route…’
‘A bus left Salcombe station at 5:15 p.m., Ms Bell…’
‘So who was driving the white car then?’
Stephanie’s eyes narrowed.
Got ya! Harriet thought.
Harriet paused, settling back into her seat comfortably. Stephanie stared at Harriet in silence. Harriet could feel her tension, her years of experience trained on Harriet with laser focus, aiming to intimidate. Harriet kept her face neutral, eyes level with Stephanie’s. Waiting. She would make Stephanie ask…
‘What…’
‘There was a small white car in the carpark of the Beesands Hotel, seen at around 5:30-5:45 p.m. on the night Mr Huxley was murdered. I double checked with the hotel staff, it wasn’t registered to a guest.’ Harriet paused, letting her meaning sink in. ‘So who else was in the area on the night Mr Huxley was murdered?’
Stephanie leaned forward in a practiced languid motion, lips twisting into a nasty grin. ‘You’re reaching, Ms Bell.’
Well no shit, Harriet thought, but she kept her face calm. ‘All I need to do is plant doubt, Ms Emmetts. It seems a simple check for you to do to rule out another possible culprit. Who else was in the area? Who owns a white car? Strange you have overlooked it.’
‘We have DNA…’
‘And I have a client who is not of sound mind. She has no recollection of the events of the night of November 15th, has no recollection of walking to Beesands, or killing her husband. In fact, she thought they were getting back together. She does not have the requisite mens rea and is Not Guilty by Reason of Insanity. ’
‘That’s arguable.’
‘So argue it,’ Harriet stood up, walking for the door. She paused turning back to Stephanie Emmetts, ‘But I advise you make sure of all your facts before you decide to take that route.’
Stephanie settled back, smirking darkly at Harriet. ‘I’ve many more years in this game than you, little one,’ she said. ‘It takes more than misdirection to plant the seed of doubt into the mind of a jury, or to rattle me.’
‘And I’ve been playing the ‘game’ long enough to know not to give away all the tricks up my sleeve at once. Good chat Ms Emmetts. See you in court.’
With that Harriet swung the door open and walked out into the hall.
DS Robert Fields sat at his desk in Exeter Police Station going over paperwork, the coffee at his elbow long gone cold. A commotion sounded from the door to the open area office. Loud voices were followed by the entrance of the imposing figure of Ms Stephanie Emmetts striding through the door. She paused momentarily, eyes scanning the desks. Robert grimaced and raised his hand. She was working his case after all. Her eyes caught his movement and narrowed like a hawk hunting prey. Presently, she stood in front of his desk. A tall woman anyway, from his seated position she was positively threatening. ‘Ms Emmetts,’ he tried.
‘We are a team, DS Fields,’ she paused.
‘Well, yes…’
‘That was not a question, DS Fields. It was a statement of fact. One I am sure you would agree with?’
Unsure whether this was now a question, Robert took the safer route and nodded silently.
‘And team members work together, do they not? Share information?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘All information?’ Her eyes blazed.
What was this? Robert thought.
‘What’s this abou-?’
‘Who the fuck does the little white car belong too? And why did I hear about it from fucking Harriet Bell and not you?’
Oh. R
obert blanched. Fuck.
10: Thursday night
Slumping down on his worn sofa, the now off-duty DS Robert Fields cracked open a beer. Flicking on the TV he took a swig, settling back into the lounge and rubbing his neck. What a rubbish day. He hated working at the Exeter station. Knightsbridge was so much quieter - further for the angry lawyers to travel to berate him. Stephanie Emmetts’ furious eyes flashed in his memory. Hell, she made him feel like a school boy again.
‘Glad she’s on our team,’ he said to the empty house around him. ‘Cheers to prosecutors.’ And swigged another gulp of his lager.
To be fair, she was right. He had been slack with the paperwork on the Huxley case. Well, no, not slack, the car detail just didn’t seem important. They had the DNA and the murder weapon, the culprit in prison, or as good as… he shook his head at himself ruefully. After 20 years on the force, he knew that wasn’t an excuse. Especially in a murder trial. Every detail mattered. Every. God. Damn. Detail. He just hadn’t been himself since Gemma…
The front door squeaked open and slammed shut.
‘Oy Oy,’ he called out in welcome as his son shuffled into the room, bouncing his football on the floor. ‘How was training?’
‘Good,’ Thomas gifted him the standard monosyllabic answer that teenagers loved and slung his training bag onto the floor.
‘Uh, no, laundry,’ Robert chided and watched as his son rolled his hazel eyes (Gemma’s eyes) and loped across the room to the laundry. At least he still did what he was told… for now.
‘Was thinking we might order in tonight.’ Robert called across the room to Thomas, ‘what do you fancy? Pizza or Indian?’
‘I’m good,’ Thomas said, emerging from the laundry, ball still in hand. ‘Gonna clean up and head round to James’. We’ve got a project to finish. His mum’ll feed me, she said.’
‘You asked her that?’
‘Nah, she offered. After training when we were chatting.’
‘Okay,’ Robert nodded, ignoring the pang of guilt that struck his chest. He hadn’t been to training in weeks… ‘Need a lift?’
‘Nah, gonna bike it.’
‘It’s bloody cold out there Tom,’ Robert started.
‘All good dad. Got my jacket.’ He turned and raced away up the stairs. Soon Robert heard the shhh of the shower. Bet he leaves his kit on the bathroom floor again, he thought. But a small smile touched his lips. Thomas was growing up. I really need to make it to a game, soon, he resolved. A part of him acknowledged the hollow sensation that opened again in his stomach, the knowledge that it was a false promise he was making to himself. Being a parent just didn’t fit in well with his chosen career. Forcing the emotions aside, Robert downed the last of his beer, rose and headed to the fridge for another.
An hour later Robert scraped the last of his microwave lasagne from its plastic packaging, highly underwhelming, and chucked the tray down on the coffee table. The TV blared away before him, some nonsense celebrity challenge show, they looked like they were trying to swim (?) through a puzzle. Robert didn’t know and frankly didn’t care. He got up and headed to the fridge. No beer left. He paused. Probably for the best, he thought and wandered back to the couch, picking up the remote as he slumped back down and flicking through the channels: sport, news, some show with dancing and singing. Shit, when did TV get so bad? He checked the time on his phone: 8 p.m. Thomas would be out for hours yet, he never made it back from James’ before midnight. Probably should do something about that, Robert thought, without conviction. Two nights out of three when he was on late shift in Knightsbridge, he wasn’t here to check anyway… another hazard of being a cop. He scrolled his phone, looking for distraction but could not settle. The huddling of winter was getting to him, he needed to get out, socialise. But it was so cold outside…
Fuck it, he decided. Suddenly energised, he got up and grabbed his jacket, thumbing through his contacts list. He clicked a number, ‘Hi there. Yeah it’s Rob. Keen for a beer?’
Harriet leaned close to her companion’s ear. ‘I mean, can you believe it? She was fucking her sister’s husband!’ Harriet pulled back and took a sip of her wine. The bar music blared over the speakers, making conversation tricky. The beat pulsed through her limbs, the wine sliding down her throat. Damn it felt good to be out.
Phoebe looked at Harriet in mock horror. ‘Slut,’ she crooned. Harriet laughed.
‘It’s a fucked up case, Fi,’ she shouted to her friend. ‘Wanna know the worst bit?’
Phoebe gestured for Harriet to continue. ‘I think I like her.’
‘Like who? The slutty sister?’
‘What? No! Eloise. My client. The murderer. She just seems so…. sweet. I think we would have got along in another life.’ Something just doesn’t fit, she thought to herself. The doubt that had seeded that first day she met Eloise had been growing the more she read about the case…
‘That’s bull Harrie,’ Phoebe laughed, ‘you don’t mesh well with sweet. You’re too blunt.’
‘I can be gentle.’
Phoebe snorted and held up her empty glass. ‘Another round?’
Harriet nodded and watched as Phoebe made her way to the crowded bar, heads turning in unison to ogle her long, slim legs. Harriet turned away, taking in the Thursday clientele with a sweep of her eyes. Smiling faces, black wrapped limbs, heels and fake nails. The Red Lion was a fun bar, always pumping. When Phoebe had suggested after work drinks and then dinner Harriet, still on a high from the success of her meeting with Stephanie Emmetts, had been more than keen. Three hours later and food had yet to be mentioned. Most likely they would grab some fish and chips as they stumbled home from the last bus.
Phoebe was right, it felt good to be out. Work had been all encompassing lately, well fuck, always. Harriet was ready to let off some steam. She watched Phoebe deftly avoid the groping hands of some drunk punter and rolled her eyes. Fucking men. She was about to make her way over to play guardian when the pub door opened. A tall man with dark hair and eyes walked in. The corner of her mouth hitched up in a grin. This should be fun.
Robert scanned the bar looking for Bobbie. Rob and Bob the ‘opposite brothers’ so nicknamed by their parents during the boys’ primary school years; back in the 80’s, when that wasn’t a racist thing to say about a white boy and black boy who were friends… maybe? The two were due a catch up, and Robert certainly wasn’t in the mood for more police talk after today… He spotted Bobbie in the far corner, chatting to a couple of over made-up blondes. Typical, he thought to himself. Leave the guy alone for a moment and…
‘Hey there Superintendent.’
Robert looked down, surprised to be recognised on this side of town. There before him stood a familiar brunette. ‘Ms Bell,’ he said, unable to keep his eyes from scanning the petite solicitor in her out of hours leather pants and low cut singlet top. His gaze returned to her face, her eyes shined with recognition and mischief. He knew the little lawyer well, often seeing her at the Magistrates Court in town, sometimes on the opposite side of a committal hearing or mediation. She was new to running her own cases, but rapidly earning a reputation for tenacity. And today, she had brought the wrath of Stephanie Emmetts down upon his head.
‘Surprised to see you out,’ she smiled sweetly, ’I’d have thought Stephanie would have you locked in the office.’
So she knew it too… Roger returned her smile. ‘I can’t discuss case matters with you. And you know it,’ he said and turned to go.
‘You know your star witness is a liar right?’ she said to his back. That turned him around.
She grinned wickedly, ‘June Lane, the good sister. Taking care of her younger sibling and her nephew… Fucking her sister’s husband.’
Roger felt a moment of shock. He hadn’t suspected. Keeping his face impassive, he answered lightly, ‘Sounds like another motive for us, rather than a defence for you.’
Harriet shrugged, ‘Whatever, she’s a liar. I can tell.’
A smile tugged at the corner
of his mouth, ‘Can you now?’ He observed the little woman before him, all curves and soft skin, on the outside. All spice and fire within. ‘Perhaps you are in the wrong profession then?’
She scowled at that and fixed him with her eyes. ‘Everyone deserves a defence,’ she retorted.
‘What about the truth?’
‘I don’t need truth,’ Harriet countered, ‘I only need doubt.’ She gifted him a sarcastic smile. ‘Anyway, my drink is returning from the bar. Have a nice night, Detective Superintendent.’ She pretended to tip a hat to him and spun on a heel, sauntering away.
Robert watched her make her way across the room, watched her quip something to her friend earning her a boisterous laugh, watched her answering wicked grin. He only turned when she glanced back his way, wine glass clutched in her hand and raised a toast to him across the room. He rubbed his neck, suddenly flustered and made his way to Bobbie and the make-up covered blondes.
11: London Square Chambers
The office was large and grey, like an oversized picture frame around the small and wizened figure of Randell Dawes QC. Short, hunched, grey-haired, wrinkled. Yet in his eyes danced a brilliance no one could miss. Sharp, analytical, accurate and, welcoming.
Harriet’s nerves had been building in her gut since she received his agreement to take on Eloise’s case. It was one of the more challenging tasks of being a solicitor - soliciting. Not in the street walking sense, in the defence sense. She needed a barrister to present in court, to make the case for Eloise. On what Harriet could only describe as a whim, she had contacted the Clerk of London Square Chambers and to her surprise, delight and now significant apprehension, Randell Dawes Queens Counsel was available to take on the Lane-Huxley brief.
‘Good is the enemy of great,’ Harriet had whispered to herself after setting the date for their first meeting. Who said that? She couldn’t remember. But the quote was accurate. If she wanted to be the best, she had to play with the big boys. And where the big boys of defence law were concerned, no one came bigger than Randell Dawes.
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