Reluctant Consent Page 3

  As soon as Cassie reached the robing room at Snaresbrook Crown Court, she turned on her mobile phone and looked at the long list of emails that had accumulated in the inbox while she had been in court. Amongst those from fashion houses, stores and restaurants she saw a message from someone called Malcolm Delaney. The name was unfamiliar and her first inclination was to delete it as being a scam of some sort, but the subject matter was Paul Sadler. The first line read:

  ‘Miss Hardman, I want to congratulate you.’

  Her curiosity was aroused; she was a little flattered that someone wanted to show their appreciation of her advocacy skills. She opened the email and read the contents:

  ‘… on your representation of Mr Sadler. You are a very talented advocate. I would like to invite you to have lunch or dinner with me. We can arrange a time or place later. I look forward to hearing from you. Malcolm.’

  She wondered who Delaney was and how he had found her email address. She had no intention of accepting his invitation or indeed of replying, but she didn’t delete the message; an unknown admirer would make an amusing tale for her colleagues.

  When her train arrived at Chancery Lane Tube station, she made her way through Stable Inn Court where the rain had enhanced the scent of the roses; she inhaled the perfume – better than the sweaty smell of the Underground. She turned left from the Inn into Chancery Lane, by the Document Exchange. Coming towards her with a sack truck piled high with brown envelopes and boxes was the office junior, Roger Hales. He smiled at her but didn’t stop.

  ‘Alright, Roger? Bit of a pull uphill with all that.’

  He started at her words as if he hadn’t seen her approaching. ‘Yes, Miss.’ He didn’t stop but pushed his way into the office building where the DX was housed.

  Cassie continued along Chancery Lane, a route she took frequently. To her right was the solid wall of Lincoln’s Inn and on the east of the street was a row of shops. They were forever changing – fewer offices and more coffee shops and takeaway sandwich bars. But at the junction with Carey Street, where it had been as long as she could remember, was the firm of Ede and Ravenscroft, purveyors of robes and wigs to her profession. She could remember buying her wig and gown from them over seventeen years ago. The wig, made of horsehair, had been carefully fitted to her head by one of the female assistants. It had been very white then, betraying her status as a newly fledged barrister.

  She crossed Fleet Street, busy with vehicles, and turned under a stone arch into the calm of Middle Temple Lane. She loved this place, with its history, its sense of continuity. Her step instinctively slowed as if the pace of life inside the Temple was that of an earlier time, and she wandered into her chambers at 3 Burke Court. The clerks’ room was anything but peaceful, the tranquillity disturbed by the clatter of fingers hitting keyboards, and the shrill voices of the junior clerks chattering into the mouthpieces of their phones. Jack, the senior clerk and the man who held the reins of her practice, was in his room overlooking the open-plan office occupied by the rest of the staff.

  Cassie went to the row of pigeonholes and pulled out her mail together with a couple of briefs tied with pink tape. She glanced at the two sets of papers and was separating her letters into those for the rubbish bin and those she needed to read, when Jack beckoned her to join him. On his desk were four lever-arch files that showed the signs of being well handled. On an A4 sheet tucked under the pink tape holding them together was the title ‘R v David Winston Montgomery’. Jack’s shirtsleeves were rolled up and his butterfly print tie tucked between the buttons of his white shirt; he tried to look busy even if he was just checking the racing results. He sat down, looked up at her and beamed. Cassie waited for him to speak, although she knew exactly what he was about to say.

  ‘I’ve managed to get you a leading brief in a murder at the Bailey. I assume you’ll want to apply for Silk in a couple of years. This is quite a good case. You’re ready for it, even though it’s a murder. None of the Silks want it. Scared they’ll get tarred with a racist brush, I dare say. A woman won’t, of course. Judge Crabtree is in a bit of a panic thinking the defendant might want to represent himself. I said to Colin in the list office, my Miss Hardman can handle it. Spoke to Tim. Didn’t take long to persuade him you could do it. So, there you are, a leading brief in a murder.’ He leant back in his chair with his hands behind his head and smiled at her. Cassie thanked him and picked up the files. Jack was a confident East Ender, a combination of butler and used car salesman. He often claimed that a good clerk needed to be able to lie and have no sense of geography.

  She knew he was lying now; he had not got the brief for her. Tim Durrant, the solicitor for Montgomery, had spoken to her the previous evening and told her his initial choice was Eleanor Hesketh. She was the only female Silk in chambers, but she was in the middle of another case. Unable to defend Montgomery, Eleanor had suggested Cassie. Tim had instructed Cassie before and, even though it was usual to instruct a QC in a murder case, he didn’t have much time to find someone who was available and who he trusted. Facing that dilemma he had decided to send the brief to her. He had made it clear she was senior enough and, he thought, competent enough to take on a murder case. ‘He’s got some very racist views. It makes dealing with him difficult, but I’m sure you can handle him,’ and then after a pause, ‘he’s sacked a couple of barristers already.’ She hadn’t liked to ask why.

  Cassie hadn’t been over-keen on representing a racist but the opportunity to have a leading brief in a murder trial was unlikely to happen again at this stage in her career. Even if the client was convicted, if she had done her best it would help her application for Silk. In addition, Tim instructed her regularly and she didn’t want to let him down.

  ‘Are you going home now? I’ll get you a taxi, shall I?’ Jack said.

  ‘Thanks, if you would. That would be very helpful. I don’t think I can manage this on the Tube.’

  Cassie knew better than to argue with Jack, or to confront him with his obvious lies; he must know Tim would tell her why he’d chosen to instruct her. But, she knew he wanted the brownie points for getting her the case. He was thinking she might apply for Silk, and she would need his help for that, so she said nothing.

  Cassie’s flat was on the top floor of a white stuccoed terraced house in Notting Hill. The small front garden was looked after by the woman in the basement flat and in early summer it was still a little bare. The front door was boot polish black and the brass doorknob gleamed ferociously. Carrying heavy bags up the three flights of stairs made her wonder if she had been sensible to buy it, but once inside she knew why she had. She loved the light and the views over the gardens at the rear of the terrace. She put the files down on her desk, one of her most treasured possessions. She undid the pink tape and opened up the files. Under the cover of the uppermost file was a DVD labelled ‘Christopher Young’. She assumed it was the recording of the video interview with him; he was an eyewitness to at least some of the events that had resulted in the death of his fifteen-year-old brother Albie. Under the DVD was the single sheet of A4 paper bearing Tim Durrant’s instructions. They were, as she expected, extremely terse, leaving her to read the papers but making it clear that the client was trying to dictate tactics. He added that the defendant’s attitude could only lead to disaster.

  Chapter 5

  DC Alexis Seymour picked up the forensic report. As she anticipated the wrap of white powder was cocaine. The small quantity, only enough for personal use, had been found in the trouser pocket of a seventeen-year-old male who had been stopped leaving a nightclub in North Kensington. She was about to put it to one side for the uniformed officer who had conducted the original search, but the final paragraph in the report caused her to think again. The forensic scientist had analysed the drug to ascertain its purity and had identified the dilutant as Phenacetin. He advised steps be taken to identify the source as the filler was a known carcinogenic.

  She turned on her computer and found the details of the arre
st. The youth was named as Roger Hales; he was described as mixed race and his address was a flat on the Lancaster Estate, North Kensington. As she reached for her mobile, Chris Dundy walked through the door.

  ‘Look at this,’ Alex said, handing him the report. ‘We need to see this kid and try and get him to tell us who his supplier is.’

  ‘Is he on bail?’

  ‘He’s due back today. I’ll tell uniform we need to see him before they charge or caution.’

  ‘Has he any previous?’

  ‘No. No cautions either.’

  The two of them began to shift the files of paperwork from the night duty. They were still reading when the custody sergeant told them Hales had arrived.

  Chris brought the young man into the interview room, along with the smell of frying fat wafting in from the direction of the canteen. He was well built, with dark, tightly curled hair and ears that stuck out. His shirt was open at the neck but his light grey suit was distinctly formal. Alex pointed to a chair on the other side of the coffee-stained table she was sitting at and switched on the recording device. She introduced herself and asked Chris to do the same.

  ‘We’re in the interview room at Ladbroke Grove Police Station and with us is – can you give us your full name, please?’

  ‘Roger Hales.’

  ‘And you're how old?’

  ‘Seventeen.’

  Alex cautioned him. ‘You don’t have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Do you know why you are here?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘Can you say yes or no. The recorder doesn’t pick up a nod.’

  ‘I was stopped and searched and a wrap of some white powder found.’

  ‘That powder has been analysed and it’s cocaine. A Class A drug. Illegal. Now I should ask you if you want a solicitor present while we interview you.’

  ‘I don’t want anyone to know. I didn’t know what it was.’

  Chris shifted in his seat. ‘What did you think it was?’

  ‘I knew it was some kind of drug. I wasn’t sure what it was.’

  ‘Haven’t you used drugs before?’ Alex said.

  ‘Smoked a bit of weed, but not now.’

  ‘So, where did you buy this wrap?’

  ‘I don’t want to say.’

  ‘Any reason for that?’

  ‘I’m not answering your questions anymore.’

  ‘Nice suit you’re wearing. On your way to work?’ Chris asked.

  ‘Um, yes.’

  ‘Where do you work?’

  ‘Not saying.’

  ‘We’re not going to go and tell your boss if that’s what you’re worried about,’ Alex said.

  Roger Hales looked first at Alex and then at Chris, before turning back to Alex. ‘I work for some lawyers in the Temple.’

  ‘Which set of chambers?’

  Hales took a deep breath. ‘Three Burke Court.’

  This time it was Alex who took a sharp intake of breath. The address was familiar to her. One of the tenants there was Cassie Hardman, a woman whose skills as an advocate she had come to admire when she was the exhibits officer in a drugs case some years ago.

  ‘Well then, you know the importance of telling the truth, don’t you?’

  Hales put his head down. When he looked up, he said, ‘I’m not answering any more of your questions.’

  ‘This wrap contains not just cocaine but a substance called Phenacetin, which is dangerous, and we want to find the supplier quickly before large quantities are on the streets. We want you to help us. Do you understand?’

  Hales shook his head and repeated he was not going to answer any further questions.

  Alex turned the recorder off. ‘Roger, I’m going to release you on bail for a further week until we decide what action to take.’ She saw Chris screw up his face as she picked up her papers.

  The two detectives walked with Hales to the front door of the police station and watched him walk south towards Holland Park Road.

  ‘Why didn’t you charge him?’ Chris said.

  ‘I’m going to speak to Cassie Hardman and see if she can get the information from him. I’m sure she’ll be keen to prevent one of her clerks getting a conviction.’

  Chapter 6

  Cassie toyed with watching the video immediately but decided she was hungry and wanted her supper. Cooking was the one thing she still fitted into her busy life. She had to eat and she found preparing a meal, even if it was just for herself, relaxing. Her kitchen was tidy – red units with black granite tops – only affordable because of its very small size. She put spaghetti on to cook, sautéed some raisins and pine nuts, and then added some tender spinach. While she waited for the meal to cook she opened a bottle of red and poured some into a glass. She sipped slowly as she stirred the sauce into the pasta; in the familiar process her resentment of Jack’s dishonesty finally dissipated.

  Once she’d eaten, Cassie inserted the DVD into her computer and, while the disc was being read, she found the transcript amongst the files. The screen leapt into life showing one of the cameras panning the interview room, so that anyone viewing the recording would know there was no one hidden who might influence the child’s evidence. The room was impersonal, the walls an institutional cream and the furniture dark brown; the only indication of any association it might have with children was a box of toys, brightly coloured like Smarties, placed on a low table.

  After about thirty seconds the door opened and a woman wearing a dark straight skirt, it could have been navy or black, and a yellow shirt, came into view. She raised her arm with her hand outstretched, clearly inviting someone to enter the room. A young boy of about nine slid through the door. He was well dressed in what appeared to be a school uniform, grey trousers and a dark green sweatshirt with a shield on it in gold. His curly hair was brushed back from his face. The pupils of his dark eyes were dilated and they darted around the room as if he thought something or someone might be concealed waiting to pounce on him. Following him was a man carrying a writing pad; he was wearing jeans and his dark beige polo shirt was open at the neck. Trying a little too hard to look less intimidating to the schoolboy, Cassie thought. The male officer took a seat to the right of the screen and waited while the woman motioned to the boy to sit on the sofa next to her.

  ‘Come and sit here, Christopher, or shall I call you Chris?’

  The boy moved towards her and sat perched on the edge of his seat, facing the woman but looking at the man. He didn’t reply to the woman’s question. She asked again if she should call him Christopher or Chris.

  He turned to look at her and said, ‘Chris.’ The woman then introduced herself as Detective Sergeant Angela Kotzeva and the man as Detective Constable Craig Hadley. She asked the boy to give his full name.

  ‘Christopher James Young,’ he replied. Kotzeva then pointed towards one of the cameras and then to others positioned round the room. At the same time, she explained they were recording the interview. Chris looked up at the cameras as she talked. At one point it seemed to Cassie that he looked straight at her, and she could see a hollow look in his eyes. She turned away. What would it be like to lose a sibling, the hole created by the loss of someone who she had known all her life? She would have felt like she had been torn in two if her younger sister, Amanda, had died, particularly in such a tragic incident.

  She pushed those thoughts to one side; she had to think about the defendant and how best to fight his case. Chris Young was not going to be easy to cross examine, no juvenile was. The jury would be sympathetic towards him and she’d have to be careful not to antagonise them. But that was in the future, now she was looking for flaws in his account of the events leading to his brother’s death and checking to see if the interviewing officer had asked any leading questions, or tried to guide him in any way.

  Cassie switc
hed her attention back to the screen; Kotzeva began to tease his story from the boy, letting him tell her in his own words what he had seen and heard. He described seeing his brother go into Montgomery’s shop with his two friends who he called Loveday and Jas. Kotzeva asked him if he meant Leon Campbell and Jonathan Wilding. He agreed that was who he was talking about. His brother, who he called Albie, didn’t like him hanging around with them, so he’d waited outside.

  Kotzeva asked him if he could see what was happening inside the shop. Cassie noted the boy looked down, away from the officer, and plucked at his sweatshirt, before saying, ‘Not really. I could see them moving around, reaching up but nothing else.’

  ‘Could you see the shopkeeper?’

  Chris Young shook his head. ‘I take it that’s a no?’ Kotzeva said.

  ‘No.’ He nodded.

  Kotzeva asked him what had happened next, and he told her he had seen Jas coming towards the door, followed by his brother and then Loveday. All three of them came rushing outside followed by the shopkeeper.

  ‘The man was nasty – like, angry, very angry. He was shouting at Albie, calling them niggers, black bastards,’ Chris said. He sat upright and swung his right arm across in front of himself, and added, ‘He was swinging this club thing, a golf club.’

  ‘What did he do with the golf club?’ asked Kotzeva.

  ‘He, the man, hit Albie with the club, and he just fell, fell to the floor.’ Chris started to sob and the male officer handed him a tissue. ‘I ran to him, and called his name, but he didn’t move and I threw myself at the man and screamed at him, “You’ve killed my brother”.’

  Now tears were streaming down his face. The two police officers waited for the weeping boy to cease crying. Chris used the tissue he had been given to wipe his face and then he blew his nose. Once he had calmed down Kotzeva asked him to go on. He described how the man had pushed him off and gone to Albie and then turned and dashed inside. Chris had stayed with his brother stroking his face and calling his name. ‘I wanted to wake him up,’ he said, sobbing.