Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) Read online

  So Jason was interviewed again. This time he changed his story. Okay, he admitted, he had nicked the car and torched it. And his face had been scratched by Brenda, not a cat. After the party he’d driven Brenda to Landing Lane, a quiet place by the river Ouse, and asked her to have sex with him (not an unreasonable request given her reputation) When she refused, a row had erupted. She’d scratched his face, stormed out of the car and flounced off into the night. That was the last he’d seen of her, he claimed.

  But the police found a torch, stained with blood, in the bushes beside the river where he claimed to have left her. This was before the days of DNA but it matched Brenda’s blood group. The owner of the stolen car recognised the torch. He kept it in the glove pocket, he said, for emergencies. In the blood on the torch was Jason’s fingerprint. As a result he was charged with her murder.

  Despite a massive police search, Brenda’s body was never found. This, clearly, weakened the police case. But then, while Jason was on remand, his cellmate, Brian Winnick, made a statement. Jason had boasted to him about killing Brenda, he said. He’d hit her over the head with the torch because she’d refused to have sex with him. When he’d realised she was dead he’d thrown her body in the river and watched it float away. After that he’d driven home to Leeds and torched the car to hide the bloodstains. Jason denied all this, but Brian Winnick stood by his statement in court. This, together with the murder weapon - the bloodstained torch - and Jason’s lies about the stolen car, convinced the jury of his guilt. He was sentenced to life imprisonment. His first appeal failed and, because of his continued protestations of innocence, he’d never been eligible for parole.

  The basis of this new appeal that Sarah was travelling to London to present was the evidence of a solicitor, Raymond Crosse, who had visited Brian Winnick in hospital last year, shortly before he died. Mr Crosse claimed that Brian Winnick told him that his evidence against Jason Barnes was a lie. He had made it all up, he said, so that the police would let him off a serious charge of drug dealing. He had seen nothing wrong with this at the time but now he wanted to put things right before he died.

  ‘Tell me about this witness,’ Sarah said. ‘Raymond Crosse. What’s he like?’

  ‘Middle-aged criminal solicitor. Bald, baggy suit, worn down by the job. Talks to ten different liars every day.’ Lucy shrugged. ‘Don’t we all?’

  ‘Will he impress the judges?’

  ‘Should do. He seems honest. I think he believes what he’s saying, why wouldn’t he? It’s whether Winnick was telling the truth, that’s the question.’

  Sarah grimaced. ‘It would help if this man Crosse had got Winnick to sign this statement, on oath, before he died. What was he thinking of, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Expecting his client to live, I suppose. They often do.’

  ‘Yes, well this one didn’t.’ Sarah studied the papers. ‘What about this other witness, Amanda Carr? What’s she like?’

  ‘Perfectly decent, reliable. Married, two kids. Senior nurse at York District. Just a trainee back then, of course.’

  ‘Likely to make a good impression in court?’

  ‘If she’s called. Your first problem is to get them to consider her evidence at all. Since it was dismissed in the original appeal.’

  ‘Oh, I think I we’ve got a fair chance of that. Rules on disclosure have tightened up a lot since then. But whether they let her take the stand, that’s another matter. You can’t put much reliance on anyone’s memory after 18 years. It’s her statement at the time that matters most. And the fact that the police suppressed it. Or lost it, as they claim.’

  The two women re-read the statement carefully. On the night when she disappeared, Brenda Stokes had been wearing a school blazer, white blouse, and a short black miniskirt. Amusing and provocative, no doubt, on a well-developed nineteen year old. She had left the party with Jason apparently drunk and happy, in the stolen car. At four a.m. that morning, Amanda Carr had been driving home from a different party at Naburn Maternity Hospital when she had passed a young woman with long dark hair, wearing a schoolgirl outfit, walking towards her on a country road.

  ‘So if it was Brenda that she saw, she was still alive at four. Two miles away from where Jason claims she left him by the river at - when?’

  ‘Half one, he says. And a man taking his dog for a walk saw the remains of the car just outside Leeds at five thirty. It was already burnt out - a black shell.’

  ‘So if Brenda was still alive and running away from him at four, that would give Jason just an hour and half to catch her, kill her, dispose of her body, drive to Leeds and torch the car. Less, because the car wasn’t even smoking when the dog walker saw it. It’s not possible.’

  ‘Which is why the police didn’t believe her,’ Lucy said. ‘After all, she only saw her for a second, and can’t describe her face.’

  ‘Hm,’ Sarah mused. ‘Long dark hair, schoolgirl clothes. They’ll claim she’s a fantasist, made it all up after she read the story in the newspaper. I’d say the same, in their shoes. But still ... what if it was Brenda she saw on Naburn Lane at four a.m., and Jason didn’t kill her, what happened? Where did she go?’

  Lucy shrugged. ‘If we knew that ...’

  ‘We’d know everything. But we’re not detectives, Mrs Watson, just lawyers.’ Sarah gave a wry grin. ‘What about this bloodstained torch. With his fingerprint in her blood. Remind me, Lucy, how does our client explain that?’

  Lucy sighed. ‘Because, according to his story, when he asked her for sex ...’

  ‘Suggested was the word he used ...’

  ‘Okay, suggested they might have sex, she attacked him. Ripped his face with her nails. So, in self-defence of course, he lightly punched her on the nose. Like you do. And her nose unfortunately bled on his hands. Whereupon she got out of the car and flounced off into the night. Never to be seen again.’

  ‘And the torch. With his bloodstained fingerprint?’

  ‘He found it in the car and got out to look for her. Wandered round saying he was sorry and offering her a lift. Only she’d disappeared. So he chucked it in the bushes and drove off.’

  A waiter appeared, pushing a trolley. Sarah took a black coffee, poured elegantly from a china pot. Lucy had a cappuccino and croissant. As the waiter left she buttered it enthusiastically, spreading flakes of hot croissant over the papers between them.

  ‘Well, the main thing is the false confession.’

  ‘Yes. If I get that into court we stand a chance. Otherwise we’re sunk. Amanda Carr is incidental to that, really. And the other thing, of course, is this detective - what’s his name? Baxter. The one who led the investigation.’

  ‘Yes, nasty piece of work. I’ve made notes on him.’

  They fell silent again, sipping coffee and studying the details of the confession their client was alleged to have made to Brian Winnick while on remand. Winnick had been a drug dealer who occasionally supplemented his income by informing to the police. Jason’s original defence team had tried hard to get Winnick’s evidence excluded, on the grounds that the man had been told what to say. The investigating officer, Robert Baxter, had denied this strongly.

  ‘It stinks,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s a classic police ploy when they can’t get enough evidence. The judge should have thrown it out on the spot. Trouble is, once a decision has been made, it’s not easy to overturn it. Judges are like everyone else; they protect their learned friends. Especially from northern fishwives like us.’

  She and Lucy spent the rest of the journey re-reading the transcripts of the original trial and first appeal, as well as the statements of Raymond Crosse and Amanda Carr. Sarah’s first struggle would be to get this evidence into court at all. Even if she managed that, she still had a mountain to climb. Approaching London, two hours later, both she and Lucy felt daunted. They saw, more clearly than before, why none of the senior partners in Lucy’s firm had taken the case on.

  Travelling in a taxi to Pentonville, Sarah asked what their client wa
s like. Lucy wrinkled her nose in distaste.

  ‘Average lowlife thug. Hates the world for what it’s done to him. Hates women because he never sees any. Apart from that he’s quite nice.’

  Sarah laughed - her first that day. ‘So tempting you make him sound! And we’ve travelled all this way to see him.’

  ‘Don’t expect much intelligent conversation. He’ll be undressing you with his eyes the moment you walk into the room. Me, he didn’t bother.’

  Lucy’s prediction proved accurate. Jason was a short man in a black sleeveless teeshirt. The muscles of his arms and upper body bulged in a way that suggested long hours in the prison gym. He was light on his feet, and his hair was cut short, close to his scalp. His face was set in a bitter, cold sneer and, as Lucy had predicted, his eyes focussed first on Sarah’s blouse, and then travelled lower.

  ‘Where’s the brief?’ he asked, without glancing at Lucy.

  ‘This is your barrister, Mrs Newby,’ Lucy said, emphasising the Mrs. ‘She’s come to meet you before the hearing tomorrow.’

  ‘You a QC?’ he asked, his eyes travelling up to Sarah’s face for the first time.

  ‘Not yet,’ she answered coolly. ‘In a few years maybe.’

  ‘Christ.’ He shifted the gum in his mouth, and glared at Lucy. ‘Not even a QC!’

  ‘Mrs Newby’s a very competent lawyer,’ said Lucy firmly. ‘She’s fully up to speed on your case. More competent than many QCs, in my opinion. That’s why I chose her.’

  Jason studied Lucy, considering. ‘She’d better be,’ he said at last. He turned to Sarah. ‘This matters to me, you know, it’s important. I’ve been banged up for 18 years for something I didn’t do. Get that detail, did you?’

  ‘Of course. The fact that you could have gained parole by admitting your guilt is something the judges will have to take into account. It’s not the main point, but it’s not insignificant.’

  ‘So what is the main point then, darling? In your professional opinion.’ Once again the eyes focussed involuntarily on her blouse.

  Sarah sighed, and began to go through the details she had been studying on the train. At each stage she asked for his comments, to see if they tallied. It was not her job, of course, to sit in judgement on him, but she was encouraged to see that his story had a certain coherence. It was plausible, at least, and his stubborn refusal to accept parole showed his commitment to it. There were a few prisoners, she knew, who actually feared the outside world, and preferred life inside, but this man showed no signs of being one of them. At the end of their discussion she smiled.

  ‘Well, Mr Barnes, that’s our case. I won’t pretend that it’s watertight, but we have a chance, and I’ll do the best I can.’

  His eyes met hers, as they had done more frequently as the discussion progressed, an involuntary acknowledgment that she had a brain as well as breasts. For a second, anxiety replaced the bitter lust in his eyes.

  ‘Yeah, well make sure you do, darling, all right? I want my life back again.’

  ‘The world has changed a bit since you were young,’ Sarah said sympathetically. ‘If we win, you may need some help settling down.’

  It was kindly meant, but the comment fell on polluted ground. His face assumed a mocking leer which, she imagined, was uncannily like the expression Brenda Stokes might have seen on the face of her murderer.

  ‘What’s up, darlin’, hubby run off, has he?’ If the eyes had undressed her before, they were stripping her now. Sarah felt an angry flush warming her cheeks. Was her pain so obvious? Jason shifted the gum in his mouth, and laughed. ‘Nah, I’m not that desperate. You just get me out. I’ll sort out the totty on me own.’

  ‘Charmer, isn’t he?’ said Lucy, as the prison gates closed behind them. ‘Huge benefit to society, if we do manage to get him out.’

  Sarah searched the street for the taxi they had ordered. ‘Maybe Bob was right,’ she said. ‘I’d have been better off as a schoolteacher. Got more respect, at least.’

  As they walked towards the taxi, a group of schoolchildren surged towards them, swearing at a teacher who was failing to control them.

  ‘Or maybe not,’ said Lucy, watching. ‘After all, we’ve only got one delinquent client, not thirty. And he’s still locked up. So far, at least.’

  4. Fingers of Death

  ‘STOP THE car! Gary, he’s doing it!’

  ‘Just hold on, you little bugger! There’s services in three miles.’

  ‘He can’t wait! Mum, the seat’s wet!’

  ‘For God’s sake, Gary, stop here!’

  ‘Shit. OK, get the little pisser out. You take him, Shar.’

  The car, a blue Ford Orion with a rusting front wing and a yellow passenger door that Gary had promised to respray three months ago, screeched to a halt on the hard shoulder, taking another millimetre of rubber off the suspect front tyres. Sharon dumped her joint in the ashtray and lurched out onto the tarmac. She wrenched open the rear door and dragged her youngest, the dribbling Wayne, out onto the road, yanking his tracksuit bottoms down to his knees. They were already soaked with warm urine. A chorus of curses about the damp seat came from his two brothers. Then, before Sharon or Gary could stop them, the boys were out of the car and exploring the hard shoulder by themselves. A 40 ton wagon swerved violently as it passed them, the trucker leaning on his horn as the Orion shuddered in its wake.

  ‘Oi! Declan! Sean! Get back here, you little bastards!’

  By the time Gary hauled himself out of the car the kids were away, on some stupid mission of their own. Gary cursed - they were Sharon’s kids, not his, and paid him no more respect than his heavy hand, erratically applied, could enforce. No doubt they hoped he would leave their lives soon, just as their own fathers had left Sharon before him.

  Another wagon thundered past, its driver’s eyes widening with shock at the boys an inch from his wheels. Fall under it, why don’t you, Gary thought. As far as he cared they could run under a truck anytime they chose, but he guessed Sharon would see it differently. And since she was the best shag in years, and the kid in her belly was, in all probability, his, he felt a dreary sense of duty to her kids. After all, this was supposed to be a family holiday, a celebration of seven months of him and Sharon shacking up together, and it would be a poor start to lose two kids before they even reached the beach. So he lumbered after the boys, swearing, as they sprinted away around the bend.

  Gary was no runner, and the weight of his gut held him back. He had stopped the car on a slip road, of all places, so the traffic came towards him around a tight bend, only seeing the Orion at the last moment. Several swerved dramatically, leaning on their horns or raising fingers as they zoomed into the distance. Gary glanced over his shoulder and saw Sharon holding out the half naked Wayne, pissing like a cherub plumbed into the mains. Then he looked ahead, to see where the boys were heading.

  They had totally disappeared.

  ‘Shite!’ Was this a place to play hide and seek? He’d crack their stupid heads together when he caught them, Sharon or no Sharon. ‘Come back here, you little fuckers! If you don’t, I’ll ...’

  He lumbered on, further round the corner, until Sharon was out of sight. Still no sign. To his right, on the inside of the bend, was a wilderness area, just grass and bushes, not even much litter to show human habitation. A bird, a hawk or something, hovered motionless overhead. Gary swore. If the boys had gone in there he’d never find them. He turned to walk back.

  ‘Sod it, we’ll go without you. Stay here and see how you like it!’

  A small stone hit him on the back of the leg. He turned to see Declan and Sean grinning at him from behind a bush. Declan was waving something through the leaves - something brown that wobbled and shook.

  ‘Little bastards. Get back in the car!’

  ‘Look at this, Gary. See what we’ve found.’

  Reluctantly, he went over to look. Coming closer, he saw that Declan was holding some sort of animal - a dog perhaps. No, with that colour it must be a fox.
It was in a foul state - its chest and stomach were crushed and its guts hung out like long unfinished sausages. But the head was undamaged and its lips were drawn back, teeth bared in a snarl, as though it had seen its death approaching.

  ‘Watch it, Gary, he’ll rip out your throat!’

  Declan lunged for him with the jaws but Gary smacked him aside with the back of his hand. ‘Where the fuck d’you find that?’

  ‘Down there on the road.’

  ‘Wicked, innit?’

  ‘Can we keep it, Gar - take it in the car?’

  ‘What, that? No way. Piss off - it stinks.’

  ‘Careful, Gar, he’ll hear you. Bite off your balls.’

  ‘Yeah, right! She won’t want you then, will she, Gary? Chuck you out in the street!’

  Sean minced around Gary just out of reach, clutching his crotch and leering at him. ‘Ooooh Sharon, can’t do it no more!’ he mocked, in a high, squeaky voice. ‘Fox got me knackers!’ Despite himself, Gary laughed. It was the sort of joke he might make himself.

  ‘Chuck that thing, you little pissers, and get back in the car. Before I beat you so hard yours’ll never come down.’

  ‘Be nice to foxy, Gar - he’s a killer you know. Look what he had in his mouth.’

  ‘What?’

  Until now Sean had held one hand behind him. Now he produced it, shockingly. To Gary’s horror Sean didn’t just have one right hand, but two. A second hand inside the first, bony, skeletal. Long thin fingers of bone jiggled in front of his face. Gary took an involuntary step back, almost into the path of a wagon whose horn, deep-throated, howled its indignation into the distance.

  ‘What the fuck have you got there?’

  ‘Hand, Gary. Fingers of death. All that’s left of the last bloke who swore at this fox. So keep your gob clean.’