Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) Read online

  ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘In foxy’s mouth, of course. What did I tell you?’

  ‘That’s why we’re keeping them both.’

  ‘Be a sport, Gar. It’s good for a laugh. Think about Wayne.’

  ‘Wayne, yeah. Wayne’ll love ‘em. He needs toys on this trip.’

  Weakening, Gary saw the fun of it. He’d been like them, a few years ago. ‘Your Mum, Declan, is not going to want a dead fox in the car.’

  Head on one side, Declan conceded the force of this point. ‘But she don’t have to know, do she? Not till the car’s started.’

  ‘A few more puffs on her joint, she’ll be too zonked to care.’

  ‘Until suddenly, foxy has a little nibble at her ear ...’

  ‘And the fingers, too - don’t forget the fingers ...’

  ‘She’ll be that scared, she’ll stick her head straight out through the roof.’

  ‘Then she can keep a look out for the filth. And foxy can watch out the window.’

  Despite himself, Gary was drawn into the wickedness of it. ‘All right, stuff it under your coat. But if it starts to stink, it’s going out. I can’t drive and puke at the same time.’

  5. Hotel Bedroom Blues

  THE HOTEL bed was comfortable enough, but Sarah did not sleep well. An intermittent groan from the central heating didn’t help. It sounded like a lovesick rhinoceros trapped in the cellar, trying to mate with the boiler. Good luck to it, Sarah thought wryly, it’s happier than me. She lay on her back on the crisp newly laundered sheets and gazed at an orange glow on the ceiling from the streetlamp outside.

  What’s Bob doing now, she wondered, tormenting herself. I hope he’s collected his clothes, the bastard. I don’t want to see those when I go home. To an empty house, half of the wardrobe bare. Memories gone too - his touch, his smell, the way he reached for me in the night. It used to annoy me sometimes, but now ...

  What’s he doing now? Reaching out for his - what’s her name? Sonya. Sarah had never met Sonya, she couldn’t put a face to her, but suddenly, unbidden, into her mind came an image, vivid as day, of Bob copulating with this unknown faceless woman. It was so clear and sharp that she swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, staring into the darkness of the room. The pain was visible. It was as if a hologram had appeared and she could see them doing it right there in front of her. Bob kissing and fondling this woman as he did to her, groaning as he came to his climax, only louder and sooner than he did with her, because she was new - new and different and thrilling for him, no doubt, the treacherous shit. The woman’s image was clear too - she had a younger fitter body than Sarah, with long fair hair and a face - she peered closer to see the face, but somehow it was always obscured, behind the woman’s hair or Bob’s arms or his head - show me your face, damn you, bitch! I’ve seen all the rest!

  But her mind put no face to the vision. And slowly, as she realised it was a vision projected by her mind, not something that was really, actually there, she began to experiment, allow her mind to play with it. The woman’s body became larger and slacker, the thighs dimpled and fat, the breasts sagging, the hair short and grey and permed. But still no face. It was a sort of revenge, to imagine Bob caressing such a faceless monster. But it did little to take away the pain.

  She switched on the light, poured herself an overpriced whisky from the minibar, and sat hunched on the bed, nursing the drink. I shall have to cope with this pain, she thought, or it’ll drive me mad. It was a physical pain, a shortness of breath, as if her heart had been bruised. She imagined doing wild things to ease it - scream, commit murder, pour petrol over Bob and set him on fire, run out into the street howling and throw herself into the Thames. Anything to fight back, ease the pain.

  But Sarah did none of those things. I’m not like that, she told herself firmly. I can take it, I’m in control. That’s who I am, I cannot, I will not let my mind slide into this chaos, this cauldron of boiling emotion. Not even to fight this pain, which is the worst thing anyone’s ever done to me, worse than when Kevin punched me in the face and left, worse than when my mother tried to put Simon up for adoption, worse than when I thought Emily was dead, worse than when Simon stood in the dock charged with murder.

  Is it really worse than those things? It feels unbearable now but how did I feel then? Those things were hammer blows to the heart and I survived them all. Somehow. I can’t remember how.

  Yes, I can. It was work.

  Work is what defines me, work is what gives me control, work has always saved me from poverty and despair and chaos. Work is what keeps me sane.

  I’ve come to London to work. Tomorrow I appear in the Court of Criminal Appeal for the very first time. I’m not as well prepared as I should be. The bundle of papers are over there on the desk. I should look at them now.

  She stayed hunched on her bed, nursing her whisky. Slowly, the agony faded to a pain that was just seriously bad. The vision of Bob and the woman shrank in her mind to a tiny bubble, a pinhead - gone! She sat, thinking of nothing at all. Then she glanced at her watch.

  3.30 a.m.

  I met a client in prison today. What was his name?

  She couldn’t even remember that.

  Slowly, as if she’d just run a marathon, she dragged her stiff legs off the bed and crept to the desk. Jason Barnes was the name of her client. If he lost his appeal tomorrow he’d stay in prison for many more years. That would hurt too.

  She turned the pages, began to read and make notes.

  6. Court of Criminal Appeal

  ENTERING THE Royal Courts of Justice next morning, she felt an unaccustomed flutter of nerves. Sarah was used to appearing in court - she did it every day - but this was something different. In the huge echoing foyer she recognised her opponent, a Welshman, Gareth Jones, QC. She had met him briefly once in the Middle Temple, where his name appeared much further up the list of members than hers. He smiled and held out his hand.

  ‘First time in these exalted chambers, is it now? Don’t let the surroundings intimidate you, Mrs Newby - it’s all stucco and plaster, you know. Just like their Lordships - no one knows if they’re alive or dead, half the time.’

  ‘Oh well, I’ll have to try and wake them up a little then.’ Sarah smiled politely and shook his hand, determined not to let his good manners intimidate her.

  A little behind Gareth Jones stood two men in suits. She recognised one; the other, a burly man in his sixties, she did not. Gareth Jones waved an arm in jovial introduction.

  ‘Mrs Newby, this is Detective Superintendent Robert Baxter, retired, who led the original prosecution. And his colleague, Detective Chief Inspector Will Churchill, who is keeping an eye on the case for North Yorkshire police.’

  ‘Gentlemen.’ Sarah nodded politely. Will Churchill returned the nod, but Sarah was not deceived. Ancient enmities lurked behind their eyes. Sarah loathed the man for his attempt, two years ago, to prosecute her son Simon for murder; it was not something she could forgive or forget. Churchill, in turn, resented the humiliation she had inflicted on his department in court. He faced her with a look of blank contempt.

  The older man was no better. A powerfully built man, he had a florid, pock-marked face that suggested much of his retirement was spent with a bottle. His small eyes narrowed as he fixed her with a hostile intimidating glare. Sarah studied him coolly. She was used to this sort of thing at the start of a trial. She normally encountered it from relatives of criminals whom she prosecuted, but occasionally, as today, it came from the police

  ‘Jason Barnes is an evil bastard who deserves to be locked away for life,’ Robert Baxter said without preamble. ‘Just you remember that, young woman, when you go into court today.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ said Sarah, surprised and faintly amused. She seldom encountered open aggression from police in court these days. PACE, sensitivity training, and political correctness had ended most of that. But clearly Baxter was one of the old school - no nonsense, arrest the ba
d guys, and beat the crap out of them or anyone else who got in the way. Maybe she could use that against him if he appeared on the witness stand.

  She introduced Lucy, and then went to see her client, who was about to be escorted into the dock by a security guard. Sarah was pleased to see him in a smart suit and tie, at least. She assumed that the scowl on his face was caused by nervousness more than aggression - it was an expression common to many clients in the moments before trial.

  ‘Right then,’ he said. ‘I hope you know your stuff, missus.’

  ‘So do I,’ she said easily. ‘We’ll look foolish if I don’t, won’t we?’

  ‘Yeah, but it don’t matter so much to you, does it?’

  ‘It matters to my reputation. So don’t worry, Jason, I’ll be doing my best.’

  ‘Yeah, well, if you do manage to win, I’ll take you up west for a meal, get to know each other better. How about that, darlin’?’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ said Sarah, with a bright professional smile, thinking in your dreams, buddy. Still, it was best to keep her client’s spirits up so that he went into court looking optimistic. A surly defeatist stare would arouse no sympathy in the stony hearts of the judges.

  Sarah and Gareth Jones rose to their feet in the courtroom as the three judges processed solemnly to their ancient leather covered thrones. Their Lordships bowed and sat down, raised high behind a wooden bar intended to give them authority, and also protection from any defendant who might choose to dispute their judgement with a carving knife. Sarah remained on her feet, ready to present her case. Butterflies fluttered beneath her breastbone, but her voice, as usual, was calm, controlled, and, she hoped, persuasive.

  ‘My Lords, as you will have read from my submission, my client has two major, and three minor grounds for appeal. The major grounds being firstly, the total unreliability of his alleged confession, and secondly, the evidence of the witness, Amanda Carr, which was never disclosed to the defence in the original trial.’

  She looked up. Three lined faces - two men and a woman - watched her attentively from beneath their white wigs. She saw the fingers of one of them fluttering over the bundle of papers in front of him. I hope he’s read it, she thought. Though probably not from three thirty to five in the morning, as I did. She hoped adrenalin would clear the sleep from her mind.

  ‘My first point, my Lords, is the unreliability of the evidence of Brian Winnick. My Lords, in the original trial Brian Winnick gave evidence that Mr Barnes had confessed to murdering Brenda Stokes while they were both remanded in custody in the same cell. That evidence was of crucial importance in Jason Barnes’ conviction. The trial judge, His Honour Paul Murphy, made this crystal clear in his remarks to the jury. ‘If you believe Mr Winnick, then you must convict,’ he told them. ‘If you doubt him, you should acquit.’

  ‘My Lords, Mr Winnick has recently died of lung cancer. But two days before his death he was visited in hospital by his solicitor, Raymond Crosse. He told Mr Crosse that his evidence at Jason Barnes’ trial - and in several other trials - was a lie. Mr Winnick was a criminal, but also a paid police informer. He told these lies, Mr Crosse says, in the hope of leniency and reward from the police. Mr Winnick had become a Christian and wished to atone for the lies he had told, he said. Mr Crosse agreed to return to hospital and take a formal statement under oath, at Mr Winnick’s bedside. But before he was able to do so, Mr Winnick died. My Lords, Raymond Crosse is here in court today, and is prepared to give evidence to this effect.’

  She paused. This was the first, key point. If Raymond Crosse’s evidence was admitted in court, Jason Barnes’ appeal had a chance. If not, not.

  The senior judge nodded, then glanced towards Sarah’s opponent. ‘What do you have to say about that, Mr Jones?’

  Gareth Jones rose to his feet beside Sarah. His voice, she noted with dismay, sounded even more mellifluous in here than it had outside. How do they learn this in Wales, she wondered. Do two year olds sing for their supper?

  ‘My Lords, I feel this is stretching matters too far. Mr Crosse’s evidence is surely hearsay, so it must be inadmissible. There was no mystery about Mr Winnick’s status as an informer; it was plain from the outset. The defence made great play with this fact. The learned judge emphasized it too. The jury reached their verdict only after having seen both Jason Barnes and Brian Winnick give evidence in person, on the stand. They were able to judge each man’s character for themselves. Now my learned friend seeks to call, not Mr Winnick, but Raymond Crosse. Mr Crosse was not called at the original trial. He has no first hand knowledge of the facts. He did not take a statement from Mr Winnick under oath and there is no witness to corroborate what he says.’

  The senior judge nodded. ‘Mrs Newby?’

  ‘My Lords, Mr Crosse wrote notes of his conversation with Mr Winnick shortly after he visited him in hospital. These notes were typed up as a formal statement for Mr Winnick to sign before witnesses on his next visit. Unfortunately Mr Crosse did not realise how close Mr Winnick was to death or he would have returned sooner. I submit that under section 23 of the Criminal Justice Act 1988 this evidence is firsthand hearsay and should be allowed.

  ‘My Lords, it is true that the jury in Jason Barnes’ trial were aware that Brian Winnick was a police informer. What they did not know was that he was a drug dealer whose charge of intent to sell cocaine was reduced to possession only, three weeks after Jason Barnes’ trial was over. My Lords, Mr Winnick specifically told Mr Crosse that the police, led by er ...’ Sarah pretended to consult her file, but she already knew the answer. ‘... Detective Superintendent Robert Baxter, promised to reduce the charges against him if he gave evidence against Jason Barnes in court. Which he did, resulting in Mr Barnes’ conviction.’

  She paused, and glanced to her left, where the two detectives sat glaring at her from their seats. Will Churchill looked dapper and smooth; Robert Baxter, beside him, was built like a rugby prop forward.

  ‘My Lords, if Brian Winnick was still alive I would of course have put him on the stand to test his evidence directly. But since that is not possible, I submit that the only way to get at the truth now is to admit the evidence of Mr Crosse. And since Mr Winnick was a principal witness - in fact, perhaps the principal witness for the prosecution - at the trial of Jason Barnes, it seems to me that the interests of justice require that this evidence be heard at this appeal.’

  She saw eyebrows rise as she spoke, and realised that she was running a risk in lecturing the judges on what was, and what was not, justice. But Sarah had always held the view that there was no sense pussy-footing round in court. If something needed to be said, then it was her job to say it, as forcefully and persuasively as possible, and hope for the required effect. After all, why else did the hood of her gown fold into a neat little pocket at the back? It was there to collect the fee from the grateful client, for arguing his case better than he could hope to do himself.

  ‘Finally, My Lords, I refer you to the statement of the prison chaplain, who is also present in court. He can testify to the state of mind of Mr Winnick in the weeks before his death, and confirm that he spoke of lies which he had told in the past.’

  During her last speech she had been aware of a certain amount of whispering from her left, where Gareth Jones was leaning over his shoulder to talk to the two detectives. As she sat down, Gareth Jones got to his feet.

  ‘My Lords, before you decide on the admissibility of this evidence, it may be helpful to hear from the man who my learned friend appears to suspect of misconduct, Detective Superintendent Robert Baxter. He is present here in court.’

  The three judges bent their heads together, conferring. The senior judge looked up, a wintry smile on his face. ‘Very well, Mr Jones, we will hear Mr Baxter.’

  7. School Project

  PREDICTABLY, THE fox had not stayed in the car for long. Sharon felt its jaws nibbling her ear just as Gary started the car, and after a brief outburst of hysteria it was dumped a few yards down the road. Sha
ron’s howls of rage were well worth it as far as the boys were concerned, and the resultant quarrel between Sharon and Gary even more so.

  ‘You think that’s funny, do you? Letting them bring a fucking corpse into the car?’

  ‘Their idea, not mine. Anyhow, we could have skinned it, made a whatdoyoucallit - fox scarf thing for you to wear.’

  ‘Skin you more like. Keep all your brains in your bollocks, you do.’

  Somehow, in the fuss about the fox, the hand stayed in the car, and when they reached the coast Sean smuggled it beneath his pillow. Over the following week he became quite attached to it. He kept it in a bucket with sea creatures, using its long bony fingers to battle crabs’ claws. Several times Sharon told him to throw the horrid thing away, but he brought it back to Leeds, stuffed in his tracksuit pocket where he could feel it whenever he wanted. He liked the way the fingers moved in the same way as his own, and wondered if the owner could have cracked the knuckles as he could crack his. He slipped it under the pillow at night where it crunched under his ear.

  Half-term over, they went back to school, and his teacher, Ms Sheranski, predictably asked them to write about their holidays. Julie Sheranksi was a probationer, still young and enthusiastic, with little hope of keeping order except through her innocent, encouraging smile. Sean and his classmates fell in love with her and ragged her unmercifully. He put the hand on the table and waited for her reaction. She’d greeted his earlier specimens - a squashed toad, a tropical spider he’d found in a packet of bananas - with a cheerful welcome which had somewhat deflated him. This time, however, he was not disappointed. There was no disguising the appalled, disbelieving shock which drained the blood from Julie Sheranski’s face as she surveyed the skeletal fingers on her pupil’s desk.

  ‘Where - what’s this?’

  ‘It’s my hand, miss. I found it on holiday.’

  ‘But - for heaven’s sake - where?’