Post Mortem, Gary Bell [best fiction novels .txt] 📗

it to her bag. As she did, the cuff rode up her right forearm and I could just see the tail of what appeared to be a deep gash there. She caught me looking and sharply yanked the cuff down to cover it. ‘His claws,’ she explained. ‘He was damn strong, even in the end.’

‘I bet he was.’

‘We buried him there, under my plot. He always liked it out there. Well, I say we, but I couldn’t do it. My brother came over. Him and Deacon. They got the kids involved, made a ceremony of it. Roland was so brave, bless him. They all were. And I finally got those paving slabs down, just to stop the foxes from … from, you know, getting at him …’ She sighed. ‘Some start to the week.’

I forced the image of her animal dying aside. ‘Could it have been one of those breed-specific illnesses? What breed was he?’

‘Some kind of mastiff, I think. A cross-breed. Deacon got him for us. He loved that dog.’

‘Deacon,’ I said. ‘You lied about him. He was an inmate?’

‘Yes.’ She tugged at her lashes, picking away the gluey mascara.

‘You must know what I’m thinking. Does he live with you?’

‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘He lives in Leyton. One of the estates.’

‘Does he keep any of his belongings at yours?’

‘Nothing more than a toothbrush and a change of clothes. Why?’

I shrugged, thinking about dying dogs and cuckoo birds. ‘He appears to do quite well for a man of his age, especially one who has been free only a matter of weeks.’

‘Expensive habits, but it’s mostly on credit. That’s why I get so mad about him spoiling the kids. He’s younger than I am, you could probably tell that much. Young and stupid with money.’

‘He must have a pretty good job though, to afford a car like that. Not to mention those trainers.’

‘I think he was borrowing the car. Since he got out, he’s been doing a bit of driving for Uber, so he’s often loaning his mates’ nicer cars. He isn’t dealing any more. I know it looks so obvious, but I believe him.’

‘You’d have to be some friend to lend him a car like that. What else does he do for a living?’

‘He’s a music producer. Only independent stuff. Nothing big, but he does OK. That’s how he got used to the nice clothes, I guess. Sponsorships through the label. That kind of thing.’

‘A producer …’ I already knew before I asked. ‘What sort of music does he produce?’

‘I don’t know. My Roland is into it, but it goes over my head. Showing my age.’

‘What genre?’

‘I guess you’d call it grime, a bit of dance, and this drill stuff. They were releasing it through Spotify, and they had a channel on YouTube called –’

‘Banged Up Records?’

She looked at me, slow and puzzled. ‘You know it?’

‘Only a little.’

Her eyes moved up to my wig. ‘Wouldn’t have thought it was your sort of thing.’

I managed a shrug.

‘Deacon didn’t have anything to do with this,’ she said. ‘I’m not going to sit here and tell you that me and Deacon are meant to be together or anything stupid like that. I’m not fifteen years old. He’s just – a nice lad. Most of them aren’t.’

I nodded, my thoughts reeling around Deacon and the dog now buried under paving slabs. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘It’s almost time.’

We left the conference room and walked straight into our prosecutor, further souring the moment. I had not been at all shocked to discover that Harlan Garrick QC would be stepping up against me; if Zara was facing Ted Bowen, it only made sense that his former lead counsel would have gone out of his way to get onto my trial. Not all barristers would take a defeat to heart, but rumour had it that Garrick had felt cheated ever since losing the Barber case last autumn to a new silk and a pupil, and he had been trying to get onto my listings ever since. Of course, that could’ve been nothing more than hearsay; in the courts of London, encountering the same prosecutors by chance is very common. This morning Garrick was already wearing a face like thunder, though perhaps that was only an impression created by his disposition. Even by my standards the man was a moody old sod.

He passed us and entered the courtroom with barely a glance, and I distinctly heard Charli swallow. ‘Do you think I’ve got time for one last fag?’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Go ahead.’

She smiled, but as she rummaged through her bag I saw that her hands were trembling. She paused. ‘Shit, my phone! What do I do with it? Should I have left it at home?’

‘No, that’s all right. You can keep it with you in the dock, but it has to be switched off, just like mine. Then, if you are con—’ I caught myself before finishing, not nearly soon enough.

‘If I’m convicted …?’

‘If you are convicted and sent to prison then it’ll become part of your confiscated property.’

‘Of course. That used to be my job. Life’s weird, don’t you think?’

She wandered off without waiting to hear my answer, though as it turned out, yes, I did think so.

Reluctant to spend any more of a Monday morning with Harlan Garrick than necessary, I wandered the corridors to see if I could spot Zara before her trial started. What I found instead was Lydia coming up from the cells, sashaying now that she was no longer weighed down with papers.

‘How’s Meadows?’ she asked after waving me down.

‘Not good. Her dog died.’

‘Christ, that’s an ominous start. Old age?’

‘Poison, she thinks.’

‘Poison?’ Lydia’s face whitened, just as mine had probably done. She looked around and leaned in, lowering her voice. She smelled of perfume, something sweet. ‘You don’t think it had anything to do with the trial, do you? That note you got …’

‘It had crossed my mind, though surely not. Either way, short of digging the poor thing up from under