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

the tragic, drugs-related deaths of thirteen inmates on the night of Tuesday 9 January. Though the relationship is undeniable, it is vital that you do not allow the horror of those fatalities to impact your eventual decision. The pathologists were not able to legally link the drugs seized to the deaths prior, and the proof of intent to supply does not prove past supply. Therefore, those deaths should not be considered when judging this defendant. The charge brought against Charli Meadows is one of smuggling drugs into Wormwood Scrubs. Through the course of this trial, I shall make you absolutely certain of her guilt. There can be no doubt – there can be only justice. It is every bit as simple as that.’

Garrick returned to his seat, and a single word was muttered in the public gallery – it carried on a draught through the silence of the room, a gust so quick and cold that nobody turned towards it. But we all knew what had been said. Everyone.

‘Murderer,’ the whisper called.

We adjourned for the evening twenty minutes earlier than expected, and while changing out of my robes I sent Zara a text telling her to meet me at the Toby Carvery a block away from the court, where I would treat her to dinner; the thought of her going home to the other half of that miserable KitKat after her opening day had been playing on my mind. I was conscious of the number of hours Scout had been alone and, strangely, I was looking forward to getting back to her after dinner. I resolved to make it quick.

I arrived at the pub and purchased the tickets for two roasts, one king-sized and one vegetarian, before commandeering a table away from the bar to wait for Zara. She arrived at half past with a face like thunder, slamming her bags down under the table as she dropped into an empty seat.

‘As soon as the prosecution received my disclosure request, they once again applied for public-interest immunity and Judge Bromley granted it.’

‘They really aren’t going to disclose what led them to the raid?’

‘They aren’t going to disclose shit, Section 8 application or not. They’re claiming that if they were to reveal their source then it could affect a number of ongoing investigations, so it’s in the public’s interest to withhold the evidence.’

‘Omar Pickett.’

‘Has to be, but I can’t even approach the topic in a court of law. I can’t get answers to the fundamental questions supporting my own case! It’s a damn gagging order, that’s all it is. A sham!’ She removed her glasses, folded them and closed her eyes. ‘Without a miracle – without Omar Pickett magically popping up to testify at some point during the next few days – it’s just a losing battle.’

I sighed, then slid the meal ticket over the table towards her. ‘Let’s get some food in our stomachs and have a think about this.’

‘You shouldn’t have,’ she said, ‘but thank you. Again.’

‘That’s all right.’ I pushed my chair out and got to my feet, feeling thirsty. ‘You get us a place in the queue, and I’ll get the drinks.’

The inexplicably enthusiastic barman drummed his hands across the beer pumps as he approached, grinning broadly. ‘Good afternoon, sir. What’s your poison?’

And after the day I’d had, the image that word brought to my mind was almost enough to put me off my dinner altogether.

19

Zara’s case didn’t seem to be going much better by the time I met her for lunch the following afternoon.

We were walking towards the Bar mess, her hands stuffed into her pockets, when Ted Bowen appeared ahead of us and she grunted.

‘Let’s go to the public canteen instead,’ she said quietly. ‘I can’t be arsed to look at his face while I eat.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘You’ve been in a courtroom with him and you still need a reason?’

The public canteen was extremely crowded, and we just managed to win the race for a table that was still littered with someone’s tray and leftovers. As soon as we were seated, Zara had her nose to the screen of her iPad. I recognised the dull beat leaking from the speaker; she was watching the last music video of Omar Pickett, aka Post Mortem.

‘Any luck?’ I asked, knowing the obvious answer.

‘No. Nothing. I had an idea about this skatepark, but, I don’t know …’

‘The one from the video?’

‘Yeah.’ With one hand she shoved the tray of leftovers to the edge of the table and then laid the iPad in its place for me to see. There was Post Mortem, gesticulating with both hands against the backdrop of spray-painted convex walls. I tried to pay attention but couldn’t keep from glancing around, acutely conscious of the members of the public bustling through the room. Zara didn’t seem to care. She paused the video, freezing the masked youngster. ‘I was looking for skateparks in Leyton last night.’

‘On foot?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Online. There aren’t any that fit the bill in Leyton itself, but there are plenty in the surrounding areas …’ She produced a pocket notebook and flicked to a page of handwriting, a list that looked noticeably more chaotic than her usual neat script. ‘Walthamstow Skatepark, the closest, is way too small to match this one in the video. Hackney’s Concrete Bumps and Victoria Park aren’t right either – no graffiti in the photographs online …’ She moved her finger down the page. ‘At first I thought it might be Mile End Concrete Bowl, but that’s about five miles south of Leyton. White Grounds in Bermondsey is underneath a railway arch that looks a lot like this one, and –’ She glanced up; whatever she saw on my face made her frown. ‘What?’

‘Nothing. It’s just making my head spin a little, that’s all. What good is a skatepark going to be?’

‘I was thinking that Pickett might go back there. You can search by area on Instagram, which brings up all the photographs tagged in that