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

hands, then a deep, feminine breath beside the mouthpiece. ‘Yes?’

‘You know that those game shows are all fixed, don’t you?’

A fuming sigh. ‘What do you want?’

‘How’s Phillip?’

‘Still dying. Is that what you called for?’

‘I need your help.’

Her voice lowered to a hiss; the lack of background air suggested that she’d cupped her hand around the microphone. ‘If it’s to do with that threat then think again.’

‘It’s not. Do you still help out at Centrepoint?’

A few seconds of silence. ‘Why?’

‘I’ve got a young man here that could use your help.’

Twenty minutes later, Omar was back in his ludicrous disguise and cautiously following Zara and me along Chancery Lane.

I led them both through the gate of Lincoln’s Inn, which was unlocked every day until seven at night. Across those grounds, I retraced the same shortcut that used to take me from waking up on Lincoln’s Inn Fields to the baths down at the Inner Temple. Omar seemed to be surveying the society’s ancient stone buildings with distrust, though it was hard to be sure from the outside of his sunglasses. Beyond the gated grounds of Lincoln’s Inn itself, we passed the fields that I’d once called home, then crossed Kingsway.

Altogether it was only a ten-minute walk to Bruce House, the massive five-storey red-brick building that occupied more than half of Kemble Street at the front and a considerable chunk of Drury Lane to the side. It was classed as a charitable lodging house, another of the city’s Grade II listed buildings, and had been hosting the homeless since before George Orwell wrote about his stay there in Down and Out in Paris and London in 1933, in which he described the place as ‘excellent value for one and a penny’. Now it was run by Centrepoint, and cost its residents £13.44 a week.

‘Here?’ Omar asked after I’d come to a stop.

‘Here.’

I’d never stayed here during my own ‘down and out’ period – it had been undergoing a major renovation that saw it closed between the late eighties and early nineties – but its proximity to chambers made it the obvious choice, and its sheer size was the reason Jenny had suggested it, in the hope that Omar could become lost among the tenants. The entrance was comprised of wooden double doors set beneath a stone semicircular arch. Two residents were smoking there; Omar tensed as we passed them by, but neither paid him any mind.

The woman behind the counter looked up and smiled as we entered. She had a face that was vaguely familiar from Jenny’s charity events of yesteryear. ‘Elliot! Long time, no see. I literally just got off the phone with Jennifer, she said you’d be coming down.’ She turned her smile to the teenager and his ridiculous outfit. ‘You’re extremely lucky, young man. Ordinarily there’s a waiting list, but the Rooks have done a lot of good for our cause. It’s the least we can do.’

‘I really do appreciate it –’ I paused; thankfully, she was wearing a name badge. ‘Sally. How have you been?’

‘Oh, just swell, thanks.’ She was gathering up forms but paused before handing them over. ‘Look, I’m sorry to hear about you and Jen …’

I reached across for the forms, avoiding her eyes. ‘He just fills these out, yes?’

‘That’s it. I just need one reference, a form of identification, and the name of his employer.’

‘Employer?’

‘House policy. Residents must have an employer, even if it’s just part-time …’ She raised her eyebrows to Omar. ‘You do have an employer, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ I said, forcing a reluctant smile, reminding myself that I was doing this not for him, but for the young woman beside us. ‘Omar here is working with us. An intern at chambers.’

‘Oh.’ She smiled, but the smile was puzzled. ‘Well, it’s good to see you branching out.’

Omar wasn’t happy about surrendering his identification. I almost thought he wouldn’t do it, but after a few grumbles he relented. A few nights on the city streets will do that to a young man’s resolve.

Sally made two photocopies of his provisional driving licence and stapled one to the original form, which the hostel would keep for its files, and the other to its carbon copy, which she told Omar to keep safe. As soon as her back was turned to source him a room key, I caught him preparing to tear the form into pieces.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked, catching his hands.

‘I can’t have this shit lying around,’ he hissed. ‘What if somebody breaks into my room and finds it? As long as I’m here, I’m Fred.’

‘Nobody is going to break into your room,’ I replied, though my own years of homelessness had taught me that honour among thieves was rare. On second thought, I whipped the paperwork out of his hands.

‘Oi, what’re you doing, man?’

‘Holding on to this,’ I told him. ‘I might need your details when I apply for witness protection and it’ll be more than secure in chambers.’

He glowered. ‘That’s my life in your hands.’

‘Yes,’ Zara said. ‘And when the time comes, you’d better remember that, Fred.’

21

Negotiating a deal for witness protection is no simple feat.

While it is possible for an informer to receive total or partial immunity from prosecution under the Serious Organised Crime and Police Act 2005, sentence discounts ordinarily come at the discretion of the judge, and that is only after they have pleaded guilty and evidence has been given. True to the Hollywood trope, these so-called ‘vulnerable witnesses’ can be granted new homes and identities but, with a typical individual’s protection costing up to half a million in taxpayers’ money, the circumstances must be near to exceptional.

Omar Pickett’s problems in qualifying for witness protection were manifest. His circumstances did not appear to be exceptional. He also hadn’t been charged with an offence and, most importantly, he was to be giving evidence for the defence, not the prosecution. The situation seemed impossible, but I’d somehow gone and given away my word, and the following morning found me