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

then you’re both going to end up in the ground.’

22

That afternoon’s witness was the drugs expert, a man named Johnson.

I hadn’t asked for him to be fully bound – meaning the witness must attend court and give live evidence – but Garrick had decided to call him anyway, presumably for the effect on the jury. Prosecutors often do that. Evidence on paper rarely has the same impact as evidence in person. I once conditionally bound a witness in a fraud trial where my client had allegedly scammed a number of gullible investors in a foreign exchange fraud. My client had offered a higher rate of foreign exchange than normal – about ten times higher, in fact – on the condition that they waited one year for their funds. The case involved tens of millions of pounds, so my client needed the twelve-month delay in order to spend his ill-gotten gains. One victim was a soldier, a war hero who’d lost both legs to a landmine in Afghanistan. He’d been told that, to minimise arthritis, he needed to relocate to a warmer client. With that in mind he’d invested all he had, about £100,000, in foreign currency. Within a year he was expecting around a million and a half euros in return, enough for an early retirement in a Spanish villa. What he ended up with was nothing, just like all the other hapless investors. I told the prosecution that I was happy for his evidence to be read. ‘Not on your nelly,’ was the reply. As soon as the jury caught sight of the witness being wheeled into court, uniform adorned with medals, it was all over for my client.

This drugs expert wasn’t quite of the same calibre, but he certainly brought life to a relatively dull subject in front of Charli’s jury. He ended his evidence in chief with no further damage done to our case, and then I was asked if I had any questions. I didn’t really, but I was clutching at straws, and sooner or later I might’ve been able to fashion a bale of hay.

‘Only a couple,’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘Mr Johnson, is it true that Spice, or the synthetic cannabinoid so-called, is often designed to look like cannabis, though the substance itself is actually nothing more than a combination of liquid chemicals that can be sprayed onto almost any existing product?’

‘That’s correct. Of course, because of these particular circumstances, the drug wouldn’t have been engineered to look like cannabis.’

‘Why is that?’

Johnson shrugged. ‘If a person was planning on smuggling the drug into a prison, then they wouldn’t want to disguise it as another drug, would they?’

‘Probably not. And yet the prosecution are suggesting that the drugs were disguised as tobacco, another form of contraband. Would that be a better method?’

He considered it. ‘No, now you mention it. I suppose that would be almost as conspicuous as counterfeit cannabis.’

‘How would you do it, Mr Johnson?’

A single laugh rang out from the public gallery; Lady Allen did not look amused.

‘I-I wouldn’t do it,’ he replied.

‘Of course not.’ I smiled. ‘What I mean is, armed with your expert knowledge, you must be able to think of more convenient ways to smuggle it in. As, presumably, would any smuggler, unless they genuinely believed that they were trying to smuggle regular tobacco beyond those walls.’

‘Ah.’ He nodded slowly, a little rattled. ‘Yes, I see what you mean. Tobacco would be a rather unusual choice. As I said, you can spray it onto practically anything. My Lady may recall a rumpus when Mr Grayling was Justice Secretary, and he tried banning prisoners from having books sent into prison. That policy wasn’t as draconian as it appeared. Many items were being sprayed with cannabinoids.’

‘Really?’ I replied. ‘So, you’re saying that the common convicted drug dealer wasn’t really interested in reading Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu?’

‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

‘Mr Rook …’ The judge raised her brow in my direction. ‘Any more questions?’

‘No, My Lady. I just wanted to clear that up.’

‘Then you may be on your way, Mr Johnson, thank you.’ Lady Allen said. ‘Who is your next witness, Mr Garrick?’

‘As Your Ladyship knows, I have a case in the Court of Appeal tomorrow, so we won’t be sitting. Since it’s three o’clock already, we’d be unlikely to finish examining the witness today. Rather than having his evidence only partially heard before a break of two nights, might I be allowed to call him on Friday morning?’

‘I’m sure the jury won’t object to an early day. Members of the jury, since the Court of Appeal requires Mr Garrick tomorrow, we won’t be able to sit. So, not only do you have an early finish today, but you also have an entire day off tomorrow. I suggest that you enjoy it.’

‘Them and me both,’ I muttered, packing my things away.

Zara’s trial was still being heard, so I was walking out of the courthouse alone when I spotted Delroy Meadows in full overalls, accompanied by Charli’s three children, walking through the grounds towards me.

‘You go ahead, kids,’ Delroy said, patting Roland on the back as I approached. ‘I’ll meet you up there by the doors.’

The middle child – the eight-year-old – stomped the plimsolls of her school uniform. ‘No, Uncle Del, I don’t want to! It’s haunted!’

‘Shut up, Zoe,’ her big brother snapped, moving her on with a sly kick to the rear. Roland had been eyeing me with the familiar hatred. He was wheeling a pink buggy in which the third child, a toddler, was sound asleep, and once again I was reminded of his wretched claim to the title of man of his house.

‘I was sorry to hear about your dog,’ I said, but he was already passing and didn’t pause to respond.

The uncle shook my hand, then waited until the children were some yards off behind me. ‘You’re out a little early. I hope that’s not a bad sign. How’s she getting