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

than before. ‘Zara! So, they got the bastard, did they?’

‘Deacon? Yes.’

‘Where is he now? Where are they holding him?’

She was quiet for some time. ‘At Waltham Forest mortuary, I think.’

I froze, the car’s emblem hanging limply from one dead arm. ‘What?’

‘They found him … Shit, they found him dead under the allotment, Mr Rook. It’s Meadows. Charli Meadows has been arrested for his murder.’

PART THREE

OLD HABITS

24

When it all fell apart, it fell apart fast.

I was back in Snaresbrook on Friday morning, with little more information than the scant facts that had kept me up for most of the night. Charli wasn’t brought up to the courthouse. She was still in police custody being interviewed not just about the murder of Deacon Walker, but also the killing of the thirteen inmates at Wormwood Scrubs.

Fourteen murders.

That would put her neatly into the list of Britain’s most prolific serial killers, up there between Dennis Nilsen on fifteen and Peter Sutcliffe on thirteen. If it was the all-female chart, then she’d beat Rose West’s twelve to go straight in at number one.

Zara’s juror was still unwell, so she wasn’t around either; I drank coffee alone in the public canteen before walking into the courtroom at 10.30.

The only obvious way to proceed, as I saw it, would be with an application from the prosecution to discharge our jury and abort the trial. Not for the first, second or even third time this week, things didn’t follow my expectations. While the jury waited outside, Garrick greeted Lady Allen with an excited, almost gossipy smile. ‘Good morning, My Lady. I presume you are aware of yesterday’s events concerning the defendant, who will not be attending this morning as she remains in police custody being interviewed.’

‘For fourteen murders.’ The judge nodded. ‘That will take some time.’

‘Though perhaps not as long as you might expect. She has been advised by her solicitor to answer “no comment” to all questions asked. I am told that interviewing will conclude by tomorrow at the latest.’

‘I see. The jury are here this morning. The defendant does not need to be present for them to be discharged. I can only assume that that is your application.’

‘It is not, My Lady.’

She blinked. ‘It isn’t?’

I turned to face him. ‘It isn’t?’

‘No. My application is for this trial to be adjourned until Monday, at which time it will continue as planned. Most of the evidence has been agreed and the issue as to whether or not the defendant is guilty of smuggling drugs into HMP Wormwood Scrubs would undoubtedly have an important bearing on the future murder trial.’

‘Monday,’ I quietly echoed, aghast.

‘Mr Rook,’ Lady Allen said, ‘what do you say about this proposal?’

I clambered to my feet. ‘I say it is preposterous, My Lady. My client will not be in a fit state of mind to give evidence on Monday! She’s just been arrested for fourteen murders!’

‘Noted,’ she replied. ‘But is there any legal reason that this trial cannot continue?’

‘How about in the interests of justice? It would not be just for my client’s trial to continue as if nothing has happened.’

‘On the contrary,’ Garrick said. ‘If Miss Meadows is convicted of the drug-smuggling charge, then all the prosecution would have to do in the murder trial is seek an admission of that conviction, subject to a successful bad character application.’

‘So that’s the plan, is it?’ I spat. ‘Get the woman convicted of drug offences then use that conviction to bolster the murder charges?’

Garrick shrugged. ‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong with that …’ I snarled, fists clenching; thirty years earlier I would’ve told him in the car park.

‘No, you won’t, Mr Rook,’ Allen intervened. ‘You will tell me what is wrong with it, and you’ll do so calmly. Unless you can cite me a precedent that such a course of action would be wrong in law, then I’m afraid I must side with Mr Garrick.’

‘My Lady,’ I groaned, ‘a fair trial is a right of law. Given the publicity likely to result from my client’s arrest and almost inevitable charge to the biggest mass-murder case in modern history, how could she possibly expect to have a fair trial?’

‘That’s a simple matter to resolve. I can impose far-reaching press restrictions that would ensure no reporting on the matter until further notice. The trial will continue as scheduled on the coming Monday morning.’

By eleven o’clock I was walking back out of Snaresbrook as dazed as a heavyweight champion floored. There was no precedent concerning Garrick’s course of action because no defendant had ever been arrested for serial murder in the middle of a trial. I couldn’t begin to imagine what sort of a state Charli was going to be in by the time they dragged her into the dock to condemn her for a paltry handful of drugs only days after her partner had been found dead and her entire world had come crashing down around her.

I took the Tube back to Chancery Lane, and before I’d even made it down to Took’s Court I saw two uniformed officers walking back to their parked patrol car, flicking over the pages of their notebooks and muttering between themselves. I braced myself for more bad news as I rounded the corner to chambers.

Percy was standing outside the front door alongside Rupert Stubbs, our head of chambers. They were talking between themselves, Percy shaking his head, Rupert looking particularly grave in a white shirt and black braces, his grey hair slightly ruffled with stress, fingers interlocked behind his lower back.

Percy sighed. ‘What’s going on in this city, Mr Stubbs? The man’s almost seventy, for God’s sake.’

‘I cannot say,’ I heard Rupert reply in his soft, aged voice. ‘Though I fear we encounter so much crime in our business, we often forget how it feels to have somebody we care about on the receiving end.’

‘What’s happened?’ I said, approaching more briskly now.

Rupert turned to face me with mild surprise. ‘Ernest Richards, our caretaker.