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

Last night he was mugged upon leaving the building.’

‘Ernie?’ I swallowed. ‘Is he all right?’

‘Not especially. The assailants beat him up rather badly. They broke his right wrist and two of his fingers.’

‘Fucking animals!’ I spat. ‘He’s an elderly man, for fuck’s sake!’

‘Language, Elliot,’ Rupert replied, his voice hardening. ‘I prefer to think of our generation as experienced. However, you are not wrong. Animals indeed. We shall be taking donations from all barristers, and there will be a card I’d like every one of you to sign. Ernie has been with us for a long time, longer than most, and I want him to know that we are all wishing him a swift recovery.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘You don’t even have to ask.’

‘We’ll have to get a temporary cleaner in,’ said Percy. ‘In fact, I believe we had a rep from an agency here enquiring about contracts just the other day. So it isn’t all bad. Perhaps we can have them in before the start of next week to pick up the slack.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘well, I’m sure Ernie’s family will be so bloody relieved.’

‘Your current case …’ Rupert said, diffusing the tension. ‘I hear it has taken quite a twist.’

‘You heard right.’

‘What happened in court?’ Percy interjected, characteristically blind to the offence he’d caused only a moment ago. ‘Jury discharged, I assume.’

I laughed bitterly. ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ I explained what had occurred at Snaresbrook.

Percy whistled. ‘Christ, that’s quite the move. I wonder if Harlan Garrick would ever consider joining us …’

At that, I left the two of them standing outside and stomped up to my room, which is where I found Zara waiting.

She took one look at my face and swallowed. ‘Please tell me your trial’s been adjourned until the middle of next century …’

‘Try Monday,’ I said, collapsing into my chair and flinging my hat across the room.

‘That’s insane!’

‘I thought so at first, but I’m starting to think that it might not be such a bad thing after all.’

‘How do you work that out?’

I picked up the Rubik’s cube from where Omar Pickett had left it completed and rolled it between my hands. ‘It isn’t ideal, but it does mean that I get two bites of the cherry. If I win, the drug-smuggling case that puts an end to thirteen of the fourteen murder charges. If I lose, I’ve still got another chance at winning the mass-murder trial in front of a jury.’

‘That’s a pretty good way of looking at it, all things considered.’

‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘Any word on your sick juror?’

‘Nothing yet. Hopefully I’ll be back in court on Monday.’

‘I see. What’s happening with Pickett?’

She shrugged. ‘I was going to arrange for him to meet me here so that Roth could take a statement, but she’s tied up at the station with Meadows and I can’t get through. I’ll drop Omar a message and let him know we might have to wait until the start of next week …’ She turned to her iPad on the bureau and opened Facebook. She leaned closer to the screen, blocking my view. ‘No fucking way.’

‘What is it?’ I rolled the Rubik’s cube onto the desk.

‘Someone is posting a video of Omar on Facebook! The idiot is rapping!’

‘So? There must be hundreds of those videos floating around on social media.’

‘Yes, but this video is a live stream from outside the hostel! It’s from his account, but somebody else is obviously filming!’

‘For Christ’s sake. We’d better get over there before anybody else sees it.’

We rushed it, and I could feel tension radiating from Zara’s shoulder onto mine. Halfway up Kemble Street, I saw a collection of people standing outside the hostel’s double doors. Closer still, I heard Omar. He’d stopped rapping and was laughing now, apparently in his element with seven or eight of his fellow residents. One, I realised with a pinch of horror, was still filming Omar on what must have been his phone.

Omar, who had his back to our arrival, nodded to the girl with his phone. ‘All right, let’s try another, yeah?’

Instead of replying, she gestured towards us. Omar turned round and blanched. He took a long drag on the cigarette he’d been holding. His audience were surveying us warily.

‘Hey, guys,’ he said to them, ‘give me a minute, yeah? Meet you in the common room.’

As soon as they were gone, Zara had her finger aimed directly into Omar’s face; any closer and she might’ve claimed an eye. ‘Are you for real?’ she began. ‘We got you into this place so you could keep your head down! Not only are you out here smoking on the street, that girl was filming you!’

‘Whoa, chill out!’ he cried, the surprise on his features close to terror.

‘I will not chill out! You were streaming it to Facebook! How stupid are you?’

‘All right, I’ll take it down.’ He turned to me. ‘Jesus, what’s the matter with her? She on the rag or something?’

‘You need to watch your tone,’ I said, ‘and you need to be more cautious. She’s right – the Cutthroats are going to see that video.’

‘And? There are thousands of these red-brick buildings in this city. I made sure there was nothing in the shot that’d give the place away. These guys all think I’m Fred.’

‘It’s a risk you can’t afford to take.’

He leaned back against the wall, sulking, then flicked his cigarette into the gutter. ‘What do you want, anyway?’

While Zara was still fuming, I explained as best I could. ‘One of the jurors in Israel’s case has fallen ill.’

‘How?’ he asked, eyes widening. ‘What are the, like, symptoms?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ I frowned. ‘Why’d you ask?’

He shrugged, glancing away. ‘I dunno. Just wondered.’

‘We still need a witness statement from you,’ Zara said bluntly, not quite managing to find her cool. ‘The solicitor is busy with another case today, so it’ll have to be early next week. If court is back in session on Monday, will you be able to take a taxi up to Snaresbrook?’

‘If