Gillard was sitting with research intelligence officer Rob Townsend and CSI specialist Karen Desai from the Met who they had borrowed for a few days. Karen was an expert on gloves, and indeed had worked on the national glove database at Nottingham Trent University before joining the Met. They were looking at a high-resolution screen which showed side-by-side images of the glove prints taken from Adam Heath’s car and the burglary at Weldon Road in Guildford. ‘The prints from the car are about as good as you ever get from a set of gloves,’ she said. ‘Fabulous clarity. Unfortunately, those from the Weldon Road burglary are much less impressive, and we really only have one thumb tip blood stain to make that connection.’
‘So how confident can you be that it is from the same pair?’ Gillard asked.
‘If it was just the latent impression of that thumb, there would be grounds for error. However, the shape of the bloodstain transferred on the thumb tip is unique. Kirsty said that the marked bloodstain on the fridge was lost, but she discovered this print on the underneath of a catch on some French windows. It easily makes the ninety-five per cent confidence interval.’
‘So you are ninety-five per cent convinced?’ Townsend said.
Karen nodded. ‘More than that, actually. These aren’t particularly common gardening gloves. The studded rubber pads are used in only a tiny minority of the products sold in garden centres and elsewhere.’
Gillard nodded. ‘Then perhaps we should try to corroborate that with other evidence.’
‘Sir, could the Heath killing really just be a burglary that went wrong?’ Townsend asked.
‘No. I really can’t see that. Professional burglars are risk-averse individuals, while amateurs, those on drugs for example, might be messy, but they go straight for what they want. Cutting off then stealing Adam Heath’s head would be a bizarre thing for any burglar to do, even if he was as high as a kite.’
‘Yes, it sounds crazy to me,’ Karen said.
‘The most bizarre coincidence to me is who the killer chose to burgle,’ Gillard said. ‘A barrister, one who, come Monday, is going to be very busy defending Terrence Bonner.’
‘Kirsty met her, when she did the CSI,’ Rob said. Kirsty Mockett was Rob’s girlfriend. ‘Seems a very nice woman.’
‘That was Michelle who interviewed her, wasn’t it?’ Gillard went to a separate desk and logged on to the local police computer. He found the report on the burglary, and the victim’s statement. ‘There’s not much detail here. Something about a runaway from a children’s home.’
‘I can’t see what connection there might be between the two cases,’ Townsend said.
‘Neither can I. But I’m going to ask Michelle to take another look, when she has a moment.’
Julia had just over thirty-six hours until the court came into session on Monday morning. She would be alone with Bonner in the cells for a few minutes before that. Emily, who might have accompanied her, was at Julia’s request going to prepare their paperwork in the courtroom instead. That was all very well, but Julia still had to learn how to use the gun. The easiest way was to search on YouTube. There were always hundreds of videos on how to do anything. As she had just a few bullets, she didn’t want to waste them even on practising until she knew what she was supposed to be doing. Googling for gun videos compounded her already incriminating web search history. Perhaps in the end she would simply have to dispose of or hide her precious laptop before killing Bonner. That was something else to look up. Could the police retrieve search records even when they didn’t have the device in question? All the commonly asked questions she could find online simply referred to deleted files.
The police would expect her to have a laptop, and she would have to hand something over to them after shooting Bonner. Fortunately, she had an old Hewlett-Packard which she’d used when she was training as a paralegal. It was slow, but still worked. She would have to transfer her work data across to it to make it appear the HP was her current machine, but she couldn’t build an old search history to cover the time of Adam’s killing. Maybe she wouldn’t have to destroy the Mac. She could wrap it carefully and bury it under the shed floor. Yes, that’s what she would do, last thing on Sunday night after she’d finished doing any incriminating searches.
Julia made herself a strong cup of coffee and sat down at her kitchen table with the gun on some newspaper. She then looked through half a dozen how-to-shoot videos, starting with the basics. She discovered that the pistol in her possession was a US-made Rock Island Armoury ‘Baby Rock’ .38 with a full seven-round magazine in the handle. She found the safety catch, and made sure it was definitely on. She watched the body stance and handgrip used by the instructors and acted it out in front of her bedroom mirror. She felt silly doing it in her grey cardigan and slippers, which brought home the sheer absurdity of what she was planning to do. Totally hopeless. She realised you have to look the part to feel the part. She changed into a pair of leather trousers a tight white T-shirt and an old denim jacket that she had picked up from a charity shop. She brushed her hair, put on some eyeliner, added bright red lipstick, and the final touch, a pair of black elegant high heels.
Now, in front of the mirror, she did look the part. In fact she had to admit she looked pretty sexy. She’d always had good legs, and still had a decent figure despite the intermittent exercise of recent years. She tried her appearance sideways, with the gun barrel pointing vertically, placed against her lips. Very much the Bond girl. She dug out some Bond-themed soundtracks on YouTube and played them as she cavorted about with the gun. She had to feel the part, the confidence had to come from somewhere. The man she was planning to kill was one of the most terrifying gangsters in Britain. Just thinking about that seemed to make her insides liquefy.
‘Come on, girl, you can do this.’ She paced backwards and forwards in the flat, then decided she could not avoid going out to practise with the gun. She double-checked the safety was on, released the magazine and slid it back in, which it did with a satisfying click.
She found a suitably sized shoulder bag for the gun, zipped the weapon inside, changed into a pair of trainers for driving, picked up her keys and a pair of wellies and headed for the front door. She was going to drive deep into the Surrey countryside, and fire off three practice shots. The remaining four should be enough to do the business. It was eight o’clock, and dark, but all she would need was a wooden gate to practise on from short range.
The doorbell rang.
Through the dimpled glass panel she could see the giveaway hi-vis of a police uniform. She opened the door, her heart hammering. She recognised the officer, the older and less good-looking of the previous pair. ‘Sorry to disturb, Ms McGann. We thought you were staying with friends.’
‘I did for a few weeks, but you can’t do it for ever. I’m sorry, I should have notified you.’
‘I saw the light on when I was driving past and thought I’d just give a quick check. Given the burglary last month, you know.’
Julia exhaled for the first time in a minute. ‘Thank you very much for looking after me, constable.’
‘I hate to think of you all alone. Is there a Mr McGann, or a boyfriend, that can stay with you, now you’re back?’ The question was so naturally slid in she almost missed its significance.
‘No. I have a good friend, Rachel, who sometimes pops back with me.’
The PC, who was in his mid-thirties, okay-looking but not a patch on the other one, peered over her shoulder into the flat. ‘Got all your new locks fitted, now? Had no further trouble, I take it?’
Oh, the story she could tell. This would probably be the last chance for truth, for confession. But she couldn’t do it.
‘No, it’s been very quiet fortunately. Any progress on the fingerprints and so forth that your colleague took from here?’ She couldn’t resist the question.
‘Nothing on the fingerprints or footprints. But…’ He looked at her and smiled. ‘We have good reason to think your intruders were involved in another very serious crime.’
‘My goodness,’ Julia said. ‘What crime?’
‘May I come in for a minute? I don’t want to say this outside.’
Julia backed up a few feet and allowed him into the hall. They were quite close to each other and she was aware that his eyes hadn’t stayed on her face but had made brief forays further down to the tight white T-shirt. ‘They’ve made some very good progress on glove prints, from your fridge door, apparently.’
‘What kind of progress?’
‘Just between you and me, right? The glove matches one used by the bastard who beheaded that schoolteacher over in Reigate.’
Julia didn’t have to feign her shock. ‘Oh, that’s terrifying. And he’s been in my home?’
‘Yes. I really do think it’s a good idea for you to go back to staying with friends for now, just until we catch him. You shouldn’t come back alone. In the meantime, we’ll be keeping up the patrols.’
‘Did you manage to trace the car that I reported?’
‘Yes and no. It’s got cloned plates, copied from some perfectly innocent motorist who lives in Bradford. But we’re looking out for them, don’t you worry. Your break-in is now part of a much bigger operation, so rest assured your safety is a priority for us.’
‘Thank you, I much appreciate that.’
The PC then asked for the address where Julia would be staying. ‘I might pop round in a day or two, to see if you’re okay.’ He raised one eyebrow slightly, so the additional meaning was clear.
‘Okay. What did you say your name was?’ She tried to keep her expression neutral.
‘PC Geraint Howlett.’
‘Thank you, Geraint. I was just leaving actually. I’m on my way to see a friend.’
‘Then I’ll wait until you leave, just so I know you’re safe.’
After locking up, Julia followed the policeman up the steps to the street and closed the wrought iron gate behind her. She made her way to the car, which was parked in its usual position, under the hawthorn tree. The roof was already spattered, the filthy Duster once again. Her throat was dry, thinking about what was in her bag. She looked across to the police patrol car on the double yellow at the corner. The interior light was on.
Geraint was angling for something, that was clear. But this was no time for an entanglement. After what was going to happen on Monday, he wouldn’t want to touch her with a bargepole.
Julia drove away, past the police patrol car, and pipped her horn in thanks. She drove east out of Guildford towards Polesdon Lacey, then onto Ranmore Common Road. She found a nice hilly area with no nearby habitation. It was very dark, and the nearest streetlamps were miles away. She parked by a farm gate, then took the gun from her bag and a torch in the other hand. There was a dead tree just a few yards into the field, with a big expanse of missing bark at about chest height. Perfect. It was quiet, and only the faint drone of distant traffic could be heard.
She stood six feet from the tree, lay the torch on the ground so it illuminated where she was aiming for. She flicked the safety catch off, braced herself as she had learned from the videos, right-hand index finger through the trigger, left hand on top of right, and aimed at the centre of the tree.
The gunshot tore open the night sky. It was so much louder than she expected and echoed in her ears for several seconds. The gun had jumped in her grip, but she didn’t know how badly until she peered closely at the tree. It was absolutely undamaged. She spent a good minute and could not find any sign of a bullet hole. She returned to her aiming position and picked up the spent cartridge. It was hot. The second shot was little better. This time she managed to keep her eyes open, but the tree was still undamaged. She had five shots left in the magazine. She didn’t want to spend more than two more minutes doing this, in case the noise attracted someone. She wanted to be in the car and away.
‘Come on, it doesn’t have to be so hard. I’m going to be much closer than this,’ she muttered to herself. For the third shot she stood within four feet. This time she heard the bullet splinter part of the tree. It had buried itself at least three inches in but was still too far to the right. The fourth shot was the best, near enough in the middle of the tree. That left three bullets to do the job. She couldn’t risk another practice shot.
She looked up, and heard a vehicle coming along the lane. It was still a long way off, but she could see its headlamps. She hurried back to the car, stowed the gun and torch in the bag, got in and drove off briskly. The following vehicle never actually caught up with her, and she was able to circle back into Guildford.
In her mind she ran through everything she would have to do. It still seemed impossible.
Sunday night was wet and windy. Julia had driven up the M1 to Nottingham and had checked into an anonymous Travelodge not far off the motorway. She lugged her bags up to the room, a small beige rectangle with a window over a car park. There didn’t seem any point splashing out more money given her mood. This could well be the last night of her life. On her four-hour journey in heavy traffic she’d had plenty of opportunity to think through the course of action she had decided upon. And she was still far from sure that she was capable of pulling that trigger.
But she was planning everything as if she would. Getting through security was crucial, and her biggest obstacle. A lot of that would be about projecting authority. Normally, she would arrive wearing civvies, then dress in the robing room. This time she wanted the full magisterial arrival: flowing robe, heels, wig already in place. The risk of being frisked was not quite as high as she had made out to Destiny, thanks to the smartphone app. The scheme, which had only been going for a year or two, was for registered barristers, and allowed them to show their app to staff on entry to the court building. It allowed her to take her legal briefcase with phone, laptop and other metallic items in without submitting to the metal detector. She’d used the app a dozen times already, and it seemed to work fine, allowing her to jump the queue which had hitherto been a major source of irritation to her profession. In theory, there was still a chance of a manual search. However, in practice the poorly paid and outsourced security staff at most court buildings were extremely deferential and relied on entirely predictable class and racial prejudices in whom they chose to pull aside. You could guarantee that anyone black would be assumed to be a defendant and searched, even if they were wearing a suit. Black barristers regularly complained about it. Anyone wearing a hoodie, jogging trousers, baseball cap, with visible tattoos, whatever their ethnicity, tended to be treated the same way. By contrast, South Asian legal professionals were often given the benefit of the doubt, unless they were heavily bearded, in which case they might be treated like suspected terrorists. Smartly dressed, confident white men in their fifties and sixties who could conceivably be judges were rarely troubled.
The gun she had put in a small freezer bag, sandwiched between two slices of bread and a thick layer of coleslaw. The sandwich was tight inside a plastic food box within her legal briefcase. It wouldn’t fool a metal detector, but she couldn’t imagine the kind of cursory hand search that might occur would ever require a peek at her lunch.
She carefully unpacked on the bed, checking everything was in order. By the time she was satisfied that everything she could have prepared was, it was eight o’clock. She had packed a small bottle of gin and some tonic but it seemed too depressing to sit in her room and drink it.
She powered up her ancient HP laptop, and looked online for pubs in the vicinity. There were a couple nearby as the crow flies, but which would necessitate using the car or crossing some major roads. But on the same side of the road, 200 yards down, was a hotel with a bar. That would do for starters. Having the previous night worn the leather trousers and high heels, she felt motivated to do so again. She spent some time getting dressed. Mascara, eyeliner, lipstick and a fashionable bolero jacket over a lacy black blouse. Part of her wanted to take the gun, for its empowering effect, but that would be utterly stupid. She tidied up the room and stowed her luggage carefully.
Just in case.
It being a Sunday night the hotel bar was stone dead, so she walked on, heading for the big chain pub that was the next nearest. A quick glance through the big window showed that it was a raucous scrum of sports screens and noisy young men. Not what she wanted. Finally, she arrived at the Windmill, a more traditional pub with food, and a roaring fire. She sat at the bar and ordered a G&T. She knew immediately she was being watched, and tonight, for once, she wanted to be. Something had clicked inside her since she became entangled in the blackmail threat. Tonight she wanted to throw caution to the wind. A man in his sixties, with a pastel shaded pullover and a ruddy face under his grey thatch, started to chat her up and offered to buy her another drink. She thanked him but told him she was waiting for somebody and swivelled slightly away. There was a better prospect sitting at a table opposite. The man she could see was tall, fair haired and probably late twenties, sitting with an overweight mate who had his back to her. Straining her ears, she could detect they were discussing neither football nor cars, another plus point. Her eyes connected with the fair-haired man a couple of times, and they exchanged a slight smile.
It was only ten minutes before he was next to her at the bar, ordering a round for his friend.
She could feel his eyes on her, so began the conversation by asking him about the menu. It was good, apparently. They got talking, the mate’s drink sitting there undelivered. He was Mike, a radiographer at the local hospital, due on shift at midnight.
‘I expect you can see right through me,’ she said.
‘The old ones are the best,’ he replied.
She raised an eyebrow at the apparent reference to the age gap, and he was quick to reassure her he meant the vintage of the joke. It was soon clear that once the drink was delivered, Mike was happy to abandon his mate. He did little to disguise his interest in her. He bought her another drink, and then sat with her at a nearby table while she ate the panini she had ordered. She steered the conversation away from her occupation, but disclosed she was single. He wasn’t, but said he was separated. She didn’t quite believe him, but tonight she didn’t actually care. Her interest was narrower.
Mike’s story was that he was on duty in three hours, which is why he’d been drinking orange juice. She had assumed it was vodka and orange. ‘I’m in a hotel five minutes away, I’d be happy to entertain you for those three hours,’ she whispered.
The man looked like all his Christmases had come at once. He drove her back to the Travelodge, and the moment they got into her room she seized his hair and pulled him to her, ripping off his shirt. She couldn’t believe what she was doing. It was as if she was a different woman. She took the lead in bed, undressing him, caressing him and demanding of him what she needed. Somewhere along the way, while riding him, all the stress and worry of the last week detonated in the most explosive orgasm of her life. Someone next door banged on the wall and uttered a muffled complaint. She and Mike laughed, and that shared humour was even better than the pleasure she had extracted from his body. When he left to go to his midnight shift it was without an exchange of phone numbers. They tacitly agreed it was a self-contained moment. She lay back on the bed and felt an utterly selfish sensation of taking without apology or thanks. It was almost as if Destiny had given her some kind of virus.
Next morning Julia managed a quick breakfast with a large coffee before heading off by taxi to the court building. She arrived at 9.15 in gown and wig, with a heavy briefcase in each hand. She felt sick, faint and sweaty even though the day was cold. She wasn’t just nervous about the impossible act she had committed to undertaking, but also what she would do if, as expected, she bottled out. She had done only the minimum of preparation for this the most important case of her life. Mr Justice Oakeshott, a notorious stickler, would tear her to pieces if she made any mistakes, but it would be surprising if the case even got to dealing with her defendant on day one.
There were two security staff chatting to each other, one a middle-aged Asian man, and the other the same large woman she had seen on her previous visit. Julia stood around outside, pretending to be on the phone, until a gaggle of other obvious legal professionals headed into the main entrance. They were talking loudly and laughing together, although none were yet in wig and gown. She joined them in the queue for security. Of the four ahead of her, only one had his bag searched, and that was perfunctory. A woman further up the queue seemed to be using the same app as Julia and was able to take a briefcase around the metal detector. The two minutes waiting to get to the front of the queue seemed to be the longest of Julia’s life. Finally, she was at the front and displayed her phone to the woman. ‘Hello again,’ Julia said, with as much confidence as she could muster.
It wasn’t clear that the woman remembered her, and she asked if she could look in her briefcase. Julia gulped, but managed to croak out, ‘If you must.’
She hefted the document case first, slamming it onto the desk and clicking open the catches. She lifted the lid, to reveal hefty stacks of folders and paperwork. To her horror, the woman lifted two or three bundles, to look underneath. If she did this on the second briefcase, the one with the sandwich box, Julia thought she might faint. She tried to seem casual, and not watch the security officer doing her job. Instead, she looked at her phone. A text had come from Rachel, wishing her the best of luck. ‘Kisses from Jack too. xx’
It was like a ray of sunshine, and made her smile.
The security woman indicated the other case, but someone further back in the queue called out, ‘Come on, Marjorie, she’s proved she’s a barrister.’ It was a familiar voice.
Marjorie squeezed out a thin smile, and waved Julia through. As she lifted her briefcases and stepped around the metal detector, she looked back and saw Christopher Cadwell smiling at her. Of course, she had completely forgotten that her star colleague was defending the head of the gang. How typical of him to have learned the names of the security staff. Attention to detail. He was known to chat up the female clerks at court, sometimes getting a slightest procedural edge or a little bit of extra knowledge. Relieved to have got past the first barrier, Julia hefted her briefcases and headed off to the ladies’.
‘Hold on a second, Julia,’ Cadwell said. She waited for him. He was dressed in the sharpest and darkest of suits, his shave perfect, even to the dimple in his cleft chin.
‘Good luck today,’ he said. ‘Frankly, I’m expecting the whole lot of our clients to go down. Did you see last night’s disclosures from the CPS?’
Julia had not looked on the case system since midday yesterday but wasn’t going to let Cadwell know. ‘Last-minute job, typical,’ she said.
‘Yes, but extra witnesses at this stage. Going to be particularly tough for you, I imagine.’
As they were technically adversaries, Julia had every reason to say nothing. ‘We shall see, Christopher, we shall see.’ She wished him luck and slipped into the bathroom.
Julia had been sitting in the chill cubicle for ten minutes, her head in her hands, staring at the gun that she had retrieved from its greasy plastic bag. She wiped it carefully with toilet paper, slid the safety off and held it in her hand. She knew the easiest thing to do now. To press the snub barrel against her temple, to end it all. A simple click, a one-inch finger movement and it would all be over. She felt an overwhelming wave of sadness that it would end like this. She thought she was rid of Adam five years ago. She had done everything she could to put her life back on the straight and narrow, to forget him and her ruined motherhood, to move on. Thanks to Destiny, he had come back from the grave to haunt her.
She had thought a lot about how to execute Terrence Bonner. She imagined that if she could rustle up the courage to fire, then she could kill him. But that wasn’t enough. It had to look like suicide, a single shot to the head. She, a woman who couldn’t kill a spider, had to kill one of the most terrifying murderers in the country. All she had on her side was surprise. A single second, possibly even less than that. He was a man who was used to action, the catalogue of the accusations against him made that very clear. He wouldn’t hesitate to kill, or cause pain. She needed a little bit of what he had, a little bit of what Destiny had learned in the trials of her own life. On Saturday night, during her practice, and last night in the hotel, she had felt tough enough, determined enough to be able to do what she had to do. Now, five minutes from the act, it seemed an impossibility.
She heard two women enter the bathroom. They too were discussing the big case. Presumably defending, as the late disclosure was mentioned with a certain fatalistic humour. They’d both read it, to Julia’s dismay. I’m a useless barrister, a pathetic person, and I deserve everything that happens to me. Once the women had left, Julia rested the gun against her temple, slid her finger into the trigger, squeezing her eyes shut.
And waited.
Nothing happened. She couldn’t do it. She let go a huge shuddering sigh, finished up, repacked her bags and slid the gun into her trouser pocket under her robe. As she was leaving the cubicle, Emily entered the bathroom. The young solicitor looked as nervous as Julia felt. They greeted each other warmly.
‘Your first big court case?’ Julia asked.
Emily nodded. ‘I checked at the desk and Serco’s already delivered Bonner. Interview room six.’ She blew a ragged sigh.
Julia smiled. ‘Look, I’ll speak to him. There’s no need for you to be there. I’ll spare you that. It would be better if you just laid out the documents in the court as we discussed, I’d like to re-examine yesterday’s CPS disclosures before we get going.’
‘Yes, I wondered whether they’d ever get John Finnegan to testify. It looks a powerful testimony too.’
‘Yes, it does,’ Julia lied. She was confident that with such a large and unwieldy trial, there would be plenty of time for her to skim-read the statement while the Crown was making its initial case.
The two women made their way out of the bathroom, Emily heading upstairs to court one, taking one of Julia’s two document cases, while Julia headed to the interview rooms that faced onto the canal that ran along the back of the building. She descended the short staircase and signed in at the security desk. The custody officer was a bored-looking middle-aged male with his nose in a doorstop-sized Stephen King thriller. If he wanted excitement, he was looking in the wrong direction. He made no move to search her. Julia scrutinised him obliquely. Slow, fat, not interested. Perfect. He would in theory be the first witness on the scene, and presumably not too rapidly. The man peered at the log, and led her towards room six. Julia looked through the smoked glass panel, and saw Bonner, exactly as before, arms folded, bald head glossy, chin jutting. He seemed to be glaring at the ceiling.
The custody officer unlocked the door and let her in.