There were papers strewn across Dan’s desk as he looked for a mention of Brampton or any clue he’d missed about why Mark Roberts had died.
Dan’s focus had always been on putting forward Nick Connor’s defence: that he was an innocent passer-by, the murder unexplained. If what Barbara said was correct, though, there might be a way to explain it. Jurors like an alternative theory, because it makes them feel better if they think the person is innocent, but they need something to base it on. The prosecution has to prove the case beyond any reasonable doubt, but in murder cases no one likes to see a killer walk free just because of a clever angle thought up by the defence.
He’d asked the receptionist, Margaret, not to put any calls through. He needed to concentrate. No calls. No clients.
Nick Connor’s file had grown since his arrest. Dan kept it in the corner of the room, like he always did with his bigger cases, so that he was always reminded of it and never let a deadline slip. Even after a guilty verdict, the cases never went away. There were appeals, constant quests to turn them into a miscarriage of justice, the stain of taking someone’s life too hard to bear, even for the guilty. Dan knew that everything he did would be scrutinised in years to come, clients willing to blame anyone for their plight. If he ignored Barbara’s visit, there was a negligence claim waiting to be started.
He threw the papers he was leafing through onto the floor. There was no mention of Brampton or what he’d been doing in Highford. Dan’s mind flashed back to the beginning of the case, when he was called to the police station.
The call came in the afternoon and, as soon as he heard what it was for, Dan knew he’d have to strike everything out of the diary for the next few days. The police take their time on murder cases, able to get all the extensions they need, and Nick’s case was no different. Dan had to be ready whenever the police were.
He knew Nick Connor before that call. Like most of his clients, he’d graduated through the petty stuff, like taking cars and breaking into warehouses, the gateway offences for more serious criminality. Not everyone moved up, but some did, and Nick was one who’d seen crime as a lifestyle choice, stealing from cars and burgling sheds, never quite realising that the rewards never outweighed the risk.
Not that it had stopped him.
Nick wasn’t his usual self when Dan arrived though.
Dan was used to his swagger, his spluttered denials, his kicks at the cell door, enjoying the battles with the police. That day, he was quiet, something else in his eyes, dragged into the police station the afternoon after the murder, Mark’s body discovered by an early-morning jogger.
As Nick was shown through into the small cubicle on the other side of a glass screen, Dan’s notepad rested on a shelf that wasn’t quite wide enough, he looked as if he’d shrunk. His eyes were red, his skin drawn, his tongue darting to his lip, nervous, skittish.
Nick’s usual mantra was that he wasn’t saying anything, and he’d repeat it with a smirk. That day, he leaned into the glass and said, ‘I was just walking past, that’s all.’
‘Walking past what?’
‘The body. What do you think? That’s how they got me.’
‘Where was the body?’
‘Haven’t they told you?’
‘Just that the deceased was murdered in Queensgate Park and that there’s evidence that ties you to the body.’
‘But when? How do they know when he died, and what time I was there? They can do tests, can’t they?’
‘The pathologist won’t do a time of death now. Too many variables.’
‘So how do they know when he died?’
‘That’s easy. Sometime between when he was last seen alive and when he was found dead.’
‘This isn’t funny.’
‘I know, but it’s the truth. You’ve got to tell me where you were and what you were doing.’
Nick sat back, his arms folded, and looked to the ceiling. When he looked down again, he said, ‘I was delivering something.’
‘What were you delivering, and to whom?’
‘Bullshit, I can’t tell them that.’
‘You’re not telling them. You’re telling me. I’ll advise you whether to repeat it.’
Nick thought about that. ‘Some paste. A few thousand quids’ worth, but I’m not saying where I was taking it.’
Dan sighed. That made it difficult. Nick had been acting as a delivery boy, taking amphetamine paste to a drug dealer, a middleman between the rungs. It would make it dangerous to say where he’d been and why.
‘We can skirt around that, keep it simple. Did you go through the park?’
‘I was waiting in there for the all-clear, because where I had to take it was nearby and the police might be around. I didn’t want anyone to see me, so I stayed to the path at the top of the park. Then I felt it.’
‘Felt what?’
‘Something under my foot. I slipped in it. Didn’t go down or nothing, but it was sticky, like a puddle, and I thought someone had spewed. I used my phone to look, wanted to know what was on my trainers. That’s when I saw him.’
‘What did you see?’
‘He was just mush, lying behind the bench, and it was like all his blood and brains had pooled, and I’d stood right in it. Oh man, I almost spewed myself.’
‘What did you do?’
‘At first, nothing. There was a sock next to his head, like a football sock, with rocks in, really heavy. I lifted it and there was blood all over it. That’s when I panicked. I ran.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Home. I was bricking it. There might be someone waiting in the bushes, and I could be next. But when I got near home, I realised something else: that they’ll think I did it.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Burnt everything. All my clothes, even my trainers. Good ones, too. Vapormax. I’ve got a barrel in my yard that we use to make a fire in summer, sit round and have a few tinnies.’
‘What about your phone? Did you burn that?’
‘No. It was an iPhone. I’m not going to burn that.’
‘Have the police got it?’
‘It’s in my property.’
Dan knew the answer. It would be seized as an exhibit, the data revealing his exact whereabouts.
‘I didn’t do it, Dan.’
‘You’ve given them enough reason to think that you might have done. At the scene. Burning clothes. Burning trainers. Not reporting it.’
Nick nodded, his shoulders slumped. ‘Yeah, I can see that.’
‘Did you take anything from the scene?’
Nick tensed, his lips pursed. ‘What do you mean?’
Dan leaned forward. ‘Whenever I’m in court and someone answers a question with another question, I know they’re just avoiding the answer. What did you take?’
Nick swallowed and let out a long breath. ‘A wallet.’
‘I thought you were feeling sickened, couldn’t wait to run.’
‘It was just there, man, on the floor. It’s not as if he needed it.’
‘What did you do with it?’
‘I took the cash, obviously, but I burnt the wallet.’
‘Cards?’
‘Tried to pass them on, which was stupid, because that’ll be how they got me. Some grass who blabbed when he tried to use them. I’m not stupid enough to use them.’
‘Now’s not the time to talk about whether you’re stupid. What was the wallet made from?’
‘Leather.’
‘That’ll be in with your shoes, charred but recognisable.’
‘I didn’t do it.’
‘Yeah, I get that, but this is how we play it. You make a written statement, saying how you saw the body and panicked. You ran, but you had no part in his murder.’
‘Why don’t I just say nothing?’
‘Because making a written statement stops the jury from thinking your silence makes you guilty. That’s the law.’
‘Will it get that far?’
‘You better hope that they find whoever did this, because right now you look a good fit. I’ll write the statement. You sign it, and don’t say anything else. No comment to everything. Can you do that?’
‘You know I can.’
‘This is different, Nick. It’ll go on for longer. They’ll challenge you harder. You’ll want to persuade them you’re innocent.’
‘Why don’t I just talk then?’
‘Really? You need to ask that? One slip or bad answer and you’re sunk. And your refusal to name where you’d been.’
‘Okay, I get it. I can handle this.’
And that was how it had gone. Interview after interview, putting new scraps of evidence to him. The charred wallet. The burnt trainers that were the same make that had made bloodied footprints. The CCTV showing him running. The police saw it one way, as a robbery gone wrong, and it was easy for them to think that.
As Dan thought about it though, he realised that Barbara was right. Until she’d walked into his office, Mark Roberts had been just a name in a file, a label attached to a body. Knowing more about him made him seem more real somehow.
He lifted out the photographs, all printed off into bound bundles, how they’d be presented to the jury. They didn’t show much humanity. It was a corpse, nothing more, Mark’s face bashed in so much that it was little more than squashed flesh, the features unrecognisable, collapsed into a pool of blood and brains. Mark’s body was less damaged, on his back, his legs straight, but like a mannequin, just body parts.
The victim had turned into a real person, and his client was out of his depth. A petty crook was accused of a murder, and he knew that he wasn’t getting out of prison.
It would be a strange twist if the victim’s mother secured him his release.
Dan hoped she was right, for her sake.