I was back in Regent’s Park the following morning, waiting patiently for Scout’s first ablutions of the day, when my phone rang. Zara.
‘Morning,’ I yawned. ‘You were wise to avoid yesterday’s walk; my legs feel like they’ve been put through one of those –’
‘The police have issued Andre with an Osman warning!’
It woke me like a slap to the ear. ‘A threat to his life?’
‘Yes!’ She was panting, breathless, the line whistling as she raced through standing air. ‘They’ve received intelligence of a threat on his life if he stays –’ the blast of a car horn ‘– it’s a zebra crossing, dickhead! – if he stays at the Scrubs!’
‘Did they say who wants him dead?’ At this, two fellow dog walkers glanced in consternation and gave me a wide berth.
‘Don’t know. Haven’t spoken properly!’
‘Where are you now?’ I asked.
‘Just left home, I’ve got to be at Snaresbrook in an hour. They’ve moved the hearing forward and they’re bringing Andre from the prison!’
‘I’d say this is a good enough change in circumstances to warrant that second bail application.’
‘My thoughts exactly. Where are you? What are you doing?’
‘Walking Scout, but I could be at Snaresbrook in an hour if you wanted me there.’
‘Do it! I’m off underground. Meet you there!’
And she hung up.
Snaresbrook Crown Court is a rather magnificent Grade II listed building in north-east London dating from the Victorian era, constructed in an Elizabethan style. On first glance, it’s hard to believe that this former orphanage is now the busiest Crown court in the country, with twenty courtrooms hidden inside its picturesque turrets and limestone ashlar. It is surrounded by eighteen acres of landscape gardens, complete with a lake called Eagle Pond.
It was across these grounds that I saw Zara pelting, canvas shoulder bag flapping, boots flattening the lawn like a pair of leather pistons. I’d been waiting by the entrance for ten minutes or more when she eventually came to a skidding halt before me; from the colour in her cheeks, it looked as if she’d waived the Underground in favour of a sprint all the way.
‘Come on!’ she wheezed. ‘Queue!’
‘Catch your breath. The queue isn’t going anywhere.’
She shook her head and pushed past me to join the back of the line for security checks; ahead, the morning’s lawyers were placing the contents of their pockets into plastic trays and filing through the metal detector.
‘I wish I’d worn my court clothes!’ Zara moaned, tugging at the laces of her boots.
I couldn’t blame her for being agitated. An Osman warning, so named after the 1998 high-profile legal case of Osman v. United Kingdom, is no trivial matter. They are issued by British police in the event of a serious and immediate threat to life when there still isn’t enough evidence to actually arrest the malefactor.
‘When did the police issue the warning?’ I asked.
‘Last night. Two officers showed up at the prison. All they told Andre, as far as I know, was that they’d received intelligence of a threat on his life and to be on the lookout for anything suspicious.’
‘Anything suspicious in prison?’
‘That’s what I said.’
As we came out of security, I checked my watch. Ten minutes late. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Meeting Lady Allen in her chambers,’ she replied, marching ahead. ‘Evelyn Allen! Only one of my role models, and look at the state of me!’
‘Allen?’ I caught her by the shoulder and spun her round. ‘This way.’
Sitting in chambers used to mean a conference in the judge’s private chambers, but these days it tends to refer to a courtroom with no public access.
‘They can’t refuse bail after this,’ she said. ‘Surely they can’t! God, I wish I wasn’t so late. For fuck’s sake!’
‘You’re all right,’ I told her, striding along. ‘The courtroom is just ahead. It’s fine.’
‘It doesn’t feel fine,’ she groaned. ‘At least they haven’t started without us. That’s Andre’s solicitor waiting by the door.’
I looked up and saw the solicitor tapping her feet impatiently, clutching a stack of papers to her chest. After the luck I’d had this week, I should’ve seen it coming.
‘Elliot!’
‘Morning, Lydia.’
‘You know each other?’ Zara asked, coming to a winded stop.
‘Lydia is the solicitor in another case I’m working.’
‘Another case?’ Zara was readjusting the folds of shirt that had billowed out from her waistband. ‘What other c—’ She paused. Despite her stress, a slanted grin began to unfold. ‘The solicitor?’
‘Shall we?’ I blustered through the door into the courtroom.
The Resident Judge, responsible for the large Crown court centre at Snaresbrook, was Evelyn Allen QC, an indomitable woman of around sixty-five who was famously fine company outside of the courtroom, and infamously formidable at the bench. She was wearing the violet robe with lilac trim of her office, with a short horsehair wig and a red sash over one shoulder. She was also wearing an impatient, austere frown on her jowly face when the three of us came charging into her silent courtroom. ‘Rook,’ she said sharply across the room. ‘I’m not supposed to be hearing your case until next week, am I?’
‘Correct, My Lady.’
‘What business brings you here?’
I gestured to Zara. ‘Miss Barnes is coming up to the end of her pupillage at Miller & Stubbs. I’m here to observe her performance.’
‘Ha.’ This dead laugh had come from the right-hand side of the room. It was followed by a drawling voice. ‘It’s no great surprise, My Lady. These days, one seldom sees anything of Rook or Barnes without the other in tow.’
I glowered across and saw Ted Bowen, an old adversary from our own set, sitting on the prosecution’s side. The last time Zara and I had faced him in court he’d lost, and he hadn’t lost particularly well.
‘You didn’t tell me Bowen was prosecuting,’ I grumbled quietly as we made our way into the well.
‘I didn’t know,’ Zara replied. ‘Makes no difference to me.’
I was planning on sitting a row behind her to avoid stealing her thunder, but our solicitor dived into that row before I had a chance, so I slunk in alongside Zara while she was still stuffing her bag down at her feet.
I looked around the room: Bowen was sitting hunched and crooked, a spindly plucked vulture alongside a short woman whom I vaguely recognised as Claire Morton from the Crown Prosecution Service. There was also a man of around thirty-five sitting on their side, with messy hair, stylish stubble, blue jeans and a tan suede jacket; a plain-clothes officer if ever I’d seen one. Andre Israel was in the dock. It had only been five days, but his bruises had healed surprisingly well, which was rather unfortunate considering this morning’s hearing.
The prosecution introduced both parties, then it was over to the judge.
‘Morning,’ Lady Allen said. ‘His Honour Peter Bromley, who will be hearing Mr Israel’s upcoming trial, could not be here at such short notice because of prior commitments, though he has been made aware of these latest developments. As Snaresbrook’s Resident Judge, I will be hearing this particular matter.’ She glanced briefly at her paperwork. ‘Miss Barnes, this case is listed for a bail application.’
‘It is, My Lady.’
‘As the defendant has already made an application for bail, which was refused, there needs to be a change in circumstances in order to make a second application.’
‘There does, My Lady.’
‘And what is the change in circumstances?’
Zara’s voice sounded high and shaky and I felt a knot of both empathy and pride tighten my chest. ‘The defendant has been served with a Threat to Life warning notice.’
‘I see.’ The judge turned to the prosecution. ‘Mr Bowen, do you accept that this constitutes a change in circumstances?’
Bowen rose slowly to his feet. ‘Not exactly.’
Lady Allen raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you being serious, Mr Bowen?’
‘I am. What troubles me most, My Lady, is that the defence had this case listed for bail yesterday morning, the hearing originally scheduled for this afternoon, and yet this Threat to Life notice was only issued late last night. It all seems a tad convenient.’
‘I am not concerned about what troubles you,’ the judge replied. ‘It doesn’t trouble me, even if Miss Barnes does possess a remarkable gift of foresight. From where I’m sitting, this clearly amounts to a change in circumstances. Do you intend on calling any evidence?’
‘Yes, My Lady.’ Bowen coughed lightly into his fist, apparently crestfallen. ‘I call the officer in the case, Detective Inspector Jack Linford.’
The plain-clothes officer was on his feet with soldierly speed. He marched into the witness box and was sworn to give evidence. Linford looked like a young father, the sort that still makes it to the Sunday league and runs the occasional marathon for fun.
‘What can you tell us about this warning?’ Lady Allen asked him.
‘The warning was issued to the defendant within hours of receiving our intelligence, which came from a source that has repeatedly proven itself to be credible. Because of several ongoing investigations, I can’t reveal that source to the court at this time. Suffice it to say I believe the threat to be genuine, and to involve alleged organised criminal activity within HMP Wormwood Scrubs. Both the message and motive were simple enough. These criminals do not wish for Mr Israel to make it to court. I believe they will do almost anything to stop that from happening.’
Lady Allen scribbled notes onto paper. ‘Thank you, DI Linford. Do the prosecution have any questions for the officer?’
Bowen shook his head. ‘No, My Lady.’
‘Defence?’
‘Yes.’ Zara rose to her feet. ‘I have several questions, My Lady.’ She turned to face the witness. ‘DI Linford, were you present at the raid at the Princess Alexandria?’
‘I was.’
‘Is it correct that you were in charge of that operation?’
‘Yes.’
‘When six men, including my client, were arrested for drug offences?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What about the seventh man?’ she asked. ‘What can you tell us about him?’
Linford winced, scratching his left temple. ‘The seventh man?’
‘Yes, the seventh. The man you allowed to escape. Your participating informant.’
Linford shrugged. ‘I’m not sure what you’re talking about.’
‘You’re not?’ Zara returned the shrug. ‘DI Linford, do you not recall a young man by the name of Omar Pickett?’
Instead of answering, Linford hastily turned to the bench. ‘My Lady, I need to have a word with Mr Bowen.’
Allen shook her head. ‘Mr Bowen cannot speak to a witness in the middle of his evidence.’
‘Ah, My Lady!’ Bowen was up on his feet. ‘I actually must address you as a matter of urgency.’
The judge sighed. ‘All right, I see where this is going. Take the defendant back to the cells, please.’ She waited while Andre was escorted from the dock and then continued. ‘I assume this concerns a matter of PII, Mr Bowen?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I intend to make an ex parte application in the absence of the defence.’
‘Very well. Miss Barnes, Mr Rook, I’m going to have to ask you to step outside with your solicitor for a minute or two.’ She glanced back to Bowen. ‘What about DI Linford?’
‘He needs to stay,’ Bowen said.
‘Fair enough.’
Zara, Lydia and I shuffled out of the court to wait in the corridor outside. PII, or public-interest immunity – once referred to as Crown privilege – is a principle under common law that allows a court order to be granted to withhold the disclosure of evidence between litigants.
‘In other words,’ Zara said to neither Lydia nor myself in particular, ‘I’m about to have a big old strip of tape slammed over my mouth.’
‘I suspect you may be right,’ I said. ‘You seem to have ruffled some feathers.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Lydia interjected. ‘Who the hell is Omar Pickett?’
‘Some drug dealer,’ Zara explained. ‘I’d heard he was Linford’s informant and, going by that reaction, I’m guessing it’s true. I think he either helped to set up the raid, and then Linford let him walk, or these drug dealers were actually banking on the raid, in which case Omar Pickett must’ve been working both sides to begin with.’
‘Banking on the raid?’ Lydia shook her head. ‘I’m missing something, aren’t I?’
‘I think we all are,’ I said.
A few minutes later we were ushered back into court and Andre was returned to the dock. DI Linford was still standing in the witness box.
‘Miss Barnes,’ Lady Allen began, ‘based on the application I have just received, and subject to my ruling, Detective Inspector Linford does not need to answer your last question, and you are not to ask any more questions of a like nature. With that said, do you have any further questions of the witness?’
‘No, My Lady.’ Zara returned to her seat with a sigh.
‘In that case, we shall return to the bail application. Mr Bowen, do the prosecution still oppose bail?’
Ted Bowen got to his feet with a dry smile. ‘We certainly do, My Lady, on the same grounds as before. We believe there is a substantial risk that the defendant would fail to appear. We say that because these are serious offences. The nature and strength of the evidence against the defendant is overwhelmingly strong, and he has a history of absconding. His trial is due to begin in a matter of days. Release him today, and the prosecution strongly doubts that we shall see him at court on Monday.’
‘Yes,’ Zara muttered, ‘because he might be dead by then.’
‘Regarding this apparent threat to his life,’ Bowen added pointedly, ‘there can surely be no safer place than within the walls of Her Majesty’s Prison.’
Lady Allen sat back, tapping her pen close to the microphone. ‘Defence?’
Zara stood tall and took a slow breath. She tried to shove her hands into her pockets but forced herself to stop; instead, she clasped them behind her back.
‘My Lady, DI Linford stated that the threat to my client’s life came from within the prison itself. I think it is therefore worth highlighting the shocking toll of violent acts currently being perpetrated between inmates behind the walls of Wormwood Scrubs. The prosecution claims that there is no safer place than Her Majesty’s Prison? Well, with the most recent report citing a staggering forty to fifty violent incidents every month at the Scrubs alone, I don’t see it as being beyond the realms of possibility that a serious, perhaps even successful attempt might be made on my client’s life at any given moment. It is not a safe environment, and we mustn’t forget that Mr Israel is only awaiting trial. A fair trial. He is innocent until proven guilty; even then, no matter what outcome the jury eventually decides upon, it is our country’s sworn duty to protect him. The Scrubs has been the setting for so much tragedy before today – tragedies that could have, and indeed should have, been avoided if only the warning signs had been heeded in good time. We have been given our warning. We mustn’t let our collective inaction cost another young man his life. We mustn’t let that prison claim one more victim. Not ever.’
She stood stock-still for another moment, catching her breath, and then sat down with a bump.
The judge placed her pen flat onto the bench. ‘Mr Rook, do you have anything you’d care to add?’
‘No, My Lady. I am here as an observer only. Miss Barnes has said it all, much more eloquently than I ever could.’
‘Very well.’ Allen leaned forward, studying Zara. ‘Miss Barnes, this is the first time we’ve met, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, My Lady.’
‘Then I should start by saying that your enthusiasm is invigorating, your passion thoroughly commendable. I suspect that you will have a fine future here at the Bar.’
‘Th-thank you,’ Zara stammered. ‘That means so much coming fr—’
‘That said, please make no mistake that this court regards an Osman warning with the utmost seriousness. Contrary to the implications of your speech, no life is ever simply left to chance.’
‘No, My Lady. Of course not.’
‘However, on this occasion, all the passion in the world cannot change the fact that your client has been granted the trust of our courts once before, and he chose to abuse, exploit and breach that trust. I consider any failure to surrender to bail as utterly inexcusable. Taking the defendant’s prior convictions for absconding into account, and given the serious nature of the charge and the strength of the evidence against him, I must continue to entrust Mr Israel’s safety to what I consider to be the thoroughly competent employees of the Prison Service. Your second application for bail is refused.’
Zara thanked the court for its time once more, though now it was little louder than a mumble.
She picked up her bag, dropped it, clenched her shaking fists and picked it up again. Then she hurried out of the room, banging her knee on the door as she went.
I sighed as I got to my feet. I looked up at Andre, who was already being taken away. It would be another hour’s drive back to the Scrubs. A two-hour round trip for a hearing that had lasted twenty minutes. After being a barrister for so many years, I rarely felt sorry for defendants any more, yet I couldn’t help but feel sorry for Zara.
I was almost out of the room when, from behind, a small hand alighted neatly onto my shoulder. It was Lydia, papers under one arm, smiling and entirely unfazed by the decision of the court.
‘So,’ she said, ‘I’m still waiting to hear back about that drink. What are you doing tonight?’
And in that moment, a drink was the one thing I couldn’t bring myself to refuse.
I found Zara in the corridor a couple of minutes later. I didn’t tell her about Lydia. I still wasn’t sure if there was anything much to tell. Besides, she looked like she wanted to grieve a little in silence and – after a sincere yet clumsy ‘happens to the best of us’ speech – I was glad to oblige.
On the Tube heading west towards chambers, she broke the silence.
‘The car … Dare I ask?’
‘Bad,’ I replied.
‘Write-off?’
‘Waiting to hear back from Delroy Meadows.’
‘Meadows?’ She was standing up in our carriage, despite it being practically empty at this time; I was sitting, and she shuffled her boots closer. ‘As in …?’
‘Charli’s brother. Charli’s twin brother. He owns a garage in Hackney Wick.’
‘And you took the car there?’ With the hand that wasn’t lassoed in an overhead strap, she reached up behind her glasses and pinched her eyes. ‘Did you tell him how it happened?’
‘No, of course not. I just told him it was vandalised.’
‘It’ll get back to his sister.’
‘I’m sure it will, assuming her boyfriend hasn’t already given her a first-hand account.’
‘Did you report it to the police?’
‘Honestly, if I report this to anybody in the Met they’ll likely pop a bottle of champagne. Speaking of which, I didn’t realise that we were sharing the same OIC.’
‘Linford? He’s in charge of your case too?’
‘I’d have to double-check my papers, but I’m almost certain.’
She caught my eye but didn’t say a word. Then she turned to face the glass behind me and watched the darkness of the Underground rush through her own reflection, shaking her head from time to time.
When I got off the Tube, I had a voicemail from Meadows informing me that, in short, I shouldn’t dream of seeing my car again for at least a week. He asked me to ring back with my go-ahead, before listing the work that needed doing. Halfway through the list, I called him back and told him to do it.
I was to meet Lydia in Soho at six o’clock. By five, I was rifling through shirts at home. I chose what I thought to be a slimming striped one and did a substandard job of neatening it up, using the carpet for an ironing board and brushing dog fur from the cotton as I went. For the first time in years, I combed my hair back, trying to hold the rebellious waves in place with a quarter-pot of old pomade; it looked as though I’d grown an inch more forehead than the last time I’d done it. I tried on two different blazers and discovered that neither would meet at the middle any more. Eventually, I turned to Scout, who was watching idly from the other side of the room.
‘What do you reckon?’
She didn’t answer. I asked the mirror instead, but it didn’t answer either.
‘Christ almighty,’ I said. ‘I look like Ray Winstone in The Departed.’
I was still grimacing like a tough guy in the mirror, entertaining myself with impersonations of Winstone’s loose Boston-cockney accent – ‘Cranberry juice! Craaaanberry juice!’ – when there came a soft knocking upon my front door and the dog began to bark. I shepherded her into her cage, locked it, and then hesitated. I could probably count on one hand the amount of times the basement door had ever been knocked upon, and I had a sickening feeling that I’d misunderstood our meeting, and this would be Lydia come early to collect me.
Improbable, I told myself. Impossible. She didn’t know where I lived, did she?
I opened the door and froze. It felt as if I’d dropped something, a fleeting sense of falling, but there’d been nothing in my hand to begin with.
‘Hello, Elliot.’
I’m not sure how long I stood there. In the end, I managed no better greeting than her name.
‘Jenny.’