Zara’s case didn’t seem to be going much better by the time I met her for lunch the following afternoon.
We were walking towards the Bar mess, her hands stuffed into her pockets, when Ted Bowen appeared ahead of us and she grunted.
‘Let’s go to the public canteen instead,’ she said quietly. ‘I can’t be arsed to look at his face while I eat.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘You’ve been in a courtroom with him and you still need a reason?’
The public canteen was extremely crowded, and we just managed to win the race for a table that was still littered with someone’s tray and leftovers. As soon as we were seated, Zara had her nose to the screen of her iPad. I recognised the dull beat leaking from the speaker; she was watching the last music video of Omar Pickett, aka Post Mortem.
‘Any luck?’ I asked, knowing the obvious answer.
‘No. Nothing. I had an idea about this skatepark, but, I don’t know …’
‘The one from the video?’
‘Yeah.’ With one hand she shoved the tray of leftovers to the edge of the table and then laid the iPad in its place for me to see. There was Post Mortem, gesticulating with both hands against the backdrop of spray-painted convex walls. I tried to pay attention but couldn’t keep from glancing around, acutely conscious of the members of the public bustling through the room. Zara didn’t seem to care. She paused the video, freezing the masked youngster. ‘I was looking for skateparks in Leyton last night.’
‘On foot?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Online. There aren’t any that fit the bill in Leyton itself, but there are plenty in the surrounding areas …’ She produced a pocket notebook and flicked to a page of handwriting, a list that looked noticeably more chaotic than her usual neat script. ‘Walthamstow Skatepark, the closest, is way too small to match this one in the video. Hackney’s Concrete Bumps and Victoria Park aren’t right either – no graffiti in the photographs online …’ She moved her finger down the page. ‘At first I thought it might be Mile End Concrete Bowl, but that’s about five miles south of Leyton. White Grounds in Bermondsey is underneath a railway arch that looks a lot like this one, and –’ She glanced up; whatever she saw on my face made her frown. ‘What?’
‘Nothing. It’s just making my head spin a little, that’s all. What good is a skatepark going to be?’
‘I was thinking that Pickett might go back there. You can search by area on Instagram, which brings up all the photographs tagged in that location. A lot of people skate in these parks, they might know him. I could message them and see if they have any idea where he might be hiding.’
‘But if the people he runs with haven’t yet been able to find him …’
‘You don’t think it’s a good idea?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘This could be my whole case!’ Her voice turned quiet and earnest. ‘This public-interest crap has got me clutching at straws. All I know is that this idiot is supposed to be sitting in Andre’s place, and Andre still won’t tell me anything about him!’
‘And do you really believe that Omar would take Israel’s place willingly?’
‘I know, but I’ll never be sure unless I talk to him.’
‘It sounds unlikely. My advice is to take a step back. Fight the case to the best of your capabilities and trust in the system. You don’t need to do this independent research.’
‘A little rich coming from you.’
She wasn’t wrong there.
‘Speaking of independent research,’ Zara went on, ‘I did a bit of digging into Banged Up Records. The producer is shown on their website as Deacon Walker.’
‘We already knew that.’
‘Not the surname, we didn’t. Don’t you think it’s strange? Walker.’
‘It isn’t the strangest I’ve ever heard.’
‘Not the name.’ She rolled her eyes again. ‘The initials. Think about it. If his initials are DW, then why is he driving a car around with the registration DM1?’
‘Meadows told me that he’s an Uber driver. Apparently, the car belongs to a friend.’
‘You believe that?’
‘I don’t know. She lied about his existence in the first place. If it is his car then DM1 could’ve simply been the closest thing available. Deacon Music, maybe.’
‘Or maybe his real name isn’t Walker at all.’ Now she was fully whispering. ‘Maybe it actually stands for Deacon Macey! Think about it. He could be the mystery heir that Patch was telling us about.’
‘It’s a theory.’ I sipped my tea. ‘Of course, Patch also believes that Elvis Presley is alive on the moon, eating cheese and riding around on the back of Shergar.’
‘Fine,’ she snapped, ‘but until you come up with something better, I’m keeping all possibilities on the table.’
That afternoon brought my first attempt at challenging a witness for the prosecution. There was nothing in his witness statement that I disagreed with and, generally, you would allow the prosecution to read such a witness’s statement as agreed evidence, but I had an inkling that I could get a little more out of him than he’d told the police. The oft-quoted rule of advocacy is never to ask a question unless you know the answer. Sometimes, however, you have to take a gamble, especially when the weight of evidence is against you.
The aged black man in the box kept leaning too close to the microphone when he spoke, which gave his voice the tinny resonance of a cheap DJ. Sporting a fuzz of white hair and an ancient brown suit, he introduced himself as Russell Chapman and told the court that his role at the Scrubs amounted to sitting in a booth by the entrance gates for forty hours every week, watching vehicles roll in and out of the prison grounds. Upon reflection, I remembered seeing him on the day we visited Andre Israel.
‘Not what you’d call stimulating,’ he chuckled, ‘especially since they installed those automated barriers, but it gets me by.’ He seemed to be enjoying the attention of the room and kept smiling warmly towards the jury; for some witnesses, this was the most excitement they were likely to see all year.
‘Do all of the vehicles that enter the grounds belong to members of staff?’ Garrick asked.
‘Most, and that’s not just guards. We’ve got nurses, administration, cleaners, counsellors, handymen, employers in the workshops. More staff than I could count, cars coming and going all day long. They either scan their tickets, or they don’t get past, it’s as simple as that.’
‘Tickets?’ Garrick replied. ‘Are you saying that every employee has a permit?’
‘Uh-huh, that’s right. We’ve got the red-and-white barriers up, you know, one in and one out. There’s a machine there that scans the ticket and lifts the barrier.’
‘And with all this automated machinery, what exactly do you do?’
‘Well, we get a lot of vans, deliveries and linen. They’re scheduled in advance, but I’ve got to get out and check them off. I get a list at the start of every week and make sure those drivers have got their paperwork in return. Course, they could just send the lorry drivers a ticket out in advance, but don’t tell them that or I’ll be out of a job!’ The tiniest titter from the jury, which made the man beam with pride. ‘Never get too many issues, except for you lawyers trying to park onsite.’
‘Is there any public or legal visitor car parking onsite whatsoever?’
‘Uh-uh, none. Visitors park out there at the roadside.’
‘To clarify, the only vehicles that ever get past your booth are authorised in advance, one way or the other?’
‘All authorised, yes.’
‘Were you working on Monday the fifteenth of January this year?’
‘Eight until four.’
‘You were onsite when the staff vehicles were searched?’
‘I was.’
‘And are you familiar with the vehicle registered to the defendant?’
He nodded. ‘Vauxhall, dark blue, a bit of a rattler.’
‘Do you happen to know the registration number of the defendant’s Vauxhall?’
‘You must be joking. I don’t even know my own car’s registration number.’
Lady Allen leaned to her microphone. ‘Is this evidence disputed, Mr Rook?’
‘No, My Lady, the defence accepts every word of Mr Chapman’s evidence. My learned friend may lead him through all of it.’
Garrick bristled. ‘If Mr Rook accepts this witness’s evidence unchallenged, then why has he been fully bound to attend court? Why couldn’t we just read his statement?’
‘Mr Rook?’ The judge raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
‘I have a few supplementary questions for the witness.’ I smiled. ‘A few points I hope he can clarify.’
‘Very well. Continue, Mr Garrick.’
After a hard stare, he did. ‘The car in question would be a Corsa, registration X326 ADM?’
‘Sounds about right.’
‘And on these days, was it always the defendant behind the wheel?’
‘As far as I recall. I would’ve noticed and stepped out if it wasn’t.’
‘Do you keep a record of the times that each vehicle enters and exits the premises?’
‘My Lady,’ I interrupted, half raising my hand. ‘The car’s presence on the morning in question is already agreed upon, as is the CCTV footage of the defendant arriving in said vehicle and driving through the barrier a few minutes before nine o’clock. The defence has no dispute with any of this.’
Again, she raised her brow. ‘You did just invite the prosecution to lead the witness through every word of his statement.’
‘That’s all right,’ Garrick snorted. ‘That’s all I have to ask, Mr Chapman. Please wait there while Mr Rook decides upon which supplementary questions he’d like to ask you.’
In Garrick’s stead, I got to my feet. ‘Mr Chapman, your booth is positioned on the inside of the outer gates, is it not?’
‘It is.’
‘For those present in the court who are not so familiar with the layout of Wormwood Scrubs, could you give us a basic description of the approach to the prison by vehicle?’
He ran a hand across his cheek, bemused. ‘I suppose I can, yes. The car comes along Du Cane Road, turns in through the outer gates and past my booth to the barriers, where it gets its ticket checked, like I said. Then it’s a straight drive forwards to the gatehouse.’
‘Those would be the iconic towers that I’m sure we’re all familiar with, correct?’
‘The same.’
‘Do the cars continue ahead through the gatehouse?’
‘No. Staff cars don’t. They turn either left or right, following the outer wall around, and the parking is down there on both sides.’
‘Once they are parked up, can you personally see the vehicles from your booth?’
‘Not directly, no, but I have a monitor relaying the CCTV from along the perimeter.’
‘And do these cameras focus on the staff vehicles?’
He paused, thinking about it. ‘They actually don’t. They’re aimed more at the walls.’
‘Why is that, do you think?’
‘Huh … Well, I’ve never really considered it, but I suppose you’d have to have some real big balls on you to break into a car in a prison car park, wouldn’t you?’
Another titter from the jury. I didn’t mind; this was going well enough.
‘Yes, Mr Chapman, I believe you probably would. What I also find interesting is that you said the cars follow the outer wall to either the left or the right and park up there.’
‘I did.’
‘All right, let’s see. So, if this represents the prison itself …’ With my left hand I held up a sheet of paper from my pile. ‘And this is a car …’ With the index finger of my right, I traced a path coming up to the paper from the centre underneath, then followed the perimeter of the paper over to the left and parked it there. ‘Wouldn’t that mean that the parking areas themselves are actually outside of the prison walls, even for members of staff?’
‘They are situated on the property, inside the outer fence, but security couldn’t have cars coming in and out of the main walls all day long. It’d be a nightmare.’
‘I’m sure it would.’ I returned the paper to the pile. ‘On the morning in question, do you recall whether the defendant turned left or right upon reaching the gatehouse?’
‘Left.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Course. Even in prison, it isn’t every day you have dogs closing off half the car park. The Corsa was parked up in the south-western corner, close to my own car.’
‘Again, that is outside of the actual prison walls, yes?’
‘Yes.’
Garrick sighed; it must’ve been as loudly as he could manage. ‘My Lady, it seems as though the defence intends to suggest that the defendant’s car, as well as the contraband inside, could not have been in breach of smuggling laws because they were not actually discovered within the prison’s walls … Perhaps a reminder is required to refresh my learned friend on what constitutes prison premises?’
‘A considerate offer,’ I said, ‘but no reminder is necessary, thank you. Prison property begins at Mr Chapman’s booth and barriers, and by all accounts the defendant’s vehicle was most definitely onsite at the time of the discovery. The point I was trying to make is that it was parked up in the south-western corner of the grounds. Nothing unusual there – it is one of two parking zones reserved for staff – but would it be fair to say that this area is something of a dumping ground, Mr Chapman?’
‘In what respect?’
‘Well, I have seen the area for myself in the past, and would you agree or disagree with my observation that it is nothing more than a patch of loose, potholed concrete with a few industrial Biffa skips and piles of scrap metal and rubbish?’
He nodded. ‘I’d say that’s a good enough description, though you missed out the weeds. At the end of the day, it’s only a place to leave your car.’
‘Indeed. One can only assume that those enormous bins require emptying from time to time?’
‘Once a week. There’s a gate in the fence up there, padlocked. Every Tuesday I unlock it, let the wagons come in, then lock it back up again when they’re done.’
‘The gate leads back out onto Du Cane Road?’
‘Right.’
‘And are there any signs on these gates?’
He frowned a little. ‘Private property signs, mostly. An arrow pointing in the direction of the main entrance down the road. Nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘But it’s a prison, hardly an inconspicuous structure. Why the signs?’
‘Oh, that’s easy,’ he said, brightening up. ‘They’re for the fly-tippers.’
‘Fly-tippers?’ I cocked my head. ‘As in, members of the public dumping rubbish?’
‘Uh-huh, sure. There’s a low point at the very end of the fence down that side, must be about four feet high, which backs onto Wulfstan Street, the residential area to the west. People who can’t be bothered to hire a skip have a bad habit of just hopping over the fence there and dumping their crap into the Biffas.’
I heard the softest rustle of silk as Garrick straightened up beside me.
‘You’ll have to forgive me for sounding like a broken record, but just to elucidate …’ I spoke more slowly. ‘To gain vehicular access to this car park, which is securely enclosed between the prison walls and the outer perimeter fence, a member of staff would have to show their credentials at your barrier, yes?’
‘That’s what I’ve been saying.’
‘But there are no cameras whatsoever covering the area where the defendant’s car was parked, despite a problem with fly-tippers?’
‘Right.’
‘And you just told the court that these fly-tippers are able to hop over into the car park, did you not?’
‘Right again.’
‘So, wouldn’t it be possible for somebody to enter that car park, unseen, and gain access to any number of staff vehicles at any time of any day? Size of genitalia withstanding, of course.’
The judge cleared her throat and levelled me with a stern look.
The witness thought about it. Nodded. ‘It’s possible.’
‘Are the vehicles regularly checked for contraband?’
‘In the staff car park?’ He shook his head. ‘Never during my years at the prison.’
‘You personally don’t give them a quick once-over upon arriving?’
‘No.’
‘Then, hypothetically, couldn’t the drugs have been inside that car for hours, days, or even weeks before that morning?’
He shrugged, then considered the idea. ‘I just work the booth, but … for all I know, they could’ve been, yes.’ He leaned forward until his lips were actually touching the microphone, then started to speak low and confidential as if the two of us were alone in our conspiratorial gossip. ‘Hey, come to think of it, it could just as easily have been some old con, couldn’t it? Someone looking to get back at the screws! He hops over the fence, gets into the first car he sees and dumps that crap under the boot. Maybe he’s planning on chucking it over the wall and he bottles it! Christ, my car was parked up there as well. It could’ve been me!’
‘It’s possible,’ I said, feeling a huge smile coming on. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Chapman. No more questions.’
Did I honestly believe that an unknown assailant had snuck over the fence, broken into Charli’s Vauxhall and stuffed the drugs inside? Not really, not nearly as much as I suspected the involvement of her boyfriend, but that was beside the point. Doubt was the most crucial part of any defence.
Once again, we were adjourned a little early, and like a child released from school I practically bounced out of the courtroom. That’s where I found Zara, sitting on a bench in the corridor. Her glasses were off, face buried in her hands, and she didn’t look up until I placed a hand on her shoulder.
‘Good day, I take it?’
‘Hopeless,’ she replied. ‘Without a miracle, Andre is certain to be convicted.’
I wasn’t smiling any more.