As we got back into chambers a little after five o’clock, Percy flagged us down through the open door of the bustling clerks’ room. He’d been smiling, but one look at the pair of us and his expression wilted.
‘What happened?’
Zara flapped her mouth, but nothing seemed to be coming any time soon.
‘Tough day at the coal face,’ I answered for her.
‘The drug dealer from Newham? The silver lining is that, as we’re prosecuting and defending in that case, it’s a win–win situation for chambers.’ When she didn’t react, he sighed. ‘Look, don’t worry, young lady. My advice is to push on through to the end, then move on to the next case.’
Her eyes turned up to him, their infinitesimal movements revealing a series of conflicting emotions: irritation, distrust, weariness, even gratitude. ‘Just like that? Serve up your client’s head on a platter and then it’s on to the next one?’
‘I wouldn’t be so morose about it, but yes, almost like that. The wheels of the system keep on turning. As a part of that system, you must learn to move forward. If not, you risk losing a little of yourself to every failure. That is the nature of our justice.’
‘Justice?’ she muttered. ‘Do you honestly believe that?’
Percy blinked softly. ‘Miss Barnes, I believe that our legal system is the closest thing we have to justice on this good earth.’ And he left us to climb up to the third floor.
Chambers was officially open until five thirty, but already there was a steady stream of junior barristers squeezing past us on the narrow staircase. Zara hadn’t said much since I’d found her waiting outside the courtroom. Up in my room, I reached into the compartment beneath my desk where I kept a few emergency drinks, which I’d been venturing into less and less just lately. I opened a couple of warm lagers, banging the caps off on the dented edge of my desk, and handed one to Zara, who was sitting in her usual spot by the bureau.
‘It’s just unravelling so fast,’ she said, taking the bottle. ‘The prosecution case is racing along. They’re on to their last witness tomorrow morning. That’s DI Linford, and I’m not even allowed to ask him any questions. I just can’t stop thinking that Andre should have got himself a real barrister. A tenant, not some useless pupil.’
‘Don’t do that to yourself,’ I said. ‘Percy might be a twat from time to time, but he isn’t wrong. You cannot win them all, especially when the evidence is so overwhelming.’
‘You’re saying I never had a chance to begin with?’
‘No. There is always a chance at trial. You haven’t lost anything yet.’
She looked tired and close to tears, hands wringing the neck of her bottle. ‘I might as well start packing this crap up out of your bureau.’
‘There’s no use in being dramatic about it.’
Her eyes swelled and then narrowed straight at me. ‘I am not being dramatic.’
We were interrupted by a loud ringing; it took me a moment to realise that it was coming from the phone on my desk, which I’d had for some months and rarely bothered to use in favour of my mobile. A flashing red light told me it was a local call from inside the building. Percy. Annoyed by the interruption, I lifted the receiver and put it down again, cutting it off.
A few seconds later, it rang again. This time I slammed the receiver down. After months of absorbing Zara’s good moods, it seemed that I was succumbing to her foul ones as well.
‘Now who’s being dramatic?’ Zara said. ‘You should answer.’
‘He has legs, doesn’t he? If it’s so important he can climb the bloody staircase.’ As if someone had heard my suggestion, there came a timid knock at the door. ‘What?’ I called.
It opened, revealing a lad of around twenty years old, an intern from the clerks’ room. He cleared his throat, simultaneously flushing and flinching. ‘Um, Mr Peck sent me up with a message.’
I lowered my voice to something almost apologetic. ‘Which is?’
‘There’s somebody downstairs asking to see you. He’s been told that we close in ten minutes and to make an appointment, but he seems quite … insistent.’
‘Did he give a name?’
‘Oh.’ The young man turned from pink to purple. ‘Not you, Mr Rook.’ He pointed to Zara. ‘He’s here for you. He says his name’s Fred.’
‘Fred?’ She frowned. ‘I don’t know any Fred.’
The clerk tugged at his skinny tie. ‘I’ve got to be honest, he doesn’t look much like a Fred. He says you messaged him at the end of last week asking him to come in and see you. On Facebook, apparently.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t message anybody on –’ Her jaw dropped. She looked towards me, eyes wide behind her glasses. ‘It can’t be.’
‘Surely not,’ I said.
It was.
We made it to the bottom of the staircase in a queue of shuffling barristers and sidestepped back into the reception area.
Zara coughed. ‘Fred?’
He turned round sharply, a teenager dressed in a mismatched combination of wraparound sunglasses and an oversized winter coat, a snapback cap and scarf; all that was missing from his ludicrous disguise was a novelty fake moustache. He assessed Zara for a moment, then gestured to me. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Elliot Rook,’ Zara said, ‘another barrister. It’s OK. We’re on your side.’
I wasn’t entirely sure that we were, but I nodded in agreement all the same.
I took the two of them back up to my room and closed the door behind us; the elusive ‘Fred’ had lowered the brim of his cap a half-inch further with every barrister we’d passed on the staircase, and now it was pressing straight down against his sunglasses.
Zara offered him a seat as she perched lightly on the edge of my desk. ‘You can lose the disguise, Mr Pickett.’
Even through the shades, he appeared to be looking up at the corners of the rooms.
‘There are no cameras in chambers,’ I said, taking my own chair. ‘The majority of our clients wouldn’t approve.’
He removed his shades, cap and scarf slowly, cramming them into the pockets of his massive coat, but didn’t take the seat. Instead, he picked up the Rubik’s cube that had been forever rolling around my desk and paced in a jittery circle. With the puzzle in his hand, he looked very young, a college-aged boy with a strong nose and soft skin, incredibly dark eyes and hair shaved at the back and sides. I could see why he didn’t want to go to prison; he probably weighed as much as my right leg.
‘How do I know I can trust you?’ he asked. ‘Either of you.’
‘I think you want to,’ Zara said. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t have come here.’
He shrugged, fiddling with the cube.
‘Would you like us to get you a solicitor?’ I asked.
‘No. No solicitor. I came to see her,’ pointing at Zara, ‘I don’t know you.’
‘You don’t know her either.’
‘Yeah, well, she looked fit on Facebook.’ He eyed me up and down. ‘You don’t.’
A glower crossed Zara’s face like a passing cloud, but she pulled it back; it was obvious from the quake in his throat that his bravado was fuelled by chronic nerves. ‘What do you need from us, Omar?’ she said.
‘Or should we call you Post Mortem?’ I asked.
‘You can call me Fred if you like. I need to get into that witness protection. I need someone to speak to the feds.’
‘Feds are American,’ Zara replied, ‘and this isn’t The Sopranos.’
‘But you do want me to snitch on my crew, don’t you?’ he asked sharply. ‘Why else would you get me here?’
‘Your crew?’ Zara leaned forward from her perch, hands clasped on her lap; she looked much shrewder than she had only half an hour ago. ‘That’s just the thing, Omar. Are the Cutthroats still your crew at all?’
‘Cutthroats?’ He laughed coldly. ‘That was just a stupid name the kids used. They’re my neighbours. E10. We came up in the same tower. Schoolmates. Safety in numbers.’
‘Safety in numbers?’ I said. ‘Those numbers seem to be growing exponentially, don’t they?’
He continued pacing, eyes on the puzzle in his hands. ‘The whole scene’s blowing up. We were brothers, you know? Tight. Now, I don’t even recognise half our crew. It was meant to be a way to earn a living, like, independently. None of that nine-to-five managerial bullshit.’
‘And let me guess,’ Zara said, ‘now you’re getting ordered around and you don’t like it?’
‘Such as the order to get yourselves sent to prison,’ I added.
He stopped pacing. Instead of answering, he tossed the Rubik’s cube onto the desk, where it rolled to a stop behind Zara. I did a double take; the thing was solved.
‘Who’s giving these orders?’ Zara asked.
He shook his head. ‘I tell you that and we’re all dead, believe.’
‘But that was the plan, wasn’t it?’ I said. ‘To get yourselves sent to prison?’
Again, he didn’t answer. His eyes had fixed onto the beer I’d opened earlier, which was still effervescing quietly. ‘Got one of them going spare?’ he asked.
‘Here.’ Zara impatiently crossed the room to her own bottle, passed it to him, and returned to her spot on my desk.
Omar checked the level of the liquid – untouched – and sniffed at the bottle like an animal at a trap. Then he drank thirstily and belched. ‘That’s the game,’ he said. ‘You go inside, do a bit, come out and you’re on top. No more college. No dole. No more tins of ravioli.’
‘It’d be hard to continue your music from inside a cell,’ Zara noted.
He looked up at the ceiling and shook his head, half smiling. ‘You know how much equipment I could buy after one single stretch? I’m talking about some of that top-of-the-line, professional Jay Z shit. Not to mention the rep. That sort of reputation pays in drill. A man can’t be writing about doing time and hustling if he’s never had to hustle.’
‘And when did you start working for the Met?’ I asked.
His face tightened, reluctant, and then relented. ‘Christmas. Some undie snatched me with enough crack to send me down until my thirties.’
I nodded, reaching for my own drink. ‘Not quite the short, glamorous stretch you had in mind?’
‘We made a deal,’ he said. ‘It’d all go away if I let a few details slip here and there. I’d even make a bit of cash. It sounded like suicide to me, but I didn’t have much choice.’
‘Who was he?’ Zara asked, eyes widening. ‘This undercover officer.’
Omar took a bigger mouthful of lager before replying. ‘Man called Linford.’
‘I knew it!’ Zara slapped her hand against the desk. ‘Sod your PII.’
Omar blinked. ‘Huh?’
‘Nothing,’ I said quickly. ‘This raid at the Alex. Was that Linford’s plan?’
‘No.’ He started moving again, tracing his own path over the rug. ‘Those orders came from the bosses.’
‘Your own bosses ordered you to organise the raid with Linford?’ Zara said. ‘They knew you were a paid police informant, and they were willing to let you live?’
He paused to empty his bottle, then wiped his lips dry on his sleeve. ‘I did what they asked, walked out of that pub, and by the time I got home, they’d already booted my mum’s door in and trashed the place. There was a dead rat in my bed. I grabbed some clothes and went ghost, man. Had nowhere else to go. Couldn’t trust anyone, and now I’m sleeping in bushes and shit, freezing for weeks, getting hypothermia or something. I go anywhere near my end and it’ll be my end, you get me?’
‘I do,’ I said, ‘though one might argue that you’ve encouraged their disapprobation. You’ve still been posting videos about them online, haven’t you? What was it again? “Cutthroats pulling them strings / Unlucky number’s feeling the wrath.”’
His eyes flared with surprise as Zara joined. ‘“Gaza Strip caught up in things / Sorry, Palestine–Israel’s off.”’ She shook her head. ‘After a look on your Facebook, it seems that your family are mostly Palestinian. So, you’re Palestine, of course. And you are friends with Andre Israel, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t know about friends,’ he muttered. ‘Used to be on the same scene. He’s quiet. Straight.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and I take it from those lyrics that you’re aware of his current trial? You could go so far as to say he’s been charged in your place.’
‘If it’s protection you’re after,’ I added, ‘then you’re going to have to offer something in return. We’re going to need you to testify in court.’
He considered this for a while longer, though he must’ve already been considering it for weeks. He shuffled over to the bureau in the corner and dropped into Zara’s usual chair. He bowed his head, passing the empty bottle between his hands, and mumbled, ‘What would I have to say?’
‘Well,’ I told him, ‘you’d have to testify about Andre Israel’s involvement, or lack thereof, for a start, as well as the actions of your fellow Cutthroats, and whatever they’re up to in that prison.’
‘Is that all?’ He laughed weakly, staring down at his trainers; they looked expensive, but tattered by the streets. ‘Will I be safe?’
I hesitated. In asking this question, as he had with the Rubik’s cube in his hands, he looked much younger. ‘I don’t know. We’d do our best to make it so.’
He nodded slightly. ‘How would it work?’
‘First, we’d need you to see Andre’s solicitor, tomorrow, so that she can take a statement from you.’
‘Tomorrow? You need me to help you out, but you’re going to send me back out to sleep on the streets? Some deal that is.’
Zara shrugged. ‘We don’t run a hotel, Omar.’
‘No,’ I agreed, ‘I’m sorry to say that we don’t.’ I fell quiet then, thinking about it. I clenched my eyes shut, realising what I had to do, and sighed. ‘I need to go and make a personal phone call.’
Omar braced in his seat. ‘To who?’
‘Somebody,’ I replied, getting to my feet. ‘If we’re going to keep you alive, then you’re going to have to trust me.’
Whether I had his faith or not, he didn’t say. I could feel his suspicious gaze as I went out onto the landing, closed the door behind me and took my phone from my pocket.
I leaned back against the wall a few yards from my door and listened to the sounds of the building. Ernie’s vacuum cleaner was already at work a floor away. In a room nearby, somebody coughed and stiff keys clicked across a laptop. I took a deep breath and scrolled through my contacts to the listing I’d never changed: Home.
After precisely seven rings, it was answered. ‘Hello?’
My stomach tightened at the sound of the voice, pushing hot blood into my ears. ‘Is Jenn— Jennifer there?’
‘May I ask who’s calling?’
I had to clamp my jaw: I was the man who had kept that king-sized bed warm for fifteen years. Thankfully, I heard her voice before I had to force a civil answer. ‘Who is it, Tom? They’re about to start the final chase.’
‘It’s for you, dear.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. Hang on, I’ll pause it …’ There was the fumbling of the receiver changing hands, then a deep, feminine breath beside the mouthpiece. ‘Yes?’
‘You know that those game shows are all fixed, don’t you?’
A fuming sigh. ‘What do you want?’
‘How’s Phillip?’
‘Still dying. Is that what you called for?’
‘I need your help.’
Her voice lowered to a hiss; the lack of background air suggested that she’d cupped her hand around the microphone. ‘If it’s to do with that threat then think again.’
‘It’s not. Do you still help out at Centrepoint?’
A few seconds of silence. ‘Why?’
‘I’ve got a young man here that could use your help.’
Twenty minutes later, Omar was back in his ludicrous disguise and cautiously following Zara and me along Chancery Lane.
I led them both through the gate of Lincoln’s Inn, which was unlocked every day until seven at night. Across those grounds, I retraced the same shortcut that used to take me from waking up on Lincoln’s Inn Fields to the baths down at the Inner Temple. Omar seemed to be surveying the society’s ancient stone buildings with distrust, though it was hard to be sure from the outside of his sunglasses. Beyond the gated grounds of Lincoln’s Inn itself, we passed the fields that I’d once called home, then crossed Kingsway.
Altogether it was only a ten-minute walk to Bruce House, the massive five-storey red-brick building that occupied more than half of Kemble Street at the front and a considerable chunk of Drury Lane to the side. It was classed as a charitable lodging house, another of the city’s Grade II listed buildings, and had been hosting the homeless since before George Orwell wrote about his stay there in Down and Out in Paris and London in 1933, in which he described the place as ‘excellent value for one and a penny’. Now it was run by Centrepoint, and cost its residents £13.44 a week.
‘Here?’ Omar asked after I’d come to a stop.
‘Here.’
I’d never stayed here during my own ‘down and out’ period – it had been undergoing a major renovation that saw it closed between the late eighties and early nineties – but its proximity to chambers made it the obvious choice, and its sheer size was the reason Jenny had suggested it, in the hope that Omar could become lost among the tenants. The entrance was comprised of wooden double doors set beneath a stone semicircular arch. Two residents were smoking there; Omar tensed as we passed them by, but neither paid him any mind.
The woman behind the counter looked up and smiled as we entered. She had a face that was vaguely familiar from Jenny’s charity events of yesteryear. ‘Elliot! Long time, no see. I literally just got off the phone with Jennifer, she said you’d be coming down.’ She turned her smile to the teenager and his ridiculous outfit. ‘You’re extremely lucky, young man. Ordinarily there’s a waiting list, but the Rooks have done a lot of good for our cause. It’s the least we can do.’
‘I really do appreciate it –’ I paused; thankfully, she was wearing a name badge. ‘Sally. How have you been?’
‘Oh, just swell, thanks.’ She was gathering up forms but paused before handing them over. ‘Look, I’m sorry to hear about you and Jen …’
I reached across for the forms, avoiding her eyes. ‘He just fills these out, yes?’
‘That’s it. I just need one reference, a form of identification, and the name of his employer.’
‘Employer?’
‘House policy. Residents must have an employer, even if it’s just part-time …’ She raised her eyebrows to Omar. ‘You do have an employer, don’t you?’
‘Of course,’ I said, forcing a reluctant smile, reminding myself that I was doing this not for him, but for the young woman beside us. ‘Omar here is working with us. An intern at chambers.’
‘Oh.’ She smiled, but the smile was puzzled. ‘Well, it’s good to see you branching out.’
Omar wasn’t happy about surrendering his identification. I almost thought he wouldn’t do it, but after a few grumbles he relented. A few nights on the city streets will do that to a young man’s resolve.
Sally made two photocopies of his provisional driving licence and stapled one to the original form, which the hostel would keep for its files, and the other to its carbon copy, which she told Omar to keep safe. As soon as her back was turned to source him a room key, I caught him preparing to tear the form into pieces.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, catching his hands.
‘I can’t have this shit lying around,’ he hissed. ‘What if somebody breaks into my room and finds it? As long as I’m here, I’m Fred.’
‘Nobody is going to break into your room,’ I replied, though my own years of homelessness had taught me that honour among thieves was rare. On second thought, I whipped the paperwork out of his hands.
‘Oi, what’re you doing, man?’
‘Holding on to this,’ I told him. ‘I might need your details when I apply for witness protection and it’ll be more than secure in chambers.’
He glowered. ‘That’s my life in your hands.’
‘Yes,’ Zara said. ‘And when the time comes, you’d better remember that, Fred.’