A Place Of Safety (18 page)

Jez clapped his hands in mirth.

Kerry imagined his Christmas dinners to be a magazine glossy with at least twenty friends squeezed around a table heaving with champagne and smoked salmon. A far cry from Lilly’s council-estate affair. Yet even that sounded more fun than her own. She usually visited her dad and his cat. They were all snoring by the end of the Queen’s Speech. When they woke around seven, Kerry would drive back to her dark flat and eat a tin of Roses.

Judge Banks shook his head. He had the case file to his left and the latest edition of the
Three Counties Observer
to his right.

‘This is most unfortunate.’

‘Yes, Your Honour,’ said Lilly. ‘But at least this time I didn’t crash into your car.’

‘I hardly think this is a time for humour, Miss Valentine.’

Lilly threw up her hands. ‘I’m not sure what else to do, Your Honour. This story is not my doing or that of my client. A reporter obviously followed me to my home and worked out that Anna was living there.’

‘Something that is surely no longer tenable.’

Lilly thought he might try this.

‘Your Honour, I don’t see why not. The fact that this information has been made public doesn’t change the risk posed by my client. It doesn’t make her more likely to abscond and it doesn’t make her more likely to reoffend.’

‘Now everyone knows where she lives, the child herself may be in danger,’ said the judge.

‘You can grant a non-molestation order here and now, Your Honour, make sure they don’t come to my office or my house.’

‘That’s one possibility but we will have the world’s media breathing down our necks,’ he said.

‘The
Three Counties Observer
is hardly international,’ said Lilly.

‘Who knows where all this will end, young lady?’

On the way home Lilly couldn’t help dwelling on Judge Banks’s ominous words. As soon as Lilly had tried to take control of this case, disaster lay at every turn—the cottage window, the office, the car and now the press.

As she pulled up outside the cottage she craned her neck for photographers.

‘No one is here,’ said Anna.

Lilly realised she’d been holding her breath.

‘The press have had their day and we’ll soon be old news.’ But she couldn’t help wondering what might happen next, and—as the judge had also wondered—where it all might end.

Her phone beeped with an incoming text, answering Lilly’s question. It was the office.

Just heard from Luton Crown Court that due to excessive media coverage, The Crown v Duraku has been transferred to CCC.

  She had her answer. The case was going to end at the Old Bailey.

Chapter Fourteen

Snow White pulled out onto the A5. Old Rusty screeched as she pushed the gear stick into second.

‘Distracted, darling?’

Snow White smiled at her husband in the passenger seat. The car lurched forward and he moaned. He was hung over after a night out with the boys and needed a lift to the station.

‘You should have called a cab,’ she said. ‘I have better things to do than chauffeur you around.’

He rubbed her knee and exhaled. Snow White could smell his breath. Scotch and mouthwash.

She shot over a roundabout, oblivious to the horns of the other cars.

‘For the love of God,’ he said. ‘Keep your mind on the job in hand.’

She sneaked a glance at her husband. He was a good man but a simple one. He wasn’t alive to the extreme danger in which they were living.

‘I can’t stop thinking about that girl,’ she said. ‘Something should be done.’

‘Better not get involved,’ he said.

‘You’re not having your nose rubbed in it every day.’ She pulled up at the station, blocking in three taxis.

Her husband leaned over and kissed her cheek.

She watched him stagger to his platform and ignored the irate hooting of the minibus behind. A rag-head. Not even worth her contempt.

The fridge had looked bare this morning and she thought she might pop over to M&S before the parking places rose to golden-fleece status.

As she turned Old Rusty around she caught sight of red curls. It was the enemy. Snow White looked again, her heart pounding. She was with that anorexic girl,
the girl
, and they were obviously on their way to somewhere important.

Once again it was time to take action.

‘What the fuck?’

Luke and Caz emerge from the tube at St Paul’s, surprised at the sea of people. They push past some meat-head in an Adidas tracksuit.

‘What’s your problem?’ the man snarls, his hand already drawn into a fist.

‘Leave it,’ says the man next to him, and Luke takes the opportunity to escape into the crowd.

They’d made their way over to do a bit of begging, as nine-thirty always meant hoards of office workers dashing to Cheapside, but this was manic.

‘Crowds are good,’ says Caz, but she doesn’t sound sure.

‘There is something in the atmosphere, something tense. Luke had felt something similar once at a Gunners’ match and his dad had insisted they left before the final whistle.

They can’t bed down in their usual spot just inside the entrance, because a group of skinheads have congregated, talking and nodding, organising something.

Luke looks at Caz and she beckons him outside.

‘I think we should get off,’ she says.

He looks at the beads of sweat on her top lip. ‘Don’t we need some money?’

‘I can get some,’ she says, avoiding his eyes.

Luke feels a knot tighten in his stomach. Ever since he found out how Caz made extra cash he’s tried to put it to the back of his mind.

‘Let’s give it a try here,’ he says.

‘I don’t get a good feeling about this, Luke.’

He puts an arm around her. ‘Like you’re always telling me, one person’s money is as good as the next’s.’

She looks unconvinced, so he squats down on his heels and pulls her down with him. ‘With this amount of people we’ll have twenty quid in less time than it would take you to find a punter.’

She puts her head on his shoulder, too sick and needy to argue.

The men in the station start to emerge, still in groups but moving as one body.

‘Spare some change?’ says Luke to the nearest two.

One looks right through him but the other snaps his head. ‘What did you say?’ His clothes are expensive but his chipped teeth and earrings tell Luke he’s spent his life on an estate.

Luke bends his head and feels Caz shrink into him, her hand gripping his upper arm.

‘I asked what you said,’ sneers the man.

Luke shakes his head and folds in on himself.

The man nudges Luke’s leg with the toe of his loafer. ‘Don’t fucking ignore me when I’m talking to you.’

The other man laughs and is soon joined by others until Luke can feel the press of a group above him. The man nudges again, only this time it’s more of a kick. ‘Fucking junkie scum.’

Luke braces himself. The homeless get beaten up all the time. Especially after last orders. Someone once set fire to Caz’s sleeping bag. And she was in it.

Luke imagines what all those boots and trainers will feel like raining down on him.

Another voice booms from behind, clear and authoritative. ‘Lads, lads, let’s not give anyone a chance to criticise us.’

‘It’s these dirty fuckers, boss, they do my head in, sitting here begging for money.’

‘Not a pretty sight on the streets of this once great city, I’ll grant you,’ says the boss.

‘Why can’t they just get a job instead of dossing around in their own filth?’

The boss laughs, and it’s hard, humourless. ‘That’s a very good question, Bigsy. Why can’t they just get a job?’

He moves to the front and squats down in front of Luke and Caz. Luke can smell the sharp lemon of his aftershave.

‘Tell me, son,’ he says. ‘Have you tried to get work?’

The way the man is nodding tells Luke not to point out he’s a schoolboy from Harpenden.

‘Let me guess, where you’re from, all the jobs have been taken by the Poles. Plumbing, building, you name it,’ says the man.

The group grunt their understanding.

Luke’s only ever met one Pole and he was a consultant at the private hospital where his mum had an operation on her knee after a fall on a skiing holiday. But he nods his agreement.

The boss gets back to his feet. ‘See, lads, this is what has become of the great white working classes. Reduced to poverty and despair by mass immigration.’ He pulls out a twenty-pound note and brandishes it so everyone can see. Luke wonders if he’s supposed to take it but his hands are shaking too much. The boss frowns as his note flaps in the wind. For a moment, Luke thinks he will put it back in his wallet but Caz snakes out her fingers and snatches it away.

With that, the boss leads his flock down towards the cathedral.

‘I still think they’re dirty cunts,’ mumbles the first man, but he chucks three pound coins at them all the same.

As the men round the corner, Caz jumps to her feet and sets off to Waterloo, where the word is a dealer has just got fresh stash from Afghanistan.

Luke tags behind her and vows to find that deposit.

Lilly dropped her biro as she signed in at the entrance of the Old Bailey.

Anna took Lilly’s hands in her own and blew on them. ‘You are cold.’

Lilly smiled. She wasn’t about to admit that she was terrified. Last night she had been through all the case papers and rehearsed exactly what to say. She’d gone to bed having drunk enough Sauvignon to sleep well but not enough to feel it in the morning.

She was determined to remain calm, and reminded herself that she appeared in court most days. This was nothing new.

She looked around the Central Criminal Court. The whole place sighed with a thousand life sentences and nausea growled in her stomach.

She left Anna with Milo and headed for the loos. A barrister was washing her hands, chatting into a Bluetooth headset. She looked so relaxed, as if she belonged.

Lilly appraised her reflection. Her hair was neat but not severe. Her black suit was freshly dry cleaned and Anna had pressed and starched a white shirt to within an inch of its life.

Her mother had always said, ‘If it waddles like a duck and quacks like a duck…’

Well, here was Lilly, waddling and quacking for all she was worth.

‘So, get your arse in gear, Donald,’ she mumbled to herself.

Nothing could go wrong. She was prepared.

‘Hello gorgeous,’ called Jez as she came out of the toilet.

Lilly gave him a weak smile.

‘Ooh, someone’s nervous,’ he laughed. ‘It’s only P and D.’

It might only be a short hearing for Anna to put in her plea and for the new judge to give yet more directions, but it would be in the grim auspices of one of the most infamous courtrooms in the world.

‘Who’ve we got?’ asked Lilly.

‘Teddy Roberts,’ he said.

His Honour Judge Edward Roberts. Lilly gulped. ‘Didn’t he once order a solicitor to spend a night in the cells?’

‘It was only an hour and she was late.’ Jez put his hand on Lilly’s arm. ‘He’s a pussycat. Nothing can go wrong.’

They entered Court Four.

Nothing can go wrong, nothing can go wrong.

‘Lilly,’ said Jez. ‘Where’s your gown?’

Shit.

Lilly sank onto the bench and wondered what the food would be like in custody.

‘Where’s the judge?’ Jez asked the usher.

‘Coming down the corridor.’

Jez turned to Kerry. ‘Do you have one?’

Kerry nodded and fished in her bag. Lilly snatched it and threw it around her shoulders. It was enormous and looked like a Victorian cape that skimmed her ankles.

‘Thanks,’ Lilly whispered and tied the bands that hung like a loose bandage around her collarbone. Everything smelled faintly of toast.

The usher opened the door. ‘All rise.’

Lilly struggled to her feet like a black pair of curtains.

Jez leaned over and whispered, ‘Tell me you didn’t take a lump out of
his
car.’

‘I’m ignoring you,’ she said.

Judge Roberts entered court and raised a quizzical eyebrow at Lilly’s attire.

‘Miss Valentine, thank you for coming at such short notice.’

Lilly nodded and smiled. Maybe he
was
a pussycat.

‘I have spoken with the
Three Counties Observer
and ordered them to release your address to no one. I have also made it abundantly clear that if they harass you in any way this court will deal with them most forcefully.’

Lilly beamed. Definitely a pussycat. ‘Thank you.’

‘But I should tell you now that I am most unhappy with the situation in respect of your client’s bail.’

Maybe not.

Lilly cleared her throat. ‘Your Honour, I know that in these circumstances a defendant would be remanded in custody, but the
Bail Act
makes it clear that the presumption is always for bail to be given…’

Judge Roberts put up his hand. ‘Miss Valentine, I have been a judge for nearly twenty years, so you can imagine I’ve come across the
Bail Act
once or twice.’

‘Yes, Your Honour,’ said Lilly. ‘I just wanted to explain how this particular arrangement came about.’

The hand came up again. ‘Frankly, I’m not interested in the hows and whys. I just want to make it clear that I am not comfortable at all.’

‘I can understand your apprehension,’ she said. ‘But if you revoke bail…’

The hand again. Lilly was beginning to feel like she was a car in traffic.

‘Did I say anything about revocation, Miss Valentine?’

‘Well, no,’ said Lilly.

‘Then let’s move on,’ said Judge Roberts. ‘I’ve made it clear I’m unhappy, but since your client is here today I can hardly complain she’s a flight risk, can I? Now, are you ready to plead today?’

‘Yes, Your Honour. My client will plead not guilty.’

‘On what basis?’ he asked.

‘On the basis that she didn’t do it.’

The courtroom erupted into laughter. Lilly felt her face burn.

‘On what legal basis?’ said the judge. ‘Self-defence?’

‘I intend to show that my client did not have the mental capacity to take part in a conspiracy to murder,’ said Lilly.

‘You have an expert?’ asked the judge.

‘Dr Leyla Kadir will say my client was, and still is, suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder,’ said Lilly, hoping to God that was what she would say.

‘Very well.’ The judge nodded curtly at Anna. ‘Please make your way to the dock.’

Anna was led by the usher to the wooden box at the back of the court. She stared down the steps and Lilly wondered if she realised they led directly to the cells. The kid looked swamped by her surroundings, like a pixie trapped in the real world.

The clerk cleared his throat. ‘Tirana Duraku, it is said that on 2 October you did conspire with Artan Shala to murder Charles Stanton. How do you plead, guilty or not guilty?’

Anna looked up at the judge, a semi-circle of white beneath each iris. She opened her mouth to speak when there was a huge bang behind her.

Lilly gasped and saw that the public gallery had been stormed by about twenty men, all shouting and clapping their hands, nylon sportswear stretched over their beer bellies.

The judge banged his gavel. ‘This is a closed court.’

The men continued to jeer until a man pushed his way to the front. He was dressed from head to toe in black: suit, shirt, tie, overcoat. He leaned against the balcony railings and glowered at the judge.

‘The public are not allowed to be present during this hearing,’ said the judge, his tone thunderous.

‘And why is that?’ asked the man.

‘I am not at liberty to explain,’ said Judge Roberts. ‘Now, if you would kindly leave.’

The man pointed at Anna. ‘Is it because she’s an asylum seeker?’

‘Leave my courtroom,’ said the judge, the steel in his voice sharpening.

‘Is it because the likes of her get special treatment? Houses, social security, and now protection from the law?’

The men behind him clapped.

‘If you do not vacate the gallery immediately, I will have each and every one of you arrested,’ shouted the judge.

‘And I suppose you’ll sling us in the cells while this foreigner gets to live it up with her brief.’

The men erupted. Cheering, clapping and banging their fists against the balcony railings.

‘England for the English,’ the man shouted.

‘England for the English,’ screamed the rest, until it became a terrifying chant, each beat punctuated by stamped feet.

‘Everyone into my chamber,’ said the judge.

The usher, clerk, Kerry and Jez made for the door.

Anna didn’t move. She was like a rabbit caught in headlights, glued to her chair, staring at the men.