Bleed for Me (29 page)

I don’t know the time. They took away my wristwatch, along with my belt and shoelaces. Occasional y, there are footsteps outside and the hinged observation flap opens. Eyes peer at me. After several seconds, the hatch shuts and I go back to staring at the ceiling light, contemplating the bad luck and bad choices that have brought me here. Where did it come from -

the violence that rose up inside me?

I am an intel igent, rational, civilised man, yet the blood on my shirt says otherwise. What I did was stupid. Reckless. Wrong. Yet I don’t regret it. I don’t feel sorry for myself. I could have kil ed him. I
wanted
to kil him.

Taking off my shirt, I rol it into a bal and put it beneath my head, resting my arm across my eyes.

I can hear Ronnie Cray’s voice before she arrives like an elephant entering a phone box. I expect her to have me released. Instead I’m taken from the holding cel to an interview suite.

She pul s up a chair. ‘Were you trying to kil him?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You might want to rephrase that.’

‘OK. No.’

‘He says there was no provocation. He says you harassed his wife and when he came to complain you attacked him.’

‘He broke into my house.’

‘There was no sign of forced entry.’

‘He found the key.’

‘He said you invited him inside.’

‘This is ridiculous! El is seduced Sienna Hegarty. He was grooming other girls.’ I can’t bring myself to mention Charlie. ‘His first wife disappeared four years ago. Her name was Caro Regan—’

‘I know al about Caro Regan,’ says Cray.

The statement silences me.

‘Don’t look so surprised, Professor, and don’t treat me like some wet-behind-the-ears probationary constable who doesn’t know shit from Shinola. I checked on Gordon El is the moment his name came up in the Hegarty investigation. I pul ed his file and I interviewed him.’

‘And what?’

‘He had an alibi. Natasha El is says her husband was home al evening.’

‘She’s covering for him.’

‘Maybe.’

‘I talked to Sienna. She was seeing El is.’

‘Did she name him?’

‘I’m naming him.’

‘You and I both know that’s not the same thing. Unless she makes a statement, there’s nothing I can do.’

‘She’s fourteen.’

‘Teenage girls develop unhealthy infatuations with teachers al the time. Sometimes they convince themselves it’s love. Sometimes they convince themselves it’s reciprocated.’

‘She was pregnant. El is was the father.’

‘Can you prove that?’

‘No.’

‘So it’s a theory. That’s the difference between you and me, Professor. I deal in facts and you deal in theories. We checked El is’s DNA against the semen stains found on Sienna Hegarty’s sheets. No match. And you asked DS Abbott to look at her email accounts and phone server. There wasn’t a single email or text message either to or from Gordon El is. No love letters or notes or photographs. Nobody saw them together or overheard them talking . . .’

‘Danny Gardiner saw them.’

‘And El is wil say he was taking Sienna to see her therapist.’

‘Ray Hegarty complained to the school.’

‘It was investigated and discounted.’

‘This is bul shit!’

Cray rises from her chair and paces the room. ‘You’re going about this al wrong, Professor. I know that Gordon El is is a human toilet - maybe he deserved a beating - but you’re too close.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Sienna is your daughter’s best friend. You’re emotional y involved.’

‘You think I’m being irrational.’

‘You just beat a man half to death.’

‘Someone ran me off the road. Someone kil ed my dog. Someone has been fol owing me.’

Even as the words come out, I realise that I’m sounding paranoid rather than making my case.

Cray shrugs, blinks. ‘So you pissed someone off. I can see how that might happen. You’re being charged with malicious wounding.’

‘He broke into my house!’

‘He was unarmed and you used unreasonable force.’

She turns towards the door and bangs twice.

‘You want me to tel your wife or can you handle that yourself ?’

‘Don’t do me any favours.’

My sarcasm grates on her. ‘Suit yourself. You’l appear in court in the morning. Get yourself a lawyer.’

The drunk is talking in his sleep, arguing with his addiction. Lying on my wooden bench, I can taste my self-loathing. I’ve been fingerprinted, photographed and had my buttocks pried apart in a strip search. I have joined the faceless, uneducated and inept, locked up in a police cel , humiliated and belittled. If ever there was a benchmark to indicate how far my life has unravel ed, this is it.

Gordon El is was sleeping with Sienna and Ray Hegarty found out. Did that warrant kil ing him? Motives come in al shapes and sizes. Maybe Sienna and El is organised the kil ing together. Both had reasons to want Ray Hegarty out of the way.

The weight of the day is like a fever and my mind keeps drifting. Every part of me seems to ache with exhaustion, even the roots of my hair. Sleep is a blessing.

At some point in the hours that fol ow, my head and arms begin jerking uncontrol ably. My medication has worn off and Mr Parkinson, a cruel puppeteer, is tugging at my strings and twisting my body into inhuman shapes.

Hammering on the cel door with the flat of my hand, I wait. Nobody responds. The drunk rol s over and tel s me to be quiet. I hit the door again.

I can feel my limbs jerking and my body contorting in a strange dance, without music or any discernible rhythm. My head dips and sways, my arms writhe, my legs twitch, moving constantly. The drunk opens one eye and then the other. Wider. He scrambles away and stands in the corner. Crossing himself, suddenly religious.

‘What’s wrong with you, man? You having a heart attack?’

‘No.’

‘You possessed.’

‘I have Parkinson’s.’

The hatch opens. A young constable peers into the cel .

‘He’s fucking possessed,’ yel s the drunk.

‘I need my pil s,’ I explain.

‘Get him out of here! He’s scaring me.’

‘I have Parkinson’s.’

The young constable tel s me to sit down. ‘We’re not al owed to issue medications.’

‘They’re prescribed . . . in my coat.’

‘Step back from the door, sir.’

‘You’l find a white plastic bottle. Levodopa.’

‘I’l warn you one more time, sir, step away from the door.’

With every ounce of wil power, I stop myself moving. I can hold the pose for a few seconds, but then I start again.

‘A phone cal . Let me make a phone cal .’

The young constable tel s me to wait. Ten minutes later he returns. I’m al owed a cal .

The first name in my head is Julianne’s, but nobody answers. Charlie’s voice is on the recorded message. It beeps and I start to speak but realise I don’t know what to say. I put down the receiver and cal Ruiz.

‘What’s up, wise man? You sound like shit.’

‘I’m in jail.’

‘What did you do - forget to take back a library book?’

‘I beat up Gordon El is.’

I have to wait until he stops laughing.

‘I’m glad you think it’s funny.’

‘I have visions of handbags at ten paces.’

‘I need your help. My pil s. The police won’t let me have them. I can’t function.’

‘Leave it with me.’

I go back to waiting and writhing and being watched by the drunk. If I lock my left and right ankles together I can sometimes get my legs to remain stil . But making one part of me stop means the energy finds somewhere else to spasm.

An hour passes and the young constable unlocks the door. He has a glass of water and my bottle of pil s. I can get the tablets on my tongue, but keep spil ing the water. I swal ow them dry and sit on the bench, waiting for the jerking to subside.

‘Your lawyer is on his way,’ says the PC.

‘I don’t have a lawyer.’

‘You do now.’

Two hours pass. I’m taken upstairs to an interview suite. Even before I arrive I recognise the profanity-laden south London accent of Eddie Barrett, a man who can make a smile seem like an insult. Ruiz must have cal ed him.

Eddie is a defence lawyer with a reputation for bul ying and cajoling witnesses and juries. Years ago he earned the nickname ‘Bul dog’, which could be due to his short body and swaggering walk, or his passionate embrace of al things British. (He has ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ as his ringtone and is rumoured to wear Union Jack underwear.)

‘Wel , wel , look who got himself arrested - the Hugh Grant of the head-shrinking profession. Should I cal it a profession? I guess if it’s good enough for prostitutes . . .’

Like I’m in the mood for this.

Eddie reads my expression and tel s me to sit down. Taking a seat opposite, he splays his thighs like his bol ocks are the size of grapefruit. ‘Let’s make this quick, Britney, I’m missing out on my beauty sleep. I hope you didn’t make any admissions . . . sign any statements.’

‘No.’

‘Good. Are they treating you OK?’

I nod and glance at his watch. It’s after midnight. He must have driven down from London.

‘OK, here’s the plan, Oprah. Your case is listed for the morning. We won’t plead. I’l make an application for bail, which should be a formality. Do you have any savings?’

‘Not real y.’

‘Family who can put up a surety?’

‘My parents, maybe.’

‘Good.’

Eddie starts making notes on a pad. He asks me about Julianne and the girls, my job and whether I’m involved in any charities.

‘Have you ever been arrested?’

‘Once. It was a misunderstanding.’

Eddie rol s his eyes and scrubs out a note.

‘Can’t you get this stuff dismissed?’ I ask.

‘You didn’t piss in a phone box, Professor.’

‘He broke into my house.’

‘And you tried to remove his head.’

‘Surely we can cut a deal?’

‘In case you haven’t noticed, Dorothy, we’re not in Kansas any more.’

Eddie stands and readjusts his hanging bits before tossing his raincoat over his arm.

‘Is that it?’

‘For now.’

‘Don’t you want to know what happened?’

‘Right now, I want to find a king-sized bed, a twelve-ounce Porterhouse and a mini-bar. You’l be paying for al of them.’

Picking up his briefcase, he lifts the flap and inserts the notepad before doing up the buckle.

‘By the way, the guy you hit needed thirty stitches and a blood transfusion. I hope he had it coming.’

31

Bristol Crown Court looks almost whitewashed in a burst of sunshine grinning through a gap in the clouds. Resting my forehead against the window of the police van, I watch clusters of shivering workers smoke cigarettes in doorways.

The van has to stop at a police checkpoint. Barricades have blocked off either end of the street, guarded by officers in riot gear standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder. Protesters, carrying placards and banners, have been funnel ed on to the footpath and kept wel away from the entrance to the courthouse.

Glancing ahead, I can see another group at the far end of the street forming a makeshift honour guard for a larger prison van. Some of the crowd are carrying political posters and placards with slogans about ‘taking back our country’. They’re a strange mixture of shaven-headed youths with tattoos, middle-aged men in zip-up jackets and pensioners stil wearing war medals. Among them is a woman with a baby in a sling and a grandmother carrying a picnic basket and vacuum flask.

My eyes pick out a familiar face in the crowd. It takes me a moment to place it. Lance Hegarty is in the front row, taunting refugee advocates and pro-immigration protesters. The crowd surges forward, trying to fol ow the prison van. The police link arms and force them back.

A woman yel s, ‘We love you, Novak!’

Someone else shouts, ‘It’s a stitch-up! A state fucking conspiracy!’

TV crews and reporters record the moment, filming from the safety of no man’s land, between the groups of protesters.

Large wooden doors swing open and the prison van pul s down a narrow concrete ramp. The prisoners disembark and walk single file into the bowels of the building.

I’m driven down the same ramp and forced to wait as the doors close behind us. A police officer takes me inside to a holding cel . Other prisoners have lawyers to talk to. I can’t see Eddie Barrett anywhere.

‘O’Loughlin,’ yel s a guard. ‘You’re second up.’

Twenty minutes later I’m being led down corridors and upstairs before emerging directly into the courtroom. The dock is set off to one side and separated by glass partitions.

Opposite is an empty jury box. Half a dozen lawyers in black robes and horsehair wigs are standing at the bar table like crows hovering around road kil . Eddie Barrett is not among them.

A hush fal s over the courtroom as the judge arrives, climbing three steps to the bench. The bailiff cal s the courtroom to order. Judge Spencer is in attendance, looking down from his enormous leather chair like a headmaster who has summoned miscreants to his study. His round face is blotched with blood vessels that break across his nose and cheeks in a claret-coloured blush.

‘If it pleases Your Honour, my name is Mel or, I appear for the Crown. We have an application for bail and two matters for mention. If we can dispense with them first you can proceed with the trial.’

The judge turns to the clerk. ‘Has the jury been informed?’

‘Yes, Your Honour.’

At that moment Eddie Barrett pushes through a heavy door and swaggers to the bar table.

‘Barrett for the accused, Your Honour.’

‘Have you had an opportunity to talk to your client, Mr Barrett?’

‘I have, Your Honour.’

Eddie’s hair is stil wet from the shower and one untucked shirt-tail flaps up and down as he pul s out a chair.

‘We’re happy to waive the reading of the charge, Your Honour, and won’t be entering a plea at this time, but we do wish to discuss the issue of bail.’

Nobody has addressed me or even acknowledged my presence.

Mr Mel or speaks.

‘The prosecution doesn’t object to bail, Your Honour, but we wil be seeking a substantial surety and other guarantees. This was a savage, unprovoked assault, which has left a young school teacher with severe facial injuries. The victim is stil in hospital and may require plastic surgery.’