Death By Dangerous (7 page)

Anderson took refuge in West's flat, glad of the opportunity to hide away from the world. He couldn't get Waqar Ahmed's face out of his mind.

He eyed up West's drinks tray then checked his watch – only eleven o'clock. What the hell? He poured himself a large brandy, gulped it down, then another.

Why couldn't he remember?

Now he wanted to forget.

6pm. The buzzer woke him. Someone at the door. He picked himself up, straightened his tie and peeked through the spyhole. A man clutching a holdall. Anderson opened the door.

‘Evening, sir. Aces couriers.' He handed over a bag. ‘From a Mrs Anderson.'

Anderson thanked him and went to shut the door.

‘Payment on delivery, sir. £28, please?'

He had just enough to cover it. He retreated back inside to examine the contents. Maybe there was a letter, something to give him hope? Only clothes and the clean dressings the hospital had given him. If he'd been in any doubt before, he knew now that the separation was final.

He turned on his iPad and listlessly began to google a few words. His own name brought up previous cases and a few newspaper reports of the accident − his job and being released on police bail. Then he tried Heena Butt. No match.

In despair, he poured himself another drink, making a mental note that he would need to buy his friend another bottle. He took out his mobile and dialled home. ‘Hi, Will, it's me – Dad.'

‘Hi, Dad. I miss you.'

A choked reply: ‘I miss you too. How's Angus?'

‘Fine. When are we going to see you?'

‘Soon. I'll speak to your mum. We'll arrange something, OK?'

‘OK. Love you, Dad.'

‘Love you too. Will?'

Will had already hung up. Anderson poured another drink.

Then another.

The next few days passed in much the same way. A haze of booze, a few painful meetings at the flat with his boys and unfocused searches for a defence. At least he could limp around unaided and he was getting used to leaving his facial scar uncovered, but the more time went on, the weaker he felt mentally. The thought of going back into the courtroom terrified him.

Anderson only ever went out to buy drink and the odd ready meal from the Waitrose on Bridge Street, fast becoming a familiar figure, shuffling across Spinningfields with a plastic bag full of clunking bottles. The subject of much discussion, he'd become a morality tale about how quickly one can fall from grace in the legal profession. Of the cruel unpredictability of life.

Only alcohol could numb the pain of his humiliation.

He'd heard nothing from chambers for two weeks. Desperate for money, it had finally dawned that chambers didn't want him back until the case was over – his name cleared. If he wanted a brief, he would have to call Gary and demand one.

The nudge he needed came when the cashpoint would only dispense £10. Out of food and, more importantly, brandy, he staggered back to the flat with a few meagre supplies and made the decision to ring in. ‘Hello, Gary, it's me.'

A pause. Then: ‘You sound different. How are you, sir?'

‘I'm fine. Any cheques?'

‘'Fraid not, sir.'

‘Well, I'm back now. Raring to go.'

‘OK, sir, I'll bear that in mind.'

Anderson was irritated by the lukewarm response. He'd spent seventeen years giving everything for this chambers. ‘I don't think you understand, Gary. I need a brief. Now. Anything.'

After a deafening silence: ‘All right, sir, I've got a return. A sentence in a burg at Crown Square. Defending.'

‘Burglary?'

‘You did say anything.'

Anderson swallowed his pride. ‘Yes, thanks. Can you get one of the lads to send the brief round to West's flat?'

‘Of course, sir,' Gary replied.

‘Oh and Gary, what happened in Ahmed?'

‘Not guilty, sir.'

‘Oh no! And Tredwell?'

‘Bender.'

‘Suspended sentence? So both walked. Shit, poor Connor.'

‘I wouldn't worry about him, sir. The CPS are blaming
you
.'

Anderson's head couldn't accommodate any more bad news.

His life had been destroyed and yet Waqar Ahmed was now a free man. Anderson raged at the injustice.

He reached for his glass and gulped down the contents.

The comforting damp of recent rain hung in the air.

He'd noticed her hours ago. So clean and innocent. Following at a distance from bar to club. He worried she was cold in that slinky little dress. So much bare flesh.

Laughing with friends. Celebrating her eighteenth birthday.

He wanted her so badly. He would give her something to remember, forever.

It had been far too long. Years. Desperate to hold a woman in his arms. See the terror on her face. Have a bond that would last a lifetime.

At last, goodbyes from her friends. Only two of them left now, stumbling across Spinningfields. Flicking their hair, giggling, arm in arm.

He hid in the shadows of a doorway as they passed. So close he could almost smell her, but for the odour of roasting doners wafting out of the takeaways on Deansgate. He put his hand in his coat pocket and felt the knife, waiting to do its work. He pulled it out, lifted his top and pressed the blade against his stomach. Drawing it upwards, he left a dripping red line. He grinned. A marker to help remember this night.

A taxi pulled up. Only one got in. Not her. It was meant to be.

Time to meet her destiny.

Defence advocate, Tahir Hussain, woke up after another hard night, lying there in the dark, remembering all the heartache. Reliving every moment, each one worse than the last. He went into the bathroom and splashed his face. There were good days and bad days. Today was definitely going to be one of the latter. A feeling of emptiness, of hopelessness, overwhelmed him. Why had his family been chosen? They never saw it coming. Hussain's life had been predictable, happy, until then. Encouraged to study hard by his immigrant parents, he'd exceeded all their expectations. First a degree, then qualifying as a solicitor. After twenty years of hard graft in small firms around south Manchester, he set up his own office. Everything had been going so well, until the recession hit. That was the beginning. When their luck changed.

His wife, Safa, came up behind and put her arms around his waist. How would he have got through this without her? He loved her so much. He thanked Allah that he could still feel love. He'd known it since the day they met. Made for each other. This was their biggest test. He turned to face her, like a lost child, wide-eyed and frightened. He ran his finger over the gold braiding on her sari, draped over her shoulder. Worn with such pride. A Muslim woman born in Manchester, Hussain's wife often chose to wear traditionally Hindu garments. She'd always had a mind of her own.

She hugged Hussain. ‘Come on, Taz, you should be pleased, Ahmed was acquitted. You won.'

He was unable to shake the melancholy: ‘Nothing seems to matter any more.'

She understood.

‘I can't face it today. Dealing with all the psychos.'

‘Do you mean the criminals or the lawyers?' she asked, trying to raise a smile.

He forced one. ‘Both.'

She hugged him again. ‘One day at a time.'

Despite his nerves, Anderson's physical improvement was such that he was able to walk into Manchester Crown Court with some purpose. The security guards fixed on his scar as he negotiated the metal detector. By the time he reached the door to the robing room his heart was pounding. He stopped outside and listened to the familiar clattering of wig tins and the chattering of advocates. A deep breath, then into the lion's den.

A sudden cessation of all noise. Everyone stared at Anderson, his scar. They offered nothing, even barristers from his own chambers. Anderson wasn't welcome.

How could they have turned on him so quickly? He hadn't even been charged, let alone convicted. Or was it that they'd never really liked him? Just waiting for an excuse to reveal their true feelings?

Then a voice from the other end of the room. ‘Anderson!'

His heart soared, but he couldn't see who it was. Someone pushing his way to the front, against the wall of silence. ‘How are you? Great to have you back.' A hand reached out to take Anderson's.

No! Not him. Not Tahir Hussain, of all people. Anderson avoided eye contact, then shrunk away. Was it because he didn't trust the man? No, he knew the reason: years of conditioning, learnt from his father, to shun ‘non-establishment' figures at the Bar. Instilled in him from an early age. Only at that moment was Anderson aware of it, of his prejudices. He saw the disappointment in Hussain's eyes. The feeling of rejection. Anderson had turned away from the only person who had been prepared to reach out with the hand of friendship, despite all their history in court.

He felt sick to the stomach.

Hussain recovered swiftly and said more quietly, ‘Welcome back,' before adjusting his wig and exiting the room.

Anderson's eyes followed him. He wished he could turn the clock back thirty seconds; he would have hugged Hussain, but it was too late, the moment had passed. Anderson unpacked his wig and gown, noticing a few surreptitious grins. He knew what they were thinking − Anderson ostracised, Hussain his only friend; how the mighty had fallen.

Hugh Coleman, a newly qualified barrister, put his head around the door. ‘Anyone defending a burg called Simpson?' he called out, unaware of what had gone before.

‘Yes, I am,' Anderson replied.

Coleman's surprise at the seniority of his opponent triggered muted laughter around the room.

Anderson took the opportunity to usher Coleman out.

‘We're first on,' said Coleman. ‘Got everything you need?'

‘Apart from a copy of his antecedents?'

‘No problem.' Coleman rifled through his brief and pulled out a copy of the defendant's previous convictions. ‘Here you go.'

Anderson thanked his opponent and set off for the cells. It wasn't until he saw the cell visiting room that he realised how long it had been since he'd defended anyone – years. It had become unfamiliar to him.

A twenty-something heroin addict with a yellow pallor sloped into the room, handcuffed at the front. The prison officer took off the cuffs and left the defendant alone with his barrister.

‘Kyle Simpson? I'm defending you today. My name is John Anderson.'

Simpson was immediately unimpressed. ‘Where's the barrister I had last time?'

‘I'm sorry, he's tied up in another matter,' replied Anderson, looking at the name of instructed counsel on the brief – a far more junior member of chambers.

‘So, what am I lookin' at?' Simpson asked, getting straight to the point.

‘Well, it's a domestic burglary, at night whilst the occupiers were in bed, so there are quite a few aggravating features. And you've got a previous conviction for the same thing, but you pleaded guilty so you'll get a third off.' Anderson paused to show he was giving the question a great deal of consideration. ‘Ball park, about eighteen months, maybe a bit more.'

Simpson nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer. ‘I'll serve half, less my remand time. I'll be out in six months.' Kyle Simpson was a career criminal. He had no problem paying the price for his crime, as long as it was legal and fair.

‘What about all the jewellery?' Anderson asked. ‘If we could assist in its recovery that might bring the sentence down a bit.'

‘It's gone. Sold it to buy brown.'

‘OK. Why this particular house?'

‘Between us, I like easy targets. Gnomes in the garden – had to be old people.'

Anderson made a mental note not to mention that to the judge. ‘Have you done anything to address your drug problem whilst on remand?'

Bored of the questions, Simpson replied: ‘Just keep it as short as you can.' ‘OK, I'll see you after.'

Counsels' rows were full of advocates waiting to get on. Her Honour Judge Kent had a full list, mainly pleas and sentences.

The usher called on Simpson's case. The elegant, businesslike judge was already on the bench. Simpson was led up the steps into the dock.

Anderson looked around him at the familiar faces. He noticed his colleagues in a way that he hadn't a few weeks ago. His confidence was shot to pieces − worrying about his impending performance in a poxy burglary sentence that would pay less than £100, even before chambers took its cut.

Coleman opened the case with an effortless fluency that surprised Anderson. He'd forgotten how competitive the Bar was at the bottom end, how good one had to be to survive. The young prosecutor read out well-chosen extracts from the victim impact statement to the Court.

Her Honour Judge Kent harrumphed on hearing the details.

Coleman finished by confirming that the judge had a copy of Simpson's previous convictions.

Anderson got to his feet. ‘There is no pre-sentence report, Your Honour. The defendant is realistic. He expects a custodial sentence, the only issue is length.'

The judge nodded. Anderson tried to read the judge's expression. Did she know about the crash? Was she against Anderson? She'd always been very kind to him in the past, respectful even.

The judge remained poker-faced.

‘Your Honour, the defendant pleaded guilty at the first opportunity and is extremely remorseful…' Anderson soon got into the flow. Felt good to be back in the courtroom. ‘If I can refer Your Honour to the sentencing guidelines…' Anderson was building to the main thrust of his submission. ‘Taking into account the guilty plea, it is my submission that the appropriate sentence is not more than eighteen months' imprisonment.'

The judge stared at him. Was she thinking about the submission? Impressed by it? No, Anderson's instincts told him otherwise. He looked across at Coleman, whose eyes were trying to tell him something, but what?

Other counsel could smell blood – Anderson's.

‘Mr Anderson,' said the judge in a tone that indicated her disappointment. ‘The defendant has two previous convictions for dwelling-house burglaries.' Anderson felt faint. How could he have missed that?

‘The
minimum
sentence is three years' imprisonment. The statute allows a maximum discount of twenty per cent for a guilty plea on a three-strike burglary. I am prohibited, in law, from imposing anything less than twenty-eight months.'

Shaken, Anderson tried to repair the damage: ‘Of course, Your Honour. I do apologise. I can only argue for a sentence of twenty-eight—'

‘Hang on, Your Honour!' Simpson was on his feet in the dock. ‘My barrister told me eighteen months. That ain't right, that.'

Humiliated, Anderson could say and do nothing.

‘Sit down, Mr Simpson,' ordered the judge. ‘I'm not interested in what was discussed between you and your counsel. My discretion is fettered by law. It's as simple as that.' She proceeded to sentence the defendant to twenty-eight months' imprisonment.

Simpson continued to protest as he was taken down.

Anderson had created a sense of injustice in his client that was entirely unfounded – all because he hadn't read the brief properly – and within hours, if not minutes, the whole of the Manchester Bar would know it. Head bowed, he left the courtroom, still reeling from the indignity of his error.

‘I'm sorry, John.' Coleman was waiting outside court. ‘I should have said in opening that he was a three-striker.'

Anderson shook his head. ‘No, Hugh. It was obvious. You assumed I'd notice it in the antecedents. It was my fault.' It had been a long time since Anderson had made a mistake like that in court, if ever. His focus just hadn't been there. Pulling his gown tight around him for protection, he began the long walk to the cells.

Simpson ranted and raved at Anderson for half an hour, getting vast reserves of anger out of his system. He couldn't comprehend that Anderson's mistake had no effect on the sentence, the judge having imposed the minimum term allowed. It also meant a complaint to the Bar Standards Board wouldn't have any real legs, to Anderson's relief. He was in enough trouble as it was.

Once Simpson had finished his tirade of abuse, Anderson headed back to the flat. He couldn't face chambers after the morning's events. Everyone would know.

The bottle of brandy on the lounge table caught his eye. He guzzled a large tumbler full, then poured another. His phone rang.

‘John?' Dewi Morgan. ‘They want to re-interview, at two o'clock. You ready?'

His heart sank. ‘As I'll ever be.'