Next to Die (2 page)

She was holding a piece of paper in her hand, a small sticky note.

‘Morning, Gina,’ he said. ‘What have you got?’

‘Just had a call from the cells at court. One of the prisoners wants to transfer to us.’

Joe grimaced. Cell swaps were usually a waste of time. Those who had their bail refused at the custody desk often lashed out, and sometimes against the law firm who had left them there.

‘Who did he have for his interviews?’

‘Mahones.’

Joe raised an eyebrow and Gina smiled. ‘I thought that would interest you more.’

‘I smell trouble though. Why the swap?’

‘I don’t know, but there’s only one way to find out.’

‘Needs to be one hell of a good reason. Mahones don’t give up their clients easily.’

‘You’re sounding more keen now.’

‘You know how it works, but yes, I’m listening.’

‘You’ll be even more interested when I tell you what sort of case it is.’

‘Go on.’

Gina passed over the note. ‘It’s a murder. And he wants you.’

Joe almost whistled. A murder. Mahones won’t want to let that go, at any cost. Murder cases don’t pay the best, because they don’t have the page-count compared to a complex fraud case, where the volume of paperwork makes the bills a lot higher. A murder case is really just a bad assault case with one less witness, but they are highly prized as a boost to a firm’s reputation. He looked at the note. There was just a name on it: Ronnie Bagley. ‘Should I know him, if he wants me?’

‘You’ll have to ask him,’ Gina said, and went to leave the room, pausing in the cloud of scent she trailed behind her. ‘Maybe he’s got a birthday card for you.’

Joe looked up. ‘Thanks, Gina. You remembered.’

‘Are you going to see your mother?’

‘What, and spend the day suffocating slowly?’ He lifted the piece of paper. ‘I’ll go once I’ve been to court.’

‘Your sister hit her hard, Joe. Your father too. I was there, remember. It must be a rough day for her.’

Joe paused as he felt his mood slump, bad memories rushing at him. ‘It is for me too, Gina. We have to fight it in our own way.’

Gina nodded at that and left the room.

Joe twirled in his chair once more and looked back towards the square. Monica was gone, now in the building somewhere, and the tai chi session was coming to an end. He turned away and caught his reflection in the glass of a framed picture on the wall – some Victorian judge, hung there to add gravitas. For a moment, Joe saw himself as others saw him. Suit, tie, cuff-links. A ‘Lawyer’. Successful.

It was a façade, all of it. Joe had a secret, a darkness that he kept to himself. He fought against it, but there were times when it overpowered him.

He pressed his fingers to his temples. He had to shut it out for the next few hours. He had to go to court.

Three

Joe approached the City Magistrates Court, a high glass and red sandstone block at the back of Crown Square, once an open paved space that was the last dash of freedom for many, the Crown Court at the other end. Not anymore. The old magistrates court had been torn down and replaced by trendy shops and restaurants, so that the area had some big city vibrancy, providing the buzz for the lawyers and accountants and bankers, who sat outside and drank expensive coffees and ate overpriced granola bars.

It created a strange mix of defendants and high-flyers, side by side. A young couple walked past. She was skinny through addiction, in black dirty jeans and T-shirt. He was lean and muscled, in a white vest, tattoos on his arms, although his physique spoke more of threat than keep-fit. They brushed past two men in suits, large watches gleaming from their wrists, their clothes made to fit. They had a different type of swagger, confident and brash, meant to attract glances. The young couple stared and intimidated, designed to make people look away.

Monica was with him, walking quietly alongside. She couldn’t do anything in the courtroom, not until her training contract was finished, but she could pass on messages, let ushers know when Joe would arrive, often double-booked in different courtrooms, or collect papers from prosecutors. It helped her face become known, so that when she qualified her early days as a lawyer were packed with fewer nerves. She had already done her time behind barristers in the more refined atmosphere of the Crown Court, making notes and understanding how it played out in the serious cases, but if she wanted to do criminal law it was the daily grind of the Magistrates Court that would keep her busy.

‘So which area of law do you fancy when you qualify?’ Joe said.

‘I don’t know,’ Monica said. She tucked some stray hairs behind her ear, her other hand clutching a small briefcase that really served as a handbag. ‘I like personal injury. And probate.’

Joe shook his head dismissively. ‘Just paper shuffling. Crime is more fun.’

‘Fun?’

‘Yes, fun,’ he said. ‘No one chooses crime for the money, but you’ll never be short of an anecdote. I could do with some help. Think about it.’

Monica smiled. ‘Thank you. I will.’

She kept her smile until they walked into the Magistrates Court, where they queued behind defendants and their supporters to get past the security guards, even though they all knew Joe’s name. Wearing a suit didn’t help him jump any queues.

Monica looked at ease as she walked past the clusters of defendants, the usual crowds of deadbeats and hard-times, with their slumped shoulders and scowls, bad luck etched into the smoke-tinged lines on their faces and brown stubs of teeth. It was her presence that had attracted Joe to her when he first saw her around the office. She looked demure and poised in her dark suits and white blouses, always the same look, but Joe had noticed the green and red edge of a tattoo emerging from the collar of her blouse, along with the microdots of piercings that ran along the edges of her ears, the earrings left out for the day job. She would stand out and attract the punters. What good was one more grey suit?

They rode the escalator to the second floor, rising in the brightness made by the high glass roof and on to the open concourse, like a glitzy office complex, to where the lawyers from Mahones strutted around. It was one of the biggest firms in Manchester and it came with a status, so the eager young lawyers shook hands and flashed slick smiles, doing whatever they could to make their clients think that they were not really nice middle class kids whose legal career had dumped them in the bargain basement of law.

Joe pushed his way through the small crowd that blocked the entrance to the court cell complex, busy on a Monday morning. Young women talking to their boyfriends’ lawyers, wanting to know when they would come home. A couple of reporters hoping to pick up on something, a case with an angle. Benefit fraud or illegal immigrants always sold well, but mostly it was just a sift through life’s debris. Drink, drugs and violence – the dependable trinity of criminal law.

As he got closer to the door that led to the court cells, the Central Detention Centre, there was someone hovering outside with a Mahones file cover under his arm. Matt Liver. Thinning hair and narrow glasses, he thought being a lawyer was about the shine of his shoes.

Matt stiffened as Joe got closer.

‘Morning, Matt,’ Joe said. ‘Looks like you lost one.’

‘Ronnie isn’t with you just yet.’

‘So why are you here? I thought you’d be in court, putting in your legal aid form. You don’t want anyone to swipe your client before you get your name on the court file.’

Matt’s lips went tight at that.

Joe’s eyes widened and he laughed. ‘Didn’t you get the forms signed? Old man Mahone won’t like that, especially when Ronnie comes to me.’

Matt stepped closer. ‘All weekend, Joe. I was there on Saturday night for him, and yesterday. Where were you then?’

‘You need to get some more sleep,’ Joe said. ‘I can smell your tiredness on your breath.’

Before Matt could respond, Joe tapped on the window next to the door that led to the cells. As it slid open, Joe smiled at the wide man in the white shirt, a chain hanging from his belt loop. ‘I’ve come to see Ronnie Bagley.’

‘Hello, Joe. He’s been waiting for you.’

The door buzzed and Joe and Monica went through. Matt tried to follow, but Joe put his hand out. ‘Don’t demean yourself. I’ll tell the old man you did your best.’

Matt was swearing as the door closed, the final click of the electronic lock bringing welcome silence.

The guard turned round to say, ‘He’s been getting pretty worked up.’

‘What, Matt?’ Joe said. ‘He needs to learn that it’s just a job. He’ll never make partner at Mahones.’

‘Is that why you left?’

Joe didn’t answer that. The reason for his leaving was nothing to do with his career path. Instead, he passed over a legal aid form. ‘Can you get Ronnie to sign that in the usual place, Ken?’

‘No problem,’ he replied.

It wasn’t protocol, but Joe knew who to keep on his side. The ones who transported the prisoners around were the people who might mention his name to those who didn’t have a lawyer. Bottles of whiskey at Christmas, and he made sure he knew their names.

Joe was shown to the kiosk in the corner, where he squeezed in with Monica. Her perfume filled the small space, the view ahead an empty chair behind a glass screen.

‘I’ve never met a murderer before,’ Monica said, her voice quiet.

‘We don’t know if he is one yet.’

Monica pursed her lips. ‘But if the police think he murdered someone, there must be some good reason?’

‘We are lawyers. It’s about proof, about evidence. You’ll learn to rationalise it; we all find our own ways. Just don’t become one of those lawyers who take sides, because often they can’t see where the line is, so get dragged over to the wrong side and become just a crook’s lackey. I do things I shouldn’t, but it’s all about knowing which ones will come back to bite. Be nice but keep your distance, because most of them would sell you out if they get into trouble.’

Monica’s training session was brought to a halt by the sound of someone talking to the guards on the other side, and then a dishevelled man sat down in the chair on the other side of the glass. He had all the averages. Height, build, pale complexion and his hair short but not crewcut, sticking up on top, the result of two nights on the vinyl mattress in a police cell.

‘Ronnie Bagley, I’m Joe Parker. This is Monica Taylor.’

Ronnie rubbed his head. ‘I know who you are, Mr Parker. I asked for you, remember.’ His voice was tired and defeated. When Joe didn’t respond, he said, ‘What did you expect? Big smiles? I’m locked up for murder.’

‘Okay, let’s start again,’ Joe said. He wouldn’t take it from clients normally, but he could only guess at the stresses Ronnie was under. ‘Tell me why you want me and not Mahones.’

‘I thought I was getting you when I asked for Mahones.’

‘I’ve left.’

‘Yeah, I know that now. So what happens next?’

Joe considered Ronnie Bagley. He seemed angry, not nervous or scared, almost impatient to start the process. That wasn’t usual for murder suspects. Most just wanted to tell everyone how innocent they were, even when it wasn’t true. Joe started to notice other things. Ronnie clasped his right palm with his left hand, his thumb rubbing all the time, betraying the nerves. There were tattoos between his finger and thumb, homemade, like small grey lines, just coloured scratches.

Ronnie scowled and, as Joe let the silence grow, he sat back and then hunched forward again, his body in perpetual motion. There was a rugged sort of handsomeness in his face somewhere, but it was being eroded by the knocks and bangs of life, his mouth showing the puckered lines of too many cigarettes, his eyes sunken by dark rings.

‘Nothing much will happen today,’ Joe said. ‘You’ll go to prison tonight. Tomorrow, or probably the day after, a judge at the Crown Court will think about bail, but he won’t grant it. Then you’ll wait for your trial.’

Ronnie swallowed and looked down. ‘Is it for definite I won’t get bail?’

‘Yes, because you’re charged with murder.’

‘Don’t people accused of murder ever get bail?’

‘Not usually. I’m not going to raise your hopes, Ronnie. I can tell you the truth or I can tell you what you want to hear, but the facts won’t change.’

Ronnie kept his eyes on the floor and nodded, almost to himself, as if it was the news he had expected to hear. When he looked up again, his gaze shifted to Monica, who put her hair behind her ears again and shifted uncomfortably. ‘And you are?’

‘I’m Monica Taylor,’ she said, clearing her throat. ‘I’m the trainee.’

Joe tapped on the glass. ‘Eyes this way, Ronnie,’ he said, pointing to himself. ‘Talk to me about your case. Who do they say you killed?’

Ronnie lingered on Monica for a few more seconds, and then said, ‘My girlfriend, Carrie, and Grace, our daughter.’

Joe made a note of that, although it was really just to take it in. His own child. ‘What did you tell the police?’ Joe said.

‘I didn’t say anything to them. Why should I? There aren’t any bodies. If there aren’t any bodies, how can I be guilty of murder?’

Four

So now it was all about the waiting. He put his head back against the wall. It was cold.

The uncertainty ahead was the hardest part. Was he doing the right thing? He was doing it for the right reason, for love, but what if it was the wrong way? There had been thrills, he knew that, but he had to stop it all. It was out of control.

But quiet moments made him think back; there were so many memories to keep him occupied, and his mind drifted back to the first one.

The first time had been his selection. That had been the promise when he agreed.

He had seen her coming out of the hairdressers, a small salon opposite the blackened walls that ran alongside the railway station, permanently in the shadow of what was once a high grassy outcrop, now scarred by millstone cottages and the slow climb that led to the top part of the town. She was brightness against the dark, somehow wasted in the gloom.

Her hair had been just how he liked it, long and straight, not kinked and spoiled by chemicals and colour. It was as it was meant to be, natural and soft, although the tips had been severe, so that he could almost see the clip of the scissors. He had tried to resist, because he had promised himself he would, but he couldn’t, the urge was too strong. It started as a whisper, but then it turned into a growl, so that his head felt tight, blood coursing around his skull so that he had to release the pressure.