The Verdict (21 page)

‘Fine. Why?’

‘Just asking. I liked her.’

And she liked you, I thought. She liked you a
lot
. Said we made a lovely couple. Even saw us having a few cute kids. Mum was a lousy soothsayer.

‘How’s Stevenage?’

‘Still there,’ I said.

I hadn’t been back in twelve years, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. Because if I did, I’d have to explain why. Which would mean talking about the past. And I knew I’d get angry and spoil what we were having here.

So it was time to go. I made a show of looking at my watch. I hadn’t touched my espresso any more than she had her coffee.

We walked out together. Her car was parked on the road. A four-door Merc, so clean its tyres looked like all they’d ever rolled on was spotless shag carpet.

‘Thank you.’

‘What for?’

‘I wasn’t in the neighbourhood.’

‘I guessed that,’ I said.

‘I really wanted to see you,’ she said.

‘Why?’

‘I’ve been thinking about you, Terry.’

Likewise, I thought. I hadn’t stopped thinking about her from the moment I’d met her.

‘Call me, if you need anything.’

Now why did I have to go and say
that
?

Because I
wanted
her to. That’s why.

We stood there in the road, very close. She was swaying ever so slightly, her eyes locked on mine. And then it just happened. We walked into each other, both of us taking the first step. She slipped her arms around me and held me like she used to when we slowdanced around in her college room. I held her too, trying to keep it casual and platonic, but I couldn’t help myself and pulled her in closer. It felt good, and unbelievably wrong in a million and one ways. I smelled her perfume and felt the valley of her spine. Yeah, you could say, I was just holding a friend, offering comfort. But it wasn’t just that, was it? Melissa rested her head on my chest. I wondered if she had her eyes closed like she used to when she’d held me. That was exactly how it had started between us, in October 1991, on Garret Hostel Bridge in Cambridge. With a hug. Like this.

She kissed me on the cheek and got in her car. A few moments later she’d pulled out and driven away with a wave.

I stood there the whole time, exactly where I’d held her. I couldn’t move.

At Belmarsh, Christine and Redpath sat in front of me at the bolted-down table, going through their notes, unfazed by the racket going on beyond the interview room. I couldn’t take my eyes off the panic button on the wall behind them. It appeared to have been well used. I wondered what the response time was, the distance between alarm and salvation.

Redpath had laid out his yellow pad and poncey Montblanc pen. Two hundred quid’s worth of sodding biro. Was it a gift or had he bought it to round off his spiv look? And what was he thinking, coming on a prison visit in a navy-blue pinstripe suit, dressed up in bars? Was he trying to send VJ some kind of subliminal message? Hard to tell, because the only time we ever spoke was when he remembered to say hello or goodbye.

Each time I saw her, Christine seemed to be inching a little closer to death. Today her skin had the hue of day-old boiled eggs, and her breathing was slow and arhythmic, with long pauses between the in and out, as if she were having to prompt herself every time.

I didn’t know how she was still doing this, let alone managing to function the way she was. And why was she spending her precious time defending someone she knew to be guilty? Did she believe in the law that much, or merely love what she did more than whatever life she had left?

Janet hadn’t made it. Only room for three here. I was her eyes and ears.

VJ came in and greeted us with a smile and a handshake. He was wearing the clothes I’d brought him – an unbranded blue sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms, white Asics trainers with the laces removed, and his glasses.

He and Christine made smalltalk for a minute or two. How was he? Fine, keeping his head down, minding his own business, working on his case. How were things, generally? OK, again. Not that bad, once you got used to it. He’d had himself moved to a single cell recently, because prison rules stated that a non-smoker could not be made to share a cell with a smoker, as all his initial cohabitants had been. So now he was in comparative luxury. God bless the EU and the Court of Human Rights.

I could tell prison was getting to him, though. He’d lost weight, his haircut was growing out, and the lower half of his face was coated in a few days’ grey-white stubble. He was letting himself go. First sign of depression, that, when you start neglecting your personal appearance. I’d been there, knew exactly what he was going through.

And all the while, the evidence against him just kept piling up. It was a lot like being slowly buried alive; accusation after accusation dumped on you, until that’s all you can see, all that’s around you. I’d been
there
too. Knew
exactly
what he was going through. It was how I’d felt when he accused me of stealing his diary.

‘The glasses are a good look. They soften your face,’ Christine said to him. ‘Wear them in court.’

‘Those kind of things work?’

‘Juries aren’t sophisticated, Vernon. They’re blunt instruments,’ she said. ‘Glasses, on the right kind of face, project intelligence and physical weakness. You have the right kind of face.’

‘Thanks,’ he smiled. ‘What about the wrong face?’

‘That says you’re a nonce.’

‘Right.’

She opened her file and he opened his.

‘We’ve had some new disclosure. But, prior to discussing that, I need to ask you something I should’ve asked sooner,’ she said. ‘Do you have any enemies?’

‘Enemies?’

‘Business rivals, competitors, colleagues. People with something to gain with you being out of the way. Or maybe people you’ve crossed or upset in the past – ex-friends?’

It was a routine question, but it still made my heart skip a beat.

‘Not that I know of,’ he said. ‘All my business deals have been legal, above the board. I’ve never cut corners. And I’ve always made a point of giving back – to charities and stuff. But I’m sure plenty of people hate me anyway.’

‘Why?’

‘People hate success. Especially in this country. Way it goes,’ he shrugged. ‘Which reminds me…’

He sifted through his file, pulled out a couple of sheets of paper.

‘Ahmad Sihl, my business lawyer, has put together a list of all the ongoing deals I had before my arrest. They were at various stages, some close to conclusion, others in mid-air,’ he said, passing her the pages. ‘He’s got a team of investigators looking into my competition.’

‘Are you saying you were
set up
?’ Redpath asked, with a hint of amusement.

‘There’s no other explanation for all this. Don’t tell me it never occurred to you?’

Redpath didn’t answer. Of course it hadn’t occurred to him. Or to me. Or to Janet, for that matter. It was one of the first questions she would’ve asked him. Yet no one had raised the subject, let alone considered it. Why? Because there was no conspiracy here, no frame, no set-up. He’d killed Evelyn Bates.

As for Christine, I don’t think she believed it either. Otherwise, she would’ve been kicking up a stink right now, about another lawyer getting involved in her case, potentially undermining the defence she was putting together. But she hadn’t reacted.

And what about Ahmad Sihl? What was he doing? Squeezing one huge paycheque out of his client while he still could? Being a friend – a
real
friend – and therefore in denial? Or did he believe VJ was innocent?

Redpath passed me VJ’s pages and I caught his eye, saw the sardonic gleam in them.

I looked through the list. Over a dozen deals in date order, their status and rival bidders by company or organisation. Most had individual names alongside them. No one I’d heard of. Many were foreign. A couple of deals had been crossed out and marked ‘Non-Applicable’ – Stratford Quakers and the Chelmsford Co-Op.

‘Has Ahmad come up with anything yet?’ Christine asked.

‘No,’ VJ said. ‘He has your contact details, though. He’ll be in touch.’

Christine handed him a copy of the lab report.

I watched him read it. He scanned it fast, too fast, I thought. Either he’d learned to speed-read in the last twenty years, or he already knew the contents.

When he’d finished, she talked him through it.

She kept her tone neutral, and her eyes fixed on him, as she linked each piece of evidence to the prosecution’s case. He listened to her, hands flat on the table, occasionally nodding, sometimes taking notes. Hair, fibre, tissue, blood, saliva, sperm.

‘That’s the Crown’s case against you. So far,’ she concluded.

‘You mean there’s more?’

‘You tell me.’

‘There’s an innocent explanation for all of this.’

‘Innocent?’ Christine said. ‘
All
of it?’

‘Yes,’ he smiled.

‘Even the Rohypnol?’

He lost the smile. Fast.

‘
What?
’ he said.

‘You know what that is?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘It was present in Evelyn Bates’s body. It’s there in the autopsy. It was found in her blood, which means she ingested it mere hours before her death. The effects of Rohypnol last between eight and twelve hours, depending on the dose and the individual’s metabolism. It’s at its most potent early on. It starts wearing off as the body eliminates it, which it does fairly quickly. All trace of the drug disappears from the bloodstream within twenty-four hours, and the rest is eliminated through sweat and urine over the next one or two days.

‘Looking at Evelyn’s toxicity report, the Rohypnol-to-blood ratio is very high. This is in part because she was dead when the sample was taken. Blood coagulates post-mortem and becomes concentrated, as do the various elements and toxins within it – including any drugs. Irrespective of this, the Rohypnol percentage is still high enough to suggest she was very much under the influence of the drug when she was killed. Which means she’d taken or been given the substance between one and two hours before her death.’

‘That wasn’t me. I barely talked to her ten seconds!’

‘You’ve read Rudy Saks’s statement. He’s the waiter who —’

‘That didn’t happen. He never came to the room.’

‘Saks said – and I quote – “The woman was sitting up across the couch, with her shoes off. She looked stoned, like she’d smoked a strong joint or something. Her eyes were fluttering and she had this stupid smile on her face.”’

‘That didn’t fucking happen!’ VJ snapped.

Christine ignored him and his anger.

‘We’ve had more disclosure relating to Saks’s account. The Suite 18 phone log shows you – someone – making a call to room service at 12.43 a.m. on March 17th. It lasted a minute and a half. Your fingerprints were found on the phone. You have to press “3” for room service. Your print was on the button.’

‘Of course it was,’ he said. ‘I ordered a bottle of vodka as soon as I got to the room.’

‘At around 5.40 p.m., the previous day?’

‘That’s right. What I didn’t do was order champagne. And I didn’t open the door for Rudy Saks – or anyone. And Evelyn Bates was not in my suite. At 12.43 a.m. I was passed out on the couch.’

‘So you keep saying. But the evidence says differently.’

‘Damn the evidence! I was passed out!’

Christine closed her file.

‘What about the thong they found in the bin?’ she said.

‘
That
I remember.’

Redpath grinned at me. His eyes said, I can’t wait to hear
this.

‘I had a wank,’ VJ said, matter-of-factly.

Christine looked him right in the eye.

‘Why is it we’re only talking about this now?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘You never said anything about masturbating at the scene.’

VJ glanced at me for an instant, then back to Christine.

‘It’s not how it looks,’ he said.

‘And how’s that?’

‘Like I’m some kind of… freak. A… a sick fuck.’

‘That’s
exactly
how it looks, Vernon,’ Christine said. ‘It looks like you drugged Evelyn Bates, strangled her on the floor, carried her to the bedroom, stripped her naked, posed her and jerked off in her panties.’

VJ held his head in his hands, rubbed his temples, breathed deeply through his nose. It was warm in here, and the air reeked of industrial floor cleaner, heavy on bleach and artificial citrus.

‘I didn’t mention the thong before, because… because… Because when you’re arrested for
murder
, the last thing you’re going to remember is the wank you had the night before.’

‘When
did
you remember?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘Before or after you were taken to the station?’

‘After, when I was in the police cell.’

‘Why didn’t you say anything then?’

‘I didn’t think it was relevant.’

‘A thong with your sperm all over it, in the same radius as the body of a naked woman in a room you were staying in, is
very
relevant, don’t you think?’

‘I was confused, wasn’t I?’ VJ said, testily. ‘All I could think was, What the hell’s going on? How hard do I have to pinch myself to wake up?’

I’d been writing everything down. I didn’t look up. I didn’t want to catch VJ’s eye. I didn’t want him to see I thought he was talking crap.

‘Vernon, this is the
first time
you’ve said anything about a thong. A
key
piece of evidence. A
damning
piece of evidence.
Why?
’

‘I’ve just told you!’

‘You could – and
should
– have told Janet about it, on the four or five times you met her. You could’ve told Terry. And you could – and
should
– have told me. Instead you wait for us to hear about it from the prosecution. You’re doing their job for them.’

‘It was… I don’t know…
embarrassing.
OK? I didn’t think it’d…
Shit!
’ He slammed the table and looked away.

‘Is there anything else you haven’t told us about that night?’ she asked him.

‘That’s everything.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘So I’m not going to get any more surprises from the CPS – find out things you were too “embarrassed” to tell me?’

‘No,’ he said, through clenched teeth.

Christine had maintained a steely tranquillity, never once raising her voice, not even when she’d been skewering him. VJ had completely lost his cool. He’d gone from affability to tipping-point anger in a matter of seconds. The man sitting next to me, seething and looking daggers at his barrister, had a short fuse. And he was every ounce and inch capable of violence. I could see it, and so would a jury. All Carnavale would have to do was push him – and not even that hard.

‘OK, now tell me what happened with the thong,’ Christine said.

‘I… I jerk –
masturbated
into it and threw it in the bin afterwards.’

‘We
know
that, Vernon,’ Christine said. ‘I want to know as to why and when. What possessed you to do something like that?’

‘What
possessed
me?’ He laughed, mockingly.

Christine glowered at him. He raised his hand in apology.

‘Let’s start with why,’ she said.

‘As I’ve said from the start, I didn’t take Evelyn Bates up to my room. So the thong’s not hers,’ he said.

‘Whose is it?’

‘Fabia’s.’

‘
Fabia’s?
’

‘Before she attacked me, I told you she bit my lip?’ he said.

Christine nodded.
Go on.

‘She drew blood. I went to the bathroom to clean up. When I came out, I saw her smoothing her dress down like she was straightening it. A little later we fought. She beat me up, knocked me over and tried to push the minibar on me. Then she ran out of the room. A while later, I got up. I saw the thong lying on the floor. I supposed it was Fabia’s. I thought she’d taken it off when I was in the bathroom. And so —’

‘Where on the floor was the thong?’ Christine asked.

‘By the wall.’

‘Which one?’

‘Where the minibar is – was.’

Christine frowned. Then she pulled out the police photographs of the hotel suite, pawed through them until she found the one she wanted. She slid it across to him.

‘Show me.’

VJ looked at the photo and pointed.

‘You’re sure?’ she asked.