Taking Liberties (Liberty Chapman) Read online

  Raj crossed a foot over his knee and slid his finger under his sock to scratch a hairy ankle. ‘Tessa Buckman is a bloody nightmare when she wants to be, but she’s straight down the line. If she says this is news to her, you can be sure it is.’

  Liberty watched Bucky, which was what everyone seemed to call her, take her place on the front row, a tower of files by her side. She leaned in towards the court clerk, who was perched on the end of his desk, and said something that made him erupt into laughter. Ease poured out of her. Unlike Liberty, who could feel her armpits prickle with sweat.

  ‘My witness assured me she’d already informed the police,’ said Liberty.

  ‘Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t—’

  Raj was interrupted by the door to the magistrate’s chambers opening.

  ‘All rise,’ shouted the clerk, sliding to his feet, and everyone got up.

  The magistrate entered. He was pale and thin, glasses perched low on a pointed nose. He nodded to the clerk and stepped up to his seat at the large wooden desk.

  ‘Mr Acosta,’ Raj whispered. ‘Not what you might call the patient type.’

  Great. Liberty could only imagine how he was going to react to her special brand of inexperience.

  ‘Just tell him what you know,’ said Raj. ‘Don’t dress it up.’

  She was about to ask what the hell he meant by that, when the first case was called and Raj lumbered away to the front row, managing simultaneously to bow to the magistrate and wink at Chantal as she stomped into the dock, wearing so much makeup it looked as if the shelves of Superdrug had fallen from the sky and landed on her face.

  Scottish Tony’s was deserted. It always was in the mornings.

  ‘I don’t know why you still open up,’ said Sol.

  Tony slid a cup of mahogany tea onto the table, eyes redrimmed, stubble covering both chins. ‘Habit, I suppose.’

  Sol took a sip and nodded. Natasha always said that if you did something twenty times it became a habit. He would only have to do his yoga stretches before breakfast twenty times for that to become the new normal – instead of his usual routine of fag, coffee, another fag. He believed her and had the best of intentions to make new healthy habits. Habits that would enhance his life. But the bad habits were both strong and seductive. A mistress with sharp nails and teeth.

  His mobile rang but he didn’t recognize the number. ‘Sol Connolly.’

  ‘Oh, hi.’

  He didn’t recognize the voice either. ‘Who is this, please?’

  ‘It’s Dr Cohen,’ said the woman. ‘We met at the hospital in Kyla Anderson’s room. You gave me your card and asked me to call you if there was any news.’

  Sol’s ears pricked. ‘She’s woken up?’

  ‘Sadly, no,’ Dr Cohen replied. ‘The swelling on her brain is still extensive.’

  ‘Shit.’ The word slipped out before Sol could stop it.

  ‘I know it must be frustrating,’ said Dr Cohen,‘but if we bring her out of this coma, she may have a seizure and that could lead to brain damage in the longer term.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like such an arsehole,’ he said.

  The doctor laughed. ‘You’re just doing your job.’

  He appreciated the fact that she didn’t feel compelled to give him a lecture. ‘So what news do you have, Doctor?’

  ‘Ah, yes. Well, I had the day off yesterday, and when I checked Kyla’s notes this morning I noticed she’d had a visitor.’

  Now that put the cat among the pigeons.

  ‘Actually, it was more of an attempted visit,’ the doctor continued. ‘It never in fact took place because the man in question refused to present any identification.’

  Sol’s heart dipped a smidge. ‘So you don’t know who he was.’

  ‘No, we do.’

  ‘I thought you just said he wouldn’t give ID?’

  ‘Indeed he wouldn’t, but there was another officer here at the time.’ The doctor paused and Sol could hear notes being rifled. ‘An Officer Amira Hassani. Anyway, she recognized the man as someone known to the police.’

  A smile crept around the corners of Sol’s mouth. ‘Do you have a name?’

  ‘Yes.’ More pages were turned. ‘Jay Greenwood.’

  Sol was still smiling when he said his thank-yous and hung up. Jay Greenwood had tried to visit Kyla. The same Jay Greenwood who had never employed Kyla at his club, according to his sidekick Mel.

  ‘What are you looking so bleeding happy about?’ Daisy had arrived and dumped herself unceremoniously in the chair opposite Sol. She looked very far from happy and didn’t wait for his reply. ‘Fucking hell, Sol, you said you’d sort this case out for me. Did you even speak to the bitch in charge?’

  Sol knew the card Daisy had given him was still in his pocket, untouched since they had last met at the exact same table. ‘Didn’t she call you back?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’ Daisy’s face dropped as if she’d remembered something. She rummaged in her bag and pulled out her phone. ‘Out of fucking charge.’

  Sol shrugged. ‘So she might have called you.’

  Daisy groaned and let her head fall to the table, oblivious to the sugar and salt grains, the sticky cup rings and hardened smears of egg yolk. ‘Can I use yours?’ she asked.

  Sol raised an eyebrow and Daisy groaned even louder. ‘I asked around about Kyla, okay?’ she said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And no one knows anything. She left the Cherry and it’s like she fell off the face of the earth. No one knows where she was working or where she was living.’

  Sol folded his arms. Kyla had never been as far as the turn-off to the A1. She’d lived her whole life in a three-mile radius. ‘What did she say when she left the Cherry?’ he asked.

  Daisy screwed up her face. ‘That she weren’t going to do it no more. No tricks, no dancing, nothing.’

  ‘So how was she going to manage?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I asked her.’ Daisy jabbed herself with her thumb, caught the now scabby bite mark and winced. ‘“What you gonna do for money?” I says.’

  Sol picked up his cup and waited. His tea was cold but he took a sip all the same.

  ‘She just laughed and said it was all sorted. “Had a bit of luck, have you?”I says, and she goes,“Nah, Daisy, you have to make your own luck in this life.” But then she always did talk a lot of shit.’ Daisy turned her phone over and over in her hands. ‘I said she’d better not fuck with Jay cos luck has a way of running out and she wouldn’t want to burn her boats, but she just said Jay wouldn’t be a problem and gave a daft wink.’ Daisy looked up at Sol.

  Was that really all she knew about Kyla? ‘Let’s ring this police-woman now, shall we?’ he said, fishing in his pocket for the card. When he pulled it out and read it, he frowned. The name of the officer dealing with Daisy’s case was Amira Hassani.

  * * *

  Frankie looked at the KitKat. He felt sick but knew he needed to get something down him. As he snapped the bar in two and brought the first finger to his lips, the smell of the chocolate made him gag. He still had his head inside the toilet bowl when his mobile rang. Probably just Jay or Crystal calling to have a pop. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He’d like to tell them where to go, but he needed some cash. As usual. When he checked caller ID, he saw it was Brixton Dave belling him. Shit. ‘All right mate?’ Frankie’s voice wobbled.

  ‘Fucking hell, bruv!’ Brixton Dave’s laugh was so loud, Frankie had to hold his mobile at arm’s length. ‘You sound like crap. Good party, was it?’

  Frankie thought about the night before, spent in a crack house and then back at Daisy’s empty flat. ‘Top party,’ he said.

  ‘You are a proper animal, mate.’ Brixton Dave laughed again, even harder. ‘But listen up. I’m gonna be in your area in the next few days.’

  ‘How come?’ Frankie asked.

  ‘Business, bruv, you know how it is.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Frankie used the edge of the slimy
toilet bowl to push himself to his feet. ‘I’ve got a lot on myself.’

  ‘Gotta earn a pound, am I right?’

  Frankie knew that he had less than three pounds left in the pocket of his jeans. ‘Not wrong, Dave.’

  ‘So can you spare me an hour, Frankie?’ Brixton Dave asked. ‘Fit me in to your busy schedule?’

  ‘Course,’ Frankie replied. ‘Never too busy for a mate.’

  ‘The Crown versus Stephen Rance,’ the clerk called.

  Liberty’s mouth went dry as she made her way to the front. She knew she needed to introduce herself but her tongue was the texture of feta cheese. As she tried to work up enough saliva to clear things, the magistrate snapped up his head. ‘Where is the defendant?’

  Everyone turned to face the empty dock.

  ‘Well?’ Mr Acosta narrowed his eyes at Liberty. ‘Where is your client, Miss . . . Sorry, I don’t know your name.’

  Liberty coughed. ‘Liberty Chapman, sir.’

  ‘Well, Miss Chapman, where is your client?’

  Liberty willed herself to be calm. These were not difficult questions. No reason to be hyperventilating in the margarine lights. ‘HMP Wakefield, sir.’ She looked down and saw her hand was trembling, but she managed to keep her voice clear. ‘He’s in custody.’

  The clerk tapped deftly on his keyboard, the tight pecking sound filling the court.

  ‘He hasn’t been produced,’ the clerk told Mr Acosta.

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘The case isn’t listed until next week,’ the clerk replied.

  ‘Clearly the case is listed today, as here we all are.’ Mr Acosta gave an I’m-surrounded-by-idiots shake of his head. ‘Except, of course, the one person we need.’

  ‘The hearing today is the result of an emergency application made by Miss Chapman,’ said the clerk.

  Immediately all eyes fell on Liberty who stuck up her chin.

  ‘Did you tell the prison service that your client’s presence was necessary this morning?’ Acosta asked her.

  She hadn’t. Of course she hadn’t. For fuck’s sake, she hadn’t even known she was meant to do that. Once again she cursed Ronald for sending her here. ‘I’m afraid there wasn’t time,’ she answered.

  Throughout law school, it had been impressed upon the young students that under no circumstances must any solicitor mislead a court. However, years of practice at the cutting edge of corporate law had taught Liberty that there were a million shades of grey. Sure, the lack of time had not been the main reason for her not informing the prison, but even if she had understood that this was her responsibility, there wouldn’t have been any time to do it. She had no idea what the process was to get a prisoner to court, but she suspected it entailed more than a quick call from their lawyer.

  ‘My instructions were to move this issue along with all haste,’ she added.

  Acosta stared at Liberty for an elastic moment. ‘Please do explain the urgency, Miss Chapman.’

  ‘Well, sir, the main witness in the case, I think it’s fair to describe her as the only material witness, has withdrawn her statement.’ Liberty paused to emphasize the importance of this fact. ‘She told me in person that she had made an error due to excessive drug use. She also informed the police of the situation. In the circumstances, it would have been utterly remiss of me not to bring this matter before the court as the earliest opportunity.’

  Acosta raised an eyebrow, clearly interested. Yes, she had him.

  ‘Given that my client is a man of impeccable character and is currently being held in a high-security prison more generally populated by convicted sex offenders, I hope you understand my desire to expedite matters.’

  Acosta gave no indication that he understood anything of the sort but instead turned his gaze to Bucky, who pushed herself to a standing position. ‘While I completely see where my friend for the defence is coming from, unfortunately I know nothing of this change of heart by the victim,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we could adjourn until tomorrow for me to look into it?’

  No, no, no. Another day here was more than Liberty could bear. And what if Bucky still didn’t have any more information tomorrow? It would be Friday, and the case might be postponed over the weekend. Saturday night in the bar of the Radisson Hotel might just finish her off. ‘Sir.’ Her voice was too loud, clanging around the courtroom. She corrected herself. ‘Sir, I can see that my friend for the prosecution has an enormous caseload.’ Liberty waved at Bucky’s files. ‘But my client cannot be expected to spend another night in an establishment often called Monster Mansion.’ She made quotation marks in the air with her fingers. ‘That would be a misuse of the authority to remand an innocent man in custody.’

  More staring. Another moment. Not elastic like the last, but brittle and hard around the edges.

  The magistrate got to his feet and barked,‘Both lawyers in my chambers now.’

  Bucky and Liberty followed Mr Acosta through the door at the back of the court to the small ante-room beyond: his chambers. One wall was filled with shelves of leather-bound legal tomes. All years out of date. On the desk in the middle of the room there was a bottle of San Pellegrino and a glass beside it, rim down on the wood. Mr Acosta sat behind it, bony fingers steepled under his chin. ‘How, then, to sort out this mess?’ he asked.

  There were two chairs in front of the desk. Bucky took one. ‘I can’t just drop the case, sir,’ she said. ‘Not without talking to the officer in charge of it.’

  ‘So talk to him,’ said Liberty.

  ‘Her.’

  ‘Okay, talk to her.’ Liberty didn’t sit, but hovered behind her own chair. ‘Pick up the phone now.’

  Acosta sighed. ‘Miss Chapman, we are in the middle of a busy session. At least forty cases are listed this morning. I can’t have my prosecutor wandering off to pursue one matter.’ He enunciated his words carefully, taking ownership of the court. A middle-class white man, local but not local, who chose to spend his days judging the lives of others.

  ‘A two-minute call right now might save a lot of time in the long run,’ Liberty replied. ‘And money.’ She dropped that last word like a stink bomb. Delays cost money. And someone would have to pay.

  ‘I’ve a lad here from the office,’ said Bucky. ‘I’ll get him to make the call.’

  Amira Hassani’s day was going from bad to worse. The baby had been up half the night teething and she’d had to prowl around in the dark, jiggling him on her hip, rubbing his gums, hoping he wouldn’t wake everyone else. When she’d finally got him back down in his cot and collapsed into bed herself, Dad’s alarm had gone off, a shrill electronic blast followed by the breakfast show on Radio Arabique. ‘Yalla habibi’ rang out and Dad sang along at the top of his lungs. Amira had been grateful when her brother, Zaid, had pounded along the landing and snapped off the radio, screaming that pop music was haram. His current religious conversion was useful for some things. She’d been almost asleep when her mobile rang. ‘Amira Hassani.’

  ‘Sorry to bother you, I know you’re not on shift today.’ A man’s voice. ‘I called the nick and they told me to use this number.’

  Amira groaned. Her mobile number was only supposed to be given out in emergencies. In reality, no one at the station could ever be arsed to do anything on anyone else’s cases so all queries were directed to the officer’s mobile.

  ‘It’s about Stephen Rance,’ he continued.

  The name didn’t ring any bells. The constant sleepless nights were destroying her memory. Like someone using a scalpel on her brain, removing it slice by slice, each painful and bloody cut leaving less behind. ‘Sorry?’ she mumbled.

  ‘Assault charge on a working girl up at Carter Street?’ he said.

  Now she remembered. A nasty attack, including a bite. The perp was some posh bloke from down south. ‘What about it?’ she asked.

  ‘The case is up in court today.’

  Amira sat bolt upright in bed. She was knackered, yes, forgetful, definitely, but miss a court date? N
o way. All hearings were triple logged. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

  The man laughed. ‘Don’t panic. It was listed by the defence for a special mention, all last minute, like.’

  Amira felt momentarily relieved before her spider senses began to tingle. ‘Listed why?’ she asked.

  ‘The lawyer says the victim’s retracted her statement. Apparently you know all about it.’

  It was true that Daisy Clarke had left a long, garbled message on Amira’s voicemail, but she wasn’t going to take it at face value. Victims were warned off giving evidence all the time, especially by men like Rance. Amira had tried calling back but no one had picked up. ‘There’s not much to know as yet,’ she said.

  ‘Thing is, we’re in front of Mr Acosta and things are getting a bit hot under the collar. The defence are threatening costs.’

  Now that was out of order. What was Amira meant to do? She couldn’t drop the charges without speaking to the victim in person. ‘Give me twenty minutes,’ she said. ‘I’ll meet you in court.’

  Amira’s shirt had a brown stain down the front, courtesy of last night’s biryani. She usually changed before dinner, but she’d been starving and had intended to wash it today. She considered doing up her jacket but it was roasting out. Sweaty armpits were not going to improve her mood.

  The guard waved her through Reception and she took the steps up to the courts two at a time, eager to tell Rance’s solicitor where she could stuff her demand for costs. It never ceased to amaze her how quick some people were to condemn the police when most of her colleagues were decent folk. Not perfect, but fundamentally decent. Maybe they should try living in a place where the police really could not be trusted. A place where right and wrong were unimportant.

  Bucky was waiting for her at the top of the stairs with a young bloke, presumably the one who had called her. He was Asian. Good-looking. He smiled at her with white teeth. ‘As salaam alaikum, sister.’

  ‘Wa alaikum salaam,’ she replied.

  ‘Which I assume means “How do, cocker?” in Arabic.’ Bucky grinned. ‘Listen, love, thanks for coming, I know it’s your day off.’

  ‘No problem,’ Amira replied automatically. Actually, it was a problem. There was no one to babysit Rahim. In the end, Zaid had agreed to drop him at his girlfriend’s for an hour (his religious conversion not yet precluding sex with girls on his college course).