Noughts and Crosses (27 page)

Wait till later, then tell him your news in person. Tell him that come September, you’ll be gone.

Will he try to persuade you to stay? Will he even care?

Wait till later and find out.

The offices of Stanhope and Rigby were every shade of dingy grey and dirty white imaginable. The waiting-room chairs were more like benches, made from the hardest –
and I do mean
hardest –
oak. The coffee machine had scum marks all over it. And the windows were so dirty it was impossible to make out anything beyond them. This was the fifth solicitor’s office offering free legal aid that Mum and I had tried. Once the other solicitors had learned about Dad’s case, we’d been shown the door so fast I was beginning to suffer from jet lag. But this office was by far the seediest. I told myself that beggars couldn’t be choosers, but it didn’t help.

‘Mum, let’s go,’ I said, standing up. ‘We can find better solicitors than this.’

‘What d’you mean?’ Mum frowned.

‘Look at this place. I bet even cockroaches avoid this dump.’

‘Don’t judge by appearances.’ A voice from behind made me jump. Mum stood up as I turned around.

A middle-aged man with jet black hair, silvering at the temples, stood in the doorway. He wore a checked shirt and denims and an expression on his face that was harder than titanium nails.

‘And you are?’ I asked.

‘Adam Stanhope,’ the man replied.

‘This is your company, Mr Stanhope?’ Mum asked.

‘My father started it. I’ve carried it on,’ he said.

I was impressed with that, for a start. Only one of the other solicitors we’d tried had been a nought. The rest had been Crosses. I knew there were no nought barristers but I hadn’t expected to come across a nought solicitor whose father had been a solicitor before him. ‘Where’s Mr or Ms Rigby then?’ I asked, still not sure whether or not I liked this guy.

‘Dead. This way please.’ Mr Stanhope turned and led the way out of the waiting room.

Mum gave me one of her warning looks as we followed him. We walked behind him, our footsteps not so much clicking as crunching on the cracked lino. Goodness only knew what it was covered with. A thin coating of honey-flavoured cereal from the sticky feel of it. We stopped outside a door which looked like a reinforced toilet cubicle door. Mr Stanhope flung open the door and – wow!

Polished wooden floor, creamy-white walls, mahogany furniture, leather sofa, every thing in the room spelt class with a capital C! I stared at Mr Stanhope, amazed.

‘I thought you’d like my office!’ Mr Stanhope said dryly. ‘Tell me, d’you think this room makes me a better solicitor or a worse one?’

I got the point. ‘Why is your waiting room so grotty then?’

‘Let’s just say that Crosses are shall we say, reassured by its appearance,’ said Mr Stanhope. ‘It doesn’t pay to appear too successful. Please take a seat, both of you.’

I waited until Mum sat down first before doing the same.

‘How can I help you, Mrs . .?’

‘Mrs McGregor,’ Mum supplied. ‘It’s about my husband, Ryan. He’s being held by the police.’

‘Has he been formally arrested?’

‘Yes.’ Mum lowered her head, before forcing herself to look Mr Stanhope straight in the eye. ‘He’s been charged with murder and political terrorism.’

‘The Dundale bombing,’ Mr Stanhope sat back in his chair.

‘That’s right,’ Mum replied. ‘But he didn’t do it. I know he didn’t do it.’

‘He told you that, did he?’

‘The police won’t let me talk to him. I need a lawyer, someone who can get in to see him on my behalf.’

‘I see.’

‘I don’t have much money.’

‘I see.’

‘I saw in the telephone directory that you do legal aid work?’

If Mr Stanhope leaned any further back his whole body would sink right through the chair. Did he think bad luck was contagious then?

‘Can you help us?’ Mum asked, a tinge of impatience in her voice.

Mr Stanhope stood up and went to look out of his crystal-clear window. Venetian blinds were positioned to let in optimum light while still keeping the room private. I wondered what he could see. I wished I knew what he was thinking.

‘Legal aid wouldn’t begin to cover the costs in a case like this,’ Mr Stanhope began. ‘I can’t work for free, Mrs McGregor . . .’

‘I’m not asking you to,’ Mum replied rapidly. ‘I’ll pay you whatever it takes. I just want my husband’s name cleared.’

Mr Stanhope gave Mum a long hard look before answering. ‘I’ll go and see your husband first. Then I’ll make a decision.’

Mum nodded and stood up.

‘But from this moment on, you talk to no-one but me. Understood?’

Mum nodded again.

I stood up and asked, ‘Mr Stanhope, are you any good?’

‘Pardon?’

‘As a lawyer, are you any good?’

‘Callum!’ Mum admonished.

‘No, Mrs McGregor, it’s a fair question.’ Mr Stanhope turned to me. ‘I’ve won far more cases than I’ve lost. OK?’

‘OK.’ I nodded.

We left the office.

Mum and I sat in the police-station waiting room for ages and ages. No-one offered us a coffee. A couple of times we got a ‘Can I help you?’ from officers entering the station, but that was all. Mr Stanhope had disappeared to talk to Dad and ‘review the police case’. They didn’t have a case, so what was taking so long? I wanted to see Dad. I wondered where Jude was. I wanted to go home and wake up and find that the last year hadn’t happened. I wanted too much.

Mum stared ahead, twisting her thumbs around each other whilst we waited. I was beginning to wonder if Mr Stanhope had just given up and gone home and we’d been forgotten, when he finally made an appearance. And from the look on his face, I could tell right away that it wasn’t good news.

‘What’s the matter? Is he all right?’ Mum leapt to her feet. ‘What have they done to him?’

‘Could both of you come with me please?’ Mr Stanhope said grimly.

After exchanging a worried look, Mum and I followed
the lawyer without a word. A police officer held open one of the heavy double-doors which led to the cells.

‘Thank you.’ Mr Stanhope acknowledged the gesture, as did my mum.

I didn’t. The officer walked behind us. When we got to the last cell on the left, we all stood to one side as the officer opened the door. The moment the door was open, Mum flew into the room. I hadn’t blinked before Dad and Mum were hugging each other as if they were glued together.

‘Ryan, what’s going on?’ Mum whispered. ‘Are you OK? You’re not hurt . .?’

Dad turned to beckon to me. Slowly, I walked over to him, knowing that he was going to hug me too. I wasn’t wrong either. I wanted to be hugged by him. I didn’t want to let him go because I was so scared. He hadn’t done anything. Why was he still being held?

‘Mr McGregor, would you like to tell your family what you told me?’ Mr Stanhope asked.

‘Never mind that,’ Dad dismissed. ‘Where’s Jude? Have they let him go? Is he safe?’

‘Jude? The police never had him. He wasn’t in the house.’ Mum frowned. ‘I have no idea where he is.’

Dad stared, then he looked so furiously angry that I found myself taking a step backwards.

‘Those bastards! They said they had him. They said Jude was as good as hanged . . .’ Dad swallowed hard and turned away from Mum and me. Now he looked like the whole world had descended onto his shoulders.

‘Ryan, w-what did you do?’ Mum whispered.

Silence.

‘Ryan . .?’

‘I signed a confession admitting to all the charges . . .’ Dad’s voice trailed off.

‘What?’ Mum breathed. ‘Are you crazy?’

‘They said they had Jude – and proof he was the bomber. They said someone had to take the blame for the Dundale bomb and it was up to me who took the fall.’

‘And you believed them?’ Mum asked furiously.

‘Meggie, they threatened that you and Callum would also go to prison for conspiracy. It was my life or the lives of my entire family.’

‘Did you do it? Did you plant the bomb that killed all those people?’

Dad looked straight at Mum. He didn’t even blink. ‘No.’

‘Then why . .?’

‘I had no choice,’ Dad repeated. Anger held his body tense and rigid. He looked like he was about to snap in half.

Mum blinked, totally bemused. ‘If you put your hand up to the Dundale murders, you’ll hang.’

‘I know,’ said Dad quietly.

I looked at Mr Stanhope, as if his face could tell me what I couldn’t understand on Dad’s.

‘You want to die?’ Mum asked, bewildered.

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘Mrs McGregor, the moment Detective Inspector Santiago told your husband the identification of the person whose prints were found, your husband confessed
to everything. And his dictating and signing of the confession were videotaped. The tape will clearly show his confession was made without duress,’ said Mr Stanhope softly.

Dad lowered his head and lowered his voice to match, until it was barely above a hushed whisper. ‘Meggie, they found two of Jude’s fingerprints on a cola can fragment in the bin where the bomb went off . . .’

‘That doesn’t prove anything . . .’ Mum interrupted, her voice harsh. ‘That just means . . .’

‘A print was also found on part of the bomb casing that survived the explosion,’ Dad cut across her. ‘And the prints match . . .’

The world flipped crazily and I started to fall faster and further away from sanity.

Jude was the bomber . . .

That couldn’t be right. The Crosses had set him up, framed him. My brother wasn’t a bomber. He wouldn’t do anything like that. And he certainly wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave his fingerprints all over the bomb casing – unless he thought there wouldn’t be anything left of the bomb to identify one way or another so why bother to wear gloves? Jude was the bomber . . .

‘I told the police the truth.’ Dad raised his voice to its normal level. ‘I brought the cola from home. I didn’t want to risk anyone seeing me if I went into the shops to buy one. That’s the only reason it’s got Jude’s fingerprints on it. He must’ve handled it and put it back and I didn’t realize. And as for the casing, I kept the . . . the necessary equipment around the house. Jude must have handled that as well. He obviously didn’t realize what he was touching,
he was just curious.’ Dad raised his head and spun around, shouting into each corner of the room in turn, ‘Jude had nothing to do with this, d’you hear? I’m guilty. No-one else.’

They didn’t believe that, did they? No-one in his or her right mind would believe that ridiculous cock-and-bull story.

‘Ryan . . .’ Tears flowed down Mum’s face.

‘No, Meggie. I’m guilty. That’s the truth and I’m sticking to it. I won’t let them put you and Callum in prison for this. Or Jude,’ Dad interrupted. He lowered his voice again. ‘Just make sure that Jude stays lost so the daggers can’t get their hands on him. If they find him, he’ll rot in prison.’ A tiny, sad smile played over Dad’s face, but it was gone in an instant. ‘But at least my confession means he won’t die.’

‘
Today, Ryan Callum McGregor of 15, Hugo Yard, Meadowview was formally charged with Political Terrorism and seven counts of murder for the bombing outrage at the Dundale Shopping Centre. He has confessed to all charges so the court case against him will be a mere formality. His family consisting of his wife Margaret and two sons, Jude and Callum, are said to be in hiding
.’

Every word was an arrow pinning me to my chair.

But he didn’t do it. I knew that as surely as I knew my own name. Callum’s dad was no more the bomber than I was. Of course, he didn’t do it. I had to help. I had to prove that. But how? There had to be some way. Something I could do. What could I do to help him?

Think. Think . . .

‘Blanker scumbag!’ Minnie hissed from across the room. ‘His whole family should swing, not just him.’

‘Minerva, I won’t have language like that in this house, d’you hear? You don’t live in Meadowview.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ Minnie said, chastened. But it didn’t last long. ‘And to think we’ve had him here, in this very house. And his wife actually used to work here. If the press get hold of that little bit of info, they’re going to have a field day – and Dad’s going to have kittens.’

‘What d’you mean?’ I asked.

‘Oh Sephy, use your brain. If Ryan McGregor gets off, Dad will be accused of favouritism and protecting his own and all sorts, whether or not it has anything to do with him.’

‘But the Dundale bomb had nothing to do with Mr McGregor . . .’

‘Nonsense. He’s confessed, hasn’t he?’

I turned to Mother. She looked very thoughtful.

‘Mother, they won’t really hang him, will they?’

‘If he’s guilty . . .’ Mother shrugged.

‘And Callum goes to our school,’ Minnie continued. ‘Dad’s going to get it in the neck for that as well.’

‘Callum has absolutely nothing to do with this.’

‘An apple never falls far from the tree,’ Minnie nodded.

‘What a pile of . . .’

‘Persephone!’ Mother’s harsh warning had me biting back the rest of what I wanted to say.

‘Even if Ryan McGregor is guilty – which I don’t believe for one second – that doesn’t mean that Callum . . .’