Death By Dangerous (15 page)

The tower blocks in Hulme were only a ten-minute walk from Orlando West's city centre apartment, yet they couldn't have been more different locations.

Anderson's anxiety at entering this alien place subsided on realising that the groups of hoodies milling around on the estate ignored him entirely. A dishevelled man with a limp and a scarred face carrying his worldly possessions in a holdall didn't even trigger the raising of an eyebrow.

Adey's flat was on the twelfth floor. Striped black and yellow tape blocked the entrance to the lift. A makeshift sign read:
OUT OF ORDER
. Anderson let out a sigh before locating the stairwell and beginning his ascent. A group of youths ran past on their way down. A straggler slowed as he passed, taking in Anderson's face. A flicker of recognition. Had Anderson prosecuted this person? Possibly. Avoiding eye contact, he pulled himself on, using the iron bannister for support. At last, Adey's floor. The graffiti on the walls and ceiling provided an intimidating backdrop, but that wasn't why Anderson felt so nervous – he was going to be alone with
her
. Stay in her flat.

Adey opened the door and looked Anderson up and down, then without any greeting gestured for him to enter.

He stopped in the doorway. He couldn't believe his eyes.

Adey's flat was exquisite. Contemporary art on white walls, clean lines, and all open-plan with a hi-tech kitchen. The sun cascaded through the windows, bouncing off the black granite worktops and glass units.

Such a contrast with the desolation outside the front door. ‘Wow!' was all Anderson could think of to say. He walked through to the lounge area and saw the view of Manchester open up to him through the window that ran the length of the apartment. Far better than West's view, he thought.

‘Great for entertaining,' Anderson said, wanting to fill the silence. ‘I had no idea Hussain paid so well.'

‘He doesn't. I have nothing else to spend it on. It's a council flat.' She watched for a reaction in Anderson's face then said defensively, ‘All bought legitimately.' Then, with a glint in her eye, ‘Well, almost.'

‘What about going out? Having a good time? Holidays?' Anderson couldn't figure her out at all.

Adey shrugged off the question, then posed one of her own: ‘Are you guilty?'

Anderson was getting used to her directness in all matters. He found it a very unusual and attractive quality. He held her gaze and answered, ‘No, I'm innocent.' He qualified it: ‘I believe I'm innocent.'

‘You really don't know what happened in that car. Do you?'

‘I thought I had a flicker of something a while ago, but maybe not. So no, I don't know what happened.'

‘The neurologist said your injury could explain why you don't remember anything, why Heena Butt was in your car.' She regarded him harshly. ‘But you'd still be guilty.'

Anderson was distracted by a piece of paper stuck on the window. There were several. All over the flat in fact. He walked up close to one. It read:

John Anderson, Spinningfields Chambers – 05man.

Adey offered an explanation: ‘I hate not being able to solve puzzles. Since I was a kid.'

Anderson turned to face her, seeing her anew. First, the offer of a place to stay. Then, all this effort for his case – for him. And yet he hardly knew her. He smiled. ‘Me too.'

She pretended not to notice the tear in his eye. ‘I don't think it's a flight number. Not a full one anyway.'

Neither spoke for a moment too long. Was the attraction mutual or was Anderson imagining it? Had he lost his judgement along with everything else?

Adey's mobile broke the spell. She took the call.

Anderson saw an expression on Adey's face that he hadn't seen before: concern.

‘That was Safa. She's on her way round. Tahir's been arrested.' ‘What? What for?'

‘Murder.'

Safa could barely speak − shock. Adey guided her into the lounge and sat her down. Safa's red
shalwar kameez
stood out against the white sofa.

Adey wasted no time. ‘What happened? What do you know?'

Hussain's wife looked blank.

Adey held Safa's upper arms and gave her a gentle shake, which seemed to bring her back at least enough to point at Anderson. ‘It's all his fault.'

‘What do you mean?' Adey asked.

‘I can't say. Taz made me promise not to tell anyone, even you.'

They both stared at Anderson.

Adey pressed her: ‘Please, Safa. Why is it Anderson's fault?'

No response.

Adey switched to more immediate concerns: ‘Who's representing him at the police station?'

‘No one, he doesn't want anyone there. He says he knows what to do.'

‘Well, who's been murdered?'

‘Waqar Ahmed. I hope he rots in hell.'

Adey looked at Anderson for a reaction.

He could sense she was unsure of him again. The moment of shared intimacy, of trust, was lost.

Safa took a folder out of her bag and tossed it onto the glass coffee table. ‘This is why I came.' She sneered at Anderson. ‘Taz told me to give it to you. It's your case papers.'

The consequences for him of this development finally dawned on Anderson − he would have to represent himself. Why hadn't he listened to West and everyone else? They had all warned him about Hussain. Now Anderson would pay the price for his lack of judgement.

Once Safa had gone, Adey was not in the mood for further discussion. She showed Anderson his room. She wanted to be alone to try and make sense of things.

Anderson had to say something. ‘Adey, I've no idea what's going on here. You can trust me.'

She turned away. ‘Not now.'

Anderson tried to read through the papers. He struggled to take anything in, though a picture gradually emerged − damning prosecution statements and useless defence expert reports. He contemplated his predicament. He was in no state, physically or mentally, to defend this. He laid back on the bed, exhausted. At least it would be his final sleepless night before the trial. His mind raced. Hussain a murderer? Surely not. And what if Ahmed had somehow caused the crash? Had the answers Anderson so desperately needed been lost forever? He thought about the day to come. The humiliation. All those people – barristers, the judge and jury. Reporters. Prison.

Broken sleep.

Cold sweat. The sound of screaming. A woman. Anderson sat bolt upright. Had he been dreaming? He took a moment to adjust. No, it was real. Coming from Adey's room. Panic. He leapt out of bed and ran to her bedroom. What was it? He opened her door and called out into the darkness. ‘Adey?' The screaming stopped. A bedside light came on. Anderson could see her sitting up in bed. The beads of sweat on her forehead glistened in the lamplight. ‘Adey, what is it? Are you all right?'

Staring straight ahead, almost in a trance, she said, ‘I see it every night. Lived it a thousand times.'

‘See what?' whispered Anderson as he perched on the side of the bed.

‘My uncle's murder. It will never leave me.' She lay down, her back to Anderson. ‘I'm sorry I woke you. Goodnight.'

Anderson gently touched her bare shoulder. He yearned to take her in his arms. To comfort her. Kiss her.

He got up and left the room.

DI Mark Taylor couldn't wait to get stuck into this interview. There'd been rumours about Tahir Hussain for years, but nothing concrete. Unlike many of his colleagues, he'd been reluctant to pass judgement. Good defence solicitors were easy targets for canteen gossip, but now it seemed obvious to Taylor that Hussain was up to his neck in some kind of criminality, possibly even murder.

After the formalities had been complied with, Taylor got straight to it. ‘Your lawyer–client relationship with Waqar Ahmed is well known. How far back does it go?'

‘No comment.'

Taylor shrugged at DC Waters. Unbelievable. Hussain was going to block the enquiry. Refuse to answer questions. ‘You represented Waqar Ahmed in a recent trial, didn't you?'

‘No comment.'

‘And he was acquitted?'

‘No comment.'

‘We know that he was legally aided. You are aware that it's a very serious offence to take money as payment for services from a legally aided client?'

‘No comment.'

‘I'm sure you know it's called topping up?'

‘No comment.'

‘Similarly, it's illegal to accept money from a client for winning a criminal case. You know that, don't you?'

‘No comment.' It was agony not saying anything, but Hussain had no choice. He could only gamble that they didn't have enough to charge.

‘We have a notebook here, a ledger, found at the crime scene, in Mr Ahmed's coat.'

DC Waters passed his boss the exhibit.

‘There's a list of names here with amounts written next to them.' Taylor opened it and showed a page to Hussain. ‘It looks to us like a tick list. You know what that is, don't you?'

‘No comment.'

‘For the benefit of the tape, that's a list drug dealers use. They have to keep a note of who they've supplied with drugs, on tick, and how much they are owed. Why is your name on that list?'

‘No comment.'

Taylor could see Hussain was becoming more agitated. Keeping his mouth shut was really getting to him. ‘Is it to do with drugs?'

‘No comment.'

‘Did you owe him money?'

‘No comment.'

‘Or is it money he owed you for your services?'

‘No comment.' Was Taylor just fishing? Did he know anything?

‘Did you have something to do with Waqar Ahmed's murder?'

‘No comment.'

‘Were you trying to wipe out a debt?'

‘No comment.'

‘Or did he have some black on you?'

‘No comment.'

‘As a solicitor I'm sure you know this already, but I have a duty to warn you that a jury may draw an adverse inference from your refusal to give an explanation for why your name appears in that ledger.'

‘No comment.'

‘Don't worry, Mr Hussain.' Taylor stared intently at the suspect. ‘We will get to the bottom of it. You mark my words.'

Hussain's mouth was dry. How was he going to get out of this?

The Bradford train rattled over the Pennines. Anderson distracted himself with the view of undulating hills and snow-capped, stony crags. How he longed to walk these mountains without a care in the world. All the old ambitions that had consumed him seemed so unimportant now. He craved simple pleasures.

Adey hadn't said a word since they left the flat. She wasn't quite sure why she had come along − Hussain & Co. were no longer representing Anderson. It seemed like the right thing to do, but her head was in turmoil as a result of Safa's revelations.

The photographers were waiting for Anderson outside the courthouse. He'd become immune to such humiliations. Once they were past the metal detectors Anderson suggested to Adey that they go up to court and wait for the prosecutor. His eyes scanned the landing for a friendly face, for his supporters. He expected his parents to show up or at least his brother. Would Mia be here, he wondered, and a representative from chambers?

There was no one.

Adey sensed his disappointment but said nothing.

‘John Anderson?' The voice came from behind him.

‘Yes, that's me.'

A small, unremarkable woman in her late forties. ‘You don't know me. You killed my daughter.'

Sandra Granger.

Anderson reeled back. ‘Mrs Granger?' He saw the loss etched into her face. ‘I'm so sorry about what happened to Molly.' Anderson felt the blood rushing to his head. Dizzy.

‘Sorry? Sorry?' she hissed. ‘When they told me you weren't man enough to admit you'd done wrong, I knew you weren't just a liar. You're a coward 'n' all.' She spat in his face.

Stunned, Anderson didn't know what to say. Nothing he could say or do but watch her walk off towards the witness waiting room. A woman eaten up by anger and bitterness towards one person – him. And for good reason. He turned to Adey, who wiped away the spittle with a tissue.

She wanted to say something reassuring, but there was no point. Neither of them knew what lay ahead.

With only a minute to spare before the trial was due to start, Hannah Stapleton came up the stairs followed by an entourage of CPS lawyers. Her silk gown marked her out as someone special, and she knew it.

Anderson approached her and was about to explain his lack of representation but she raised a hand to stop him. ‘I know you were a barrister, Mr Anderson, but I'm sure you understand that I can't speak to you. That's what your advocate is for.'

‘Yes I know, that's what I wanted to discuss. It looks like I'm now a litigant in person – my advocate has withdrawn.'

Her face dropped. No barrister wanted the additional work and complications of prosecuting a litigant in person. ‘Why?'

They were interrupted by the usher calling the case on.

Anderson took one last look around the landing for a friendly face, then, feeling sick to his stomach, made the long walk into the dock of Court One.

His Honour Judge Cranston was already on the bench. ‘Good morning, Miss Stapleton. No defence counsel this morning?'

Stapleton got to her feet as instructions were being whispered in her ear. ‘No, Your Honour, I am being told Mr Hussain, the instructed advocate, has been…' She paused, unsure she'd heard correctly. ‘Arrested?'

The judge raised his eyebrows and said with a leer, ‘Well, that is a surprise. Such a nice fellow.' He turned his attention towards the dock. ‘Going to represent yourself, Mr Anderson?'

Anderson stood up. It felt strange addressing the judge, not from counsels' row but the dock. ‘As much as I would like to get on with matters, Your Honour, I must apply for an adjournment so that I can secure new representation.'

‘Secure new representation?' Cranston scoffed. ‘And how long is that going to take?' Without waiting for an answer: ‘Justice delayed is justice denied, Mr Anderson. We will continue. Jury panel please, madam usher.'

‘But, Your Honour,' Anderson persisted. ‘I'm not ready to—'

‘Mr Anderson, I've ruled, and anyway, as I understand it, you are a qualified barrister. So, as I said, jury panel.'

Still on his feet: ‘Your Honour.'

‘If you do not sit down, Mr Anderson, I will hold you in contempt. Do I make myself clear?'

Anderson slumped back into his seat, head in hands. How could this get any worse?