Split Second (29 page)

‘Did you expect Thomas Garrington to use the knife?’ said Mr Sweeney.

‘No, never. I wouldn’t have hung around if I’d known.’

Just for the kicking, then? Louise thought bitterly. This is my son: the one on the ground, the one bleeding in the snow. The reckless one, the live wire, the one who always had to push it that bit too far and was lucky to survive. Lucky? There’s a thought to conjure with. The sarcasm was a prop, something sharp and hard to cling to. She would not break down here, she would not. Her nose stung, her teeth were aching, jaw clamped so tight she thought they might shatter.

‘You ran from the scene?’

‘Yes, soon as I realized what Gazza had done.’

‘You didn’t remain to continue fighting with Jason Barnes?’

‘No, he was just in the way. I was trying to get out of there.’

‘Then what happened?’ asked Mr Sweeney.

‘We ran into the estate until we were sure no one was following us. Gazza said split up. Nicola was like, “What have you done, man? You’ll get us all banged up.” And I’m the same.’

‘And how did Gazza react?’

‘He said to stop shittin’ ourselves and to separate. Said if anyone asked we’re to say we’d been in town after we left Nicola’s – where they have the ice rink. Hangin’ out there till midnight.’

‘When did you find out what had happened to Jason Barnes and Luke Murray?’ said Mr Sweeney.

‘The next day. Gazza rang us. He said to lie low and that. Not to blab.’

‘He was warning you not to say anything about the incident?’

Louise was sick of the term ‘incident’. It wasn’t a freaking incident; it was murder and attempted murder.

‘Yes, he was,’ said Conrad Quinn.

The boy continued to answer questions about the appeal and seeing their pictures in the paper.

‘In all this time did it ever occur to you to come forward and give yourself up?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘Why not?’

‘’Cos I didn’t want to go to prison,’ he said. People muttered at this, a ripple of sound. Louise caught Andrew’s eye. His gaze was unguarded, naked. She would have liked to have been sitting next to him, she realized. Or going for coffee in the breaks between witnesses. Dissecting the evidence with him, sharing outrage and confusion and indignation. Over the months, she had come to appreciate his company. The tragedy that linked them put them on special ground, a unique tribe in a ghastly place that only those who’d lived through similar experiences could comprehend.

‘But once you were arrested and charged, you turned Queen’s evidence, pleading guilty to Section 18 wounding, a very serious charge that carries a lengthy sentence. When you could have pleaded not guilty along with the defendants and possibly been acquitted. Why didn’t you do that?’

‘Because I know what I’ve done and what I ’aven’t and it seemed best to tell the truth. I never meant to kill anyone, and I never did. I never had any intent. And if I lied and pleaded not guilty and then if it went the wrong way, the trial I mean, I’d get life for something I never did.’

‘One final question,’ Mr Sweeney said. He paused and the room stilled. ‘Please consider your answer very carefully and remember you are under oath.’

The boy nodded, made the same nervous gesture wiping at his nose.

‘Did you clearly see Thomas Garrington stab Jason Barnes with a knife?’

‘Yes, I did. I did. He did it.’

If Andrew thought his own cross-examination was tough, it was a walk in the park compared to the savaging that Conrad Quinn received. At one point, the judge admonished Mrs Patel for harassing the witness. The stress told on the lad, who began to rock, obviously a subconscious reaction, tilting up on the balls of his feet and back, wiping repeatedly at his nose and getting less and less articulate as the gruelling interrogation went on.

The gist of the defence was to portray Conrad Quinn as a violent young thug who was out to save his own skin at the expense of his mates.

‘Have you ever carried a knife?’ Mrs Patel demanded.

When Conrad Quinn hesitated before answering, she swept in with, ‘It’s not a difficult question, is it? Yes or no?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Regularly?’

‘I suppose.’

‘You suppose. And where was your knife on the seventeenth of December?’

‘In my sock.’

He sounded pathetic, thought Andrew.

‘Handy enough to pull out when Jason Barnes came at you.’

‘I never!’ he said.

‘What happened to your knife?’ asked Mrs Patel.

‘What?’ said Conrad Quinn dully.

‘Where is it? Where was it when the police searched your house?’

‘I got rid of it,’ he said.

Andrew groaned inwardly. It looked so incriminating.

‘Why?’

‘Because of what happened.’

‘Because you stabbed Jason Barnes?’

‘No!’ Conrad Quinn protested, still for a brief moment. His face and his neck, with the unfortunate tattoo, flushed dark red. ‘No, because my knife was a bit like Gazza’s and they might think it was the one what had been used.’

‘Was there any blood on your knife?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘But they could say I’d cleaned it. Bleached it and that.’

‘Did you?’

‘No. No.’ He sounded panicky now, and Andrew caught an intake of breath in the seats behind, where the other families were. What must it be like to be his parents? he wondered. To watch this, to see him there, clumsy and frightened, already baldly admitting to having kicked Luke hard enough to crush his skull and damage his brain.

‘Where did you get rid of it?’

‘In the river.’

‘I’d like to suggest a different version of events. It was you that stabbed Jason, wasn’t it? It was your knife, wasn’t it?’

‘No.’

‘You were still there with him when Thomas Garrington and Nicola Healy had run out of the garden. They had seen you get out your knife and they wanted to put as much distance as possible between themselves and you. But you were intent—’

‘I did nothing!’ Conrad Quinn objected.

‘Is there a question?’ Mr Sweeney had risen to his feet.

‘Did you stab Jason Barnes?’ Mrs Patel had her eyes pinned on him.

‘No. I never. I never.’ Andrew didn’t know whether to believe him or not. And if he didn’t, how would the jury know? He continued to watch the boy falter and bluster and struggle with Mrs Patel and then with the girl’s barrister. Any decorum or composure long gone.

Mr Floyd finished with a flourish, ‘It might be easier for this court to believe your account if you had gone to the police in the weeks between the murder and the date of your arrest. Yet you only saw fit to assist in the investigation once you were yourself at risk of being charged with murder. I put it to you that the account you have given was invented afterwards to fit the facts and save your skin. To make Thomas Garrington and Nicola Healy pay for the murder that you actually committed. Isn’t that the truth?’

‘No. That’s a lie. That’s a lie!’

‘I’d say you know a fair bit about lies,’ Mr Floyd said, ‘and I put it to you that you are lying to this court.’

‘No.’ Conrad Quinn swiped at his face.

Andrew rubbed his own forehead. Closed his eyes while the final thrusts and parries were made. It felt like he was watching someone poke a caged animal.

They made their way through the clot of reporters outside in the square, past the cameras and the news vans. Mr Sweeney had advised them not to answer any questions. They would be able to give a statement to the press at the end of the trial, once the verdicts were in. Andrew couldn’t second-guess the result any more.

When they reached the car park, he stopped Val and handed her the car keys; he’d go and pay. She didn’t even look at him as she took them, didn’t speak. Everything about her remote, withdrawn.

Colin shuffled from foot to foot as they waited in line by the pay-station machine. ‘You and Val . . .’ he began.

‘Don’t,’ Andrew said.

‘It’s not just the trial, is it?’

Andrew sighed.

The queue moved closer.

‘Mum and Dad are—’

‘Val’s depressed, they know that. And she doesn’t want my help.’ Andrew realized he sounded churlish, self-serving.

‘She was phenomenal in there,’ Colin said. ‘Just watching her go through that. She was so strong, and it was . . . everybody was moved. It must have been so hard for her.’

Andrew could imagine it. That grit inside Val, that unbending determination to do what had to be done, to bear witness, to cleave to the truth, to defy any challenge. He closed his eyes. ‘She thinks I’ve betrayed her,’ he said.

Colin’s eyes widened.

‘Not like that. Not exactly. Val blames Luke Murray for everything that happened.’

Colin nodded. ‘It’s fair to say he provoked the guy.’

‘Six weeks prior to the attack. C’mon, Colin. Not exactly provocation. Anyway, I ran into Luke’s mother, Louise. We met up.’

Colin stared.

‘Just friends,’ said Andrew. They moved closer to the machine.

‘You idiot.’ Colin shook his head and exhaled noisily. He put his ticket in the slot, fed the machine coins.

‘There was nothing in it.’ Andrew put his ticket in. ‘Just for coffee,’ he said.

‘That hardly matters,’ Colin said. ‘She’s still going to see it as a betrayal, isn’t she?’

‘Let’s just leave it,’ Andrew said. ‘It’s nobody’s business but ours.’ He could feel Colin’s disapproval, great waves of it. But he didn’t feel guilty about his friendship with Louise and he wasn’t going to pretend to for Colin’s sake.

‘She’s your wife,’ Colin said sharply as they climbed the concrete stairwell. Andrew could smell the damp stone, and the fumes of petrol and oil from the cars.

He stopped on the landing and turned to his brother. ‘We sit next to each other in court, we sleep under the same roof, we have a joint bank account. That’s all there is now. That’s the extent of my marriage.’

‘Well, a tragedy like this—’

‘Don’t you bloody dare.’ Anger crackled through him, a surge of static. ‘Don’t you dare lecture me about what a tragedy like this does or doesn’t do.’ He wanted to hit Colin, shove him down the stairs. Colin was always bossing him about, big brother knows best. Well this was one time when Andrew knew better. He walked quickly up the stairs and pushed through the door to the cars. Colin caught up with him, put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Andrew.’

‘Just fuck off.’ Andrew wheeled away, raising his hands, palms open. ‘We’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said curtly.

He got in the car. He thought Val might ask him what was up with Colin, but she said nothing. He was shattered, his bones and muscles aching as though he’d been beaten up. He hadn’t the energy to try and communicate with her. They travelled home in silence, through the mild evening air.

E
mma had been to Gavin to ask for the rest of the week off work to attend the trial. She had not expected him to agree, but when she told him she had some annual leave left and she could use that, he said yes.

On the third day, most of the evidence was from doctors of one sort or another. There was a doctor who had been on duty at the A&E department describing what efforts had been made to revive Jason Barnes. Then the pathologist who performed the post-mortem. He explained Jason’s injury and that the massive loss of blood had led to his death. After him they heard from the doctor who had treated Luke Murray and the consultant neurologist who had overseen his care while he was in the infirmary. There were only a couple of points where either of the defence lawyers cross-examined. Mrs Patel asked the pathologist whether he had recorded Jason’s blood alcohol level. At this Emma heard a sharp gasp from Mrs Barnes, who was sitting with her husband. The pathologist told them that Jason’s blood alcohol level was raised. He gave a figure and explained that it was just over the drink-drive limit.

‘So Jason would have been intoxicated?’

‘It’s impossible to know what his tolerance level was,’ the pathologist said. ‘Individuals are affected very differently.’

‘But he’d be unfit to drive?’

‘Legally, yes.’

And the same barrister asked if the position of the wound gave any indication as to who had used the weapon, whether for example it was someone left-handed or right-handed.

Emma glanced at the defendants in the box, wondering if this was an important issue. But the pathologist said no such thing could be inferred, not even whether the person had struck from behind, or had been facing Jason and reached around him.

There was a sense of disappointment in the courtroom. Emma knew that if this had been on television, the person on the stand would have been able to tell all sorts of things just from the wound that would help them identify the culprit once and for all.

When she was listening to the evidence, Emma didn’t feel so awkward, but in between, when there were breaks and everyone went out, she could feel the girl, Luke’s sister, glaring at her. Despising her. She imagined other people sharing the same thoughts, whispering about it:
She’s the one from the bus. Just sat there. Could see them getting violent, did nothing.

The last witness for the prosecution was the police inspector in charge of the investigation. He described the sequence of events up to arresting the defendants. He explained that there was no forensic evidence to prove who had used the knife and the weapon had never been recovered in spite of exhaustive searches of the suspects’ homes. He also described how Conrad Quinn had confessed and pleaded guilty to a lesser charge.

The defence barristers made a meal of that. Mr Floyd, representing Nicola Healy, focused on how Conrad had tried to evade the police up until his arrest and would probably have remained at large if a member of the public had not helped identify the suspects. Going on about how he only began to co-operate when he faced the most serious of charges. And the other barrister, Mrs Patel, kept repeating that Conrad Quinn was playing the system to save his own skin.

Emma grew tense again, her stomach churning, their hectoring reminding her of the way the lawyers had grilled her about who said what on the bus and how she could possibly tell.