The Verdict Page 18

  What could it be?

  Women, I guessed.

  I remembered Nikki Frater from the time I’d gone to VJ’s house. She hadn’t been able to look me in the eye. Never a good sign. Maybe she knew what her boss was really like, thought what had happened to him was inevitable.

  Christine returned to the report.

  ‘Next. Fibre analysis. Evelyn Bates was wearing a dark-green, silk-look dress from H&M. Part of the 2010 Lanvin range. The dress was found on the floor at the side of the bed. It was torn in two places – the left strap, and the side split had been ripped upwards. The material is 85 per cent polyester, 15 per cent elastane.

  ‘Forensics found matching fibres in three main areas of the suite, identified as A, B and C:

  ‘A is the area nearest the steps leading up to the bedroom, where they believe Evelyn was murdered. That had the highest concentration of the victim’s fibre, hair, tissue, bodily fluids – predominantly urine – and some faecal matter.’

  ‘Faecal matter?’ Redpath interrupted.

  ‘Don’t you know what happens to the body during strangulation, Liam? Everything goes. Would you like me to elaborate?’ Christine asked.

  He blushed. ‘No, it’s all right. Sorry.’

  ‘Fibres were also found in Area B – the bedroom – and Area C – the couch,’ Christine continued. ‘Matching fibres were retrieved from Vernon’s jacket and trousers. Hair from the victim’s head was also found on Vernon’s suit, as well as in the aforementioned areas of the lounge.’

  She paused there, closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. She’d done that when we met VJ in Belmarsh earlier in the week. She said the medication she was on made her dizzy sometimes, especially when she was concentrating. Clamping her nose and holding her breath for ten seconds stopped the spin cycle. I found myself counting with her.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, and found her place on the list. ‘The shirt had red lipstick and a trace of petroleum jelly on the rim on the collar. Both came from Evelyn.’

  ‘Petroleum jelly?’ Redpath asked.

  ‘Makes thin lips look plumper,’ Christine said. ‘You should try it. Though not when we’re in court.’

  I almost laughed. And when I saw Redpath self-consciously touch his mouth, I almost laughed again. He was the butt of Christine’s barbs, whether he’d done or said anything to deserve them or not. I felt a little sorry for him, and threw in a twinge of empathy, because he was getting a variant of the Adolf treatment. Christine obviously didn’t want him as a junior. I couldn’t tell if it was political or personal, or if she simply thought he wasn’t up to it. So far, I’d failed to see why Kopf had picked him. He hadn’t made a single useful contribution in any of our case meetings.

  ‘The victim’s hands and feet were bagged by forensics ninety minutes after the discovery of the body,’ Christine said. ‘During autopsy, the fingernails were scraped, and the hands and feet swabbed. A trace of Vernon’s saliva was found on Evelyn’s right middle finger. The scrapings from three fingers of her left hand contained skin tissue and blood matching his DNA profile and blood group.’

  Christine cleared her throat and turned another page.

  ‘Toxicology. Blood tests show that the victim had an alcohol content of 0.11 per cent. That would have made her noticeably “merry”. The test also revealed the presence of flunitrazepam. Anyone know what that’s commonly known as?’

  I did.

  I’d been prescribed it during my first few days at the Lister, when I was going through alcohol withdrawal.

  Medically: a sedative and muscle relaxant.

  Criminally: mixed with alcohol it can cause incapacitation, blackouts and amnesia. Its effects last up to twelve hours, depending on the dose.

  ‘Rohypnol,’ Janet said.

  Aka the date-rape drug.

  Like I said, VJ was fucked.

  But there was a little more to come, the finishing touch, the coup de grâce.

  We’d almost reached the end of the report. Christine glowered at the pages in her hands, her fingers tensing and then trembling. She looked up again, briefly, at Janet. More telepathy. More lost in the wilderness without a compass looks. Then she continued.

  ‘The contents of the wastepaper basket in the lounge were removed and analysed. There were several torn-up drafts of the speech Vernon gave at the award ceremony. And, on top of those, was a black thong. The thong had a substantial quantity of semen on it. Tests show the semen is Vernon’s.’

  Redpath shifted in his chair. Janet didn’t move. Christine pinched her nose and held her breath. Ten, nine, eight…

  She continued:

  ‘The prosecution will contend that he drugged Evelyn with Rohypnol. He took her up to his suite. For some reason the drug didn’t kick in as quickly as he’d expected. He tried it on with her, but she resisted. They fought. The room got smashed up. He overpowered her on the floor and strangled her. He then carried her to the bedroom, undressed her, and arranged or posed the body in a tableau. Once he had her looking the way he liked, he masturbated into her underwear. He then left the room and dumped the thong in the bin.’

  She rested the report on her lap. Silence filled the room like air to a vacuum; the silence of not knowing what to say next, of words evaporating before they’re half-formed.

  ‘Our client has lied to us,’ Christine said. ‘When I met him this week, I asked him if there was anything else he’d remembered from that night. He said no.’

  Redpath and I had been at the meeting in Belmarsh. We’d gone through VJ’s statement with him. He’d been absolutely consistent in the answers he gave Christine – and convincing with it. He made me doubt his guilt a little more, and I thought he might have won Christine over too. But after he’d gone back to his cell, she told me she wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth, or a brilliant salesman.

  Christine caught my eye and smiled like she’d just read my mind.

  ‘Janet, if you’ll indulge me, I’m going to break things down in layman’s speak, for Terry’s benefit. He needs to be able to follow the process.’

  Janet nodded her consent.

  ‘In any trial, there are two separate juries. The twelve members of the public, and then the judge. The prosecution has to satisfy both to get a verdict. The jury has to be convinced by the evidence, and the judge has to be sure that the crime is being prosecuted according to the rule of law.

  ‘Let’s focus on the judge. What is a crime, in legal terms? It’s a compound of two separate elements, like a chemical compound.

  ‘The elements of a crime are called mens rea and actus reus. Latin for “guilty mind” and “guilty act”. Thought and deed. It’s not a crime to have a guilty mind alone. You can’t be prosecuted for thinking you want to kill someone. And a guilty act can’t exist without a guilty mind behind it.

  ‘For example. A man is on trial for killing his cheating wife. The prosecution will say that he intended to kill her because of her infidelity. That’s mens rea. The guilty thought. Then he acted on those thoughts and killed her. Actus reus. Thought plus deed equals crime. OK?’

  I nodded. I remembered studying this at Cambridge.

  ‘Had this lab report been limited to hair and fibre, and the tissue under the nails, the prosecution would have had a big problem proving mens rea – that Vernon intended to kill Evelyn when he invited her up to his room. As far as we know, he’d never met her before that night. She wasn’t even a guest at the event he was attending. Why would he kill someone he didn’t know? No motive. No premeditation. His intentions towards her were sexual, not murderous. If his mind was guilty, how was it so?

  ‘Yet he’s being tried for murder, not manslaughter. The prosecution are saying he intended to kill her when he invited her up to his room. Now, any judge would know that the legal case is weak for murder, but strong for manslaughter.

  ‘My original intention – before the report came in – was to tailor my defence, not at the jury, but at the judge. In other words, use legal ar
gument and play the trial for a reduced sentence. If found guilty, our client would get a life tariff, sure, but with a ten-year maximum. In other words, he would be found guilty of murder, but serve time for manslaughter. Unfortunately, that’s no longer possible.’

  Christine sighed and shook her head. Then she addressed all of us.

  ‘Who jerks off over dead bodies?’ she asked.

  ‘A seriously sick bastard,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly. A seriously sick bastard. Someone who gets sexual gratification out of killing another person. Famous examples: John Wayne Gacy, Jeffrey Dahmer, Dennis Nilsen, the Son of Sam – all notorious serial killers.

  ‘Vernon James isn’t a serial killer – that we know of – but he’s like them. Depraved, twisted. A “seriously sick bastard”. He killed Evelyn for kicks, to get a hard-on. And that’s all the motive and intention the prosecution need. That’s their guilty mind. It doesn’t have to make any sense, legal or otherwise, because it doesn’t make sense. He’s a sick bastard. That explains everything – without explaining anything. Why did Dennis Nilsen kill and dismember fifteen men? Because he was a seriously sick bastard. Case closed.’

  ‘So what’s the damage?’ Janet asked.

  ‘It’ll be argued that Vernon James poses a risk to both women and society as a whole. A crime of this nature, with the drug and fetish element – the posed body, the post-mortem masturbation – suggests an escalating pattern. If he isn’t locked up for a long time, he’ll do it again. And again. So he’s looking at twenty-five to thirty years minimum.’

  ‘Is there any way around this?’ Janet asked.

  ‘He can spare himself a trial and plead, but he won’t get a reduced sentence.’

  ‘What about claiming diminished responsibility?’ Redpath asked.

  ‘That won’t hold,’ Christine said. ‘The mad-not-bad angle only works if the accused is deemed mentally incapable of understanding court proceedings. Nilsen tried it, and failed. Ian Huntley tried it, and failed. They’re both in prison, not an asylum. A few hours before he killed Evelyn, Vernon was up on a podium delivering a clear, articulate, well-constructed speech.’

  ‘When are you seeing him next?’ Janet asked.

  ‘Monday morning.’

  ‘I’d like to be there.’

  ‘I’ve already booked us all in,’ Christine said.

  Twenty-five to thirty years. VJ would be in his sixties when he got out. And prison added an extra decade to a body. He’d be a very very old man. The life he’d known and worked for and built would be long gone. His kids would be adults, Melissa would’ve divorced him and his business would have been taken over. Even if he deserved it, it was a horrible fate.

  ‘Where are we on the research?’ Christine asked me.

  I filled her in. So far so slow and getting nowhere fast. Swayne and I had managed to interview three of the thirteen witnesses the police had so far. All of them had confirmed their original statements and hadn’t stumbled. Two were at the hen party with Evelyn, and had told us she’d been drinking, but not excessively. The other person we’d spoken to had been in the Casbah nightclub. He said he’d been pissed that night, but he clearly remembered seeing VJ and Evelyn talking together. We were still working on setting up meetings with the rest of the witnesses.

  We’d also made no headway finding the watch.

  ‘What about CCTV?’ Christine asked.

  ‘Still waiting on that,’ I said.

  ‘Footage from the speech?’

  ‘Channel 4 turned their tapes over to the police.’

  ‘The CPS will only share those with us if they intend to use them at trial. Which I can’t see them needing to, given what they already have,’ she said.

  ‘Fabia could be on that tape,’ I said.

  ‘You mean that woman you haven’t been able to find any trace of in the last fortnight?’

  Yes, the same. I’d drawn a complete blank there so far. Swayne had spoken to some of the waiters who served at the awards dinner. None remembered seeing someone matching her description. And none of the Hoffmann Trust guests had called me.

  ‘Do you want me to carry on looking for her?’

  ‘Are you also a brain surgeon, Terry?’ Janet asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s a pity – because the only place you’ll find Fabia is in our client’s head.’

  28

  The next day I went on the witness interview round with Andy Swayne.

  It was my third time passing myself off as a cop, and I wasn’t happy about it – not one bit. It didn’t make any kind of sense, risking everything for someone who didn’t deserve it, who was going down anyway.

  So why was I doing it?

  Simple. I couldn’t afford not to. I was pretty sure what Swayne would tell Janet if I refused to go the distance to get information. And I still wanted a career in the law. Christine was relying on me to bring her ‘silver bullets’. If I did this job well and helped her build an impressive enough defence case, I could come out of it looking good enough to a prospective employer.

  Besides, I was starting to get the hang of the fakery.

  Compared to your average conman, we had it easy. We weren’t there for money, only information; so lying, not stealing. We’d already got the hard part out of the way – gaining trust and access – because our marks hadn’t just invited us in, they’d picked the time and place. Sometimes they even made coffee. And there was no doubt in their minds we were the real deal, as we had copies of their sworn and signed statements. All we had to do was turn up, look the part – weary of face and suit (not a stretch for either of us), cantankerous, but holding it in – and talk like satnavs reading out an Ikea assembly manual, and that was that. Job done. So far, no one had asked us for ID or even to repeat our names. They were too distressed and overwhelmed by what had happened – and so very keen to help us any way they could.

  I’d arranged to meet Swayne at a Caffè Nero on Regent Street at nine on the dot. I got there early, but he’d beaten me to it. He was sitting at the back, chatting up one of the baristas – in fluent Portuguese.

  As I got my double espresso, she was heading back to the sinks with a tray full of dirty cups and a smile on her face. He was following her with a melancholic look. I guessed he hadn’t pulled.

  ‘Garota de Ipanema,’ he said, as I sat down.

  ‘Hello,’ I replied.

  ‘Brazilian,’ he said, still watching her. ‘They look their best when they’re walking away.’

  ‘Let’s go through what we’re doing today,’ I said, putting the interview file on the table.

  I was strictly business with Swayne, all about doing the job and getting out of his orbit as fast as possible. I didn’t try to hide it either. No point. I hadn’t mentioned the pictures he’d taken of me in Suite 18, because I knew he’d done it for insurance; as something to have over the firm. I almost didn’t blame him, because I guessed Kopf had burned him in the past, but I also wondered if he hadn’t deserved it, wittingly or unwittingly, because of his drink problem, and his way of doing things.

  ‘So this isn’t goodbye?’ he said.

  He knew about the lab report.

  ‘I’d have done that by phone,’ I said. ‘It’s business as usual.’

  ‘Lawyers are born optimists.’

  We went over today’s witness list. We were meeting more of Evelyn Bates’ friends, among them the woman whose hen party she’d attended.

  It wasn’t just about cross-checking information and identifying potential blindspots and contradictions in their statements. We were also looking at the people themselves, how they answered, how they came across, how well they handled pressure. The more presentable and empathetic the witness, the more likely they are to sway or even swing a knife-edge verdict.

  And, of course, we were also digging for dirt on Evelyn. Anything that might have made her complicit in her own demise. Promiscuity, childhood traumas, substance abuse, drink issues, choking fetishes or related fantasie
s.

  But so far we’d found exactly nothing.

  Evelyn Bates had been well liked by her friends. They all said the same things about her. ‘Nice’, ‘bubbly’, ‘a right laugh’, and ‘a good listener’.

  Yet something struck me as odd. No one we’d talked to seemed to have known Evelyn very well, or got close enough to her to get past a good first impression. This could mean she’d been an open book, a what-you-see-is-what-you-get type. Or it was all a front, and she’d been hiding something.

  I was leaning towards the latter.

  If Evelyn had been a listener, and a ‘good’ one, it meant she didn’t talk much. Which in turn meant she’d given nothing away, that she liked to get to know people before committing to them.

  I knew this for a fact, because I’d never been the same after VJ’s treacheries. I’d gone from open to closed, accepting to suspicious, outward to inward. And do you know what people said about me?

  They said I was a good listener.

  29

  We took the train to Waterloo, then the Tube to Piccadilly, where we got off and walked to our first meeting.

  It was warm and sunny; too bright and too hot for this time of year, which meant summer had come prematurely and the real one was going to be a washout. Just like last year. And the year before.

  Regent Street had been done up for the Royal Wedding. Big vertical Union Jacks, five in a row, twelve feet apart, were suspended over the traffic and pavement bustle; hovering straight and still, in staggered tiers, their colours sharp and vibrant against the tawny Georgian buildings and clear blue sky. Tomorrow it would be a postcard, but today the scene was almost magical; as if the flags had come off every pole and awning in the city and gathered here, in orderly formation, waiting for the Oxford Circus lights to change so they could progress towards Portland Place.

  Our first interview was with Clare Oxborrow at her workplace on Beak Street. She’d given the most detailed of all the hen party statements. No surprise there: she was an analyst for a management consultancy, which meant she made a living out of specifics.