Babyface. Elizabeth Woodcraft

now he was on a charge of murder. With an unlikely victim, certainly as far as pages three and four of the instructions were concerned. An underworld villain, Terry Fleming, had disappeared. He was a small-time crook and heavy man, who hired out his services to local businessmen, in between selling cars and playing a mean hand of blackjack. Some nine months previously, three days after Danny Richards had been released from HM Prison, Parkhurst, having completed five years of the seven-year sentence, Fleming had gone out for a birthday celebration, dressed in his finest and newest four-button, mohair grey suit, and never come home. His body had never been found. He had last been seen at one of Birmingham’s brightest and hottest nightspots, the Lambada Casino.

      Perhaps there would be the chance of a night at the casino, I thought, to feel the atmosphere Fleming had been in, to see what he had seen. I could wear a cool black jacket, some black patent shoes, try a twist of the poker cards, slide some chips across the green baize, faire mes jeux.

      But what was I thinking? I had no intention of having anything more to do with Danny Richards’ case after tomorrow. On the stroke of half past ten I would announce to the judge that my time was up, and I would rise and tie the pink ribbon firmly round the papers, write Simon’s name on the back sheet in large letters and walk out of the court building without a backward glance.

      As you can imagine.

      Of course the trouble with a good juicy criminal brief is that you get sucked in, you get involved and excited by the possibilities. I made a list of things I would do if this case were mine:

      Check the Malaga coast line. No corpse can so often mean no murder.

      Check police missing-persons files for reports of disappeared young, nubile women to see if Fleming had run off with someone (or nubile men – what better reason for a man to leave the country than if he thinks he’ll lose his reputation as a hard man if his sexuality is revealed?)

      Investigate other reasons for wanting to disappear. Had he fallen out with someone? Was he trying to go straight? Was he threatening to tell all?

      Consider the possibility of suicide – did he have any reason to commit suicide (see above)? Are there any forms of suicide that allow the body to self-destruct so that no traces remain – e.g. throwing oneself into a vat of acid?

      Who might want to kill him? What would Danny Richards’ motive be?

      According to Kay’s instructions, the prosecution case against Danny Richards was pretty weak, based on circumstantial evidence. The statements of the witnesses offered little information other than the fact that Danny and Fleming had never got on. There was a hint of a long-standing quarrel, a suggestion of an argument the night before he disappeared. No more than that. The case could well be thrown out at half-time, at the end of the prosecution case, after a stirring submission of no case to answer. From the way Kay was describing it, Simon could probably make that submission on the papers alone, before a word of oral evidence had been given.

      This was good. This meant I could be extremely condescending to the prosecution, and swagger round the courtroom in controlled indignation.

      But reading between the lines of her upbeat instructions, I could tell that Danny Richards was going to have an uphill struggle. He’d apparently said some fairly stupid things to the police, which could amount to admissions of guilt. It would be difficult to keep them from going in front of the jury without calling the police liars. That counted out the possibility of an early submission. It also meant the risk of the jury hearing about his previous convictions. The jury wouldn’t like him at all. And then, almost as a throwaway comment at the end of the instructions, there was a mention of the laughable ‘forensic evidence’ Simon was being asked to consider. From the instructions I couldn’t tell what it was. A finger print? A spot of blood? Fibres? Kay had written that it was harmless enough on its own but in the context of the trial, could be fairly damning. The possibility of an acquittal seemed remote.

      But tomorrow my main task was to hang on to him. It was a good thing he wasn’t going to be there, to ask me hard questions like, ‘Am I going to get off?’

      It was midnight. I could still ring up Simon and demand his limping attendance. Or Gavin, to demand his, to explain to the judge why Simon wasn’t there. But I couldn’t do that. It was beneath me. I had to take it like a woman.

      The best thing to do was to get a good night’s sleep to be fresh and clear-eyed for the judge.

       THREEWednesday Morning – Crown Court

      But it wasn’t just the judge, it was Danny too. Because of course, they brought him.

      I went to the cells, just in case, and asked nonchalantly whether they had him.

      ‘Oh yes, madam.’ The jailer had a cup of tea and a copy of the Sun open on the desk in front of him. I gave him my name. ‘Just you is it?’ he asked in the false anxious tone they use to wind-up women barristers. ‘You want to go in on your own?’

      Gavin had assured me that, whatever impression the papers might give, the client was a pussycat. I wasn’t sure what that meant. Personally I won’t have a cat in the house.

      ‘If you would make your way to room number three, madam,’ the jailer said, reluctantly rising to press the intercom to ask for Danny Richards to be brought through. I walked down the corridor, under fluorescent lights, to the small concrete room with a table and three tubular chairs.

      I laid my wig and a packet of Benson & Hedges on the table.

      The interview began badly. ‘Where’s my brief?’ he said shortly as he barged into the room. He was big, stocky, with a face that would have been pleasant if it wasn’t for the very short hairstyle. He was wearing a tight, short-sleeved, camouflage green T-shirt, over bulging biceps and baggy combat trousers. He was on remand, he was still considered innocent, so he could wear what he liked. Simon would doubtless advise him to get a different outfit for the trial.

      He slumped into the other chair in the room. ‘Where’s my brief?’ His hands curled into fists on the table.

      ‘If you mean Simon Allison,’ I said, ‘he’s in hospital having a pin put in his ankle.’ I made a mental note to tell Simon that. ‘On the other hand, this morning and this morning only,’ I inclined my head towards my wig, ‘I’m your brief. My name is Frankie Richmond.’ I held out my hand. He looked at it reluctantly. Then decided not to shake it.

      I smoothed open my blue counsel’s notebook.

      ‘Mr Richards, the purpose of this morning’s hearing is to make the final preparations for the trial.’

      He looked at me with a bored expression, picking up the pack of cigarettes and removing the cellophane.

      ‘It’s pleas and directions. You pleaded not guilty on …’ I rifled through my ten pages, knowing the date on which Danny had entered his plea was one of the many things they did not contain.

      ‘I’m thinking of changing that. My plea. I’m thinking of going guilty.’

      ‘Oh no you’re not.’

      ‘I can do what I like, I’m paying your fees.’

      ‘No,’ I said, ‘I think someone else is paying my fees. But perhaps your name isn’t Richards at all, perhaps it’s Aid, or can I call you Legal?’

      ‘That’s Mr Aid to you.’

      ‘Of course,’ I said.

      ‘Don’t get smart,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a right to representation, same as that bloke Saunders did. And the Maxwell brothers.’

      ‘Of course you have, probably more,’ I said. ‘But we’re getting off the point. You are not going to change your plea. Your lawyers having been working very hard for…’ I rustled my papers, ‘a long time, and they are…’ I coughed, ‘confident of victory.’