Babyface. Elizabeth Woodcraft

wanted me to do this hearing for you this morning.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘That’s a question I have been asking myself since the moment my clerk told me about today, Mr Richards,’ I said. ‘I think in another life I must have done something really terrible to him.’

      His face cracked into a smile. ‘I like you,’ he said.

      Oh God.

      I looked at my watch.

      ‘We’ve got twenty minutes before Norman has us in,’ he said, knowledgeably. ‘Look, they’ve stitched me up and they’ve done a good job. You’ve read the papers. You can see, can’t you?’

      I shook my head vaguely.

      ‘It’s funny really. I’ve known him for years. Never liked him – a self-important twat. I expect your old dad always told you never to trust a secondhand car dealer. Well, Terry Fleming is the reason why. But there’s loads more people I would rather have taken a pop at. But he disappears and they come and arrest me. And what have they got?’

      ‘A “no-comment” interview.’ I knew that much.

      ‘Yeah, but they’ve got the other stuff. What I said in the car. I admit I did say one or two things behind my hand, being ironic. And that is how they think they’ve got me admitting to this murder. And what with the forensics.’ He stopped. ‘Let’s just say, I want to change my plea. I’ve been in front of Norman before, he doesn’t like me, I know how this is going to go.’

      ‘But the conversation in the car…’ I hesitated. I was on difficult ground here, I wasn’t entirely clear what he’d said, what he’d said he’d said or what they said he’d said. ‘Simon can argue that’s inadmissable.’

      ‘He could, but it’ll go in. Then somehow my previous convictions will go in, probably thanks to my codefendant, Mr Catcher, who as you know is charged with conspiracy, but who I would no more conspire with than get in a spat with.’

      I made a surreptitious note. A co-defendant was good. If he was first on the indictment, the charge sheet, I might not have to say a word during the hearing this morning.

      ‘So my previous goes in and the jury hears about my climb up the ladder of physical violence – common assault, ABH, GBH, and attempted murder. The pross says something like, “And now the charge is murder. In criminal terms, members of the jury, he has come of age.” ’ He inhaled deeply and hunched forward in his chair. It was a good imitation of a pompous prosecution barrister. ‘Then what chance have I got? Down I go and Freddy Hanging’s-too-good-for-them Norman recommends thirty years for a “heartless gangland execution”. I might as well go guilty now and he knocks some time off in consideration.’

      Part of me knew he had a point. But another part of me knew I was not prepared for a plea in mitigation. A shard of desperation told me there was a chance he would win if he fought the case. And a sense of justice told me he should fight it, if he hadn’t done it.

      ‘But you might win,’ I said.

      He snorted and sat back in his chair with a grin on his face, leaving me with a small internal war going on. I didn’t know what else to say. I certainly couldn’t say ‘Actually, I’m not really meant to be here, in fact I’m not even a criminal barrister any more, and I am starting a case with some uppity clients at two thirty, a case which is going to open the path to heaven and possibly a fleet of fancy cars for me, and if I do your plea they’ll sack me.’ He was lighting a cigarette from the embers of his first one. The room was cold and full of misty smoke, like being on Dartmoor. I could almost hear small ponies neighing and pawing the ground.

      I said, ‘We’re not ready for a plea today. I’d want to spend a long time with you to prepare your mitigation, and we don’t have time for that now. Also,’ here we go, ‘I’ll be straight with you. I have to be somewhere else this afternoon.’

      ‘What did they send you for if you can’t do it?’

      ‘Because “it” is listed as a thirty minute PDH.’

      ‘Which stands for pleas and directions. And that’s what I want. I want to put in a plea, a guilty plea and get a direction that the whole thing is over and done with today. You just want me to stay not guilty because you want to get away. Where are you going?’

      ‘I have a case. I’m representing…’ I paused. Mentally I was checking my professional position. This was not breaching confidentiality. ‘I’m representing some people at an inquiry.’

      ‘Oh yeah?’ He was interested. ‘Who you representing?’

      ‘The victims. Look, I do want to get away, but it’s not going to make any difference to your sentence if you plead guilty today or next week,’ I said. ‘But for God’s sake, you’ve got so little to lose by fighting it. Plead guilty, you get life. Plead not guilty and lose, you get life. And I think there are investigations to be made – I don’t know if they’ve been done – that could help your case.’

      ‘Like what?’

      ‘Like, I don’t know, checking local newspaper reports for the month Fleming disappeared, retracing his last known steps, talking to his mum.’

      ‘All right, you can stop worrying.’ He rolled his cigarette between his fingers. ‘Write this down. “This morning, I will not ask to change my plea.” ’ I scribbled on my faxed back sheet. He held out his hand for the pen and signed his initials. ‘You’re a good little barrister, aren’t you? I’d like to see you cross-examining someone.’

      ‘Yes, I’m a real Rottweiler,’ I said.

      ‘No, I’d say you were more of a – what are they called?’

      ‘A Borzoi?’ I said, imagining something elegant and sophisticated.

      ‘No, no, I was thinking more like a Jack Russell.’

       FOURWednesday – Court 7

      The prosecutor didn’t like me. He was a young man with a five o’clock shadow, his accent obviously having shattered his shaving mirror. His first words were, ‘Counsel from London?’ He pronounced it kine-sel.

      ‘That’s right,’ I said cheerfully. They hate it when you come from out of town, stealing their work, stealing their hooks in the Robing Room, stealing their women.

      ‘Which chambers?’

      When I told him he said, ‘And why does a case like this need counsel from 17 Kings Bench Walk?’

      That was a good question, to which I didn’t have an answer. I thought of getting personal and saying ‘Because at 17 KBW we got rid of five o’clock shadows at the end of the last century.’ Which wasn’t even true. But he had strutted off to speak to a police officer. I wondered if I should try to create a friendship for Simon’s sake. Perhaps I should run after him and say something appeasing, something barristerial, like ‘What’s the best pudding they do in the Bar Mess?’ But it stuck in my throat.

      A woman with dark hair and red lipstick came over to me. She was wearing a spotless wing collar and snowy-white tabs, a true professional. ‘So you’ve met the Birmingham Bar’s roving ambassador? That’s Ewan Phillips,’ she said. I liked her at once. ‘I’m Roseanna Newson, I’m for Ronald Catcher.’ Her thick black hair, cut in harsh, geometric lines, highlighted the delicacy of her neat heart-shaped face.

      ‘I’m Frankie Richmond, for Danny Richards,’ I said, stroking my neck to hide my creased, cream collarette.

      ‘It’ll be good co-defending with a woman,’ she said.

      ‘Unfortunately, I’m not doing the trial,’ I said. ‘I’m standing in for Simon Allison for the day. He’s done something to his ankle.’

      Roseanna’s