‘It’s just a short matter in the morning. You’re going up there anyway. You’ll be away by ten thirty. Loads of time to get to the inquiry in the afternoon.’
I said nothing.
‘It’s a PDH at the Crown Court.’
‘Gavin, how many times do I have to tell you, I don’t do crime. A pleas and directions hearing will turn into a guilty plea. I will have to do the mitigation, the judge will adjourn it till after lunch. I will have to go back after lunch thereby missing the beginning of the inquiry, and then my clients, or even the panel itself, will sack me. Great.’
‘There is no way this will turn into a plea,’ he said. ‘It’s Simon’s corpseless murder.’
‘Then Simon can do it. Simon should do it. Isn’t that the rule? The person who does the trial does the directions hearing?’
‘Unless there’s a very good reason. And there is. He’s ill.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He’s twisted his ankle.’
I spurted with laughter and was about to say, ‘Pull the other one.’
‘No, honestly,’ Gavin said. ‘He was jogging.’
Once again my theory was proved correct. There is an inherent contradiction between personal fitness and personal safety.
‘Have a heart, Frankie,’ Gavin said. ‘I know you don’t want to do it but Simon’s very careful who he returns his cases to, and he did say you were his first choice.’
‘The first choice out of all the people from chambers who will be in Birmingham tomorrow?’
‘Is that sarcasm, Frankie? Unattractive trait. But seriously, Simon was delighted when I suggested you.’
‘Huh,’ I said, pleased. ‘But if he’s ill, is he going to be fit to do the trial?’
‘He’ll be fine by Monday.’
‘Gavin, I really don’t need this. I’m still getting papers for tomorrow, my fax is about to expire with all the statements my solicitor is sending me. Plus the comments on the statements. And the comments on the comments.’
‘Frankie, there isn’t anyone else and if the brief goes out of chambers we risk losing it altogether. Don’t do it for me, do it for Simon.’
Simon was a senior member of my chambers. Like most barristers he worried about his practice and I knew that with this case he was hoping to consolidate his reputation as a heavyweight criminal practitioner which would lead to his shortly applying to become Queen’s Counsel, to wear the robes of silk. Slowly I buttoned up my shirt.
‘How am I going to get the papers? There’s no time to get the papers to me.’
‘When are you leaving? I’ll fax them through to you.’
‘My plan had been to leave in about half an hour, to miss the rush hour, but that was before you said that the inquiry had been put back till tomorrow afternoon. At which point, for a split second I began planning a social life for myself in London.’
‘Yes, but wouldn’t you rather be doing something for chambers?’
‘Quite frankly, no. But, before you start again Gavin, OK,’ I said, ‘I will do it, but you owe me one.’ A thought struck me. ‘Oh no, the client must be in custody, so I’ll have to go and see him in the cells, won’t I? Then he’ll either say, “I don’t want a woman”, which will be embarrassing, or he’ll demand I stay on as Simon’s junior, which isn’t going to happen.’
‘They’re not bringing him,’ Gavin said, with hardly a pause for breath. ‘You’re first on at ten o’clock, His Honour Judge Norman, Court 7.’
‘Is this in chambers or do I have to robe?’
‘I’m not sure about Birmingham, you’d better take your wig and gown just in case. Now, have I got your cousin’s number?’
He’d won, and meekly I gave him Julie’s details.
‘Email?’ he asked.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ I said.
The fax machine rang and slowly pages from the brief in Simon’s case appeared.
I shouldn’t have agreed to do the PDH. I really needed a clear head for the start of the inquiry. This was a big one for me, my first really big case. I still wasn’t sure how it came about that I had been instructed. I was representing twelve adults, five men and seven women, who had been physically and sexually abused in their residential home by five carers. Some wanted vengeance, some simply wanted to know how it had been allowed to happen, they all wanted to stop it happening to anyone else.
It had been in my diary for over six months, the date being put back every couple of months because the chair of the inquiry had other commitments, or someone’s solicitor was ill, or a team manager was on holiday.
I’d had one conference with my clients, which had been raucous to say the least. Not only were they fed up with the delays, but three different solicitors within the firm had dealt with the case since I’d been instructed. I hadn’t even met the most recent one. The clients were seething. But I was determined to keep the brief. A case like this could make your career. Or break it.
My fax machine had stopped. Ten pages had come through from Gavin. Ten of ten. That didn’t seem a lot for a tricky murder, but if Simon felt that was enough then it must be enough. I glanced at the back sheet and realised that Gavin had failed to mention that the instructing solicitor in Simon’s case was Kay Davidson. I wondered if he had done it deliberately. I thought of ringing him to ask, but I knew that the answer would probably irritate me. Kay was one of Gavin’s favourite solicitors. The fact that she was an ex of mine was only a minor complication. Anyway, apart from a brief phonecall after the hearing tomorrow morning to let her know the outcome, I wouldn’t need to have any contact with her, which was probably best for all of us.
I shovelled the new papers and the huge brief for the inquiry into a second bag, threw in an alarm clock, and my packing was finished. I glanced round the living room and reluctantly I carried two empty wine glasses and a used coffee mug into the kitchen. Then I picked up three old copies of the Guardian from the sofa, straightened the rug in front of the fireplace, and, having switched on the timer that worked the two lamps, I left.
Of course I didn’t miss the rush hour at all. Well, I missed it for a bit, but my car, an L-reg Renault, was taking it steady, so that by the time I got to the turn off for Luton Airport and was wishing I’d brought my passport, as I always do on that stretch of road, the rush hour caught up with me and stayed by my side, jostling and pushing, till we got past Watford Gap.
I arrived at Julie’s redbrick terraced house in Selly Oak at eight o’clock. Marnie, her fifteen-year-old daughter, answered the door. Ever since she was eleven I have been surprised each time I see her by the growing maturity of her appearance. She kissed me effusively then went back across the room to watch the TV. I made my way through the living room to the back of the house.
Julie was in the kitchen, looking at a pizza in the oven. You could tell Julie and I were blood relatives, neither of us liked cooking.
She hugged me and suggested I take my things up to my room before supper. ‘Marnie!’ she called, ‘show Frankie where everything is.’
Marnie stomped ahead of me up the narrow, dark staircase to the first floor, and then up another flight to the loft, the room that was to be my home away from home for as long as the inquiry lasted.
‘It’s