Michael Robotham - Bleed For Me

‘You approached the foreman of the jury?’

‘Yes. No. Not really.’

‘Do you know how many laws you’ve broken?’

‘We had to be sure.’

Somewhere above us a cue ball cannons into the pack. The sound echoes like a shot. Cray looks like she’s suddenly developed a toothache.

‘Tell me again why you were following this guy?’

‘Sienna remembered him. On the night Gordon pimped her out - there was a second man in the car. He drove her to the address.’

‘You’re sure it’s the same man?’

‘Yes.’

‘Where does the Hegarty girl come into this?’

‘What if she had to sleep with someone involved in the case? She’s underage.’

‘Blackmail?’

‘Gordon Ellis and Novak Brennan knew each other in college. They shared a house. They could have stayed in touch.’

‘Yeah, but Ellis’s name has never come up in the intelligence files.’

Ruiz interrupts. ‘He used to call himself Freeman. He took his mother’s surname after his first wife disappeared.’

Cray grunts dismissively, not convinced. Her eyes come back to mine. ‘The names and addresses of jurors are kept secret. They’re protected and after each trial they’re destroyed.’

‘This wasn’t a coincidence.’

Her voice drops to a whisper. ‘So you’re saying Brennan rigged the jury ballot?’

‘Maybe he got hold of their names or he had them followed home. The trial has been going for weeks.’

Cray’s forearms are pressed flat on the table. ‘You’re talking about jury tampering. Conspiracy. Bribing an officer of the court. Brennan has been in custody for eight months. Every call and letter is monitored. Even if he got to one juror, it won’t do him any good. He needs ten to get an acquittal.’

I glance at Ruiz. He pulls a dozen photographs from his jacket. Slides them between her forearms. The DCI doesn’t look down. For a brief moment I think she might simply stand and walk out. Her eyes stay fixed on mine, clouding.

Finally she lowers her gaze. Her face remains empty of expression but I see her throat swallow drily and her chest rise briefly against her shirt.

‘The red circles identify members of the jury,’ I say.

Cray’s eyes cut sideways to me, her lips parting slightly. ‘Should I ask how you got these?’

‘They were in a suitcase under a bed in a hotel room. The Royal. It’s off Stapleton Road. This guy had photographs, a list of witnesses, newspaper cuttings, maps - serious research.’

‘What guy?’

Ruiz answers: ‘The Crying Man. He took the room three weeks ago. Paid cash. Signed in under a false name.’

Colour has died in Cray’s cheeks. Her next statement is almost an intelligible whisper. ‘Don’t tell anyone about this.’

‘What are you going to do?’

She doesn’t answer.

‘You have to tell the CPS,’ says Ruiz.

Anger flares in her eyes. ‘For starters - I’m not taking my orders from you!’

It comes out in a hiss. Pale lumpy faces turn from the TV. Cray pivots forward on her elbows.

‘This trial has been a circus. It’s cost millions. I’m not just talking about crowd control and protecting witnesses. If it collapses there’ll be an absolute shit-storm and I want more than just a few photographs before I light that fuse.’

She collects the prints. Straightens the edges. Turns them face down. Already I can see her mind calculating her next move. She’s going to either stake out the Royal Hotel or seal it off and send in a SOCO team looking for fingerprints and DNA.

She glances at the red neon clock glowing above the bar: 11.46. It could be a.m. or p.m.

‘What about Sienna?’

‘We collected her from hospital at nine o’clock this morning. She’s being interviewed now.’

The DCI raises her cup again, balancing it between the fingers of both hands. Her tea has grown cold.

‘Ray Hegarty was a good copper. Maybe he was a lousy father. If that girl killed him, she’ll face a jury. Right now I’m giving her the benefit.’

A buzzer sounds, echoing in the night air, encouraging the audience indoors where students are acting as ushers and handing out programmes. The curtains are closed in the auditorium but occasionally the fabric bulges with movement and a face peers through a gap, bright-eyed, excited.

The band are tuning instruments and whispering to each other, while Gordon Ellis moves in the glow of the footlights, issuing last-minute instructions and calming first-night nerves. His face is still swollen, with one eye almost closed, but he’s wearing dark glasses and stage make-up to hide the damage.

I shouldn’t be here. According to the protection order, I can’t go within a thousand yards of Ellis or his wife. But I’m not missing Charlie’s big night and I’m not letting that bastard be alone with her.

Peering around a pillar, I can see Julianne in conversation with Harry Veitch. Laughing. Emma is in between them, but keeps crawling on to Julianne’s lap to get a better view. I wonder if Julianne realises that Harry has a lumpy head from this angle. Big and lumpy.

The lights are dimming. Voices fade to silence. The band strikes up and the curtain sweeps aside, rattling on rails. The entire cast appears, marching back and forth across the stage, dressed as commuters on a busy New York street. Millie, the small-town girl from Kansas, has arrived in Manhattan.

Although I don’t miss a moment of Charlie on stage, the show seems strangely muted compared to the rehearsal I watched three weeks ago. The music and staging are the same, but it doesn’t have the same energy or excitement. Maybe Sienna is the missing ingredient.

Nobody else seems to notice. There is a standing ovation and three curtain calls. Two girls drag a reluctant director into the spotlight, tugging at his arms. Reaching the front of the stage, Gordon Ellis bows theatrically, touching the floor with his fingertips, before rising again with his arms outstretched, ushering the cast to join him in another bow. He puts his arms around the nearest two girls. Charlie is one of them. I can taste the bile in the back of my throat.

The curtain slides closed. The auditorium lights come up.

Outside, stepping clear, I look for Julianne. She’s chatting to some of the other mothers. Harry is hovering, looking for someone to talk to. I try to avoid his gaze but he’s seen me.

‘What a show, eh? Utterly brilliant.’

He’s wearing boating shoes and one of those thermal skiing vests that zip up to his throat.

‘It started as a film, you know.’

‘What did?’ I ask.

‘ Thoroughly Modern Millie . Julie Andrews played the lead. It also had Mary Tyler Moore in it. It was nominated for seven Academy Awards and won best musical score.’

I should have guessed - Harry is an expert on Hollywood musicals.

‘The score was written by Elmer Bernstein, not to be confused with Leonard Bernstein - they weren’t even related, but they were given nicknames on Broadway. One of them was West Bernstein and the other East Bernstein.’

Harry laughs.

Maybe he’s gay.

Having finished his anecdote, he smiles at me. Apparently it’s my turn to add something to the conversation but I can’t think of anything to say. After a long pause he suggests that we should play a round of golf some time. I could come to his club.

‘I don’t play golf,’ I remind him.

‘Of course. Tennis?’

‘Not much these days.’

Harry tugs at his earlobe. After another long silence he closes the gap between us and whispers, ‘Do you think the two of us can ever finish up being friends?’

He asks the question so earnestly I feel a pang of sympathy for him.