William Brodrick - The Gardens of the Dead

‘I don’t follow’

‘It was the easiest allegation to make out because they didn’t have to prove procurement or intimidation. Encouragement is enough. The Crown was on the back foot, so to speak, and it was then that your mother seemed – I stress “seemed” – to help their case. The witness in question had, shall we say, a complicated past: not one that would promote trust in her word. But if I wasn’t familiar with forensic technique, I’d have thought that your mother reviewed it to evoke sympathy Take a look yourself. These are my notes of her cross-examination.’ He opened his notebook and passed it over. Nick read the surprisingly neat transcription, almost hearing his mother’s voice, her reluctance and her understanding.

‘Anji, you’re seventeen?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’ve been very brave this morning, telling the court how you came to work on the street – I hope you don’t mind if I use that phrase.’

‘You can call it what you like.’

‘Thank you. I’d like to ask you a little about what happened before you came to London.’

‘Eh?’

About Leeds.’

‘Whatever.’

‘You ran away?’

‘So what?’

‘You ran away from Lambert House, a care home?’

A prison.’

Anji, I’m not going to rake over what happened. This court understands that the places which ought to protect children sometimes fail. Your honour, let me make it plain that__’

Mr Wyecliffe coughed. ‘Do you see that bit about Lambert House?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, the place was eventually closed down because of its moral failings. Now, the prosecution would have been saving that information about the witness for after the defence cross-examination. That way the jury’s last memory of the girl would be sympathetic – because it gave a handle on the running, the lying and the thieving that was to come. But your mother spiked that by getting it in first. It showed she was being fair even as she was stealing the prosecution’s only card. Do you see?’

Nick drew his chair away from the table and continued reading.

Afterwards you ran away from the Amberly Unit?’

‘Yeh?’

‘And then Elstham Place?’

‘And?’

‘Anji, there are nine other projects from which you absconded, aren’t there?’

‘I never counted.’

Nick let the notebook fall. Mr Wyecliffe was examining his beer glass. ‘Tastes mild this stuff but the specific gravity is 5.6. You have to be careful.’

‘Why would my mother… seem to evoke sympathy?’

‘Because she didn’t want to alienate the jury.’ He wiped froth off his moustache. ‘The bedside manner would draw them on side.’

‘How do you know it wasn’t genuine?’

‘As a woman, as a human being, of course she felt for the kid,’ said Mr Wyecliffe, with mock impatience, ‘but as a lawyer that sort of thing becomes part of how you handle a trial. She could make it serve another purpose – to help the client.’

Nick hadn’t quite appreciated that this was the sort of manoeuvring his mother had been obliged to perform if she was to win a case. He turned over the page and his attention latched on to an exchange that Mr Wyecliffe had marked with an asterisk:

‘Anji, you told the court that Mr Riley said, “The one to fear is the Pieman. I’m just the rent collector.” What does the Pieman look like?’

‘I’ve never seen him.’

‘Do you know where he lives?’

‘Nah.’

‘Well, is he in London, or far off?’

‘He’s just round the corner, like, keeping an eye on us all the time.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Mr Riley says so.

‘Have you heard his voice?’

‘Nah.’

‘Why are you frightened of someone you’ve neither seen nor heard?’

‘Cos of what he’ll do if he catches us.

‘What’s that?’

‘He says that when you’re asleep, lying there, with your head all still, the Pieman comes up with a poker.’

‘A poker?’

‘Yeah, and he’ll bash you, just once.’

‘He’s after you, is he?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re in the care of social services at the moment, aren’t you?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re safe, aren’t you?’

‘Nah, cos he knows how to find you, no matter where you are, and he always comes at night, after you’ve closed your eyes. You can’t be looked after all the time, you know. He just watches, like, waiting for your eyes to drop, and when no one’s looking and it’s really dark, that’s when he comes.’

‘Through a window?’

‘Maybes. Wherever there’s an opening. He doesn’t need no keys or nothing.’

‘Anji, from what you’ve said, it’s as though the Pieman is like a bad dream. Is that right?’

‘Yeah, but it’s real.’

‘Thank you, Anji, you’ve been very helpful.’

Nick closed the notebook and handed it back to Mr Wyecliffe. His mother’s work had always been a remote activity: the facts were usually interesting, but it remained on a neutral platform where she’d ‘represented’ someone in ‘a trial’ with ‘evidential difficulties’. Reading the actual questions and answers within their context removed the staging. Each move was determined by one objective: to win. Nothing was sacred, save the rules of the contest. Even compassion was a tool. Nick said, ‘Do you know what happened to George Bradshaw?’

‘I do not.’

‘Do you know what happened to his son?’

‘I do.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘The matter was reported in several newspapers.

‘Who showed you?’

Mr Wyecliffe eyed his beer, admiring the question. ‘Can’t say much,’ he said. ‘Client confidentiality.’

They were back to where they’d started from when Nick had first taken a seat in that dim, stifling office.

On the pavement Mr Wyecliffe whistled at the cold. It came funnelling down Newgate Street from the direction of the Old Bailey. The office blocks were slabs of grey with occasional squares of dim light. ‘I suppose you know Mr Kemble?’

‘Yes.’

‘In a class of his own.

‘Yes.’ Nick, however, thought of his mother and father holding hands upon Skomer. The sea was often wild and the wind could make you shake. It was a world away.

‘Seen him recently?’ Mr Wyecliffe’s breath turned to fog.

‘At the funeral.’

‘Of course.’ He sniffed. ‘I suppose you mentioned your mother’s triumphant performance on Mr Riley’s behalf’

‘I did not.’

Ah.’ That seemed to be the answer he expected. ‘Do you mind if I ask am odd question?’

‘No.’

Mr Wyecliffe’s head sank into his collar until it seemed he had no neck. ‘Did your mother ever mention the Pieman after the trial?’

‘No.’

‘Thought not.’

‘Why do you ask?’

He thrust his little hands into capacious pockets. ‘Silly question, that’s…’

‘-why you keep out of court?’

Mr Wyecliffe voiced his surprise. ‘Exactly’

George switched on his torch and counted the scratches on the wall. While he’d been waiting for the monk, his mind had kept returning to Lawton’s Wharf, for it was there, to the sound of the river, that he and Elizabeth had planned their campaign.

‘You are avenging those girls, George.’

That’s what Elizabeth had said the first time she’d stood on the landing stage.

‘When you walked out of court you left them behind.’

She could be harsh, if she wanted.

The day before, a Friday, she’d said, ‘I’d like to see where John fell.’

They’d walked from Trespass Place to the Isle of Dogs. Side by side, they followed a dark, angular lane that ran between tall, silent warehouses, and beneath hoists like old gibbets. Presently, they reached an immense open space fronting the river: the premises of H amp; R Lawton and Co (London) Ltd. All that remained was a brass nameplate fixed to the perimeter fence with a coat hanger. The railings were loose, held upright by sheets of mesh wiring. George and Elizabeth passed through a large gap, as John had probably done. They picked their way over the remnants of a flattened warehouse into a chill off the Thames. Moving ahead of George onto the landing stage, Elizabeth said, ‘You are avenging those girls, George.’ The waves slapped against the timbers. ‘When you walked out of court you left them behind.’