Blood Relative (7 page)

‘Something like that.’

‘Well it’s totally absurd. I just don’t believe it.’

‘Do you have a better explanation, Mr Crookham?’

I said nothing. Yeats looked at me.

‘I didn’t think so. Well, thank you for your help, anyway. You are free to go now. Your clothes and personal effects are still at the lab, but they will be returned to you in due course. Your brother’s clothes will be needed as evidence, but we’ll be returning his effects and his computer once we’ve taken a copy of the hard drive. Given the state of your mother’s health, can I take it that we should send everything to you?’

‘Yes, I’ll be responsible for it all.’

‘I thought you might. Now, I don’t know how aware you are of the media interest in this case, but you won’t want to be leaving through the front door. The vultures are starting to gather and you don’t want to be talking to them. Far too easy to say the wrong thing.’

Samira Khan spoke up, ‘Why don’t I read a statement explaining that no charges have been brought against my client and respectfully requesting the media to allow him some peace and quiet at this difficult time?’

Yeats nodded: ‘While you’re doing that, we’ll get Mr Crookham out through the back and away before anyone’s got time to react. And here’s my card.’ He passed it across the table towards me: ‘If you think of anything that might be useful to the investigation, or come across any relevant information, you can call me at any time … if Ms Khan has no objection.’

‘I would advise my client to speak to me first,’ she said. ‘But no, I don’t object.’

Ten minutes later I sneaked out of the police station. I was a free man again. But Mariana was still in there, still a prisoner until someone, somehow, came to set her free.

10

They gave me back my belongings when I left the police station. The moment I switched my phone on it started going crazy, pinging and beeping with a flood of incoming emails, texts and voicemails. Half a minute later, I’d switched it off again. I wasn’t even close to being ready to deal with other people’s reactions to all this. I was having a hard enough time making sense of my own.

A police officer drove me back to the house. He watched over me as I gingerly made my way round the edge of the living room, unable, despite myself, to take my eyes off the dark stains of Andy’s blood that seemed to cover so much of the walls, floor and furniture. I filled an overnight bag, though I did not know where exactly I would be, or for how long. Then I got in the Range Rover and made my way back into town.

I’d worked out a basic ‘To Do’ list when I was in the nick. I wanted to sit somewhere quiet and dark and just try to deal with Andy’s death, Mariana’s arrest and my own inability to understand either. But there wasn’t going to be any chance of that. Like it or not, the next few hours were going to be spent running errands.

First stop was the office where Samira’s boss, Mr Iqbal, was based.

‘I take it your wife will not be applying for legal aid, Mr Crookham,’ said Iqbal, opening our conversation. He was a small, unprepossessing figure, just running to fat, with a few strands of hair stuck to his balding scalp.

‘No, just send the bills to me,’ I said, doing my best to sound like an important, revenue-generating client who needed to be taken seriously. ‘And whatever it takes, whatever it costs, I don’t care. I want her to get the best defence. I don’t give a toss what the police say, I can’t believe she could have done this … Not Mariana … It’s not possible …’

Iqbal perched his chin upon steepled fingers, examined me for a second and then said, ‘I understand, Mr Crookham. Your feelings are very natural at a time like this. You have my deepest sympathy and condolences for the loss of your brother. And I am sure that we will consider every possible option when we enter a plea on your wife’s behalf.’

That was not what I had wanted, or expected, to hear.

‘Why do you need to consider “every possible option”? Just say she’s not guilty. Job done.’

Iqbal shrugged. ‘I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Mr Crookham. I am sure that the police have already told you that the weight of evidence against your wife is really quite overwhelming. When this is coupled with the absence of evidence suggesting the involvement of anyone else …’ He sighed: ‘Well, let us just say that this may not be a case in which the fundamental facts of the matter are in dispute.’

‘So you’re just giving up?’

He frowned. ‘Not at all, not at all! There are many other options we can pursue. As you know, your wife has been in a very disturbed condition since you found her. We await proper psychiatric evaluation, but there may well be mitigating circumstances that might lessen the severity of any sentence that she receives.’

‘I can’t believe you’re talking about sentences already,’ I said.

Another shrug: ‘One must be realistic.’

‘Well, can you at least tell me how Mariana is and when I will be able to see her? Has she asked after me at all? Maybe she can tell you what really happened in there … she could describe someone, perhaps …’

‘Ah, so many questions …’ said Iqbal, with a sigh.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, no, not at all, Mr Crookham. Your anxiety is perfectly understandable. I will therefore try to deal with your questions one by one. You asked first about your wife’s current state. I have to tell you that she is now a little more responsive. She is still very delicate, very confused, but she can answer a few simple questions …’

‘What has she said?’

Iqbal spread his hands in supplication: ‘Please, Mr Crookham, I am her lawyer. I am bound by client confidentiality.’

It felt as though I was constantly being stonewalled: first Samira Khan telling me why I could not see Mariana, now Iqbal refusing to tell me what, if anything, she had said.

‘But I’m her husband. I’m paying her bills,’ I said, my frustration rising.

‘Oh yes, Mr Crookham, that is true, but neither of those facts makes any difference to my moral and professional duty to my client. Besides which, you are a potential witness. It is a matter of some debate as to whether I should be talking to you at all, let alone describing your wife’s condition. It would not do any of us any good if there were any suggestion that we had in any way prejudiced the possibility of a fair trial.’

I did my best to accept the position he was in. It wasn’t easy: ‘Surely you can tell me if she’s talked about me, or has any message for me?’

‘She has not said anything about you, or passed on any messages for you, I can tell you that much,’ Iqbal replied.

I tried to mask the stab of disappointment with a business like approach: ‘So what happens now?’

‘Ah, well, the police can only hold a suspect for thirty-six hours. After that time they have to apply to the magistrate’s court for an extension and we have the chance to apply for bail, or, if it is appropriate, for the accused to be moved to a medical facility. There are always complications finding a bed and getting health authority funding, but I’m sure we can find a solution, should it ever come to that.’

‘If Mariana needs medical care, I’ll pay for that too. Perhaps she could be looked after in a private hospital …’

Iqbal made a note on a pad in front of him. ‘To be honest, I am not sure about that. I will have to look into it. Some private hospitals do have secure facilities for those patients who have been sectioned. But whether they would be considered secure enough for someone accused of murder, I cannot tell you.’

‘When will this hearing at the magistrate’s court be, then?’

‘Let me see … your wife was arrested at approximately nine o’clock last night, which would mean that the hearing would naturally occur at nine tomorrow morning. I think we will know a lot more then.’

At least something was happening and decisions would be made. But once again, it was all based on the assumption that Mariana was essentially a criminal, and I wasn’t ready to accept that.

‘What then?’ I asked. ‘Is there anything I can do, anything that will help my wife?’

‘The best thing you can do is simply to let the process take its course and leave the professionals to do the hard work. The criminal justice system does not move quickly. These matter can take months, even years to resolve. In the meantime, my advice to you, Mr Crookham, is to try to carry on in as normal a fashion as you can. It is not easy, I know. But it is for the best.’

11

‘Well, to do the bloke justice, I can see his point,’ said Nick Church.

I’d gone round to the practice out of a sense of duty. I was a senior partner. I ought to show my face at least. As I walked through the main office, trying to look purposeful and composed, I encountered for the first time something to which I was about to become very accustomed: the confused and helpless looks of people who have not got a clue what to say. I didn’t blame them. I didn’t know what I wanted to hear. As for Nick, I’d hoped he’d share my righteous indignation about Iqbal’s apparently laid-back attitude. Yet here he was, apparently taking the lawyer’s side.

‘I mean, face it, there’s not a lot you can do now except pay the bills and be there for Mariana. If you really think she’s innocent …’

‘What do you mean, “if” she’s innocent? You know Mariana. Do you think she could kill anyone?’

I could see Nick thinking he’d have to handle me with kid gloves.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s just that, you know, you’ve lost your brother and … well, no one would blame you for finding it hard to forgive her, that’s all.’

‘How do you know there’s anything to forgive?’

A look of surprise crossed Nick’s face: ‘Well that’s what everyone … I mean, it just looks bad for her, I suppose.’

‘Yes, it does. And that’s why I’ve got to stand by her. Someone has to. Look, it’s bad enough losing Andy. I still half expect him to call up and say why don’t we have the pint we missed last night. But if I lose Mariana as well … what would I have to live for?’

‘Even so, Pete, you’ve got to trust the lawyers. I’m sure they’ll do the best for her. And they’re the experts. It’s like when we build a house. We’re constantly telling clients things they don’t want to hear. This is the same, only you’re the client, not the professional …’

Yes, I was the client and now I understood how helpless that could make one feel, paying the bills for a process that was totally out of your control.

‘It’s hard to take, that’s all,’ I said. ‘I feel like I should be doing something, for Mariana’s sake and Andy’s.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know … finding out what really happened, and why?’

‘Well, that’s the police’s job, isn’t it?’

‘It should be. But as far as they’re concerned they’ve got their suspect, wrapped the whole thing up and put it to bed.’

‘Well, they know what they’re doing, and, frankly, you don’t. You’re an architect, not a detective. You can’t go around playing Hercule Poirot. You don’t know where to begin.’

‘I can’t stand this, people telling me not to worry, not to get involved, just go away and carry on as if nothing has happened.’

‘Yes, but what could you actually do? Listen, you’re a damn good architect, so why don’t you concentrate on that? Come back to work. Like the man said, try to get some normality back in your life. It’s for the best, I’m sure.’

‘But it isn’t normal, is it? I can’t even imagine what normality would feel like right now …’

‘OK, then, forget your imagination,’ Nick snapped. ‘Just concentrate on reality, and the reality is that we’re in the shit. The phones have been ringing off the hook, clients wondering what the hell’s going on.’

‘I know. I had to turn my phone off, just to hear myself think.’

He gestured me into a meeting area that was sheltered by screens from the rest of our open-plan workspace. ‘Well, here’s what you’re missing, then …’ he went on, in a quieter, almost furtive voice. ‘Some of them, the women mostly, have asked after Mariana. But a lot of them are really edgy. Any minute now we’ll get the first email threatening to pull out of a contract. And we’re going to have a bloody hard time getting any new ones, either. Not with this hanging over us. So I’m not asking you to come back just for the good of your health. I’m saying, there are twenty-odd people here with jobs on the line because of what happened last night. You owe it to them to sort this shit out.’

‘OK, I get it. But I’ve got to go and see my mother, tell her that Andy’s dead. When I’ve done that, I’ll try to write some kind of round-robin email to all our clients. You know, expressing confidence in Mariana’s innocence, having confidence in the justice system, meantime it’s business as usual. All right?’

Nick gave a grudging nod. ‘It’s a start, I suppose.’

‘Well, it’s all I can do right now. Mariana’s in court tomorrow. I have to sort out what’s going to happen to Andy’s body. I suppose there’ll be a funeral to arrange at some point. Give me a couple of weeks. That should do it.’

‘Two weeks?’ he said, his voice rising. ‘It could all fall apart by then …’

‘Calm down. Just tell the staff and the clients that I’m taking compassionate leave. Why wouldn’t I? It’s a lot more natural than swanning round the place like nothing’s happened.’

‘And what if the clients start marching?’

‘They won’t. Not all of them. Look, Nick, most of the big-money jobs are footballers, right? So they’re all used to media aggravation. I think we’ll get more support than you think. Plus, they all like Mariana. They’ve no reason to think badly of her.’

‘Except that the papers are basically saying that she’s a murderer.’

‘Yes, but we both know footballers hate the papers. Given a choice between believing in Mariana or believing in a bunch of reporters, what way do you think they’re going to go?’

Nick sighed, letting some of the tension go: ‘All right … maybe …’

‘Good. I’ll still have my phone and my laptop. If anyone really needs me, I’ll be accessible.’

‘So what are you going to do? Apart from the funeral and stuff …?’

‘I don’t know, Nick, I really don’t. But I’ll tell you one thing for sure. I’ve bloody well got to do something.’