The Brief - Chapter One

Prologue

Whites Chambers has occupied the narrow, three-storey Victorian building on the corner of St John Street in Manchester for a hundred and thirty years. 

The busy chambers reverberate with activity in the afternoons. Barristers return from court triumphant that they have done their best for their client, whether or not that is, in fact, the case. Any mistakes which may have been made are quickly forgotten. Nobody has time to dwell on past cases and anything that may have gone wrong; a witness who didn’t quite perform as expected; a closing speech that could have been a little more persuasive or a prison sentence that may have been too lenient or too harsh. 

The clerks keep their resident barristers in constant and lucrative work. Their well-structured diary system means that the best legal brains on the Northern Circuit (according to their recently updated website) are constantly put to the test, defending or prosecuting the unfortunate beings who find themselves at the mercy of the English criminal legal system.

There is always another case waiting; its depositions wrapped in luxurious cream paper, the accusations held tightly within the traditional pink ribbon of the brief.  In an occupation where a brilliant mind is paid for by the hour, the demand to leave any regrets behind and move on to the next case is always pressing.

And so it was on that particular Friday afternoon.

The heavy wooden door leading to Whites Chambers was pulled open by James, one of the junior clerks, who was rushing out for his daily sandwich, almost two hours later than usual, after a particularly busy morning. His journey was momentarily halted by three or four returning barristers (later, when questioned by the police, James was unable to remember the exact number) chattering animatedly about their morning in court. As he held the door open, he didn’t notice the stranger behind them, who was able to enter the chambers without having to use the intercom system. The man, dressed in a black suit with a crisp white shirt and a black and grey striped tie, and carrying a leather briefcase, merged into the small crowd perfectly. If anyone had taken the time to look down at his shoes, however, they may have noted that they were old and scuffed at the toe. If anyone had taken the time to look closely at his face, they may have noticed the sheen of sweat on his upper lip and the tightness of his jaw. But after a busy day in court, the barristers were focused on getting back to their desks and to their next awaiting case.

Therefore, he went unnoticed.

James smiled politely and reverently and waited until his path was once again clear. Then he walked quickly down St. John Street, onto Byrom Street and down to Quay Street to his favourite sandwich shop. By the time he was ordering his bacon, lettuce and tomato on granary bread, he was well out of earshot of the unusual activity in St John Street.

His older colleague, Imran, head to one side, with the phone held between his ear and shoulder, concentrated on his computer screen. He was trying his best to juggle commitments and find someone who might be free to do a sentencing hearing next Wednesday. He vaguely noticed the group entering the building. The flapping of coats, the shaking of umbrellas and their loud voices annoyed him. The phone line to the instructing solicitors wasn’t a particularly good one, and he was finding it hard to hear what was being said. But he smiled politely and professionally and then once again, stared at his computer screen.

“I’ll have to put you on hold for a second,” he said, “while I speak to Miss Kershaw. If we can move her conference to later in the day, then she’ll be free to do the hearing for you.”

The doors to the lift opened and the noise in the reception area diminished as they closed and took the group upstairs.  The clerk put the solicitor on hold and listened to the ringing of Miss Kershaw’s phone. He was irritated that she wasn’t answering when he knew she was in the building.

“Miss Kershaw isn’t at her desk at the moment,” he said. “But leave it with me, I’ll put the hearing in the diary for you. If she can’t do it, for whatever reason, I’ll find someone who can.”

As he chatted to the young solicitor, laughing and flirting, which he did with everyone, he thought that he heard something that sounded like gunshot. But the traffic on St John Street was always busy, so he told himself that it was a car back-firing, although the hairs on the back of his neck and his arms told him that he was wrong. The noise seemed to have come from upstairs.

A few seconds later, when the doors to the stairs at the side of the lift flew open and a tall thin man wearing a black suit and scuffed shoes ran into the reception area, the clerk knew from the man’s crazed look, his frightened eyes and the sweat running down his face that something was terribly wrong. The screams from upstairs could now be heard quite clearly through the ceiling and he knew that, whatever had happened up there, this man was responsible.

He had to stop him before he got to the door.

“Oi, what’s going on?” he shouted, dropping the phone. He ran out from behind the long reception desk.  Maybe the man would stop and calmly explain that everything upstairs was fine. Nothing was going on. There was nothing to worry about. Yes, he had heard the car back-firing too. Or was it a motorbike? They would laugh and the clerk would then ask him his name and who he had come to see. He would ask him to take a seat. Would he like a tea or a coffee while he waited?

Deep down, the clerk knew that the chances of that happening were zero.

He had to stop him.

The man didn’t say anything. He was walking now, almost running, to the door. He was seconds away from his freedom. But Imran was there first and blocked his way, his arms outstretched and his back to the door, ready for any altercation that may be forthcoming. He had been working at the chambers for nearly twelve years and he had met thousands of criminals in that time and, although they didn’t usually wear suits, the clerk knew one when he saw one. He knew that this man didn’t have an appointment and he shouldn’t be in chambers. None of the barristers had a conference arranged until after four o’clock.

The continued screaming from upstairs disturbed him and although all of the clerk’s instincts called out to him to get out of the way, to let the man go, he stood his ground.

The man stopped and stared at him for a moment. The clerk thought that he saw the tiniest flicker of regret in his eyes, a second before he raised his right hand and pointed the gun directly at his forehead.

Don’t people say that your life flashes before your eyes in the moments before death comes to take you? That wasn’t so for Imran. He didn’t see his past life.  Rather, visions of his future life zipped through his mind. In what must have been only a second, or two at the most, he saw his wife standing over his grave, sobbing and falling to her knees as his coffin was lowered into the ground and splattered with handfuls of soil thrown by the gathered mourners. He saw his daughter walking down the aisle on her own on her wedding day, fighting back the tears that would ruin her carefully applied make-up.  He saw his unborn grandchildren playing in the back garden of the house he had bought with his wife just before they got married; the house where their daughter had grown up. He saw his wife spending her retirement alone, going on cruises where she sat with strangers at dinner and pretended to be happy.

He wasn’t ready to die yet. There were so many things he hadn’t yet done, so many places that he hadn’t yet visited. He hadn’t been to Cuba or seen the Grand Canyon.  He had never eaten in a sushi restaurant. He hadn’t finished the John Grisham book he had been reading for the past month. He liked to take his time with a book, reading a few pages each night before he went to sleep. Now it seemed that he would never know the ending. He hadn’t even had time to pay off his mortgage. How would his wife manage without him?

He had always thought that he would saunter into retirement.

But complacency, it seemed, was not for everyone.

Fate had decided that his time was up, and he was willing to die like a man.

He closed his eyes and waited for the bullet that would propel him from this world into the next.

When he heard the front door open and felt the cool wind rush into the reception area, he prayed that it wasn’t James, his young colleague, returning moments too early, clutching his expensive and carefully wrapped artisan sandwich. It wasn’t fair for them both to be gunned down at work. If anyone was going to be the sacrificial lamb, then it should be him, surely. He was older, he was the senior clerk and, well, he couldn’t think of any other reason, except that it would be a pointless waste of another life. Goodness knows what damage this man had caused upstairs, but he didn’t need to kill another two people, just because they were in his way.

He waited for the sound of his colleague’s startled voice, but when it didn’t come, he opened his eyes, slowly and reluctantly.

The reception was empty.

The gunman had gone.

Chapter One

Monday - Eleven Days Before the Shooting

As Samantha dotted the foundation around her face and gently rubbed it in with her fingertips, she looked at her husband and smiled to herself. The door to their ensuite was open. She loved to watch him shave. Was that odd? There was something very masculine about it. The way he lifted his chin and dabbed the badger hair shaving brush over his neck, and then gently wiped the foam off with his silver-handled razor, ending the routine by splashing his face with cold water. As she curled her eyelashes and covered them with two layers of black mascara, she wondered whether he liked to watch her as she applied her makeup. The feminine equivalent of his shave. He had never said. So, probably not.

Even after ten years together, she still pinched herself every day when she woke up next to Alistair. She had confided in her best friend, Jamilla, shortly after their wedding, that she didn’t think she was good enough for him. Too much gin had loosened her lips on a girls’ night out, and she confessed that she was worried that he would stray, sooner or later.  Jamilla told her not to be so stupid -  he had chosen her, hadn’t he? But the words came from one who was blessed with natural beauty and curves that only dreams are made of.  Nevertheless, Samantha worried. She told herself that there must be something about her that he loved, otherwise he wouldn’t be here. She had heard something somewhere about men not wanting their wives to be too beautiful, so they didn’t have to worry about them being constantly chased by other men. Maybe that’s why he chose her. Whatever the reason, she was grateful.

She finished her makeup by adding golden bronzer and pulled her unruly curly hair into a tight ponytail. Alistair went into the shower as she went downstairs to the kitchen, where she made two coffees and poured them into stainless steel takeaway cups. They wouldn’t have time to sit and drink coffee this morning. The traffic into Manchester was always crazy on a Monday, and today’s forecast for rain wouldn’t help. Nobody seemed to want to get the tram at the slightest hint of inclement weather.

She popped a slice of bread into the toaster and then ran back upstairs to get dressed. She would have to eat it in the car, which Alistair wouldn’t be happy about, but so be it. He hated finding crumbs on his leather upholstery.

“You know my trial starts this morning, don’t you?” he said, curtly, as she walked back into the bedroom. “Why are you still in your dressing gown?”

He was already dressed in his self-imposed barrister’s uniform of a navy blue three-piece suit, with a white shirt and blue tie. A thick white pinstripe ran through the jacket and trousers. There was nothing subtle about Alistair.

She grabbed his tie and straightened it for him. It didn’t need straightening, but the opportunity to be near him, if just for a second or two, was too much for her to resist. She didn’t know why he bothered with it; it would soon be replaced by the white stiff wing collar for court, but he wouldn’t dream of walking through chambers without a tie. Not for a second.

He batted her hand away. “Leave it. I’ve just put it on. I’m quite capable of sorting out my own tie.”

She stepped back, away from him, and turned to her wardrobe, so that he wouldn’t see the start of tears.

“Can you just get dressed? Quickly,” he said.

She took a deep breath and told herself that it wasn’t personal; he was always grumpy on the first day of a trial. Although, as most of his trials lasted a week or less, he was grumpy most Monday mornings and she was getting a little tired of it. She didn’t tell him so. It was just part and parcel of being married, especially to someone who had a stressful job. Surely, she had some annoying foibles that he had learned to live with over the years. She knew it irritated him when she picked the gel from her nails, and she never stuck to the shopping list at the supermarket. She always came back with a bag or two of extra groceries. There were probably other things that he had never mentioned. But nobody’s perfect, are they?

She hung her dressing gown on the hook on the inside of the wardrobe door, took a black shift dress off the hanger and stepped into it.

“Okay, I’m ready,” she said, pulling the side zip closed and turning to give Alistair a big smile to defuse the building tension. He was still scowling. She grabbed her work shoes, sensible and black with a low heel (boring as hell) and put them on.

“Come on, I thought you said you had a trial. Let’s go,” she said.

It was almost seven a.m. and she knew that he planned to leave at seven, to be in chambers for seven forty-five, so, today at least, she couldn’t be blamed for making him late.

“Fine,” he said, checking the time on his Tag-Heuer watch. “You’ll have to finish your makeup in the car.”

She ignored his last comment and followed him down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“I’ve made you a coffee,” she said, nodding to the two cups. She picked up the toast, which had popped out of the toaster and was lying on the worktop, and began spreading it with peanut butter.

“Aren’t you meant to be giving up gluten?” said Alistair, as he took a large gulp of his coffee. “Fuck me, that’s hot.”

“I’ve just made it, that’s why,” she mumbled. She followed him out of the house, closed the door, and walked to the car.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said, taking a bite of her toast and climbing into the passenger seat of their Jaguar F-Pace.

“Did you put the alarm on?” he said. He held onto the driver’s door and peered at her, accusingly.

“Yes, I think so.” She honestly couldn’t remember. She was thinking about her busy diary and wondering whether James, their junior clerk, had managed to move her conference that was planned for tomorrow afternoon. As she left chambers on Friday, he had been on the phone to the instructing solicitor, promising that he would do his best. It wasn’t the end of the world if he hadn’t managed it, but she could do with a free afternoon to catch up with paperwork.

“Well did you, or didn’t you?” Alistair stared at her for a second, not waiting for her to answer. “Right, I’ll check it myself.”

She watched him stamp back to the front door and open it. She could hear the beeping of the alarm and watched him stab the code into the panel, before stabbing it again to re-set the alarm.

“I told you I’d done it,” she said, as he climbed into the car and started the engine.

“No, you didn’t,” he said. “You weren’t sure. I don’t know why you’re incapable of remembering something that you did literally less than a minute ago, but there you are.” He drove down the driveway and onto the road, quickly reaching a speed that was far too fast for a residential area.

Samantha didn’t want to start her week with an argument. Not again. So she pretended to be engrossed with Radio Four, as they sat for the rest of the journey in silence.