Cruel Acts. Jane Casey
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single word: evil.
‘If he’s stuck for cash he can always write the Leo Stone diet book,’ Derwent muttered, leaning over so his elbow pressed against my side painfully. ‘There isn’t a spare ounce on him.’
‘Not the time or the place,’ I hissed. ‘And give me some room.’
Derwent shrugged and folded his arms across his chest, making himself even broader. His knees moved an inch or two further apart, which I wouldn’t have thought possible. I shifted to my right, trying to put some space between his thigh and mine, and collided with my neighbour on the other side.
‘Sorry.’
Godley nodded, preoccupied. Unlike me, he was concentrating on the judge’s speech and sat statue-still. Beyond him sat DCI Paul Whitlock, who was in his late fifties. I’d met him before the hearing started, in the echoing, cathedral-like main hall of the Royal Courts of Justice. He had given me a quick, bruising handshake, without a smile. He had retired after Leo Stone’s conviction, before the crowning achievement of his career had turned into a messy disaster, and he lived on the Kent coast now. I assumed he spent most of his life out of doors because his skin was like old leather. Under his tan, he looked drawn and tired. What we were watching was the dismantling of a case he had built, painfully and in the full glare of public scrutiny. I could imagine how he was feeling.
The words fell from the bench like wood shavings, dry and dusty, delivered in a refined Anglo-Indian accent.
‘It is one of the abiding principles of the British legal system that a jury trial must be fair. A jury must be impartial. They must base their opinions on the words of counsel, on the evidence they hear and on the judge’s guidance. It is abundantly clear that in this case the jury did not do their duty. Rather, they chose to ignore all instructions and plunged into a world of speculation and ill-informed comment, aided by the media’s distorting lens. The duty of a jury is a sacred one. A defendant is entitled to expect that a jury will conduct themselves fairly. Otherwise justice cannot be done. And it has not been done in this case. The appeal is granted. I order that the prisoner, Leo Stone, be returned to prison and a further application be made to the Crown Court for bail pending a retrial.’
A murmur ran through the courtroom. In the dock, Leo Stone opened his eyes for the first time, staring about him as if he had just woken up. His eyes were dark, the pupils invisible. One of the officers with him took his arm, but gently.
‘Come on.’
Stone didn’t move. His eyes scanned the public gallery, row by row, until they stopped. For a moment I thought he was looking straight at me. Then the man in front of me raised a hand to shoulder height: a salute that received an answering nod from the prisoner. Only then did Stone turn, dropping his head and rounding his shoulders as he trudged down the steps to the cells below the courtrooms, where he would wait for a transfer to prison. Freedom was within his grasp but it wasn’t his quite yet.
The judges rose and filed out through a door behind them, and as the door closed the barristers abandoned their respectful demeanour instantly. The juniors gathered up their papers and legal reference books, moving with the speed born of long experience in the Crown Court, where the next case followed on the heels of the first. The opposing silks leaned towards one another as they tucked pens into pockets and settled their gowns on their shoulders more firmly, laughing as if they had been working together rather than competing for the judges’ favour. The journalists had slid out of the benches at the earliest opportunity, scattering down the long, tiled corridor to find a quiet nook where they could call their newsrooms.
On my right, Godley sighed. ‘Well. That’s that.’
‘Nothing else they could do.’ Whitlock stood up. ‘Frustrating, though. In some ways it feels worse than if we’d lost the first trial. I took a lot of satisfaction out of locking Stone up. It made me feel the world was a safer place for him being behind bars.’
‘We’ll put him back there for you. Fucking juries.’ Derwent eased his hips forward, slouching. It wasn’t actually possible to lounge on the high-backed wooden benches but he gave it his best shot.
Harry Hollingwood QC paused at the end of our bench. ‘Quick chat before I go back to chambers?’
‘Of course.’ Godley got up, energised. I made to follow him and Paul Whitlock, but hung back to let someone pass through the heavy doors before me. He hesitated for a beat, looking at me and I returned the scrutiny: dark hair, dark eyes, heavy eyebrows, a slight frame. The man who had been in front of me in the hearing, who had waved at Leo Stone.
‘Come on.’ The man behind him nudged him. He was a head taller and correspondingly broad, his shoulders straining against the fine fabric of his three-piece pinstripe suit. It was exquisitely fitted, I noted, just as I noted that he was strikingly handsome and roughly my age. He had a full beard, which ordinarily did nothing for me, but he made it look good. He stared at me briefly, assessing me in much the same way that I was eyeing him, but whether he was impressed or not I couldn’t tell.
The first man mumbled something and pushed the door open. I followed them out and stopped, watching them walk away down the corridor, one looking dazed and hurrying to keep up with the other’s long stride.
‘Not what you’d expect.’ Paul Whitlock nodded in their direction. ‘Considering.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Chap with dark hair is Kelly Lambert.’
I shook my head, not recognising the name.
‘Leo Stone’s son.’
‘His son?’
‘Long lost. Stone never married his mother – it was a casual relationship. They were both young when Kelly was born – early twenties, they would have been. Stone’s forty-eight now, though he looks older than me. Kelly’s mum died when he was young and he was taken into care. He had no contact with his dad for a long time, but Stone was in and out of prison so it was probably for the best. He wouldn’t have been a good influence, put it that way.’
‘How come they got back in touch?’
Whitlock shrugged. ‘Lambert found him when he was in prison in 2013. Started visiting him. When Stone came out, Lambert helped him get his life back on track. Lambert’s a carpenter. He got his dad some labouring work on building sites. Nothing skilled, but enough that he had a bit of cash. He wanted to keep him out of trouble, he said.’
‘That worked well.’
Whitlock gave a short laugh. ‘You said it.’
‘Did you look at him as a suspect?’ Derwent asked.
‘He had solid alibis for all the disappearances.’ Whitlock shook his head. ‘Kelly’s an argument for the care system. Whoever looked after him, they did a decent job. He seems to be the kind of chap who sees the good in everyone. Either that or he doesn’t want to believe that half his DNA is from a murdering shit. He’s been campaigning to get his dad released. Absolutely refuses to believe his dad could have done anything like that to those women, even though Stone had a history of violence towards his mum before they split up. Stone was a suspect in her death but they never made it stick.’
‘It’s a big jump from domestic abuse and burglary to murdering strangers,’ I said, as neutrally as I could. Whitlock bristled all the same.
‘It’s a good case. It’s solid. Stone got lucky on a technicality. There’ll be another trial and this time he’ll go away forever.’
And I’ll be proved right. He didn’t need to say it. I didn’t blame him for minding, in fact.
‘Who was the other guy with Kelly Lambert?’ Derwent asked, saving me the trouble.
‘That’s Stone’s solicitor, Seth Taylor.’ Whitlock grimaced. ‘Clever guy. Arrogant, though. He’s made his reputation off how he handled Stone’s case. They didn’t give us an inch, all the way through.’
‘I