John Carr. James Deegan
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tea, sharing bathwater with three brothers…
Make no mistake about it, he loved the challenge, loved picking holes in the government’s cases, but if you came up like that then you knew the value of a quid.
‘There’s no even if we don’t, Paul,’ said Emily. ‘We have to win. We can’t let him rot in there for the next fifteen years.’
Spicer smiled absently.
‘I’ll say one thing, Emily,’ he said, forking half a waffle into his mouth. ‘It won’t be for want of trying.’
AS HE SAID that, Charlotte Morgan was getting out of the shower of her flat in Pimlico, and wrapping a towel around her dripping body.
She opened the door and leaned out.
‘What time is it?’ she shouted, wrapping another towel around her wet hair.
‘Quarter to eight,’ came the reply from the bedroom. ‘You’ll be fine.’
‘Bloody alarm,’ said Charlotte, half to herself.
Eddie appeared in the doorway of their bedroom, in his boxers and a white T-shirt.
‘You’ll be fine,’ he said, again. ‘It’s only twenty minutes. I’ll make you a cup of tea and some toast.’
‘Half an hour, if the traffic’s bad,’ said Charlotte. ‘I need to be there by nine. And my hair’s still soaking.’
‘You just crack on,’ he said. ‘I’ll check the cab’s booked.’
He passed her, and they kissed, before he disappeared downstairs, and she walked through to the bedroom to begin drying her hair.
Clicked on the Today programme.
‘…in the case of Zeff Mahsoud.’
The voice of the BBC Radio 4 presenter drifted from the speaker.
‘Mr Mahsoud, a charity worker from Yorkshire, you’ll remember, was arrested after arriving home to the UK on a flight from North Africa. He maintained that he’d been on a humanitarian mission to Libya, but six months ago he was given a lengthy jail sentence for terrorism-related offences. He has always protested his innocence, and an increasingly noisy campaign for his release has led us to the Court of Appeal where, later today, his case will be re-considered. Whatever their lordships decide, the appeal has thrown into sharp relief a number of questions about the operations of both MI5 and MI6, and…’
She clicked the clock radio off.
She most definitely didn’t need that.
AT JUST BEFORE 8 a.m., Zeff Mahsoud was taken from his cell to the holding area.
There he was handcuffed to a prison officer, who led him through three sets of steel doors to the cold air outside.
He breathed in deeply, despite the diesel fumes which were filling the vehicle yard.
Overhead, the blue sky was slowly clouding over, but still he felt an overwhelming sense of release.
No matter who you were, and what you were doing there, prison was prison, and Belmarsh was worse than most.
Several police officers, wearing body armour and carrying MP4s fitted with suppressors, watched with undisguised contempt as he was loaded into the back of a prison transport vehicle.
There was a short delay as they waited for an armed robber whose appeal was to be heard on the same day, and then the truck fired up and lurched out of the prison gates, sandwiched between two Met Range Rovers and assisted by a pair of motorcycle outriders.
It’s an hour dead from Belmarsh in Woolwich to the Royal Courts of Justice on the Strand – for ordinary vehicles.
With their sirens and blue lights, and the motorcyclists zipping ahead to hold up crossing traffic, they made it in forty minutes.
On arrival in the secure parking area, Mahsoud was debussed and led into a cell in the bowels of the court.
Paul Spicer and Emily Souster were waiting nearby, and were shown to the cell a few moments later.
Spicer and Mahsoud shook hands – Emily knew better than to offer hers – and Spicer cleared his throat.
‘I’m pretty confident, Zeff,’ he said. ‘As discussed, we’ve a strong case and you’ll not find a better pair to put it across than Jim Caville and Charlotte Morgan. But nothing in life is guaranteed, as I’ve said, and there’s always the risk that the judges won’t see it our way.’
Zeff nodded.
‘It wouldn’t necessarily be the end,’ said Emily Souster. ‘Even if they find against us, there are other avenues. The Supreme Court, the European Courts…’
Mahsoud held up his hand. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. I have every confidence.’
For a moment, he looked almost preternaturally calm.
Then, as though he’d been in something of a daze, he shook his head slightly.
‘But, of course,’ he said, ‘if we fail we will fight on.’
THREE HOURS LATER, five people stood on the Strand in London, in the shadow of the Royal Courts of Justice, and waited for the hubbub to die down.
On the left were James Monroe Caville QC and his junior, Charlotte Morgan, in black gowns, barristers’ wigs in hand, smiling.
Then Emily Souster, carrying a leather case across her middle.
Next to her was Zeff Mahsoud, in a dark, ill-fitting suit, a serious, even angry, expression on his face.
And next to Mahsoud was Paul Spicer – pink and plump, and wearing collar-length hair and a suit which fit him very nicely indeed. Three thousand pounds, bespoke, from Gieves & Hawkes, so it should.
Spicer held up a hand. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please,’ he said, raising his voice over the traffic noise. ‘I have a statement to read on behalf of my client, Mr Mahsoud.’
The hubbub slowly died down.
Spicer cleared his throat and looked down at the sheet of A4 paper in his hand.
‘Today is a great day for British justice and the British people, and a terrible day for the repressive agents of the British State,’ he read. ‘Two years ago, on my return to this country from a fact-finding and aid expedition to Libya, I was detained by the border authorities at Gatwick Airport. I was held on remand for six months, and astonishingly, although I was wholly innocent, I was eventually convicted of several terrorism offences and given a substantial prison sentence. I have since served a further six months of that sentence. Today the Court of Appeal found that my convictions were unsafe.’
Paul Spicer paused for a moment, and looked at the assembled journalists. Then he continued to read.
‘I am grateful to their Lordships for their decision, but the story does not end here. It is no exaggeration to say that this whole experience has been a waking nightmare for me and my family, and I have asked my legal team to explore ways in which I can take action against the authorities for their disgraceful actions.’
Spicer paused again, and shot another glance at the reporters.
‘My release today would not have been possible without the tireless work of that legal team, especially Paul Spicer and Emily Souster of Spicer, McGraw and Hill, and my barristers, James Monroe Caville QC and his junior, Charlotte Morgan. I intend to spend the next period of time