‘Get away with you.’
‘You ever heard of something called probable cause, Clive? It means you have the right to enter if you think there’s a good reason.’
‘But there ain’t no fire!’
‘You don’t know that for certain.’
The keys jangle on the cleaner’s belt. He looks at us sadly and shakes his head in surrender.
The key turns and the door opens into gloom. Ruiz reaches for the light switch. The bed hasn’t been slept in and the curtains are drawn. There’s a wardrobe with double doors and a mirror in between. A side table next to the bed, a suitcase pushed under the springs. I can hear a dripping sound, which might be outside the walls or within.
Ruiz is moving through the room, opening the wardrobe and the drawers, peering beneath the bed. There is a strange smell to the place that tightens the nostrils and crimps the lips.
‘Ain’t nuttin here, mon.’ says Clive. ‘Let’s go.’
Somewhere below I hear a door open. I glance over the railing, down the stairs, but can’t see anyone. At that moment a pigeon takes off from the window ledge, battering its wings against the glass. My heart takes off as well.
‘Maybe we should leave,’ I say.
Ruiz has pulled the suitcase from under the bed. He uses a handkerchief on the handle and covers his fingers as he slips each latch, lifting the lid, exposing the contents.
There are folders of newspaper clippings and photographs. Street scenes. Faces. Headlines. I recognise Bristol Crown Court. Protesters are waving placards and banners. Police are shown confronting the crowd, pushing them back. A face is circled with red marker pen: a woman in a grey jacket with an ID card around her neck. Police are allowing her through a checkpoint. I recognise her. Another juror.
Ronnie Cray doesn’t want to meet us at Trinity Road. This is unofficial, off the record, deniable. She chooses a snooker club in the old part of the city where the buildings look like compacted teeth and sacks of rubbish have stained the footpaths. The baize tables are upstairs and I can hear balls being racked up and broken.
Cray is waiting at a table in the bar, nursing a cup of tea. She glances at me, then at Ruiz, her eyes neutral, then picks up her cup and takes a sip.
‘I thought you’d gone back to London,’ she says to Ruiz.
‘Still sightseeing.’
A long bar runs down one side of the room, most of it in darkness except for a plasma TV screen showing sporting highlights. The exposed beams are decorated in old Christmas tinsel and squashed paper bells.
We start at the beginning, telling Cray about seeing the jury foreman being roughed up outside a pub.
‘He met with the guy I told you about - the Crying Man - the one who’s been sitting in the public gallery during the trial, chaperoning Novak Brennan’s sister.’
Cray doesn’t react. Her short-cropped hair is sprinkled with grey and the lines on her face seem deeper today.
‘You approached the foreman of the jury?’
‘Yes. No. Not really.’
‘Do you know how many laws you’ve broken?’
‘We had to be sure.’
Somewhere above us a cue ball cannons into the pack. The sound echoes like a shot. Cray looks like she’s suddenly developed a toothache.
‘Tell me again why you were following this guy?’
‘Sienna remembered him. On the night Gordon pimped her out - there was a second man in the car. He drove her to the address.’
‘You’re sure it’s the same man?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where does the Hegarty girl come into this?’
‘What if she had to sleep with someone involved in the case? She’s underage.’
‘Blackmail?’
‘Gordon Ellis and Novak Brennan knew each other in college. They shared a house. They could have stayed in touch.’
‘Yeah, but Ellis’s name has never come up in the intelligence files.’
Ruiz interrupts. ‘He used to call himself Freeman. He took his mother’s surname after his first wife disappeared.’
Cray grunts dismissively, not convinced. Her eyes come back to mine. ‘The names and addresses of jurors are kept secret. They’re protected and after each trial they’re destroyed.’
‘This wasn’t a coincidence.’
Her voice drops to a whisper. ‘So you’re saying Brennan rigged the jury ballot?’
‘Maybe he got hold of their names or he had them followed home. The trial has been going for weeks.’
Cray’s forearms are pressed flat on the table. ‘You’re talking about jury tampering. Conspiracy. Bribing an officer of the court. Brennan has been in custody for eight months. Every call and letter is monitored. Even if he got to one juror, it won’t do him any good. He needs ten to get an acquittal.’
I glance at Ruiz. He pulls a dozen photographs from his jacket. Slides them between her forearms. The DCI doesn’t look down. For a brief moment I think she might simply stand and walk out. Her eyes stay fixed on mine, clouding.
Finally she lowers her gaze. Her face remains empty of expression but I see her throat swallow drily and her chest rise briefly against her shirt.
‘The red circles identify members of the jury,’ I say.
Cray’s eyes cut sideways to me, her lips parting slightly. ‘Should I ask how you got these?’
‘They were in a suitcase under a bed in a hotel room. The Royal. It’s off Stapleton Road. This guy had photographs, a list of witnesses, newspaper cuttings, maps - serious research.’
‘What guy?’
Ruiz answers: ‘The Crying Man. He took the room three weeks ago. Paid cash. Signed in under a false name.’
Colour has died in Cray’s cheeks. Her next statement is almost an intelligible whisper. ‘Don’t tell anyone about this.’
‘What are you going to do?’
She doesn’t answer.
‘You have to tell the CPS,’ says Ruiz.
Anger flares in her eyes. ‘For starters - I’m not taking my orders from you!’
It comes out in a hiss. Pale lumpy faces turn from the TV. Cray pivots forward on her elbows.
‘This trial has been a circus. It’s cost millions. I’m not just talking about crowd control and protecting witnesses. If it collapses there’ll be an absolute shit-storm and I want more than just a few photographs before I light that fuse.’
She collects the prints. Straightens the edges. Turns them face down. Already I can see her mind calculating her next move. She’s going to either stake out the Royal Hotel or seal it off and send in a SOCO team looking for fingerprints and DNA.
She glances at the red neon clock glowing above the bar: 11.46. It could be a.m. or p.m.
‘What about Sienna?’
‘We collected her from hospital at nine o’clock this morning. She’s being interviewed now.’
The DCI raises her cup again, balancing it between the fingers of both hands. Her tea has grown cold.
‘Ray Hegarty was a good copper. Maybe he was a lousy father. If that girl killed him, she’ll face a jury. Right now I’m giving her the benefit.’
43
A buzzer sounds, echoing in the night air, encouraging the audience indoors where students are acting as ushers and handing out programmes. The curtains are closed in the auditorium but occasionally the fabric bulges with movement and a face peers through a gap, bright-eyed, excited.
The band are tuning instruments and whispering to each other, while Gordon Ellis moves in the glow of the footlights, issuing last-minute instructions and calming first-night nerves. His face is still swollen, with one eye almost closed, but he’s wearing dark glasses and stage make-up to hide the damage.
I shouldn’t be here. According to the protection order, I can’t go within a thousand yards of Ellis or his wife. But I’m not missing Charlie’s big night and I’m not letting that bastard be alone with her.