The House in the Woods (Atticus Priest Book 1) Read online

  “You’re students. That’s part of the job description.”

  “Exactly. Getting drunk at the weekends, all that. But Cassandra started to get into drugs, too. We were all smoking weed, but she’d started to do coke. I’d never even seen coke before. She’d disappear with him into the bathroom at house parties and they’d come out rubbing their gums and talking, non-stop talking. It was starting to get embarrassing.”

  “Where did she get it from?”

  “From him,” he said. “He was into it in a big way.”

  “That’s helpful,” Atticus said. “I’ve read what the police said about her. I wouldn’t have thought that she was the type to be into that.”

  “She wasn’t, not before—that’s just it. Before he showed up, she was just like us. Booze and weed, that’s it. And then, when she came back after the holidays, she didn’t even touch alcohol. She went from being normal, to this crazy coked-up party girl, to completely straight-edge. Like I said—it was totally weird.”

  Atticus could see that George had crept up to the thing that he was reluctant to talk about, and prompted him gently. “Why do you think she changed?”

  He bit his lip. “Do you remember Stacey Dickinson?”

  “The name’s familiar,” he said.

  “She was part of our group,” George said. “She was probably Cassandra’s best friend.” He paused. “Look—what happened got reported in the papers and on the TV, so that’s probably the reason you’ve heard about her. There was a house party one night. There were six of us in the house, like I said: me, Cassandra, Stacey, Eddie, Connor and Raif. We all went, including the bloke from home. It was the usual night out—everyone was smashed, people were passing weed around, the same old shit. And then someone found this bag of tabs on the table and offered them out. I’d never done E before and I said I wasn’t interested, thank God. Stacey took one and then, really quick, she started to get this bad reaction. She got hot—really hot—and she couldn’t stop drinking. Pints and pints of water. Then she couldn’t stand—she collapsed, lost consciousness. We called an ambulance and they took her into hospital, but it didn’t make any difference. She was in a coma when they admitted her, and she never woke up. She died early the next morning. Water intoxication, the inquest said. Who knew you could die from drinking too much water?”

  “Hyponatremia,” Atticus said. “Not enough sodium in the blood.”

  “That’s what they said. The police got involved, obviously, but no one could ever prove who brought those pills.”

  “And you think it was the man Cassandra was seeing?”

  “He said the week before that he was going to bring some with him the next time he came, so, yeah, I think it was him.”

  “You told the police that?”

  “Of course. I think they questioned him about it, but they couldn’t prove it. I never saw him again after that.”

  “She stopped seeing him?”

  “I guess so. She came back for the second year and ignored all of us, like I said. What happened that night was when it started.” He exhaled, his story concluded, and sat back. He spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness. “It was a mess. It messed all of us up. I was on track for a first, but I’m scraping a two-two now, and that’s if I’m lucky. If I had my life again, I would never have got involved with her. I’m sad about what’s happened now, but it looks like she has a way of attracting trouble.”

  Atticus switched off the recorder. “Thank you, George.”

  “Do you need anything else?”

  “No. I think that’s all for now—you’ve been great. Very helpful.” Atticus stood up. “Is it okay if I get in touch with you if I have any other questions?”

  George shrugged. “Of course.”

  “And if you happened to find a picture, or if you could remember his name, you’ll let me know?”

  He nodded. “Sure.”

  Atticus put out his hand and George took it.

  “What do you think happened to her?” George asked. “Was it her brother, like they say?”

  “I don’t know,” Atticus said. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’m going to try to find out.”

  43

  It was five when Mack awoke. She lay there for a moment, her mind immediately buzzing with the trial. She knew that there was no way she would be able to get back to sleep, so, sliding out of bed carefully so as not to wake Andy, she went downstairs to the kitchen and boiled the kettle.

  She made a cup of coffee and took it to the table. Her thoughts snapped back to the trial. It had reached the fourth day, and this one promised to be the most consequential yet. Freddie Lamza was their most important witness. They had evidence that suggested that Ralph Mallender could have been responsible for the murders of his family, but it was Lamza who would tie it all together. He would testify that Ralph had told him that he hated his family and wanted them dead. If he could persuade the jury that what he said was credible, they would have taken a big step towards getting a conviction. But Lamza was a flamboyant and divisive man, and if the jury didn’t take to him—if they didn’t believe him—then the opposite would happen.

  The prospect of that made her very nervous.

  Mack showered and woke the children. They had the rare treat of sitting around the kitchen table together, the two children eating boiled eggs with toast soldiers and Andy and Mack enjoying bacon sandwiches. Andy took them to school, and Mack grabbed her things and drove to court.

  Abernathy was waiting for her in the corridor outside the courtroom.

  “Everything okay?” she asked him.

  “I just wanted to make sure you had a word with Lamza before he gives evidence. We don’t want him to be overwhelmed.”

  “You think he might be?”

  “We live and breathe all this,” he said, gesturing to the corridor and the monitor with Crown v Mallender displayed on it. “I doubt he’s ever set foot inside a court before. I’ve seen witnesses fall apart—you must have, too.”

  “Plenty.”

  “Well, we can’t have that today. We’ll have trouble if he doesn’t perform. Can you find him and tell him to read his bloody statement before he gives his evidence?”

  “Of course.”

  “How do you think it’s going?” he asked her.

  “Seems to be going well. What do you think?”

  “The jury are on our side,” he said. “I’ve been watching Mallender during the evidence. He’s not doing himself any favours. There’s something about him.”

  “The arrogance,” Mack said.

  “Exactly,” he agreed. “Looks like he thinks he’s too good to be here.”

  “He was the same when we were interviewing him. It was like he was tolerating us.”

  “That’s exactly what it is. There’s that way he almost sneers when someone says something that he doesn’t like. The jury sees it. One thing you can say about him is that he draws the eye.”

  “I noticed,” Mack said. “Some of them can barely take their eyes off him.”

  “They’re seeing it all, and it’s not doing him any favours. And, out of all of them, I’ll lay odds he reacts worst to what Lamza has to say.”

  “I’ll speak to him,” Mack said.

  44

  Mack went to the prosecution witness room and peered through the window in the door. Freddie Lamza was the only person inside. He was pacing from one wall to the other, his hands clasped in front of him. He was dressed in a suit that was perhaps a touch too blue, with a hint of coral, and had matched that with a crisp white shirt. He was wearing a tie that was fastened with a fat Windsor knot, and a silver tie bar worn between the third and fourth buttons of the shirt secured both the front and back of the tie to the placket.

  Mack opened the door. “Freddie.”

  He stopped, unfolded his hands and turned to face her. “Hello, Detective Chief Inspector.”

  “Are you okay?”

  He smiled wanly. “A bit nervous.”

  “That’s fine. I’ve
done this a lot and I still get that way.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s normal. Have you spoken to the witness care officer?”

  “When I arrived,” he said. “She wasn’t much use.”

  “You’ll be fine—I promise.”

  “It’s the cross-examination I’m worried about.”

  “I know. It might feel rough, but you just need to remember that it isn’t personal. It’s the brief’s job to make sure that you haven’t made a mistake with your evidence.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “I know that,” she said reassuringly. “And just remember that it’s Ralph, and not you, who’s on trial. His brief isn’t going to try to make people think that you’re stupid, or call you a liar. Nothing like that. And Mr. Abernathy will intervene if the questions are too aggressive.”

  Lamza nodded that he understood. “I know,” he said. “It’s fine—just butterflies. I’m ready to do what needs to be done.”

  It was ludicrous—given the way that he made his money—but Lamza had always made a show of his moral values. Lamza had told her, at the first interview, that he was very keen to ‘do the right thing,’ no matter the personal cost. It was virtue signalling—conspicuously obvious, too—and Mack found the charade vaguely nauseating.

  He went to the window and looked out. “How long will I have to wait?”

  “You’re first, so not long. The best thing you can do while you’re in here is to reread your statement. Do you have it?”

  He held up the brown envelope that he had placed on the chair next to him.

  “Look through it again,” she said. “Mr. Abernathy is very keen that it’s fresh.”

  The door opened and the pathologist who was presenting the Crown’s forensic evidence came inside.

  “DCI Jones,” the woman said, putting out a hand.

  “Judith,” Mack said, “you okay?”

  “I’m good. They told me to get here early.”

  “You might have a wait,” Mack said apologetically. “Mr. Lamza is on first.”

  “It’s fine. I’ve got my book.”

  Mack didn’t want to be seen with Lamza for fear that it might look improper, so she decided to make her way back to the court. “Just answer the questions, Freddie. Nice and easy; don’t elaborate. You’ll be fine.”

  “I’ve got it,” he said, taking out the statement and sitting down to read it.

  Mack said goodbye to them both, opened the door and took the corridor back to Court One.

  The court was slowly filling up, with a queue of spectators waiting to get inside. It had been full each day, and today—the most important of the trial so far—looked to be no different.

  There was a commotion at the door to the public gallery. Mack looked back and saw Atticus bustling through the crowd. He had two large cups of coffee balanced precariously on a ring binder and, as he slid between Hugo Mallender’s brother and his wife, he was jostled and almost lost them onto the floor. The wife said something, her face stern, and Atticus offered something back; Mack couldn’t hear but, judging by the blush of red that infused the older woman’s cheeks, it was delivered with Atticus’s trademark derision.

  Atticus made his way towards her, almost spilling the coffee again. Mack rolled her eyes. Food and drink weren’t allowed in the courtroom, and the usher would blow a gasket if he noticed.

  She turned away and pretended that she hadn’t seen him.

  “Mack!”

  She sighed.

  “Mack!”

  She sighed again. She wasn’t going to be able to ignore him.

  She turned as he arrived alongside.

  “Here,” Atticus said, offering her one of the coffees.

  “You’re not supposed—”

  “Skinny hazelnut latte.”

  He had remembered her favourite. “Not in the court,” she said.

  “They’re too busy to worry about things like that. I got it from the café downstairs. It’s probably awful, but it’s the best I could do.”

  She took it, intending to dispose of it as soon as she could. “Thank you.”

  He leaned against the wall. “How’s it going?”

  “Going well.”

  “Today’s a big day.”

  “It is.”

  “What about Cassandra Mallender?”

  The non sequitur caught her out. “What?”

  “Cassandra?” he repeated.

  “I know who she is. What about her?”

  “You didn’t go back very far with her.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning she’s not all sweetness and light. Not like the picture that was painted of her.”

  “I don’t have time for games, Atticus. If you’ve found something relevant, just share it.”

  “I’m not sure if I have found anything. I spoke to one of her friends, from before—before the friends that you spoke to. She wasn’t always religious. She was a typical student—drink, drugs, exactly what you’d expect. She’s been dismissed as a suspect, or as a reason for what happened. I think that might have been hasty.”

  The queue moved forward.

  “This is completely unhelpful,” she said.

  Atticus smiled, as if he hadn’t heard her rebuke. “Good luck.”

  He reached out and touched her on the shoulder before going through the door and making his way to the gallery. She found herself off balance and left with the sensation that Atticus knew more than he was letting on, and it wasn’t for the first time. She tried to put him to the back of her mind as she followed him inside. He went to the gallery and she took her usual spot behind Abernathy.

  “All rise.”

  The judge came into the court, seated himself, and indicated that everyone else should sit, too. He looked down at the papers on his desk, adjusting his spectacles.

  “Good morning,” Somerville said. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

  45

  The court was silent save for the associate tapping out something on his computer and the rustle of a paper bag as one of the jurors offered sweets to her peers.

  “Do you have a witness for us, Mr. Abernathy?” the judge asked.

  Mack involuntarily caught her breath as Abernathy stood to address the court. “I do indeed, my Lord. The prosecution now calls Mr. Frederick Lamza.”

  The usher opened the door. “Mr. Frederick Lamza,” he called out.

  Everyone turned as the door that led to the witness room was opened and Freddie Lamza was admitted. He paused there, looking left and right, and then continued to the witness box. Mack found herself wondering about the impression that he would convey to the jury. His dress recalled the formality of the forties and fifties, but his personality—shrill and dramatic—made for a discordant mix. There was nothing to be done about either now; all they could do was to cross their fingers and wait.

  Lamza was sworn in, his gaze flicking from the associate to the jury, to the judge and then, finally, to Abernathy.

  “Hello, Mr. Lamza,” Abernathy said.

  “Good morning,” Lamza replied.

  Mack watched Lamza as Abernathy guided him gently through the first of his questions. She had always found him slightly irritating: he was effeminate, almost to the point of parody, and she had wondered how much of it was an act and how much of it was real. He spoke quietly to begin, but, at Abernathy’s polite insistence, he raised his voice and spoke more clearly. Abernathy asked him to briefly give a little of his background, shepherding him on to another topic once it became clear that he would be happy to speak about himself all day.

  Abernathy moved him briskly along to the night in London when he had met Ralph Mallender, and then invited him to speak about the relationship that had developed between the two of them. Lamza became more confident as he settled into his evidence, with Abernathy skilfully encouraging him to fill out the relevant details. There was brief talk of the relationship that had grown between the two men, Lamza recounting the details without even a s
hred of embarrassment; indeed, he spoke with pride, his chin pushed out.

  Mack turned back to the dock; Ralph’s cheeks were red and his jaw was clenched. His composure looked to have been disturbed as his affair was exposed to the court. Mack looked from him to his wife. Allegra was looking down at her feet, unable to look at Lamza as he took obvious relish in describing the relationship that he had enjoyed with her husband. Abernathy kept the witness on a tight leash, intervening on several occasions when it looked as if Lamza was about to regale the court with intimate details of the affair, but, even so, Mack could see how embarrassing the experience must have been for her. She had no fondness for the woman, but it was difficult not to feel pity.

  She found her gaze drifting across to Atticus. He was watching the jury, his eyes wide and concentration etched across his face.

  She went back to what he had said to her. What had he meant about Cassandra? That was worrying. What had they missed? The prospect of someone like Atticus poking into her evidence had always been an unwelcome one, but now she was concerned that he had found something.

  Would he give her more of a warning?

  Probably not.

  Not now.

  It would have been different last year, when she was his boss. When they were on the same team. He would have been unable to resist a demonstration of his ability. She remembered the way he had explained the deductions that he had made that had broken open cases that had otherwise seemed insoluble: the deductive reasoning that had elicited the password to the hard drive full of child pornography belonging to Alfred Burns; the confession that he had extracted from Leigh Manning, the squaddie who had killed a woman in a hit and run outside the army camp at Bulford. Atticus’s loyalty was to his clients now, not to her, and the question of disclosure or not would be one for Allegra and Ralph to make.

  She couldn’t get the thought out of her head: what had he been referring to earlier?

  Was that his warning, the farthest that he’d felt able to go?