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

  “He said that he wanted them all dead.”

  The nature of the allegation was well known from the newspaper reporting of the case, but, even so, the suggestion provoked a flutter of excitement and consternation in the public gallery. The reporters leaned forward a little, their pens poised over their notepads. Lamza noticed that he had a rapt audience and played up to it, preening a little and putting his chin out.

  “He told you that, Mr. Lamza?”

  “He did.”

  “Can you remember exactly what he said?”

  “That he hated them all and that he couldn’t wait until they were dead. I told him that was a horrible thing to say—I think I told him it was callous—and he just laughed. He said that he had been thinking about it for months and that he was tempted to take matters into his own hands.”

  “Really?”

  Lamza nodded.

  “What else did he say?”

  “He said he’d be doing them all a favour. ‘Putting them out of their misery.’ He said his mother had been miserable all her life, his father was a bully and deserved everything he got, his brother was an idiot, and his sister was a slut.”

  “Liar!”

  Atticus turned to the dock. Ralph was on his feet. The urbane, arrogant sheen was gone, and in its place was seething, livid anger.

  “Mr. Mallender,” the judge said sternly, “please sit down.”

  “He’s a bloody liar!”

  “I won’t tolerate outbursts in my courtroom. Mr. Crow—I suggest you explain to your client why it is in his best interests to regain his seat.”

  Crow waved for Ralph to take his seat again. Atticus turned back to Lamza just in time to notice something that immediately snagged his attention: he was looking at someone in the public gallery with an expression on his face that Atticus could only describe as jubilant. The journalists there were scribbling notes frantically, aware that the defendant’s outburst had added an element of sensationalism to the copy they would file as soon as the day was done. The person at whom Lamza was looking was to Atticus’s right, and, from that angle, it was impossible to identify him or her.

  Ralph had slumped back into his seat in the dock, the security guard who was with him now standing a little closer.

  “Please,” Somerville said. “Mr. Abernathy—please, continue.”

  Lamza went through the rest of his evidence without further interruption from Ralph. Abernathy anticipated the questions that would be asked during cross-examination, specifically why Lamza hadn’t reported the threats to the police at the time that they were made. Lamza said that he hadn’t taken them seriously, and it was only when he had seen the news on Christmas Day that he had remembered what had been said and what, with hindsight, it might mean. Lamza was melodramatic, occasionally choking up and wiping away the tears that gathered in his eyes.

  Atticus watched him carefully, looking for body language that might betray a lie. He was good, but there were subtle signs that indicated, at the very least, that he was exaggerating. Abernathy’s direct suggestion that he was lying was met by Lamza leaning away from him, a signal of discomfort that was difficult to mask. Other questions were accompanied by little touches to the neck and mouth, pacifying gestures that suggested that the inquiries had upset his equilibrium. There was nothing that suggested an obvious lie, but enough that Atticus was sure that Lamza wasn’t being completely honest.

  Lamza concluded by saying that he knew that Ralph would characterise his evidence as the revenge of a lover spurned; Atticus had to stop himself from rolling his eyes as Lamza said that he expected that, that he would never do such a thing, how he blamed himself for not speaking out sooner and that all he wanted to do now was to ‘get justice for that poor family.’

  Abernathy concluded his examination and sat down.

  “We’ll adjourn for today,” Somerville said. “Mr. Lamza’s cross-examination will start first thing on Monday morning. Mr. Lamza, please do not discuss the case with anyone in the meantime.”

  “I won’t, sir.”

  The judge turned his iron gaze onto Ralph. “I hope we can use the weekend to consider how we should conduct ourselves and then continue without any of the interruptions that we’ve seen this afternoon.”

  Somerville rose and made his way to his chambers.

  Atticus got up and, without waiting for the other people on the row to stand, he stepped over their legs and hurried to the exit.

  48

  Atticus was one of the first to leave the building. He waited outside as the court emptied. There was a private door that was reserved for court officials and witnesses who did not want to run into the families of those men and women against whom they had just testified. Atticus knew that Lamza was most likely to use that exit, and, with that in mind, he made his way to a bench where he could see both ways out.

  He sat down and waited.

  Allegra left through the main entrance, heading towards the car park at Waitrose. She looked tense, as well she might; today had been a bad day for her husband’s prospects. Cadogan followed soon after, and then Abernathy and the CPS solicitor. Atticus looked at his watch, worrying that he had been too slow, but then, as he was wondering whether he had missed his chance, he saw Lamza come out of the exit. He was impossible to miss: medium-sized, slender, his bouffant hair bouncing as he walked.

  Atticus gave him a short head start and then, making sure that he wasn’t observed, he followed. Lamza turned onto Wilton Road and then Fisherton Street. Atticus had already guessed where he was going: the CPS typically used the Red Lion on Milford Street to accommodate witnesses who were required to give evidence for more than a single day. It was a pleasant hotel with a bar and restaurant on the ground floor and then two further floors that were given over to bedrooms. Lamza looked down at a piece of paper that he held in his hand—Atticus assumed that he was checking that he had found the right place—and then crossed the street and went into the sheltered courtyard that offered access to the main part of the half-timbered building.

  The bar and restaurant were next to the desk, and Atticus took a table close enough to hear the conversation between Lamza and the receptionist. The woman asked him for his name and address, confirmed that a room had been reserved for him, and printed a key card. She said that he was in room 203—on the second floor, next to the stairs—and hoped that he had a pleasant stay.

  Lamza thanked her and made his way to the stairs.

  Atticus waited.

  The restaurant was quiet save for the conversation between the receptionist and another member of staff who, Atticus quickly gathered, was replacing her as the shifts changed. Atticus went up to the bar to order a pint. He took it back to the table and sat down at a chair that allowed him to watch the restaurant and the flight of stairs that led up to the bedrooms.

  He didn’t have long to wait.

  Lamza came down the stairs just after five. Atticus was ready to follow him into the city, but Lamza didn’t head out; instead, he took one of the other empty tables and went to the bar to order a drink. Atticus watched him. He had changed his clothes and, judging by hair that looked a little damp, he had taken a shower.

  Lamza took a gin and tonic back to the table. He sat down and tapped out a message on his phone. Atticus finished his pint and went to order another and a plate of fish and chips from the bar. He went back to the table and sat down so that he was facing away from Lamza. He could still see his table by looking into the mirror that was hung above the room’s large inglenook fireplace.

  Atticus’s food had just been delivered when a man came into the bar. He waited in the doorway for a moment, said something to the new receptionist and then, looking into the restaurant, saw Lamza and made his way over to him. Lamza stood and shook the newcomer by the hand; the two men shared pleasantries and the newcomer offered to buy Lamza another gin. Lamza thanked him and the man went to the bar.

  Atticus glanced up at the mirror. The second man’s face was visible, and Atticus had
seen him before.

  The man returned with the drinks and sat down.

  “So?” Lamza said.

  “So what?”

  “So how was I?”

  “You were great,” he said. “Really great, Freddie.”

  “That reaction from Ralph…”

  The man chuckled. “I know. He didn’t do himself any favours.”

  “And for you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The story—him losing his shit like that. It must’ve helped?”

  Atticus watched in the mirror as the second man winced. He looked up and, for a moment, he stared into the mirror and at Atticus. The man turned his attention back to Lamza and said something in a quiet voice that Atticus couldn’t hear. Lamza started to protest, the man said something again—Atticus detected a note of reproach—and then both of them stood up. Atticus pretended to concentrate on his food, but he saw Lamza put on his jacket and heard the sound of footsteps as the two of them crossed the room to the door. Atticus saw them pass before the window, and then they were gone.

  Atticus realised where he had seen the man before.

  It was Steve Hawkins, one of the reporters who had followed Allegra on the first day of the trial.

  49

  Atticus finished his meal, sank the rest of his pint and went to the desk. The receptionist was in the room behind the desk. Her back was turned. Atticus looked down at the desk and saw a plastic tray, about the size of an A4 sheet of paper. The tray was evidently used to store the forms filled out by guests when they checked into the hotel. Atticus took his phone, switched to the camera, and, with a quick lean across the desk, snapped a three-shot burst of the form at the top of the tray.

  He put his phone away and cleared his throat.

  The receptionist turned. “I’m sorry, sir. Can I help you?”

  “I can’t find my room key,” he said. “I went out and it must have slipped out of my pocket. Would it be possible to have a replacement?”

  “Of course, sir. What room are you in?”

  “203,” he said.

  “2-0-3,” the woman recited, tapping on the keyboard. “And the name, sir?”

  “Lamza. Freddie Lamza.”

  Atticus took the stairs to the second floor and found room 203. The hotel was quiet, and, as he waited and listened, he couldn’t hear anything that made him worry that he might be noticed. He took the replacement key card from his pocket and held it over the reader. The lock buzzed and the door opened. He pushed it with his fingertips and, after satisfying himself for a second time that there was no one inside, he stepped into the room.

  Freddie had dumped his suitcase on the bed and left it splayed open. There was a damp towel on the floor, and a pile of clothes, still neatly folded, had been placed on the bed next to the case. Atticus went over to it and looked through it. There was nothing of interest. He had wondered whether Freddie might have brought a laptop or a tablet that might have proven useful, but he had not. The case contained a wash bag, fresh underwear and a pair of shoes. Atticus checked the clothes, but there was nothing in any of the pockets.

  He wasn’t disappointed. He knew that this was a long shot, and that it was always likely that he would have to work a little harder to excavate anything that might be helpful in discrediting Freddie.

  He wasn’t ready to give up yet.

  He left everything exactly as he had found it and made his way back to the door. He opened it a crack, listened until he was sure that there was no one outside, and then left the room.

  Atticus went back down to the bar and ordered another pint. He took it to the snug and sat down next to the fireplace. There was an armchair there and, after he turned it a little, he was able to see everyone who came in through the hotel entrance.

  He took out his phone and looked at the pictures that he had taken. Freddie Lamza was booked in for four nights: Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. His address, telephone number and email were all recorded, too. Atticus was pleased. The details would all be helpful.

  He sipped his pint and waited.

  Freddie Lamza was on his own when he returned to the hotel. Atticus got up quickly and intercepted him before he could continue up to his room.

  “Hello,” he said.

  Lamza paused and smiled uncertainly. “Hello?”

  “Freddie?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’m sorry for disturbing you—but you were excellent today.”

  “I’m sorry—do we know each other?”

  “We don’t,” Atticus said. “My name’s John Nicholls.”

  Atticus knew that what he was doing was dangerous. He was an agent of the defence and he was prepared to lie to a witness in an attempt to get inside information. Should the judge find out, then he might very well decide to discharge the jury mid-trial and lock Atticus up for his temerity.

  But the trial was pressing on, Ralph was looking at life behind bars, and Atticus had to do something. You had to break an egg or two, he noted to himself grimly, if you wanted to make an omelette.

  Lamza kept his eyes on Atticus and, after a moment, a smile cracked the corner of his mouth. “You were sitting in the gallery.”

  “That’s right. All four days.”

  “I saw you. I remember.”

  “Well, like I said, you were excellent. Very convincing.”

  “Convincing? You think so?”

  “Well, I believed you.”

  “Good,” he said. “That’s because it’s true.”

  Atticus detected just the faintest trace of indignation. “I don’t doubt it for a minute.” He pointed over to the bar. “Buy you a drink?”

  Atticus noticed the flick of his glance as Lamza looked from his eyes to his lips and back again. “I suppose one wouldn’t hurt,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Atticus went to the bar and ordered two pints. He turned back as he waited for the barman to pour them. Lamza was looking at his phone, his finger sliding up and down the screen. He was slouched in his chair, and Atticus wondered if he might already have been a little drunk. He imagined that he might have gone out for dinner with Hawkins, and that, perhaps, there had been alcohol involved. That would make the conversation he was planning much easier.

  He took the drinks back to the table and set them down.

  “Cheers,” Atticus said, holding up one of the pints.

  Lamza took the other and touched glasses. “Cheers.”

  Atticus noticed his fingers. They were long and slender, and the nails bore the unmistakable signs of having been recently manicured. He remembered the close-up shot of a phone pressed to Freddie’s ear in the BBC documentary; his fingernails then had been cracked and dirty, very different to how they were now. The cuts on the middle finger of his left hand were healing, but still noticeable.

  The clothes, the clear skin, the manicure.

  All the evidence pointed towards it: Freddie had recently come into a sum of money. Could his new career have been that lucrative? It seemed very unlikely.

  “You’re staying here tonight?”

  “All weekend, actually. The CPS are paying. I’m being cross-examined on Monday.”

  “You’re not going home for the weekend?”

  “I’ve got friends in the New Forest. I’m going to see them. Are you here tonight, too?”

  Atticus shook his head. “I’m on the last train back to London.”

  Lamza sipped his pint. “What do you do?”

  “I’m a journalist. I’m writing about the trial.”

  “Who for?”

  “Freelance.”

  Lamza shuffled a little uncomfortably. “I’m not supposed to talk to reporters,” he said. “The judge… you heard what he said.”

  Atticus winked. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

  Lamza drank off half of the pint and stood the glass back down on the table.

  “Looks like you need that,” Atticus offered.

  “I do. Long day.”

 
; “You’re being cross-examined on Monday.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “Nervous?”

  Lamza exhaled. “A bit. They said it’ll be harder. I only got here today—what’s the defence brief like? I haven’t seen him yet. What’s his name?”

  “Christopher Crow. He’s not as aggressive as Abernathy, but he’s no pushover, either. He’ll say you’re lying. That Mallender didn’t say the things you’re saying.”

  “I know that,” he said. “He can say what he wants. I know what happened. It’s my word against Ralph’s.”

  “His reaction today won’t have helped him.”

  “I know,” Lamza said, grinning. “I couldn’t believe that. The way the judge shut him down.” He laughed. “Oh my God. That was hilarious.”

  Atticus saw movement behind Lamza and noticed Hugo Mallender’s brother and his wife making their way over to the reception. It looked as if they were staying here, too.

  Lamza was too self-absorbed to notice. “Be honest,” he said. “You were watching—I was all right?”

  “You were good,” Atticus said.

  “Really?”

  “I was watching the jury.”

  “And? You think they believed me?”

  “Definitely.”

  Atticus watched him carefully as he spoke. Why was Lamza so keen for praise? In his experience, most witnesses didn’t concern themselves with that. They took the stand, told their story, and were done with it; it was an ordeal that they were glad to have behind them. But Lamza seemed anxious about how he had been received. It might have been because he was an egoist—that much was obvious—but it might have been something else; Atticus started to wonder whether Lamza was looking for confirmation that he was credible because he knew that his story was false.

  Atticus took a sip of his own pint. “Have you given evidence before?”

  “No,” Lamza said.

  “Did you go to the police?”