The House in the Woods (Atticus Priest Book 1) Page 19

  “I did. And I had to work hard to persuade them that I was telling the truth.”

  “Who did you speak to?”

  “DCI Jones,” he said. “I don’t think she likes me very much.”

  “If you help her win the case, you’ll be her best friend for life.”

  “Honestly? I just want it to be over. I’ve been asking myself why I’d put myself through this.”

  Atticus didn’t buy that for a moment. He could see that Lamza was fishing for sympathy.

  “Why did you, then?” he said. “Put yourself through it?”

  “Because it’s the right thing to do. Ralph’s a dangerous man. What he did? To his family? It’s evil. I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself if I’d kept what he said to myself.”

  “I agree,” Atticus said. He chose his words carefully. “Look, Freddie, I was wondering—my story’s already good, but it would be even better if I could get you on the record.”

  Lamza shook his head, but there was a smile playing on his lips. “Is that what this is about?” He pointed at the almost-empty glass on the table. “Trying to get me drunk?”

  “Not at all. But if you did happen to be interested in earning some money, I’m pretty sure I could pre-sell your story to a national. They’d pay well to get an interview with you. Probably very well.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Don’t dismiss it out of hand. For something like this, you’d be looking at a minimum of fifty thousand.”

  “Really. I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  Lamza paused, biting his lip, obviously wondering if he should say anything else.

  His reaction was all the confirmation that Atticus needed. “You’ve already sold it.”

  “I can’t talk about it,” he said, but his body language said plainly that Atticus was right.

  “I understand,” Atticus said, showing Lamza the palms of his hands. “No judgement here. I don’t blame you at all. I’m just annoyed someone else got to you first.”

  Lamza finished the pint and looked at his watch. “Actually, I think that’ll do it for me. I’m going to call it a night. My friends have got a dog—we’re going to walk in the forest tomorrow. Don’t want to do that with a hangover.”

  Atticus stood. “Nice to meet you, Freddie,” he said. “Good luck on Monday.”

  “You going to come and watch?”

  Atticus put out his hand and Freddie shook it.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said.

  50

  Atticus allowed himself the luxury of a lie-in the next day and eventually got out of bed at nine in the morning. Bandit was in the other room, standing on the sofa with his paws on the back so that he could look out of the wide bay windows and into the street outside. Atticus took his pills, changed into fresh clothes, pulled on his boots and clipped the dog’s lead to his collar. Jacob had exercised Bandit during the week, but Atticus had not been able to spend as much time with him as usual. He missed that—he always had his best thoughts when he was walking—and determined to put it right this morning.

  “Ready for a walk, boy?” he said.

  Bandit bounded around him excitedly.

  “Me too.”

  They set off for Old Sarum, a two-mile walk to the north. They reached the site of the old settlement fifty minutes later and, once they were safely away from the road, Atticus unhooked the lead and let Bandit run free. The dog rushed away, bounding through the fields in pursuit of two other dogs who were chasing each other up and down the slope.

  Atticus gave thought to the events of the past week. He found himself considering his thoughts about Ralph and decided that he was still uncertain about the question of his guilt or innocence. His client was not a particularly pleasant man, but that was irrelevant. Atticus was only interested in the facts and the inferences that could be drawn from them. Mack had overseen a reasonable case, and there was enough evidence for it to be brought to trial. The defence had still to present its case, but, as it stood at near the halfway point of the trial, it didn’t look good. He had been watching the members of the jury during the presentation of the prosecution evidence and, if he had been forced to guess, he would have said that the odds of a conviction were much higher than an acquittal. He wondered how high and settled on eighty-twenty in favour of a guilty verdict, maybe worse.

  On the other hand, the Crown’s evidence was circumstantial, and Atticus knew that he only had to find a couple of weaknesses to improve Ralph’s chances. If he could do that—if he could introduce enough doubt—then Ralph would be acquitted.

  He tried not to dwell on how Mack would react to that.

  His phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Allegra Mallender.”

  She didn’t sound pleased.

  “Hello, Allegra.”

  “I was looking for you last night after court.”

  “I had a couple of things I needed to do.”

  “About the trial?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well? What were they?”

  “I’m looking into Freddie Lamza.”

  Her voice tightened. “He really had fun yesterday, didn’t he?”

  “He did seem to enjoy the attention.”

  “Poisonous little queen. What are you doing about him?”

  Atticus had a plan, but it was not one that he was prepared to share with her for a number of reasons. “I’m going to look into his character. If we can show that he’s unreliable, maybe we can discredit him.”

  “He’s a prostitute, Atticus. He’s the definition of discreditable.”

  “Used to be a prostitute,” he said. “He’s a hairdresser now.”

  “What? Please.”

  “I know,” he said, pacifying her. “His history is useful. There’s scope to make him look unreliable. I’ll let you know if I get anything useful.”

  The line was silent.

  Atticus wondered if she had been cut off. “Allegra? You still there?”

  “I need you to do better,” she said. “You’ve been on this all week and you haven’t found anything useful yet.”

  Her tone was harsh. It was the first time that Atticus had heard recrimination from her. It was to be expected, he supposed: the week would have been an ordeal; her husband’s future looked bleak; she was desperate.

  “I’m working hard, Allegra. I’ve got several lines of enquiry.”

  “You keep saying that,” she said, “but I don’t see any results. I haven’t seen anything.”

  “You came to me the day before the trial,” he said. “You didn’t give me very long.”

  “Come on,” she snapped. “Don’t use that as an excuse. You were happy enough to take my money. I want something in return for that. Something that will help Ralph. Cadogan told me this was a stupid idea. He said you wouldn’t be able to help. Maybe he was right.”

  Atticus stopped walking and took a breath. “I’m happy to stop if that’s what you want,” he said. “I can bill you for the time I’ve spent and close the file. It’s up to you.”

  Bandit trotted over with a tennis ball in his mouth.

  There was another pause, this time punctuated by a long sigh.

  “No,” she said wearily. “No. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take it out on you. I’m just… it’s just that it feels like I’m in a tunnel and there’s no light at the end of it. Nothing. I’ve tried everything—you’re our last chance.”

  “I can’t begin to understand what this might feel like for you. For Ralph, too.”

  Atticus wasn’t good with empathy. His instinctive response would have been to tell her that he couldn’t pretend to understand what the ordeal must feel like, that he couldn’t pretend to care, but that it wouldn’t make a difference in what he did for her and Ralph, but he had learned enough about what was expected of people in situations like this to offer something else instead.

  Bandit dropped the ball and looked up at Atticus with hopeful eyes. Ther
e was another pause before Allegra spoke again.

  “You’ve heard most of the evidence. And you’ve read the file.”

  He held his breath; he knew what was coming next.

  “Be honest—do you think he did it?”

  Atticus took a beat. “No,” he said, putting as much confidence into his voice as he could. “I don’t.”

  “It’s so good to hear that,” she said.

  “The case has not been proven. The evidence is flimsy. But I don’t know if the jury will feel the same way. I’m trying to find something that will make them share my opinion. I’m going to be doing that this weekend and all of next week. Okay?”

  “Thank you, Atticus,” she said. “Call me if you find anything.”

  “I will.”

  He ended the call and put his phone away.

  Bandit lowered his snout and pushed the ball against Atticus’s foot.

  “Where did you find that, you little thief?”

  Atticus stooped down to collect the ball. Bandit enthusiastically wagged his tail.

  Atticus launched the ball as far as he could and watched as the dog hared after it. There was no rush to get going. He was going to be busy, but not until much later tonight. He could put off what he was proposing to do until then.

  51

  Atticus spent the rest of the day working on the files, but found nothing of use. He took a break at lunchtime to see whether Jack_of_Hearts had played his or her next move in their current game. He or she had pushed his pawn out to e5 and had left a comment.

  > The Alekhine Defence, unless I am very much mistaken. I look forward to testing it.

  Atticus fetched his chess books and turned to the pages that were dedicated to an analysis of Bobby Fischer’s games against Boris Spassky in ’72. Fischer had famously abandoned the Sicilian Defence for the Alekhine, deploying it twice against Spassky in what had evidently been an unpleasant surprise for the Russian. Spassky had not analysed the variations for white because Fischer had always played the Sicilian, and, caught unawares, he made mistakes. Atticus spent twenty minutes reviewing those games. Fischer’s gambit had led to him seizing the initiative and snatching a pawn. Spassky had been wary of the position that he would be forced to take if he sought to retake the pawn and had abandoned it, choosing to make a kingside attack instead.

  Atticus reset the board on the table and adjusted it to show the three moves that had been played so far: white’s opening move of pawn to e4, black’s knight to f6 and white’s pawn to e5. He looked down at the board. White was playing the four-pawn attack, trying to control the centre while chasing black’s knight. Atticus picked up the knight and patted it against his hand as he decided what to play. He moved the knight to d5, aiming to persuade white to overextend his centre. He was happy with the move, replicated it on the computer, hit the button to confirm it, and typed out a reply.

  > Fischer overcomplicated the end game against Spassky. I won’t make that mistake.

  He posted the comment and logged out.

  Atticus ate an early dinner at McDonald’s and then visited the DIY section of Poundstretcher in the High Street to pick up the things that he was going to need for the evening: a pair of thin fabric gloves, a roofing hammer, a crowbar, a centre hole punch and electrical tape. He paid for the things, bagged them up and then went to the tailor’s shop on New Street and bought a plain black hoodie and a ball cap with NYC on the front. He went back to finish his preparation. He dressed in black—black jeans, black boots, the black hoodie and a black jacket—and made sure that Bandit was fed and watered.

  He collected the additional things that he thought he might need. He took out his lock picks and a Maglite and put them into a small rucksack with the items that he had purchased earlier. He added the book on forensic toxicology that he had started to read the night before and zipped the bag closed.

  He scrubbed Bandit behind the ears. “Wish me luck,” he said. “See you in the morning.”

  Atticus made his way down the stairs and into the passageway. It was cold, with a mist of light rain hanging in the air. He pulled the cap onto his head, pulled up the hood of the hoodie and started the walk to the station.

  The last train from Salisbury to London was the 22.26. Atticus bought a ticket from the machine and boarded. It was almost empty, and he was sharing the carriage with just one other person. He sat down, put the rucksack on the seat next to him and took out his book.

  52

  It was a slow train, stopping at all the stations along the way, and it was one twenty on Sunday morning by the time it finally pulled into Waterloo. The station was quiet, with small clutches of travellers looking for their last trains back to the suburbs after a night out in the city.

  Atticus was hungry and joined the end of the queue in the station’s branch of Burger King, taking his meal up to the second-floor seating area. He took out his phone and checked the details on the hotel booking form. Freddie Lamza had listed his address as Sapperton Court in Gee Street, Clerkenwell. Atticus wasn’t in any hurry and, indeed, preferred to wait a little before making his way there. He took out his phone and logged into his account at Chess.com. Jack_of_Hearts had made a third move, responding to black’s knight to d5 by pushing a pawn to d4.

  There was another comment.

  > Spassky was taken by surprise. I’m wise to you.

  Atticus opened the greaseproof wrapper and started on his burger while he analysed the board. He pushed up his pawn to d6 and played the move. He left his own comment.

  > Let me guess? Kingside attack? I’ll be waiting.

  He finished the last of the fries, drained his drink and disposed of the rubbish in the bin. He checked the time on his phone. It was two in the morning. He had waited long enough. Time to go.

  He went down into the underground, followed the directions to the Northern Line and waited for a train.

  Atticus took the Northern Line to Old Street, disembarked and made his way up to the surface. Gee Street was a fifteen-minute walk and he arrived there as the clock was coming around to half past two.

  Sapperton Court was ex–Local Authority housing stock. It was twelve storeys high, with external passageways that accessed the front doors of the flats on each floor. It had clearly been renovated prior to the flats being sold, and was still in good condition, although the final letter of the art deco–styled COURT had come loose and fallen off. The communal space outside the entrance was neat and tidy, too. The buildings that faced the block were newer, a mixture of new builds and extensively remodelled warehouses that were characteristic of the area. There were offices on the ground floor, and the cars that were parked outside them were expensive. It was a typical London street: the rich and poor living cheek by jowl.

  Atticus waited outside the building for ten minutes, sheltering from the rain beneath the overhanging ledge of the office at number 47. The street was close to the main road, and, despite the hour, there was still a decent amount of traffic passing along it. He looked up at the building, noting that some of the windows were still lit. He took out his phone and shuffled through to the photograph of the check-in form. Lamza had given his address as flat twelve; that looked as if it would be on the fourth floor. There was no light in any of the flats on the fourth floor.

  The main entrance looked as if it led into a lobby, and Atticus guessed he would find the stairs and lifts there. He saw a man staggering towards the building along the other side of the road. The man was wearing a suit with his tie loosely fastened around his neck. It was obvious that he had spent his Saturday evening out drinking and was now rather the worse for wear. Atticus put his phone back into his pocket and looked left and right: there was no one else on the street. He crossed the road and walked casually to the building.

  The man stopped, tapping a code on the keypad and grumbling when the door did not unlock. Atticus dawdled behind him, but the man was too drunk to notice. He finally managed to key in the code. The door opened and the man pushed it back and went
inside.

  Atticus moved quickly. He jammed his cap down so that the brim covered as much of his face as possible, and draped the hood of his hoodie over the top of it. He jogged ahead and intercepted the door before it closed and locked again. The drunk was halfway up the first flight of stairs and hadn’t seen him come inside. Atticus waited on the ground floor, pretending to do up a shoelace in the event that someone else might come in. He heard the sound of the man struggling with another lock on the first floor and waited for him to open the door and then go through into his flat. Atticus heard the door close.

  There was a security camera above him. Making sure that he kept his head down, shielding his face with the hood and the cap, he went up the stairs himself. There were numbers on each landing indicating the flats that were on each floor; his guess had been correct, with flat twelve on the fourth floor. He reached the landing, paused to listen carefully once again, and then pushed open the fire door that opened out onto the corridor.

  He took the rucksack from his shoulder and took out the fabric gloves. He put them on and then took out the leather pouch with his lock-picking set. He took a moment to listen for movement, heard none, and knelt down to address the door. It was secured by a simple pin tumbler lock. Atticus slid the tension wrench into the bottom of the keyhole and pulled down, applying very slight pressure to the teeth inside. He inserted the rake in the top of the lock and, while maintaining the torque on the wrench, he scrubbed the pick backwards and forwards inside the keyhole. He arranged the pins in the correct position and turned the lock.

  The door opened, the hinges squeaking a little.

  Atticus went inside and shut the door behind him. The flat was quiet, save for the ticking of a clock in the kitchen and the creaking of a pipe somewhere below. He waited in the hallway, acclimatising himself to the sounds and atmosphere of the place: he heard the sound of a siren passing by on the high street and footsteps in the flat above, a heavy tread that rattled a loose bathroom fitting.