Verbal, p.1
Verbal, page 1
CRITICAL ACCLAIM FOR PETER MURPHY
‘Racy legal thrillers lift the lid on sex and racial prejudice at the bar’ – Guardian
‘Murphy paints a trenchant picture of establishment cover-up, and cannily subverts the clichés of the legal genre in his all-too-topical narrative’ – Financial Times
‘Peter Murphy’s novel is an excellent read from start to finish and highly recommended’ – Historical Novel Review
‘An intelligent amalgam of spy story and legal drama’ – Times
‘A gripping, enjoyable and informative read’
– Promoting Crime Fiction
‘The ability of an author to create living characters is always dependent on his knowledge of what they would do and say in any given circumstances – a talent that Peter Murphy possesses in abundance’ – Crime Review UK
‘Murphy’s clever legal thriller revels in the chicanery of the English law courts of the period’ – Independent
‘The forensic process is examined in a light touch, good-humoured style, which will evoke a constant stream of smiles, and chuckles from nonlawyers and lawyers alike’
– Lord Judge, former Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales
‘A gripping page-turner. A compelling and disturbing tale of English law courts, lawyers, and their clients, told with the authenticity that only an insider like Murphy can deliver. The best read I’ve come across in a long time’ – David Ambrose
‘If anyone’s looking for the next big courtroom drama… look no further. Murphy is your man’ – ICLR
For my son Christopher, one of the overwhelming majority of British police officers who do, and have historically done, the job as it should be done: with competence, courage, dedication, honesty and integrity.
A good police force is one that catches more crooks than it employs.
– Sir Robert Mark GBE QPM
(Commissioner of Metropolitan Police, 1972-1977)
‘A “verbal” is an oral admission made by a defendant when interviewed by the police, which on the advice of his solicitor he later denies.’
– Answer frequently given by Metropolitan Police officers in evidence, in the days before the Police and Criminal Evidence Act 1984, when asked by defence counsel whether they understood the term ‘verbal’.
PART ONE
1
Monday 31 October 1983
When the phone rang, she was instantly awake and fully alert.
Earlier in her career, as a young solicitor fighting for a place in the dog-eat-dog world of London law firms, Julia Cathermole had made two promises to herself: she would never force her body into the stereotypical female lawyer’s black suits and shoes; and she would never keep a phone by her bedside to threaten her few precious hours of sanctuary. These were prices she deemed too high to pay for success. Her resolve had not done her any harm. At the age of fifty-five, the senior partner of Cathermole & Bridger was the moving force of a firm with an enviable client list, on whose behalf its lawyers habitually punched well above their weight. Julia Cathermole had arrived, and she was here to stay. But she was still quite capable of sleeping contentedly through the ringing of the phone in her study, a safe distance away down the hallway from her bedroom.
There was no logical reason why this morning should have been any different. But reflecting on it later, she recalled a sense of foreboding as she had drifted off to sleep, a sense that something nameless was on its way, something that would jolt her prematurely back into the harsh reality of the waking world. Opening her eyes, she glanced at her alarm clock, which told her that it was just after three o’clock. Three o’clock on the morning of 31 October: All Hallows Eve, Samhain Eve, the day when the portals separating the world of the living from the world of the dead stand ajar, enabling the two worlds to collide. Why in God’s name had that piece of arcane knowledge drifted into her mind? She got out of bed quietly and threw her heavy dressing gown over her naked body, tying the soft belt firmly around her waist in an effort to keep out the autumnal chill in the air. She glanced back over her shoulder. On the other side of the bed, Imogen was sleeping soundly, breathing softly and rhythmically, her back to Julia. The duvet under which they had slept had shifted towards Julia’s side of the bed, leaving her back exposed. Julia gently pulled it back up to cover her, and felt a pleasant sensation of lust run through her body as she remembered their bodies entwined together during the small hours, before they had finally surrendered to sleep, before it fully became Samhain Eve.
Closing the bedroom door behind her, she made her way to the study, switched on her desk lamp, seated herself behind her desk, and gave the phone one last chance to stop ringing, to admit that it was all a mistake. When it failed to oblige, she picked up the receiver.
‘Julia Cathermole…’
‘This better be important,’ she added under her breath.
‘Good morning, Julia,’ a familiar voice said. ‘I’m sorry to wake you up.’
She yawned reflexively, drawing the dressing gown even more tightly around her. She had turned the heating down in the study and it was even chillier than her bedroom.
‘Baxter? What are you doing up at this hour? You’re supposed to be retired, for God’s sake.’
‘I’m doing my best,’ he replied, ‘but they know where I live.’
She laughed sleepily. ‘You could always move.’
‘Too much trouble; besides, Dianne loves Richmond.’
‘How are you both?’
‘As well as can be expected in the case of two such aging dinosaurs. She sends her love.’
‘And mine to her… So, to what do I owe the pleasure? Falling prey to insomnia in our old age, are we? Craving the comfort of another human voice in the dead of night?’
He laughed. ‘Would that be so unreasonable?’
‘It’s a poor excuse for dragging me out of bed at three in the morning.’
‘Insomnia’s an occupational hazard in our line of work, Julia, a way of life – you know that – nothing to do with age. And if another human voice was all I needed I’d wake Dianne up – it wouldn’t be the first time.’ He paused. ‘No, it’s business, I’m afraid. I need to talk to you; and I’m calling now because I don’t have the luxury of waiting until a more civilised hour.’
She nodded to herself. ‘I was afraid you’d say that.’
He did not continue immediately.
‘Don’t tell me: let me guess,’ she said. ‘I know. Ronald Reagan is about to bomb Russia and start World War Three?’
‘Not as far as I know – although if I’m honest about it, I can’t say it would surprise me. How’s that for a comment on the state of the world? No, slightly closer to home: we’re getting worrying signals from our man in Belgrade.’
‘Yugoslavia? I thought they were on our side these days.’
‘They were moving in our direction while Tito was alive. But since he died – well, let’s just say that the direction of travel isn’t quite as clear as it used to be. They’re wobbling just enough to give the Service a case of the jitters.’
She ran a hand through her hair. ‘What’s worrying you? Is Moscow throwing its weight around again?’
‘No,’ he replied, ‘and even if they tried, they’d get nowhere. The Yugoslavs are too well armed and too well drilled. The Russians couldn’t send the tanks into Belgrade the way they did in Budapest or Prague; they’d be sent packing in short order. No. What’s worrying C is that we’ve had a few doubtful characters crawling out of the woodwork of late. Do you remember all those nationalists Tito put in prison, to shut them up in the great cause of Yugoslav unity?’
‘Let me guess: now he’s gone, and they’re back out on the street?’
‘Exactly, and they’re finding their voices again: Serbs mainly, but the odd Croat here and there too. They’ve been on our radar for some time now. Eventually, C felt we had to brief the Minister and – well, you know what happens once you cross that line.’
She smiled. ‘The Minister wants C to hold his hand, and C passes the buck to you because you actually know what’s going on.’
‘Something like that. Well, it’s true: the Balkans used to be one of my bailiwicks. So a month or so ago, I get the usual plaintive phone call from one of the minions, don’t I? “C sends his very best regards, Baxter, insisted I pass them on personally. He’s always thought the world of you, as you know. The thing is, old boy, we’ve got a bit of a problem – right up your street actually, just the kind of thing you used to deal with back in the good old days. So C was wondering whether you could possibly spare a few days? Shouldn’t take too long, and it would really mean a lot, old boy; C would really appreciate it.” So here I am, back on the beat for a while. It won’t last, obviously. There will be some other hot spot that takes their fancy tomorrow, and I’ll be back on the scrap heap. But, for the moment…’
She laughed. ‘They’ll never let you retire, Baxter, will they? You’ve been around too long and you know too much, that’s your problem. You’re too valuable to let go.’ She paused. ‘But you still haven’t explained why you’re disrupting my beauty sleep at this hour.’
She heard him exhale heavily.
‘No… Julia, you know Imogen Lester, Michael’s daughter, don’t you?’
Smiling, Julia turned in the direction of the bedroom and the young woman asleep in her bed.
2
‘Yes, of course. Sh e’s been working for my firm since she came down from Cambridge, while she decides what to do with her life. I know Michael and Margaret through my father – well, he was Michael’s mentor in the Service when Michael was a young officer. But you know all that…’ She stopped abruptly as the sense of foreboding returned to her, her stomach suddenly seeming to tie itself in knots. ‘Baxter, what’s happened?’
‘I don’t know the full story yet. We got a message from the embassy in Belgrade an hour or so ago. It seems that Michael had been working on something in Sarajevo. The embassy’s not saying exactly what he was doing there, but he had Margaret with him.’
‘Diplomatic cover, presumably?’
‘Yes: he was officially a cultural attaché or whatever, the usual nonsense. Anyway, it seems that the two of them were set upon by a gang of men armed with blunt objects, in some seedy district away from the city centre, where there was no obvious diplomatic reason for them to be.’
‘Set upon…?’
‘I’m sorry, Julia. I hate to have to tell you like this, but there’s no way to make it any easier. They were both bludgeoned to death. The local police found them at about midnight our time, and their pathologist thinks they’d been dead less than an hour at that point. A witness, who wouldn’t give his name and ran off before they could question him properly, told the police there were four men involved, all carrying big sticks of some kind, details unclear, but suggesting that Michael wouldn’t have stood much of a chance. This is all second hand from the embassy, you understand, but it’s all we have. It’s early days.’
Julia put a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered. She fought desperately against a rising feeling of nausea. Baxter allowed her some time. She took a deep breath and forced herself to think clearly. ‘Margaret, too? For God’s sake, Baxter…’
‘Yes.’
‘And we have no idea why…?’
‘The police are saying it was a street robbery gone wrong. Complete bollocks, probably, but I’m not sure how we could call them on it without giving the game away – whatever the game is. He would have been carrying diplomatic credentials, of course – they both would – but the police say there’s no identification on the bodies or at the scene. His wallet is gone, as is her handbag – and as is his revolver, if he was carrying it. Where they’ve gone is another matter, but the embassy isn’t saying any more.’
‘I see.’
‘What we got from the embassy is the standard official notification, so it’s not going to tell us anything that’s not for public consumption. In fact, they’re probably sending it to The Times for publication as we speak – which is actually the main reason I’m calling you so early.’
She took another deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘You want me to break it to Imogen.’
‘I’m really sorry, Julia. But I don’t want her reading about it in The Times, or even hearing about it from the embassy if I can help it: just out of regard for Michael and Margaret, you understand.’
‘Leave it to me,’ Julia replied softly.
‘Thank you. There’s a son too, isn’t there?’
‘Damian. Yes. I’ll find him.’
‘I’m really sorry, Julia.’
‘So am I.’
She paused. The worst of the nausea was subsiding, but the first pangs of grief and horror were replacing it: these people had been her father’s friends, and hers. She fought for control. She knew she had to put her grief aside for now; there were immediate problems to solve; she had to make herself think; she needed her rational solicitor’s mind to assert itself.
‘The police may just be right,’ she suggested tentatively, testing her voice. ‘There are probably all kinds of doubtful people in Sarajevo now, with the Winter Olympics coming up in a month or two. And you know Michael. He could be a bit hot headed, and if he refused to give them his wallet, or didn’t understand what they wanted, I can see the situation getting out of hand. Are you sure it’s related to whatever he was doing?’
‘Michael’s Serbo-Croat was pretty good,’ Baxter replied, ‘so I’d take a bit of persuading that it was just a misunderstanding. But what really worries me is what the hell they were doing in Bistrik, south of the river, at that time of night. It’s not a tourist haunt. It’s not even where you go in Sarajevo for a good night out – no decent restaurants or bars, or anything like that – and it’s definitely not on the diplomatic circuit. It’s not the safest part of town either, and Michael would have been well aware of that. He had a junior officer working with him, Scottish chap, name of Faraday. He’s probably still with the police, but I’ll call him later and if he has anything the embassy wouldn’t have put in the official communiqué, I’ll pass it on to you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Please tell Imogen and Damian that everyone in the Service here will be thinking about them. It’s as hard as hell when we lose one of our own, as you know. And for them to kill Margaret as well is unspeakable.’
‘Yes.’
Julia replaced the receiver and sat in her chair for some minutes. She suddenly realised that she was shaking. She had forgotten about the cold and, remembering it again, felt chilled to the bone. Clutching the collar of her dressing gown, she stood and made her way slowly back to the bedroom. Imogen was still asleep under the duvet. She would let her sleep for another hour, perhaps two. Then, she would have no choice but to wake her.
3
Wednesday 2 November 1983
When Baxter called again two days later, Julia was wandering randomly around her house, unable to settle in any particular room, reading a book here, looking at some papers there, doing her best to talk herself into going back to the office the following day. She had taken two days off, citing shock and distress following the death of two close friends. Her team had been understanding, but they would expect her to be back in harness soon. There was a lot going on, and in a small firm that meant all hands on deck. She knew she had to pull herself together, but she still felt numb from the sheer unyielding awfulness of the previous two days.
Not long after Baxter’s call, before waking Imogen, she had prevailed on the duty sergeant at Hampstead Police Station to send a uniformed officer to the Lester family home near Hampstead Heath, to break the news to Imogen’s brother, Damian. She had thought long and hard before calling the police, but in the end she could see no other way. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him by phone, and with Imogen to care for she couldn’t go herself in time to guarantee that he would not hear about it from a newspaper or the radio. But the visit from the police would be problematic. Damian was not unknown to Hampstead Police Station. At the age of nineteen, five years younger than his sister, only good fortune and one or two timely interventions by his father stood between Damian and a criminal record. In contrast to his sister, who had inherited her parents’ drive, had excelled at school and had graduated from Girton College, Cambridge, with a first in classics, Damian had always seemed listless and bored by his teachers’ efforts to educate him. He seemed content to drift though life without any obvious goal. When Michael was posted to Belgrade, Damian had resisted his parents’ attempts to take him with them to Yugoslavia, promising to pull himself together and get himself a job. But jobs rarely materialised and never lasted long, and when Imogen was away from the house, his life became a never-ending round of sleeping for much of the day, and late nights spent drinking and consuming other substances with his friends.
Julia was keenly aware of this history from Imogen, who in her parents’ absence felt responsible for her brother and was racked with guilt that she was powerless to change, or even control, him. It had taken all Julia’s diplomatic skills to explain to the duty sergeant that there had been a family tragedy, and that it would mean a lot to the family if the officer could deliver the news without paying too much attention to what he was likely to find when he entered the house. Mercifully, the sergeant was sympathetic. The officer broke the news and offered his help without commenting on the unmistakable aroma of cannabis that greeted him when, after a prolonged assault on the doorbell, a sleepy Damian eventually invited him in.
