The Pinocchio Brief E-Book

Abi Silver

• Herausgeber: Lightning Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

A SUNDAY TIMES CRIME CLUB PICK 'A first-rate courtroom drama' – Daily Mail SHORTLISTED: Waverton Good Read Award A 15-year-old schoolboy is accused of the brutal murder of one of his teachers His lawyers – the guarded veteran, Judith Burton, and the energetic young solicitor, Constance Lamb – begin a desperate pursuit of the truth, revealing uncomfortable secrets about the teacher and the school. But Judith has her own secrets which she risks exposing when it is announced that a new lie-detecting device, nicknamed Pinocchio, will be used during the trial. And is the accused, a troubled boy who loves challenges, trying to help them or not? The Pinocchio Brief is a gripping courtroom thriller which confronts our assumptions about truth and our increasing reliance on technology.

Leseprobe

“Intelligently conceived and cleverly constructed. Its themes are topical and relevant and its characters are very engaging. Abi Silver’s legal background has, I am sure, been of value to her in writing this novel.”

Ted Childs, creator of Kavanagh QC, executive producer of Inspector Morse

“An evocative and gripping thriller, where present day meets the technology of the near future. Abi Silver raises startling questions about the dependence and interdependence of technology in our lives in this pacy courtroom drama.”

Maha Khan Phillips, author of The Curse of Mohenjodaro

A 15-year-old schoolboy is accused of the brutal murder of one of his teachers. His lawyers, the guarded veteran, Judith, and the energetic youngster, Constance, begin a desperate pursuit of the truth, revealing uncomfortable secrets about the teacher and the school. But Judith has her own secrets which risk being exposed when a new lie-detecting device, nicknamed Pinocchio, comes on the scene. And is the accused, a troubled boy who loves challenges, trying to help them or not?

A gripping courtroom thriller which confronts our assumptions about truth and our increasing reliance on technology.

Yorkshire-bred, Abi Silver is a lawyer by profession. She lives in Hertfordshire with her husband and three sons. The Pinocchio Brief is her first novel. Read more about Abi and her work at www.abisilver.co.uk.

Published in 2017by Lightning Books LtdImprint of EyeStorm Media312 Uxbridge RoadRickmansworthHertfordshireWD3 8YL

www.lightning-books.com

ISBN: 978-1-78563-044-6

Copyright © Abi Silver 2017

Cover by Shona Andrew/www.spikyshooz.comTypesetting and design by Clio Mitchell

The moral right of the author has been asserted. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Printed by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

For my father

Contents

PART ONE

PART TWOSix years earlier

PART THREEThe present

PART FOUR

Acknowledgements

About Lightning Books

PART ONE

1

“God, Raymond. You take everything so literally. Can’t you tell when someone is lying to you?”

Jamie said that to me after Physics this morning. Jamie is my friend, my best friend, my only friend, I think. We share a room. He touched my arm as he spoke, just a tap, a little above the elbow. I don’t like being touched. I’ve told him that before but I didn’t remind him this time. “Sometimes you have to accept things you don’t like because that’s how the world works.” That’s what mum said the day I came here.

So I am trying, to accept things, that is, and I know he didn’t mean anything by it; just a bit of friendly emphasis. Touching my arm when he said it. And that’s just how the world works. In fact, I’m grateful now that he did because it made me remember what he said and I was looking for something new to pique my interest. And now I have it, the perfect topic to research: lying.

To Lie. Alternative words I could use: to tell untruths, to perjure oneself, to have somebody on, to fib, to tell stories, to be economical with the truth.

Dictionary definition? “To say something that is not true in a conscious effort to deceive somebody.”

Connected words: dishonesty, deceit, fraud, untruthfulness, corruption, treachery, duplicity, cheating and trickery.

I take to Google and enter the word “lie” and it prompts me on to various options. I choose “lie detection”. I immediately discover that some people claim they have a “sixth sense” which allows them to know when other people are lying. The Chief Constable of Wandsworth, Chief Constable Sidley, said that on the 10 o’clock news only yesterday.

“I always know when they’re lying. It’s my sixth sense,” he said and nodded solemnly at the camera. I don’t believe him. If it were an animal (not a human – I know humans are animals) then I might understand it. The way that those Medical Detection Dogs can sniff out cancer cells or that Cricetomys gambianus, the African giant pouched rat, can find land mines in Tanzania. If someone told me a pig knew when a person was lying then I might believe that, but not Chief Constable Sidley.

That stuff doesn’t really interest me, though; hunch, premonition, gut feeling. I want to find out how you know when someone is lying, really know, not just guess or suspect. Not surprisingly, there is lots of literature on the subject.

My last time-filler was Jupiter, anything and everything to know about Jupiter. My favourite fact about Jupiter is that its dust clouds are made up of ammonia and sulphur. The smell must be awful. Except that humans can’t just go there and smell it. It’s -145°C on the way in and then rises steadily as you get closer to the surface, so we would probably be dead before we smelt anything at all, of course.

My second favourite fact about Jupiter is that the Great Red Spot, a storm covering an area three times larger than the Earth, has been raging for 350 years. Imagine that, a fire burning for generations with no one to put it out.

Yes, Jupiter occupied me for around two months before I pretty much knew everything anyone had written. I sincerely hope that this will keep me busy for longer.

Perhaps I should introduce myself to you before I just delve in: Raymond Maynard, aged 15 years and 9 months, 3 days, 6 hours and 22 minutes. That felt a little strange because I don’t do it very often; tell people who I am, that is. I prefer to exist quietly, to take things in rather than spew them out. In fact, you are probably my first audience.

What do I look like? I am one metre 81 without my shoes. I think that’s tall although, of course, “tall” is a relative concept. “Gosh, he’s tall for his age”; that’s my first memory of anyone commenting on my height, from the lady behind the desk of the doctor’s surgery when I went to have my tonsils looked at. The doctor said that I would have to have them removed. And I have brown hair. That’s it, really.

And what do I like? What I like are facts, lots of them, especially if they have numbers attached to them. And I can remember them, all of them; the birthdays of all the boys in my class, the registration numbers of their parents’ cars from visiting days, the numbers in the bar code of a packet of Jaffa cakes.

So, in California, in the USA (did you know that more turkeys are raised in California than in any other US state?), they have developed a product which measures the magnetic activity in your brain. A scientist there says that when you lie, there is increased activity in the superior prefrontal, anterior cingulate gyri and the parietal cortex areas of the brain. He says this is because we are all naturally honest and so the brain has to work harder to suppress the truth. He claims 91.3% success. And to find out, all you have to do is set up an electromagnetic force around the skull of some willing participant, ask a few questions and watch what happens.

Again I’m not convinced; the research is based on the premise that humans are inherently honest. Is this really right? All humans? When Marnie said she hadn’t visited last week because she had a cold I knew that was a lie because I saw from her Facebook page that she was out at a party and she looked pretty fine in all the photos. I wouldn’t have minded if she’d just said. But that proves my point. If my sister lies so easily, then I’m sure other people do it all the time without it causing “extra brain activity”.

Voice Stress Analysis. That sounds more promising. Eighteen years of research have led to the conclusion that people’s voices sound different when they lie, and this time the researcher claims 93.4% success rates. Admirable. But this seems obvious to me and I am sure I could have worked it out in far less time.

What else is there? “A connection between lying and increased pupil size”, a “Facial Action Coding System” and also “how long it takes the subject to begin answering questions”. Liars take longer to begin speaking, apparently. The list of detection techniques is lengthy. This is going to keep me occupied for quite some time.

2

Judith Burton was exhausted. She allowed her front door to swing shut without her customary consideration for the other residents of the block; this was unlike her, but the day had cratered from a run-of-the-mill start and she was home at least an hour later than expected. And although she would never have admitted it, she wanted to hear that reassuring “clang” resound through the entire apartment block, so all within earshot would know that her tedious day had finally come to an end.

She sighed deeply and deposited her keys on the hall table, noticing, with a sniff, that the light was already beginning to fail. She swept into the kitchen and opened the fridge wide, casting a pale-yellow arc across the floor tiles. After a rapid sweep of its contents and a gentle tut, she removed a half-full bottle of white wine and poured herself a generous glass. Swirling the liquid around in the last vestiges of the day’s watery sunlight, she smiled wistfully. Then, after one sip, she headed for the living room where she seated herself in the only armchair, her head finding its familiar groove.

She had three telephone messages. Judith found this annoying in itself, as it was out of the ordinary. The only people who called her these days were her sister, who had an aversion to texting, email or any form of messaging or social media, and her mother who, despite hours of patient explanation and carefully written out, long-hand “how to” notes over the past 15 years, simply could not master any electronic device. And, as she frequently told Judith, “I just like to hear your voice. Then I know you’re alive. If it’s a machine, how do I know it’s you?” But even then, it was unusual for them all to call simultaneously.

The first message was, as she had anticipated, from her mother and she cut it off after only two words. She knew the rest, a vituperative monologue concerning the neighbours, a grumble about the weather, usually followed by the announcement in stricken tones of a birth, death or marriage of a distant relative.

The second caller rang off before leaving a message. Judith paused with her wine glass halfway to her lips and listened intently. The caller had hesitated and certainly contemplated speaking, before Judith heard a breathy gasp and then silence. So, by the third message, Judith was alert and she was not disappointed.

“Miss Burton. You don’t know me. My name is Constance Lamb. I…” There was a brief intermission whilst the caller selected her words. “I am a solicitor at Taylor Moses. Our office is in Hackney. You don’t know me but I know, well, I know of your work. I, mm… can you call me please? Any time. Thank you. Goodbye.”

Judith drank again from her glass, her fingers working lightly against its stem. She was fairly sure that the earlier silent message had come from the same person as the later, so the caller, Constance Lamb, had really wanted to talk and had only settled for voicemail second time around. She played the message through a number of times.

The young woman, for it was definitely someone fairly young, sounded sad and downbeat and her “mm” midway through the recording had been inserted to give her some thinking time. She had been going to say more, something to build up rapport perhaps, but she had thought better of it. The “thank you” at the end was an attempt to be businesslike, when at least some of the time Miss Lamb had evidently been both disappointed and anxious.

Judith rose stiffly, crossed the room to the window and gazed down into the street below. She half expected to see someone camped outside with binoculars trained upwards, awaiting her return, but the view was the same as ever. The precocious square of parkland opposite was empty of sentient life, apart from a squirrel tearing around the undergrowth, its tail flailing wildly, stopping in freeze-frame from time to time, before drilling down to disturb the foundations of the splayed and fading tulips.

Mr Fox, her taciturn neighbour, a retired accountant who had informed her, when she tried small talk in the lift last week, that he “still dabbled in business consultancy”, had left his bicycle in its usual spot, its heavy chain wound around many times like some devilish royal-blue python squeezing the life from the newly-painted railings. And the “doctor” parking space directly below remained free, pending Dr Joseph, the divorced cardiologist who lived upstairs, returning home from the Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead, where he ran a late clinic on Wednesdays.

She returned to her chair and listened one more time to the message, all the time wondering what was behind the young woman’s call. She collected her tablet, entering the name into Google: Constance Lamb, solicitor, London. And there it was, the face of the caller staring out, her expression both serene and radiant. Constance appeared no more than 25 years old, her hair scraped back dramatically from her face, her skin brown and flawless, her cheekbones high, her lips glossy and full.

Judith read Constance’s entry on her firm’s website. It confirmed that Constance was an associate at Taylor Moses and cited a couple of high-profile cases and some lesser ones, which Judith noted with a nod, but none of them particularly suggested any link with her. The firm was clearly bona fide but small and unambitious and none of the dozen or so other lawyers were familiar to Judith.

She returned to Constance’s page and read through her résumé a second time, this time aloud, her lips moving unhurriedly over the words. When she reached the end, she stared for some minutes at the young woman’s photo again.

Then she exited the website with a brisk tap, pushed the tablet away and downed the rest of her wine. She allowed her eyes to travel the perimeter of the room from left to right. Everything was in order as she had left it this morning, everything in its place, clean and tidy and organised. However hard she tried to be critical, she had to admit that nothing required cleaning or polishing or washing or brushing. She sighed deeply once more. There was only one option. She would have to call this girl.

3

Constance was late for her meeting. That made her apprehensive. She prided herself on being punctual, but she had covered for a colleague to take some instructions on a new case and the man had refused to stop talking. Even when she had told him she had another meeting to attend, he had hardly drawn breath. She had called ahead to say she was running late but this was not how she liked to operate.

Of course, everything about this meeting was out of the ordinary. The new client, a Mrs Maynard, had refused to come to the office, insisting instead that she come and meet at a residential address in Richmond, and had refused to give her any details over the phone. She had only said that if Constance did not want to take the case after they met, she would reimburse her for her time and ticket. Then Constance had narrowly missed a westbound train, compounding her lateness. Arriving at Richmond station things became worse as the rain, predicted for later in the afternoon, arrived prematurely. By the time she arrived at 22 Daws Close she was cold and wet and had twisted her left ankle on a wobbly paving stone. She rang the bell and huddled as close to the front door as possible without leaning on it, craving shelter under its shallow overhang.

A dowdy, pale-faced woman opened the door on the chain. At first, she peered at Constance with some suspicion, which Constance put down, yet again, to the colour of her skin.

As usual, she shrugged it off. If she allowed herself to be affronted by every look askance she would have been a miserable human being and would have missed out on some fascinating cases. Perhaps the woman just found her more youthful than her years, or maybe her reason for consulting Constance in the first place had made her wary.

“Hello. Mrs Maynard? I’m Constance Lamb. We spoke earlier,” Constance began brightly, stepping back despite the driving rain, to allow the woman to view her properly.

“Oh, Miss Lamb? Of course.”

“Constance, please.”

Now that the identity of the visitor was confirmed Mrs Maynard allowed the door to swing open and invited Constance inside and, if she had been alarmed by Constance’s appearance at first, she was now seeking to make up for it with her effusive welcome.

“Thank you so much for coming Miss Lamb, Constance. I am sorry for all the secrecy. Oh, gosh, it’s raining. I hadn’t noticed and now you’re soaked through. Come in and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

Constance entered the Victorian semi and removed her coat, shaking it lightly and hanging it on a peg near the front door.

“Do call me Caroline, and please take a seat in the living room. The sofa’s the comfiest spot. I’ll get your tea.”

Constance entered a smart and functional lounge, containing two cherry-red leather settees, a low coffee table and a gentle-on-the-eye dappled watercolour sprawled above the long-abandoned fireplace. This room was also spick and span and recently vacuumed; the marks from the cleaner criss-crossed the pale pink carpet at regular intervals. The neat, rectangular bay was hung with greying nets and, other than the painting, the walls were bare, although the shading at various locations hinted strongly that it had once had some companions.

A faded photograph sat in the centre of the mantelpiece and, as Mrs Maynard busied herself in the kitchen, Constance crossed the room to examine it. Two children in the foreground stared back at her; the first a smiling, gap-toothed blonde-haired young girl, all action, leaping up to grab at the lens, the second a small, sickly-looking brown-haired toddler, seated in a slumped position, shoulders hunched, hands hanging lifelessly at his sides. Behind the children sat a younger and brighter version of Caroline Maynard, although the smile on her lips then was the same fearful, uneasy look she bore today. Next to her, beaming, his eyes turned towards his daughter with delight, was a hearty-looking round-faced man, whom Constance took to be Mr Maynard.

Hearing the clatter of china, Constance completed her scrutiny of the family snap and returned quickly to the seating area. She would have preferred to sit at a table if she was to do any meaningful work but she decided to obey her instructions and sat down on one of the two sofas, on the cushion closest to the nearby armchair. If Mrs Maynard sat in the chair, she concluded, they could converse easily.

Mrs Maynard arrived with a tray bearing two cups and saucers, a white china teapot and a small plate of biscuits. Constance noticed the trembling of her hands as she lowered it onto the coffee table.

“There we are. That should warm you up. I do hope you aren’t too wet. I just couldn’t face the journey, I’m so sorry.” She sat down in the armchair as Constance had hoped and fiddled with the top button on her cardigan before pouring them each a cup of tea.

“Mrs Maynard...”

“Yes. You want to know what this is all about.”

Constance sat with her fingers poised over her laptop, her tea remaining untouched for now, as the older woman’s eyes cast about the room restlessly, unable or unwilling to find a suitable place to alight.

“Just tell me when you’re ready.” Constance spoke softly and reassuringly as she wriggled her wet toes around in her equally saturated shoes.

Mrs Maynard had taken one sip of her tea but she returned the cup shakily to its saucer. Now her bottom lip began to quiver and then her entire frame began to heave. Within moments her body was wracked with sobs and moans. Constance leaned forward to comfort the woman, first of all patting her hand and then, when that did not stem the flood, squeezing her lightly on the shoulder. Mrs Maynard raised a hand to signal that she would bring herself under control if allowed a little space, and Constance sat back and waited obediently.

“It’s Ray,” she spluttered eventually.

“Ray?” Constance repeated the name patiently, catching sight as she spoke of a flash of white outside the back window. Mrs Maynard had left her washing out and the sheets were ballooning upwards in the gusting wind.

“Raymond, my son.”

Her head turned involuntarily to the photo above the fireplace and then quickly snapped back. Constance following suit.

“Has something happened to him?” Constance enquired solemnly.

“You must have seen the papers?” Mrs Maynard spat out the words before reverting once more to her melancholy state.

Constance sat quietly waiting for Mrs Maynard to elaborate.

“He’s a pupil at…Richmond Boys’,” she continued after a long pause.

“Ah!” Constance could not suppress the sigh which escaped her lips. The newspapers had not given any name, as yet, but at least now she understood Mrs Maynard’s demeanour.

“Well I only know what I read, which was not much,” she replied cautiously. “The maths teacher, you mean?”

Mrs Maynard nodded. “They think it was Ray. You have to help him.”

“Where is Ray?” Constance found herself anxiously scouring the room for the boy’s presence. Now she remembered why the others in her practice refused to undertake house calls. You could never be sure who or what was waiting for you and she did not relish a meeting here, alone, with the teenage version of the sallow, languid child in the photo.

“They took him away. I was only allowed to see him with a police officer. He’s there now. In a cell.” Constance relaxed.

“Well, he won’t be in a cell. Isn’t he a j...isn’t he only 15?” she replied. That was what she had read, “15-year-old youth in custody”.

“Yes.”

“Well, it will be in a special youth custody suite, Mrs Maynard. They will look after him. He won’t be with criminals or anything.”

Mrs Maynard nodded mechanically although she was evidently finding it hard to control her emotions.

“Can I ask, is there a Mr Maynard?”

“No. My husband died four years ago. That’s really why we, why I had the money to send Ray to Richmond. It was a life policy; he had always muttered on about something happening to him. I thought it was crazy as he was always strong as an ox. Maybe you can see in the photo? Then one day, heart attack at work and he was gone. I suppose that’s the best way but no time to say goodbye, you see. It was too late to move Marnie, my daughter, as she was already settled at high school but Ray, it was perfect timing. And he needed it. I bought him the uniform and moved him to Richmond.”

“Are they your only children, Marnie and Ray?”

“Yes. Quite enough, mind, for any woman.” Mrs Maynard lifted her cup a second time, this time taking a large gulp.

“Yes, I’m sure.” Constance smiled once more, although uncertain of Mrs Maynard’s precise meaning and distracted this time by a sharp rap on the back window. With relief, she saw it was simply the sheet pegged nearest to the house, still darting around on the washing line, desperately trying to escape its confinement.

“But Ray must have been appointed a solicitor, by the state?” she continued gently.

“Yes. I met him. He was not interested in anything. He couldn’t even remember Ray’s name. And his phone rang twice whilst we were talking. Very rude. My son in terrible trouble and he can’t even turn his bloody phone off.” Mrs Maynard had spoken almost without taking a breath, her voice reaching a crescendo as she progressed, her face red with the exertion.

Constance was silent for once. She never switched her phone off. She wondered whether Mrs Maynard would notice, at this stage, if her fingers crept inside her bag and flicked her phone to vibrate.

“I want you to take his case,” Mrs Maynard demanded, her voice returning to its normal volume. “You come highly recommended,” she added.

“I’m so pleased you’ve heard good things about me.” Constance sensed heat flooding to the tips of her ears. “Can I ask who from?”

Again, Mrs Maynard’s eyes were on a journey, flitting aimlessly around the room. She took a further taste of tea, Constance marvelling at how she managed the meeting of teacup and lips, given her parlous condition. She swallowed once and then her eyes finally quieted and focussed directly on Constance.

“Jason Price’s mum. You got him off a shoplifting charge.”

Constance gasped. People never ceased to amaze her. Yes, she had managed to have a theft charge dropped against a local boy, Jason Price, about two years earlier, but that hardly qualified her to defend this boy, accused of a violent murder. But she had underestimated Mrs Maynard, who was speaking again.

“Yes. I know that was far less serious; I may be a little silly sometimes but I’m not stupid. Jeanie Price said you were the only one who listened to her and to Jason, that you worked morning and night for him, that you went up against the police when they wanted to offer him a lighter sentence if he pleaded guilty and she said you cared. And that’s what I want for my Ray. I want someone who cares. Because I tell you something, I am his mother and I know him. He did not do this terrible thing and you have to help him.”

4

Hello. It’s me again, Raymond Maynard, aged 15 years and 10 months, 2 days and 14 hours now. Things have moved on a little since I introduced myself, as you’ve probably heard. I’ve had to move out of my room, the one I shared with Jamie. And now I’m in a different place, on my own. It’s not very nice here at all. Actually, I think “not very nice” is what they call “an understatement”.

At first when they brought me in and told me to sit down I lay on the floor with my eyes closed and my hands over my ears. I even had my teeth clenched although I’m not sure why. No one was trying to feed me anything. I waited till they’d gone, of course, although I knew they could see me on the camera. But I just couldn’t help it.

Why did I do that? There were so many noises penetrating my skull that I had to try to keep them out somehow: screams and shrieks from the other occupants, the rhythmic thump of a ball outside thwacking the concrete repeatedly, the high-pitched whine of the air-conditioning unit in the hallway, the buzz of the strip light above my head. And then the smells: the previous occupant’s stale sweat leaching from the underside of the mattress, mingling with the onions frying for today’s lunch. And other stuff; the clumps of dust driven under the bed and into the corner between the drawers and the wall by some incompetent cleaner, all of it crawling with microscopic mites; you can’t see them with the naked eye as they are too small (only 0.2mm) but they are there, everywhere, chomping away frenziedly on our unwanted flakes of skin.

Of course, I could’ve just stayed like that, all curled up, and I did for a while. But then I thought I needed to do something to help myself. That’s another thing my mother says: “No one can help you but yourself”. So I sat up and looked around me and decided on a plan of action.

Perhaps it will surprise you, given my appalling position, but my mind jumped straight away to Charles Darwin. I have read Charles Darwin; eight times, in fact. The Origin of Species. Did you know that it was first called On the Origin of Species but then they dropped the “On” from the 1872 sixth edition? Not many people know that.

And some people think that “survival of the fittest” is all about exercising. I had to have the joke explained to me twice before I understood. Good job that Jamie is so patient with me. It’s not, you know; it’s about adapting in order to survive. So that is what I must do now. Adapt. There is no other option.

The first step in my adaptation is to be calm. That would come easily to me if I was at home, in my room, the one I share with Jamie, where the smells and the noises, however unwanted, are familiar and can be zoned in and out without too much effort. It’s much more difficult in this new environment with its indiscriminate battering of my senses from every direction. But after only 38 hours and 22 minutes in this place and a lot of determination, I can tell you, I have done it. I am sitting on my bed, eyes open, hands at my side, feet on the floor and I am calm.

And being calm is the key to what will come next. Really, totally, utterly calm.

Not just calm the way people say “calm down” to an unruly child or to a dog or to a jittery person awaiting the dentist’s drill or to the passengers on a ship when the alarm is first sounded (before it becomes apparent that the ship is doomed and there are insufficient life vests to go around). No. Much more calm.

This is calm like no other calm.

This is calm so that my belly sags and my bowels, rumbling unchecked, emit putrid, noxious gases. This is calm so that my shoulders droop and my head lolls forward and my mouth gapes and I fail to notice when saliva finds the path of least resistance and dribbles down my chin. This is calm so that my ears relax to such a degree that they allow all the sounds of the universe in; the rumblings of the particles bumping together in the Hadron Collider, the whistle of a comet as it speeds by Earth, the pop of a star as it gives up its moon. This is calm so that my nose, unchecked by those usually vigilant hairs, permits all manner of allergens to enter, to clamber to the upper reaches of my nasal passages and lay siege. This is calm so that my hair hangs limp, my fingers dangle, even my shoelaces lie open and unchecked. Ha! This is calm so that every single muscle fibre in my body wilts.

Reaching this level of calm was, in the end, moderately easy for me. I suspect it would be harder for an ordinary boy, one who has not, in the past, been in touch with his senses like I have, one who fails to turn his head at the key turning in the lock and the whispering at night in the headmaster’s office one floor below or to retch at the overpowering stench of my illustrious but now deceased house master’s apartments; a heady mix of bleach, shoe polish, spray starch and chicken and mushroom pot noodle. Such a boy as that would find this level of calm nigh on impossible. But I am not that kind of ordinary boy.

Some of the things I can do when I am calm? I can slow my pulse to 35 beats per minute; pretty good. It’s easy once you know how. And I can hold my breath for four minutes and 12 seconds – still a long way off the record but each time I try I achieve more. Great party trick – not that I am preparing for any parties, well, not in the foreseeable future.

But being calm is only the beginning; level one. Level two is harder.

Level two involves remaining calm on the inside whilst becoming alert on the outside. But, and this is the important part, without any outward sign of that alertness.

So, the sphincter closes tight to hold in the stomach gas, whilst the belly remains apparently limp, the mouth is able to control the manufacture and egress of saliva, whilst remaining open and sagging, the ears can filter out the chatter, the clatter of chair legs, the squeaking of desks, and focus on the low grunt the teacher emits under his breath in the next-door classroom as he worries if he fastened his trousers that morning but does not dare check in front of the class, whilst appearing unresponsive, or the nose blocking those bombarding pathogens whilst continuing in its inert state.

At level two all muscles are taut, primed and ready to pounce, despite an ostensibly comatose exterior. To the observer, the boy (that’s me!) remains saggy and flaccid. Except, in reality, I am rigid and upright and perfectly honed; it’s sad that no one appreciates the tremendous skill involved in accomplishing level two but me. Who cares? In this scheme, I am the only one who matters.

5

Judith found herself fretting over what to wear for the meeting with Constance Lamb. It was almost five years since she had donned any formal wear. She preferred jeans and baggy tops nowadays but that would not suffice, not for this meeting.

She had retained many of her old clothes, but they belonged to a different life, a different existence. A time when she had risen early, often around six, showered, kissed her husband Martin on the cheek as he lay in that state somewhere between asleep and awake. She had applied a modicum of face make-up and some neutral lipstick before sliding into her tight black skirt and high-necked white shirt (one of five, each for a different day of the week), picking up her shiny briefcase and heading off to work for a day packed with adventure and angst, usually in equal measure. Eventually, the angst had achieved the upper hand and, of course, there had been the issue with Martin – aagh, she blocked it out even now – which had brought things well and truly to an end. Fortunately, she had saved enough money, wisely invested by Martin when they were both in their prime, to live modestly forever and that was what she was doing.

Why this young woman should want to see her, she did not know. However, she strongly suspected it was to pick her brains on something work-related, perhaps an old case or former client. She would help if she could – she always did – but not without considering her own position first; self-preservation was paramount.

Eventually, she settled on a black trouser suit found nestling at the back of her wardrobe and she marvelled at the fact that not only did it fit, but it was loose around her waist. The stress of a life at the Bar had led to erratic eating, often on the run, and Judith had never taken any serious exercise. Since her forced retirement, she walked most places, swam in the nearby outdoor pool three times a week and spent hours concocting elaborate salads, relishing the time she had on her hands, time to squeeze lemons and chop parsley, to crush garlic and source the finest olive oil. Clearly, she had slimmed down without even noticing.

“I’m here to see Constance Lamb,” she announced confidently to the young woman behind the desk at Taylor Moses’ offices. She was surprised at the corporate feel of the place given its target clients but it did, reportedly, handle a fair amount of fraud too. “White collar crime”, she should say, and that was where all the money was nowadays; proper, old-fashioned criminals certainly didn’t pay well in her experience.

“And your name is?”

“Judith Burton,” she replied, relishing for a second the days when her name would have been recognised at a place like this and a knowing “ah yes, Miss Burton” would have followed the announcement, together with an admiring acknowledgement of the many successes she had achieved, each snatched from the jaws of disaster. That had been her specialty, the hopeless case, the one no one else wanted; how she had built her reputation. She had been audacious, of course, and she had not won them all. But there had been sufficient triumphs to assist her meteoric rise.

Judith did not consider herself at all fortunate. Fortune had had nothing to do with it. She was meticulous and very often others were not. Either they did not have the same resources to hand as she or they were simply unprepared to put in the necessary time to check their facts or test their theories. She was a perfectionist; she knew that. And many an instructing solicitor had regretted taking her on because she put them so comprehensively through their paces. But then, when the successes came, they had also benefitted and a few of them now sat near the summit of their profession, proudly citing those wins at the top of their CVs.

So lost in thought was she that she failed to notice the approach of the younger woman, who was virtually at her side by the time she stirred.

“Miss Burton?”

“Oh, call me Judith, please. And you’re Constance?”

Constance extended her hand and the two women surveyed each other as Judith rose to her feet.

“Yes. Thank you for coming over at such short notice. Let’s go somewhere we can speak in private.” Constance walked briskly forward, Judith following obediently behind.

Judith thought Constance even more imposing in the flesh than in her photograph. She carried herself elegantly, as if she had been trained in the 19th century, and she had a composure about her which immediately put Judith at her ease. In contrast, Constance was unsure about Judith. Naturally, Judith appeared older than her published photos, taken around 10 years previously, her trademark shoulder-length, corn-yellow bob replaced by an easier to maintain, greying at the edges, close crop.

And although she was definitely trimmer now, her step was a little slow. Constance suddenly panicked that Judith’s mind may have slowed too. She had had this crazy idea to ask for the older woman’s help and now she wondered if it would backfire.

This slight hesitation on Constance’s part was not lost on Judith, who had retained her knack of reading body language with uncanny accuracy and, despite her seniority, it unnerved her. She was unused to having to prove herself or her abilities to anyone.

They entered a small room with bare walls and a lone, high window conducting light across the upper echelons of the space and Judith accepted a cup of black coffee gratefully. Habit and her sense of propriety forced her to settle herself at the head of the table and Constance dutifully sat down to her immediate right. Something about the austere setting made Judith crave a cigarette, even though she had not smoked for around 15 years, and even then only sporadically.

“You’re probably wondering what this is all about,” Constance began reassuringly, and her resonant tones banished some of Judith’s anxiety of the last few moments.

“I think you had better go ahead and put me out of my misery,” she replied, ensuring she enunciated each word clearly, and without drawing breath until the end of the sentence.

“It’s the Richmond Boys’ case.” Constance watched her visitor keenly for a reaction.

“Ah!” Judith’s face crumpled into a mixture of anticipation and understanding.

“You know? The murder of the teacher.”

“Yes. I know it.” Judith could now relax completely. A new case, not an old one; no questions about how it was handled or witnesses treated or evidence presented – something shiny and virginal and expectant.

“The mother, Mrs Maynard, has instructed me. She didn’t like the appointed state solicitor and she can pay. Her son, Raymond, he needs a good defence,” Constance explained.

Judith nodded. She had read a good deal about the case, such as there was, and had drawn some of her own conclusions already. The teacher had been found stabbed in his rooms and the boy they had arrested was found covered in his blood. Sadly, other unnamed “boys” had spoken to the press, said the accused was a loner and “a bit weird”. It would not be enough to throw out the trial but the boy would have an uphill struggle to rebut his character assassination by these anonymous informers. And her experience of 15-year-old boys giving evidence was not good.

“And where do I fit into all this?”

“I want you to help me, to defend him. Ray hasn’t spoken. Even though they questioned him off and on for 12 hours without a solicitor and for two days with a solicitor.” Constance was clinical in her delivery, careful not to give away any private hopes or concerns by her demeanour, as she feared she might have done when she spoke to Judith the previous night.

“How on earth was that allowed to happen?” Judith, in contrast, was animated in her response, sitting forward in her chair and leaning heavily on the table.

“New rules for murder cases,” Constance explained blandly. “It’s allowed now. I double-checked – even for juveniles.”

Judith suppressed an expletive, swallowed and settled instead for, “What does the evidence show so far?”

“Not much. I have the statements of the head teacher, his secretary who found the body and Raymond at the scene, the groundsman and another boy, Raymond’s roommate. No eye witnesses. They are going for murder, claiming it was premeditated although there is no apparent motive. There are a few photos of the scene and a forensic report on the cause of death, which was a single stab wound to the chest. Only interesting point for us is that the knife went in the left side of Mr Davis’ chest.”

“So probably a left-handed assailant?”

“Yes.”

“And I assume the boy is right-handed?”

“Yes.”

“And the boy. Have you seen him?”

“Once, yesterday, after I saw the mother.”

“And?”

“I saw him but he wouldn’t speak to me either.”

“Ah.” There it was again, the slow drawn-out moan which served as an acknowledgement that Judith had heard what was said, but gave little else away.

“I tried but he sat there completely mute. He didn’t even acknowledge me.”

“That’s interesting.” Judith’s eyes narrowed. “And how did he seem?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the other boys say he is a strange one, according to the newspapers. What did you think?”

“It was a bit hard to tell as he said nothing but...well, he is a bit, strange, I suppose.”

“Strange in what way?”

“He is very skinny, with long hair and pale skin, sort of milky white, like he never goes outside. He has these huge eyes and he stares, without blinking. But not really at you, more through you. And he sits kind of hunched over. I put some paper down and asked him to write if he preferred. I waited for ages and he did nothing, then just as I was about to leave he began to draw on the paper.”

“What did he draw?” Judith’s nostrils flared as she struggled to form a picture of the boy from Constance’s description.

“When I looked, he had drawn one circle in the middle of the page, but it was absolutely perfect, drawn freehand. I doubt I could have made it more perfect with a compass. But he hadn’t just done it once, he had gone over the lines again and again but each time just as perfect as the last.”

“Hm.” Judith mulled over these details with some suspicion. “If he wanted to tell us something of any real importance why on earth not just speak?”

“Yes. I thought that too. But about the circle, I’ve been looking online. They say that being able to draw a perfect circle is a sign of insanity,” Constance replied earnestly.

Judith guffawed. “I don’t think that’s it,” she replied uncharitably. “No, I was thinking more showing off, more Giotto.”

“Giotto?”

“Yes, Florentine painter, 1300s. Rumour has it that when he was called upon to demonstrate his prowess as an artist he simply drew a perfect circle with his paintbrush in red, in one brush stroke. Supposed to be a sign of genius.”

“Oh.” Constance appeared downcast.

“I am not saying that is it,” Judith hastened to add, “it was just a thought and quite frankly it’s all irrelevant if we can’t manufacture him a defence. Did you see anything to indicate that he might be aggressive or violent?”

Constance paused. Judith had said nothing directly in response to her request for help but her questions and comments were leading her to hope that she just might take the case on.

“No, like I said,” she continued, “if I had to describe him from this one visit I would say ‘passive’. He looks like someone who things happen to, not someone who makes anything happen.”

“Good. That’s a start. And what does the Head say about him?”

“He says Raymond is extremely intelligent, has a very high IQ. He’s a maths and computer wizard and was pretty much walking his way to Oxbridge.”

Judith shifted in her chair. She knew that she was beginning to be interested, that she had a hundred more questions to ask, and that, had she been formally instructed before now, she would have already begun to bark out commands. But she had to steady herself, to take stock. She had left all this behind and vowed that nothing would woo her back. She did not need the fame or the money and she certainly did not need the late nights or stress.

“Why do you want me?” she asked crisply. Constance noted the change in her tone.

“He needs a good barrister.”

“Quite obviously.”

“You handled more murder cases in your time at the Bar than any other barrister still around and you had the highest rate of success.”

This time Judith’s lips pinched tight as if she had experienced a sharp, fleeting internal pain. Then, almost immediately, her face relaxed.

“So you’ve done your homework. But success can be measured in many ways, you know.” She sat back again and allowed her hands to rest lightly on the table. “How many years have you been in practice?” Judith was asking the question for effect. She already knew the answer.

“Five,” Constance replied.

“You started just as I retired.”

“Yes, I know.”

“So, over the last five years, you must have worked with some competent practising barristers, perhaps some good or even excellent ones?”

“Yes, I have.”

“And none of them were suitable for this case?”

Constance poured herself a glass of sparkling water. She offered some to Judith, who waved her away impatiently and then swilled the dregs of her coffee once around her mouth before swallowing it noisily.

“I think Raymond is innocent,” she said quietly but forcefully, keeping her eyes on the water bottle.

“I see.”

“Before you ask me, I can’t even tell you why. I have no evidence, not yet.” Constance rubbed her thumbs against her fingers on both hands, to emphasise her need for something tangible. “But I just have this feeling that something isn’t right.” She raised her eyes to meet Judith’s. “First of all, like I said, this boy is not violent. Peculiar but not violent. And the police have not investigated anything at all. They see this as an easy open-and-shut case, even though there is no reason for him to have done this and this is the boy’s life.”

“Yes?” The upward inflection in Judith’s voice indicated that her question had still not been answered.

“OK. Of course, I have worked with good people but no one like you,” Constance responded. “I watched you in the Wilson trial. I was in the public gallery. You tore apart the waiter’s alibi, you made him confess within 20 minutes of cross-examination. It was as if you read his mind – quite brilliant. And I know you care. What you said afterwards, yes I know it was your client’s statement you read out, but it was clearly written by you, about the importance of never giving up. And that is what Raymond’s mother wants. She wants someone who cares about him, not just about the money or the glory, but about him, her son; she wants someone who will fight for him.”

“Gosh. Well I am flattered immensely, and after all these years, to have found such a fan. But I was lucky on Wilson. I had a hunch and it proved to be right. It could have panned out so very differently. I took a huge risk; I broke the cardinal rule of cross-examination – I asked a question when I didn’t know the answer. The judge knew. I could see his eyes boring down on me as I asked it, taunting me: ‘Are you sure you want to ask that question, Judith?’ Naturally, he was desperate to know the answer too but would never have had the balls to ask it.” She shook her head. The memory was surprisingly clear after all this time. “And I am retired, you know, and not up to speed with all the rules,” she added.

“I know the rules and we can find you a junior, if you need, to do the less glamorous stuff.”

“It’s not a question of glamour. There are so many difficulties. And I am expensive,” she added.

“Why don’t you take a look at the papers and then we can discuss your fee.” Constance was prickly for the first time. The funds were not unlimited here and she was banking on Judith wanting the challenge of the case and charging accordingly.

“All right. That seems sensible and the least I can do in the circumstances. Do you have a copy I can take away?”

Constance put her hand in her jacket pocket and pulled out a memory stick.

“It’s all on there,” she replied, handing it over to Judith.

“I’ll read through it this afternoon and confirm my position,” Judith replied, “but, assuming I take the case, let’s meet tomorrow morning back here at – well, how early do you get in?”

Constance allowed herself a small smile of triumph. Now they had begun to walk this path Judith was unlikely to backtrack. “Whenever suits you,” she ventured, keen not to put any obstacles in their way.

“So, seven o’clock then,” Judith responded firmly.