ONE

 

Damien Palmer looked out of the window of his study and observed it really looked like the cold, frosty mornings of winter had finally passed. The road was typical for the area. Along one side of the cracked and pot-holed surface was a line of terraced housing, a throwback to the thirties. Some of the properties revealed the care their owners lavished upon them, with replacement guttering and double-glazing. Even Palmer’s own home, the sixth in the line, sported double glazing and a new-looking set of roof tiles, though the care had not been lavished by Palmer, but the previous occupant. Across the road a small grassy area enclosed by wrought iron railings brought a touch of fervent green to an otherwise very urban area. Beyond the grassy area, which was just large enough to walk across, was a row of terraced homes that matched the row in which Palmer lived. It seemed to Palmer, as he looked out of the window, the grassy area was a ray of hope in an otherwise forlorn part of the world.

Palmer surveyed the grassy area from his study window. He dwelled on the beauty and soothing qualities of the dew that had not yet risen from the luscious green covering. It made him feel good about the day.

The study was aptly named for along its sides were shelves of pristine, leather-bound tomes, a collection that Palmer had started as a child of no more than eight years old. The first volume of his collection, a well-thumbed version of Treasure Island, was possibly his most prized possession. For Palmer, it held sad memories of a loving father who had died tragically. He had died a few weeks before the book, a beloved family possession, had been handed down to the young Damien as a keepsake, much to the annoyance of his two elder sisters, Roxanne and Ophelia. His jealous sisters were, unlike the young Damien, not avid readers. They were more interested in outdoor pursuits.

And so, throughout the years, Palmer had kept the book as a memory of the father who for some reason had died of a brain haemorrhage. The memories of that fateful day came flooding back to Palmer as he looked through the window at the grassy area. There had been the breakfast where his father had quite suddenly collapsed, and then there had been the doctor. At that point the children had been ushered into the playroom. The events of the bygone years had never left Palmer’s memory, though the details had on occasion become confused. Now, as he looked out of his window, he could almost picture the horse-drawn funeral carriage as it had come up the road bearing his father’s coffin. Even now it seemed as though Palmer was waiting for the return of that same carriage, as if it would somehow set the clock back to the happier part of his childhood.

Then, as if resigned to the fact that the carriage would not return, Palmer turned away from the window. A large oak desk grandly occupied the centre of the room and between the desk and the window was Palmer’s leather upholstered chair. The appearance of opulence was deliberate, and made possible by the extraordinary deductive talents of the man who had been looking out at the spring morning, reflecting on his own past.

Palmer sipped the cup of freshly made coffee as he once again turned to look out of the window. As he did so, his memory brought him back to the present and he reflected on the fact that it had been a quiet few weeks. This time of year always was. After the New Year rush of enquiries from people believing their partner might have been unfaithful at a Christmas or New Year party, the remainder of the winter period was nearly always quiet. Palmer had long since discovered that most such enquiries were unfounded, probably triggered by the insecurity and paranoia that generally sweeps through people’s lives as the New Year starts. He had often mused on the possibility that such a condition was also responsible for the strange situation where people found it necessary to spend vast sums of money on items in the sales, when they had lived perfectly happily without the same items for the past year or more. It had been a source of some amusement and interest to him for many years.

Now, as he looked out of the window, he began to keep one eye on his watch as if waiting for someone. He had been watching this way for maybe five minutes when a man dressed in the uniform of the postman walked down the short path that led to his front door. He heard the letters fall on the doormat outside his office, but his attention remained focused on the path that led away from his house. He sipped some more coffee.

On his desk lay a copy of a tabloid newspaper that was some weeks old. It was a local paper, the kind that is distributed free every week, but it was not from Palmer’s own area. The paper lay on the pristine blotter that covered much of the surface of the desk. Beside the paper sat a black box. Palmer had not yet turned on his laptop computer and in fact he had not yet started work for the day. The grandfather clock that stood in the hallway sounded the hour. It was eight o’clock.

The morning post lay untouched on the doormat as Palmer continued to look out of the window. Having heard the eight chimes from the clock his patience began to wane. He did not usually accept clients so early in the morning, but then his expected guest warranted his urgent attention. It was always an annoyance to Palmer when people turned up late for meetings, and it was particularly annoying when the meeting was so early in the day.

Finally, after a further five minutes, he saw the man walking down the road. He was a short man, wearing a long dark coat to keep out the cold air of the morning, and he wore a flat cap on his head. To Palmer his appearance was incongruous with his professional status. As the man walked, Palmer noticed he had a slight limp in his left leg. He recognised the man immediately, but waited behind the net curtains until the man had actually stepped onto the little path that led to the front door. Only then did Palmer retreat into the hall and collect up the small pile of mail, which had arrived several minutes earlier. As he left his office, he carefully placed the empty coffee cup on the edge of the blotter.

He waited until the doorbell sounded before he turned the handle and faced his guest.

‘Good morning, John, how are you today? Not too cold I hope.’ Palmer sounded friendly as the two men shook hands. ‘Do come in.’

‘Morning, Mr. Palmer.’ The voice was deep, unusually so for a man of such short stature.

‘Damien, please, I insist. These are not your offices and we’re not with a client. Here, let me take your coat.’

The short man took off his long coat, placing leather gloves in the pockets as he did so.

‘Thank you, and in answer to your question, I am actually feeling very well, if not a little confused. Also, for your information, it is still damn cold out there.’ Palmer shut the door.

‘My office, please do go in. Would you like coffee, tea perhaps?’ Palmer was almost effusive as he showed the shorter man into his opulent study.

‘Coffee would be very nice.’

‘One minute and I’ll be right back.’ Palmer left the shorter man rummaging in the rigid attaché case that he had brought with him and walked down the short hallway into the kitchen. The percolator was already full of fresh coffee and it took Palmer only a few minutes to prepare the drinks. It was a common ploy of his to allow his clients to gather their thoughts in his office while he went off to the kitchen to make coffee. When new clients visited him it gave him time to form an initial opinion of them. In the case of John Manning there was no such need. Palmer had spent many hours conversing with the man over the past few years, had dined with him on occasion, and regarded him as almost being a friend. In Palmer’s particular line of business caution was always exercised over the term friend, and if pushed he would have said that Manning was still an acquaintance.

‘Coffee,’ Palmer enthused as he pushed the door to his study open. Manning was sitting in the ‘interview’ seat facing Palmer’s desk. Palmer carefully placed the tray on the blotter between them and sat down in his leather swivel chair. He turned slightly to look at his client. Both men took a mug of the steaming coffee and sipped the contents before placing the mugs back on the tray.

‘Now, John, what can I do for you?’

‘I don’t know really; inspiration, perhaps. Are you familiar with the John Burnston murder case?’

‘Only what has been reported in the newspapers, I’m afraid. It’s a case of battered wife inflicts revenge on bully of a husband, or something like that, isn’t it? I got one of my contacts to do a bit of digging after you phoned me. He came up with this article.’ Palmer reached out and picked up the old newspaper. He turned to page five and spun it round so his client could read it. Below the article he pointed to, Palmer noticed there was an appeal for a witness to come forward in connection with a death the previous October. The dead woman was only in her mid twenties and she had blond hair. Her body had been found in the local park and to date the police had not tracked down her killer. Palmer knew little about the case though he did recall she had been stabbed repeatedly. It was a bizarre murder but it was not the focus of Palmer’s attention. That, for the present moment, was directed to the much larger article at the top of the page.

‘So, what has this got to do with me?’ Palmer spoke evenly as he looked at his guest.

‘Well, the wife has asked me to represent her. And that is where the problem starts. Seeing as the police actually caught her standing over her husband, who was lying in a pool of blood, holding the murder weapon, you’d think she’d plead guilty.’

‘Yes, it would seem reasonable,’ Palmer agreed with growing interest. Indeed, the short man now held Palmer’s undivided attention.

‘Well, she is absolutely adamant that she didn’t do it and she wants to plead not guilty.’ At this point Manning paused and took a sip of coffee. It was almost a dramatic pause, but the coffee made the pause too long, and for a moment it seemed as if the short man was going to struggle to make his request. ‘Basically, Damien, I need some help, because if I am to proceed with this case on that basis I need something to work with, and quite frankly we’ve been working on this for a month now and we’ve got nowhere.’

‘I see. And when you say we, who exactly do you mean?’

‘Myself, of course, and a research assistant I have working for the practice. Also, I have to admit,’ and again Manning paused, though this time he shuffled uneasily in his chair, as if embarrassed by the revelation still to come, ‘I tried Expert Investigations a couple of weeks ago, but they drew a blank. So, all I have left is the best - you!’

‘I see.’ Palmer placed his hands together with the tips of his index fingers touching. Then he raised his hands until the index fingers touched his mouth. He looked hard at his client, weighed up the situation, and considered the options open to him. Finally, after several seconds, Palmer smiled a slow, thin smile.

‘Well John, as it’s you, and as I like hopeless cases, you’re on. But it won’t be cheap. To do this properly will cost quite a lot.’

‘That’s not a problem. My client is paying me privately, and there are undoubtedly enough funds to cover your expenses too.’ The short man looked evenly at the private investigator, though the solicitor was evidently still apprehensive about the whole meeting.

‘In that case, I will require one thousand pounds up front and I will invoice you as necessary.’ Palmer sounded decisive, like the businessman who now held his quarry in a position whereby it would be difficult to back away from the deal.

‘A thousand, that’s a bit steep, isn’t it?’ Manning questioned the investigator, though his question sounded more out of habit than any surprise.

‘Possibly, but from what I have read there is going to have to be some considerable efforts on this case if we are to get anywhere, and time is money, so they say. I’ll be blunt. This case could cost your client over two thousand in investigation costs alone. And, I have to say it at this time, there can be no guarantee I’ll succeed in proving your client was not the killer.’

‘Very well, the funds will be transferred to your account this afternoon if that’s okay. Now I have a dossier here that contains some stuff you will need to know. It’s not much, I agree, but it might help.’ With the deal struck, Manning visibly relaxed, though his somewhat chubby face had turned a slightly darker shade of crimson. The study was a warm room, but not sufficiently so to account for his ruddy complexion.

‘Excellent.’ Palmer took the manila A4 sized envelope and opened the flap. The contents were indeed sparse. There were two pictures. The man, lying in a pool of blood, was evidently the deceased. The picture of the female was, Palmer presumed, his wife.

‘That’s the happy couple,’ said Manning as he watched Palmer take the pictures out of the envelope and examine them.

In addition to the pictures there were a few pages of notes, a report, pathology report, and a few other notes that Palmer decided to ignore for the moment.

‘So that’s it. A copy of the police report, a couple of pictures, and the other report, all four pages of waffle, is presumably from Expert Investigations?’ The question was meant to be rhetorical but Manning was pleased to confirm Palmer’s findings. ‘They were a lot of use, weren’t they? Let’s hope I have better fortune. Now, John, I need to talk to your client at some point. Could you arrange a meeting for sometime tomorrow afternoon?’

‘Yes, that should be possible.’

‘And when is the trial?’

‘Well, we’ve already had the committal. The trial itself is set for 13^th April, so that gives you just under two weeks.’

‘Christ, they’ve moved quickly on this one.’

‘Yeah, but to the authorities it’s an open and shut case. To be frank, Damien, I’m inclined to agree with them, and unless you come up with something quickly, that is exactly what it will be.’

‘So you think your client is guilty?’ Palmer looked sternly at the shorter man, scrutinising his reaction.

‘Well, on the balance of the evidence we have so far, yes. At least that is what any reasonable jury would conclude.’ His voice sounded unconvincing and Palmer detected a degree of apprehension in his tone.

‘But,’ Palmer tried to lead the solicitor.

‘But, there is something about the woman. I don’t know what it is, but there is something. When you meet her you’ll understand what I mean.’

‘Fair enough, now I take it the scene of the crime is no longer cordoned off?’

‘No. Actually our client, Heather Burnston, has a sister, Rachel, who is looking after the house while she’s awaiting trial. I can arrange for you to meet her there so you can have a look round. Not that there’ll be much chance of you finding anything after the police investigation.’

‘You never know. How about two this afternoon? I have some other things to sort out first.’

‘I’ll do my best. How can I contact you today?’

‘My card,’ said Palmer as he handed his business card over the top of the desk. ‘It has my mobile number, home number, and e-mail address on it. You should be able to get hold of me. If my mobile is off then you can always leave a message on my answer-phone.’

‘Good. In which case I had better let you get started. And thanks, Damien.’

‘Don’t thank me yet, that can wait until we get a result.’

‘Fair enough. I’d better get to the office. Anything else you need, just ring me.’

‘I will.’

The two men stood up and Palmer showed the shorter man to the hallway. Standing in the hall, Manning donned his long coat and fished the leather gloves from the pockets.

‘One more thing before I go. Although the press are obviously interested in this case, there has been no indication given out as to which way she is going to plead and reporting restrictions are not in force. I’d like to keep it quiet if possible.’

‘That’s not a problem. Now, with luck, I’ll hear from you later.’

Palmer opened the door and ushered his guest back out into the cold. As soon as the man had turned back onto the pavement, Palmer closed the door and returned to his office.