He was in a cell with Luke, as they waited for Egan to decide what he was going to do. Sam could have waited outside, or even back at his office, but he knew how cops like Egan operated. He knew there were too many casual conversations with prisoners, just little asides, hints that their lawyer might be wrong.
It had been a long wait, though. The paint on the walls, grey and grim, matched the toilet in the corner. He hadnt used it yet, but that moment might come soon. It was the lack of good light that struck him the most, the windows frosted and small, but it was the smell that Sam knew would linger.
The cells in Blackley police station had a smell all of their own. The police station was over a hundred years old, and the cells felt more like cellars, with little natural light and a position below ground level. A century of damp had seeped into every piece of brickwork, the smell broken by disinfectant and whatever had been left by their occupants, all those weekend drunks, drug addicts sweating their way through withdrawal, old feet. Sam knew it would stay in his clothes and in his hair for days.
What did you say? asked Sam.
She hardly cried out, Luke repeated.
Sam stood up and stretched. Dont say any more.
No, I want to tell you, Luke continued. He was obviously enjoying himself.
I dont want to hear it, Sam replied, although it wasnt his conscience that made him say it. There was a corridor full of empty cells, and Egan had marched him past all of them to get to the large one at the end, where there was room for a few prisoners. Sam couldnt see the microphones, but he knew one of the cells was bugged. It had been done a few years ago, when one of the police-station runners was suspected of smuggling drugs into the cells. At first the police had thought he was just providing a good service, when bringing his clients chocolate or sweets. But theyd soon begun to notice that his clients stopped being as eager to get out. So the police bugged a cell. Not to use in court, just for intelligence gathering. They were in the bugged cell, Sam was pretty sure of that.
Luke smiled and sat back, his head against the white tiles.
Oh come on, you do. You must have wondered what it would be like to kill someone.
Sam turned towards him, his anger starting to surface. Ive never wondered that, because I have never wanted to kill anyone. But stay quiet in here because if you talk, they might listen.
Luke whistled, his eyes wide. He looked around. Wouldnt that be fun.
His smile shut off at the sound of a key in the lock. It was Egan, his jaw set firm and angry. Sam wondered if someone higher up had told him to release them.
Sam had to squeeze past him to get into the tight corridor. He blinked at the bright light, and then felt himself pulled to one side.
The dead girls mother is in the waiting area, Egan hissed. Maybe youll want to look her in the eye on the way out.
Sam jerked his arm away. Ill tell her how you cant catch her killer, Egan, he said angrily, and then cursed himself for losing his temper.
Sam didnt wait for permission from Egan. He started to lead Luke away, but he was angry with himself. He was baiting Egan to make himself feel better. Sam had gone into a police station with someone whod said he had killed and would kill again. Sam had done what he could to get him out. What kind of person did that make him?
Egan glared at Luke all the time he was being booked out of custody. As they went through the waiting area, Sam saw a woman, sitting at the back, a tissue clenched in her fist, her chin puckered, her eyes red. Luke looked away, but Sam saw her watching them, her eyes getting wide, her mouth opening.
Sam looked away and left the station, with Luke at his shoulder.
I was back in Blackley when Sam Nixon came out with Luke King. The best reporting involves patience, although I could tell that the news was already beginning to spread. There was a reporter from the local paper there too, along with a cameraman and a young woman with a microphone.
I saw Sam mutter shit to himself as he came out of the door. He glanced back at the station, but the only way was forward.
I moved forward as the cameraman went towards Sam, who tried to push past, Luke tucked in behind him. The court stragglers spilled onto the pavement and watched the excitement. I thought I heard somebody cheer.
Suddenly Terry McKay appeared in front of Sam. He swayed towards Luke King, his finger in the air, waving in jerky movements.
Youre a fucking wanker, he sneered, his teeth bared, brown and jagged, spittle landing on Sams suit.
Sam tried to move forward, tried to push Terry out of the way, but Terry just pushed back.
They catching up with you? he continued, shouting now.
Terry turned towards the camera, to make sure he was being filmed, and Sam took the opportunity to slip past him, Luke keeping up with him. The cameraman stepped in front of McKay, leaving him alone on the pavement, confused and angry.
As Sam walked off, he tried to step up the pace, but the cameraman was quicker, blocking his path. Sam realised that he had lost the option of silence, so I watched him as he licked his lips and swallowed. A microphone and my voice recorder were pushed in front of him. He cleared his throat and his cheeks flushed.
As you might know, the police have been speaking to my client in relation to a murder that took place last night. My client would just like to say that he is mystified as to why the police wanted to speak to him.
His voice sounded strong, assured.
He knows nothing about the unfortunate woman who was found dead last night, but hopes that Blackley Police find whoever committed this awful act. He hopes sincerely that the police are now able to devote their time to finding the killer, and that they stop trying to achieve quick publicity by pursuing an innocent young man just because he happens to have a well-known father. Sam smiled. Thank you. Thats all.
And with that, he walked away, Luke close behind.
I watched them go, noticing how Luke kept his eyes down, not wanting to meet anyones gaze. I thought about Sam and the few conversations Id had with him. Did I know him well enough to get the inside track?
I checked my watch. I still had some time before I had to collect Bobby. And I wouldnt know until I asked.
I had some research to do first, though.
Chapter Fifteen
Sam didnt pause in reception. The seats were full of people ignoring the no-smoking sign, but he couldnt face seeing any clients. Let the caseworkers speak to them. They spent their days working the files, visiting crime scenes, seeing witnesses, harassing the prosecution. And when the prosecution ignored the letters, they harassed them some more.
Sam wouldnt ask the Crown Court runners to speak to anyone in the office. They werent employed for the daily grind. Harry recruited them for the flash of their legs, nothing more, to brighten the lives of prisoners and take notes in court. The word soon got around the pubs and estates in Blackley that if you wanted to see a pretty girl when you were stuck in a prison cell, you went to Harry Parsons & Co.
When Sam got back to his office, he sank back into his chair and shut his eyes for a moment. It was the old moral question, the one he tried to avoid. How could he defend a killer? The answer was easy: the judicial process would decide how to treat him. It was a cop-out, an excuse, but it was the only thing that helped Sam sleep. When he ever did.
When Sam got back to his office, he sank back into his chair and shut his eyes for a moment. It was the old moral question, the one he tried to avoid. How could he defend a killer? The answer was easy: the judicial process would decide how to treat him. It was a cop-out, an excuse, but it was the only thing that helped Sam sleep. When he ever did.
But what happened when his client said he would do it again? That wasnt in the script. Sam had the power to stop it. The Law Society rules allowed him to breach client confidentiality if someones life was at stake. He rubbed his hands over his face. He knew he couldnt do it. Luke King wasnt an ordinary client. And that sickened him.
Sam still had his eyes closed when he heard his door click open. When he opened them, he saw Harry standing there.
Sam wasnt surprised. Although Harry never came to his officehe called Sam to hisSam guessed that Lukes case might make a few things different around here.
Something wrong? asked Sam.
Harry shook his head. I was just passing when I saw you. He tried to look casual, but Harry Parsons didnt do casual. How did it go with Luke?
Sam saw Alison looking into the room.
Hes still got his liberty, if thats how we measure these things, Sam said.
Harry didnt answer, so Sam played him at his own game. A few seconds passed before Harry spoke.
Tell me what happened.
Sam sat forward and rubbed his eyes, and then he told Harry all about Egan getting frisky, seeing a big name, a headline.
So is he out now? Harry asked.
Sam nodded. Hes got to go back, but he knows that Egan will be watching him.
Harry stayed quiet for a moment, his eyes down, thinking, and then he nodded. Thank you for looking after him, he said, and then turned to walk away.
As Harry was about to leave the room, Sam shouted after him. If he is taken in again, I dont want to act for him.
Harry turned back round, and Sam noticed that his cheeks were flushed. Why ever not?
Sam tried to think of a way to answer that sounded reasonable, but there wasnt one.
I just dont, thats all.
Harry was about to respond when there was a light tap on the door. It was Karen, Sams secretary. She looked nervous.
Excuse me, Mr Parsons, she said, her voice quiet. Sam, theres someone to see you. Hes in reception.
Has he made an appointment?
She shook her head. He says its urgent. Hes been hanging around the office all day.
Harry turned to walk out. Stick with it, Sam, he said quietly, for all our sakes.
And then he left the room. As he went, Sam saw that Alison was still outside his office, but as Harry passed her, she turned and walked away.
For all our sakes. What the hell did he mean by that? Sam didnt know, but he was sure he had seen something in Harrys eyes he hadnt seen before. Fear.
Chapter Sixteen
The old man had been seated in a room by the time Sam got there. It was one of the older interview rooms, with woodchip and ancient desks, not for the best clients.
Sam was hit by the smell as soon as he walked in. It was as if the old man had slept in his clothes for days, a musty mix of sweat and damp. From the back, Sam saw straggly grey hair over a dirty old grey overcoat, tide-marks along the collar. As he went around the desk, Sam recognised him straightaway. It was the old man who had been staring up at his window that morning.
Sam sat down in front of him.
The old man was in a chair without arms, and he looked vulnerable, scared. His knees were together, his hands over them, and he looked defensive. Under his coat he wore a shirt, but it looked creased, as if he had found his only clean one under a heap of others and made a special effort. There was a film of grey bristles over his cheeks, and his dark-rimmed glasses were held together by tape over the bridge. His eyes had once been bright blue, Sam could tell that much, but now they looked tired, ringed by dark circles.
Sam didnt try to put him at ease. The old man had been watching him all day, and Sam wanted answers, although he wondered now how the old man had ever made him nervous.
Hello, my name is Sam Nixon. How can I help you? It came out brusque, unfriendly.
The old man looked surprised. He watched Sam for a moment, and then looked down. Sam realised that hed just ruined the prepared speech.
My name is Eric Randle, he said quietly, his voice sounding hoarse, and I have dreams.
We all have dreams, Sam snapped back. He looked at his watch. At the moment this was all free of charge.
The old man ran his finger around his collar, and then said, I dream of the future, and it comes true.
Sam started to twirl his pen between his fingers, a habit he had when he wasnt sure what to say.
I paint them, Eric continued. My dreams, I mean. He shifted in his seat. Sam didnt say anything. He just looked at the old man, let him talk.
Ive always painted, since I was a child, Eric carried on, leaning forward in his seat, but then I started getting these dreams, strong, vivid, violent dreams. He rubbed his eyes. I knew they meant something, but I didnt know what. He shrugged. So I started painting them. He sat back and smiled, a nervous smile. I paint my dreams, and then they come true.
Sam tried not to smile with him. What, you influence the future? He put his pen down. I saw it in a film once. Richard Burton. Medusa something.
No, no, Eric said, his eyes wide now. You dont understand. The old man took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead. These arent normal dreams. These wake me up, and Im crying sometimes. I know Ive seen something terrible, something that will kill people, but I cant do anything about it.
What kind of things?
Eric began to clench his jaw, his eyes distant. Disasters, murders. Ive seen plane crashes, earthquakes, bombings. And I cant do anything about it, because I dont know when its going to happen, or where. He looked back at Sam, his eyes almost pleading. Sometimes Im too scared to go back to sleep. So I get up, no matter what time of night it is. I get up and paint my dreams. And then they come true. He wiped his eyes. They looked damp, his lip trembling. And I know all the time that I could have stopped it, if Id just known more.
Eric looked at Sam expectantly, as if he suddenly thought that Sam might have an answer. But Sam had his mind on something else.
Why have you been following me today? asked Sam.
Eric sat bolt upright and wiped his eyes, looking more focused. He reached into his coat pocket and produced a roll of paper. I painted this a few months ago, he said.
He passed it over, barely rising from his seat; Sam had to lean over the desk to get it.
Sam unrolled it carefully. It wasnt cheap paper. It felt thick, luxurious, not the glossy white of office paper. It seemed completely at odds with the mans appearance.
It wasnt a painting as he expected it. It was more of a collection of jottings, of images. There was no structure, no form, but the images immediately got his interest. Sam could tell the old man had talent. The human figures were drawn with swift lines, almost scribbled, and the colours overran, but the figures had astonishing movement, action.