mate. They aren’t even proper legal professionals. Just power crazy twats that like to lord it over the peasants. They’ll take one look at you, shit their pants and pass the whole thing up to Crown court. All they’ll want from you today is a guilty or not guilty, then they’ll take you back to your nice, cosy cell.”
John exhaled and lay back on the bench. “Any idea how long we’ll be sitting here?”
Whitey smiled a lopsided grin. “You might as well get comfy, mate. These daft tossers like to take their time.”
***
17th November 2008. High Moor Magistrates Court. 11.13.
Phil sat at the front of the courtroom, arched his back, taking pleasure in the loud pop as his spine realigned itself. He’d lost count of the number of hours he’d spent on hard wooden benches in dingy little courtrooms like this, waiting for the magistrates to pull their bloody fingers out. He’d specifically requested Simpson’s case to be pushed to the front of the queue, to try and avoid the swarms of reporters. The magistrate had ignored him, and the first case; some junkie up for aggravated burglary had dragged on for the best part of two hours. Then the magistrates had buggered off for tea and biscuits.
The situation made Phil uneasy. Simpson should be secure enough in the holding cells, but something was gnawing on his nerves. They’d found more bodies at Simpson’s house over the last twenty four hours, and some of them looked like they’d been in the ground for a very long time. Forensics couldn’t give him an exact date yet, but they’d guessed they’d been there for at least twenty years, maybe more. If that was the case, then Simpson would have been nothing more than a child when they died. That implicated his parents, but they’d been dead since the mid nineteen nineties.
Then there was Steven Wilkinson’s involvement. For the life of him, he couldn’t work out where he fitted into the puzzle, or how his lawyers had managed to get his name withheld from the press. They didn’t even have a search warrant for the bastard’s house yet. He massaged his temple and sighed. The more information that came to light about this case, the less sense it made.
The door to the chambers opened and the magistrates shuffled out to take their seats. A few moments later, two police officers escorted Simpson to the dock and secured his handcuffs. The room had been silent, but now was buzzing with an uneasy murmur as people in the public gallery held fast, hushed conversations and pointed at the man who’d brought so much death to their town. Predictably, the room was packed. Phil recognized some of the faces, but not all: the usual mixture of local journalists and old dears with too much time on their hands. He caught a glimpse of a red haired woman, sitting at the rear of the room. He couldn’t make out her face from here, but before he could adjust his position for a better look, the magistrate called order and proceeded with the case.
Simpson’s court appearance was a routine matter. The magistrates just had to remand him in custody after the duty solicitor gave the “not guilty” plea, and refer the case to the crown court in Durham, although one of the magistrates, a retired dentist called Ferguson, had looked ill as he read the case notes. Simpson kept his eyes pointed at the floor and only spoke to confirm his name. The whole thing was over and done with in twenty minutes, when Simpson was taken back to the holding area.
As soon as the magistrates left, Phil got to his feet and rushed to the rear of the courtroom, looking for the red haired woman who, naturally, was nowhere to be found.
Phil had a sick feeling in his stomach − his every instinct screamed that something was wrong, but the pieces wouldn’t fit together. He stood frozen for a moment, finally leaving the courtroom and making his way to the building’s holding facility.
***
17th November 2008. Weardale Café, High Moor. 14.02.
Oskar sipped his
John exhaled and lay back on the bench. “Any idea how long we’ll be sitting here?”
Whitey smiled a lopsided grin. “You might as well get comfy, mate. These daft tossers like to take their time.”
***
17th November 2008. High Moor Magistrates Court. 11.13.
Phil sat at the front of the courtroom, arched his back, taking pleasure in the loud pop as his spine realigned itself. He’d lost count of the number of hours he’d spent on hard wooden benches in dingy little courtrooms like this, waiting for the magistrates to pull their bloody fingers out. He’d specifically requested Simpson’s case to be pushed to the front of the queue, to try and avoid the swarms of reporters. The magistrate had ignored him, and the first case; some junkie up for aggravated burglary had dragged on for the best part of two hours. Then the magistrates had buggered off for tea and biscuits.
The situation made Phil uneasy. Simpson should be secure enough in the holding cells, but something was gnawing on his nerves. They’d found more bodies at Simpson’s house over the last twenty four hours, and some of them looked like they’d been in the ground for a very long time. Forensics couldn’t give him an exact date yet, but they’d guessed they’d been there for at least twenty years, maybe more. If that was the case, then Simpson would have been nothing more than a child when they died. That implicated his parents, but they’d been dead since the mid nineteen nineties.
Then there was Steven Wilkinson’s involvement. For the life of him, he couldn’t work out where he fitted into the puzzle, or how his lawyers had managed to get his name withheld from the press. They didn’t even have a search warrant for the bastard’s house yet. He massaged his temple and sighed. The more information that came to light about this case, the less sense it made.
The door to the chambers opened and the magistrates shuffled out to take their seats. A few moments later, two police officers escorted Simpson to the dock and secured his handcuffs. The room had been silent, but now was buzzing with an uneasy murmur as people in the public gallery held fast, hushed conversations and pointed at the man who’d brought so much death to their town. Predictably, the room was packed. Phil recognized some of the faces, but not all: the usual mixture of local journalists and old dears with too much time on their hands. He caught a glimpse of a red haired woman, sitting at the rear of the room. He couldn’t make out her face from here, but before he could adjust his position for a better look, the magistrate called order and proceeded with the case.
Simpson’s court appearance was a routine matter. The magistrates just had to remand him in custody after the duty solicitor gave the “not guilty” plea, and refer the case to the crown court in Durham, although one of the magistrates, a retired dentist called Ferguson, had looked ill as he read the case notes. Simpson kept his eyes pointed at the floor and only spoke to confirm his name. The whole thing was over and done with in twenty minutes, when Simpson was taken back to the holding area.
As soon as the magistrates left, Phil got to his feet and rushed to the rear of the courtroom, looking for the red haired woman who, naturally, was nowhere to be found.
Phil had a sick feeling in his stomach − his every instinct screamed that something was wrong, but the pieces wouldn’t fit together. He stood frozen for a moment, finally leaving the courtroom and making his way to the building’s holding facility.
***
17th November 2008. Weardale Café, High Moor. 14.02.
Oskar sipped his
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