84
At Newcastle Magistrates’ Court, overnight remands were always heard an hour earlier than the rest of the day’s business. The building was adjacent to Market Street police station, ensuring a handy transfer of prisoners. At precisely 9:55 a.m., Lucy Laidlaw left her cell flanked by a female security guard whose heavy uniform shoes squeaked on the tiled floor in rhythm with the keys jangling off her belt as she walked. Laidlaw was still wearing the white boiler suit she’d been forced to put on when her clothes were seized for forensic examination. But that wasn’t causing her a problem today.
She might yet have a use for it.
A short journey along a corridor and up one flight of stairs would take her directly into a courtroom where she would face senior magistrates sitting especially to hear her case. Half an hour earlier, her solicitor had visited her in the cells. Beatrice Parks had held her hand, both literally and figuratively, and told her what was about to happen: a brief hearing, followed by a further remand in custody until a date could be set for her trial at the Crown Court in front of a judge and jury. Parks warned her to expect to wait a good few weeks. An application for her release on bail was apparently not an option, given the growing body of evidence the CPS had at their disposal: the photographs, her torch, video evidence taken from the helicopter that her hat had been on the back seat of Ivy’s car at the time she was murdered, and probably by now her DNA.
So bloody what?
Did they think she’d be intimidated by that?
If so, they could think again.
Laidlaw played her part, shuffling along the cell-block corridor with her head bowed deferentially – the picture of remorse for all the cruel things she’d done – her jailer watching her all the time, oblivious to what she was really capable of and what was running through her mind. They were passing a white board fixed to the wall; it was sectioned off in rows and columns, with a space to write each prisoner’s details. Across the top, reading from left to right, each column had a heading: cell number, name, relevant times, detention review and other important information. She noticed hers was the only name written on the board and bristled as she read the words suicide risk in the last column, a throwback from another time, another life, when she was weak and vulnerable.
It didn’t surprise her that she was the only prisoner in detention that morning. There’d been no noise during the night to keep her awake, no drunks or prostitutes in custody to disturb her, no banging on cell doors as she’d been led to expect. Just the constant hum from the light above her head, and nothing to keep her mind occupied as she lay there surrounded by four bare walls on a bed so very different from the sumptuous one she’d slept in at the hotel in London almost a week ago.
Was it only a week ago?
‘Keep moving!’ the gruff voice behind her said.
Laidlaw felt a nudge in her back propelling her forward along the corridor, past a free-standing fire extinguisher she’d examined the last time she was there, an old-fashioned one she’d advised them to replace, a slight smile forming on her lips as an idea jumped in her head. She knew what to do now as she mounted the narrow staircase, taking in every detail, planning her escape when all appeared lost, just as the Cypriot had taught her.
Despite his faults, she had a lot to thank him for.
The courtroom was large and relatively empty as she was led into the dock. Eight people in total: a reporter from the local press; a woman wearing a badge she assumed was a probation officer; two female magistrates on the bench; and a male court clerk sitting in front of them. Directly in front of Laidlaw, facing the bench, was Beatrice Parks. Next to her, a Crown Prosecutor and a young woman in plain clothes who identified herself as DC Lisa Carmichael, representing the Murder Investigation Team should the magistrates have any questions that might need clarifying.
Not a uniform polis in sight.
The hearing lasted less than three minutes in total. Laidlaw stood passively in the dock and spoke only once to confirm her name and the fact that she was of no fixed abode. But that wasn’t how she wanted her court appearance to end. She wasn’t going down without a fight.
She had absolutely nothing to lose now.
As soon as the magistrates had adjourned the case, she doubled up in the dock, retching as if she was going to vomit, a little show of contrition perhaps for those who gave a damn about a Cypriot fugitive, an old lady with one foot in the grave and a good man who’d had the misfortune to fall in love with her – and Jamie.
Laidlaw swallowed down her shame. Her life had been one long list of regrets, not least of which was losing Mark and his child. He’d come so close to her ideal, almost made her believe that an ordinary life was possible. Or was that another pipe-dream? Daniels was right, though: father and son were never part of the plan. But what was done couldn’t be undone.
With her head bent low, she watched out of the corner of her eye as the magistrates got to their feet and left the court via the back door. The guy from the press and the probation officer walked out through another door. Both solicitors followed. But as Beatrice Parks reached the door she turned around, a concerned expression on her face as she looked back at her client. She pointed at the floor, held up a hand and spread her fingers, gesturing that she’d see her in the cells in five minutes. Then she too disappeared. Only the young DC remained, making absolutely sure she wasn’t going to leap over the barrier and make good her escape, which would have been possible had it not been for the funny suit she happened to have on. It had a thick, starchy feel to it and was degrading to wear. She could hardly flee looking like a walking talking fucking J-Cloth. People might notice. The sooner it was off, the better . . .
Her heart was thumping out of her chest. Five minutes wasn’t very long. Was it long enough? Her arm was yanked upwards by the security escort. She didn’t struggle. She just stood up straight and was led back to the cells like a lamb. They were out of Carmichael’s sight now and heading back down the narrow, winding stairs to the cell block below.
Her eyes scanned the corridor – no one in sight – but Laidlaw could hear voices and laughter coming from an office at the very far end.
It was now or never.
She had one shot.
One shot.
Groaning as if she were in pain, she doubled up again. Before the guard could call for assistance, Laidlaw picked up the fire extinguisher and smashed it into her face, knocking her out instantaneously. Catching the guard as she fell, Laidlaw replaced the fire extinguisher exactly where she’d found it, lifted the escort over her shoulder and carried her into cell number three, the door of which stood open ready for the next poor sod the coppers happened to drag off the streets.
Laidlaw grinned as she laid the unconscious woman on the floor. She knew all that training wouldn’t go to waste. There was no time to lose: Parks would be ringing the bell any minute, demanding to see her client. Ripping off the paper suit, she undressed the escort and put on her uniform. It was a good fit too. She’d always been able to carry a uniform. Then she took a deep breath, grabbed a cap off a peg on the wall and walked calmly along the corridor, back up the narrow staircase and out through the remand court as large as life to freedom, keys jangling from the uniform belt as she strolled away unperturbed.