Ragdoll (Detective William Fawkes #1)
Daniel Cole
‘So tell me, if you’re the Devil, what does that make me?’
PROLOGUE
Monday 24 May 2010
Samantha Boyd ducked under the wobbly police barrier and glanced up at the statue of Lady Justice perched atop London’s infamous Old Bailey courtrooms. Intended as a symbol of strength and integrity, Samantha now saw her for what she really was: a disillusioned and despairing woman on the verge of pitching herself off the rooftop and into the pavement below. Appropriately, the blindfold carved into her likenesses the world over had been omitted; for ‘blind justice’ was a naive concept, especially when issues such as racism and police corruption become involved.
The surrounding roads and Tube stations had all been closed again due to the swarm of journalists that had settled there, transforming a busy area of central London into an absurdly middle-class shanty town. Empty food packaging flaunted Marks & Spencer and Pret A Manger logos up from the litter-strewn floor. Designer sleeping bags were being folded away to the buzz of electric razors, while one man’s underwhelming travel iron failed to disguise the fact that he had slept in his only shirt and tie.
Samantha felt self-conscious as she wove through the crowds. Running late, she had worked up a sweat during her six-minute march from Chancery Lane, and her platinum-blonde hair pulled where she had pinned it up in an unsuccessful attempt to alter her appearance. The press had identified those attached to the trial on day one. Now, by day forty-six, Samantha had probably featured in every major newspaper in the world. She had even been forced to call the police when one particularly persistent reporter followed her back home to Kensington and refused to leave. Determined to avoid any further unwelcome attention, she kept her head down and strode on.
Two meandering lines stretched across the Newgate Street crossroads, originating from the insufficient set of Portaloos on one side and the pop-up Starbucks on the other. Caught in the current circling perpetually between the two, she broke away towards the police officers guarding the quieter side entrance to the courtrooms. When she accidentally stepped into shot of one of the dozens of recordings taking place, a small woman snapped at her angrily in Japanese.
‘Last day,’ Samantha reminded herself, leaving the incomprehensible torrent of abuse behind; just eight more hours until her life could return to normal.
At the doors, an unfamiliar police officer scrutinised Samantha’s ID before leading her through the now very familiar routine: locking away personal possessions, explaining that she physically could not remove her engagement ring when the metal detectors went off, worrying about sweat marks while being frisked, and then making her way down the featureless corridors to join the other eleven jurors for a cup of lukewarm instant coffee.
Due to the overwhelming worldwide media attention and the incident at Samantha’s house, the unprecedented decision had been made to sequester the jury, sparking public outrage as the hotel bill spiralled into the tens of thousands of taxpayers’ money. After almost two months, the morning’s small talk predominantly consisted of bad backs caused by the hotel beds, the monotony of the nightly menu and lamenting the things that people were missing most: wives, children, the Lost season finale.
When the court usher finally came to collect the jury, the tense silence that the trivial chatter had been masking was liberated. The foreman, an elderly man named Stanley, who the others had appointed – seemingly for no better reason than that he bore an uncanny resemblance to Gandalf – slowly got to his feet and led them out of the room.
Arguably one of the most famous courtrooms in the world, Court One was reserved only for the most serious criminal cases; the room where such macabre celebrities as Crippen, Sutcliffe and Dennis Nilsen took centre stage to answer for their considerable sins. Artificial light flooded in through a large frosted window overhead, illuminating the room’s dark wood panelling and green leather upholstery.
As Samantha took her usual seat on the front row of the jury, closest to the dock, she was conscious that her white dress, one of her own designs, was perhaps a little short. She placed her jury bundle over her lap, much to the disappointment of the lecherous old man who had almost trampled someone on the first day in his haste to claim the seat beside her.
Unlike the familiar courtrooms depicted in American movies, where the smartly dressed defendant would sit at a table alongside their lawyers, the accused at the Old Bailey faced the intimidating room alone. The small but prominent glass screens surrounding the raised dock only further adding to the notion that those inside were of considerable danger to the rest of the room.
Guilty until proven innocent.
Directly opposite the dock, to Samantha’s left, was the judge’s bench. A gold-hilted sword hung from the Royal Coat of Arms behind the chair in the centre, which had remained the only vacant seat throughout the entire trial. The court clerk, defence, and prosecution teams occupied the centre of the room, while the elevated public viewing gallery, against the far wall, was packed with the ardent and bleary-eyed spectators who had been camping out on the street to secure their place for the conclusion of this extraordinary trial. At the back of the room, on the forgotten benches below the gallery, sat an assortment of superfluous people vaguely involved in the proceedings: experts that the lawyers might wish to, but probably would not, call upon; various court officials; and, of course, the arresting officer at the centre of all of the controversy, the detective nicknamed Wolf: William Oliver Layton-Fawkes.