Chapter 3
Henley felt trapped. There was nowhere to run.
She watched Eloise Rhimes cross the Inner London Crown Court car park and walk directly towards her.
Eloise sat as a District Judge at Bromley Magistrates’ Court and Henley assumed that a meeting, likely about a youth charged with a serious offence, was the reason behind her presence at the Crown Court.
However, paranoia and shame convinced her that Eloise was here for her.
She could feel Eloise’s unanswered texts and voicemails burning a hole in her pocket.
Henley wasn’t in the habit of hiding from people but that’s exactly what she’d been doing ever since she’d agreed to look into Eloise’s husband’s death.
‘I thought it was you,’ Eloise said as she hugged Henley. ‘How was your holiday?’
‘It was good. Very much needed,’ said Henley, feeling embarrassed by Eloise’s warmth.
‘And how are you and Rob?’
‘They definitely weren’t joking when they said marriage isn’t easy, but we’re better,’ Henley admitted.
Her relationship with her husband had been challenging over the years.
No one could ever replace her mum, but Eloise had stepped in, listened, advised and held her when it had got too much.
Henley had reciprocated in kind when Eloise had suddenly found herself with the unwelcome title of widow.
‘Before you ask, no, I’m not stalking you. I’m here for the usual bureaucratic nonsense that could have been dealt with by email,’ Eloise said.
‘I didn’t think you were stalking me at all, but I wouldn’t blame you if you were. I know it’s been a few months, and I haven’t returned your—’
‘I’m asking a lot of you. I know that,’ Eloise cut her off, tenderly taking hold of Henley’s hand. ‘Harry was my husband, but he was also your friend, not just your boss. Bloody hell, now it sounds like I’m trying to guilt trip you. I promise you that’s not what I’m doing.’
‘You want answers,’ Henley said, feeling very guilty.
‘Not want, need answers.’
‘And you’ll get them. You’ll know as soon as I do.’
Eloise nodded, watching a news crew unpacking their van. ‘I’ll let you get on. I’ve got a trial starting this afternoon and you’ve got whatever this lunacy is.’
‘Oi, oi, sunshine,’ said Stanford, peeling himself away from the grey stone brick that formed the walls of the court building.
‘The last thing I feel is sunny and bright.’ Henley drained the last of her coffee and threw the cup into a nearby bin. She moved aside as a trio of barristers, black gowns flapping around them, horsehair wigs tucked under their arms, descended from the stone staircase.
‘Still not over your jetlag?’
‘No, my body clock is all over the place and I could think of a million other things I’d rather be doing on a Monday morning.
’ Henley lifted up her head and inhaled deeply.
The sun broke through the heavy rain clouds.
‘I should have stayed in Grenada. Transferred to CID in the Royal Grenada Police Force.’
‘For the love of God, get over yourself, woman,’ said Stanford, patting Henley affectionately on her arm. ‘Let’s go in. You can vent to the judge.’
Tension tightened the muscles in Henley’s neck. They entered the court building and cleared security. ‘I still can’t believe this is happening,’ she said.
‘We didn’t do anything wrong, with Fox-Carnell, I mean.’ Stanford had read Henley’s mind.
‘I know that,’ Henley replied, their footsteps echoing through the hallways. ‘But you know what the media and the public are like. It’s easier to blame us if something goes wrong and a murderer is put back on the streets.’
‘The judge may not even let her out.’ Stanford adjusted his tie. ‘How do I look?’
‘You’re fine,’ Henley said distractedly as she caught sight of Leonard Calgary’s widow, Deborah, and Fox-Carnell’s last victim, Jorge Menjivar, being escorted to the courtroom by an usher. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
The courtroom buzzed with excitement and anxiety.
Counsel, reporters, family members, and curious onlookers who’d managed to snag seats in the public gallery, waited for the woman who’d been called the angel of death.
Henley and Stanford both declined the invitation to sit behind prosecution counsel and sat at the bench usually reserved for probation, close to the Judge’s own bench but also with an unrestricted view of the dock.
Stanford nudged Henley as the sound of metal clanging against metal rang out from the direction of the dock.
Loud chatter lowered into whispers as Sian Fox-Carnell, flanked by two officers, entered.
She was a pale-skinned, slim woman whose dark blonde hair hung in waves down her back.
Fox-Carnell’s barrister scurried forward.
Henley watched as Fox-Carnell walked to the corner of the dock, leaned towards the slim gap in the window and nodded in response to her barrister’s advice.
‘She looks …’ Stanford paused. ‘Surprisingly well.’
‘Wouldn’t you be looking well if a court of appeal had overturned all your murder convictions and ordered a retrial?’ Henley asked, frustrated. She adjusted her blazer which suddenly felt too tight in the warm courtroom.
‘Even so. I would expect her to look a bit more, I don’t know … Broken.’
Henley didn’t reply as Fox-Carnell’s barrister returned to counsel’s row.
Fox-Carnell remained standing and locked eyes with Henley.
She was taken back in time to the moment she and Rhimes had sat across from Fox-Carnell in the interview room questioning her over the course of eighty-seven hours.
Every single negative emotion that Henley could think of had swam in Fox-Carnell’s eyes: contempt, selfishness, smugness, arrogance, malevolence, boredom, hate, and Henley would swear blind that she saw evil.
‘That woman is anything but broken,’ Henley said as a loud knock reverberated around the courtroom and the door at the front opened. Everyone rose to their feet for the judge.
‘She’s enjoying every single minute of this,’ Henley said and Fox-Carnell smirked cruelly at her and winked.
‘Ms Fox-Carnell, do you understand that the Crown Prosecution Service have submitted that you will be retried for two counts of murder, two counts of attempted murder and that they have offered no evidence to count five; arson with intent to endanger life and count six, attempted murder?’ the judge asked.
‘Yes, I do,’ Sian replied, wiping her eyes with a tissue that had been handed to her. Henley wasn’t moved by Sian’s crying, she knew that they were well-rehearsed crocodile tears. Performing to the gallery.
The judge cleared his throat. ‘All that leaves is the matter of setting a trial date with a time estimate of twelve weeks which we will fix once we’ve dealt with the issue of bail. Mr Beckworth?’
‘M’lord, yes.’ Mr Beckworth placed his hands on the lectern. ‘A notice of application for the court to consider bail with supporting documentation was submitted to both the court and my learned friend.’
‘Yes, I’ve had sight of the application,’ the judge replied and gave a subtle nod to another court officer who had been standing silently by the door. ‘And you wish for the matter of bail to be heard in chambers?’
Stanford leaned towards Henley and whispered, ‘That won’t go down well.’
‘That’s correct, m’lord,’ confirmed Mr Beckworth. ‘I have discussed the matter with my learned friend and there is no objection.’
‘This court is now sitting in chambers,’ said the judge. ‘That means everyone in the public gallery must now leave.’
Disgruntled murmuring rose from the public gallery.
The gallery’s palpable anger made it difficult for Henley to compartmentalise and lock away her own emotions.
She caught the look of arrogance on Fox-Carnell’s face as her victim’s family members weakly threatened to stage sit-ins.
A slow three minutes passed until the courtroom suddenly felt cavernous.
An hour after he’d started his argument for Sian Fox-Carnell to be granted bail, Mr Beckworth said, ‘That was my final submission, m’lord, so unless I can assist you any further?’
‘No, you have been most helpful. My thanks to both yourself and Ms Reese. Ms Fox-Carnell, will you please stand,’ the judge said.
Fox-Carnell made a show of shakily rising from her seat and pulling her cardigan tightly around her.
‘I have heard a very detailed application that was put forward by your counsel and also objections to bail from the prosecution’s counsel, Ms Reese,’ the judge continued. ‘Listen to me very carefully. I will be granting bail but subject to very stringent bail conditions.’
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ Stanford muttered. Henley released her tight grip on the armrest and pulled out her phone. Her hands shook as she texted Pellacia with an update.
‘Ms Fox-Carnell,’ the judge said firmly.
‘You are to live and sleep at the address that has been submitted to the court by your counsel. You will be subject to electronic monitoring with an additional doorstep condition. You must report three times a week to Colindale police station. You are to surrender your passport, which I understand is still valid and you are not to apply for any travel documents. You are not to contact any witnesses directly or indirectly. You are not to enter any hospital without prior arrangement and must be accompanied by another adult unless, of course, it is an emergency. You will be subject to a curfew which means that you must be at your residence between the hours of 9 p.m. to 7 a.m.. The monitoring equipment will be installed by a representative from Soteria this evening. A security of ￡100,000 must be deposited to Her Majesty’s Court and Tribunal Service before you are released from custody.
Do you understand your bail conditions?’
An intense heat pulsed through Henley. She turned away from the dock but heard Fox-Carnell splutter that she understood in between her sobs.
‘Nah, she’ll never get out,’ Stanford whispered stubbornly as the judge directed Fox-Carnell to sit and he proceeded to fix a trial date. ‘Do you really think her dad is going to stump up a hundred grand?’
The judge rose quickly to his feet and left the courtroom. ‘This is so wrong. So very wrong,’ Henley said as they walked towards the court door.
‘Inspector Henley.’
‘Keep moving,’ Stanford hissed as Henley’s name was called out for a second time with insistence.
Henley stopped and turned around. She felt sick when she saw the wide and monstrous grin on Fox-Carnell’s face. Fox-Carnell spoke softly, as though she was reassuring a patient.
‘I’m coming for you next.’
Henley leaned against her car door, waiting for Stanford to complete the debrief with the prosecutor.
Watching a small crowd, made up of nearly everyone who’d sat in the public gallery, gathered in a huddle in the court car park, she sensed danger.
Stanford emerged from the court building and jogged down the steps, ignoring the shouts of the reporters.
‘You’re not going to believe it. They’re releasing her in about fifteen minutes. Her brief must have messaged her dad the second the judge spoke because, according to the police liaison officer, the bail money was paid before we’d made it down the corridor.’ Stanford shook his head in disbelief.
‘There are two entrances to this building,’ Henley said, scanning the crowd that showed no sign of breaking up. ‘They can’t release her from the front. It would make more sense to have her use the rear entrance.’
‘What do you want to do? Talk to security?’
If Stanford was right with his timings then they had minutes to convince security and the court staff to release Fox-Carnell away from public view. ‘Let’s do that,’ she said. ‘I really don’t like the look of the crowd.’
The dark clouds released drops of rain. Henley could feel the hostility from the crowd intensifying, their anger amplified and impatient murmurings growing louder. Suddenly, the murmurings transitioned to shouts as the public and the waiting reporters surged forward. Henley was pushed to the side.
‘Bollocks,’ muttered Stanford, joining Henley behind the throng of reporters and cameramen. ‘She’s already here.’
Sian Fox-Carnell stood defiantly at the top of the stairs. Her solicitor looked anxious as the crowd screamed obscenities and reporters shouted questions.
‘Murderer.’
‘Sian, do you have anything to say to the families?’
‘You bitch.’
‘How does it feel to be out of prison?’
‘Is this a miscarriage of justice?’
‘I’m going to kill you!’
A couple of court security guards exited, looking out of their depths as they surveyed the crowd. ‘We need to help them,’ Henley said.
Stanford sighed begrudgingly but pushed through the crowd with Henley close behind him.
‘Police! Move to the side now,’ Henley shouted to no avail, an elbow jabbing her side.
‘I will bloody arrest you if you don’t move right now,’ Henley shouted.
Stanford surged forward and was able to form a small space between Fox-Carnell and her attackers.
Henley cursed as the rain began to fall harder and she saw someone in the crowd throw a bottle.
Two reporters quickly crouched down as it soared over their heads and smashed on the wall behind them.
A stocky white man, wearing a brown suit, stepped out in front of Sian and drew back his fist. There was a cacophony of screams as a security guard pushed in front of Sian and the man’s fist slammed into his cheek.
The security guard stumbled back causing Sian to fall to the ground, her face scraping against the stone step, her solicitor stumbling against the railings.
‘Police,’ Henley yelled again, lowering herself and grabbing hold of Sian’s arm. Disgust pumped through her at the feel of Sian’s skin. Stanford manoeuvred to restrain the man who’d thrown the punch.
Henley pulled Sian to her feet and her solicitor picked up his case from the floor. ‘Where to?’ she shouted.
‘My car. The black Focus,’ the solicitor called back.
A cup hit Henley’s chest.
Cold milky coffee dripped down her neck and she dragged Sian through the crowd to the sound of police sirens.
‘Get your hands off me, you fucking bitch,’ Sian said aggressively.
‘Either shut up or I’ll leave you to the mob.’ Henley dragged her towards the car.
Sian ran her hand across her mouth, smearing the blood that ran from her split lip. ‘This should be your blood.’
Henley didn’t reply. She pushed Sian down onto the passenger seat and slammed the door.