Do’ list when I was in the nick. I wanted to sit somewhere quiet and dark and just try to deal with Andy’s death, Mariana’s arrest and my own inability to understand either. But there wasn’t going to be any chance of that. Like it or not, the next few hours were going to be spent running errands.
First stop was the office where Samira’s boss, Mr Iqbal, was based.
‘I take it your wife will not be applying for legal aid, Mr Crookham,’ said Iqbal, opening our conversation. He was a small, unprepossessing figure, just running to fat, with a few strands of hair stuck to his balding scalp.
‘No, just send the bills to me,’ I said, doing my best to sound like an important, revenue-generating client who needed to be taken seriously. ‘And whatever it takes, whatever it costs, I don’t care. I want her to get the best defence. I don’t give a toss what the police say, I can’t believe she could have done this … Not Mariana … It’s not possible …’
Iqbal perched his chin upon steepled fingers, examined me for a second and then said, ‘I understand, Mr Crookham. Your feelings are very natural at a time like this. You have my deepest sympathy and condolences for the loss of your brother. And I am sure that we will consider every possible option when we enter a plea on your wife’s behalf.’
That was not what I had wanted, or expected, to hear.
‘Why do you need to consider “every possible option”? Just say she’s not guilty. Job done.’
Iqbal shrugged. ‘I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Mr Crookham. I am sure that the police have already told you that the weight of evidence against your wife is really quite overwhelming. When this is coupled with the absence of evidence suggesting the involvement of anyone else …’ He sighed: ‘Well, let us just say that this may not be a case in which the fundamental facts of the matter are in dispute.’
‘So you’re just giving up?’
He frowned. ‘Not at all, not at all! There are many other options we can pursue. As you know, your wife has been in a very disturbed condition since you found her. We await proper psychiatric evaluation, but there may well be mitigating circumstances that might lessen the severity of any sentence that she receives.’
‘I can’t believe you’re talking about sentences already,’ I said.
Another shrug: ‘One must be realistic.’
‘Well, can you at least tell me how Mariana is and when I will be able to see her? Has she asked after me at all? Maybe she can tell you what really happened in there … she could describe someone, perhaps …’
‘Ah, so many questions …’ said Iqbal, with a sigh.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, no, not at all, Mr Crookham. Your anxiety is perfectly understandable. I will therefore try to deal with your questions one by one. You asked first about your wife’s current state. I have to tell you that she is now a little more responsive. She is still very delicate, very confused, but she can answer a few simple questions …’
‘What has she said?’
Iqbal spread his hands in supplication: ‘Please, Mr Crookham, I am her lawyer. I am bound by client confidentiality.’
It felt as though I was constantly being stonewalled: first Samira Khan telling me why I could not see Mariana, now Iqbal refusing to tell me what, if anything, she had said.
‘But I’m her husband. I’m paying her bills,’ I said, my frustration rising.
‘Oh yes, Mr Crookham, that is true, but neither of those facts makes any difference to my moral and professional duty to my client. Besides which, you are a potential witness. It is a matter of some debate as to whether I should be talking to you at all, let alone describing your wife’s condition. It would not do any of us any good if there were any suggestion that we had in any way prejudiced the possibility of a fair trial.’
I did my best to accept the position he was in. It wasn’t easy: ‘Surely you can tell me if she’s talked about me,
First stop was the office where Samira’s boss, Mr Iqbal, was based.
‘I take it your wife will not be applying for legal aid, Mr Crookham,’ said Iqbal, opening our conversation. He was a small, unprepossessing figure, just running to fat, with a few strands of hair stuck to his balding scalp.
‘No, just send the bills to me,’ I said, doing my best to sound like an important, revenue-generating client who needed to be taken seriously. ‘And whatever it takes, whatever it costs, I don’t care. I want her to get the best defence. I don’t give a toss what the police say, I can’t believe she could have done this … Not Mariana … It’s not possible …’
Iqbal perched his chin upon steepled fingers, examined me for a second and then said, ‘I understand, Mr Crookham. Your feelings are very natural at a time like this. You have my deepest sympathy and condolences for the loss of your brother. And I am sure that we will consider every possible option when we enter a plea on your wife’s behalf.’
That was not what I had wanted, or expected, to hear.
‘Why do you need to consider “every possible option”? Just say she’s not guilty. Job done.’
Iqbal shrugged. ‘I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Mr Crookham. I am sure that the police have already told you that the weight of evidence against your wife is really quite overwhelming. When this is coupled with the absence of evidence suggesting the involvement of anyone else …’ He sighed: ‘Well, let us just say that this may not be a case in which the fundamental facts of the matter are in dispute.’
‘So you’re just giving up?’
He frowned. ‘Not at all, not at all! There are many other options we can pursue. As you know, your wife has been in a very disturbed condition since you found her. We await proper psychiatric evaluation, but there may well be mitigating circumstances that might lessen the severity of any sentence that she receives.’
‘I can’t believe you’re talking about sentences already,’ I said.
Another shrug: ‘One must be realistic.’
‘Well, can you at least tell me how Mariana is and when I will be able to see her? Has she asked after me at all? Maybe she can tell you what really happened in there … she could describe someone, perhaps …’
‘Ah, so many questions …’ said Iqbal, with a sigh.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No, no, not at all, Mr Crookham. Your anxiety is perfectly understandable. I will therefore try to deal with your questions one by one. You asked first about your wife’s current state. I have to tell you that she is now a little more responsive. She is still very delicate, very confused, but she can answer a few simple questions …’
‘What has she said?’
Iqbal spread his hands in supplication: ‘Please, Mr Crookham, I am her lawyer. I am bound by client confidentiality.’
It felt as though I was constantly being stonewalled: first Samira Khan telling me why I could not see Mariana, now Iqbal refusing to tell me what, if anything, she had said.
‘But I’m her husband. I’m paying her bills,’ I said, my frustration rising.
‘Oh yes, Mr Crookham, that is true, but neither of those facts makes any difference to my moral and professional duty to my client. Besides which, you are a potential witness. It is a matter of some debate as to whether I should be talking to you at all, let alone describing your wife’s condition. It would not do any of us any good if there were any suggestion that we had in any way prejudiced the possibility of a fair trial.’
I did my best to accept the position he was in. It wasn’t easy: ‘Surely you can tell me if she’s talked about me,
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