Just a Simple Little Court Case: Everything Changes

By bea kendall

♥ When did "fun in the sun" get so serious? ♥

Fern Mortimer wouldn't consider herself lucky.

Firstly, a hit and run left her wheelchair-bound.

Then someone threw her overboard during a summer holiday in the Algarve.

Now she has to face him in a Portuguese court of law.

Luckily she has Raven for company, but if her old friend Nessa dares to rear her ugly head …

It's time to act her age and not her shoe size. (Gorgeous though her Louboutins are)

After all, it's Just a Simple Little Court Case.

What could possibly go wrong?

Women's Fiction with a mystery thread and a hint of psychopath

(originally published as Casualty of Court by L.S. Fellows. Same story, same author, but with just a simple little makeover)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inkfellows Publications
• Release date: Nov 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215304976

Book preview

Prologue

NOBODY HAD WANTED TO kill her before.

Granted, Fern Mortimer didn't give off the friendliest of vibes, having earned the nickname of The Ice Queen both at school and again at her last place of work. But no-one wished her dead. Or did they?

Last summer, someone did. And he very nearly succeeded.

Before she could move on, she needed to face him again. Next week. In a foreign courtroom.

§

Fern was a regular eighteen-year-old when the accident happened that changed her life. Enrolled on a Travel and Tourism course at college, her plans put even the most adventurous to shame: Machu Pichu, the Great Wall of China and Everest all featured on her list. With such ambitious goals ahead of her, the hit-and-run not only affected her mobility, it left a dent in her character that took years to fix. In fact, five years later, the cracks were still there.

Returning to work at Hann & Merrie, after qualifying as an accountant through the Open University, had meant to be a fresh start. Unfortunately, with her confidence at an all-time low, aloof became her default setting: no-one would hurt her —or ruin her future again. In her self-inflicted hermitage she lived a solitary existence.

When a colleague at the firm befriended her, Fern struggled with the attention, wary of being pitied or constantly assisted. Going back to work signalled a breakthrough in her becoming independent again, but she was more a work in progress than the finished article. As such, well-meaning co-workers saw their offers of friendship rebuffed and stopped trying. All except Nessa Sullivan, who refused to take no for an answer.

Finally worn down by Nessa’s constant generosity—a sunny greeting and frothy cappuccino every morning—Fern’s frostiness began to thaw and a cautious friendship developed. Nonetheless, when Nessa invited her to join a group of friends on a summer holiday to Portugal, Fern’s immediate instinct was to decline the offer. Exhausted by her new friend’s persistent badgering, she eventually gave in and agreed to the trip.

The holiday brought about its own problems, starting at the airport when one girl in particular argued loudly with Nessa for not mentioning Fern being in a wheelchair. Nessa had scoffed at the comments, shaming the girl into an awkward silence. The tension evaporated after the first few days away, but by then Fern had already cocooned herself in her own bubble, preferring to read alone than to go sight-seeing or swimming with them.

Until one evening at dinner, when a local restaurant manager, Jorge, took a liking to her. The attention—unexpected and flattering—surprised and overwhelmed her, chipping away at the barriers she’d erected. Sadly, her common sense fell to the wayside as well. She didn’t expect Jorge to visit her at the villa that night. Or to carry her away to his boat to watch the stars.

With her head filled with romantic notions, she hadn’t anticipated that Jorge—who was using a fake name—would turn against her once he was alone with her on his boat. She never suspected an ulterior motive on his part, or that he would ply her with alcohol before dropping her into the ocean and abandoning her.

Now she’s back in Portugal to give her own account of that night’s events, as Jorge (or Stefan Pereira, as he is really called) is on trial for the alleged assault. This is her chance to be heard, to get justice and to put the past behind her.

Although, as other forces conspire against her, it’s not just her own nerves and self-doubt she has to contend with.

Chapter 1

Portugal: Friday, April 7th 2017

Fern arrived in the Portuguese Algarve only days before the trial was due to start. A mix-up by the hotelier, however, meant the room reserved for her did not have wheelchair access, so she was transferred to another on the ground floor. On first inspection, the hotel, whilst off the tourist track, seemed clean and well-maintained. The same could not be said of her room.

‘It will be only for the one night, won’t it?’ she asked the manager through gritted teeth, after a brief tour of the room. With extra mattresses piled high against one wall and a bathroom suite still languishing in times when avocado was in fashion, it resembled a store-room for homeless, mismatched furniture.

The manager responded with an emphatic nod of the head and advised her there would be no charge for the first night, promising an upgrade would soon follow.

Well, it couldn’t get any worse, could it? She lowered her head, hiding a smirk, not wanting to offend the affable man whose down-turned lips struggled to form a smile to match his twinkling eyes.

She took a bath to freshen up. The shower cubicle was a clear no-go zone for anyone, regardless of their mobility, since limescale had eaten away at the decaying showerhead and unsightly stains of a dubious nature marked the tiled wall. Preferring to wear her clothes creased rather than unpack and have them absorb the musty room odours, she removed a clean blouse and a pair of lightweight, cotton trousers from her suitcase. Fern dressed quickly, pulling her blond hair into a neat ponytail, and slid her feet into a pair of ballerina pumps. Just the simple exercise of dressing brought a mild sweat to her brow. ‘Wonderful! No air con either,’ she mumbled. Although it was early April, the temperature was already over 25 degrees and it wasn’t yet noon. She turned on the ceiling fan. Big mistake. A flurry of dried insects and cockroach wings fluttered among the dust particles, landing on the faded, woven bedspread. She squealed and headed back to the bathroom where the strip lighting illuminated her pale skin to ghostly proportions. What am I doing here?

Her parents had wanted to accompany her, but she’d refused their request. As much as their support meant to her, it was time to show them their little princess was a capable adult now. She looked at her reflection. ‘Capable? Me? Who am I kidding?’ She reached for the bronzer, daubing a thick layer across her cheeks and forehead. Now I look like a clown, she thought, wiping it off as the phone rang.

An alternative room had been found and the manager asked if his son could come up and transfer her luggage right away.

‘Please, yes, that would be marvellous,’ she replied before hanging up and releasing a huge breath. She raised her entwined hands to the skies, ‘Thank you,’ she said.

Moments later, there was a knock on the door.

‘Come in, it’s open.’

A dark-haired young man entered. ‘Bom dia, Miss! I apologise for the mix-up.’ He glanced around the room, spotted the insect debris and frowned. ‘This place is not clean for months. We use now only as store room. I’m so sorry. My father, he... um... he is not so good since his illness,’ he said, in faltering English.

‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry. I don’t want to be a bother.’

‘Sem problemas, Miss. No problem. We fix this. We fix it now for you. Come.’

Fern rode over to the low table where her suitcase lay open, exposing all her clothing and a few items of underwear she’d rather not share with the handsome young man. She pulled the lid down, rather too hastily as a lacy bra tried to make an escape. She tucked it back inside and snapped it shut. ‘I’m ready.’

He nodded and pulled her suitcase from the table, extended the handle, tucked her cabin bag under his muscular arm and went to pick up her handbag.

‘That’s okay, I’ve got it,’ she said, shoving her toiletries inside, ‘lead the way.’

He looked at her, his brow furrowed.

‘Siguiente?’ she said, with a shrug. She knew it was Spanish, but they were similar enough languages, or so she thought.

He smiled, a row of Colgate teeth glistened. ‘That is espanhol, Miss. This is Port-u-gal.’ He enunciated the word slowly, and with each syllable an embarrassed heat spread further up her neck, settling finally on her cheeks. He grinned. ‘No problem. Siga-me!’

That’s what I meant.

The new room was a marked improvement; the air-conditioning hummed, the marble floor shone as sunlight filtered through slatted window blinds. Her first stop was the bathroom, where subtle lighting cast a warm glow over the white, porcelain suite.

Phew, nightmare averted.

Back in the main room, Fern slid from her wheelchair onto the large four-poster bed and lay back, taking in the elegant drapes, the matching walnut furniture and the heavenly scent of jasmine and citrus fruits. ‘This is more like it. Mum would love this.’ She took a couple of photos and sent them with a short message : Arrived safely. Hotel is lovely. Will Skype you later xxx. On purpose, she added a few emojis; her dad always bemoaned their use, never able to fathom out what they stood for.

That’ll keep him happy for a while.

In the distance a clock tower chimed, alerting her to the upcoming appointment with her solicitor, Matilde Pinto, in an hour. To help settle Fern’s nerves, Matilde had arranged for a tour of the courthouse that afternoon, promising to show her how and where the trial would be held. The entire procedure would be conducted through interpreters and Fern would need to wear headphones or an earpiece and use a microphone to allow for simultaneous translation. The process worried Fern, and she had bombarded the poor woman with emails outlining her many questions. What if I don’t understand something? What if my account is misinterpreted? Matilde had assured her there’d been many foreign cases before hers, and the service would be as professional as any held in her own country.

The language barrier was not Fern’s only concern. Many a night she’d woken up recently, sweating profusely after imagining the trial going awry. She envisaged her attacker, Stefan Pereira, seducing her with his baby blue eyes, rendering her speechless before a judge who would then declare her unreliable. Or, he flirted outrageously with a female judge who then threw the case out for having insubstantial evidence.

She sat up. ‘Stop it, Fern! You’re over-thinking again.’ She got back into her chair, checked her appearance in the full-length mirror, re-tied her hair back into a neat ponytail and left to meet Matilde in the hotel foyer.

§

The courthouse was only a few streets away and, given the clement weather, Matilde —a petite brunette with rosy cheeks and thin lips— suggested they go window-shopping on the way.

‘Is that allowed?’

‘Not usually, but my boss wants to make sure you’re up to speed on the proceeding, so I have more time to spend with you. It’s too nice a day to stay indoors, though. Don’t you think?’ Fern’s squeal of delight gave the solicitor her instant approval.

Apartment blocks with multi-coloured awnings gave shade to the narrow streets, and a balmy breeze offset the midday heat. Much to Fern’s delight the cobbled streets gave way to smooth walkways as they entered the commercial zone. Fern’s enthusiasm bubbled over as she delighted at the mix of tiny boutiques and shoe stores where designer names screamed at her to enter. A mouthwatering display of pastries in the bakery window left her salivating, and she had to dodge a bucket of water from the adjacent fishmonger swilling down his shop floor. She drooled at the tempting aromas coming from the stallholders selling street-food and Matilde soon learnt to steer her away from the pavement cafes where pungent coffee odours mingled with heavy tobacco fumes.

‘Mum jokes that my unexpected dip in the Med last year must have cleared out my nasal passages, giving me a better sense of smell than Dougall, my Pomeranian.’ Fern’s laughter failed to translate to her face, the incident still too raw for such whimsy.

Nonetheless, the hour-long shopping spree lifted her spirits. Until Matilde led her into an unassuming cul-de-sac on the outskirts of the smart streets of the commercial centre, at the end of which loomed the Palácio de Justiça. Its national and regional flags fluttered in the breeze, battered by the cold Atlantic winds of the winter and the strong Mediterranean summer sun. The chipped stonework appeared grimy and neglected, the central balcony spilt over the lower walls, as though top-heavy, huge cracks splintering throughout the supporting columns.

Matilde took her to one side and pointed at a smaller, side balcony. ‘It was here, about twenty years ago, that a man, accused of drowning his wife in Port wine, escaped the clutches of the court police and jumped to his death.’ Her eyes glinted as she recounted how the grim story made national headlines and tourists had flocked to see where the man met his grisly end.

Fern cringed, any talk of drowning unsettled her, ‘I guess you don’t get many cases like that nowadays.’

‘Oh no, Port wine is way too expensive for that now.’ The lawyer laughed, ‘Come, let’s go inside.’

Dark wooden panelling enclosed the cramped chambers of the Courthouse, sweat and pine disinfectant vied for dominance in the humidity. The interior fell short of Fern’s high expectations, the ordinariness coming as quite an anticlimax. Not wanting to seem rude, she hid her disappointment from Matilde who proudly pointed out where everyone would be seated. Fern’s stomach churned when she saw how close she’d be to her assailant. The hairs on her arms rose to attention when she realised Stefan would be only a few metres away from her. Close enough maybe to smell him? She shuddered at the thought. Can I do this?

The tour over, they headed for a small taberna, taking an outside table surrounded by the chatter of locals and tourists alike. Matilde gave Fern a schedule for the trial itself. ‘Don’t expect things to happen on time though. Remember, this is Portugal,’ she added, raising her hand to catch the waitress’ eye. She ordered for them both, a light lunch of grilled sardines, freshly made bread and a home-made herby, gremolade.

Fern’s concerns over the trial soon vanished as she deftly removed the bones from the sardines, spread the garlicky, herb paste over her bread and devoured every morsel, licking her fingers afterwards. ‘Sorry, Matilde, it’s too good to waste.’

‘No problem. By the way, what time does your friend arrive tomorrow?’

‘She’s due in at seven.’

‘There’s a wonderful restaurant nearby. Saturdays are always busy, but I know the Maître D. So it shouldn’t be a problem getting a table.’

‘Thanks, Matilde. That would be great. Raven loves her food.’

‘She’s not the only one.’ She smiled at Fern, who was frantically wiping her sticky fingers on a cotton napkin.

‘Guilty as charged,’ Fern said as Matilde flagged down the waitress and requested the bill.

Chapter 2

Portugal: Weeks before the trial

Stefan Pereira prided himself on his memory. He never forgot a name or a face. And he never forgot—or forgave—anyone who hurt him. But it was time to reconnect with his father. Court-provided solicitors had failed to make things better for him. If anything, he was in a worse position now than when first put on remand, the chances of losing the case greater than ever. Stefan hated to lose.

With only weeks to go before the trial, he handed over details of his father’s whereabouts to the court officials. His current predicament forced him to turn to the man he once believed had abandoned him. He knew better now, having learnt the truth many years later. Even so, those feelings of abandonment never left him, and it was with much reluctance he offered the olive branch. Stefan was no fool, his father was a wealthy business man and such financial support could go a long way in ensuring his freedom.

From his penthouse apartment, overlooking the River Tegus in Lisbon, João Pereira had jumped at the chance to finally help his estranged son. Upon hearing of Stefan’s plight, he put a team in place to defend him, without even questioning his boy’s innocence.

Oh, did I hit a nerve, Papai? A little guilt perhaps? thought Stefan when he read the note advising him of his father’s upcoming visit. Despite a deep loathing for his father, Stefan was more than prepared to play the prodigal son.

At their reunion, Stefan gave the performance of his life, lamenting how hard life had been for him and his mother. He told how, as a thirteen-year-old-boy, he’d been obliged to become the grown-up, caring for her through her depression and alcoholism.

Once, Stefan had accompanied her to hospital after she blacked out from alcohol poisoning. He soon learnt that being vulnerable was no bad thing. Nurses fussed over him, social workers listened to him. He became wise to the art of manipulation and had since become a master, with Daddy as his latest prey.

To arrive in court with a loving family at his side—even a pretend one—could only be to his benefit. He needed Nessa back in his life to do that. Labelled by the press as his girlfriend, although not the description he would give of her, she’d been charged with aiding and abetting him in the alleged assault on Fern as a direct result of their relationship, only to subsequently receive bail. With charges against her dropped, while he languished at the detention centre, he washed his hands of her. Out of spite, and complete disinterest in her, he refused her requests to visit him resulting in her return to England. Since then, he’d had time to think. Stefan knew he had to seduce her again. And he also knew it wouldn’t be hard, once he found her.

‘Papai, I can’t imagine life without her. I might as well rot in prison if she won’t support me,’ he whimpered to his father during his next visit. ‘Find her for me. Please. Tell her I love and miss her.’

‘Are you sure she’ll want to hear from you, son?’

Stefan twitched at the last word, but recovered quickly. ‘I can only hope so, papai. But I must know, and before the trial starts.’ His eyes widened and filled with tears. It was an Oscar-worthy appeal, and Daddy’s support came all too easily.

‘Then consider it done,’ Senhor Pereira said, placing his hand on his heart.

Stefan turned away and smirked as an image of Nessa meeting his attractive father came to mind. Slut! She’d been putty in his hands before and would be again, albeit vicariously.

Senhor Pereira left the building with his head down, grateful for the chance to put things right between them. A little too grateful, Stefan thought, humming to himself as he watched him leave the grounds.

§

When Nessa Sullivan received a phone call from her flatmate about a ‘drop-dead gorgeous Mr Pereira’ who’d called at their third-floor flat, she struggled to string her words together. ‘Pereira? ... You sure about the name?’

But Jane’s certainty and description of the slim, tanned man with the bluest of eyes left her in no doubt. ‘Really hypnotic eyes, Ness. Made my heart flutter, I’m telling you.’

‘It can’t be him, he’s still on remand. The lawyer said so,’ Nessa mumbled to herself, pacing around the garden of her rented Portuguese villa.

‘Ness? Nessa, you still there?’ Jane’s voice grew shrill.

‘Yeah, still here. Just a bit shocked, that’s all.’

‘He left a number for you.’

Nessa scribbled down the number on her magazine, her hands trembled at the idea of speaking to him again. She hadn’t heard from him since they’d both been arrested at the airport. That wasn’t to say she hadn’t tried, but he’d refused to see her. Each time the rebuff had broken her heart.

Ending the call with a promise to keep Jane informed, Nessa eased herself onto the garden swing-seat, swinging back and forth as the chains creaked. Had there been a change of plan? Was Stefan already free? Her palms grew sweaty, the spring sunshine was stronger than she’d expected. She struggled to get off the low swing and headed back inside the villa.

She’d been in Portugal four months, renting a villa near the detention centre. The secluded, white-washed bungalow belonged to an elderly couple from Porto who hadn’t visited in years. The garden was overgrown with bougainvillea and the pool needed a thorough cleaning. Tending to the house kept her busy, in between her daily strolls past the remand centre. Every day she left the villa and walked into the nearby village, her route always taking her past the concrete block where Stefan was held. Everyone told her she was being foolish hoping to see him again. But she still loved him, and waited for the day to come when she could tell him so.

At the kitchen table, her mobile in one hand and the magazine in the other, she released a deep, noisy breath. The voices in her head ran amok. What if he’s still angry with me? What if he really wants to be with me? She tapped in the numbers and her finger paused over the call icon. ‘No, it’s no good I can’t do it.’ She placed the phone back on the table and looked at the rack of dusty wine bottles, running her tongue over her dry lips. Tutting, she refilled the kettle and took out a teabag. A cup of chamomile tea would calm her nerves. Then she’d call him.

The call rang out. She was about to hang up when a man’s voice answered. ‘Diga-me!’

It wasn’t him, it wasn’t Stefan. She fought back the tears of disappointment. ‘Hello, Mr Pereira?’

‘Yes. I am he. Who is this?’ The husky tones belonged to a more mature man.

‘I’m Nessa Sullivan. You were looking for me in England?’ Her throat constricted. Who was this man? Why didn’t Jane mention how old he was?

‘Ah, Nessa. Lovely to hear from you. I am Stefan’s father, his papai. He misses you so much, he asked me to get in touch.’

Nessa gasped. ‘B-b-but you left him, years ago.’ There was a pause, Nessa felt panic rising in her chest. ‘Mr Pereira?’

‘Yes, yes. I’ve been a poor father. But now I can help. He begged me to find you. To make sure you were well. To see if you still thought fondly of him.’

‘Oh, yes, yes I do,’ her voice quivered as nervous laughter took over. Stefan still loved her. He missed her. It was going to be all right.

‘Where are you, Nessa? Can we meet?’

‘I’m in Portugal, I’ve