by Val McDermid
After lunch, he set out to do what damage he could to the prosecution case. He made no pretence at befriending Ruth. His face stern, he went straight to the heart of the case. ‘You’ve been married before, Mrs Hawkin?’ The prosecution might choose to obscure her relationship to the man in the dock, but he would use it against her like a weapon. Ruth frowned. ‘I don’t answer to Mrs Hawkin any more,’ she said coldly, but without defiance.
Highsmith’s eyebrows rose and he angled his head towards the jury. ‘But that is your legal name, is it not? You are the wife of Philip Hawkin, are you not?’
‘To my shame, I am,’ Ruth replied. ‘But I choose not to be reminded of the fact and I’d thank you to show me the courtesy of calling me Mrs Carter.’
Highsmith nodded. ‘Thank you for making it so clear precisely where you stand, Mrs Carter,’ he said. ‘Now perhaps you would be so good as to answer my question? You have been married before you vowed to love, honour and obey Mr Hawkin?’
‘I was widowed when Alison was six.’
‘So you’ll know what I mean when I speak of a full married life?’ Ruth gave him a mutinous glare.
‘I’m not stupid. And I did grow up on a farm.’
‘Answer the question, please.’ His voice was like a blade.
‘Yes, I know what you mean.’
‘And did you enjoy a full married life with your first husband?’
‘I did.’
‘Then you married Philip Hawkin. And you enjoyed a full married life with Mr Hawkin?’
Ruth looked him straight in the face, a dark flush on her cheeks. ‘He was up to it, but not as often as I was used to,’ she said, then gave a tiny shudder of distaste.
‘So you noticed nothing abnormal in your husband’s appetites?’
‘Like I said, he wasn’t that interested, not compared to my first husband.’
‘Who was of course much younger than Mr Hawkin. Now, did you ever see your husband in a compromising position with Alison?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
He was impressed. She was holding her own far better than he’d expected. Most women of her class were so intimidated by his handsome, forbidding presence that they crumbled and gave him what he wanted to hear almost immediately. He shook his head and gave her a patronizing smile.
‘Of course you do, Mrs Carter. Did he visit her alone in her bedroom late at night?’
‘Not that I ever knew about.’
‘Did he enter the bathroom when she was in there?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Did he even sit with her on his knee?’
‘No, she was too big for that.’
‘In short, Mrs Carter, you never saw or heard anything that made you in the least suspicious of your husband’s relationship with your daughter.’ It was so definitely a statement rather than a question that Ruth didn’t even appear to consider answering its implications. Highsmith glanced down at his papers. He looked up and cocked his head to one side. ‘Now, the gun. You told the court your husband had a gun which he kept in a box in his study. Did you tell anyone else about this gun? Any of your family, your friends?’
‘He said I was to keep my mouth shut about it. So I did.’
‘So we only have your word for it that the gun was ever there in the first place.’ Ruth opened her mouth to speak, but he steamrollered on.
‘And of course, it was you who handed the gun over to the police, so you had plenty of opportunity to memorize any distinctive features on this otherwise unidentifiable gun. So we only have your word for it that there is any connection between your husband and the gun, don’t we?’
‘I didn’t rape my daughter, mister. And I didn’t shoot her either,’ Ruth ground out. ‘So I’ve no call to lie.’
Highsmith paused. He allowed his face to slip from grimness to open sympathy. ‘But you want someone to blame, don’t you, Mrs Carter? More than anything, you want to believe you know what happened to your daughter, and you want someone to blame. That’s why you’re so willing to go along with the case the police have concocted. You want your heart put at rest. You want someone to blame.’
Stanley was on his feet, objecting. But it was too late. Highsmith had muttered, ‘No further questions,’ and sat down. The damage was done. Sampson frowned down at Highsmith. ‘Mr Highsmith, I will not have counsel using the examination of witnesses as an excuse for making speeches. You will have your chance to express your views to the jury. Kindly confine yourself to that. Now, Mr Stanley, am I correct in thinking that your next witness is the chief police witness, Detective Inspector Bennett?’
‘Yes, Your Lordship.’
‘I think it would be as well to begin with his evidence tomorrow morning. This court has civil matters before it and I am minded to deal with those today.’
‘As Your Lordship pleases,’ Stanley said, ducking his head in a bow. On the press benches, Don Smart drew a line across the page with a flourish. Plenty of good stuff for the headlines there. And tomorrow, he could watch George Bennett put the noose round Hawkin’s disgusting neck. The door had barely closed behind the judge when he was on his feet and heading for the nearest phone.
Clough still hadn’t appeared by the end of the afternoon, though a court usher had brought a phone message from Sergeant Lucas. ‘Clough has been held up,’ it read. ‘He says he will see you tomorrow in Derby before the court convenes.’ George wondered fleetingly what the detective sergeant was up to. Probably something to do with another case, he thought. In the weeks since the arrest of Philip Hawkin, both men had had plenty of work to occupy them during any time they had to spare from the construction of the Alison Carter case.
George emerged from the anteroom when he heard the murmuring of noise on the landing outside that told him the court had risen for the day. He caught a glimpse of Ruth Carter surrounded by friends and relatives, but made a point of not catching anyone’s eye. Now the case had started, it was important that none of the witnesses conferred before they actually appeared to give their evidence. Instead, George moved against the flow of bodies and made his way into the courtroom.
Highsmith and his junior had already left, but Stanley and Pritchard were still sitting at their table, heads together, deep in discussion. ‘How was it?’ George asked, helping himself to the chair next to Pritchard.
‘Desmond was marvellous,’ Pritchard said enthusiastically. ‘Tremendous opening speech. The jury were transfixed. Highsmith wouldn’t even speak to us at lunchtime. You’d have been so impressed, George.’
‘Well done,’ George said. ‘How was Mrs Carter?’
The two barristers exchanged glances. ‘A bit emotional,’ Pritchard said. ‘She broke down a couple of times in the box.’ He gathered together the rest of his papers and tucked them into a folder. ‘It works to our advantage, of course,’ Stanley interjected. ‘Nevertheless, I take no pleasure in making a lady cry.’
‘She’s been through the mill,’ George said. ‘I can’t begin to imagine how it feels to know you’ve married a man who’s raped and killed your child.’
Pritchard nodded. ‘She’s bearing up well in the circumstances. She’s a good witness. She doesn’t back down, and her very stubbornness makes Highsmith look like a bully, which the jury don’t like at all.’
‘What defence is he going to run? Do you know?’ George asked, standing up to let Pritchard and Stanley pick up their briefs and leave the courtroom for the robing room.
‘Hard to imagine what he could credibly run, unless he tries to convince the jury that the police have framed his client.’ Stanley nodded. ‘And that would be a bad mistake, I think. The British jury, like the British public, resents attacks on the police.’ He smiled. ‘They think of policemen as they do of Labradors—noble, loyal, good with children, man’s protector and friend. In spite of evidence to the contrary, they refuse to admit policemen can be corrupt, sly or untruthful because to do so would be to admit we are on the very verge of anarchy. So by attacking you, High
smith would be employing a strategy fraught with risk.’
‘Needs must when the devil drives,’ Pritchard commented drily. ‘He’ll be struggling with anything else. We might only have circumstantial evidence, but there’s so much of it Highsmith needs a coherent counter-theory to undermine it. It won’t be enough merely to offer alternative explanations for each and every piece of evidence.’
George was reassured by the calm competence of the two lawyers. ‘I hope you’re right.’
‘We’ll see you in the witness box tomorrow,’ Pritchard said. ‘Go home to that lovely wife of yours and get a good night’s sleep, George.’ He watched them exit through a side door, then slowly walked from the empty courtroom. The last thing he felt like was driving back through the lush green Derbyshire evening. He wished he could find a quiet pub and get drunk somewhere. But he had a wife nearly seven months pregnant at home, and she needed to see his strength, not his weakness. With a sigh, George dug his car keys out of his pocket and walked back into the world.
31
The Trial 2
George entered the witness room on the second day of Philip Hawkin’s trial to find Tommy Clough sprawled in a chair, a bottle of lemonade by his feet, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and the Daily News spread across his lap. He greeted his boss with a nod and waved the paper at him.
‘Ruth Carter seems to have made a good impression with the jackals. I reckoned they’d turn her into the scapegoat. You know the kind of thing—The Woman Who Married a Monster,’ Clough intoned with mock drama.
‘I’m surprised they let her off the hook so lightly,’ George admitted. ‘I was expecting them to say she must have known what Hawkin was like, what he was doing to Alison. Like you, I honestly thought they’d blame her. But I suppose they saw for themselves the state she’s in. That’s not a woman who’s turned a blind eye or connived at what that bastard did to her daughter.’
‘I had breakfast with Pritchard at his fancy hotel,’ Clough confided. ‘He said she couldn’t have been a better witness if they’d been coaching her for months. You’ve got a hard act to follow, George.’
‘Breakfast with the barrister, Tommy? You’re mixing with the toffs. By the way, where did you get to yesterday?’
Clough straightened up in his chair, folding his newspaper shut and tossing it to the floor. ‘Thought you’d never ask. I got a phone call late on Sunday night. Do you remember Sergeant Stillman?’
‘In St Albans?’ George was suddenly alert, leaning forward like a dog straining at a leash.
‘The same. He rang to tell me Mr and Mrs Wells were back from Australia. Back two hours, to be precise. So I jumped in the car and drove straight down there. Eight o’clock yesterday morning I was knocking on their front door. They weren’t best pleased to see me, but they obviously knew what I’d come for.’
George nodded grimly and threw himself into a chair. ‘Hawkin’s mother.’
‘Aye. Like we thought, she must have had a forwarding address after all. Any road, I acted the innocent. I explained that the description of the Webley he’d had stolen corresponded with a gun used in the commission of a crime up in Derbyshire. I laid it on with a trowel that we were impressed by the accuracy of his description and how it had made the match very likely.’
George smiled. He could imagine Clough’s subtle maneuvering of Mr Wells into a corner he could only get out of with a tunnelling crew. ‘So of course, when you showed him the photographs, he couldn’t do anything else except identify his gun?’
Clough grinned. ‘Got it in one. Anyway, I had to come clean then about Hawkin and the trial this week. Wells got into a right old state then. He couldn’t testily against a friend and neighbour, we must have made a mistake, blah, blah, blah.’
George lit a cigarette. ‘So what did you do?’
‘I’d been up half the night. I wasn’t in the mood. I arrested him for obstruction.’
George looked appalled. ‘You arrested him?’
‘Aye, I did. He was really annoying me,’ Clough said self-righteously. ‘Any road, before I could get the caution finished, he’d rolled over. Agreed to testify, agreed to come back to Derby with me then and there. So we both agreed to forget I’d arrested him. Then he gave his wife a brandy, since she looked like she was going to pass out, got his coat and hat and came back with me like a lamb.’
George shook his head in a mixture of outrage and admiration. ‘One day, Tommy, one day…So where is he now?’
‘In a very comfortable room at the Lamb and Flag. I took a full statement off him yesterday when we got back here, and Mr Stanley wants to put him on first thing this morning.’ Clough grinned.
‘Ahead of me?’ George asked.
‘Stanley doesn’t want to hang about. He doesn’t want to run the risk of Mrs Wells getting hold of Hawkin’s mother and warning her that Wells is going to testify. He wants to try to catch Highsmith on the hop if he can.’
‘But Mrs Hawkin’s up here for the trial.’
‘True. But I’d bet a tanner to a gold clock Mrs Wells will know who to ask to find out where Mrs Hawkin’s staying.’
‘Highsmith will object to a witness who wasn’t included in the committal.’
‘I know. But Stanley says the judge’U allow it, with Wells having been out of the country at the time.’ Clough got to his feet and dusted off the cigarette ash that had drifted down his grey flannel suit. He straightened his tie and winked at George. ‘So I better go into court and see how he does.’
Richard Wells, retired civil servant, had already taken the oath when Clough slipped in to the back of the courtroom. He didn’t look the type to have had the sort of war that would leave him with a Webley as a souvenir, the sergeant thought. If ever there was a man made for the Army Pay Corps, it was Richard Wells. Grey suit, grey hair, grey tie. Even his moustache looked timid and boring against the startling ruddiness of skin that had not taken kindly to strong Australian sun. Hawkin was leaning forward intently in the dock, two vertical lines visible between his eyebrows. Clough found a childish pleasure in his obvious concern. Stanley took Wells through the formalities, then said conversationally, ‘Is there anyone in this courtroom you have seen before?’ Wells nodded towards the dock. ‘Philip Hawkin.’
‘How do you know Mr Hawkin?’
‘His mother is a neighbour of ours.’
‘Was he familiar with your house?’
‘He used to accompany his mother to our house for bridge evenings before he moved away.’
Wells’s eyes kept flickering away from the QC to the prisoner. He was clearly uncomfortable with his role, in spite of Stanley’s easy manner.
‘You used to own a Webley.38 revolver, did you not?’
‘I did.’
‘Did you ever show that gun to Mr Hawkin?’
Clough followed Wells’s anguished stare up to the public gallery where it rested on Hawkin’s elderly mother. Wells took a deep breath and mumbled, ‘I may have done.’
‘Think carefully, Mr Wells.’ Stanley’s voice was gentle. ‘Did you or did you not show the Webley to Mr Hawkin?’
Wells swallowed hard. ‘I did.’
‘Where did you keep the gun?’
Wells relaxed visibly, his shoulders dropping a little from their defensive position. ‘In a locked drawer in the bureau in the lounge.’
‘And was that where you took it from when you showed it to Mr Hawkin?’
‘It would have been.’ Each word was dragged out slowly.
‘So Mr Hawkin knew where the gun was kept?’
Wells looked down. ‘I suppose so,’ he mumbled.
The judge leaned forward. ‘You must speak clearly, Mr Wells. The jury must be able to hear your answers.’
Stanley smiled. ‘I am obliged, my lord. Now, Mr Wells, would you tell us what happened to the gun?’
Wells pressed his lips hard together for a moment then answered in a small, tight voice. ‘It was stolen. In a burglary. Just over two years ago. We were on holida
y.’
‘Not a pleasant homecoming for you and your wife. Did you lose much?’
Stanley asked, all sympathy.
Wells shook his head. ‘A silver carriage clock. A gold watch and the gun. They didn’t go any further than the lounge. The gold watch was in the drawer with the gun.’
‘You gave a very good description of the gun to the police. Can you remember what it was that made it distinctive, apart from the serial number?’ Wells cleared his throat and smoothed his moustache. His eyes slid round to Hawkin, whose frown had deepened. ‘There was a chip out of the bottom corner of the grip,’ he said, his words tumbling over each other. Stanley turned to the assistant clerk of the court. ‘Would you be so kind as to show Mr Wells exhibit fourteen?’
The clerk picked up the Webley from the exhibits table and carried it across the courtroom to Wells. He turned the gun over so the witness had the opportunity to see both sides of the criss-crossed butt. ‘Take your time,’ Stanley said softly.
Wells looked up at the public gallery again. Clough saw Mrs Hawkin’s face crumple as the weight of realization struck. ‘It’s my gun,’ he said, his voice empty and flat.
‘You’re certain of that?’
Wells sighed. ‘Yes.’
Stanley smiled. ‘Thank you for coming here today, Mr Wells. Now, if you would stay where you are, my learned friend Mr Highsmith may have some questions for you.’
This would be interesting, Clough thought. There was almost nothing Highsmith could ask that wouldn’t dig a deeper hole for his client. Hawkin, who had been scribbling desperately during the last few exchanges, passed a note to his solicitor, who gave it a swift glance then thrust it at Highsmith’s junior, who placed it in front of Highsmith himself. The barrister was on his feet now, the sharp lines of his face broken up in a smile. He looked briefly at the note then began to question Wells even more genially than Stanley had done. ‘When your house was burgled, you were on holiday, is that right?’
