Charles stares at the man and, for a fleeting second, makes eye contact with him before the man suddenly finds interest in the newspaper he’s carrying, and looks hastily at it. Gotcha, thinks Charles.
The clerk, a large woman in her middle years with a bosom that projects almost a foot forward of her shoulders, descends the steps from her seat beneath the judge’s position and walks across the well of the court to the barristers.
‘Are you ready, gentlemen?’ she asks.
Montgomery looks across at Charles, who nods his assent. ‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Are we proceeding direct to arraignment and trial?’ she asks, directing her question more at Charles than Montgomery.
‘Yes,’ Charles replies.
‘Excellent. I’ll inform the judge and then bring him in.’
She returns to the judge’s bench and, grunting slightly with the effort, climbs the stairs leading to his chair. A door opens in the panelling behind the bench and she disappears. Two minutes later there is a loud double knock on the panelled door and the clerk reappears.
‘All rise!’ she calls.
Everyone in court stands and the shuffling and whispered conversations cease. Mr Justice Fletcher enters in his red and ermine robes and stands in front of his seat. He bows to the Bar, and all the barristers, now numbering at least fifteen, bow in return like well-trained penguins. The judge takes his seat, placing his red book on the bench before him, and all the other occupants of the courtroom sit.
‘You are in the wrong bench, Mr Holborne,’ says Fletcher, looking up briefly.
Without a word Charles collects his papers, turns, places them on the bench behind him, and walks round to join them. Attention on Charles’s belittling is suddenly switched to the dock, as a clanking of metal doors and keys heralds the arrival of the prisoner. Merlin appears up the steep stone steps flanked by guards.
‘You may put the indictment,’ Fletcher orders the clerk.
The clerk stands. ‘Are you Isaac Conway?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are charged with a single count on this indictment, namely, that on or about the fourth day of November 1963 you did murder John Huw Evans contrary to common law. How do you plead?’
‘Not guilty,’ responds Merlin in a firm voice.
The clerk turns to the judge. ‘May the prisoner sit, my Lord?’
‘Yes. Mr Holborne.’
Charles rises. ‘Yes, my Lord?’
‘I was going to ask if your client is in a fit state to proceed, having regard to his obvious injuries, but I see that I should be asking the same question of you.’
‘We are both fit to proceed, thank you, my Lord.’
Charles watches Fletcher hesitate, wondering whether to delve further into the odd coincidence of both prisoner and his assigned counsel suffering from facial injuries acquired over the weekend. In the end Fletcher decides to let the matter drop. He turns to Montgomery. ‘Is the Crown ready?’
Montgomery stands. ‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Then bring in the jury in waiting.’
Sixteen potential members of the jury file in through a different door and sit in the places reserved for them. Most of them look nervous, some looking around in surprise at the packed courtroom. Charles has a maximum of seven challenges without cause — in other words he can challenge off the jury up to seven people, even if his only reason is he doesn’t like the look of their faces, their hairstyles or the newspapers they carry.
In cases involving alleged sexual transgressions, Charles has challenged off vicars, very young women and anyone carrying The Telegraph, the last as a matter of principle. The risk is always that the remaining jurors wonder what you’re hiding or why the jury make-up is being manipulated, and so Charles has learned to do it only when he has a strong adverse intuition about a potential juror. He has also learned that the complexion of a jury is less critical when you know in advance that your client is not going to give evidence. Jurors are less likely to be prejudiced for or against an accused by reason of his marital status, accent, education or sexuality when they have no opportunity to dissect his demeanour, his manner of speech or his evidence from the witness box.
Charles scans each of the potential jurors in turn, looking for anything which suggests that any of them might be ill-disposed to Merlin or, at least, ill-disposed beyond the fact that he’s charged with murder. He also looks to see if any of them might have particular difficulty accepting that a Crown witness could be dishonest. On this occasion, however, he can see nothing obviously “wrong” with any of the jurors, and nor apparently can Montgomery, as the first twelve called are those who are sworn, and the court is left with a jury of eight men and four women.
‘Mr Montgomery, you may proceed with your opening,’ says Fletcher.
Montgomery rises, turns to the jury with a smile and introduces Charles. As he tells the jury the charge faced by Merlin, they all look sharply across at the dock and study the accused murderer dispassionately.
Merlin, looking uncomfortable in the suit, examines his hands.
Montgomery then reminds the jury that the burden of proof lies at all times on the Crown and that before they can convict, they have to be sure beyond reasonable doubt that the accused killed APO Evans, intending to kill him or to do him serious harm. Then he summarises the evidence the jury are going to hear so they can understand it in context, reminding them that his words are not, in themselves, evidence.
Finally, he reminds them that whatever impression they might have of the opinions of the barristers or indeed the judge, the factual decisions are for them alone, after receiving guidance on the law from the judge.
His opening speech lasts just over forty minutes and is a model of scrupulous, careful, fairness. Montgomery is one of the new breed of Crown prosecutors, a prosecution advocate who takes seriously his obligation not to strive officiously for a conviction, but to lay the evidence fairly before the jury. It is largely because of that scrupulous approach that juries trust him so completely and he is so successful.
He secures Fletcher’s permission to call the first witness, CPO Vermeulen. When called, a tall fleshy man of about fifty years, with fair hair, a short bristling moustache and a pale complexion walks down the aisle from the back of the court and steps into the witness box. He carries his hat tucked under his arm and he is in full uniform, blue serge and a lot of gold braid round the cuffs. To someone unfamiliar with the differences in the insignia and braid, he would be taken for a ship’s captain.
Charles studies the Waterguard carefully as he takes the oath. Vermeulen places his hat carefully on the bench beside him, takes the New Testament handed to him by the court usher, and brandishes it at head height. He disdains the offer of a card on which the oath is printed, and recites in a loud voice from memory. His demeanour proclaims that not only does he know the oath perfectly, but it is engraved on his heart.
Charles watches the direction of the man’s gaze, but he appears to be unconscious of Merlin sitting in the raised dock across the court, the barristers below him in the well of the court or the banks of newspapermen and members of the public. He hands the Bible back to the usher and stands with his hands clasped at his waist, half-turned towards the Judge, awaiting the first question.
Montgomery takes him methodically through his evidence, his questions producing, almost to the word, answers which follow the text of Vermeulen’s deposition. Charles notes that the time given by Vermeulen for Merlin’s interview remains at 07:14 hours. So, the gloves are off.
Montgomery tells Vermeulen to remain in the witness box, and sits. The Judge has not uttered a word since Vermeulen entered. Charles moves his blue counsel’s notebook to one side, picks up the Waterguard’s incriminating notebook, and stands. If Vermeulen notices his notebook or recognises it for what it is, he gives no sign of it. You are a cool customer, thinks Charles. This might get nasty.
‘With my Lord’s leave?’
‘You may proceed, Mr Holborne,’ r
eplies the Judge.
‘It is your evidence, CPO Vermeulen, that APO Evans had been keeping Mr Conway under surveillance for some time. Is that right?’
‘Yes, my Lord, that is correct,’ replies Vermeulen benignly, answering in the manner of an experienced witness, by addressing the Judge and not the barrister asking the question.
‘How long had this operation been running?’
‘Some months I would guess.’
‘You would guess?’ asks Charles. ‘Are you not the Waterguard officer in charge of Harpy Station?’
‘I am, my Lord, which is why I wouldn’t be able to remember the precise details of every operation we are undertaking.’
‘Yes, Mr Holborne,’ intervenes the Judge. ‘You can’t expect this witness to remember the details of every operation undertaken by his subordinates. How many people work at the Harpy Waterguard Station, Mr Vermeulen?’
‘Between thirty and forty over the course of a week. We have a five-week shift roster, with three shifts spanning eight in the morning to eleven at night. In addition to the three crews covering London Port and the Upper Coast each evening, there are rummage crews and others.’
‘You see, Mr Holborne? Please don’t waste this witness’s valuable time by asking pointless questions.’
‘I shall try not to, my Lord. So, to be fair to you Mr Vermeulen, you wouldn’t be able to tell us precisely how long Mr Conway had been under surveillance without looking at the records?’
‘Exactly so.’
‘What records would those be?’ asks Charles, ingenuously.
Between the two of them, Vermeulen and the Judge had allowed the Waterguard to walk directly into Charles’s first trap. Charles knows that any formal operations would have to be logged, if for no other reason than ensuring that the Austin Mini, the only vehicle at the disposal of Harpy Station, was available for the officer needing it most. Yet the prosecution evidence does not list a single document dealing with the supposed investigation that took APO Evans out that night.
For the first time Vermeulen doesn’t respond with an immediate answer. ‘Records?’
‘Yes. You have just explained that you could only inform us when surveillance began on Mr Conway by looking at the records. So I asked: what records?’
‘Well, my Lord, firstly there would be APO Evans’s shift records. Then there would be his personal logs. And if he was using the Station’s vehicle, the car would have been booked out against his name.’
‘Where are those records?’ asks Charles, mildly.
‘Erm, well … they would be back at the Harpy.’
‘Have you looked at APO Evans’s personal logs, Mr Vermeulen, to confirm that he was indeed engaged in watching Mr Conway on the night of his death?’
This time Vermeulen’s pause is even longer. He hadn’t thought to check the filing cabinet in his office to see if Evans logged his proposed visit to Conway’s barge. The awful possibility occurs to him that whoever stole his notebook may have taken the logs, too. If he says he checked the log, Defence counsel is certain to follow up and ask what it contains, and then someone may suddenly produce the log, like a rabbit out of a hat, to prove him a liar. On the other hand, if he says he hasn’t checked the log he can’t prove that Evans was indeed out watching Conway that night.
Before Vermeulen has finished weighing the advantages and disadvantages of either answer, Fletcher steps in again to help him.
‘Mr Holborne, I don’t see the relevance of this line of enquiry. Whether the unfortunate Mr Evans logged his surveillance at your client’s barge or not that night, we know he was found very close to it, and your client has admitted to killing him. What can it possibly matter what the records show?’
‘My Lord, APO Evans’s job was to investigate all the tugs, barges and lighters on the Thames for smugglers. His duties could have taken him to numerous other vessels moored all along that stretch of the Thames, from any one of which he might have fallen.’
‘Are you suggesting that this unfortunate man’s death was an accident?’
‘It’s not for me to suggest anything, my Lord. It’s the Crown’s job to prove that it was not an accident, that he was killed, and by my client. But even if the Crown proves it wasn’t an accident and somebody did kill Mr Evans, we can’t ignore the very dangerous nature of APO Evans’s work. His job involved him specifically looking for criminals at work on the river! In the course of his shift he could have stumbled across any number of unlawful enterprises with violent results. It’s for that reason —’ Charles pointedly looks at the jurors — ‘in my submission, that it’s essential for the jury to know all the investigations APO Evans was engaged in that night, and not just one.’
Several members of the jury return Charles’s glance and one or two nod slightly. They have already been told that Merlin made a confession, but they are still awake enough to want to know what else Evans might have been doing, and who else he might have encountered. Good, thinks Charles.
Charles’s answer and the response of several of the jury members is enough to stymie the judge for a second and Charles leaps into the silence to repeat his last question. ‘Have you looked at APO Evans’s work logs?’ he asks again.
Now that Vermeulen has had a few moments to think, courtesy of the time bought him by the judge’s intervention, he has made up his mind which way he wants to jump. ‘No, my Lord, I did not. But I knew from conversations with APO Evans that that’s what he was planning to do.’
‘I object to that answer,’ says Charles. ‘It’s hearsay, as this witness well knows. And in any case, what Mr Evans proposed to do before the event is not evidence of what he actually did.’
‘Of course it’s hearsay,’ says Fletcher with an evil grin, ‘but you did persist in asking the question, despite the fact that I hadn’t ruled on it. You only have yourself to blame, Mr Holborne.’ He turns to the jury. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, witnesses can only tell us what they perceived with their own senses. What someone else told them is hearsay and is not admissible. CPO Vermeulen’s last answer falls into that category.’
But the damage is done and both Charles and Fletcher know it; whether the comment is hearsay or not, the jury heard it.
‘Shall we continue, Mr Holborne?’ asks the Judge, smiling.
Charles swiftly weighs whether to leave the issue alone or try to recover the situation. He launches in. ‘You didn’t see Mr Evans before he started work, did you? His shift started at four in the afternoon and you didn’t come in until eleven at night.’
‘That’s correct, my Lord.’
‘So if Mr Evans discussed with you what his proposed movements were on the night of third and fourth November, that must have been some time earlier in the week?’
‘Yes.’
‘Your workload changes hour to hour, doesn’t it, as new ships enter the Thames and you have to check them out for smuggling.’
‘Yes, that’s true.’
‘You have jurisdiction over hundreds of ships travelling up and down the Thames every day.’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘So your daily duties have to be very flexible. Whatever the plans, you may have to shelve them to accommodate searches of new ships arriving.’
‘Yes. But that doesn’t prevent us from carrying out ongoing surveillance operations, my Lord.’
‘The area where Mr Conway’s barge was moored is a busy part of the River Thames, is it not?’
‘No more or less than any other part. It’s all busy.’
‘Did you count the number of barges moored there?’
‘No, my Lord, I did not.’
‘Over the weekend I counted fifty-five moored along that bend in the river, to the west of the golf course. Do you suggest that would be an unusual or unrepresentative number?’
‘No, my Lord, that would be about right. There are quite a lot of barges moored overnight in that area.’
‘Any one of which might have attracted APO Evans’s attention?’
&nb
sp; ‘It’s possible, I suppose.’
Charles looks down at his notes, as satisfied as he can be in the circumstances. This last passage of cross-examination hasn’t achieved much in concrete terms but Charles hopes that he’s at least watered down the link between Evans and Merlin’s barge; the dead Waterguard is likely to have been involved with dozens of vessels during his shift, and there were plenty of others in the immediate vicinity that might have been of interest to him.
Charles changes the subject. ‘Now, Mr Vermeulen: you told us that you didn’t check APO Evans’s personal log for that day. May I take it that you didn’t check the log relating to the Station vehicle?’
‘That is correct, my Lord,’ replies Vermeulen, having now regained his composure.
‘So, you don’t actually know the time at which APO Evans left the Harpy?’
‘N … no. That’s right.’
‘And you didn’t come on duty until 23:00 hours.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘So Mr Evans might have left the Harpy at any time during his shift which began at 16:00 hours. His body wasn’t discovered until sometime after five in the morning on the following day, over thirteen hours later.’
‘That’s also correct, my Lord. He’s an experienced officer, and would be expected to come and go as he thought necessary.’
‘But not normally alone?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I said, “Not normally alone”. Waterguard officers usually work in crews of three. Members of the river patrols and the specialist rummage crews never go out on their own. It’s too dangerous.’
Vermeulen looks slightly ruffled again. ‘Under normal circumstances the teams are two or three strong, my Lord.’
‘Yet APO Evans was out on his own, for up to thirteen hours, a period during which he would have had time to investigate scores of vessels and potential smugglers,’ asserts Charles.
The Lighterman: The Kray Twins are out for revenge... (Charles Holborne Legal Thrillers Book 3) Page 19
