by Tony Bassett
Anne explained how she had made casts of the bicycle tracks, which indicated the killer had used a mountain bike. Yusuf only used a road bike. Yusuf’s explanation for the use of chloroform had been verified - a rat had been caught near the caravan. She showed the photograph she had taken of the rat. Ted Moreton had admitted ordering the tracking device, which he claims vanished from the farm. The effigy of Lucas Sharp was made by Kristina - not Yusuf - and it had been Kristina’s idea, by sheer coincidence, to place a firework close to its head.
She added that we had just discovered a man had been selling dangerous fireworks round East Kent pubs - and Anne suspected the one that killed Sharp may have come from the same batch.
‘My, my! You’ve been busy, Mrs Shaw,’ said the solicitor. ‘In due course, I’d like you to give me this evidence you’ve accumulated so I can study it in detail.’
‘The plaster casts, the photographs and all the documents I’ve collected have all been stashed away in a desk at our home,’ Anne explained. ‘But since he’s been charged, I’m going to redouble my efforts. There are other inquiries to be made. I’m determined to clear our friend’s name, Mrs Carslake.’
‘I can see that!’ she said.
That weekend became one of the most dispiriting weekends I can recall. Anne spent much of the time crying. It was as if a telegram had only just arrived bringing news the Titanic had sunk or we had only just seen the headlines revealing a school in the Welsh village of Aberfan had been engulfed by a slurry tip.
In an effort to keep her mind occupied, Anne spent some of the time neatly filing in alphabetical order the documents and photographs she had acquired over the previous days.
She had begun to show how weak the evidence against Yusuf was proving. But it was gradually dawning upon her, as she had researched the various clues, none of the evidence pointed to any one individual being responsible for the murder instead.
This line of approach was not going to help free Yusuf. The only sure way of getting him released was to find the real killer, she thought. Only then would police be forced to drop their flawed case. Anne decided to take a fresh look at her list of suspects. This time she added some details beside each name:
Gemma Sharp: No alibi; eating beans on toast at home alone. Last person to see Sharp alive. Mrs Carslake says she’ll inherit Lilac Cottage on Aunt Jane’s death. Male suspect more likely.
Friend of Gemma Sharp: Alibi uncertain. Gemma has been visiting the Northgate area of the city, where she may have a secret lover. More information required.
Neil Bennett: Alibi: Couchman and Moreton vouch for him being at the quiz at Pilgrim’s Rest.
Gordon Knight: Alibi: lighting fireworks in the Merry Friar pub garden.
She decided to add some fresh names to her list:
Ted Moreton: Alibi: Couchman vouches for him being at the quiz at Pilgrim’s Rest.
Rosie Bennett: Alibi: Uncertain. Present at the scene of the fire at half-past seven; no evidence of her whereabouts at seven pm; claims to have received a phone call and visited school; claims not yet verified. Male suspect more likely.
Ian McDonald: Rosie’s ex-boyfriend. Alibi: Couchman and Moreton vouch for him being at the quiz at Pilgrim’s Rest.
Random killer: Possibility of Lucas Sharp being killed by burglar he disturbed.
27
It was a relief when the sun streamed through our bedroom window on Monday morning, giving hope the bright new day would bring us better fortune.
We feared our friend was about to be moved from his police station cell to a prison cell. But I tried to remain upbeat as I washed and dressed.
The national newspapers were describing the full horror of Lucas Sharp’s murder for the first time. Previously, the police had been treating it as a suspicious death in a fire.
‘Murder by firework’ ran the banner headline in one red-top tabloid. The front page of a rival paper screamed: ‘Murder by mortar,’ while a third paper carried a news story inside headlined simply: ‘Shell shock.’ Kent and Essex Serious Crime Directorate received plaudits for the efficient way they had acted in the case and for arresting a suspect so swiftly.
Anne and I took a bus to the court because of the difficulty in finding a parking space in the city centre. Although the building does not open until eight-thirty am, we arrived half an hour early in order to be sure of securing seats in the public gallery.
It was just as well we did. The court may be an unattractive grey concrete building on a busy main road which could easily be mistaken for a disused supermarket. But dozens of people were falling over one another to get inside on that cold Monday morning in the middle of November.
We were among the first to pass through the entrance of the nondescript two-storey building, built in the 1970s on the site of an old brewery. After being searched, we found a seat at the back of the courtroom and waited for proceedings to begin.
A large crowd of people gathered outside in the hope of catching a glimpse of the man accused of the Lilac Cottage murder. Several other bystanders sitting beside us in the public gallery were there for a similar reason.
But the British courts work in a mysterious way. The magistrates insisted on following the schedule of cases that had been set out by the listings clerk.
We all had to sit through the case of a man who stole two sandwiches worth four pounds seventy pence from a corner shop. He was eventually ordered to carry out community service. We also had to watch as a motorist was banned from the roads for two years for drink-driving. Then came a succession of cases which were all adjourned.
During a break in proceedings when the lawyers had all left the courtroom, I noticed Prunella Ball waving to us from the press bench.
‘You go and have a word with her,’ said Anne. ‘I don’t feel up to it.’
I slipped out of the public gallery, entered the courtroom below and strolled over to the press bench, trying not to look too conspicuous.
‘Hi, Prunella! You OK?’
‘Yes, fine, Bob. I didn’t realise you’d hired Janice Carslake to defend your friend. You know she’s a well-known character in the courts, don’t you? She’s known to the guys in Kent CID as “Jangling Janice.” DI Woods can’t stand her. He always says : “We don’t want that bloody Carslake woman here, jangling her bloody necklace and bracelets and cavorting round the court.”’
‘I can only think that must be sour grapes because she’s found flaws in some of his cases,’ I replied.
‘Oh, there’s no doubt about that,’ Prunella agreed.
Finally, at around midday, Yusuf was called into the dock. He looked different - as though he had lost some weight. He was wearing a white T-shirt and brown trousers which we had not seen him in before. He glanced round at us and smiled. We tried to smile back. But this was difficult as it was upsetting to see him there, flanked on either side by a custody officer.
‘Are you Yusuf Osman?’ asked the court clerk, who was sitting just in front of the three magistrates. Janice Carslake was seated behind a long wooden desk a few feet in front of the dock. She turned and indicated with gestures he should stand up and confirm his name.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Is your date of birth August the sixth 1993?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s your nationality?’
‘I’m from Africa.’
‘I have a note you’re Eritrean. Is your address: The Caravan Park, Finch & Davies, Ashford Road, Sissenden?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yusuf Osman, you’re charged with the offence of murder. The particulars of the offence are, on November the fifth, 2015 in Chivingden in the county of Kent, you did murder Lucas Arnold Sharp, contrary to common law. How d’you plead?’
Mrs Carslake was by now leaning over the dock, whispering to Yusuf. A few minutes passed.
‘Come now, Mrs Carslake,’ said the chairman of the bench, Michael Humphreys. ‘This is taking a lot of unnecessary time. Does your client understand the charge?’
‘Yes, he does, Your Worship,’ she said.
‘Then how does he plead?’ asked Mr Humphreys, clearly becoming agitated.
Mrs Carslake stretched over so she could whisper in Yusuf’s right ear.
‘Not guilty!’ he said loudly.
Mr Humphreys was a stern, red-faced man with grey hair and a beard who, for some reason, I guessed might be a farmer. He nodded towards each of his fellow JPs.
The court clerk, after ordering Yusuf to sit down, pointed out, in view of the seriousness of the charge, the case would be transferred to the crown court. Then a lawyer from the Crown Prosecution Service indicated police were opposing bail. Mrs Carslake confirmed she would not be applying for bail in any case.
The clerk’s voice boomed out again across the courtroom.
‘Mr Osman, please stand!’ he said. ‘Their worships are transferring your case to the crown court. D’you understand? Take the prisoner away.’ Our friend glanced over his shoulder towards us. Then he disappeared from view into the bowels of the court.
Anne cried. I put my arm round her, trying to console her. I managed to say: ‘We must redouble our efforts,’ although I must admit I found it hard to articulate the words. It was an emotional moment.
Outside the courtroom, a few remaining defendants waited with their friends or relatives, eager to learn what fate might befall them. As we emerged from the building into the cold, fresh air, we were surprised to find a small throng of spectators had gathered.
They were waiting for Yusuf. We had learnt from Mrs Carslake he was likely to be held on remand at one of three prisons on the Isle of Sheppey. It appeared the dozens of onlookers wanted to watch the murder suspect being driven away.
We overheard murmurs. The Kentish man had been killed by a firework attached to his head. Where was the monster who had done this?
An hour later, Yusuf was brought out through a side door with a blanket over his upper body and bundled into the back of a prison van. At first, only a few eagle-eyed press photographers had noticed. They busily snapped away. Then the horde surged round the van. There were shouts of ‘Murderer!’ and ‘Foreign scum!’
Three zealous bystanders began thumping upon the side of the van as five police officers - completely overwhelmed by the numbers -- tried to forge a way through the crowd for the driver.
I learned later among those who rushed forward were Rosie Bennett; a frequent companion of hers, Shauna McCarthy; and Chad Draxfield, a close friend of the Bennett family who was staying temporarily at Luke Bennett’s house.
Police pulled them away from the van. The driver headed off towards Monastery Street with Rosie, Shauna and Chad in hot pursuit, along with four national press photographers.
Suddenly Chad, who was slim, six feet two inches tall, covered in tattoos and wearing a grey shirt and black slacks, hurled a stone which struck the back of the van. A portly policeman, who witnessed the incident and took exception to this conduct, grabbed him by the arm.
I was too far away to hear exactly what was said, but I could see he was giving the stone-slinger a stern reprimand.
The near-riotous scenes only added to Anne’s distress. We drove home with her vowing to find the real perpetrator of the crime while I began thinking of ways in which I could raise her from the state of melancholy into which, I feared, she was rapidly sinking.
However, Anne had greater strength than I had realised. Within a few hours, she had partly recovered from the depths of depression. She took on a determined attitude. She was not going to let an innocent man suffer injustice. In the black tunnel of despair there sometimes flickers a firefly of hope - and, in this case, it emerged in the form of the mobile phone number of a man who appeared to have a ready supply of illegal fireworks.
She suddenly remembered I had given her this phone number. She hatched a plan. She would phone it, pretending she had been tasked with arranging a fireworks display to celebrate a friend’s birthday. Someone from the Red Lion at Isley Green had passed on the number, she would claim. Did he still have some rockets and mortars at reasonable prices?
She recorded the call. It was answered by the deep voice of a man with a Kentish accent. Yes, he had some fireworks left. ‘They’re mainly Category Three and I’ve got a couple which are Category Four,’ he said. ‘They’re meant for displays. You need to have gone on a course to use the more powerful Category Four ones.’
‘That’s all right. I’ve a friend who’s been on a course and used to do displays for the council,’ said Anne.
‘All right. It’s going to cost you a bit, but I’ve got some good stuff. You’ll definitely want to buy from me. I won’t give my address for obvious reasons. We can meet outside a pub, if you like. How about the City Tavern in Northgate? What time can you get there?’
Anne said: ‘I’m free now. I can see you at five o’clock.’
‘Good. Don’t forget to bring your money.’
‘What name shall I ask for?’
‘You can call me Don.’
Two hours passed. The pedestrianised streets were still bustling with shoppers. Anne’s bus took thirty-five minutes to reach the city centre. She just had time to walk across the city for the meeting.
The City Tavern was a popular student pub located at the junction of two streets. The hubbub of conversation could be heard over the sound of pop music.
Anne told me later she carefully chose to stand in a shop doorway twenty yards away. From there she had a clear view of the pub entrance. She waited for several minutes.
Eventually, just as the historic cathedral clock chimed five, a muscular man wearing a long black coat appeared on the pavement outside the tavern. He was holding a large, black plastic sack full of bulging items. Anne had been distracted for a moment by some passers-by. She did not notice the direction from which he had come. Perhaps he had been inside the pub, she told me.
The man appeared to be becoming impatient. He kept looking at his watch. After more than five minutes, he must have decided the lady on the phone had changed her mind.
He walked slowly up the street in the direction of the ring road. Anne walked to the corner. She watched his every step.
After about a hundred yards, he crossed the street and continued walking. Anne followed him at a distance, trying not to look conspicuous in her fawn coat. She told me she could not recall a time when she had ever felt so nervous. She was worried at any moment he might turn round and spot her. She wished she had asked me to accompany her - just in case the man realised she was stalking him and became aggressive.
Finally, the man reached a block of flats, she told me. There was a short woman with long, brown hair standing outside wearing a dark-blue jacket. He spoke to her. He kissed her tenderly on the left cheek. He drew out some keys. He opened the door. Anne caught a glimpse of the woman’s face. It was Gemma Sharp.
28
A week after Yusuf had been taken to Elmley Prison on the Isle of Sheppey as a remand prisoner, I was woken at eight o’clock by a knock on the door. I peered through the curtains into the garden below. It was the postman.
I at once assumed he had a package or parcel he had been unable to post through the letterbox. Slipping into a dressing gown, I came downstairs and answered the door.
‘I’m Tom, your postman,’ said the young man in Royal Mail uniform. ‘You’ve got a letter from Yusuf.’
I thought this servant of the Royal Mail was being a little over-enthusiastic.
I said: ‘Why didn’t you push it through the letterbox?’
He replied: ‘Well, I know he’s a guest of Her Majesty at present and thought you’d want to receive his letter straight away.’
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‘How d’you know Yusuf?’
‘I used to see him working in your garden in August and September. We always passed the time of day. Then, when he was put in charge of the post at Finch & Davies, I used to see him every day there. I was shocked when I heard he had been arrested. No one thinks he did it.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Well, thank you for the letter. I’ll let you know what he says later in the week.’
‘If you would,’ he added. ‘Everyone at the farm is anxious for news. Please tell him Tom the postman sends his best wishes.’ With that, I closed the door.
‘He’s got some cheek!’ I thought. ‘Perhaps he wants to update his Twitter account and be first with news of Yusuf’s prison life.’
Anne had overheard the conversation. She came downstairs in her nightgown. She noticed that the letter, which was addressed to her, bore an Isle of Sheppey postmark.
She had visited the modern prison, built in 1992, a few days after Yusuf arrived there. She discovered from warders the jail had been designed for nine hundred and eighty-five men. Yet it housed more than one thousand two hundred. She had spent ten minutes talking to him across a table in a crowded room, but it seems he had been reluctant at that time to upset her by revealing the poor conditions in which he was being kept. He had spent most of the visit asking her about Fiesta and events at the farm.
She opened the letter eagerly and then read it out loud. This is what it said. I have tidied up the English where necessary:
‘Dear Anne and Bob, I hope I’m finding both of you well. Life here continues to be the nightmare. The only happy moment since I arrived was your visit on Thursday, Anne.
‘I’m still sharing a small cell with an English guy called Lee. The cell is built for one person. There’s two beds and not much room. I‘ve not had much sleep. The food is horrible. The prisoners say we’re on the Elmley Diet. I think this is the English humour. I’m hoping to be at Maths classes. The prison chaplain spoke to me. He said this would be good idea.
