by Graham Ison
I returned from lunching at my favourite Italian restaurant to be greeted by a jubilant Colin Wilberforce. And it’s not often that Wilberforce becomes jubilant other than on a rugby football pitch.
‘What is it, Colin?’
‘Sharp’s been arrested, sir.’
‘Where?’
‘Paddington, sir. He was stopped by a traffic unit for exceeding the speed limit on the Paddington flyover and when they were about to fingerprint him, he produced a pistol.’
‘Was anybody hurt?’
‘Only Sharp, sir. The lady traffic sergeant broke his wrist with her baton.’
‘Oh dear! It sounds as though she’d get on very well with Miss Ebdon. What’s the SP?’
‘An escort from Paddington nick is bringing him up to Belgravia as I speak, sir.’
The Assistant Commissioner Specialist Operations and the Chief Constable of the Devon and Cornwall Police had agreed that the Metropolitan Police should take over the investigation into the murder of Madison Bailey.
The prisoner had been delivered to Belgravia police station and Dave and I went downstairs from our offices to interview him.
As is so often the case with murderers at first sight, he appeared to be an ordinary, almost inoffensive sort of man. His date of birth, given to the arresting officers, showed him to be thirty-seven years of age. Mrs Rebecca Chapman, whose daughter Fiona had committed suicide thanks entirely to Robert Sharp, had given us a photograph of the man. She had described him as personable and good looking which, in reality, is a matter of personal opinion. My own view was that he had the fleshy appearance of a mummy’s boy who had developed into a man who always got his own way in life. But then I’m a cynical copper who’s seen too much of the seamy side of life.
‘Robert Sharp?’ I asked, as Dave and I sat down opposite the man.
‘No, I’m Norman Forbes.’ The denial was made almost apologetically as if to correct someone who had made a genuine mistake. So confident was this man that he had declined a solicitor, even when we told him that if he could not afford one, the taxpayer would provide one.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock of the Murder Investigation Team. This is Detective Sergeant Poole.’
‘And this is a photograph of you given to us by Mrs Rebecca Chapman,’ said Dave, ‘whose daughter committed suicide after you reneged on your promise to marry her. And as if that wasn’t enough, you nicked five grand from her father and left her pregnant. Even so, you didn’t give a damn, did you? Personally, I’ll be very happy to see a scumbag like you, Sharp, go down for a full-term life sentence. I hope the screws on Dartmoor give you a hard time. And if they don’t, they’ll turn a blind eye when half a dozen other hairy cons come into your cell feeling a bit fruity.’ He glanced at me. ‘Shall I turn on the tape-recorder now, sir?’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ I said, thus putting the interview on a formal footing.
‘You’re not obliged to say anything, Mr Sharp,’ said Dave pleasantly, ‘but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say will be given in evidence.’
‘I haven’t got anything to say,’ replied Sharp with what, I imagined, he thought was a disarming smile. Nevertheless, he had clearly been shaken up by Dave’s comments about life in one of Her Majesty’s less desirable penal establishments. But the truth was even worse than the brief picture Dave had painted.
‘I don’t have anything to ask you, Sharp,’ I said, ‘but I’ll tell you why you’re here. You invited James Brooks to your chalet at the Pretext Club near Harrow and shot him. The pistol taken from you by the traffic officers who arrested you has been sent to the ballistics laboratory and I have every confidence that it will prove to be the weapon you used to kill Brooks.’
‘But how on earth …?’
‘Just listen.’ I held up my hand. ‘With the assistance of Madison Bailey, who brought plastic bottles of petrol into the club’s premises in her beach bag, you set fire to Brooks’ body and you then left the club, having given Bailey time to depart first. Having murdered James Brooks, who you thought was a loner, you assumed his identity. But unbeknown to you, Brooks had escaped from Ford open prison. Not the cleverest of moves to try passing yourself off as an escaped prisoner for whom the police were actively searching, was it?’
‘I don’t believe it.’ If the expression on Sharp’s face was anything to go by, the enormity of his crass mistake suddenly dawned on him. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’
‘Then, you hit on what you thought was a foolproof way of making money by getting Bailey to bring in drugs from Colombia on her next routine flight to Bogotá. To that end, you bought a make-up case at a cost of nigh-on two hundred pounds. The shop assistant remembered you clearly because you invited her out to dinner. But worse than that, Sharp, you paid for the transaction with your own credit card. That is to say, a credit card in the name of Robert Sharp. Not very bright at all, was that, considering that you were trying to convince the police that you were dead.’
‘I think you must be mixing me up with someone else,’ said Sharp vainly, but the expression on his face was only too clearly one of despair as he realized just how thorough our investigations – and how stupid his blunders – had been.
‘Of course, the customs people are wise to the Colombia run and are always alert to drug-smuggling. Most intelligent smugglers don’t bring it in direct; they lay it off through less suspicious countries. Consequently, when the cocaine was found in Madison’s make-up case, it was replaced with packets of innocuous white powder. They were going to track you down, Sharp. You succeeded in establishing, from that moment on, that there was nowhere you could hide.’
‘I thought Madison had swapped them over and sold them for herself,’ said Sharp. ‘She was a cunning little bitch.’
‘Yes, that is what you thought, unfortunately for Madison Bailey. So, you strangled her and threw her body overboard from the cabin cruiser you’d stolen from Cowes on the Isle of Wight.’
‘I didn’t strangle her,’ said Sharp pathetically. ‘It was an accident. We hit a bit of rough sea and she fell overboard. She must have hit her head on the side of the boat as she went down because she sank like a stone and there was no trace of her. I dropped anchor and dived in, but I couldn’t find her.’
‘Your fingerprints were found on Madison Bailey’s neck, Sharp,’ said Dave, ‘and the pathologist is adamant that they are in exactly the right place to have effected a strangulation.’ Wisely, Dave didn’t mention that the skin found beneath Madison Bailey’s fingernails almost certainly would match Sharp’s DNA when it was compared.
‘And you did all this because you couldn’t resist women,’ I said. ‘You were obsessed with sex and what better place to find attractive young women than naturist clubs, where you picked up each and every one of your victims, including Madison. You had women all over the place because you couldn’t resist a naked flame. And it was a naked flame – in more ways than one – that did for you. Some of these women became pregnant by you. In another instance, you were buying a house to set up home with another of your pregnant conquests, and you promised marriage to several of the others. In order to finance your lifestyle, you set about the petty thieving of antiques. But that didn’t fill the void. You were then in so much debt that the only solution was to disappear to avoid your creditors. You set about faking your own death at the expense of James Brooks’ life, who you shot before setting fire to his body and stealing his identity. Then you tried drug-smuggling, but that didn’t work either, and you murdered Madison Bailey. As a result, Robert Sharp, you will now be charged with the murders of James Brooks and Madison Bailey.’
‘I told you, Madison’s death was an accident.’ Sharp’s hands were clenched, one around the other, as he made his pathetic and implausible denial. ‘Honestly! And I don’t know anything about a fire at the Pretext Club.’
‘No doubt the Crown Prosecution Service will consider charg
ing you with the theft of five thousand pounds from the Chapman residence and, as you’ve acknowledged being Norman Forbes, with the theft of Mrs Anne Crosby’s jade snuff bottle from her house in Chelsea.’
‘I’ve never heard of the woman,’ said Sharp desperately.
‘You obligingly left your fingerprints on her French Empire guéridon, Sharp.’
‘Oh!’ said Sharp.
NINETEEN
The next problem that had to be dealt with was one of jurisdiction. Happily, that was one problem that didn’t fall to the police. For once, we were able to sit back and watch the lawyers fight it out.
Madison Bailey’s body had been washed up at Lamorna Cove in the county of Cornwall and the Crown Court at Truro was the obvious venue for a trial. For purely personal reasons, I didn’t fancy spending a couple of weeks or more in darkest Cornwall. On the other hand, if the murder of Madison Bailey had occurred in international waters, what the lawyer’s describe as murder on the high seas, it is almost certain that the trial would be held at the Old Bailey.
The Crown Prosecution Service pondered this enigma for some time, the arguments going backwards and forwards between the head office in London and the area office in Bristol. Finally, someone with backbone made a decision: the trial of Robert Sharp was to be held at the Old Bailey where he would face two counts of murder.
‘Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! All persons having business before this court of oyer and terminer and general gaol delivery pray draw near.’
The centuries-old proclamation opened the trial of the Crown against Sharp, who appeared in the dock with his right wrist still in plaster. He pleaded not guilty to murdering James Brooks and Madison Bailey.
The prosecution didn’t have too difficult a task, added to which the jury consisted of eight women and four men. It was not the best balance for a man whose character would be assassinated by counsel for the Crown as he listed Sharp’s transgressions against women.
Some of the women in the jury box appeared to be in their twenties and I could imagine that defence counsel would be worried that they might find Sharp guilty whatever the evidence. Consequently, it was obvious from the outset that Sharp’s counsel, a strikingly handsome lady of Indian descent, was going to have a hard task defending him.
I was the first to give evidence for the prosecution by testifying to those parts of the long and complex investigation that were relevant. Defence counsel gave me a hard time during my day and a half in the witness box, but never once gave me the pleasure of correcting suggestions designed to prove her client’s innocence. Because she didn’t make any. She even ensured that she used my correct rank on every occasion. But only the slipshod ignorance of scriptwriters has a chief inspector being addressed as ‘inspector’. This lady barrister carefully avoided affording me that discourtesy.
The next witness was Kate Ebdon who stepped into the witness box to corroborate my testimony. Gone were the white shirt and jeans and in their place a smart black suit, the skirt at an appropriate length, a white blouse and high-heeled shoes. Her hair was swept back into a ponytail allowing her gold earrings to be displayed to advantage. She called it her ‘Old Bailey kit’.
Henry Mortlock followed Kate into the witness box. His portly figure, his pince-nez, his bow tie and his pedantry lent him a theatrical air and two or three actors who could play him on TV immediately sprang to mind. However, as always, his evidence was far from theatrical – it was precise, factual and indisputable. There were no cracks through which defence counsel could force an opening.
Similarly, Martina Dawson, the fire investigator, had given evidence so often that she was unlikely to be caught wrong-footed, and she wasn’t. Her lucid evidence left no doubt that the fire had been started deliberately.
Linda Mitchell, our crime-scene manager, was always very professional in the witness box. On this occasion, the only evidence that really counted, and shaped the verdict, was that the scrapings from beneath Madison Bailey’s fingernails – which surprisingly had survived immersion in sea water – proved to be a match for Robert Sharp’s DNA.
The ballistics expert testified that the pistol taken from Sharp at the time of his arrest was the weapon that fired the round found in Brooks’ body by Dr Mortlock. Once again, it was incontrovertible evidence and was not disputed by the defence.
As the ballistics expert left the witness box, Dave whispered: ‘Game, set and match, guv’nor.’
Detective Inspector John Trevelion had travelled from Penzance for the day to give evidence, which he did in a slow but confident manner, his tweed suit and Cornish accent paradoxically underlining the authenticity of what he was saying. Once released by the judge, Trevelion made his farewells to us in the echoing lobby of the Old Bailey and expressed his dislike of London, couldn’t understand why we worked in such a lawless and polluted city, and couldn’t wait to get back to his native Cornwall. On reflection, I think he probably has the right idea.
Tracy, the traffic unit sergeant who had broken Sharp’s wrist, afforded the trial a little light relief.
‘Why did you consider it necessary to assault my client with such force that he suffered a fractured wrist, Sergeant?’ asked Sharp’s counsel with the intention of showing the officer to be a callous, albeit female, thug. This despite Tracy being the most feminine of officers.
‘When your client produced a firearm, madam,’ began Tracy, ‘I concluded that he did not intend to abide by the Queensberry Rules. Therefore, I also abandoned them.’
A ripple of laughter had followed this spirited response, but once it had died down, the judge, directing his mild observation to Sharp’s counsel, said, ‘The officer seems to have answered your question, madam.’ And another few laughs followed.
When the defence case opened, Sharp’s counsel called a few expert witnesses, but to no avail.
Finally, despite the uphill struggle she was facing, she put Sharp in the witness box to deny the charges against him. It was a bad tactical mistake because it left her client open to cross-examination. Predictably, the Crown’s counsel clinically destroyed every one of his vain excuses until he was reduced to a sobbing, pitiable figure as he protested his innocence. It was a sad and pathetically lacklustre performance.
On the twelfth day of the trial, the jury retired and its four men and eight women deliberated for a total of four hours before returning to deliver a verdict of guilty on both counts of the indictment.
Although trial by jury is a bastion of the English legal system, it’s difficult to detect the hidden prejudices of its members until it’s too late. Women, generally speaking, don’t like womanizing men, particularly those who steal from their conquests or promise marriage or leave them pregnant. In the case of Fiona Chapman who had committed suicide, Sharp had been responsible for all three elements. When that evidence was given, it was obvious from the expressions on the faces of the jury that the young woman’s demise did more damage to Sharp’s case than all the other evidence put together.
After delivering a little homily about ‘having lived the dissolute life of a wastrel’ which, no doubt, the judge thought was a pretty smart remark, he sentenced Sharp to life imprisonment with the caveat that he was not to be considered for parole for at least thirty years. As Sharp was escorted downstairs from the dock he was probably working out that he would be sixty-seven years of age before he even stood a chance of experiencing freedom again. If he lived that long.
I glanced up at the public gallery as I turned to leave the court and noticed, for the first time, that Rebecca Chapman was seated in the front row. I assumed that she had been there for the whole trial, although I hadn’t noticed her until today. She was smiling a distant smile of satisfaction and I decided not to break her reverie by going upstairs and talking to her.
On the Friday evening following the end of the trial, I gathered my team together in a nearby pub and bought them all a drink. It was not a celebration of securing a sentence that condemned a man to thirty years in prison; that was never so
mething to be celebrated. It was, instead, a way of marking the end of a difficult and lengthy investigation and inadequately thanking them for their efforts.
Leaving my team to enjoy the rest of the evening and wasting my breath telling them not to get drunk, I caught a train to Esher. I had determined to spend the weekend relaxing with Lydia without wondering if a phone call would summon me back to work. At least, that was my fervent hope.
Lydia had obviously been watching for my arrival and opened the door as I was about to ring the bell. She was wearing a long black velvet dress that I’d not seen before.
Taking hold of my hand, she said, ‘Come in, darling. I’ve got a surprise for you.’
I just hoped she hadn’t arranged a dinner party – surprise parties I can do without – apart from which, I didn’t want anyone else intruding on our evening. But I needn’t have worried, nobody did. Which, in view of the surprise Lydia had arranged, was probably just as well.
