The Veteran

by Frederick Forsyth

  Price nodded eagerly.

  ‘But of course that was after lunch. Perhaps you had a fry-up in a working man’s caff somewhere, sitting there from one o’clock until half past two? Found a copy of the Sun on the table, studied the racing pages, that sort of thing? Can’t remember the name of the caff, can you?’

  They both shook their heads.

  ‘No matter. There are scores of them spread all over that manor. But you never went near Meadowdene Grove all day?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Cornish, ‘we just went into this caff and ’ad egg and chips till about ’arf past two.’

  ‘Not one of your usual lunch places?’

  ‘Nope. Just wandered in off the street. Can’t remember the name.’

  ‘Well, that seems pretty persuasive. Jury ought to believe that. So long as you stick to it. No changes. Keep it short and simple. Got it?’

  They nodded. Mr Vansittart wrote a second statement on legal paper with Price’s version of events concerning his nose. Price could hardly read. He signed anyway. The lawyer tucked both statements into the bulging file. A rather bewildered Lou Slade came in. Vansittart rose.

  ‘My dear Mr Slade. I am most dreadfully sorry about the mix-up. I thought you said nine. But never mind. Our clients and I are just finishing.’

  He turned to Price and Cornish with a friendly beam.

  ‘We’ll see each other in court on Tuesday, but we won’t be able to talk. As for anyone you share a cell with, say absolutely nothing. Some of them are narks.’

  He offered the disgruntled solicitor a lift home in his Bentley. On the ride, Slade read the two new statements.

  ‘Better,’ he said, ‘a lot better. Two very strong defences. I’m surprised they didn’t tell me all this. It leaves Patel—’

  ‘Ah yes, Mr Veejay Patel. An upright man. An honest man. Perhaps honest enough to admit he might, just might, have made a mistake.’

  Mr Slade had his doubts, but then he recalled that in cross-examination Vansittart had a reputation second only to George Carman. His day began to look a bit brighter. And the barrister intended to show up at Highbury Corner on Tuesday. Unannounced. That ought to rattle some cages. Slade began to smile.

  DAY FIFTEEN – TUESDAY

  Cages were indeed rattled. Miss Prabani Sundaran was at her place at the long table fronting the bench when James Vansittart entered the court and seated himself a few feet away, where the defending solicitors sit. She blinked several times. The barrister gave her a friendly nod and a smile.

  On the bench, Mr Jonathan Stein had been writing notes from the previous case. Years of training caused him to restrain a flicker of expression. Lou Slade sat behind Vansittart.

  ‘Put up Price and Cornish,’ called the chief clerk.

  The two thugs were led up into the dock, cuffed and flanked by prison officers. Vansittart rose.

  ‘May it please the court, I am James Vansittart and I represent the accused, assisted by my friend Mr Louis Slade.’

  He sat. The stipe contemplated him thoughtfully.

  ‘Mr Vansittart, I understand this hearing is for a further remand of the accused for one week more in custody.’

  He almost used the word ‘mere’. Vansittart bobbed back up.

  ‘Indeed it is, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Ms Sundaran, you may proceed.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. The Crown would like to apply for a further week on remand in custody in the case of Mark Price and Harry Cornish.’

  Jonathan Stein glanced at Vansittart. Surely he was not going to suggest . . .?

  ‘No application for bail, sir,’ said the barrister.

  ‘Very well, Ms Sundaran. Granted.’

  Stein wondered what on earth all this had been about. But Vansittart was back on his feet.

  ‘But the defence would like to make another application to the court.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘The defence wishes to know, sir, whether there are any further matters that the prosecution needs to investigate, or whether the Crown’s case, as made available to the defence under the rules of disclosure, is now complete.’

  He sat down and gazed at Miss Sundaran. She kept her composure, but inside she was a mass of butterflies. She was accustomed to a preordained script as taught at law school. Someone had just torn it up.

  From behind her DI Jack Burns leaned forward and whispered in her grateful ear.

  ‘I understand, sir, that the deceased has not yet been identified and inquiries in that direction are still proceeding.’

  Vansittart was back up.

  ‘May it please the court, the defence does not deny that a man has tragically been brought to his death. For that reason he could not now recover and give evidence or contribute in any way to the case. His precise identity is not therefore germane. The defence must therefore repeat its question: is theCrown readytoproceedtocommittal?’

  There was silence.

  ‘Ms Sundaran?’ asked Stein gently.

  She was like a trainee pilot on first solo flight. Her engine had just blown up and someone was asking her what she intended to do about it.

  ‘I believe the Crown case is complete, sir.’

  Vansittart was back up.

  ‘In that case, Mr Stipendiary, I would like to apply for full committal proceedings this day week. We will both be aware of the adage “justice delayed is justice denied”. My clients have been locked up for two weeks now, for a crime they will vigorously claim they did not commit. With Crown and defence now ready to proceed, we ask for no further delay.’

  Jonathan Stein pondered. Vansittart was going for a high-risk strategy. At committal, the job of the magistrate is not to find the accused innocent or guilty; it is simply to judge whether a prima facie case exists, whether there is enough evidence to send the case onwards and upwards to full trial at the Central Criminal Court, the famous Old Bailey. Habitually, barristers did not appear until that point. If the formidable Vansittart QC had deigned to appear at Highbury Court, it looked as if he was going for a ‘no case to answer’ tactic.

  ‘Then, granted,’ he said. ‘Today week.’

  ‘Sir, the defence will ask, nay asks now, that the Crown will produce all its witnesses for cross-examination at that time.’

  So, it was going to be a full dress rehearsal. When a defence barrister cross-examines, he reveals the thrust of the defence. Habitually it is the prosecution that must reveal to the defence all that it has got, while the defence can keep its strategy secret until the trial. Only the production by the defence of a sudden alibi which the police have no time to check is not allowed.

  ‘Granted. Miss Sundaran, you have a week to prepare your witnesses and bring them to court.’

  DAY SIXTEEN – WEDNESDAY

  Prabani Sundaran was in a panic and had taken her fears to a senior officer at the CPS.

  ‘Sir, I need an experienced barrister to lead me next Tuesday. I can’t take on Vansittart.’

  ‘Prabani, you’re going to have to,’ said her department chief. ‘Half my team are still away. It’s bloody August you know. Everyone else is up to their eyebrows.’

  ‘But, sir, Vansittart. He’s going to grill the prosecution witnesses.’

  ‘Look, it’s only a committal. A formality. He’s going for a high-risk strategy and it’s too high risk. The court record will give us his entire defence. Wonderful. I wish it happened every time.’

  ‘But supposing Mr Stein throws it out?’

  ‘Now look, Prabani, you are going too far, but you have to keep your nerve. Stein won’t throw it out. He knows a strong case when he sees one. We’ve got the identifications by Mr Patel and his rock-solid statement. If he stands up, Stein will send it to the Bailey. Without Patel we wouldn’t have a case, anyway. Now, just handle it.’

  That afternoon it got worse. The Chief Clerk to the Magistrates came on. There had been a fall-through. The whole of Friday was free. Could she take it on then? Prabani Sundaran thought fast. Apart from witnesses, Mr Patel a
nd the dog-walker Mr Whittaker, all on her side were professionals. They would have to make the time. She asked for an hour and phoned around. At four she phoned the clerk to agree.

  James Vansittart took the call at five. He, too, agreed. Pentonville Jail was informed. Friday, ten a.m. Court No. 1. Mr Jonathan Stein presiding.

  DAY EIGHTEEN – FRIDAY

  The Crown had eleven witnesses and they began with the first constable to reach the scene. He testified that he had been with a colleague in a parked squad car just after two p.m. on that Tuesday when a call came from the control room requiring them to attend an assault victim on the pavement at Paradise Way. This they had done, arriving four minutes after the call. He had tended to the man on the pavement as best he could while his partner called for back-up. Within five more minutes an ambulance had arrived and removed the victim to hospital. In fifteen further minutes a uniformed inspector had arrived and taken control.

  James Vansittart smiled at the young man.

  ‘No questions,’ he said and the relieved constable took his place at the back of the court. The second witness was the uniformed inspector. He, too, was led by Ms Sundaran through his statement. At the end, Vansittart rose.

  ‘Inspector, at the time of your arrival on the scene, had some spectators gathered in the street?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Did you have other police officers with you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. There were, in all, ten in attendance.’

  ‘Did you instruct them to interview everyone present with a view to finding any possible eyewitnesses of the assault?’

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘Did you also have your ten colleagues visit every flat and house that could possibly have overlooked the scene, with the same aim in mind?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Penetrating the estate itself, down the passage through which the attackers had escaped, did your colleagues continue inquiries to try to find an eyewitness?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘In all, how many hours were spent on this exercise?’

  ‘I called the team off as dusk fell, about eight o’clock.’

  ‘So, your ten men were intercepting pedestrians in the estate and knocking on doors for nearly six hours?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘In that time, did they come up with one single eyewitness who either saw the attack or saw two men answering the description of my clients running through the estate?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘So, after, what? over a hundred inquiries, you found not one shred of evidence to link my clients to the time and the place?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. No further questions.’

  Jack Burns was next. He was led through his lengthy statement from the first call in the canteen to the final formal charging of Price and Cornish with murder. Then Vansittart rose.

  ‘You have conducted a very thorough investigation, Mr Burns?’

  ‘I hope so, sir.’

  ‘Left no stone unturned?’

  ‘I would like to think so.’

  ‘How many officers were in the search team, the POLSA?’

  ‘About a dozen, sir.’

  ‘But they found no trace of Mr Price’s blood at or near the crime scene?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘So here is a badly broken nose, streaming blood in a fountain, and not one single droplet fell to the pavement?’

  ‘None was found, sir.’

  Burns knew better than to allow a lawyer to bait him.

  ‘You see, Mr Burns, my client will say that none of his blood was found there because he did not break his nose at that place, because he was never there that Tuesday. Now, Mr Burns . . .’

  Vansittart had made a mini speech in place of a question. He knew there was no jury present to be impressed. He was talking to Stipendiary Magistrate Jonathan Stein, who looked at him expressionlessly and made notes. Miss Sundaran scribbled furiously.

  ‘Penetrating the estate itself, did your POLSA team search for anything else the miscreants might have dropped?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And how many binliners did they manage to fill?’

  ‘Twenty, sir.’

  ‘And were the contents searched with the finest of toothcombs?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And in twenty binliners, was there one shred of evidence linking my clients to the time and the place?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Yet, by noon the next day you were actively looking for Mr Price and Mr Cornish with a view to arresting them. Why was that?’

  ‘Because between eleven and twelve the next day I had established two positive identifications.’

  ‘From the CRO photographs, the so-called mug book?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And made by a local shopkeeper, Mr Veejay Patel?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Tell me, Inspector, how many photographs did Mr Patel examine?’

  Jack Burns consulted his notes.

  ‘Seventy-seven.’

  ‘And why seventy-seven?’

  ‘Because the twenty-eighth photograph he positively identified as Mark Price and the seventy-seventh as Harry Cornish.’

  ‘Is seventy-seven the total of youngish white males who have ever come to the attention of the police in the north-east quadrant of London?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘The figure would be higher?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How many photographs did you have at your disposal that morning, Mr Burns?’

  ‘About four hundred.’

  ‘Four hundred. And yet you stopped at seventy-seven.’

  ‘The identifications were absolutely positive.’

  ‘And yet Mr Patel never had the opportunity to look at the remaining three hundred and twenty-three?’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Detective Inspector Burns, my client, Mr Price, seen from the neck up, is a beefy, mid-twenties white male with a shorn head. Are you telling this court there are no others like that among your four hundred photos?’

  ‘I cannot say that.’

  ‘I suggest there must be a score. Nowadays, beefy young men who choose to shave their skulls are two a penny. Yet, Mr Patel never had the opportunity to compare Mr Price’s photograph with any similar face further down the list of four hundred?’

  Silence.

  ‘You must answer, Mr Burns,’ said the stipendiary, gently.

  ‘No, sir, he did not.’

  ‘Then there might have been another face, further on, remarkably similar to Mr Price, but Mr Patel had no chance to make a comparison, go back and forth, stare at both of them, before making his choice?’

  ‘There might have been.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Burns. No further questions.’

  It had been damaging. The reference to beefy young men with shorn heads being ‘two a penny’ had scored with Mr Stein. He, too, watched television and saw coverage of football hooligans at play.

  Mr Carl Bateman was purely technical. He simply described the arrival of the unconscious man at the Royal London and all he had done for him before the patient went to neurosurgery. Nevertheless, when he had finished, Vansittart rose.

  ‘Just one very brief issue, Mr Bateman. Did you at any point examine the right fist of the patient?’

  Bateman frowned, puzzled.

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘At the time of admission or later?’

  ‘Later.’

  ‘Was this at someone’s request?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And whose, pray?’

  ‘Detective Inspector Burns.’

  ‘And did Mr Burns ask you to look for knuckle damage?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘And was there any?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How long have you been in Accident and Emergency?’

  ‘Ten years.’

&n
bsp; ‘A very experienced man. You must have seen the results of many violent blows delivered with the fist, both to the human face and to the fist itself?’

  ‘Yes, I believe I have.’

  ‘When a human fist delivers a blow of such force as to shatter the nose of a much bigger man, would you not expect to find knuckle damage?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘And what would be the chances of such damage occurring? Eighty per cent?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Abrasions to the skin of the knuckles? Bruising over the metacarpal heads, the thin and fragile bones that run up the back of the hand between the knuckles and the wrist?’

  ‘More likely the metacarpal bruising.’

  ‘Similar to the Boxer’s Injury?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But there was none on the right fist of the man now tragically dead?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Bateman.’

  What Carl Bateman could not know was that when the limping man smashed Price in the face, he did not use a bunched fist, but a much more dangerous blow. He employed the hard heel of the hand, driving upward from the waist, hammering into the nose from the underside. Had Price not been of almost ox-like strength and an accustomed brawler, he would have been knocked flat and possibly senseless.

  The brain surgeon, Mr Paul Willis, gave his evidence and left the witness box with no questions from Vansittart, but not Dr Melrose of St Anne’s Road Hospital.

  ‘Tell me, Dr Melrose, when you examined Mr Price’s nose between five and five thirty on the afternoon of last Tuesday fortnight, was there blood in the nostrils?’

  ‘Yes, there was.’

  ‘Crusted or still liquid?’

  ‘Both. There were crusted fragments near the end of the nostrils, but it was still liquid further up.’

  ‘And you discovered the nose bone to be fractured in two places and the cartilage pushed to one side?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘So you set the bone, reshaped the nose and strapped it in order to let nature take its course?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘If the patient, before coming to the hospital, had very foolishly and despite the pain tried to reset his own nose, would that have caused fresh bleeding?’