An inquest will be held on April 19.
Miss Moorland’s daily, Maria Lucia (48), said—exclusively to the Express—that her employer had been with a man friend when she had left the flat at five o’clock on the night in question. A neighbor, Mrs. Rita Johnson, who lives in the adjoining block of flats, stated she had seen a man leaving Miss Moorland’s flat at around six, before entering the newsagent’s opposite and later driving away. Mrs. Johnson added that she couldn’t be sure of the make of the car but it might have been a Rover …
* * *
“Oh, my God,” I exclaimed in such a loud voice that I was afraid it might have woken Elizabeth. I shaved and showered quickly, trying to think as I went along. I was dressed and ready to leave for the office even before my wife had woken. I kissed her on the cheek but she only turned over, so I scribbled a note and left it on her side of the bed, explaining that I had to spend the morning in the office as I had an important report to complete.
On my journey to work I rehearsed exactly what I was going to say. I went over it again and again. I arrived on the twelfth floor a little before eight and left my door wide open so I would be aware of the slightest intrusion. I felt confident that I had a clear fifteen, even twenty minutes before anyone else could be expected to arrive.
Once again I went over exactly what I had to say. I found the number needed in the L–R directory and scribbled it down on a pad in front of me before writing five headings in block capitals, something I always did before a board meeting.
BUS STOP
COAT
NO. 19
BMW
TICKET
Then I dialed the number.
I took off my watch and placed it in front of me. I had read somewhere that the location of a telephone call can be traced in about three minutes.
A woman’s voice said, “Scotland Yard.”
“Inspector Simmons, please,” was all I volunteered.
“Can I tell him who’s calling?”
“No, I would prefer not to give my name.”
“Yes, of course, sir,” she said, evidently used to such callers.
Another ringing tone. My mouth went dry as a man’s voice announced “Simmons” and I heard the detective speak for the first time. I was taken aback to find that a man with so English a name could have such a strong Glaswegian accent.
“Can I help you?” he asked.
“No, but I think I can help you,” I said in a quiet tone which I pitched considerably lower than my natural speaking voice.
“How can you help me, sir?”
“Are you the officer in charge of the Carla-whatever-her-name-is case?”
“Yes, I am. But how can you help?” he repeated.
The second hand showed one minute had already passed.
“I saw a man leaving her flat that night.”
“Where were you at the time?”
“At the bus stop on the same side of the road.”
“Can you give me a description of the man?” Simmons’ tone was every bit as casual as my own.
“Tall. I’d say five eleven, six foot. Well built. Wore one of those posh City coats—you know, the black ones with a velvet collar.”
“How can you be so sure about the coat?” the detective asked.
“It was so cold standing out there waiting for the No. 19 that I wished it had been me who was wearing it.”
“Do you remember anything in particular that happened after he left the flat?”
“Only that he went into the paper shop opposite before getting into his car and driving away.”
“Yes, we know that much,” said the Detective Inspector. “I don’t suppose you recall what make of car it was?”
Two minutes had now passed and I began to watch the second hand more closely.
“I think it was a BMW,” I said.
“Do you remember the color by any chance?”
“No, it was too dark for that.” I paused. “But I saw him tear a parking ticket off the windscreen, so it shouldn’t be too hard for you to trace him.”
“And at what time did all this take place?”
“Around six fifteen to six thirty, Inspector,” I said.
“And can you tell me…?”
Two minutes fifty-eight seconds. I put the phone back on the hook. My whole body broke out in a sweat.
“Good to see you in the office on a Saturday morning,” said the managing director grimly as he passed my door. “Soon as you’re finished whatever you’re doing I’d like a word with you.”
I left my desk and followed him along the corridor into his office. For the next hour he went over my projected figures, but however hard I tried I couldn’t concentrate. It wasn’t long before he stopped trying to disguise his impatience.
“Have you got something else on your mind?” he asked as he closed his file. “You seem preoccupied.”
“No,” I insisted, “just been doing a lot of overtime lately,” and stood up to leave.
Once I had returned to my office, I burned the piece of paper with the five headings and left to go home. In the first edition of the afternoon paper, “The Lovers’ Tiff” story had been moved back to page seven. They had nothing new to report.
The rest of Saturday seemed interminable but my wife’s Sunday Express finally brought me some relief.
“Following up information received in the Carla Moorland ‘Lovers’ Tiff murder,’ a man is helping the police with their inquiries.” The commonplace expressions I had read so often in the past suddenly took on a real meaning.
I scoured the other Sunday papers, listened to every news bulletin and watched each news item on television. When my wife became curious I explained that there was a rumor in the office that the company might be taken over again, which only meant I could lose my job.
By Monday morning the Daily Express had named the man in “The Lovers’ Tiff murder” as Paul Menzies (51), an insurance broker from Sutton. His wife was at a hospital in Epsom under sedation while he was being held in the cells of Brixton Prison under arrest. I began to wonder if Mr. Menzies had told Carla the truth about his wife and what his nickname might be. I poured myself a strong black coffee before leaving for the office.
Later that morning, Menzies appeared before the magistrates at the Horseferry Road court, charged with the murder of Carla Moorland. The police had been successful in opposing bail, the Standard reassured me.
* * *
It takes six months, I was to discover, for a case of this gravity to reach the Old Bailey. Paul Menzies passed those months on remand in Brixton Prison. I spent the same period fearful of every telephone call, every knock on the door, every unexpected visitor. Each one created its own nightmare. Innocent people have no idea how many such incidents occur every day. I went about my job as best I could, often wondering if Menzies knew of my relationship with Carla, if he knew my name or if he even knew of my existence.
It must have been a couple of months before the trial was due to open that the company held its annual general meeting. It had taken some considerable creative accountancy on my part to produce a set of figures that showed us managing any profit at all. We certainly didn’t pay our shareholders a dividend that year.
I came away from the meeting relieved, almost elated. Months had passed since Carla’s death and not one incident had occurred during that period to suggest that anyone suspected I had even known her, let alone been the cause of her death. I still felt guilty about Carla, even missed her, but I was now able to go for a whole day without fear entering my mind. Strangely, I felt no guilt about Menzies’ plight. After all, it was he who had become the instrument that was going to keep me from a lifetime spent in prison. So when the blow came it had double the impact.
It was on August 26—I shall never forget it—that I received a letter which made me realize it might be necessary to follow every word of the trial. However much I tried to convince myself I should explain why I couldn’t be involved, I knew I wouldn’t
be able to resist it.
That same morning, a Friday—I suppose these things always happen on a Friday—I was called in for what I assumed was to be a routine weekly meeting with the managing director, only to be informed that the company no longer required my services.
“Frankly, in the last few months your work has gone from bad to worse,” I was told.
I didn’t feel able to disagree with him.
“And you have left me with no choice but to replace you.”
A polite way of saying, “You’re sacked.”
“Your desk will be cleared by five this evening,” the managing director continued, “when you will receive a check from the accounts department of £17,500.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Six months’ compensation, as stipulated in your contract when we took over the company,” he explained.
When the managing director stretched out his hand it was not to wish me luck, but to ask for the keys of my Rover.
I remember my first thought when he had informed me of his decision: at least I will be able to attend every day of the trial without any hassle.
Elizabeth took the news of my sacking badly and only asked what plans I had for finding a new job. During the next month I pretended to look for a position in another company but realized I couldn’t hope to settle down to anything until the case was over.
* * *
On the morning of the trial all the popular papers had colorful background pieces. The Daily Express even displayed on its front page a flattering picture of Carla in a swimsuit on the beach at Marbella: I wondered how much her sister in Fulham had been paid for that particular item. Alongside her was a profile photo of Paul Menzies which made him look as if he was already a convict.
I was amongst the first to be told in which court at the Old Bailey the case of the Crown v. Menzies would be tried. A uniformed policeman gave me detailed directions and along with several others I made my way to Court No. 4.
Once I had reached the courtroom I filed in and made sure that I sat on the end of the row. I looked round thinking everyone would stare at me, but to my relief no one showed the slightest interest.
I had a good view of the defendant as he stood in the dock. Menzies was a frail man who appeared as if he had recently lost a lot of weight; fifty-one, the newspapers had said, but he looked nearer sixty. I began to wonder how much I must have aged over the past few months.
Menzies wore a smart, dark blue suit that hung loosely on him, a clean shirt and what I thought must be a regimental tie. His gray thinning hair was swept straight back; a small silver moustache gave him a military air. He certainly didn’t look like a murderer or much of a catch as a lover, but anyone glancing toward me would surely have come to the same conclusion. I searched around the sea of faces for Mrs. Menzies but no one in the court fit the newspaper description of her.
We all rose when Mr. Justice Buchanan came in. “The Crown v. Menzies,” the clerk of the court read out.
The judge leaned forward, to tell Menzies that he could be seated and then turned slowly toward the jury box.
He explained that, although there had been considerable press interest in the case, their opinion was all that mattered because they alone would be asked to decide if the prisoner were guilty or not guilty of murder. He also advised the jury against reading any newspaper articles concerning the trial or listening to anyone else’s views, especially those who had not been present in court: such people, he said, were always the first to have an immutable opinion on what the verdict should be. He went on to remind the jury how important it was to concentrate on the evidence because a man’s whole life was at stake. I found myself nodding in agreement.
I glanced round the court hoping there was nobody there who would recognize me. Menzies’ eyes remained fixed firmly on the judge, who was turning back to face the prosecuting counsel.
Even as Sir Humphrey Mountcliff rose from his place on the bench I was thankful he was against Menzies and not me. A man of dominating height with a high forehead and silver gray hair, he commanded the court not only with his physical presence but with a voice that was never less than authoritative.
To a silent assembly he spent the rest of the morning setting out the case for the prosecution. His eyes rarely left the jury box except to occasionally peer down at his notes.
He reconstructed the events as he imagined they had happened that evening in April.
The opening address lasted two and a half hours, shorter than I’d expected. The judge then suggested a break for lunch and asked us all to be back in our places by ten past two.
After lunch Sir Humphrey called his first witness, Detective Inspector Simmons. I was unable to look directly at the policeman while he presented his evidence. Each reply he gave was as if he were addressing me personally. I wondered if he suspected all along that there was another man. Nevertheless Simmons gave a highly professional account of himself as he described in detail how they had found the body and later traced Menzies through two witnesses and the damning parking ticket. By the time Sir Humphrey sat down few people in that court could have felt that Simmons had arrested the wrong man.
Menzies’ defense counsel, who rose to cross-examine the Detective Inspector, could not have been in greater contrast to Sir Humphrey. Mr. Robert Scott, QC, was short and stocky, with thick bushy eyebrows. He spoke slowly and without inflection. I was happy to observe that one member of the jury was having difficulty in staying awake.
For the next twenty minutes Scott took the Detective Inspector painstakingly back over his evidence but was unable to make Simmons retract anything substantial. As the Inspector stepped out of the witness box I felt confident enough to look him straight in the eye.
The next witness was a Home Office pathologist, Dr. Anthony Mallins, who, after answering a few preliminary questions to establish his professional status, moved on to reply to an inquiry from Sir Humphrey that took everyone by surprise. The pathologist informed the court that there was clear evidence to suggest that Miss Moorland had had sexual intercourse shortly before her death.
“How can you be so certain, Dr. Mallins?”
“Because I found traces of blood group B on the deceased’s upper thigh, while Miss Moorland was later found to be blood group O. There were also traces of seminal fluid on the negligee she was wearing at the time of her death.”
“Are these common blood groups?” Sir Humphrey asked.
“Blood group O is common,” Dr. Mallins admitted. “Group B, however, is fairly unusual.”
“And what would you say was the cause of her death?” Sir Humphrey asked.
“A blow or blows to the head, which caused a broken jaw, and lacerations at the base of the skull which may have been delivered by a blunt instrument.”
I wanted to stand up and say, “I can tell you which!” when Sir Humphrey said, “Thank you, Dr. Mallins. No more questions. Please wait there.”
Mr. Scott treated the doctor with far more respect than he had Inspector Simmons, despite Mallins being the Crown’s witness.
“Could the blow on the back of Miss Moorland’s head have been caused by a fall?” he asked.
The doctor hesitated. “Possibly,” he agreed. “But that wouldn’t explain the broken jaw.”
Mr. Scott ignored the comment and pressed on.
“What percentage of people in Britain are blood group B?”
“About five, six percent,” volunteered the doctor.
“Two and a half million people,” said Mr. Scott, and waited for the figure to sink in before he suddenly changed tack.
But as hard as he tried he could not shift the pathologist on the time of death or on the fact that sexual intercourse must have taken place around the hours his client had been with Carla. When Mr. Scott sat down the judge asked Sir Humphrey if he wished to reexamine.
“I do, my Lord. Dr. Mallins, you told the court that Miss Moorland suffered from a broken jaw and lacerations on the back of her head. Could the
lacerations have been caused by falling onto a blunt object after the jaw had been broken?”
“I must object, my Lord,” said Mr. Scott, rising with unusual speed. “This is a leading question.”
Mr. Justice Buchanan leaned forward and peered down at the doctor. “I agree, Mr. Scott, but I would like to know if Dr. Mallins found blood group O, Miss Moorland’s blood group, on any other object in the room?”
“Yes, my Lord,” replied the doctor. “On the edge of the glass table in the center of the room.”
“Thank you, Dr. Mallins,” said Sir Humphrey. “No more questions.”
Sir Humphrey’s next witness was Mrs. Rita Johnson, the lady who claimed she had seen everything.
“Mrs. Johnson, on the evening of April 7, did you see a man leave the block of flats where Miss Moorland lived?” Sir Humphrey began.
“Yes, I did.”
“At about what time was that?”
“A few minutes after six.”
“Please tell the court what happened next.”
“He walked across the road, removed a parking ticket from his windscreen, got into his car and drove away.”
“Do you see that man in the court today?”
“Yes,” she said firmly, pointing to Menzies, who at this suggestion shook his head vigorously.
“No more questions.”
Mr. Scott rose slowly again.
“What did you say was the make of the car the man got into?”
“I can’t be sure,” Mrs. Johnson said, “but I think it was a BMW.”
“Not a Rover as you first told the police the following morning?”
The witness did not reply.
“And did you actually see the man in question remove a parking ticket from the car windscreen?” Mr. Scott asked.
“I think so, sir, but it all happened so quickly.”
“I’m sure it did,” said Mr. Scott. “In fact, I suggest to you that it happened so quickly that you’ve got the wrong man and the wrong car.”
“No, sir,” she replied, but without the same conviction with which she had delivered her earlier replies.
A Twist in the Tale Page 2
