Oughton picks up a large photo blow-up from the table in front of her and holds it up to the jury. ‘You saw, ladies and gentlemen, CCTV footage of Croft killing Danny Smith in broad daylight in Chiswick, fatally stabbing him in the stomach, before leaving him to bleed to death outside the AA meeting where he was hoping to make a new start in life.’ She puts the still photo back down on the long table. ‘Confronted with the footage from street cameras and shop premises, Croft admitted the murder. On tape, he told police that Ashley Crewe had personally telephoned him from Thailand and said Smith had been responsible for, as he put it, “grassing up” his father. Crewe told the young man that but for Daniel Smith, Colin Richardson would be alive today. Have no doubt, Ashley Crewe said that because he knew such information would drive the teenager wild with fury, but to be doubly sure that Croft killed Smith, Crewe also promised the teenager twenty thousand pounds in cash and a flat in Thailand for him and his girlfriend to raise their two-year old in, if he carried out the hit.’
Oughton lets the information sink in, before she summarises her point. ‘Put simply, Ronnie Croft was manipulated into murder, from six thousand miles away. And remember, ladies and gentlemen, those who plan and solicit a murder, under English law, are every bit as guilty as those who hold the weapon responsible for taking a life.’
Oughton picks up a document and a see-through plastic evidence bag from in front of her. ‘The British police have, with the assistance of their counterparts in Thailand, recovered Ashley Crewe’s telephone records and a handset registered to him, containing his fingerprints. Corroborating evidence, that that call was made from the accused’s Thai handset to a UK mobile owned by Ronnie Croft at the time Croft claimed. You may feel that on this evidence alone you have enough to send Ashley Crewe to prison for life.’
As the words sink in, I’m staring at Crewe and he’s staring straight back at me. His malevolent glare is one that I am more than familiar with. He scorched me with it for three solid hours when I interviewed him the day after his extradition to the UK. In fact, the thousand-yard stare and a nasal ‘no comment’ response were all that I got out of him.
So here he is now, sitting in a fine grey suit in the place where scum like the Yorkshire Ripper and Soham Killer sat. He is charged with multiple counts of murder, attempted murder, drug smuggling and fraud.
Sylvia Oughton, catches my attention as she turns to face Crewe’s legal team, including one of Britain’s most expensive defence barristers, Sir Richard Tyler, QC. Silver-haired, square-jawed and slightly tanned, the forty-eight-year-old has been responsible for the acquittal of more gang leaders and members than any other QC in the UK. I’m praying this trial is going to count as one of his rare failures.
‘In cross-examination,’ Oughton continues, ‘you heard my learned friend here say that all our evidence linking Crewe to Croft is circumstantial and coincidental.’ The QC adopts a look of amazement. ‘That is just not true. Sir Richard said exactly the same thing, when we linked his client via phone records to the murder of DI York and the attempted murder of DI Parker. And, of course, he claims the only thing that Ashley Crewe is guilty of is ignorance. Ignorance of the fact that his life partner, Janjira Chaiprasit, has been secretly running an international drug cartel behind his back for all the years they’ve been together. Ladies and gentlemen, such ignorance is beyond belief. It simply isn’t plausible. Why not? Because it ignores other vital facts. Firstly, Ashley Crewe is supposed to be dead, ladies and gentlemen. He stayed in hiding while his parents officially proclaimed him dead and has not been seen in England for a quarter of a century.’
Once more, Oughton points an accusatory finger at the prisoner. ‘Ashley Crewe has moved from country to country on false passports – he even assumed the name of Daniel Smith, the man whose murder he contracted out to young Ronnie Croft. Secondly, his own brother Raurie names him as the kingpin of the family’s crime business. In testimony, he told you under oath that Ashley “literally and figuratively called all the shots”. And when asked what that meant, he explained without hesitation that Ashley decided all major drugs-related business and when it came to those who opposed him, he had them shot.’
For a moment, my attention moves from the QC to the jurors. The five women comprise a sixty-year-old grandma, two thirty-something mums, a singleton in her early twenties and a spinster in her forties. The older women are focused all the time but the twenty-odd-year-old looks bored and desperate for her phone. The men are similarly divided. Two young manual workers in their twenties are having problems concentrating. The three dads in their thirties seem engaged with the evidence, as does a divorced businessman in his mid-forties. The final member, a widower in his early seventies, keeps complaining of not hearing properly.
Sylvia Oughton is weighing them up as well. Her eyes scan each and every one as she recommences her summary. ‘And then, ladies and gentlemen, there is the damning evidence of Paula Smith. Her moving testimony of how a sixteen-year-old Ashley Crewe raped her is of enormous significance. It goes to the dark heart of his lifetime of criminality, his selfishness and his savagery to get what he wants. It goes to the dark heart of his family, how they threatened her boyfriend, Daniel Smith, how they manipulated him into faking Ashley’s death and then demanded his passport to aid Ashley Crewe’s illegal entry into Thailand.’
Number One Court is incredibly small, like a shoebox turned on its end, so when Oughton reaches out and points at Ashley Crewe it’s almost as though she is touching him. ‘This expensively suited man, with his rich tan and his multimillion-pound lifestyle in what’s known as “Asia’s Paradise” is a career criminal. He has dedicated his life to crime. You, my dear jurors, have had the misfortune to have to sit through a sickening retelling of just some snippets from that life. Think on them now. Think how the accounts of his rapes and murders, his drug dealing and his life of luxury at the expense of others have sickened you. Think of the victims of his crimes. Of people like Paula Smith and what they have endured. Of their need for justice. And think of the courage and determination of DI Parker and her team in assembling this case against Crewe – how they risked their lives to have this man extradited and put on trial here today. And when you have done all that, when you have thought about how honestly you labour to make a living, how you try yourselves to stay within the law and how hard you try to teach your children to live good lives, then I am sure you will come to the conclusion that a quarter of a century of crime cannot be explained away by coincidences, as my learned colleague is trying to have you believe. And when you have reached that conclusion, then it falls upon you to return the correct verdicts. Verdicts of guilty on all counts. Verdicts that ensure Ashley Crewe goes to prison and remains there for the rest of his natural life.’
Oughton sits down and pours herself a glass of water.
She did well.
But I wonder if it is good enough. And I think she is wondering the same. Juries these days like DNA evidence. They don’t like doubt. Danny Smith’s written statements about the rape and Ashley’s faked murder scored points with the jurors, but not as many as if he’d been in court – which is, of course, why Crewe had him killed.
Sir Richard Tyler gets to his feet and prepares for his ‘closer’, the final words that the jury will hear before they retire.
He flashes a million-pound smile as he turns to the jury and oozes confidence and charm. ‘Don’t be deceived, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t be taken in by my learned friend’s abridged and abusive version of events. Because if you are, you will do an innocent man a terrible injustice. Ashley Crewe has not taken the stand. He has not given his version of events, because he doesn’t have to. That is his right as an innocent man. He is presumed to be innocent, you must see him as innocent and treat him as innocent unless it is proved beyond all reasonable doubt – please note my emphasis of the word all – that he is guilty.’ He takes a dramatic sigh. ‘And there, sadly, is where the prosecution’s problem lies. By their own admission, this is
a case involving police corruption – evidenced by the criminality of the National Crime Agency’s Detective Inspector Charles York and his association with criminals such as Colin Richardson. And of course, there is the admission by Richardson’s son, Ronnie Croft, that he killed Danny Smith. On videotape, you see Croft, and only Croft deliver that fatal wound to Mr Smith. Believe your own eyes and Croft’s own admission of murder, do not be tricked by the police’s smoke and mirrors of what phone calls to and from Thailand may have related to. Danny Smith was Ashley’s friend. He gave my client his passport, so he could escape from his family and their criminality. And my client has admitted the illegal use of that passport – his only way of escaping to a new life, a legitimate and law-abiding life.’ He takes a pause so the jury can absorb what he’s said, then pushes on, ‘Then of course, there is the testimony of Paula Smith. Please don’t be taken in by her. She is not only a self-confessed liar, she is a serial liar, a consummate liar. She is perhaps the best liar in Britain.’
I’m watching the jury and they’re hanging on his every word, enjoying his flippancy as he erases the trauma of her rape testimony and replaces it with more salacious thoughts of bigamy and sexual indiscretion.
‘Remember,’ says Richard, ‘this witness admitted to being married to two men for five years.’ He lets out a polite laugh. ‘Can you imagine how many lies she has told – has had to tell – to keep a secret like that? Can you think of how many laws she’s broken – on a daily basis as she’s written cheques and signed her false name? Paula Smith is, beyond any question of doubt, the best liar you have ever come across, and, as such, you surely must not believe a word she has told you.’
I look at Sylvia Oughton and notice that she has turned away from the jury so they can’t see how concerned she is. Tyler is earning every penny of his fee. Of that there is no doubt.
‘So why did Ashley Crewe go missing?’ he continues. ‘Why did he pretend to be dead? Why did he turn up in Thailand? The answers are simple. It’s what he was forced to do. His brother Raurie turned Queen’s Evidence and said Ashley was running the family drug empire. That’s just not true. Raurie forced Ashley to flee abroad, so he could retain good relations with the Appletons, until Raurie was ready to instruct his brother Kieran to kill the Appleton’s main enforcer and swing power back to his own family. Surely, it is more believable that Raurie Crewe, a legally registered importer and exporter, struck up a deal with Janjira Chaiprasit to import drugs through her company’s connections without Ashley even knowing about it?’
He moves some documents piled in front of him and picks up two identical mobile phones. ‘I’d like the foreman of the jury to inspect these phones and pass them to other jury members, please.’ He hands both handsets to an usher, who takes them across to a black man in his mid-forties, then Sir Richard continues, ‘As you’ll see, there are no obvious differences between the two handsets. They are both the most popular make of phone in the world at the moment, and they are both capable of calling anyone anywhere in the world at any time – except now, of course, because using phones is prohibited in this court.’ There are smiles, not only across the jury, but even light laughter in the public gallery.
‘Both those phones are mine,’ adds the QC. ‘The only difference is that one is a contract phone, meaning I get a monthly bill and I settle it, and the other contains a pay-as-you-go SIM card, meaning I have already bought a certain amount of credit and simply loaded it into the handset. I use the latter, mainly when I am abroad. I buy local SIM cards because it is much cheaper than incurring roaming charges. So, why am I boring you with all this detail? Well, firstly to show you that there’s nothing intrinsically sinister about using a pay-as-you-go phone. Using one does not make you a criminal. Secondly, I wanted to show you how innocent people can be wrongly accused, because all of you fine, upstanding people have now put your fingerprints on a phone that I can assure you has in the last few days been used to talk to innumerable suspected and convicted criminals, not just in the UK but across the world. In fact, that very phone was answered this morning by Janjira Chaiprasit, the accused’s partner.’ He glides a finger in the air from juror to juror. ‘So, each and every one of you, ladies and gentlemen, is just as connected to the alleged crimes you have been hearing about as that man in the dock. And you all have something else in common with Ashley Crewe. Just like him, you are entirely innocent. You were completely unaware of what calls that phone had made.’
He signals to the usher to collect the mobiles, then ploughs on with his closer. ‘The prosecution has told you about how DI Charlie York was a corrupt policeman. I believe they are correct. They have told you how Colin Richardson, an escaped prisoner and friend of Kieran Crewe, is believed to have killed York and attempted to kill DI Parker. Again, I believe they are correct. They have told you how Ronnie Croft killed Danny Smith, and given Croft’s admission to the crime, again we can presume they are correct. But where they are wrong, is when they hang their case on the testimony of a self-confessed bigamist. Where they are wrong is when they believe the evidence of a self-interested older brother, keen to blame Ashley instead of being honest and man enough to accept the guilt himself. And where they are wrong, is when they present ancient ledgers to you showing illegal drug payments recorded by Andrew Ellison. Wrong because my client’s name is never once mentioned in those ledgers. In the end, ladies and gentlemen, the only people levelling claims against Ashley Crewe are either proven liars, self-confessed criminals or the colleagues of crooked police officers. Can such a catalogue of uncontested facts not leave the slightest doubt in your minds about my client’s innocence. I ask, because please remember, if you have even the slightest of doubts, you must acquit him. It is the law. Legally, if you have any doubt, you must acquit.’
The usher returns the phones to Sir Richard’s table and he picks them up. ‘As you have just seen and experienced for yourself, innocent people can leave their prints on phones that have made calls to criminals – to murderers – and not even know about it. Phone evidence is no evidence. It is phoney evidence. It cannot be trusted. Do not be tricked into committing a miscarriage of justice by convicting my client on any of these charges. Thank you.’
As Sir Richard takes his seat, I look across the court to Crewe.
He is no longer glaring.
He is smiling.
And I share his thoughts. He may get away with this. He may well walk out of this court a free man.
123
Paula
It’s coming.
A month early.
My baby is coming.
And I’m panicking.
It’s going to be okay. It’ll be fine. The doctors have done this dozens, maybe hundreds of times.
But I’m scared.
Petrified.
It’s my fault. All my fault. My blood pressure rocketed after Danny’s murder and it has barely been normal ever since. If I hadn’t turned my back on Danny, if I’d stayed with him, then he’d still be alive and I’d still be calm and baby would be untroubled.
The court case hasn’t helped. Testifying was far more stressful than I had expected. Any recovery I had made after Danny’s death was ruined by those three hours in court.
If I lose the baby it’ll be my fault. I’ll have been responsible for two deaths.
I’m in the operating theatre of a private hospital in the Cotswolds, sedated but still worried sick, while they carry out this emergency Caesarean. I opted for an epidural but now wish I were unconscious. My nerves are frayed.
I can hear our heartbeats on monitors in the room. They’re racing each other, the unborn life ahead of me, galloping so fast it will lap me if the medics don’t slow it down, if they don’t stop its wild and frantic race towards death.
The noises in here are terrible. I hear the constant clattering of steel into steel. Scalpels and clamps dropping into metal trays, the harsh rustling of medical cutlery. Blooded rubber hands drift fleetingly into my view and I close my eyes again. Bes
t not to look. Best not to think of them slicing across my belly. One nick and they could kill the baby.
A kindly nurse strokes my hair. ‘You’re doing very well, Mrs Johnson,’ she says in a thick Londonderry accent. ‘Very well indeed, so you are.’
I’m not doing anything. Anything but be scared rigid. My teeth are clamped together. My fists clenched.
‘Is the baby okay?’ I ask.
‘You relax now, and let us worry about that,’ she says. ‘Baby will be just fine, you’ll see.’
I am sure I will, but not soon enough. I need this to be over. Aside from the unsettling beeping of monitors, there was the constant, frantic mumbling of medical words and phrases.
Now there is silence.
Oh God.
Something’s wrong.
I know it is.
There’s a horrendous sucking sound. The sort you hear in the dentist when they hose water and blood from your mouth.
‘We’ve lost the heartbeat,’ says a man.
I want to look. I need to help. I need to do something.
‘Baby’s stopped breathing,’ says a woman.
124
Annie
I’m sitting in the ‘police room’, as the ushers call it, drinking tea with Ray Goodwin, waiting for the jury to come back.
We’ve passed the last two days going over the highlights and low points of the three-week-long trial. We’ve given critiques on the performances of both Sylvia Oughton and Sir Richard. The one thing we haven’t done is predicted the outcome. No copper with more than half a dozen Crown Court trials under their belt will, with any confidence, tell you what verdict they expect the jury to return. Juries are never the same. They are all full of their own individual personalities, prejudices and views, and are always subject to the sway of peer pressure and group dynamics.
Dead and Gone Page 37
