It’s a lottery.
A middle-aged usher wearing a floaty black cape flutters into our room and instantly seizes our attention. ‘They’re coming back in,’ she says, a smile underlying the fact that she knows her words have the power to make an entire crowd of seated people immediately jump to their feet.
We file back in. Wait for the court officials to take their places. Stand as the judge is shown into the room. Mr Justice Barrows is an over-tall man in his early sixties with a permanent stoop from half a century of looking down on people.
Attention switches to the jury foreman, a forty-five-year old businessman called Darrius Lypton. Smartly dressed, always in tie-less shirts with plain suits or jackets and trousers, he fits the profile of a man who is likely to take his time about things, weigh up all the evidence and if necessary err on the side of caution. Ray Goodwin thinks that’s a good thing. I’m not so sure.
Barrows looks towards the jury box and reads in an instant that his day is far from done. ‘Mr Foreman, do you have another question for me, or the pleasant surprise of having reached verdicts?’
Lypton clears his throat. ‘Your Honour, we have a verdict on two counts, but are unable to reach unanimous agreement on the others.’
‘How unable? Would your inability be resolved by another half-day, day or week of deliberations? Or do you believe you are at an impasse?’
‘We are certainly stuck, Your Honour. And I’m not sure a month let alone a week will change some people’s minds.’
The judge takes a slow contemplative breath. ‘I dislike majority verdicts. Dislike them intensely. However, given you have unanimity on other charges this seems the only way forward. Mr Foreman, is it possible you could return a majority verdict of eleven to one?’
‘I am not sure, Your Honour.’
‘Oh, dear. Then how split are you, may I enquire?’
‘On one count, seven to five, Your Honour. On two others, nine to three.’
‘My goodness. Well, that won’t do. The minimum I can accept is a majority verdict of ten to two, so I am required to ask you to kindly return to the jury room tomorrow morning and try in earnest with your peers to reach this threshold. Thank you.’
‘The court is adjourned. All rise,’ proclaims the clerk.
As the judge leaves and the jury files out, Goodwin asks me, ‘What do you think they are still hung up on?’
‘Who knows?’ I reply without hesitation. ‘I gave up guessing jury verdicts when I was a PC.’ And then another thought hits me, ‘Let’s hope Crewe hasn’t nobbled any of them.’
125
Paula
Obstetrician Marcus Christopher looks down and sympathetically smiles at me.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Better now,’ I answer, tightening my hold on the green blanket wrapped around the baby laid across my breasts. ‘I thought for a minute that he was going to die.’
‘So did we,’ Christopher says casually. ‘That little fella made it about as difficult as he could for us. Got himself upside down and presented bottom first, then managed to wrap a limb around the umbilical cord.’
‘But he’s all right now?’ I ask, more nervously than I’ve ever voiced a question before.
‘He’s completely fine. But because he’s a month premature, we need to put him into a special ward where we can monitor him for the next day or so.’
‘Why, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing – nothing at all to worry about.’ He smiles reassuringly. ‘He’s just a little frail, so we need to be cautious. Baby is underweight because he’s pre-term, but he’s heavy and strong enough to survive and flourish. We just need to give him the best of starts and make sure there’s no risk of infection.’
‘I understand.’
‘We need to take him now,’ says the Irish nurse who was looking after him.
I don’t want to give him up. His skin against my skin is so heavenly it is beyond description.
‘We have to give him fluids,’ she adds. ‘You’ll be able to have him back, very soon.’
I raise my precious bundle, scared to death that I might in that short distance break him, drop him or somehow injure him. And then I realise something. Something that causes me to cry. ‘I’m not making milk. I have no milk to feed him.’
‘You will,’ says Mr Christopher, sympathetically. ‘You’re a new mum, so it will take a few days. Don’t worry.’
‘Do you have a name for him?’ asks the nurse.
And now I’m thrown again. I’ve thought of lots over the past few months. Thought of so many I’ve been unable to pick one.
‘You don’t have to say, right now,’ she adds. ‘For the moment, we’ll just put a band on him that says Baby Johnson. There are no other Johnsons on the unit at the moment so it’ll be fine.’
Johnson.
The name I checked in under. The name I hope is right for my child.
I watch her carry him to the other side of the room, where she lays him down on a cold mat and puts the ID on him. Baby Johnson cries.
My son cries.
And so do I.
126
Annie
It’s Friday. Friday morning. Friday is a good day in the world of the British judicial process. No other morning of the week possesses the power that Friday morning possesses. Barristers like to get away early, to go to their country homes for the weekends. Judges like to tidy things up, to end cases, so they can have a clean break and a mental rest before being allocated a new case to read up on. Jurors in long-running cases like this one, seldom fancy another weekend far away from home and another week of not running their own businesses or missing out on overtime or work bonuses.
In short, Friday is the day that everyone involved in a court case is most willing to come to a decision.
My sister, son and granddaughter have been in London for the past two days. The police have special deals with some of the cheaper hotels, so they’ve been down to do touristy things, see Buckingham Palace, ride the London Eye and catch a musical.
‘How’s Dee doing?’ asks Nisha, who’s also come down, in the hope of seeing the case end.
‘Really good. It’s still early days, but she’s had her follow-up treatments and so far, so good.’
‘Does that mean the cancer’s all gone?’
I cringe a little. ‘She’s in what the oncologist says is “partial remission”. It means she doesn’t need any more chemo – for the moment – because there are no visible signs of the cancer. But I think it’ll be another six months of monitoring before they say she’s in “complete remission”, which is about as close to a clean bill of health as the doctors will ever give you.’
‘And did Tom and Polly enjoy Matilda last night?’
‘Loved it. Almost as much as I did. He’s thinking of taking her to see Gangsta Granny today.’
‘Doesn’t she see a gangster granny every day?’
We both laugh. Then I share something that’s been preying on my mind. ‘Tomorrow we’re going to Thorpe Cloud to scatter Lily’s ashes. I’m kind of dreading it.’
Nisha grabs my arm. ‘You’ll be fine when it happens. You’ll go into full matriarchal mode and guide everyone through it.’
The door opens and our usher appears. ‘They’re coming back in again.’
We no longer move with the enthusiasm, speed and hope that previous announcements prompted. As I take my place in the pews below the elevated benches, I brace myself for disappointment.
Darrius Lypton looks physically and emotionally drained. His shoulders droop, his eyes are red and his once smartly combed head of hair is now a finger-scratched mess.
‘Have you reached verdicts on all counts?’ asks Judge Barrows.
‘We have, Your Honour,’ he replies in a strained voice.
Barrows optimistically hikes a bushy white eyebrow. ‘And are these all unanimous or majority verdicts of at least ten to two?’
‘They are, Your Honour.’
‘Very
good, then let’s hear them.’
The court clerk, a red-haired man with a ruddy face, reads the charges and prompts the responses. ‘On the first charge of being concerned in the importation of Category A controlled drugs, how do you find the defendant, Ashley Crewe?’
Lypton licks his dry lips. ‘We find him - not guilty.’
An audible gasp erupts from the public gallery. ‘Jesus Christ,’ I whisper in shock to Nisha and Goodwin. ‘I didn’t expect that.’
Ashley Crewe smiles smugly across the room at me.
‘On the second charge,’ continues the clerk, ‘the murder of Detective Inspector Charles York, how do you find the defendant?’
I hold my breath. Fear the worst.
‘Not guilty,’ says Lypton.
‘Shit!’ mutters Goodwin. ‘This piece of crap is going to get off.’
Unemotionally, the clerk plods on. ‘On the third charge, the attempted murder of Detective Inspector Ananya Parker, how do you find the defendant?’
Nisha grips my arm in support.
‘Not guilty.’
I can’t help but look across the room. Ashley Crewe is now laughing. Not smirking. Not grinning. Full-blown laughter.
I say nothing. I’m too stunned by the verdicts to be as angry as I should.
The clerk presses on. ‘On the fourth charge, that of rape, how do you find the defendant?’
Lypton takes a breath. ‘Guilty.’
For a second, I am not sure I heard him correctly.
‘Guilty,’ echoes Goodwin in a triumphant whisper. ‘We have the bastard.’
Crewe looks shell-shocked. No laughter now. Not a hint of a smile.
‘On the fifth charge, that of the murder of Daniel Smith, how do you find the defendant?’ asks the clerk.
‘Guilty,’ replies Lypton.
‘Wow!’ says Nisha.
Wow indeed, I think to myself, as I watch Ashley Crewe reel from the knockout punch.
Rape and murder. Those convictions should be enough to see him spend the rest of his days in prison. But I wonder whether this judge has the stomach to be as tough as I want him to be? For the rape, he could give as little as eight years, or as much as life. For the murder, he has to give a ‘life’ sentence but that could come with a minimum recommendation of fifteen years. I am not even thinking how lightly he could escape on the fraudulent passport charge.
‘Ashley Crewe,’ says Judge Barrows in a solemn tone, ‘you have been found guilty of two of the most serious crimes known to humanity. I intend to sentence you today, but I require a short recess before doing so. After which, I will also deal with the sentencing of the co-defendant, Ronald Croft.’
‘The court will rise,’ announces the clerk.
‘He’s not smiling now, is he?’ I say to Goodwin as Crewe leans towards the tempered security glass at the front of the dock and gestures angrily to his QC.
127
Paula
Baby Johnson weighs two-point-two kilos.
He doesn’t yet have a first name, but what he does have is a fluffy head of dark hair and gorgeous bright blue eyes. His wrists and ankles are pitifully thin and I can’t stop looking at him or touching his velvety skin. We both had a night of broken sleep and I’m now so used to his cry that I am sure I could pick it out amongst a hundred other babies.
My little angel is sleeping in his incubator in a ward next door but I am awake, and, as exhausted as I am, I have to stay awake because, contrary to medical advice, I’ve fixed for a number of people to come to see me.
The hospital has been very helpful. They’re allowing me, for a small fee of course, to meet my guests in a conference room normally reserved for staff meetings or client presentations. The only condition they have insisted upon is that I am pushed in a wheelchair to and from the room.
Hospital administrator, Susan Foxton, a smiley redhead in her mid-thirties, opens my door and announces, ‘The last of your visitors has arrived, Mrs Johnson. Shall I have you taken to them?’
‘Please.’ My heart skips in anticipation of what is going to unfold.
Within the minute, a hospital orderly called Samuel appears, while I’m staring in a mirror and thinking how pale I look. I’m wearing a pink flowery maternity dress that already feels ridiculously large but my feet are swollen so it’s incongruously matched with fluffy white slippers.
Samuel wheels me down a maze of identical corridors before we reach a non-medical and more administrative area. He opens the door and as we enter four men get to their feet.
First to greet me are Finnian Docherty and Terry Mellenby. Beside Fin is a chubby small man in a grey pinstripe suit. ‘Eric Dale,’ he says in a Yorkshire accent. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ We shake hands politely.
I turn my attention to the fourth man, the one hanging back awkwardly, his left hand on the conference table as though it were dry land and he a swimmer too nervous to let go.
‘Hello, Martin,’ I say gently. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘How are you, Sarah?’ he asks, almost sadly.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ I answer, in a more perfunctory tone than intended. We haven’t seen each other since we split up outside the police station in Chipping Norton after Danny had withdrawn his statement. I haven’t spoken to him since Fin told me about his son in Switzerland. I’ve rung, of course. Left messages even, saying I think he’s been honourable and kind in his actions and has nothing to feel ashamed of, but he hasn’t returned my calls.
‘I’ve already introduced myself,’ says Dale, blocking my view of anyone but him. ‘Mr Johnson knows exactly why I am here.’
Fin Docherty eases him aside so he can address me confidentially. ‘Do you think I could have a moment alone with you?’
‘Afterwards,’ I tell him, my eyes still on the man who owns my heart.
‘It would be better if we could speak, before this all gets under way,’ Fin says insistently.
‘Okay,’ I answer reluctantly.
He turns to the room and raises his voice. ‘Would everyone else mind stepping outside, please?’ he looks to Samuel, ‘You too, I’ll look after her.’
’I’ll be fine,’ I tell him and he slopes away.
There are murmured objections from the others, but slowly they gather papers and coats and leave.
Fin waits until the door closes, then pulls up a chair so he’s close to me and asks, ‘Your first marriage, to Danny in Gretna. Do you remember the name of the registrar who signed your certificate?’
I’m thrown by this sudden rewind of my personal history. ‘No. Of course I don’t. I was sixteen. The whole service lasted less than twenty minutes - and I never saw him again.’
‘His name was Jonathon McDonald,’ says Fin. ‘He officiated at more than six hundred weddings in Gretna, and it’s definitely his name that’s signed on your certificate.’
‘Is this leading somewhere?’ I say almost angrily.
‘Yes, it is. McDonald wasn’t your registrar.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I say irritably. ‘You just told me he was.’
‘No, I didn’t. I said it was his name on your form. A man called Alistair Thornley officiated at your service and pretended to be McDonald.’
‘You mean he deputised?’
‘No. I mean Thornley wasn’t a real registrar. He was a fraud.’
‘What?’
Fin dips a hand into his jacket pocket and produces a folded document. ‘This is an affidavit one of my associates obtained late last night from Thornley.’ He passes it to me, and continues, ‘At the time you were in Gretna, he was a handyman, working at the old blacksmith’s. Apparently, he and his mates were drinking in the pub that Danny rushed into when you arrived in the town too late for your wedding slot.’
‘I remember that,’ I say, looking over the document.
‘Danny asked the pub where he could find someone to marry him and his girlfriend. Thornley told him he was in luck, as he was a registrar, and that in return for fifty quid, cash i
n hand, he’d open up the wedding venue and officiate. Which he did.’ He taps the affidavit in my hands. ‘All of which means your registrar was actually an electrician and your witnesses were his chippy and plasterer.’
‘Shit.’ I shut my eyes and try to let it all sink in.
‘Thornley’s admitted it, Paula. It’s all in that statement you’re holding.’
‘So - I wasn’t really married to Danny?’ I ask, sounding as confused as I feel. ‘Not ever.’
‘No, you weren’t,’ he says brightly.
A lot of doubts and questions start to surface. I shake the affidavit. ‘What if he’s lying, Fin? Just making this up.’
‘He’s not,’ he says earnestly. ‘When the police charged you with bigamy I started to look for a loophole, a technicality, a mistake in the marriage procedure. I traced the M10 form, the Marriage Notice Application Form that you had to complete and send to the registrar to get a wedding slot. John McDonald, being very professional, had got all the appropriate documentation ready and had it waiting for you – and him - to sign. Only you never showed up because you were late. So it sat on top of his desk when he locked up and went home. Thornley simply used those forms and faked McDonald’s signature. I’ve compared them and confirmed the forgery with both men.’
‘With McDonald as well?’
‘Yes, of course. I have an affidavit from McDonald to support everything.’
‘Isn’t Thornley going to get into trouble for admitting all this?’
‘He is. If the authorities prosecute.’
‘So why admit it?’
‘Too many locals know the truth for him to deny it. And anyway, I told him we’d pay any fines and defence costs if it goes to court.’
The journey to Gretna comes back to me. Danny looked the most handsome man on earth that day. Despite the delay, the ceremony went smoothly. There’d been nothing amateur or clumsy about it. ‘I remember the service, Fin. Remember the registrar was very relaxed, maybe a bit ‘happy’ from the pub, but nothing that he said or did seemed unusual to me. He seemed very professional.’
Dead and Gone Page 38
