Summary Justice_An all-action court drama

by John Fairfax

  ‘Was Mr Bealing drinking from a bottle of beer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you drink from a bottle of beer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you tell any other employee in advance about that meeting?’

  ‘Yes. Anna Wysocki.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I told her I was going to get the manuals sorted out. She’d made me promise.’

  ‘You say you left about half an hour later?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘How do you explain being seen there at 11.35 p.m.?’

  ‘I can’t. It wasn’t me. I was at home. Here with my dad and Daniel.’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘Listening to a story.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The Longridge File. My father had just recorded it.’

  ‘Did you ever go into the warehouse at Hopton’s Yard?’

  ‘Yes, but only once or twice.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To speak to Andrew . . . Mr Bealing.’

  ‘You can call him Andrew. Did you ever handle any of the foodstuffs stored on the shelves?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Are you absolutely sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You never touched a beer bottle in a crate? Take one out just to look at the label?’

  ‘No, never. That wasn’t my job. I was always on the road, visiting the outlets . . . checking how things were going, taking orders. I touched nothing. Not even in the shops.’

  Tess was intrigued. Sarah had turned down several chances to lie. Turned down the chance to explain away a critical piece of evidence. An explanation the prosecution would be unable to contradict. Benson sipped his coffee and said:

  ‘Your DNA is on the bottleneck that killed Andrew Bealing.’

  ‘But it can’t be.’

  ‘It can, and it is.’

  ‘Couldn’t there be some mistake . . . at the laboratory or something?’

  ‘No. This isn’t a case of sample contamination. Your DNA is there.’

  Sarah didn’t reply. She covered her face with her hands. Benson sipped more coffee.

  ‘Why the last-minute holiday to France?’

  ‘I needed a break.’

  ‘From Daniel?’

  ‘No. Anna Wysocki.’

  ‘Andrew Bealing helped you, didn’t he?’

  Sarah sniffed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘He made your life easier? A life that’s been hard, at times?’

  ‘Very hard, Mr Benson. But I’m not complaining. I have a wonderful—’

  ‘He changed everything overnight.’

  She nodded. Benson handed her a tissue, pulled from his pocket.

  ‘Did you ever kiss Andrew?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hold his hand?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fall in love with him?’

  ‘No, no . . .’

  ‘Did you ever – just once after a bad day when you should have known better – did you ever have sex with Andrew Bealing?’

  ‘No, no, no.’

  ‘Are you single?’

  Sarah, for once, laughed, but not with pleasure. ‘I’ll always be single, Mr Benson.’

  But Benson fired back: ‘On Wednesday the 14th of January of this year – that’s a month before the murder – you wrote another email timed at 4.46 p.m. You wrote, “Remember your promise.” What promise?’

  ‘To speak to that damned Anna Wysocki about the damned manuals and about damned training days, about a slippery floor in the storeroom, about the low lighting in the corridor, about a mat for the entrance, about . . . O god, I just can’t remember it all any more.’

  For the first time Benson opened his blue notebook. Rather than write anything down, he detached a page, careful to follow the line of perforations.

  ‘I’ve prepared a series of questions, Sarah. I’d like you to write down the answers and scan them to me by tonight. Is that possible?’

  She nodded. She was exhausted.

  ‘Try not to worry,’ said Benson, bringing all his papers into one pile – papers he hadn’t touched and which had functioned like a low wall between him and the client; papers he’d memorised. ‘Remember, it’s my job in court, not yours.’

  * * *

  Tess and Benson scouted round Sarah Collingstone’s part of the world. They paused to look at the sewage works. And Tess rehearsed Sarah Collingstone’s remark that she’d always be single. Because it underlined the Crown’s strongest point. If someone with a history like Sarah Collingstone latched on to a person, they might never let go. And if it turned out that she’d been used and abandoned, she wouldn’t just go for a cocktail. She’d boil a dog.

  For completeness, Tess didn’t agree with Benson on the merits of Jaffa’s advice. Taken with other data, back gardens were a useful tool of analysis. In Tess’s experience, neat and tidy people could be exceptionally violent. The order was just a desperate attempt to control their emotional instability.

  10

  ‘I know the DNA isn’t going to go away,’ said Benson.

  ‘Doesn’t that tell you anything?’ Tess was insistent.

  ‘For the moment, no. We can’t explain how it got there, that’s all. As a matter of logic, it doesn’t follow that she killed Bealing. That’s an inference—’

  ‘A powerful inference.’

  ‘And as long as we’re dealing with inference we have a chance.’

  ‘A sliver of a wafer?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  He was standing by the window looking through the blinds on to Artillery Passage. People were lingering to read the new sign on the wall, a blackboard with lettering in white paint: ‘Congreve Chambers. Mr William Benson Esq. Clerk: Mr A. Congreve Esq.’ These were the only barrister’s chambers in England where it was absolutely clear who worked for whom. Archie was the boss. Sort of. Encouraged by the curious faces, Benson said, ‘We can’t just say she didn’t do it. We’ve got to find another candidate. Give the jury someone else to blame.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Archie. Like his four sisters, Archie’s frame showed an obdurate affection for pies and puddings. Not to mention biscuits. And Mr Kipling’s cakes. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing arms like boiled hams. ‘We’ve run out of time.’

  ‘No, we haven’t,’ said Benson, leading the way into his study. ‘All we have to do is find a passer-by in the trial, someone with a close link to Bealing. We don’t have to prove anything. All we have to do is point the finger.’

  No one visiting could ever have guessed that seafood had been sold from these premises for over a hundred years. The steel counter had gone. So had the chalk and blackboard. And the smell of salt. And the chill from the ice. All that remained were the old ceramic wall tiles, glazed white squares with blue drawings, handmade in Portugal. Roman blinds covered the shopfront windows. There was a tatty schoolmaster’s desk for Archie and creaking wooden chairs for any clients. The only throwback to former days was Harold, a 125-year-old Atlantic lobster in a large tank of water. He’d watched over the premises since the very beginning, when Charles ‘Bobbie’ Congreve – ‘CB’ – had first opened his shop. CJ wouldn’t hear of his eviction. And neither would Archie: they were childhood friends.

  The back room – where the gutting and scaling had taken place – was now Benson’s study. Layers of paint had been scraped off the ornate plasterwork. The oak floorboards had been scrubbed and sealed. Another desk – a damned expensive relic from a ship captain’s cabin – underlined the period charm. Books filled the arched alcoves. Halsbury’s Statutes. Archbold. The All England Law Reports. The Weeklies. Journals on this. Textbooks on that. And more. The lot. All a barrister would need to practise on his own.

  ‘I’ll check Sarah’s story with the Alington Trust,’ said Tess, dropping into a worn-out leather armchair.

  ‘And let’s get on to the local haulage competition,’ said Benson. ‘They’re all after the same work. They know if someone’
s running a scam. They know if someone’s rubbed someone up the wrong way. There are two outfits nearby, Felbridge Logistics and Winchley Transport Limited—’

  ‘I’ll contact them,’ said Tess.

  ‘Archie, any progress on the names?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve made calls. The Tuesday Club is on to it.’

  Tess frowned so Archie explained, hitching baggy brown cords to sit on a large iron radiator. ‘It’s a private members-only club of highly skilled people . . . specialists in computers, business management, finance, forgery . . .’

  Benson took over: ‘Discreet surveillance, background checks, home security.’

  ‘All sorts have joined,’ said Archie. ‘Doctors, dentists, street cleaners.’

  ‘Even fishmongers and students of philosophy.’

  ‘All unemployed. They meet every Tuesday to solve the world’s problems.’

  Tess, smiling wryly, got the message, so Benson moved on, pointing to a row of ring-binders on the floor: ‘Bealing had three companies: Hopton Transport, Hopton Imports and Hopton Residential Holdings. The files contain the numbers. Sales and purchases. Expenses. Tax returns. Contracts. Everything. This is going to be a ball-breaker, Archie, but you’ve got to go through the lot with a toothcomb.’

  ‘Looking for?’

  ‘Unpaid debts. Enemies. A reason to kill.’

  Archie nodded.

  ‘Look for any dishonesty, too. The Crown’s case theory is that he was a good guy killed by a poor woman. It might help if we found out he was a charlatan. Charlatans have—’

  ‘Enemies.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What about Debbie Bealing?’ said Tess.

  ‘We’ve got to speak to her,’ said Benson. ‘The Crown can’t call her because she doesn’t agree that her husband was having an affair. I’d like to call her if we could. There’s Roger Grange as well, Tess. Bealing’s financial manager. Claims to know nothing about anything. He hardly co-operated with the police. Let’s find out why.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘What about you, Rizla?’

  ‘Archie, you’ve got to snap out of it. I’m not even “Will” or “William”. In front of the clients I’m “Mr Benson”.’

  ‘Sorry. I keep forgetting.’

  ‘And you’ve got to sound as if you’re slightly overawed, all right?’

  ‘I’m trying, honestly.’

  ‘We can’t have people thinking I’m going to roll a burn at any moment.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Read up on Bowker.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Marshall Hall’s clerk. Hall was a giant of the Old Bailey, and Bowker his trusted friend, but there’s a touch of willing servant.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘No, seriously. These days senior clerks are managing directors, CEOs . . . it’s big business and corporate sheen. We don’t want that. We want something of the Bar that’s been thrown away – the one bit that every rogue wanted to keep. Strange traditions. Okay. Archie?’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Benson. What will Mr Benson be doing this afternoon?’

  ‘A site visit. I want to see where Bealing was killed. How about we meet back here at seven?’ Benson sighed. ‘You don’t have to bow. This isn’t Bleak House. And, Archie . . . look the part, will you? Go to Ede and Ravenscroft and get the gear. Striped trousers with front pleats. Black waistcoat and jacket. White shirt and dark tie.’

  Ignoring another bow, Benson shrugged on his old blue duffel coat.

  11

  Hopton Transport Limited was situated at Hopton’s Yard on Haydon’s Road, Merton. From here, starting in 1966, Joe Hopton had built a thriving business. His daughter, Debbie, went on to marry an ambitious driver, Andrew Bealing. With Joe’s blessing, Bealing expanded the business into imports and real estate. By the time of Joe’s death in 2013, the family net worth was something like £9.8 million. The value of the estate was unknown to Benson because the whole lot had been sold by Debbie Bealing in a rush of grief. Whatever the final figure, the wealth had been generated by Andrew Bealing. And the hub of everything had been here, at Hopton’s Yard.

  The place had been sold to a developer a couple of months back. All the curtain-siders, artics and flat beds had gone, returned to leaseholders or sold to former competitors. The low buildings had been boarded up. The iron gates were chained together. A guard in heavy black boots ambled around, seemingly led by the whims of an Alsatian on a leash.

  ‘Can I have a look around?’ said Benson, through the bars of the gate.

  ‘Sorry, mate.’

  ‘I’m a lawyer who’s—’

  ‘Makes no difference to me.’

  Benson spotted the crude tattoos on the man’s wrists. The pencil-dot tattoo high on the left cheek. ‘Look, I’m that barrister Rizla. The one they want to shut down. Give me a break, will you? I’m representing the woman accused of murder.’

  ‘You’re the brief who did time?’

  ‘I’m a lifer. I’m always doing time.’

  The gates opened and Benson set to work.

  He began his reconstruction of the killing in the main office building. First, though, he threw a packet of cigarettes into an oil drum filled with water.

  The ground-floor reception room was empty now, but it was here that Bealing’s assistants, Kym Hamilton and Tina Sheldon, had handled all the calls and paperwork. Benson looked outside through the peephole in the main door, the way he’d just entered. Bealing must have done the same thing on the evening of Saturday, the 14th of February 2015. According to Hamilton and Sheldon, he wouldn’t have opened the door unless he recognised the caller.

  Sarah Collingstone’s DNA and fingerprints had been found on the handle.

  Benson walked from the door, past Kym and Tina’s domain, to Bealing’s office. It, too, had been cleared. A large window looked on to the reception area. Another window looked on to the warehouse. He closed his eyes, remembering the police photographs. A conversation of some kind had taken place in here. An argument had developed. The theory was that Bealing had told her the affair was over. He’d left the room and Collingstone, in a frenzy of rage, had picked up an open bottle of beer, smashed it on the edge of the desk, and gone after him.

  The shattered base, and spillage, had been found on the floor; but no blood. Bealing’s DNA and fingerprints were on parts of the glass.

  Benson went out of the office, turning left, away from the entrance area. He went down a corridor leading to the warehouse. This was probably where the fatal blow had been delivered, by the door.

  The photographs showed blood sprayed upon the left-hand wall. Bloody fingerprints and smudges were streaked across the door. This was Bealing’s blood. Fragments of bottle glass had been trodden into the fibres of the carpet. But nothing linked Sarah Collingstone to this specific place, where the attack had taken place. None of her fingerprints or DNA had been found on the wall, the door, or its handle.

  So, injured and bleeding, Bealing had opened the door to the warehouse.

  Benson followed the imagined figure as he gasped and stumbled away from his attacker. Spilling blood, he’d reeled left and right for thirty-five yards before collapsing between the prongs of a forklift truck, where he bled to death. All that remained, now, were faint traces of a white chalk line, defining the outer limits of where the blood had pooled. The bottleneck had been found on the floor, dropped within a foot of the body, near the head.

  Sarah Collingstone’s DNA was on that bottleneck.

  The floor was made of smooth concrete. It had been dusty from the crates and whatnot. Bealing’s footprints had been easily identified. Parallel to them the dust had been disturbed, indicating that a second set of prints had been removed. The killer had followed the bleeding man, intending (it seemed) to ensure that he died. Bealing’s mobile phone had been found fifteen yards from the body. His bloody thumbprints had tapped out 999, but the call was never made. The killer must have taken the phone and put it out of reach just after the number
had been entered.

  Benson slowly retraced his steps, thinking of the required depth of feeling to behave in such a way. It would have taken years to accumulate and it would always fester just below the surface. He had seen many such people in prison. They did dreadful things. But they’d lost something of their free will . . . he came to a halt just before the door to the corridor, where a section of ribbed concrete linked the office to the warehouse. A tiny shred of red leather had been found scuffed on a rib.

  The leather came from a shoe belonging to Sarah Collingstone. It had been recovered from her home when police searched the premises on the Monday following the killing.

  Benson went outside, retrieved the cigarettes, found a dry one, and lit up. Standing by the oil drum, he smoked for a while, trying to piece together what might have happened if Sarah Collingstone had told the truth . . . but then he spotted the lamppost by the entrance and an intuition tingled in his mind. He went over to take a closer look. Satisfied, he took lots of photographs.

  ‘Good luck, Rizla,’ said the security guard, tugging at the dog.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Benson had given back the keys. They’d chewed the fat for a minute or so.

  ‘I did time, too,’ said the guard. ‘Wandsworth. The Scrubs. A few other holes.’

  ‘When did you get out?’

  ‘Ten years back. This job’s my first big break.’

  His wife did a night shift, so when he got home they only had an hour together before she had to go out. But they were both in work. It was good. He was doing his share. Benson said he was impressed.

  ‘If a wheel comes off, or you need help, just give me a call.’

  Shaking hands, Benson told him about Archie Congreve’s Tuesday Club and then passed through the gate. As the guard wound the chain through the bars, he said, ‘We never really get out, do we? We’re always going to be ex-cons. Until the day we die. Make a difference, will you? For all of us.’

  12

  In a way, Tess admired Benson’s insistence on cold logic. It was a philosopher’s point. But it was also true: Sarah Collingstone’s DNA on a murder weapon didn’t mean she’d killed Andrew Bealing. But the jury would still want to know how it got there. Without an explanation, everything Benson’s willing servants might dig up would be worthless. With that sobering thought, Tess knocked on the imposing Wimbledon door of Debbie Bealing’s house.