by John Fairfax
‘But we have no evidence,’ said Tess. ‘No one would believe Debbie Bealing. Amanda Grange only spoke off the record because her husband’s got lung cancer. Chemo and the rest. They don’t want me adding to the pressure. So she won’t make a statement, and neither will her husband. Neither will Felbridge and Winchley. Neither will Kingsley Obiora. They’re all scared and they all want nothing to do with the trial.’
Benson checked Artillery Passage again, his eyes scanning the windows and entrance.
‘We can’t let them go,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to get them into court.’
For a long while they pondered that unlikely outcome in silence. Tess was uneasy. She might have raced around London, hunting the reluctant and the scared, but she’d kept her eye on the ball.
‘Collingstone’s DNA is on that bottle,’ she said.
‘So you keep saying,’ said Benson.
‘And it doesn’t matter if the Triads, the Yardies and the Hamilton family were after Bealing. Collingstone could still have got there first.’
‘She could and maybe she did, but she says she didn’t.’ Benson finished his beer and checked his watch. ‘I’m off to chambers. Don’t worry about Sarah’s DNA. Just find a way of getting Grange to swear and sign a statement. And the others. And while you’re at it, check out Wellborn’s death.’
Tess watched him thread his way to the door in his worn blue duffel coat. He then threaded his way back, and said, ‘I meant to say “Please”. I’m sorry.’
On leaving Grapeshots, he looked left and right and then moved quickly on.
‘He’s out of sorts,’ said Archie. ‘Has been all day.’
Tess fished the lemon slice out of her gin. ‘He can’t even walk down the street without thinking someone might whack him. Do you know he gets assaulted by these mindless thugs and he never retaliates?’
Archie said he did; and Tess remarked that it was strange that Benson never seemed to want to hit back. That he accepted the abuse as if it were a kind of unofficial punishment. Something he deserved. Archie didn’t pick up her lead. He remained hooked on his own preoccupation. ‘Something happened today,’ he said.
‘What, exactly?’
‘I don’t know for sure. Maybe it was Court One. Maybe it was the memory of Paul Harbeton. But he turned round, totally at ease, and then, bang. I’ve never seen him look so spooked.’
Archie went back to Congreve’s and the ring-binder for 2014. Tess, on the other hand, drove over to Seymour Road by the Regent’s Canal. The street was deserted. The orange light from the streetlamps gave a soft sheen to the uneven paving flags, the old brickwork and the iron railings. It was a charming spot. One of those hidden corners of London. As she had expected, more rubbish had been dumped at Benson’s gate. Gingerly, she gathered up the mess and threw it in a waste bin.
20
At Glencoyne’s request the court usher took a long coat out of a transparent plastic bag and laid it on the exhibits table before the jury. He removed a hat from an identical bag and did the same thing. Each item had a card attached to it. On each card was a number. The hat and coat belonged to Sarah Collingstone. They’d been found by the police during a search of the defendant’s property on Monday, 16 February 2015.
‘Mrs Jonson, would you kindly come out of the witness stand and take a careful look at the clothing on the table, please.’
Mrs Jonson did as she was asked and then resumed her place. Glencoyne continued her questioning. This sprightly, blue-rinsed, diminutive seventy-six-year-old in thick glasses had an excellent memory. Everything she said tallied with her statement. She was precise and confident. Benson wasn’t sure who was in charge, Glencoyne or Mrs Jonson.
‘That’s what I said, Miss Glencoyne. I said six o’clock because I meant six o’clock.’
‘Of course, I apologise.’
‘I looked out of my window and I saw a woman walking towards the main entrance of Hopton’s Yard. She was wearing a multi-coloured coat. She was also wearing a hat.’ Jonson pointed towards the exhibits table. ‘That is the precise style of coat she was wearing, and that is the precise style of hat.’
‘Could you be mistaken?’
‘No, Miss Glencoyne, I could not.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it is a distinctive coat. I have never seen anything like it. In my view it is gaudy. It’s red and blue and green and yellow and orange. There’s every colour under the sun. It is altogether memorable.’
‘And the hat?’
‘The shape is nondescript. But again, the colours are numerous. I recognise it without any doubt whatsoever.’
‘I’m grateful, can we just linger a while on what you saw?’
‘Well, of course, that’s why I am here.’
‘What was the weather like?’
‘It had been snowing. There was a well-trodden path to the main office building, and tyre tracks, too, of course, from those infernal wagons and what not.’
‘Was the street lighting on?’
‘No, but the area was exceptionally well lit. Mr Bealing had the most awful bright lights installed. The sort of thing I remember from my childhood during the war, to spot the bombers. The Germans would have seen Hopton’s Yard from Berlin if they’d only looked. It was a safety measure, according to Mr Bealing. The whole entrance was lit up.’
‘Thank you. My lord, the position is this. The defendant has served written admissions as to the following: the coat and hat belong to her; she attended Hopton’s Yard at about 6 p.m. wearing both items. In her defence statement she states that she left the premises at about 6.30 p.m. The Crown does not accept this last assertion.’
‘Thank you, Miss Glencoyne. The defendant’s case, then, is that the person who killed Andrew Bealing must have come to Hopton’s Yard after she’d gone?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Please continue.’
‘I’m grateful. Miss Jonson—’
‘Mrs.’
‘I beg your pardon. Mrs Jonson, at what time did you go to bed?’
‘Eleven p.m. As always.’
‘Please tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury what subsequently happened.’
Mrs Jonson had been about to draw her curtains when she saw movement down in Hopton’s Yard. This was at roughly 11.35 p.m. The woman she’d seen arrive was now leaving. Mrs Jonson watched her walk all the way to Haydon Road. Some thirty-five yards in distance and, at one point, about twenty yards from her window. It was lightly snowing. Glencoyne said:
‘My lord, at this point I remind the court that Mr Bealing was attacked some time prior to eleven twenty-two in the evening.’
‘How do you arrive at such precision?’
‘That is the time when Mr Bealing attempted to make a 999 call. It seems the bloodied mobile phone was taken from his hands and put out of reach before it could be sent. The timing is consistent with the pathological evidence. It is not contested by the defence.’
Glencoyne reiterated the Crown’s case: Sarah Collingstone had arrived at 6 p.m. to talk things out with Bealing. They’d had a row. She’d stabbed him prior to 11.22 p.m. and left the way she’d come at 11.35 p.m. Mr Justice Oakshott noted the times, and said:
‘In effect you are saying that the person seen by Mrs Jonson is almost certainly the person who killed Mr Bealing?’
‘I am, my lord.’
‘Is that the end of your examination-in-chief?’
‘It is.’
‘Mr Benson?’
Benson had slipped his moorings. He couldn’t stop thinking about his brother. His mind kept straying back to the accident when they’d been inseparable, and to the trial when they’d become strangers. The impression of having seen Eddie the day before had been so real that he’d sat in Grapeshots half expecting to see him at the door in his wheelchair. He’d barely slept. Throughout the night, like now, he saw Eddie on his bike shifting like a rocket towards the main road, head down, while Benson screamed.
‘Mr Benson?’
He turned a page to mask his confusion. Then he rose, with a flap to his gown.
21
‘You are wearing glasses?’
‘I am.’
‘Were you wearing them on the night in question?’
‘I was.’
‘Would you be offended if I said your prescription must be on the strong side?’
‘Certainly not. I’d go further, without them I couldn’t see the nose in front of my face.’
‘And with them?’
‘I can see as far as . . .’
‘Berlin?’
‘Don’t be facetious, Mr Benson. My eyesight is not in issue.’
‘I’m afraid it is. Can you confirm that you were wearing them at 6 p.m. and at 11.35 p.m.?’
‘I can.’
‘You didn’t change them for reading glasses?’
‘I wasn’t reading.’
‘Do you clean your own windows?’
‘At my age? No. Mr Sullivan comes round on Tuesdays.’
‘Four days before you saw that unforgettable hat and coat?’
‘Yes, that must be right.’
‘The windows can’t have been clean. Those infernal wagons send filth everywhere.’
‘They do. But you haven’t seen those big lights at Hopton’s Yard. It’s like a stage when they’re lit. I saw your client, Mr Benson.’
‘I know you did. We’re agreed on that. What time do the bomber lights go off?’
‘Nine p.m.’
‘Thereafter the entrance to Hopton’s Yard is covered by street lighting?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Would you take a look at these photographs, please?’
Benson handed enlarged images to the clerk, who gave them to the judge, the jury and Glencoyne.
‘Can you confirm that this is the streetlamp at the entrance to Hopton’s Yard?’
‘That’s the one. It’s been there for years. It was there when George and I bought our house. And you ought to know, Mr Benson, that it throws a strong, bright light. We can see it through the curtains.’
‘I’m sure you can. Just out of interest, do you know Kym Hamilton?’
‘Yes. Since she first came to Hopton’s.’
Benson checked Mrs Jonson’s witness statement. A lot rested upon the questions he would now ask, and the answers he’d receive. He took a sip of water, and mentally he fell on his knees hoping not to strike a mine . . . one of those spiky things that floated in the Channel when Mrs Jonson was a little girl.
22
Tess began her day with a cold call to Felbridge Logistics. But fidgeting Belinda said Jack was away for the week. So Tess left her contact details and went to the main office of the Alington Trust in Camberwell.
Paula O’Neill confirmed Sarah’s account in every detail. She’d first approached the Trust in May 2014 and they referred her to Mr Bealing. It was all part of a well-established routine. Mr Bealing would ring up if he had a vacancy and the Trust, subject to the Equal Opportunities Act, would offer a candidate to fill it. Mr Bealing had been looking for an assistant manager. Sarah got the job.
Tess then contacted Luke Baker, the accident investigator who’d been brought in by the police to examine the death of Hugh Wellborn. She’d tracked him down after tracing the officer who handled the case. They spoke on the phone.
‘Sad case,’ he said. ‘But not that surprising.’
‘Why?’
‘The locus in quo was a death trap for anyone speeding. Still is. There’s been lots of accidents there. You’ll see signs and chevron barriers and flashing lights, but the problem is the camber. It tilts the wrong way . . . ever so slightly . . . so if you fly into it, you spin over. Nothing you can do to prevent it.’
Tess tried to get foul play off the ground. She really did. But Luke Baker had no doubt this was an ordinary accident. Nothing suspicious. Nothing mysterious. If Wellborn had been chased off the road, the chasing car would have gone flying as well.
She hung up and went back to Thornbury Road, and the flat of Kingsley Obiora, hoping to bring him round. The door was opened by a young woman in her teens chewing gum. She was Kingsley’s daughter, it turned out. Her name was Abigail. She made coffee in a tiny, spotless kitchenette.
‘Ma mum’s gone, right. Found another fella. I’ve only got ma dad and I want him back, okay?’
‘I just want to talk to him for a short while.’
‘Well, he doesn’t want to talk to you. Do you want some sugar?’
‘No thanks.’
She lit up, blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth. Purple lipstick had stuck to the filter.
‘I don’t know anything, okay. All I know is ma dad won’t come back until this trial is over. He says it’s best for him and best for me, and he told me to tell you to leave us all alone.’
‘Abigail, have you ever been accused of something you didn’t do?’
She thought for a minute, chewing and smoking at the same time. ‘I’ve got away with things and I’ve been done a few times, but I know how to look after myself.’
‘Well, not everyone does. And Sarah Collingstone is a mother, only she hasn’t gone off with another fella. She’s stayed with her son, who’s sustained brain damage, with only her dad for help. And now she’s in court for a crime she says she didn’t commit. On my own I can’t help her. But with your dad I might be able to. Give him this, will you?’
Tess handed over her business card.
‘He can call me night or day. I’m not going to force him to do anything. But what he tells me might help all the same. It’s urgent. This trial will end in a few days. If my client is convicted, I don’t know what will happen to her son. Unlike you, he can’t look after himself. Think about it, will you? Talk to your dad.’
Abigail bit the chewing gum and stretched it with the hand that held the cigarette. She was thinking. Weighing things up.
‘Look, it’s not what you think, okay?’ she said, chewing again. ‘Nothing’s illegal. It’s cool. Hopton’s looked the other way, that’s all.’ She flicked ash into the sink. ‘Hopton’s were shifting legal highs, that’s it.’
‘Come on, I need more.’
‘This is between us, okay? I don’t want ma dad going down or anythink. Ma mum’s gone, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Ma dad was shelving some boxes, right. At Hopton’s. And one of them fell off the forklift. It split open and these little plastic bags fell out. They were meant to be herb tea. That’s what was written on the box, right, but they were Spice.’
Tess understood instantly. Abigail’s dad had probably helped himself to a handful. And every time the boxes of tea were delivered he’d take a few more. Never too much. Just enough for personal use.
‘He didn’t give any to you, did he?’
Abigail ran the tap to clean away the ash. ‘They were legal, okay?’
‘Did your dad’s boss know about these wrongly marked boxes?’
‘Yeah. He was there when it fell off the forklift. Told my dad to tape the box and forget it.’
‘When was this, Abigail?’
‘Last year, like.’
‘When?’
‘January or something.’
‘Did your dad know where these boxes came from?’
Abigail shrugged and ran a tap on the cigarette stub. ‘Will you leave ma dad alone now? He’s done nothing wrong, okay? Everything was legal. But if he gets lifted he could be done for theft, right? And he’s looking for work, okay? He’s been on the dole since Hopton’s closed.’
‘Abigail, your dad wouldn’t be done for theft. Tell him to call me, will you? I won’t force him to do anything.’
Tess climbed into her Mini and checked her mobile. There was a text from Gordon Hayward: ‘Douglas Coker wants to see you ASAP.’
Douglas was the senior and founding partner of the firm. He’d lured Tess back to London from abroad and given her a dream job that many would die for. He was also her godfather. But, being absolute
ly professional, he hadn’t contacted Tess directly, but gone through a department head. Which meant it was professional and not personal. And since Gordon was head of the criminal law department, she could easily imagine what Douglas might want to talk about. She switched on the radio and caught John Humphrys chairing a discussion on a news item that Douglas had probably tracked already. She listened for a while, before pulling away, intrigued.
A second online petition had been started in relation to William Benson, though not linked to any newspaper. It was called ‘Everyone Deserves a Second Chance’. There were 3437 signatories already. Which was quite low, really, observed Mr Humphrys, when you considered that 9.2 million people in the UK had a criminal record, with 85,000 of them presently incarcerated.
Tess had a sudden intuition. If the sleeping giant woke, Richard Merrington MP might have to think twice about his emergency legislation.
23
‘Mrs Jonson, you were a primary school teacher for forty-three years, is that right?’ said Benson.
‘Forty-three wonderful years, thank you.’
‘Did you ever do experiments mixing colours?’
‘Year in year out.’
‘With paint?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about light?’
‘Well, of course I did. How else do you learn about the colours of the rainbow?’
‘Take a look at Sarah Collingstone’s coat of many colours. Where were you first asked to examine it?’
‘At the police station with Detective Chief Inspector Derek Winter of the Merton CID.’
‘Can you tell us exactly what happened?’
‘I was shown into a large room. Fifteen different multi-coloured hats and coats had been laid out on three tables. I think they were worried, Mr Benson. They all thought I might get confused. But they were wrong. With these glasses I can see anything. And I picked out the hat and coat immediately.’
‘So the record demonstrates. Was the room well lit?’
‘Perfectly . . . with natural light.’
