by Bill James
‘I could have Ambrose and his companions stopped and searched, apparently as part of routine security around the docks,’ he said. ‘That needn’t point to Martlew as our tipster. We’re only doing to those three what’s done to all sorts down there under anti-terrorism ways.’
‘And if they’re carrying?’
‘If they’re carrying we’ve got them on a gun possession charge, as starters,’ Channing said.
‘And if they’re not carrying?’
‘If they’re not, we make our apologies and say times are exceptional and we hope they understand,’ Channing said. ‘We do that every day and night.’
‘But if they’re not carrying it means Moonscape was lying about the policy change, doesn’t it?’ Esther said.
‘Well, yes, it could mean that.’
‘What else could it mean?’ Esther said. ‘Why would he do it?’
‘You think to snare Martlew?’
‘Possible? Probable?’
‘I’m to allow three men with about fifty rounds between them to behave as they want around the wharves?’ Channing said.
‘Perhaps with fifty-one rounds between them. There might be no rounds and no guns at all.’
‘We want the three to be illegally carrying, do we, because that means Martlew is safe?’
‘Undercover brings very tricky choices,’ Esther replied.
‘And we’d also like a full, firearms battle about swag, eventually, with deaths, would we, possibly including Martlew’s, even if he is a one-shot-drop?’
‘Undercover brings very tricky choices.’
‘So we leave the situation as now?’ Channing said.
‘We’re looking for a really big outcome here, Richard – the permanent wipe-out of Cormax Turton. It has to be more than just a nab for firearms possession. As retaliation goes, this is on the fireballing of Sodom and Gomorrah scale, not merely Job’s boils. As I told Dean, we mustn’t rush, mustn’t move too early.’
‘And it’s too early?’ Channing replied.
Chapter Sixteen
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I will complete my summing-up this afternoon, then send you home and ask you to return and begin to discuss your verdict tomorrow morning. I have one or two important matters still to address. First, I would like to say something about the general topic of undercover policing, or Out-location, as it is officially known. This mode of detection – for that’s what it is – can entail special difficulties and special dangers, but you should be clear that it is a wholly legitimate and, indeed, lawful practice, as long as the Out-located officer is able to keep a proper division between his police role on the one hand and, on the other, the alleged criminal activities of the group or gang he/she has been able to infiltrate. I feel it necessary to say this because the deception necessarily involved in undercover work might strike some of you as shady and distasteful, and that could colour your views in this case. It must not be so. The trial is a murder trial and you are called upon to decide only whether Ambrose Tutte Turton is guilty of the murder of Dean Martlew. Your opinion of the kind of work being done by Detective Sergeant Martlew is not relevant one way or the other.
‘You have heard police evidence that Out-location of Dean Martlew could be regarded as a last resort. What we might call conventional methods of detection had failed to establish any criminal element in the business activities of the Cormax Turton group. Nor has any criminal element been discovered subsequently. Until I ruled their argument not admissible, the Prosecution had begun to maintain that the death of Detective Sergeant Martlew was of a pattern with other cases where an Out-located officer had been murdered because of the eternal, powerful hatred and fear of undercover intrusion by a detective on a criminal gang. I should explain that I stopped the Prosecution from developing this point because it was merely general, not of proven application to this case; and, more importantly, because the argument rested on a presumption for which absolutely no evidence has been provided – I mean that Cormax Turton at any time conducted criminal operations.’
The judge giveth, the judge taketh away. During the few opening sentences in her words to the jury after lunch it had looked as though things might be turning favourable. That clear instruction to ditch any contempt for undercover work and simply decide the case for or against Ambrose Tutte Turton seemed to Esther magnificently, blatantly, intelligently helpful. Then, though, right after, came the stupid, bolshy insistence that, as far as the court knew, Cormax Turton was spotless, and, therefore, none of its management would have a reason to adopt the traditional violence of crook to spy. The phrase ‘merely general’ would glue itself into a jury’s mind. ‘Merely’ had a nasty, dismissive, raw ‘ee’, foully lingering squeak to it. And, perhaps liable to stick even stronger, came what the judge called the presumption of criminality ‘for which absolutely no evidence has been provided’: so damn blunt and sweeping and categorical, you ugly sag-tits scrubber. That fucking ‘absolutely’! Wholly intemperate. These jury members lived through the Iraq invasion and aftermath and would have become very wised up and unforgiving about presumptions for which absolutely no evidence was provided. Esther, Iles and Mr Martlew sat together in the public space after their pub visit, and when Esther glanced at Iles’s face she saw he once more had his gaze on the judge, still trying by eye force to lean on her and make her lean the way he wanted. Perhaps, during those initial, strangely enlightened words about the validity of undercover, he thought his influence had clicked. But then, bang! – the let-down.
The judge turned to what she described as the ‘painful detail of Detective Sergeant Martlew’s death’. Medical evidence said that the detective had been killed by two gunshot wounds to the head from very close range, either of which would have been fatal. ‘The Prosecution argued that this closeness suggested Detective Sergeant Martlew knew the murderer through social contact or work, possibly someone within the Cormax Turton organization, and therefore, perhaps – or in their view, probably – the accused. The Defence says that such point-blank use of a gun is typical of criminal executions and could have happened to Dean Martlew wherever he went after leaving Cormax Turton on 27 May.
‘We have, of course, two opposed versions of Detective Sergeant Martlew’s whereabouts between that date and 8 June. The Prosecution says he remained with Cormax Turton and was seen at Dunkley Wharf after 27 May. The Defence says he left for some undisclosed setting, among new people, and was murdered there: this would mean he did not, for his own reasons, wish to return to his police managers and colleagues. You will need to consider these contradictory speculations. They are central. Firearms experts whom we heard agreed that the two bullets came from the same weapon. They also agreed that the weapon was a nine millimetre Browning automatic pistol. This has never been found.
‘You heard from police witnesses that a rescue party raided several Cormax Turton buildings when Detective Sergeant Martlew failed to keep to pre-planned communication arrangements. They were unable to find him. It is not disputed that all Cormax Turton personnel cooperated fully, even though police would not disclose the object of their search, in case, by their reckoning, this pinpointed the undercover officer and increased the danger to him at a location they had not discovered. Presumably, if police had mentioned whom they were looking for it would have been explained to officers that Marshall-Perkins, as Dean Martlew was known at CT, had left more than a week previously and therefore no longer worked at any of the group’s sites. On the instructions of Mr Cornelius Max Turton, chairman, the companies waived their right to demand that police obtain a warrant before continuing the investigation. This cooperation you may decide is of some significance.
‘A room-by-room search took place, seeking not only Detective Sergeant Martlew, but anything indicative of criminal activity. Many Cormax Turton members, including (a) the accused, (b) Mr Cornelius Max Turton, (c) Mr Nathan Garnet Ivan Crabtree, a director, and (d) other company heads, were also searched, with their consent. Again you will note this will
ingness to cooperate and judge its significance, if any. Nothing incriminating was found and no firearms. These searches occurred, of course, before the discovery of Detective Sergeant Martlew’s body, so the police could not have been specifically looking for the Browning automatic. But the fact is that they found no firearms at all. There is, therefore, not a proven link between the death by gunshots of Detective Sergeant Martlew and the accused, or any other Cormax Turton director or employee.
‘Such evidence as exists to do with the death of Detective Sergeant Martlew is what I have described earlier as “circumstantial”. I defined such evidence for you at that point in my summing-up. I will now say only that circumstantial evidence may certainly be acceptable and valid, but rests to some degree upon deduction and inference, rather than on an eyewitness – or earwitness! – account of something that allegedly took place actually in the presence of that witness. It is for you, members of the jury, to decide what weight you give to any evidence put before you, but perhaps your combined opinion is especially valuable when dealing with circumstantial evidence.’
Esther glanced at the jury, got her eyes to inventory the faces, as much as it was possible to inventory twelve at that speed. No, she couldn’t read a lot there: some showed symptoms of confusion; some of boredom; one of agonizing for a piss; two transmitted a sunny, brain-dead pretence at recognizing the gulf between various types of evidence. She saw nothing admirable and shrewd on the chops of any of them that she could interpret as, ‘This fucker in the dock is guilty as charged, so let’s cut the crap and finish.’ No jury member gave her a comforting, inspired wink.
The judge spoke for another hour and a half about recovery of the body from the beach at Pastel Head. She recalled the conflicting evidence of two oceanographers on local currents, and their differing views of where Dean Martlew’s corpse might have entered the water. Sort that one out for us, would you, please, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, by the toss of a coin, or cutting a deck of cards, most probably? Carefully, the judge went over the detailed medical evidence and dealt with the possibility of torture marks on the torso. Then she released the jury until next day.
Esther, Iles and Mr Martlew stood outside on the court steps again. Esther wondered whether such a repetition was stupidly provocative, rubbing Gerald’s nose in it. She looked over James Martlew’s shoulder towards Central Market but did not see Gerald. If he had a job at the Millicent it should be under way by now, perhaps. A bassoon would more than likely be a real novelty in tea dance numbers, bringing what Esther thought to be very appropriate mellowness to that kind of old folks’ do. She hoped they’d give him plenty of blow bits because this would keep his mouth engaged and he’d have less time to slag off the music, the people around him – either dancing or playing – and the hotel for running such pathetic, wilfully quaint, foxtrot-and-dandruff sessions.
‘I think I was rather surly to you previously, Mrs Davidson,’ James Martlew said. ‘I apologize.’
‘I understood,’ Esther said. ‘I helped put your son in danger. I might be seen as part responsible for his death.’
‘Surly. Hostile. I’d describe my attitude so. Unnecessary. Unhelpful to either of us. Unpardonable.’
‘Don’t feel bad,’ she said.
‘I admit I did feel resentment towards you. And then I read in the Press about the woman officer at East Stead,’ he said. ‘This was bound to change my perspective on things.’
‘At East Stead? Amy Dill,’ Esther said.
‘Killed in that . . . well, almost casual way, ‘ he said. ‘A seemingly small-scale incident. It made me realize that death can hit anyone from anywhere, and perhaps, especially, it can hit police officers. I shouldn’t chuck blame around.’
‘Too fucking right,’ Iles replied.
‘I think the report explained: she was called to a violent husband–wife row,’ Esther said. ‘Neighbours had phoned us.’
‘Yes,’ Martlew said.
‘So sad that these frenzied fights between couples will happen, Mr Martlew,’ she said.
‘Sad, indeed.’
‘And any police officer will tell you such situations can be bad – among the most dangerous we ever meet,’ Esther said. ‘Both parties are liable to turn on the supposed peacemaker. They see him/her as an intruder on a private battle. That’s what seems to have happened here. Dill wasn’t in uniform. We don’t know whether this made things worse. She had picked up the call on her car radio while nearby. Sometimes the uniform will quieten people, scare them. Sometimes inflame them.’
‘Awful,’ Martlew said. He was solid-looking, of middle height. His long, clean, grey hair went to a pony-tail held in what seemed to be a red Post Office rubber band, and most likely changed at least weekly in case it perished and broke. He had a wide nose that looked just right for healthy breathing and unlively brown eyes behind rimless Himmler glasses: Esther had been reading a couple of illustrated books about the end of the Second World War recently. She felt massively grateful for Martlew’s switch to friendliness.
But what would he make of it if she admitted that Amy Dill might have done the Cormax Turton Out-location, if Superintendent Channing had made the selection? That is, if he had been permitted to make the selection? If, if, if: if – infinitely recurring, as they said in maths. And, of course, he should have been permitted to make the selection, because in some respects, or even many, he ran the job. She had picked him to run it, in some respects, or even many. Dean Martlew would be alive if she hadn’t overruled Channing.
Amy Dill, who became Mrs Patterson, might also have been alive if Esther hadn’t overruled Channing. Possibly, Dill couldn’t have responded to that domestic fracas call because she’d still have been Out-located with Cormax Turton. Yes, perhaps she would have handled the undercover role better, more cleverly, more carefully, less pushily. Had Channing diagnosed early on during the selection period such qualities in her? His approval had not been simply a managerial lust matter, then? Would she have been shrewder and safer and more cautious than Dean Martlew in CT? From the first mention of Moonscape in the Millicent car park, Esther had wondered about that fucking chatty armourer. Did he see Terry Marshall-Perkins as a sucker, as well as a snoop? Had Moonscape from his experience somehow spotted Terry’s police training in the way he handled a gun, despite Dean’s clever-clever, deliberate right-hand yaw on the range? He’d been picked by her mainly because he wasn’t Amy Dill, but also because he could shoot. Had that skill killed him? Oh, God, God, the chaos built in to choices! Did they ever fully answer to reason? The unstoppable ifs could always clobber you, in retrospect. But Esther would certainly not offer James Martlew these thoughts, nor Iles. She longed to think her silence about the choice of Dean was meant to spare Mr Martlew any more pain. Of course, though, she realized it was to spare herself.
‘And only recently married,’ Martlew said.
‘Dill? Yes,’ Esther said.
‘Tragic,’ Martlew said.
‘Immortality and weddings are different,’ Iles said.
‘Did either of you know her, I wonder?’ Martlew said.
‘That judge,’ Iles replied, ‘menopausally unhinged, poor judicial baggage? Do Lord Chancellors consider these things properly when they appoint?’
‘Yet she’s up to scratch enough to know the Americans call an unmarked police car a pastel, as in Pastel Head,’ Esther said.
‘Judges swot up underworld slang books to try to sound with it,’ Iles said.
‘The jury will convict,’ Martlew said. ‘I’m sure. I sense it.’
‘Sense?’ Iles said.
‘Yes, like . . . well, like sense it,’ Martlew said.
‘They shoot judges, don’t they,’ Iles said, ‘in Iraq? Why do we try to impose our blurred, civilized ways on that country?’
Mr Martlew said: ‘Sense it in the sense that I sense –’
‘I certainly think it was worth bringing the case,’ Iles said. ‘Well, obviously. The Crown Prosecution Service, incomprehensib
le as it might be, still wouldn’t have let things go forward if there’d been no chance at all of doing Ambrose.’
‘Three women are at the top now,’ Esther said.
‘Where?’ Iles said.
‘The CPS,’ Esther said.
‘There you are, then,’ Iles said.
‘What?’ Esther said.
‘Oh, yes,’ Iles said.
Mr Martlew said: ‘As I stated before lunch, the conviction of Ambrose Turton . . . the necessary, deserved, triumphant conviction of him that I sort of . . . sort of, well . . . sort of, yes, sense is coming to us will not bring my son, Dean, back, but nonetheless I –’
‘Yes, you did state that,’ Iles said. ‘Stuff it now, as before, will you? So, then, he’s not around.’
‘Who?’ Esther said.
‘Your husband,’ Iles said.
‘Oh, Gerald?’ Esther replied. ‘No, I imagine it was just chance that he should have appeared at lunchtime.’
‘And then at the pub window?’ Iles said.
‘Does he take an interest in your work, Mrs Davidson?’ James Martlew asked.
‘Well, yes,’ Esther said. ‘Supportive.’
‘He loathes it, I expect,’ Iles said, ‘and is half demented through envy. More than half? It’s understandable enough. Think of the crap he’s been told to treat as worthwhile and wholesome throughout his life, the cajoled mutt. Not just César Franck. Brahms. Elgar. Copland. My God, though! It’s bound to fray someone’s poise. I never believed in the male menopause, menopoise, but then along comes Gerald.’
‘Music encompasses him,’ Esther said. ‘Inhabits him. Possesses him. It’s so wonderful to see his spiritual yet also workaday response to this or that piece.’
