by Abi Silver
‘Yes, it’s true that my client was born somewhere else, in Syria, a country gripped by civil war since 2011, from which more than five million civilians have fled. On arrival in the UK, he could have sat back and received benefits as others do. Instead, he chose to go out to work, taking home just above the minimum wage for nine- or ten-hour shifts, both day and night, sometimes seven days a week. His foreign nationality alone is not a reason to suspect Ahmad Qabbani of involvement in this crime.’
‘What about the rings?’ Chambers muttered in a loud but muffled voice. Judith paused and glowered at him.
Judge Seymour dropped his pen onto the desk top with annoyance.
‘Mr Chambers, be quiet please. Miss Burton, you probably asked for that, given your intervention earlier. Can that now be an end to your games, please? Continue.’
‘Members of the jury, you have to be sure beyond reasonable doubt that Ahmad Qabbani killed Barbara Hennessy, that he lured her to the fire escape and pushed her off. Once you have heard from the witnesses and seen the meagre and paltry evidence, I don’t believe you will have that certainty and I urge you to acquit my client and let him return home to his wife and daughter.’
Judith sat down disgruntled. She vastly preferred clinical factual opening statements to the ‘wearing your heart on a sleeve’ kind of advocacy with which she had just concluded things. And she suspected the judge didn’t like it either. But she and Constance had discussed it at length. The public was involved on an emotional level in this case and if they failed to engage in the same manner, they ran the risk of losing the jury’s (and the public’s) interest. Sadly, Judith had little to serve up in terms of Ahmad’s story to engender support; she could only negate the story Chambers put forward. That troubled her.
43
First up for the prosecution was Tracy, red-faced and carrying an extra three kilos since her mother’s death. The stress of recent events had rendered her unable to stick to any healthy eating regime. She was wearing the same navy suit she had donned for the reading of the will, and a cream-coloured blouse with a flamingo motif, which was pulled taut across her chest, like a sail straining against a northerly wind. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair to draw her jacket closed.
‘Mrs Jones. This must be very hard for you, having lost your mother so recently,’ Chambers cooed, and, right on cue, Mr Justice Seymour remembered to peer over his glasses and release an insipid smile. Judith coughed noisily.
‘But I am going to take you briefly through your evidence and then Ms Burton here will ask you some questions.’
Tracy spoke sensibly about her mother’s health and stay in hospital and her last visit. She was the epitome of a grief-stricken daughter who was holding it together, wiping away the occasional tear, hands shaking, lips trembling, eyes and voice low. Judith watched her every move. She was keen to challenge Tracy a little, to shake the impression of devotion, but not too much or she would risk coming over as harsh.
‘Tell us a little about your mother’s art.’ Chambers spoke encouragingly.
‘She loved to paint,’ Tracy replied. ‘She had a studio when we were kids, and in her flat – she’d been there the last ten years or so – she turned the second bedroom into a studio.’
‘And did she have any plans for future paintings?’
Again, Tracy was thankful for the prompt.
‘When I saw her at the hospital, on the Wednesday, she asked if I would sit for her, with Pete, my husband, and my boys, for a painting.’
‘So, she was enthusiastic about the future?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I said “yes” of course.’
‘Mrs Jones, given what you have just said, do you think there is any chance your mother would have wished to take her own life?’
‘Absolutely not. Mum was always cheerful.’
‘Previously? I know she brought you and your brother up on her own. Did she ever suggest she was unhappy or show signs of depression?’
‘No. Never. She wanted to get her feet sorted and get home again; that’s all.’
‘And outside of her painting, what else did your mother do?’
‘Well, she liked to help with local charities, giving out food and clothes, especially to refugees.’ Judith groaned inwardly. She could tell what was coming.
‘Did she ever mention Mr Qabbani, the defendant, to you?’
‘No.’
‘But Mr Qabbani will say that he and your mother were friends. Is that possible?’
‘Mum loved to chat, and probably, with his background, with him being from Syria, she would have wanted to help him, in any way she could. She couldn’t have known what he would do in return.’
There, it was said. Barbara Hennessy had chatted to Ahmad because she wanted to help him in a benevolent, open-handed, generous way, and he had repaid her by flinging her off a fire escape on a dark night.
‘Mrs Jones, do you need a moment to compose yourself or are you able to continue?’ Judith began, once Chambers had completed his perfunctory examination.
Tracy raised her head and took in Judith. Joe had advised her only that morning that Judith would try to trip her up in any way possible.
‘Thank you. I’m fine to continue.’
A grimace from the judge followed, forced and brittle, unable to keep up his earlier façade of empathy. He disliked sentiment as much as Judith and was already anticipating ditching the relatives and moving on to the forensic evidence.
‘How often did you visit your mother in hospital?’
‘I went once.’
‘Not every day then.’
‘No. I work full-time and I have two children and I couldn’t leave them.’
‘Visiting is any time though, for private patients.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Your husband is not working?’
‘No.’
‘So he could have helped out?’
Silence.
‘Is that a question, Ms Burton?’ Mr Justice Seymour twitched and lay down his pen.
‘I will rephrase that. Did your husband visit your mother with you?’
‘No.’
‘Or your children, they could have gone to see her?’
‘I didn’t want them to see Mum in hospital.’
‘Ms Burton, where is this all going?’ Judge Seymour was pouting at Judith.
‘I am just trying to ascertain from Mrs Jones the frequency of her visits; that’s all. But after the operation, once she was better?’
‘She’s told us that. She went to the hospital once. Move on.’
‘Thank you, your honour. And remind me, which day did you visit?’
‘On the Wednesday. Mum was upset because her operation was postponed twice. I was supposed to pick her up on Thursday but I…’
Now, after being on the verge for most of her testimony, Tracy finally collapsed into a fit of sobbing, simultaneously searching for Pete in the public gallery. He rose stiffly to his feet, grumbling under his breath and holding his back, and nodded reassuringly at Tracy. Tracy’s bottom lip stopped quivering.
‘No, I’m all right,’ she waved away the usher offering a cup of water. ‘It’s just that if I had gone on the Thursday, Mum would still be alive now.’
‘I see. Take your time, Mrs Jones. Is there a particular reason you didn’t pick her up on the Thursday?’
Now Tracy sat very still.
‘I had an appointment,’ she said.
‘An appointment?’
‘Yes.’
‘Which you had to attend?’
‘Yes. They said Mum couldn’t be discharged after 6, you see.’
‘I understand. You are a busy person. We will hear from Dr Wolf, your mother’s surgeon, later, but had your mother suffered from any serious illn
esses or health issues in the past?’
‘No. Not that I know about. And this time, she didn’t tell me all her details. She was a bit forgetful in the months before…before this happened – missed meals. I thought it might be the beginning of some kind of dementia.’
‘Can you remember anything in particular which concerned you, other than the missed meals?’
‘We used to speak to each other about once a week. Suddenly she began to call more often, forgetting she had already called and telling me the same things.’
‘I see. And did you do anything about this?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Did you tell your mother you were worried about her memory, suggest she go to her GP or discuss this with your brother?’
‘No. It wasn’t so bad. It sounds worse now you’re asking me.’
‘How often did you see your mother before she went into hospital?’
‘About once a month.’ Tracy’s lip shuddered. She knew that sounded pretty awful, although some of her friends only saw their parents at Christmas.
‘And how far is it from your house to where your mother lived? Google Maps says twenty-six minutes, but we all know that can be a little optimistic.’
‘It is only about a half hour in the evening, I suppose, but during the day more like an hour. Like I say, in the week I have work, and at the weekend the boys have football and karate. And I have marking and lesson plans.’
‘We’ve heard your mother was an artist?’
‘Yes.’
‘She sold her paintings?’
‘When we were younger. Not recently. She hadn’t painted for at least two years.’
‘And why was that?’
‘She had pain in her fingers. She said it hurt to hold the paint brush.’
‘Just the paint brush or was she having difficulty with her grip generally?’
‘I’m not sure. I told her to go and see her GP but she wasn’t keen.’
‘Mrs Jones, would you say painting was important to your mother?’
‘Yes, vital. She was an artist; that’s what she did.’
‘So the prospect of not painting again would cause her considerable distress?’
‘I can see what you’re trying to get me to say but it’s not true. At the hospital she said she wanted to paint me and Pete when she came home.’
‘But if her hands were painful, that may not have been possible.’ Judith paused to allow her words to produce maximum impact. ‘How mobile was she?’
Tracy sniffed back her tears and wiped her eyes with a paper tissue.
‘Before the operation? Well, she was a funny one. Not into fitness but still active, if you know what I mean. But I knew her feet were painful. She couldn’t get shoes to fit any more. And she did love shoes.’
‘You didn’t see her after the operation?’
‘No.’
‘You mentioned to Mr Chambers that you didn’t know Ahmad Qabbani. Can I check, have you ever seen my client before today?’
Tracy glared at Ahmad, pulling her shoulders back as she did, as if distancing herself as far as she could from him. He raised his head on cue, allowing her to examine him closely without challenge.
‘Only in the newspapers,’ she replied quietly.
‘Quite,’ Judith mumbled. ‘Mrs Jones, we’re nearly finished, you’ll be pleased to hear. Mr Chambers has made much of a book which my client gave your mother to read while she was in the hospital. We’ve heard it was a copy of The Arabian Nights. Did you see that book on her bedside table?’
‘No I didn’t.’
‘So you’ve no idea when your mother received it?’
‘No’.
‘Do you know anything about your mother’s reading habits, the kind of books she liked to read?’
‘I’ve never seen my mother read a book. Magazines, yes.’
‘Did your mother mention my client to you at all?’
‘No.’
‘Any other hospital staff?’
‘She mentioned Dr Mahmood.’
‘Do you remember what she said about Dr Mahmood?’
‘Not really. I think, just that he had been to see her.’
‘Who else visited your mother in hospital?’
‘I didn’t know this at the time but two of her friends did visit. The police told me. But that was on the Wednesday, I think – after me.’
‘Your brother, Joe?’
‘No.’
‘Why didn’t your brother visit?’
Tracy faltered, trying but failing to find Joe among the sea of faces in the public gallery.
‘They weren’t close,’ she said.
‘Was your mother a wealthy woman?’
‘That’s not an easy question to answer.’
‘I accept “wealthy” can mean different things to different people. But can you give me some idea of her lifestyle?’
‘Joe and me, we had always assumed not. She had a nice flat in Primrose Hill, two bedrooms, with a small terrace, but that was bought years ago, before the prices went crazy. And she went on holiday to Spain each year. But she lived quite simply, ate in a lot.’
‘But?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Well you said you had assumed not. That suggests something else was the case.’
‘Yes. Well, I am not sure if I’m allowed to talk about it, my mum’s will.’ Tracy peered out into the public gallery again, and this time, in the second row, she located a man with grey hair and hexagonal glasses perched far down his nose. It was Brian, his lips set tight, and he leaned forward and gave Tracy a reassuring smile.
‘I wasn’t sure if it was private, that’s all – the will, what it says.’
Mr Justice Seymour put on his glasses and coughed. ‘I’m not sure Ms Burton is asking for precise details of what the will says, in terms of who is to receive what money; she’s asking about the extent of your mother’s estate.’
‘Do I have to answer?’
‘Yes you do.’
‘All right. She left just under two million pounds.’
There was a sudden crescendo of noise, followed by a low babble in the courtroom, which faded quickly under the blistering scowl of Judge Seymour. Suddenly, Mrs Hennessy was not such a ‘poor’ defenceless woman. Judith worked hard to maintain her composure; she had anticipated something substantial, given their intelligence that Tracy was planning to leave her job, but nothing had prepared her for this bombshell.
‘And when did you and your brother discover that your mother was wealthier than you had expected?’
‘Mum’s solicitor, Mr Bateman, told us when he read the will a few days after her death. He said she’d sold some paintings when she was younger, and invested the money.’
‘And you and your brother are the beneficiaries of the will?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you telling us that you had no idea, before then, that your mother had any savings?’
‘Well…’
‘How did you think she supported herself?’
‘I don’t know. I thought Miles supported her.’
‘How long ago is it that your father, Miles Hennessy, and your mother were divorced?’
‘About forty years.’
‘And you thought he supported her financially still? Really, Mrs Jones?’
Tracy coloured and remained silent.
‘And you intend to leave your teaching position now you have this large inheritance from your mother? One million pounds is a lot of money.’
‘Your honour, we object to this line of questioning.’ Chambers was on his feet, this time strumming his fingers against the edges of his lectern (the ‘guitar’ position). ‘We are now certainly straying into personal details of no relevance whatsoever, if we were not before.’
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br /> ‘Ms Burton, move on please.’ Judge Seymour was annoyed again.
‘I just wanted to say, your honour, that I am taking another job,’ Tracy answered the question in any event. ‘I have a promotion to head of Key Stage 2 at another school.’ She raised her chin indignantly, and Judith chastised herself for having asked one question too many.
‘Am I right that your father, Miles Hennessy, is getting remarried?’
Tracy’s eyes narrowed. How could Judith possibly know that?
‘Yes, he is.’
‘Did your mother know about this?’
‘Janice, my brother’s fiancée, she told me that Mum knew. But Mum hadn’t mentioned it to me.’
‘In your view, would this information have made your mother happy for your father?’
‘I think she would have tried to be happy for him. But, no, it would have made her sad.’
‘Your honour, those are all the questions I have for Mrs Jones.’
Mr Chambers shook his head rapidly, indicating he had no intention of standing up again with this witness.
‘Very well. Thank you, Mrs Jones, you are excused.’
44
The second prosecution witness on the first day was David Wolf.
He crossed the room in short steps, seated himself in the witness box and ran his fingers through his receding hair. His statement was short; his colleague, Dr Mahmood, had seen Mrs Hennessy in February and recommended the operation, but he had been her surgeon. The operation had been a success and she was lined up to head home the following day. Mr Chambers asked him to describe an incident which had led to Ahmad being given a written warning the previous year.
‘I don’t remember the incident very well,’ he replied, in clipped tones, ‘but I think there had been an emergency on the ward and there was a suggestion that Mr Qabbani, the defendant, had interfered in some way with the process.’
