by Robert White
Dave shook off Jemson’s hand with great force. His face contorted in grief and pain. Marshall was about to go in, when Dave held up his damaged hands.
He tucked his chin to his chest, expecting a further beating. Marshall felt a sudden pang of guilt.
Dave’s voice still shook, but not with pain and sorrow. Marshall couldn’t recall, ever hearing a man speak with such venom.
“I,” Dave swallowed hard, “did not do this. I loved her. She was wonderful. You had better find the people who did this, or as God is my witness, I will.”
Dave fought for control. He looked at his interviewers with one good eye. “Then you can call me a killer.”
Marshall stood. His demeanor and stature immediately dominated the interview.
“David, we found two sets of bloodstained clothing and two knives, in your car. How can you explain that?”
Dave looked at the officer in total shock. Who was setting him up? He certainly couldn’t trust any Police officer. The pain in his face and hands told him that.
He had to have time to think. “I have only one thing to say,” Dave’s voice faltered, “I didn’t do this.” He pointed at the photograph. He shook his head violently from side to side. He looked like he may vomit. Dave straightened his back and spoke as clearly as he could.
”Now I want to go back to my cell. I have nothing more to say to anyone.”
Jemson was unmoved. He had witnessed too many theatrics.
“You can go back to your cell alright. For about thirty fuckin’ years.”
Dave lowered his head and remained silent. Despite all Marshall and Jemson’s further efforts, David Stewart didn’t speak another word
Marshall and Jemson sat opposite each other in the quiet of the darkened office, both smoking, both deep in thought. Jemson, who had removed his shoes, was massaging his own aching feet. He broke the silence.
“You going to charge him boss?”
Marshall nodded. “No choice.”
Marie had called from South Yorkshire, where she had been digging into Stewart’s past. It seemed that he was a far darker horse than they thought. He had worked for some serious faces in Sheffield, Doncaster and Barnsley. He’d been a lot more than a club bouncer. He’d collected some serious debts in his young life and he would definitely have had the know how to open McCauley’s safe.
Marshall was starting to doubt Andy Dunn’s character assessment. Stewart had even refused to offer any alibi. His silence gave Marshall little option.
The Chief Constable had been on the telephone again. He wanted a Police Psychologist to interview Stewart. Dave refused to see him. No, Marshall really had no choice.
Two floors down in the cellblock, Dave Stewart sobbed quietly to himself. The terrible images Anne haunted him. How he loved her.
He needed help but whom could he trust? He couldn’t do anything from a cell. He had to get out.
His morose musings were interrupted by noise in the corridor outside. There was the telltale rattle of keys and his cell door opened to reveal Marshall standing in the opening. Dave knew what would happen. He collected himself as best he could and followed.
He counted his steps to the Charge desk. With just thirty-four paces he was standing in front of the charge office Sergeant. Marshall stood to his left side.
Marshall formally cautioned and charged David Stewart with three counts of murder.
Dave was unable to write a reply or sign the forms, his hands, still too swollen to hold a pen.
Marshall offered to write for him.
Dave looked him straight in the eye and spoke just three words.
“I am innocent.”
sixteen
Sharon, Marshall’s temporary secretary, walked into his office.
“Don’t you ever knock?” Marshall had slept badly. The bruised face of David Stewart had been a recurring theme of his restless night. He felt like he had been prematurely pushed into charging him. All the evidence was there but something wasn’t sitting right in Marshall’s gut.
“Sorry sir,” Sharon couldn’t get used to Marshall’s temper, “but there is someone to see you.”
The visitor stood, shoulders back, like a military sentry, framed in the doorway. The man looked tired. His totally white but full hair swept backwards to reveal what had once been a handsome face. He wore half-moon glasses which he peered over. His eyes, despite there obvious exhaustion still burned bright blue and intelligent. He stepped forward, his hand extended toward the Superintendent, slim shoulders draped in Saville Row.
Marshall stood and took the hand. “Superintendent Marshall.” The handshake was firm, the man’s skin soft.
When he spoke, the man’s voice came straight from the boards of a Shakespeare tragedy. “We’ve met. Robert Wallace, I’m Anne’s father.”
Marshall suddenly remembered why he knew Anne’s name. Of course, she was the daughter of the most revered barrister in London. Marshall himself had felt the wrath of Robert Wallace’s tongue, under cross-examination, during his time in the Metropolitan Force.
Wallace’s sadness was all consuming, only his British ‘stiff upper lip’ preventing breakdown.
Marshall felt he had no words, “I’m very sorry for your loss sir.”
Wallace remained businesslike although it was impossible to hide the trauma of his loss from his voice, which wavered slightly.
“Thank you Superintendent, it was a great shock. One expects one’s children to outlive them.”
Marshall felt strangely nervous in the man’s presence. “Indeed sir.”
Wallace sat and crossed his immaculately clothed legs.
“I’m sure you are curious about my presence Superintendent.”
Marshall had to admit he was, but remained silent.
“What interests me right now,” he began, “is the state of the investigation and the young man you have charged with my daughter’s murder.”
“Of course,” Marshall started, “Stewart will be appearing in Court this morning. We expect a remand in custody, prior to a committal to the Crown Court. As you will be aware, I am not at liberty to discuss the details of the investigation.”
Wallace produced a business card and placed it on Marshall’s desk. It had the appearance of pale linen, etched with gold.
Wallace gently tapped it with his manicured finger as he spoke, “That is where you are wrong Superintendent. You see I have retained a Barrister to defend Stewart and a good friend and colleague Sir Peter Davits will act as defence pathologist.”
Wallace stared into space for a second, as if lost in thought.
“I wish I could defend the boy myself. That, of course, would involve a conflict of interest.”
Wallace sharpened again. “He will be defended by the gentleman on that card. I would be grateful if you would afford him every convenience. A copy of the prosecution file should be in his possession today, so he can commence an interview with his client. I trust that will not be an issue?”
Marshall was stupefied. It was the most bizarre scenario he had ever encountered.
“Of course sir, I’ll get a copy for you by this afternoon. But, Sir I…”
Wallace didn’t give Marshall the opportunity to finish.
“I spoke to my daughter on the very day she was killed Mr. Marshall.”
There was the merest hint of emotion, the slightest chink in the deep baritone voice.
“She told me she was in love. In love with David Stewart, the man you have marked as her murderer. She had never been so happy.”
Wallace’s eyes pierced Marshall, searching for a reaction, his rich, impeccable English tone was stirring,
“She told me other things too. She was worried about her job, her rank and the fact that John McCauley had a very unhealthy grip on her life. She wanted to be away from his influence. Do you not think it strange then Superintendent that she should be in his company last night?”
Marshall didn’t want this conversation. He certainly couldn’t voice
his own doubts and definitely not to Wallace.
“I think Mr. Wallace, that it is best we don’t discuss this further. As I say, I will have a copy of the file to you by this afternoon.”
Wallace stood. There would be no nonsense.
“I want that file within the hour. Should you wish to contact me, I will be at the hospital. The Royal Preston I believe. I want to see my daughter.”
For a second Marshall thought Wallace’s sadness would overcome him and he would falter, but the feeling quickly disappeared. Somehow the man composed himself.
“There will be a second Post Mortem for the defence,” explained Wallace. “I wish to be there.”
Marshall couldn’t believe his ears. How could a father witness his own daughter being sliced to pieces? The Superintendent thought back to the many operations of this kind he had been forced to witness due to his job. Then he thought of his own girls and his stomach turned over. This was one hard bastard.
Wallace saw the look on the face of the Policeman.
“I know what you’re thinking Superintendent. I can see it in your eyes. Sir Peter Davits has travelled from London for the procedure. I intend to get to the bottom of this crime. I also intend to see the right person or persons in the dock. Then, and only then, will I be able to rest and grieve.”
Marshall pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. “You will have every co-operation from me and my men sir.”
Marshall considered his next words and actions carefully. He thought of his own two girls, tucked up in their beds, safe and loved.
“You may wish to speak to this officer.”
Marshall wrote Andy Dunn’s details on a slip of paper and handed it to Wallace.
“I am relying on your discretion Mr. Wallace.”
“You have it Superintendent, thank you.”
Wallace stood, shook the hand of the officer and left.
Marshall sat back in his chair and started to read the Stewart file but within seconds, dropped it to the desk.
Stewart was an anomaly, gangster’s muscle turned copper. You had to be smart not to get caught in that game; smarter still to get past the vetting to become a copper.
Marie was right he didn’t need to kill Bailey to achieve his goal and finding the murder weapons like that was all too easy.
Now it seemed that Anne Wallace was in love with him. Had they known each other long enough for that?
He had fallen for his own wife within days, so why not.
Anne’s own father seemed supremely confident that the Police had it wrong. This was not legal posturing and Wallace and his team would make formidable opponents at any trial.
The tiniest hole in the evidence would result in a not guilty verdict and Marshall could see gaping wounds in the file on his desk.
He had to inform the Chief Constable of the new developments. The boss would not be happy.
The Royal Preston Hospital was ten minutes drive from the station. Robert Wallace and Sir Peter Davits sat in the rear of a chauffeur driven Rolls Royce. The two men had been friends for over thirty years. They had met at Oxford, when both were young students and although they had always worked in different fields, both were fiercely competitive.
Davits had been Anne’s Godfather and was in sombre mood. He was most concerned for his friend.
“Are you sure you want to do this Robert?”
Wallace turned. “Firstly I am here to see Anne. Once I have completed that task Peter, I will make a decision regarding the Post Mortem exam.”
“You are one tough customer Robert. I know that as much as anyone. However, you know what is involved in this procedure. The task is going to be difficult enough for me. Anne and I were close, you know that. My God Robert, this could tear you apart. Please reconsider.”
Wallace seemed briefly distant, as he had in Marshall’s office, but then snapped back into his businesslike mood.
“Who’s the best forensic scientist you know?”
Davits thought for a moment. “John Staples is the resident at Manchester University. He’s the best in the crime field and he’s only about an hour away from here.”
Wallace nodded slowly. “OK, we will get him all the samples he could need by this afternoon.”
Sir Peter shook his head. Wallace hadn’t even considered that Staples might not have the time or inclination to do the job. Wallace wanted it, so it would be done. No question.
Wallace tapped on the glass divider inside the Rolls. “Step on it Harry.”
As the car sped through the early traffic, Dave Stewart was meeting his defence council. The man sitting opposite Dave wore a suit that cost more money than Dave earned in a month. If you took in the shirt, the shoes and the watch, Dave would have to work a year to pay for them.
George Thomas introduced himself to Dave. He explained the reason for his presence and the situation regarding costs. Dave had no need to worry. The company, ‘Thomas Associates of London.’ would handle everything. Dave could trust him. He was on his side. He had to tell him everything. Thomas would have a copy of the file very soon. Dave would go to Court today. He would be remanded in custody, but he would be out and soon.
Stewart took an instant dislike to Thomas. He didn’t trust him. Jesus, he didn’t trust anyone especially a barrister from London wearing a fancy suit.
Dave also found it hard to believe that Anne’s father had agreed to pay all the costs of his case.
George Thomas, on the other hand, had seen it all before. Police corruption was a common practice as far as he was concerned. He had defended the most heinous criminals anyone could wish to meet.
Thomas had been briefed by Robert Wallace and from the outline this case stank. The boy may be innocent. This was a minor detail to Thomas of course. George was the brightest young barrister in the Country, or so he would have you believe. Unfortunately, he had already made the mistake of underestimating David Stewart.
To Thomas, Dave was a young, inexperience copper. A low class boy from coal mining stock who had got himself involved with a woman who was far too good for him.
Thomas himself had always felt that he and Anne could have made a good couple. He’d met her several times at the family home. Robert Wallace and Thomas’ father had started the law firm back in the sixties. They had later gone their own ways. Both were extremely successful.
Thomas’ father had retired and George Thomas the second was now a full partner in one of London’s busiest law firms. He was already a very wealthy young man.
Robert Wallace believed that Stewart had nothing to do with his daughter’s death. Thomas didn’t care what anyone thought. He just wanted out of this one horse town and back to London a.s.a.p.
Dave thought Thomas was a condescending twat.
“So David,” preached Thomas. “I need to know everything. I don’t care how bad you think it sounds, but unless I know, I can’t help you.”
Dave sat, massaging his damaged hands. They were of more concern to him at that moment than Thomas. He had not shaved or showered since his arrest. His face was still swollen and bloodstained. He looked like shit.
Dave looked straight into the eyes of the barrister.
“Anne and I had only been together for a few days. In that short time, we, well let’s just say, we became close. I learned that McCauley was putting pressure on her. He wanted her. She wanted out.
Anne and I went away for a short break to the Lake District; just to take a break; her father knows the place, they will confirm we shared a room. We took Anne’s car. Check for yourself. For some reason the Police think I followed her there. I left her at her home late in the afternoon on the day she was killed. We had agreed that she should meet McCauley so she could finish it for good.”
Thomas was making notes. He spoke with a detached voice that needled Dave, “Was that the last time you saw her alive then?”
“Yes. I went home. I went for a drink, to the Anchor at Hutton. I was there from about nine thirty ‘till near closing. Again
you can check. Lots of people saw me.
I drove to Anne’s place and when I got there, McCauley’s car was in the drive. So, I turned straight around and went home. I got home about eleven fifteen.”
Thomas was still scribbling. Dave’s temper was about to flare. The irritation, evident in his voice, “Now by my calculations, that would be a fair alibi, don’t you, Mister Thomas?”
Thomas didn’t like the attitude. He paused and almost mocked, “Why on earth didn’t you explain this to the Police in interview?”
Dave was curt, “Because, Mr. Thomas, someone involved in this case has dumped two sets of bloodstained clothes in my car. Until I have a better idea of who that is, I’m reluctant to say anything at all. Even to you.”
Thomas had dealt with criminals with bad attitudes his entire career, but he was losing his patience. Had this working class bone head any idea of the cost of his services? Did he not realise how lucky he was?
“Well Stewart, you had better start trusting me. I am the only friend you have right now.”
Thomas looked at his notes. “Your alibi is decent, but far from watertight. I can’t say for sure until the Police release the file to me later today. In the meantime, get a shower and a shave. You look terrible. I’ll get you some clean clothes to wear for Court. There is a great deal of press interest in this case. Let me do all the talking. OK?”
Dave was weary. “You talk all you like, mate. Just get me out.”
The hospital morgue was in the basement. A large area split into three main rooms. The first contained the recently deceased bodies. They were held in what looked like giant filing cabinets. The bodies themselves were identified by a label on the drawer of the cabinet, a band on the wrist, and a third tag on the toe.
