by Julian Gloag
“He wasn’t one of us really, Jordan. He was an artist, you know. Always said exactly what he thought. Didn’t make him very popular with Mary.” Uncle John chuckled. “Come to that, always did exactly what he felt like doing. I liked him. But he wasn’t a Freeman. I don’t think he liked coming down here and being reminded of Lily.”
“My mother.”
“Your mother. He missed Lily, you see. We all miss Lily.”
“Why did she die then?”
“Wasn’t her fault. A motor accident. She was bringing you back from the hospital where you were born. You were in her arms, but there wasn’t a scratch on you.”
Jordan was silent, and Uncle John’s humming swelled loud.
“Uncle John?”
“Yes?”
“I’m not a Freeman either, am I?”
“No. You’re a Maddox.”
“A Maddox.” It sounded interesting, but …
He heard the drone of the plane now, but he couldn’t see it anymore. It was lost behind the holly bushes which linked the trunks of the lime trees.
“Uncle John? Do you think the fuzzy-wuzzies could get through here?”
They reached the wicket gate into the rectory garden.
Uncle John paused and looked down at his nephew. “No fuzzy-wuzzies today, Jordan.”
48
He woke up so smoothly he wasn’t sure he’d been asleep.
He lay looking at the ceiling. Then he swung himself off the bed. He was fully clothed.
It was already light, though early still. He pulled the chair across the room and stood on it and looked out of the window. The yard below was grey and shadowed, but clearcut, and the piece of sky he could see was without a cloud. A sunny May morning.
He jumped down and swiftly stripped away his clothes. His body was grimy and unused. He filled the basin with cold water and washed himself all over, rinsing himself with cupped hands and scattering drops on the linoleum.
As he was shaving, the door was unlocked and opened. Denver stepped into the room.
“Early bird, again, I see. Have a good kip, did you?”
“Fair enough.” Jordan scraped under his chin.
“Breakfast’ll be up in ten minutes. Peckish then, are you, after yesterday?”
Jordan doused his razor in the water and wiped the tufts of shaving soap from crevice and lobe. “I’ll eat it. Why so early?”
“Schedule’s shifted up today. We got to leave at eight. Sammy Samson’s doing his nut about it; afraid it’ll ruin his schedule. Regular as clockwork, our Sammy.”
“Eight? Why?”
“Couldn’t say. Governor’s orders.”
Naked, Jordan crossed to the bed and shook out his clothes.
“Looks like you slept in ‘em,” said Denver.
“I did.”
“Got a clean shirt, have you?”
“One left.” He pulled on yesterday’s socks.
Denver walked over and picked up the jacket of his suit. “Blimey, the bloody army must have marched over it. They’re going to think we been knocking you about.”
“I shouldn’t worry.”
“It don’t worry me, mate. But we can’t have you looking like you spent the night in a phone box at Waterloo. I can just see what the scribblers would say: ‘The prisoner slouched in his crumpled suit, etc.’”
“I’ll sit straight then.”
“Don’t make no difference. According to them blokes, if you got a crumpled suit, you slouch. Impresses the jury, that sort of thing, too. Somebody who ain’t got a tie comes up, right off they think he’s no good.” There was an accent of bitterness in Denver’s voice that made Jordan look up.
“You don’t think much of juries?”
“They’re alright. Don’t know the odds, that’s all. They’re so bloody bourgeois, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
Jordan slowly unfolded his clean shirt. He was puzzled. This was out of character for cheery, kindly, paunchy Jack Denver.
“They never been up against it, that’s their trouble.”
“Some of them may have been. Some of them may be,” Jordan said. “You can’t know.”
“Alright. I’ll give you that. They might have been. But it’s all sewed up and forgotten. They never learned nothing. They’re just the same way they always was. They’re not vicious—listen, they may think the man in the dock is a poor unfortunate alright. But I’ll tell you, it’s them who’s the poor unfortunates. Only they don’t see it. And never will see it neither.”
Jordan put the shirt over his head and pulled it down. “I’ve never heard you like this before.”
Denver smiled, but it wasn’t his usual grin. “Acid indigestion, I expect. Swallowed too much of that newspaper gas.”
“Oh.” He buttoned the shirt. “How is my press today?”
Denver shrugged. “You know.”
“Got a paper I could have a look at?”
“You? A paper? You don’t want to look at a paper.”
“Bad eh?”
“The usual. They’ve only had one side of it till now. It’s your turn today.”
Jordan looked closely at the prison officer. “I see,” he said. “Well, perhaps we’ll give them a surprise.”
“I bloody well hope so.” Denver grinned and at once became his old self. “I can’t stand here nattering. Let’s have these,” he said, picking up the trousers too. “I’ll see if I can’t get hold of an ’ot iron and give ‘em a bit of a press.”
“Don’t bother.”
“It’s a pleasure, lad. We got to give ‘em a run for their money. Do you want to empty these pockets then?”
Jordan did so and handed the suit back to Denver.
“I won’t be long. Can’t have your breakfast with your legs all bare, can you now? Wouldn’t be decent.” He gave a laugh as he went out.
At eight Jordan was ready and waiting—filled with kippers and a pint of tea, a crease in his trousers like the edge of a guillotine. Corridors and stairs and more corridors and out into the open air—he was marched the familiar route between Denver and Samson.
The outer yard was still in shadow, but he could almost smell the sunlight.
“Hello, a car?”
“Doing it in style today.” They moved in step towards the spotless black police car. “Even got a police escort.”
As Denver spoke, Jordan recognised Inspector Symington.
“You were supposed to be here at eight, Prison Officer,” Symington said sharply. “It’s now three minutes past.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Morning, Symington,” Jordan said.
The inspector gave him a nod. “Alright, get in. Where are your handcuffs, Prison Officer?”
“Here we are, sir.”
Jordan was put in the back, between Denver and Samson. Denver snapped the cuffs on his own wrist and Jordan’s. Symington got in the front beside the driver and as soon as he slammed the door, the car began to move.
As they left the prison gates, Jordan could see his surroundings for the first time. Street on street of small, ugly houses, neat figures in the ledger of a bankrupt firm. But the morning sun made everything bright, and it wasn’t warm enough for there to be any haze. They turned into a street where the houses had front gardens, and Jordan saw lilac and laburnum growing.
“Can we have a window open?” he asked.
Symington turned and looked at him. “Alright. But don’t try anything, Maddox.”
“What would you do—render me unconscious?”
Symington stared at him silently for a moment, then turned his head to the front.
Jordan’s glitter of anger vanished as he smelled the summer fresh air. The usual depression of the south side of the Thames—viaducts and slate roofs and Victorian pubs—was lifted and forgotten.
“Westminster Bridge?” the driver asked.
“No. Waterloo,” said Symington.
“Right. Not much traffic in Fleet Street at this time of the morning.”
>
As they crossed the bridge, Jordan looked at Somerset House and the dome of St. Paul’s and the blind clock on Shell-Mex House. It was the way he had come every day for years, but not in a sleek black car with four grim guards. An ordinary man, who didn’t know the odds, on an ordinary bus.
Within three minutes they were at the Old Bailey. He was hurried into the building—the momentary awkwardness of handcuffs making Symington twitch with impatience. Down in the cells, the inspector’s job was ended. “Right, Prison Officer,” he said, and then paused.
He moved close to Jordan. He smiled and put out his hand and brushed imaginary dust from Jordan’s lapel and shoulder. It was a loving gesture. “Got to keep you looking smart, Maddox,” he said. “It’s a bloody shame we can’t top your sort any more. But don’t worry, we’re going to put you away for a nice long time.” His grin widened.
Jordan said quietly, “In a rational society, Inspector, you would be under psychiatric care.”
Symington’s hovering hand clenched instantly. “Why, you—by God, if I had you alone, I’d—”
“Come on now, we don’t want no trouble,” Denver pulled him away, wrenching his wrist on the steel cuff.
In the cell, Denver unlocked them. Each rubbed at his chafed wrist.
“I wouldn’t pay no attention to that sod if I were you.”
“No,” said Jordan. But he wasn’t thinking about Symington. He was thinking about Bernard Cole.
All morning he had kept his mind clear, free as the sunny streets of the outside world through which they’d driven. Symington had merely given the order for the inevitable about turn. And now Jordan was looking at them, and they were regarding him, each with their own hope. But dominating them all was the circled face of Cole.
“Sammy, see’f you can’t win us a couple of mugs of tea,” called Denver through the barred opening in the door. “You’d like a cuppa, Maddox, wouldn’t you?”
“Thanks.”
“Oh-ah, ‘ere’s your chap to see you.”
The heavy cell door was swung open and, as Denver went out, Tom Short entered.
“Where’s Bartlett?”
“Geoffrey’s trying to catch forty winks,” Tom smiled. “We’ve been up all night. Old boy, I think we’re set fair.” But his buoyancy was tinged with anxiety.
“Tell me,” Jordan said.
Tom took a deep breath. “It’s hard to know where to start. Good to be able to say that. Well, let’s begin with Copley. Gladding had a long talk with Regina Copley yesterday, and it’s quite obvious she knew Cole much better than she said at first. In fact, we rather think she was, or is, after Cole. Wedding bells. Gladding didn’t press her too hard, of course. She also knew Singer—again, probably rather well. In fact the three of them—Copley, Cole and Singer—went out together on several occasions. But she indicated—hinted would be a better word—that Cole was more interested in Singer than in her.
“So we begin to get a picture. Copley running after Cole, Cole running after Singer, and Singer—running away from Cole.
“Now what was Cole doing on the morning of the murder? Could he have got away—did he get away—from Ramsden and Black long enough to visit Panton Place and murder June Singer? Well, the answer is no—because he did not go to work on Monday at all. He was off sick. A sore throat. Tuesday too. Ramsden took me round to the shop and showed me the record, which, incidentally, is now in Geoffrey’s safekeeping. Another thing from Ramsden—Cole lives in Rumbold Street. Now, one of the routes from Rumbold Street to Devizes Road—that’s where Ramsden and Black is—leads straight through Panton Place. In fact, laddie boy, that route is a half a minute quicker than any other way. Thirty-five seconds, to be exact. I spent three hours yesterday checking it—took eight different routes, both ways, twice each. Damn near killed me, not used to walking.”
“Did you see Cole?”
“And risk scaring him off? Not on your nelly.” He hesitated. “So this is the position. We can prove Cole had opportunity. We can almost certainly prove Cole knew Singer. We can suggest a motive for Cole.”
“Do you think Cole murdered June?”
“I think if the police had known what we know now, they wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to arrest you. Beyond that,” he waved his hand, “it’s vague. Part of the vagueness comes from June Singer. She isn’t quite the shy, competent little thing she was when we started out, is she? She had one boy friend—Cole. Maybe she had another. Maybe that’s why she didn’t want Cole hanging around. Or perhaps she did want Cole—we may be reading too much into the Bernie-boy letter Miss Lawley saw. But these are the points we hope will be clarified when we call Cole—and Copley, we might get more out of Regina Copley, I fancy.”
“Yes,” said Jordan. Ever since he’d woken up it had been at the back of his mind that he’d have to see Cole. Hear him. He already knew him in some curious way, knew how he’d waited there outside No. 27 Panton Place, watching for June, knew how he spoke, knew the very tone of his plaint, his letters, his phone calls. For of course he would have phoned. And suddenly Jordan remembered June sitting at her desk, head bowed, murmuring into the mouth piece. An idiosyncrasy, he’d thought, of her modesty.
He had the feeling that he himself had invented Cole.
“Can I take it then that you’ve changed your mind?”
“Yes,” he said slowly, “yes, you can. We’ll let it stand.” He’d not thought about it until this moment, but it did not surprise him.
“My dear man, my dear man,” Tom sighed his relief. “Of course,” tentative again, “you’ll consent to be called?”
It wasn’t important. It was Bernard Cole who mattered, not Jordan. And yet he would be quite glad to be his own witness; if someone else were to formulate the questions, perhaps he could find the answers. “Alright,” he said.
“Good. Splendid.” Tom took a notebook out of his pocket, scribbled something in it, tore off the sheet and went to the door. “Warder,” he handed the note through the bars, “see this gets to Mr. Cloke at once. That’s the man who came in with me. Immediately. It’s extremely urgent.”
He turned to Jordan with a smile.
“What was all that about?”
“Just letting Geoffrey know.”
Jordan hesitated. “What would you have done if I hadn’t agreed?”
“There’s no point in going into that now.”
“I want to know.”
“Well, alright. We’d have tried to persuade Pollen to ask for a recess—that’s why I had to get word to Geoffrey. The case for the Crown isn’t closed yet, you see. Then we’d have taken what we’ve got on Cole—not much—to the D.P.P. and tried to get him to reopen investigations.”
“You mean I didn’t really have any choice?”
“Choice? Look—I’m not even sure Pollen would have agreed to a recess. We’ve had to let him know we’re calling Cole and Copley, and a bit of what we hope for—but he’s distinctly unimpressed. Frankly, the D.P.P. is likely to be even less impressed. You’d probably have been convicted and sentenced. Of course—we’d have pressed, gone on pressing for a reinvestigation. But, let’s suppose we’d succeeded, there would have been no guarantee that anything would have turned up to cast sufficient doubt on the evidence against you.”
“Sufficient for what?”
“Sufficient to cause a recommendation to be made to the Home Secretary to commute your sentence, or perhaps to grant a free pardon.”
“Why didn’t you do that anyway—go to the Director of Public Prosecutions?”
“It’s a forlorn hope, as it stands. Besides,” with sudden energy, “that’s not the way we want it. We want a verdict. We don’t want the whole thing to fall inconclusively into the murk. You’d be a tagged man for the rest of your life. We don’t want Cole in some little room in Sarah Street, lying his head off. We want him out in the open. There’s very little risk. Even if we get virtually nothing out of him—or Copley—we’ll still have introduced an element of complication.
And every complication adds to the possibility of doubt. We’ve just got to keep our fingers crossed. But Geoffrey’s our man. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes, it answers it alright.”
“Good. Now let me tell you the procedure. The Crown will close this morning. Unless Pollen wants to re-examine Mrs. Ardley, which I don’t expect, they’ll close at once. Bartlett will make a brief opening, and then he’ll straightaway call Copley. We’ve warned Pollen about this incidentally, and I don’t think he’ll make things too difficult, which he easily could. Then Cole. Depending how we get on, we may or may not call Swail and Ramsden, either before or after Cole. And, conceivably, Miss Lawley. And then it’ll be your turn. Now, here …”
He listened to Tom with only half his mind; he needed no forewarning of what was to come. He was conscious of how airless the cell was without a window, and how drab without daylight. The walls bare of prisoners’ scrawls or etched initials. They would always be in a hurry here, waiting to move on to somewhere else. It smelled of urine and sweat and the damp laundry smell of weakish tea. A stopping place, a railway station—but the squalid melancholy of these cells denied the possibility of a happy journey; the only promise was the triumphant chuckle of train wheels on the permanent way to prison. Handcuffs and keys and stone floors and damp—the dungeon carried the contemptuous assumption of guilt. For it was not just that prison shut you up—that is not the deadliness of it—but that it denied you, if it could, even a glimpse of the outside world, as though from the sight you might take heart.
“I understand, Tom.”
“Don’t let Pollen fluster you. There’s absolutely no need to be worried.”
“I won’t be.”
Tom smiled. “No, I know you won’t. Your calm is positively unearthly at times. Up to now, it made us all feel rather helpless. Let’s hope it has the same effect on Pollen.”
“Up to now?”
“Oh well, you’re out of it now, aren’t you?”
“Out of what?”
“The pre-trial trance you were in. Not that I’m blaming you. It’s not uncommon, you know. When a man is accused of an appalling crime—whether justly or unjustly—and banged into a totally different world with totally different procedures and values. Like a recruit, you know—doesn’t understand what’s happened to him. Hard to believe the whole thing’s real. The numbing effect of a nightmare. It would frighten the life out of me.”
