Judge Walden

by Peter Murphy

  ‘Challenge her? What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, for instance, did you ever say to her, “What do you think you’re doing? You can’t just help yourself to cash from my bank account.” Did you ever say anything like that to her?’

  Mrs Jones shakes her head.

  Roderick looks up at me. ‘Your Honour, technically, I’m supposed to put my case to the witness. One interpretation of that is that I should take Mrs Jones through all the various transactions we will be hearing about from DC Benson.’ He shifts his glance to Susan. ‘If I do that, it will take me the rest of the afternoon, and perhaps into tomorrow morning, because it would only be fair to Mrs Jones to give her at least one break. I would much prefer not to have to keep her for so long. I’m satisfied that I’ve done enough to indicate the nature of my case to your Honour and the jury, and if my learned friend agrees, I would propose to stop now.’

  I nod, and so does Susan. It’s a huge advantage of having experienced advocates, that they are not afraid to bend the technical rules in the interests of compassion when the chance offers itself. Roderick has been scrupulously fair in ensuring that Muriel Jones understands his case and has her chance to respond to it, and no purpose would be served by dragging her through each and every receipt and bank account entry. But there are many counsel, on both sides, who would have insisted on it. I tell both counsel that I appreciate what they’ve just agreed to, which I do, and I tell Mrs Jones that she is free either to remain in court, or make her way home, as she wishes. She says she would like to go home, and thanks everybody for listening to her.

  The afternoon concludes with Ronald Jones, the son from Yorkshire. He doesn’t have much to say, really. The prosecution is going to get the financial evidence from the forensic accountant, DC Benson, tomorrow: so Susan contents herself with letting Ronald describe finding his mother distressed and worried; going to the bank to get copies of her accounts; going through the accounts and realising that something was wrong, and, in effect luring Laura Catesby into a trap. He also boasts to the jury, with a triumphant flourish, about catching her bang to rights in the act of having fifty pounds away from his mother’s purse; though when challenged about it by Roderick, he concedes that she had not made any move towards transferring the money to her own purse. Nonetheless, when Susan plays the video and recording generated by Ronald’s covert equipment in the kitchen, the whole episode does look rather squalid and underhand, and it’s fairly clear that Mrs Catesby hasn’t asked Mrs Jones’s permission to be rummaging through her handbag, much less take money from it. All in all, it’s a good end to the day for Susan.

  I have a few administrative matters to deal with before going home, and Carol has brought me a nice cup of tea to celebrate a successful end to what started as a challenging day. Carol has been in a good mood today: Millwall ended something of a losing streak by winning on Saturday, and as fervent supporters, she and husband Ray had a good weekend on the back of the victory. Carol’s other claim to fame is that she trained as a hairdresser before joining the court service, and she has made use of her skills at court once or twice in urgent situations. But no sooner have I settled down to enjoy the tea than there is a knock on the door. Marjorie opens it and pokes her head inside.

  ‘Got a minute, Charlie?’ she asks. She sounds rather breathless.

  ‘Yes, of course, Marjorie. Come in. Do you want some tea?’

  She waves the offer away and strides briskly over to take a seat in front of my desk. I’m bracing for bad news about the twins again. Simon and Samantha are away at boarding school, and the school tends to summon Marjorie whenever there’s a suspicion of illness. Husband Nigel does something frightfully important for an international bank, and spends a good chunk of his time abroad, currently in Geneva, I gather. So whenever the school calls, someone has to cover for Marjorie for a day or two, and it sometimes calls for all my diplomatic skills – and Marjorie’s – to pour oil on the troubled waters around whoever has to cover for her. But today, as it turns out, the twins are not the problem.

  ‘I can’t get into my computer,’ she complains.

  ‘What do you mean, you can’t get into it? Has it packed up?’

  ‘Possibly. I’ve tried all the usual things, including restarting it several times, but it keeps coming back to the same message.’

  I’m assuming that Marjorie has run into yet another underfunded technology glitch beyond even her experience, and I’m a bit puzzled as to why she’s consulting me about it. The chances of my being equipped to help are remote, to say the least. But since she’s come to me…

  ‘What are the symptoms?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s locked me out, Charlie. The damn thing’s frozen solid. There’s a message on the screen that says: “Error 32B. Consult system administrator”.’

  ‘Who’s the system administrator?’

  ‘Stella. But I’ve already spoken to her, and she has no idea what it means. It’s not in the manual, apparently.’

  ‘I thought there was a helpline for this kind of thing,’ I suggest tentatively.

  ‘There is. Stella and I called them from her office. They sounded very evasive, and all they would say was that someone would call us back.’

  I nod. ‘Well, I’m sure they will sort it,’ I reply reassuringly. ‘Perhaps “Error 32B” is one of the new features of the system and not everyone knows how to deal with it yet.’

  ‘That’s what’s worrying me, Charlie,’ she says. ‘Those people know everything there is to know. Usually when you call the helpline, they take over your computer for a minute or two, fiddle around with the settings or whatever, and Bob’s your uncle.’

  ‘Well, let’s see what they say when they call back. I’m not sure what else we can do.’

  She shakes her head. ‘It wouldn’t matter so much except that I have a judgment to write from when I was sitting in the Family Division as a deputy High Court judge a couple of weeks ago, you remember? I promised the parties I would have it ready by tomorrow. I’ve done most of it, but I need to finish it and I can’t without my computer.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t hear from them by tomorrow morning, let me know, and I’ll contact them myself and tell them to pull their fingers out.’

  Carol has knocked and put her head around the door to tell me she’s leaving for the day.

  ‘All right, Charlie, thanks,’ Marjorie says. She leaves quickly, and I have the impression that there’s something wrong that I can’t quite put my finger on.

  * * *

  Monday evening

  ‘Clara, do you have paperless banking at the church?’ I ask the Reverend Mrs Walden over a glass of Chianti as she is chopping up some green onions for tonight’s pasta sauce. The vicarage feels cold tonight, even though she’s got the heater working in the kitchen. It’s a huge old building with high ceilings and leaky windows, and can stay cool even in the middle of an August heat wave – just before it suddenly traps the heat and turns the place into an oven for days after the sun has disappeared.

  ‘Yes, of course. We have for years. There’s nowhere to store vast quantities of bank statements at church, and I don’t want them cluttering up my study here. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I was feeling sorry for Muriel Jones – you know, the elderly lady in this case I’m trying – having to work out how to do all that at her age. She was giving evidence today and she sounded completely bewildered by it all; and I must say, I have every sympathy with her.’

  She nods. ‘It must be difficult for her. Of course, Charlie, you know, I’m hearing all about her from Amy Lock.’

  ‘The new vicar at St Mortimer’s?’

  ‘Relatively new. It’s been eighteen months since we lost Joshua Canning, hasn’t it?’ She pauses, as if reflecting on how sad it was to lose the Reverend Mr Canning, even in such embarrassing circumstances. Of course, he was her colleague, and inevitably it was a blow to discover
the truth about him. It always is, I suppose, when a colleague has a serious problem. ‘We had coffee this morning, and she was telling me how shocked she was when Mrs Catesby was arrested.’

  ‘She’d be even more shocked if she heard the evidence,’ I reply. I refill both our glasses as the Reverend lights up the stove and starts to fry the onions and garlic.

  ‘Is it that bad?’

  ‘Well, of course, we haven’t heard Laura Catesby’s side of it yet, so it’s early days; but if Mrs Jones is right, it’s pretty bad.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with Amy,’ she suggests. ‘Perhaps she can find someone to help Muriel with her banking. I’m sure she’s got someone in her congregation who wouldn’t mind making a house call.’ She is stirring the sizzling spices gently, getting ready to add the tomatoes. She suddenly smiles. ‘You do realise, Charlie, that we do paperless banking ourselves, too?’

  ‘Do we?’ I ask. She has done our banking for most of our life together. This dates back to my time at the Bar, when I was self-employed and frantically busy, both conditions that can make dealing with a bank something of a nightmare. I’ve always been grateful that she shielded me from it: I’m doubly grateful now. ‘Did it take you a long time to get the hang of it?’ I ask.

  ‘Not really,’ she replies. ‘Once you’ve done it once or twice it’s easy enough. I’m sure it’s the same for you at court, with your new paperless system.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ I reply as nonchalantly as I can.

  * * *

  Tuesday morning

  Apparently, yesterday was a quiet news day. In the evening, Laura Catesby made the front page of the Standard, and when I stop to pick up my latte and ham and cheese bap – my favourite way of avoiding the hazards of the court cuisine – Elsie and Jeanie, avid readers, are incensed.

  ‘Just imagine, sir,’ Elsie says, ‘taking advantage of an old lady like that, and her with all that money and a husband with a good job. I don’t know what the world’s coming to. Of course, you’re used to it in your line of work, I’m sure, but I think it’s dreadful.’

  ‘I’d like to have seen her try that on with my auntie Nell,’ Jeanie adds. ‘She’d have given her what for, and no mistake. She would have shown her the door in no time, believe you me. My auntie Nell could get rid of anyone that came to the door, whether it was the Gypsies or the Jehovah’s Witnesses, or anyone else. If she’d caught anyone going through her purse, she’d have taken the frying pan to them.’

  ‘A formidable lady, by the sound of it,’ I say, handing over my money and making doubly sure it’s enough.

  ‘My Nan would have done the same,’ Elsie adds. ‘Of course, my Nan wouldn’t have let anyone shop for her anyway. She always did everything herself. She didn’t trust anybody. She would walk all over town looking for the lowest prices – well, you could, in those days, couldn’t you?’

  ‘She wouldn’t have let anyone rob her blind, would she?’ Jeanie asks.

  ‘I should say not. She’d have taken the frying pan to the butcher or the baker, my Nan, never mind anyone going through her purse. She almost gave the greengrocer a black eye once, just for overcharging her by a halfpenny…’

  Another customer is hovering, trying to push his way through to the counter in the very tight space of the archway coffee bar. I use him as cover to mouth my thanks and make a diplomatic exit.

  ‘Can you give the son a commendation, guv?’ George asks, handing me my copy of The Times.

  ‘A commendation?’

  ‘Yeah. I mean, for putting in all that recording equipment and what have you, and getting her bang to rights with her hand in the old lady’s purse. We need more people like that, don’t we, guv, people who’ll have a go? I mean, with all the cuts and that, the police won’t even come out for something like that, will they? Unless someone gets shot or a bank gets robbed, they don’t want to know, do they? If you ask me, that’s the first thing the Labour Party should do once they get back in, but they’re not even talking about it, are they…?’

  Muttering my thanks, I slip quietly away into the bustle of the morning commute.

  DC Benson is a very serious-looking young man wearing a dark suit and red tie, and at Susan’s invitation, he has taken his laptop with him into the witness box.

  ‘Officer,’ Susan begins, once he’s taken the oath, ‘in addition to being a police officer, and indeed a detective, have you received training as a forensic accountant, and are you made available as needed to assist with investigations into fraud cases, and other cases involving financial transactions?’

  ‘Yes, Miss, that’s correct.’

  ‘And were you asked to assist DS Gordon, the officer in charge of this case, with the investigation into Mrs Catesby’s activities?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please tell His Honour and the jury what steps you took to find out what had been going on.’

  The officer nods and taps a key or two on his computer. ‘At an early stage, once I’d been advised of the nature of the allegations against Mrs Catesby, I advised DS Gordon to apply to the court for access to Mrs Catesby’s bank accounts for the relevant period, and indeed, her husband’s accounts also. I’d already been provided with Mrs Jones’s accounts by her son, Ronald.’

  ‘What other paperwork did you feel you needed?’

  ‘I was told that there should have been a large number of receipts for items from some shops where Mrs Catesby had gone shopping for Mrs Jones – two shops mainly, Garner’s and the Cooperative store, both in Bermondsey. But DS Gordon hadn’t been able to find them, except for three receipts dating from about two years ago, which officers found while searching Mrs Catesby’s home pursuant to a search warrant.’

  ‘What did you do about that?’

  DC Benson smiles. ‘To be honest, I thought we were out of luck. I assumed that either Mrs Jones or Mrs Catesby must have thrown them away. But I made inquiries with Garner’s and the Coop, and they both told me they could recreate them from their computerised till roll archives, as long as it wasn’t a cash transaction, as long as a card was used.’

  ‘A paperless record,’ I observe.

  ‘Indeed, your Honour, yes.’

  ‘The point being,’ Susan adds, ‘that with a card there was something to identify the person paying for whatever had been purchased.’

  ‘Exactly, Miss.’

  Susan smiles. ‘It sounds like a laborious process, reconstructing records like that.’

  ‘It was extremely laborious, Miss,’ DC Benson agrees with a rueful smile, ‘to go back over such a long period, and I couldn’t have done it without the cooperation of the two shops, both of which placed a member of their staff at my disposal. Fortunately, it turned out that they had a computer search engine, and when we fed in details of Mrs Jones’s bank account, we found the relevant entries – the receipts – more than two hundred of them. We then made them up into a schedule.’

  ‘Your Honour, may this schedule be Exhibit one, please?’ Roderick nods to indicate that he has no objection. I assent. ‘I’m much obliged. Your Honour, there are going to be four schedules in all. My learned friend and I have them on our computers, as does your Honour, but I’m afraid we haven’t been able to install screens for the jury or the defendant, so they will have them in hard copy, if the usher will assist.’

  The diminutive Dawn is almost hidden by the thick files she has to lug over to the jury box, and although they are given only one between two, once in place they take away almost all the available writing space, so that the jurors have to juggle pens and notebooks with the exhibit. I experience a rare moment of moral superiority.

  ‘Paper, Miss Worthington?’ I say. ‘How very passé.’ Roderick, who is of my generation, gives me a grin.

  ‘I’m sorry, your Honour. We do have it electronically, of course, but the CPS budget wouldn’t stretch to the screens.’

 
‘Perhaps you should take that up with someone on high,’ I suggest.

  ‘Yes, your Honour, thank you. Officer, do you also produce a schedule of the relevant Jones bank accounts, and a schedule of the Catesby accounts?’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct, Miss.’

  ‘And those are also in the files the jury have. Exhibits two and three, please, your Honour. Officer, did you examine and analyse the information contained in all three schedules?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘And do you also produce a master schedule – Exhibit four, please, your Honour, also in the files – which provides a summary of your findings?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Using that schedule as a guide for the jury, can you explain your findings for the jury?’

  DC Benson taps some more keys. I do the same, but in response my screen suddenly goes blank. My first instinct is to panic and call for Stella. But with an effort, I control my feelings and remember how to leave and re-enter the Paperless programme. To my relief, and surprise, I succeed in calling up the page inviting me to enter my password. I type in ‘Sodthis!1’ and a few seconds later I’m opening Exhibit four. I’m so proud of myself that I have to suppress an urge to interrupt DC Benson to draw attention to my technical prowess.

  ‘Yes,’ the officer is saying. ‘If the jury would open schedule four – page eighty-two in the file – they will see that in column one we have a list of the receipts, in chronological order.’

  ‘Does that list include the receipts found in Mrs Catesby’s house?’ Susan asks.

  ‘Yes, Miss, it does.’

  ‘Thank you, Officer. Please continue.’

  ‘In column two we have the total for the value of the goods purchased on each occasion. In column three we have the amount actually paid; and in column four we have the difference between the amounts in columns two and three.’

  ‘On each occasion where there is a difference, which amount is greater?’

  ‘Wherever there is a discrepancy, the amount paid is greater than the value of the goods purchased.’