by Braven
“Thank God. Thank God.”
On the other side of the court Phil Cooper was considerably less restrained. The sergeant stood up and punched the air excitedly.
“We’ve got the bastard,” he shouted across to Karen who, only with a great effort of will, managed to prevent herself from responding in kind.
Mr. Justice Cunningham looked at Cooper disapprovingly, but the hubbub in the court was so great as the verdict was delivered that he probably had not been able to hear the exact words, and with a bit of luck he didn’t know Phil was a policeman as he had not been required to give evidence. This was a courtroom, not a football match, and police officers were not supposed to behave like that, but Karen felt pretty much like joining in. It was one hell of a day.
Karen leaned back in her seat, the relief washing over her like a warm bath as she listened to Cunningham sentence Marshall to life imprisonment, the statutory sentence for murder. She turned her full attention to the man whose dreadful crimes had haunted her for so long. And to her immense satisfaction, as sentence was passed, he slumped forward in the dock and buried his head in his hands. The aura of smug self-satisfaction that was so much a part of him had finally departed. For good, she hoped. Even with full remission it was reasonable to think that Marshall, now aged sixty-four, might die in jail. Karen sincerely hoped that would prove to be the case.
The big man kept his hands over his face as he was led away down the steps which led directly from the dock to the courtroom cells. His nickname so far could have been Houdini, but surely even he knew that he was finished at last.
Karen’s attention was then drawn once again to Jennifer Roth, sitting at the front of the public gallery a few places to Mac’s right. The young woman was again smartly dressed in the same grey trouser suit that she had in fact worn almost every day, with her long chestnut hair drawn back; she had been in court throughout the trial, not missing a minute. Her face was even paler than usual. She had turned quite white and she looked totally stunned. As the court rose and all the people sitting around her started to get up and make their way to the doors Jennifer Roth remained in her seat. She made no attempt to move. Instead she sat quite still, a bit like Mac, staring straight ahead.
Karen watched her for several seconds before joining the crowd pushing its way out into the historic old courtyard where once upon a time hundreds of men and women had been summarily executed upon the command of the notorious Hanging Judge Jeffreys and his like. It was a bitter January day but, although her breath formed mist in the freezing air and she was wearing only a light jacket, Karen did not feel cold at all. The elements meant nothing to her that day. She was elated. So it seemed was almost everyone else. All the police officers present had broad smiles on their faces. And so did the press, many of whom, like John Kelly, predictably the first reporter at Karen’s side, had also waited a long time to see Richard Marshall go down.
“Great, fucking great!” exclaimed Kelly.
Karen grinned at him. He was irresistible sometimes. For a journalist who had once been one of the most feared and respected of Fleet Street reporters, Kelly had retained an extraordinarily childlike quality. His enthusiasm was contagious. He was a man who had an ability to communicate second to no one she had ever met. She knew that was what reporters were supposed to do—but it was somehow different with Kelly.
Maybe his own life story was what it was all about. Kelly had a chequered past. He had reached the heights of his chosen career, been the darling of Fleet Street for many years, and then, thanks to his own weakness, mostly drink and drugs, had sunk so low that he actually ended up living on the streets before returning to work in the local press in the town where he had been born and brought up. There was a lot more to Kelly than was apparent at first sight. You could not doubt that he was genuine somehow. That he cared.
The reporter reached out with both hands and grabbed Karen by the shoulders. Meanwhile Cooper and two uniformed officers were ushering her forwards. Karen knew she should pull away from her old friend, but she didn’t. Kelly was in this too. Kelly had also wanted this day. Badly. She could see it in his eyes. She remembered then what Talbot had said that night in the pub just before she had been drenched in tomato juice. He had said Kelly had his own reasons for wanting to see Marshall go down. She almost asked the journalist about it, there and then, as they stood together in the ancient courtyard. Then suddenly the rest of the press corps were upon them and there was a chorus of requests, some sounding like demands, for a comment.
“How do you feel now, Detective Superintendent?” “Are you satisfied with the result, after all this time?” “Can you make a statement please, Miss Meadows?” Suppressing her euphoria, Karen looked around frantically for the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary press officer. She needed somebody to take control of this lot. Gloria Smith was also pushing her way through the crowd, something she had considerable experience in doing and was, fortunately, rather good at. Gloria was a small woman equipped with sharp elbows and a voice even bigger than her somewhat extravagant blonde hairdo.
“OK, Karen?” she asked.
Karen nodded. It had been prearranged that she would give a statement outside the court. Pretty standard procedure, in fact. Although, she thought to herself, she might not have been quite so keen had Marshall not been convicted.
“Right, quieten down you lot,” bellowed Gloria so effectively that Karen involuntarily started away from her and the press corps shut up at once. “Detective Superintendent Meadows will make a statement on behalf of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary.”
Karen took in the assembled throng, the reporters waving their notebooks and tape recorders, the photographers rattling off frame after frame, the TV cameramen standing firm, their cameras balanced on their shoulders, sound booms thrust towards her face. She didn’t feel nervous. For once this was a statement she wanted to make. She had done her share of apologizing for the perceived shortcomings of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary. This time her confrontation with the press was sheer unadulterated pleasure.
“It has taken us almost thirty years to bring Richard Marshall to justice,” she said. “But at last, today, justice has finally been done—”
She was interrupted by a muffled cheer. It was unusual for the press to respond in such a way, but although members of the public, standing at the back of the gathered newsmen and women, had probably instigated the cheer, some of the press had joined in. Certainly John Kelly had done so.
“Justice has been done for Clara Marshall, and by default for Janine and Lorraine Marshall, and for their family, notably Clara’s father who has believed for many years that his daughter’s killer was walking the streets a free man, yet had no choice but to live with it.”
“Justice has also been done for generations of Devon and Cornwall Constabulary police officers, who have refused to give up. We have put a monstrous killer behind bars. I am just one of a dedicated team who have waited a very long time for this day.”
There was the merest hint of a catch in Karen’s voice. She hoped nobody would notice it, but she was sure John Kelly would. She glanced at him. Kelly was staring straight at her, making no attempt to write in his notebook. She knew he wouldn’t need to. He would remember every word that she had said. He had always had a brilliant short-term memory and the ability to report verbatim without notes, as long as he did so quickly. In this case, so important to all of them, Karen reckoned he’d remember every detail for a long time to come. She could see that he was as moved as she was.
She made herself remember her job and her rank. “That’s it, ladies and gentlemen,” she concluded briskly. “Thank you for your interest.”
The press did not back off, of course. Karen was well enough aware that they never knew when they had had enough. Their attentions switched to Sean MacDonald who had finally left the court and was standing, a little uncertainly it seemed, a few paces behind Karen. But the older man seemed mentally and physically unable to say much at all. Unusuall
y for someone who was normally so articulate, he stumbled over his words. However, what he did manage to say was possibly the most moving part of the whole day.
“I’m able to bid a Christian farewell to my daughter at last,” he said quietly. “And I’ve seen the man who murdered her punished for his crime. It was all there was left, all I’ve had to live for all these years. But nothing will bring my Clara back, nor her beautiful daughters, my grandchildren…”
Then the tears started to come again. Karen ushered him towards the waiting car.
“C’mon, Mac,” she said. “I’ll take you back to the Grand.”
Phil Cooper pushed through the crowd just as they were climbing into the car and hurried across to them, his progress hampered by a pronounced limp. Karen knew that the sergeant had picked up a nasty injury to his left ankle during a rugby match, but if Phil was suffering any pain he certainly wasn’t showing it. His eyes were bright, his face flushed. He looked absolutely delighted.
“We’re all going back to the boozer, boss,” he said. “This one calls for a real celebration. And you, Mac. You’re included. You’d be very welcome…”
The Scotsman wiped the back of one hand across his eyes, rubbing away the tears, and managed a wan smile.
“I know I would, and I thank you for that, young man,” he said. “I thank all of ye, and I’d be glad if you’d pass that on to the rest of your lads and lassies. I thank you for everything that you’ve done. But I’m not in the mood for drinking, I’m afraid. I want to be alone with my thoughts tonight.”
“I understand, Mac,” said Phil, his voice gentle, and he reached out with one hand to touch the Scotsman lightly on the arm. Phil really was quite a sensitive bloke, for a burly rugby-playing cop, Karen reflected not for the first time.
“You’ll come though, boss, won’t you?” he continued.
“Wouldn’t miss it, Phil,” Karen responded. She was actually not as keen on these kinds of communal boozing sessions as she had once been, but she knew she really had to be seen taking part in this one. It was, however, her avowed intention to stay a scant hour or so and drink just a couple of beers.
Good intentions, like promises, are all too easily forgotten.
It was a good do, a particularly good do. Somebody had even done a fairly impressive quick phone round, it seemed, following Marshall’s conviction. A number of Devon and Cornwall Constabulary veterans, now in retirement or working elsewhere, turned up to drink to Richard Marshall’s ultimate demise, most notably Bill Talbot, who made a beeline for Karen as soon as she walked in.
“Congratulations, Detective Superintendent,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand. “You’ve achieved what I failed to do for more than twenty years.”
Karen smiled and shook her head, denying the compliment.
“I had a little help, Bill, help you didn’t get,” she said. “From a chance diving expedition, from the elements, from an old shipwreck. Oh, and from the Rolex watch company.”
Bill grinned at her. “Ah yes, the Rolex watch company—fast becoming a stalwart ingredient of the British legal system.”
He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. He was in control—Karen had never known him not to be, he was that sort of man—but she could tell that he’d already had several drinks. She didn’t blame him. She didn’t blame any of them. And glancing around the gathering of happy-looking policemen she knew it was going to be difficult, after all, for her to show the forbearance she had promised herself she would. Good results, certainly on this scale, were all too few and far between.
“Champagne?” enquired Bill, gesturing towards a magnum sitting in a bucket on a table just behind him. “This is a celebration, after all.”
She hesitated for only a split second. “Why not?” she asked. And as she took the first welcome sip of the icy-cold bubbly liquid she reflected that it was a whole lot more interesting than a couple of beers.
She stood talking to Talbot for the best part of half an hour. She had liked working for him, more than that, she had learned so much of what she knew from him, and he had been one of her greatest supporters in her career; instrumental, she was well aware, in the speed of her promotion through the ranks. Also, she always enjoyed his company socially, and this was a very special night for both of them.
Everyone in the bar seemed to want to have a drink with her, which was par for the course. It had been a team effort through and through, but she was after all the senior investigating officer. Champagne was the order of the day. And when she finally considered going home, and checked her watch she realized that a good two hours had passed in a blink. She also realized that she had probably already drunk the best part of a bottle of champagne. Her car would have to remain in the station car park overnight again. It was not something she made a habit of, and in fact it would be the first time since that Indian meal she had shared with Phil Cooper on the day they had arrested Marshall the previous summer.
Special occasions called for special arrangements, she told herself as she made her way to the bar. But she wasn’t keen on drinking anymore in the assembled company in case she made a total fool of herself in front of her team. She had seen that happen often enough with senior officers, and knew all too well what good sport it always was for the rank and file. She was therefore determined to remove herself while still in reasonable shape.
“Steve, get me a taxi will you, darling,” she called to the landlord, raising her voice above the hubbub.
“What? You can’t go yet. We’re only just getting going,” said a voice in her ear.
Karen turned to find Phil Cooper right by her side. She had hardly seen the detective sergeant all evening. He had been ensconced at one corner of the bar with his rugby-playing colleagues. In one hand he carried yet another bottle of champagne and in the other an empty glass which he filled and held out towards her.
“Go on, have one more,” he said. “You don’t get too many days like this in this job.”
It was true. Without protest Karen accepted the glass and took a deep drink. She had already drunk enough to be highly susceptible to further temptation.
“You’re right about that, Phil,” she said. “This one’s in a class of its own. I’ll drink to that.”
She raised her glass and looked enquiringly at Cooper, who reached across the bar and lifted a pint glass of clear liquid to his lips.
“May the bastard stay locked up forever,” he pronounced, as if making a toast.
Karen muttered: “Hear hear,” followed by: “What on earth’s that you’re drinking?”
“Lemonade,” muttered Cooper almost apologetically. “That bastard on the Met team who crocked me last week did a really good job. He raked his studs right down my leg when he decided to stand on my ankle. The weals he left behind just won’t heal and we’ve got the big cup game next Saturday. Doctor’s put me on antibiotics. If I drink they won’t work properly and the rest of our team will tear me to shreds.”
“Good God, when will little boys grow up,” grinned Karen. “And now you have to sacrifice a bloody fine piss-up for the good of the police rugby team. Ra, ra, ra! It’s tragic, that’s what it is. Absolutely tragic.”
Cooper grinned back. “I’ll make up for it after the match,” he said. “It’s not too much of a sacrifice, actually. This is just such a great day I can get drunk on the atmosphere in here, I don’t need any alcohol.”
Karen glanced down ruefully at her glass.
“Wish I could say the same,” she said.
“Don’t worry, boss, I’m only trying to convince myself. Here, have a drop more.”
“What? You’re not trying to get me drunk, Detective Sergeant, are you?”
Cooper put the bottle he had lifted down on the bar, and stood to a kind of mock attention.
“Would never even consider doing such a thing, ma’am,” he said, his face set, mouth fixed in a straight line.
Karen giggled. Here we go again, she thought. The dangers of laughter.
“And you, Ma’am, are not a bad guy for a copper, either,” he responded.
Karen’s giggles developed into full-blown laughter then. Good God, she thought, I’m standing here in a bar full of half-drunk policemen flirting with my number-one sergeant. This will never do, it really won’t. With a tremendous effort of will she attempted to pull herself together and be sensible.
“You’re good company, Phil, but I must go,” she said, then called across the bar once more. “Steve, I need a taxi, could you give ’em a shout for me.”
Yet again the landlord, Steve Jacks, a retired policeman who in any case always had a habit of doing things his own way and at his own pace, did not seem to hear her.
Karen leaned over the bar. “Steve, Steve,” she called.
Jacks, serving demanding customers as fast as he could, waved an impatient arm, his gesture saying that he would be with her as soon as he could and not before.
“You’re not really going, boss, are you?” enquired Cooper.
“Yes, I am, before I fall over or something and make a complete prat of myself.”
“Oh yeah, boss, but when you make a prat of yourself you do it so beautifully. I mean, don’t be a spoilsport. The lads all look forward to it.”
Karen grinned again in spite of herself. “You’re a cheeky bugger, Phil Cooper.”
“Yeah, but I’m lovable with it.”
Suddenly Cooper looked about twelve.
Yes, thought Karen, you are lovable, actually, and that is the problem.
Aloud she said: “Bollocks. You’re a police detective—and with a very high opinion of yourself, too, it would seem…”
At that moment Steve finally approached.
“What’s it to be, Karen?”
“Can you get me a taxi—” she began.
“No need,” interrupted Cooper. “I really should go now, too. In any case, lemonade starts to pall a bit after the fourth pint. You’re on my way, boss. I can easily drop you off.”
