by Jason De'Ath
“Possession.” replied Joe with an air of annoyance, “Yeah, they couldn’t pin the robbery on me, but they caught me with the stuff on me. Bloody nearly got away wiv it, too. Fuckin’ copper nicked me when I got off the tube at Blackfriars.
The bastard ‘ad followed me and I ‘ad nowhere to stash the goods.” “Should’o got on a bus.” asserted Arthur a little abstrusely.
“Bus? Why’s that, then?” asked the baffled Joe; Dickie looked on, equally mystified. “At the back of most buses, upstairs – y’u know, the backseat – there’s like a space be’ind, underneaf the seat. It’s a good place to ‘ide stuff.” “Ah, right – good one. I’ll keep that one in me pocket.” noted Joe, mildly impressed.
“Oo was y’u mates?” enquired Dickie, addressing Joe.
“Oh, them. Jus’ some contacts...” Joe winked furtively and reached into his jacket pocket for a small paper packet, “Bennies.” he explained, referring to tablets of benzadrine [an amphetamine].
“Not fuckin’ drugs!” exclaimed Dickie, highly dismayed, “Do y’u ‘ead in they will. I’ve known blokes go nuts on them fings.”
“Give me a buzz. ‘Elp keep y’u goin’, know what I mean?” insisted Joe, who was a keen exponent of the drug.
“Don’ let George see y’u wiv ‘em – fuck!” warned Dickie. Joe quickly snuck the packet away in his pocket. Dickie continued his complaint: “If the fuckin’ law catch y’u wiv them fings, you’ll be well fucked.” This effectively soured the reunion and Joe, shortly making his excuses, left the pub.
“Y’u pissed ‘im off.” noted Arthur.
“Yeah, well, y’u don’ wanna get in t’drugs, son.” advised Dickie.
“Is there a game on t’morro’?” enquired Arthur [in reference to an illegal poker game] to distract Dickie from his enmity.
“What – at Ron’s?” queried Dickie, still bristling slightly. “Yeah.” Arthur replied in a flippant tone.
“Dunno. I a’n’t seen Ron lately to ask ‘im.” stated a remote Dickie while looking around the pub, “Let’s sit over there.” he added indicating to a table by the exit where a couple were already sitting. They approached and pulling out the spare chairs, Dickie acknowledged the couple: “Alright Mike; Jean?” The couple graciously smiled and nodded, effectively giving Dickie and Arthur permission to sit down at their table (not that they had much choice), before returning to their private conversation.
“Seen any decent films, lately.” asked Dickie, knowing that Arthur was a regular cinema goer.
“Er, yeah, I went t’see that ‘She’ recently.”
“Wha’s that about then?”
“Dunno, really, but there’s a tasty tart in it – Ursula somefink.”
“A foreign bird, eh? It weren’t one o’ those dirty movies, was it?”
“Nah. Bernerd Cribbins was in it!”
“Fuck. A blue movie with Cribbins – now that I go to see!” gibed Dickie.
“It weren’t no dirty movie. But y’u do get to see quite a lot of this tart, though.” “Nice is she?”
“Nice tits.” noted Arthur informatively.
“You dirty sod.” taunted Dickie, which provoked them both into filthy laughter. As they calmed down, Dickie suddenly asked investigatively: “So, oo did y’u see that wiv, then?” “Er, just a mate.” replied Arthur hesitantly.
“Well, next time y’u goin’ t’see a dirty movie, let me know an’ I’ll come wiv y’u.”
“It weren’t a dirty movie, Dickie, ‘onestly.” Arthur assured him jovially, though slightly unnerved.
“It was bleedin’ ‘Gone wiv the wind’ in my day – what a load a shit. Then it was all fuckin’ propaganda films durin’ the war. Mind you, we did ‘ave Will ‘Ay. Now, there’s a funny bloke.”
“Will ‘Ay... Yeah, I like Will ‘Ay; an’ Laurel an’ ‘Ardy.”
“Oh yeah – can’t beat Laurel an’ ‘Ardy.” affirmed Dickie. A short silence followed as they both contemplated a few comedy moments and smiled to themselves. Then Dickie abruptly asked: “You still seein’ that bird – wha’s ‘er name?” “Linda?” suggested Arthur.
“Nah, not the prozzer. I mean that nice bird from Paddin’ton.”
“Oh, y’u mean Marion... Yeah, we go out from time to time.” “You should stick wiv that one: settle down.” “What marriage?” objected Arthur.
“Why not? Y’u could do a lot worse. Y’u can’t be a fuckin’ gig-olo all y’u life.”
“A what?”
“A gig-olo.”
“Wha’s that?”
“You know: a Casanova type... Puttin’ it about. Y’u should settle down; ‘ave a family.” “I a’n’t that old.” complained Arthur.
“All the decent birds’ll be gone, if y’u don’ ‘urry up.” cautioned Dickie.
“Bollocks...! Anyway, Marion’s not that int’rested – y’u know?”
“What, not int’rested in marriage? Y’u kiddin’ me.”
“Noh! Not flippin’ marriage... You know: sex.”
“Ohh, I see. Y’u wanna taste the fruit before y’u commit.” laughed Dickie.
“Exactly.” Arthur concurred.
“You youngsters: bleedin’ sex is all y’u fink about. I tell y‘u this, anyone gets my Carol up the duff an’ I’ll fuckin murder ‘em.” said Dickie ominously, albeit somewhat hypocritically; Arthur shrunk back into his seat and prayed.
Chapter Twenty-Three
(18 October 1965)
The pre-trial hearing was designated to be heard at Guildford Magistrates Court, beginning on the 11th October 1965. Arthur Jameson had appointed Nigel Robeson as his solicitor, who was familiar with Arthur, having represented him on a previous occasion. Just as DI Longbridge had suspected, the case had attracted considerable media attention and become something of a cause celebre, due to Arthur’s inexorable tenacity in maintaining his innocence and the apparent weakness of the case against him; many suspected that he had been framed, either by the police (desperate to close the case) or by the criminal fraternity (to protect the real perpetrator). Consequently, the case had attracted a number of vociferous supporters who were vehemently campaigning for the release or acquittal of Jameson. But more importantly for Arthur, it had piqued the interest of a young, up and coming, extremely ambitious barrister (Miles Norcroft), who believed he could use this case to further his reputation and career as a defence lawyer, to the extent that he was volunteering to act for Jameson at legal aid rates. However, Norcroft was too exalted to appear before the magistrate’s bench, so it was Robeson who was entrusted with the responsibility of defending Arthur at the initial hearing, as it was a near certainty that the case would be referred for trial at the Central Criminal Court (the Old Bailey).
Week two of the Guildford hearing brought Mary and Carol Paris to court to give their evidence. Dickie had already been called during the first week as a more significant witness, although his evidence had little to bolster the prosecution case; but, his mere presence was damaging enough to Arthur from the perspective of his character defence, as it never reflects well on a defendant when their supposed best friends are acting for the prosecution; this included Denise Deneo, who was also called to court the same day as the Paris women. They had never met, but both parties were vaguely aware of one another through conversation with Arthur. Strictly speaking, witnesses are not supposed to communicate with one another about an ongoing case, but Denise spotted the Paris women waiting to be called – she having already given her evidence – and when Mary made a trip to the toilet, she could not resist the opportunity to introduce herself; she was also keen to discuss some nagging misgivings she had in regard to Arthur’s innocence [she was principally working with the prosecution for purposes of self-preservation], and it had not escaped her notice that Carol was obviously pregnant.
Mary emerged from a cubicle to be confronted by a nervous Denise tentatively approaching her; she began washing her hands.
“Hello... Are you Mary? Mary Paris?” Denise enquired in a hushe
d voice. Mary was initially a little shocked that this stranger new her name and concerned that she might be a journalist, or worse.
“Yeah, Why? Who are you?”
“My name is Denise, Denise Deneo. I’m a friend of Arthur Jameson. I don’t know whether he ever mentioned me?”
“Oh, Denise - yes he did; you had me worried there for a moment.” replied Mary, notably relieved, “Are y’u giving evidence?”
“Yes. Well, I already have; not that I’ve been much value to them.”
“Which side?”
“The prosecution. I don’t know if he’s guilty or not, I’m just doing what I’ve been told by the police.”
“Same ‘ere. I can’t believe ‘e would have done that, but y’u just don’t know do y’u?”
“Thing is, he told me he had a gun a few weeks before it happened.” revealed Denise who had developed a genuine ambivalence toward Arthur. “He told me he had it stashed at your place.”
“Noh! Are y’u sure about that?” exclaimed Mary with growing alarm.
“He told me he’d it hidden behind some pink towels in your airing cupboard.”
Mary’s face turned ashen, because Denise could not possibly have known about the pink towels unless Arthur had told her, and she could not imagine that Denise, being such a close and fondly spoken of friend in Arthur, would make up such a damning story. Mary leant back on the sink for support, her legs wobbling: “My god,” she started, “we’ve been an’ ‘ad madman in our ‘ouse. ‘E might of done somefin’ to our daughter.” she agitatedly speculated, “We treated ‘im like family.” she admitted with dismay.
Denise comforted Mary with a gentle rub of her arm: “Don’t beat yourself up – you couldn’t have known. He had me fooled.” Then she recalled more of the conversation with Arthur in May when he divulged the information regarding the gun, the same conversation where he spoke of a sexual liaison with a girl called Carol. “Is that your daughter outside, waiting?”
“Yes, Carol.”
“I couldn’t help noticing that she’s in the family way.” noted Denise searchingly.
“Yes – nearly six months.” stated Mary unsuspectingly; this detail provoked Denise to make a mental calculation, the result of which caused her to shudder – she could not hide her anxiety. “What is it?” challenged Mary, the undesirable possibility starting to dawn upon her; “You don’ fink...? Oh, no. She’s refused to talk about who the farver might be. What did ‘e tell you?” she entreated.
“I don’t know; I could be wrong... But he did mention something about a Carol, once.” “Oh shit. No wonder she’s been so tight-lipped.” concluded Mary, albeit a tad prematurely.
“It might not be.” proffered Denise, now desperately back-peddling, “It was probably another Carol. Oh, god – I’m sorry: I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No. No, it’s okay – I need t’know. I fink deep down, I’ve suspected it all along. I just didn’ wanna believe it.”
At this delicate moment, a court typist entered the toilet and eyed the two women suspiciously: they both pretended not to know each other, Mary quickly leaving and Denise needlessly washing her hands in a guilty subterfuge, before also hastily departing, both the toilet and the building.
Mary sat back down next to her pregnant daughter with a terrible look of forlorn. Carol hadn’t even noticed Denise, being as she was absorbed in a women’s magazine article. When she looked up to check it was her mother who had sat down beside her, she was immediately aware of her distress: “Wha’s the matter, mum?” she enquired with concern. “I just met someone...in the lav’.”
“What d’y’u mean?” quizzed Carol slightly alarmed.
“Do y’u remember Arfur talkin’ about a friend – a woman; antique dealer?”
“Er, possibly – why?”
“Well, I just met ‘er in the lav’y.”
“Really? What did she say?” asked Carol with growing apprehension.
“Somefin’ about Arfur...” started Mary turning to Carol and grabbing her hands, “Tell me the truth, Carol: is Arfur the farver?” Carol was momentarily stunned by this suggestion and stared hauntingly into the oblivion of her tormented mind. “I ‘ave to know, Carol.” pressed Mary.
“Promise y’u won’t tell dad.” Carol eventually murmured.
“I won’t, darlin’ – I promise. ‘E’s got enough worry already; I a’n’t gonna add to that.” assured Mary tightening her grip on her daughter’s hands.
“Okay... Yes, Arfur is...the father.” she reluctantly admitted. “It was a one off, mum – he forced ‘imself on me.” Tears begun to run down Carols face.
“Oh god. Why didn’ y’u say anyfin’?”
“‘Cause dad would ‘ave killed ‘im.” she asserted tearfully.
“So, ‘e is a rapist.” said Mary sorrowfully.
“I dunno. It wasn’t really rape. It jus’ got out of ‘and, mum. It happened so quick, I couldn’t stop ‘im.” pleaded Carol in a bid to reassure herself as much as her mother.
“Don’t ever blame y’urself, love. None of us guessed what ‘e was capable of.” “Do y’u really fink ‘e killed that poor bloke?” ventured Carol fretfully.
“I dunno, but I fink we underestimated ‘im.” concluded Mary with a bizarre sense of shame, a nerve twitching in her chin.
In the court building on the same day as Denise and the Paris women, was DS Collins, who was keeping an eye on the proceedings on behalf of the embodiment of his romantic aspirations, Anne Mason. Although the public remained understandably sympathetic towards Anne (and Vera), there had been a distinct shift of public support toward Jameson, which was concerning for those wishing for a swift and permanent conviction. Collins had no direct involvement in the judicial process, although there was always a possibility that he could be called as a witness for the prosecution. Nonetheless, he was able to use his position to ascertain insider information relating to the case, and like all the police involved, was determined to ensure that Jameson would be indicted to stand trial and, that any conviction would stick and not be overturned at appeal. Tony walked past the snivelling Paris women, unaware of their identities and therefore did not pay any attention to their apparent distress. Who he did notice, though, was DC Alger coming out of one of interview rooms, where he had been discussing some minor details of the case with junior members of the prosecution team. Tony recognised him from a previous occasion when Alger had been accompanying DSupt Ackroyd, who had given evidence the previous week. Tony strolled over to the unsuspecting Alger, who was on his way to the public gallery, having been assigned the task of overseeing the court proceedings that week and reporting back to DSupt Ackroyd; Tony flashed his warrant card and engaged DC Alger in conversation.
“How are y’u?” asked Tony in a tone of feigned spontaneity; Alger did not immediately recognise him. “DS Collins – Guildford division. We met briefly last week.” Tony explained to the mildly bemused Alger.
“Er, yeah: you were one of the original investigation team.” recalled Alger.
“That’s right – yeah. So, how’s it going?”
“Well, we’re confident it’ll go to trial, but I think we may have our work cut out with Norcroft acting for Jameson.”
“Yes, I heard that. Do you think Norcroft is as good as he thinks he is?”
“I couldn’t say, but we could do without it. Our witnesses aren’t helping as much as we’d like – there’s two of them over there.” indicated Alger with a subtle gesture of the eyes.
“Who are they?” quizzed Tony.
“So-called friends of Jameson... They’re not looking too happy are they? We already had some histrionics from one of our other female witnesses, today. That’s sort of thing isn’t helping our case much, I can tell y’u. It makes it look they’ve been coerced. Any hint of that and Norcroft will rip holes in their testimony.”
“Any word on Jameson’s state of mind?”
“I think he’s been buoyed by Norcroft’s involvement. I believ
e he’s having a psychological assessment done this week.” “The bloody papers are having a field day with this, aren’t they?” observed Tony.
“Not ‘alf. And there’s too many bloody do-gooders jumping on Jameson’s band wagon; that soddin’ Leggett fella is a right thorn in our sides, I can tell you...
“Who’s that, the telegraph journo’?”
“Yeah, that’s right. He’s been stirring up a hornet’s nest of trouble; criticising the police investigation and making out that Jameson’s being framed, with underworld help.”
“That’s bull’. Where does he get this stuff from? Obviously been listening to Jameson’s old mum too much; quite why she thinks he’s so sweet and innocent, I don’t know.”
“Exactly.” agreed Alger, “But I suppose that’s a mum’s job, isn’t it – painting pretty pictures of their child? We shouldn’t expect any different – I just wish people’d stop listening to that cods wallop... Anyway, got to go: another witness is due to give evidence in a few minutes; I need to make sure I get a seat, otherwise the boss’ll have me knackers for garters.”
“Okay mate; I’ve got to go myself. See y’u around.” said Tony with a laugh and gave DC Alger an ingratiating pat on the back.
Tony returned to his office at Guildford police station. DI Longbridge was on annual leave, so Tony was effectively in charge of the day-to-day running of the CID section in his absence. The office was empty, so Tony took the opportunity to ring Anne Mason.
“Hello, Anne; it’s Tony.”
“Oh, ‘ello!”
“I’ve been at the hearing today.”
“Yes, you said you were going to. Anything interesting?”
“Well, they seem confident he will be put to trial, but he’s landed himself with some fancy young barrister, who’s looking to make a name for himself.”
“Oh, dear. That’s bad, is it?”
“Well, it could make it tougher to make the prosecution stick, for sure. But, we just have to wait and see. Some of the witnesses aren’t being all that helpful, either; that won’t help the case.” “He will be convicted, won’t he?” asked Anne with concern.
