Killing Satisfaction

by Jason De'Ath

  “To be honest, it could be touch and go. It’s all down to the jury, which is largely potluck, quite honestly. We don’t know who the judge will be, yet – that can make a difference.”

  “What am I going to do, if he gets off?”

  “Let’s not think about that; there’s a way to go, yet, Anne – you don’t want to be worrying yourself about it... How are the kids, by the way?”

  “Okay. No tears today. Do you want to come over later – for dinner?”

  “Er, yeah, okay – that’d be great. What time?”

  “About six thirty – is that okay?”

  “Yeah – it’s pretty quiet here and the gov’ is on holiday this week.”

  “Shall I see you later, then?”

  “Yes. I look forward to it. See y’u later.”

  Anne said “Bye” before putting the phone down; she returned to the lounge, where her brother Ewan was sitting drinking a mug of coffee.

  “Who was that?” enquired Ewan protectively.

  “My policeman friend.” she stated thoughtfully.

  “What did he want?”

  “Nothing. He was just updating me on the state of the hearing.”

  “Is it wise to get too close to him – if the press got hold of it...?”

  “He likes me, and he makes me feel safe. For all we know, that lunatic’s still out there: a threat was made on my life, too.” she reminded him.

  “What makes you think the killer isn’t Jameson?”

  “Nothing. I’m just saying, what if it wasn’t him... I don’t think the case against him is entirely water-tight, you know.” “Is that what Tony told you?”

  “Not exactly. But we shouldn’t assume that that it’s all cut and dried.”

  “He is the bloke you thought you spotted coming out of the florists, isn’t he?” said Ewan rhetorically.

  “I know. It probably is him. But he’s not been found guilty, yet, has he?” “Let’s hope he is, and that’s the end of it.”

  As expected, at the end of that November, the case was transferred to Court No.6 of the Central Criminal Court [Old Bailey], with Sir Archibald Ravensdale QC as the presiding judge and Oliver Carmichael QC acting as the Prosecuting Barrister – both with considerable experience of murder cases. The trial was set to convene on the 4th January 1966.

  PART FOUR

  Trial and Tribulation

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  (December 1965 – 4 January 1966)

  The Christmas period for the Jameson household did not bring much comfort or joy, with Arthur’s trial looming large on the calendrical horizon. However, Arthur’s family remained intransigent in their belief in his innocence and that he would ultimately be fully exonerated. They had secured the support of the acclaimed journalist and author, John Leggett, who had made it his purpose in life to vindicate Arthur Jameson, while simultaneously exposing a corrupt and incompetent police force. There was a small, yet forceful, ground swell of support building before the trial had even got properly under way. Leggett had also been instrumental in provoking the interest of Miles Norcroft in the undertaking of Arthur’s defence. So, despite the obvious gloom attendant upon the Jameson’s, there were nonetheless good reasons for them to feel optimistic – Arthur included.

  As for the crown prosecution team, including DSupt Ackroyd and company, they had spent most of December trying desperately to paper over the cracks in their case and achieve a cohesive facade of assured credibility. But, in reality, they knew full well that their case had more holes than a Swiss cheese and a similarly unappetising odour. Vera’s identification and testimony, combined with the cartridge case evidence and Jameson’s lack of any meaningful alibi, were the cornerstones upon which their case depended, but these were not without some obvious structural fissures that could be exploited by a competent defence team. Ackroyd had not had a decent night’s sleep since the second week of the pre-trial hearing, such were his misgivings regarding the performance and integrity of a number of the witnesses that he had personally procured; but, there was no turning back.

  The Paris family, meanwhile, had probably suffered even more than the Jamesons. Carol’s pregnancy had added considerable stress to their already painful position of having to turn Queen’s evidence on a surrogate family member, who Carol and Mary knew to be the father of Carol’s unborn child. Dickie, who also suspected the worst in Carol’s condition, was greatly troubled by the whole circumstances of his “grassing” – something that a man like the Lion Fist did not find compatible with his lifelong criminal association, and it was losing him friends at a rapid rate. But he felt a grave compulsion to do what he believed to be the right thing; murder and rape were not among this hard-man’s repertoire and he couldn’t condone it; moreover, he was as convinced of Arthur’s inexplicable descent into evil, as most others were convinced of his inculpability, and he needed to protect his family from it.

  Denise Deneo remained in a state of utter bewilderment, unsure what to conclude about her once close friend, while driven along by an intimidating prosecution contingent, like a car spinning out of control on an icy road to its inevitable oblivion in a ravine of destruction. Whatever happened, her life could never be the same again. Gone was the quietly comfortable anonymity and financial security: her antique shop had closed, partly because she no longer felt able to cope with running a business and partly because of growing hostility from the public. The press had even intimated that her mother had died in mysterious circumstances and that Denise may have had something to do with that. She had been forced to hide away in her flat in total isolation.

  Anne mason conversely felt able to finally relax a little in the knowledge (she believed) that the nightmare would soon be at a conclusion. Gregg wouldn’t be coming back, but at least she could attain some closure from Jameson’s conviction; and, now there was a new man in her life, Detective Sergeant Tony Collins, a man who was able to make her feel truly secure, physically and emotionally – probably for the first time in her life. She was now daring to dream of a future for both herself and her children with stability and elation in dependable abundance; and most important of all, a complete absence of competition. There was, however, one bothersome rock of the love boat in the form of the media’s intrusion into the case: journalists at the News of the World had got wind of a possible affair between Anne Mason and an unknown police detective who was (or had been) involved in the investigation into her husband’s death. As a result, two rather unscrupulous hacks took it upon themselves to delve into this rumour by ingratiating themselves with Ewan Williams. Having persuaded him to accompany them to the local public house, they plied him with strong drink in a bid to extract information. What they got wasn’t quite what they’d expected, though: Ewan remained tight-lipped about his sister’s romantic liaisons, but could not help let slip the extraordinary story of his sister spotting Jameson outside a florist’s shop. Their enquiries into the incident did seem to suggest that there was some truth to this revelation. Although the police refused to comment upon the incident which followed the related tip-off, in early December 1965 the News of the World editor decided to run the story, which also intimated at Anne Mason’s clandestine relationship. Unsurprisingly, both Anne and Ewan flat denied any knowledge of such an incident, but could do little to prevent the speculation among the press and the public. Nonetheless, Anne continued her blossoming romance with DS Collins – fortunately for them, the police authorities paid scant attention to such scurrilous journalism.

  Vera Fable was finally allowed to return to nurture of her childhood home, though she would be required to reside at Guy’s hospital for the duration of the trial. Her life certainly had not unfolded in a way that she could have ever imagined, but she was strangely content now that she had come to terms with the dictates of her new life; in some respects it had removed the pressure for success that she had always placed upon herself; now she was susceptible to jubilance in just the gift of life itself. But, of course, there remained one p
sychological obstacle to her potential for achieving an everlasting happiness and that was the uncertainty in the doleful conclusion to Arthur Jameson’s life. The death penalty was all but permanently dissolved, but Jameson could still face a lifetime in prison – for him, a fate worse than death – but until that aspect of the whole awful debacle was concluded, she would not be able to truly relax.

  And as for Arthur: the Christian festival period on remand wasn’t so bad; he just prayed that the New Year would bring him a more earthly salvation.

  Miles Norcroft’s natural confidence exuded from every pore, but even he knew that he had some work to do if the case of Regina versus Arthur Jameson was to be expedited with a favourable outcome for the defendant. Norcroft’s most concerning factor in constructing an efficacious defence was Jameson’s lack of a tangible alibi. With this as his primary matter for resolution, he attended Arthur in his Old Bailey cell the morning of the day the trial proceedings were due to begin, in the hope that Arthur might have decided to elaborate upon his existing alibi, or perhaps have a new (provable) one to submit. As Norcroft solemnly followed behind the prison guard – his expensive leather soled shoes clip-clopping upon the polished concrete floor of the cell block, ominously reverberating through the fabric of the narrow corridor like ghostly echoes of the buildings bleak Victorian origins – the historic majesty of the setting did not escape his over-inflated, upper-middle class, public school ego; this was the pinnacle of legal calling, the model of a British justice system that had stood the test of time, that not even Hitler’s bombs could dismantle, and presided over by Lady Justice herself.

  As the cell door was opened, the sullen image of Arthur Jameson revealed itself. Norcroft was greeted by Arthur’s desolate eyes, which showed no emotion. However, inwardly Arthur was gratified to be visited by this strange new “friend”: a man who was at complete odds with his own persona in both a social and intellectual disposition – even his sense of dress would ordinarily have induced an antipathetic merriment in Arthur, being as it was more akin to an Edwardian drawing room than the emancipated sixties – but, at this juncture in their fateful (albeit diametrically opposed) lives, there was a symbiotic chemistry that bound them in a necessitous brotherhood. The guard was duly dismissed by Norcroft, who believed he was the last person on Earth that would have anything to fear from this man at this precise time-point; he sat himself down next to Arthur on the stark prison bed.

  “Good morning, Arthur. Today is a momentous day: the beginning of a journey that will bring either freedom or incarceration. It is my steadfast intention that the outcome will be the former of those two possibilities.”

  Arthur nodded, although he wasn’t entirely sure what the barrister actually meant, but rightly concluded that Norcroft would do everything in his power to win an acquittal for him. Arthur mumbled a meek, yet enormously grateful “thank you”.

  “Arthur, in order to win this case, I still need your help... This alibi – or lack of one – is a major problem. If a new alibi were to be presented to the court, it would do better to enter that into evidence now, than after the trial has progressed; the sooner the better, you understand?” Arthur looked at Norcroft blankly, hoping for guidance. “You see, Arthur, an alibi that cannot be proved, is akin to having no alibi at all. Now, I seem to recall that you were a regular visitor to Liverpool for a period at the end of July – is that correct?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Do you think that perhaps you could be confusing the dates? Er, perhaps the events that you are relying upon, do not in fact correlate with the date of the crime? Perhaps you are confusing two separate occasions that happened in close proximity? Think back, Arthur: could there be events that you recollect in relation to Liverpool that occurred around the same time and that you have inadvertently exchanged in your mind. In which case, your perceived honesty could be your downfall; do you see what I am saying?”

  “I fink so, sir.”

  “We still have a few hours – the court doesn’t convene until 2 pm. Please have a long hard think, Arthur. Recheck your memory of the events of the 30th of July; it would be a terrible injustice if you in fact could account for your whereabouts at the relevant times, but had confused the dates... Give it some thought. I’ll have Mr Robeson visit you at twelve thirty – you can let him know whether you’ve remembered anything important.” informed Norcroft, getting to his feet; he patted the forlorn Arthur gently on the back, “You mustn’t worry, Arthur: together we can win this fight.” Norcroft banged on the cell door to indicate for the guard (who was lingering discreetly a little way up the corridor) to let him out. “To misquote Yates: ‘in faith will be our victory’.” and with that cryptic sentiment, Norcroft departed, leaving Arthur perplexed, though contemplative.

  As promised, Robeson arrived in Arthur’s cell at the allotted time. Robeson was a more down to earth character, in comparison to Norcroft, despite dressing like a bank manager; he was also highly competent, his career tempered only by his modest social background. He greeted Arthur and sat upon the in-built ledge that ran along one side of the cell, which could be used as a bench.

  “How are you, Arthur?” he asked courteously.

  “Not so bad Mister Robeson. Mister Norcroft visited me earlier.”

  “Yes, so I understand. And have you remembered anything?” enquired Robeson optimistically.

  “Possibly sir. I fink I might ‘ave got me dates mixed up.”

  “That sounds promising, Arthur.” commented Robeson as he opened his aged briefcase to acquire paper and pen.

  “Do go on.”

  “Well, sir, I fink that on that Friday, I went t’Liverpool in the mornin’, about eleven, after leavin’ the Verona ‘otel.”

  “I see. Were there any witnesses at the railway station or on the train that might remember you?” “Possibly...”

  “Okay – we’ll come back to that. When did you arrive in Liverpool?”

  “I fink it was two-firty.”

  “What was the purpose of this visit?”

  “I needed to off load some jewellery and watches – nicked stuff: that’s why I didn’ wanna say before.”

  “Don’t concern yourself with that, Arthur. You’re facing a much more serious sentence than a bit of theft would get you. So, do you have a contact in Liverpool?”

  “Yeah; I have several, in truth – all villains.”

  “Can you reveal the name of this contact?”

  “I didn’ get to find ‘im, tha’s the fing.”

  “Why was that?”

  “The address I got was duff, y’u see. I couldn’ find it. I did ask some people directions, though.”

  “Ahh – that may be helpful. What did you do then?”

  “I took a bus t’where this woman told me was close to where I wanted t’go.”

  “Right; and do you recall the name of this road?”

  “Er, yeah, it was Stanley Road – off the Scotland Road. It wasn’ right though. I asked anuver woman in a sweet shop and she said it might be Stanley Court I was lookin’ for. I tried to find it, but I ‘ad t’give up... Too many pissin’ Stanleys.” complained Arthur, “Des told me that the place wasn’t far from the station, but I ended up all over the shop.”

  “Right. Des? Is this the man you expected to meet?”

  “No. Des, Des Naismiff, put me on to it.”

  “Would this Naismith be willing to give evidence, Arthur?”

  “I dunno. ‘E might.”

  “What time did you leave Liverpool, or did you stay overnight?”

  “Not exactly. I ‘ung around f’r a bit. There was a picture ‘ouse – I went there for a bit.” “Okay. Then what?” pressed Robeson, frantically scribbling notes.

  “Well, after a bit, I got a bus t’Rhyl.”

  “Rhyl?” exclaimed Robeson with astoundment, “Isn’t that in Wales?” “Er, yeah, tha’s right... It’s a seaside place.” elaborated Arthur.

  “Yes, so I believe. Why did you go to Rhyl?”

&n
bsp; “I dunno. I went there on day trip, once...” continued Arthur, but Robeson wasn’t any the wiser; then Arthur realised what detail Robeson was seeking: “Oh, well, there’s lots of digs, y’u see?”

  “Right – I see.” Robeson still wasn’t entirely convinced, but as explanations go, it wasn’t unreasonable. “What time did you arrive in Rhyl?”

  “About seven – I think.”

  “Excellent.” Robeson declared, “If you can corroborate that, you’re in the clear, Mister Jameson.” Arthur smiled, “So, can you corroborate it?”

  “Sorry, what d’y’u mean, sir?”

  “Can you recall where you stayed? Or any witnesses that may have seen you in Rhyl?”

  “It was pretty quiet. I’ll ‘ave to fink... The ‘B&B’ was called somefink like... Somefink villa. I can’t remember – sorry. I didn’ take much notice.”

  “No, of course not – why would you?” granted Robeson, who was greatly encouraged by this news, “Okay. I think that’s enough to amend your plea deposition. There will probably be an adjournment, so you can relax for a bit longer. We may be able to file a motion of dismissal, if the witness evidence is sufficiently robust; however, I suspect the prosecution will want to press on regardless, so don’t get your hopes up there...” Robeson gathered his notes and bundled them into his briefcase, “I will get word to you as soon as possible; you may not need to be brought down to court today... The police will likely want to re-interview you at some point, in light of your new alibi. Make sure you get your story straight, Arthur – any inconsistencies and the prosecution will exploit them. Someone will be down later to take your full statement.” As he left the cell, he added: “Cross your fingers, Arthur – it can’t do any harm.”

  At 2 PM on the dot, his Honourable Justice Ravensdale brought the court to session in the case of Regina v Arthur Jameson. The defence team immediately dispatched a clerk to pass a note to the judge. Ravensdale pondered this irritably before calling Norcroft to approach the bench.