Killing Satisfaction

by Jason De'Ath

  “Mister Norcroft, have the prosecution been made aware of this development?”

  “Er, no M’Lord. I’ve only just found out myself.”

  “I see. Very well, Mister Norcroft, you may return to your seat.”

  “Thank you, M’Lord.”

  The judge addressed the court: “It has come to my attention that the defence have received new information regarding the defendant’s alibi which I consider to be of some significance. Mister Norcroft, I trust you will disclose all relevant facts to the prosecution forthwith?”

  “I will indeed, your Lordship.” grovelled Norcroft. Meanwhile the prosecution barrister (Oliver Carmichael QC) initially remained seated, giving Norcroft a contemptible sideways glance, before abruptly standing to address the judge.

  “My Lordship, the prosecution respectfully request an adjournment, to allow for the expedition of further enquiries and for time to reappraise our case.”

  “Of course, Mister Carmichael. The court will adjourn for one week... And Mister Norcroft: I will not be expecting any further surprises.” the judge warned sternly, before standing to leave the court.

  In the public gallery, DSupt Ackroyd was observing the proceedings along with DC Cartwright: he was less than impressed by the unexpected development.

  “I might have known bloody Norcroft would pull some kind of stroke.” moaned Ackroyd.

  “Do you think this is a ploy, then, sir?” asked Cartwright quizzically.

  “It’s bloody inconvenient... Better get onto the office and arrange another interview with Jameson. I best speak to Carmichael.” instructed Ackroyd bristling with indignation.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  (6 January 1966)

  Robi Parmer ran a successful private investigation business and had for several years been contracted by Miles Norcroft to provide information to support his court cases. Parmer was an ex-Metropolitan police detective, who being of dual ethnicity, had encountered considerable institutionalised racism preventing any serious career progression within the force, despite having a highly respectable background: his father being a successful businessman, his mother a high school teacher. Following eight difficult years in CID, he decided his best course of action was to defect to the private sector. Norcroft held him in very high regard and had immediately sought his services in respect of Jameson’s new alibi; consequently, Parmer hot-footed it to Liverpool on the Thursday morning, hoping to be a step ahead of Ackroyd’s team, who did not receive full details of Jameson’s new account of the 30th July until late on the Wednesday.

  Parmer’s primary target was in the Bootle area of Liverpool: a sweet shop on the Stanley Road. On arrival at the Lime Street Railway Station, he quickly realised that the biggest challenge to his investigation was going to be in deciphering the liverpudlian accent; either that, or the bitterly cold conditions. Fortunately, Parmer’s appearance was quintessentially English, his Indian heritage barely discernible, so the only prejudice he was likely to meet with would be due to the ignominy of being an educated southerner. Stanley Road was a very long stretch, but he managed to negotiate his way onto the correct bus and alighted at the first stop on the relevant retail section of Stanley Road; from here he was following Jameson’s cloudy recollection of notable street features. The sweet shop was surprisingly easy to locate, Jameson having recalled that it was called The Sugar Plum. Parmer entered the veritable confectionery paradise and approached the main counter at the back of the shop, where the scales and till were situated, the shelves behind filled with an array of every sugary delight imaginable – it was a plethora of artificial colours. To one side of the shop was a small counter for the serving of ice cream in summer, which was covered with small open topped boxes of chews and alike – a young girl was wishfully guarding them. Parmer smiled at the young girl, before approaching the main counter, where a woman in her sixties was proudly standing at the proverbial gateway to tooth decay temptation.

  “Good morning madam.” started Parmer presenting his business card to the lady, “I represent a London-based firm of lawyers involved in a major criminal case. I would be very grateful if you would agree to answer one or two questions pertaining to our enquiries?”

  “Well, ay suppose.” she answered cautiously, “Ay yous de bussies?”

  “Sorry, madam?”

  “De police.” she clarified.

  “Oh, no madam. I’m a private investigator.”

  “W’s this all about.”

  “I am gathering evidence in a very serious criminal case, involving loss of life. It is a very serious matter, indeed, and the police will be contacting you. However, I am acting for the defendant.” “‘Ow canna ellp, me love?” she asked a little dazed.

  “Could you cast your mind back to the end of July – were you working here then?”

  “Yis, ay weerk e’yer every Thsdee and Fridee.” the lady glanced over to the young girl across the shop, which prompted Parmer to ask her the same question: “Only sometimes.” the girl answered rather unhelpfully.

  “Do you recall the 31st of July this year – it was a Friday?” continued Parmer.

  “Dat wuz quite a while ago.” noted the lady with a pained expression.

  “Yes, but you may recall something unusual that day: do you recall a man asking directions to an address in Stanley Road – he would have had a cockney accent?” The lady pondered the question; Parmer felt obliged to supply some further detail: “He was looking for 38 Stanley Road.”

  “Mmm, yis, ay think ay do... This is 38 Stanley Road.” she suddenly affirmed.

  “Yes, so I believe.” encouraged Parmer.

  “‘E didn’t want this shop, dough... Ay think ‘e wuz lewk'n fe some bloke ‘e knew. Ay remember now – Florrie wuz in de shop.” she elaborated looking to the young girl for confirmation, but the girl was non-plussed.

  “Do you recall what time this was?”

  “Well, Florrie’s only e’yer in de avvy onna thsdee and it wuz deffo avvy.”

  Parmer was now even more confused than the young girl [Florence]; he momentarily gave pause to pencilling upon his notepad, debating how to tackle this incomprehensible dialect without stooping to condescension. He decided to modify his question: “And what time would this be, as exact as you can be?” “About fo.” the lady replied with confidence.

  Parmer, having mentally decoded what the lady had said previously (albeit only partially), realised that if the young girl in the shop was ‘Florrie’, then her presence that morning was in contradiction to what the lady was claiming. He sought to clarify the situation: “So, would the young lady here, be the Florrie of which you speak?” he asked, gesturing to the girl, who was nodding.

  “Oh, rite, yis she is. Ay meant Fridee.”

  “So, Florrie is only here in the afternoon on a Friday – is that right?” he tentatively enquired.

  “Yis, that’s rite. It must ‘uv beun a Fridee whun de Londoner come in.”

  “I see...” Parmer murmured; being mindful of the potential for such uncertainty to be mercilessly exploited by the prosecution, he needed to coax out an incontrovertible testimony in favour of the defence, without appearing to persuade the witness in a particular direction. “Um, may I ask your name, madam?”

  “Joan... Joan Copperton – misses.”

  “Mrs Copperton, I just need to clarify your statement: a man you describe as a ‘Londoner’ came into your shop to ask directions at about four o’clock on a Friday?”

  “Yis.”

  At this juncture, Parmer remembered that he had a photo of Jameson in his pocket; he rifled it out and presented it to Joan: “Is this the man you are referring to?”

  “Yis, ay think it could be.”

  “Okay, that’s very helpful, Mrs Copperton. Now, you say that it was definitely a Friday, because Florrie was in the shop serving – is that correct?”

  “Yis, Florrie is only e’yer in de avvy ed Fridee – whun am e’yer.”

  “Florrie,” started Parmer, turning
to address Florence, “can you confirm what Mrs Copperton has just said?” “I dun kun about de feller, but ay only weerk e’yer ed Friday’s wi’ Mrs Copperton, sir.” “Thank you, Florrie.” said Parmer; “I think.” he thought to himself.

  “Um, Mrs Copperton, can you recall what this man said to you?”

  “'E said ‘e wuz lewk'n fe this addy, but ay didn't kun de feller ‘e wuz ask’n fe.”

  Parmer visibly grimaced, having not really understood any of what Mrs Copperton had just said; he looked at her with a pained expression, unsure how to progress. “Do you recall the name of the man he was looking for?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Er, I can’t, nah...” she replied, then a little spark of recollection flittered across her eyes, “Ay remember suggest’n ter try Stanley Grove, juss up de road, a way.”

  “Excellent, that’s excellent, Mrs Copperton. That is an important detail... Anything else that you recall about this man?”

  “Nah. 'E left de shop and ay didn't see 'im again.”

  “Well, I believe that you could be of help to my client. You will be required to attend court in London – would you be willing to do that...? Your expenses would be paid for you.” he assured her, aware that this would be a determining factor.

  “Bright – ay suppose so. Whun would it be?”

  “That I can’t say precisely, but it would be within the next few weeks... You should know that the police will want interview you, too, and they may want to call you as a witness, themselves. I’m sure they will be in touch, very soon.” “Ooh, wa’ a ter do.” she exclaimed, putting her hand to her mouth in dismay.

  “Sorry, madam, but a man’s freedom depends on it, not to mention the progress of due justice... May I have your home address, Mrs Copperton, so that the court can contact you?”

  “Number six, Blythe Road.”

  “Do you have telephone, madam?”

  “Blower! – yous must be jok’n.” she laughed, “But thuz is a blower in de shop.”

  “Okay, could I have that number, please?”

  “Or’rite, I’ll juss check de number.” she agreed, before disappearing through a back door.

  Parmer now addressed Florence: “Florrie, may I have your surname, please?” Florence looked at him blankly, before stating: “It’s Florence.”

  “No, no, Florence, I don’t mean your Christian name, I mean your second name.” he explained with a mirthful smile.

  “Oh, Gazeley, sir.” answered Florrie, slightly embarrassed.

  “Shouldn’t you be back at school now?” he astutely suggested. Florrie shrugged her shoulders rather coyly.

  Joan returned with the number written on a scrap of paper, which she handed to Parmer; he thanked her and after acquiring Florence’s home address, asked for directions to the Rialto cinema, which turned out to be a just a short walk further up the street. Jameson had attested that he had spent the rest of the afternoon there, after relinquishing his halfhearted search for Stanley Grove. He purportedly had spoken to one of the doormen, as well as the woman operating the ticket kiosk and an usher; he claimed to have watched What’s New Pussycat (which featured Ursula Andress). Unfortunately, none of the staff at the Rialto recognised Jameson from the photo, nor recalled a man with a London accent; however, the doorman that morning was not the one who would have been working on the afternoon in question and Jameson claimed to have had a lengthy conversation with that particular individual. The relevant doorman was due to go on shift when the afternoon matinee started at 4 PM, so Parmer decided to make a sweep of all the shops and businesses operating from that end of Stanley Road on the off-chance that someone might remember seeing, and possibly, speaking to Jameson. Frustratingly, his tenacity did not yield a single new witness, though he did identify a telephone box that Jameson had included in his vague description of the area. The only saving grace was the discovery of a rather good Chinese restaurant called the HongKong Pheonix, rather incongruously nestled between a bookmaker’s and a launderette, where Parmer enjoyed a hearty lunch.

  At ten past four, Parmer returned to the Rialto just as several police cars arrived outside of The Sugar Plum, which added a little urgency to his appointment with the Geordie doorman described by Jameson. As he approached the entrance, which already had a small contingency of youngsters semi-queuing outside, he immediately spotted the tall and very wellbuilt man who was keeping order. Parmer waited while the small throng of teenagers were guided in to an orderly queue up to the ticket kiosk inside the foyer. Parmer then advanced toward the rather imposing brute of a man brandishing his business card. The man showed no reaction other than to briefly glance at the card.

  “The' telt wor yee wud be comin.” The doorman stated brashly.

  “Oh, good – that’s good.” remarked Parmer circumspectly, wondering how he managed to communicate with the liverpudlian locals. Parmer showed him the photo.

  “Wey aye, ah dee vaguely recaal him. What’s he done?”

  “Well, sir, it is more a case of what he hasn’t done.” contended Parmer with feigned light-heartedness.

  “Divvint caal wor sir.” grunted the doorman in a surly manner.

  “Right.” noted Parmer, slightly disconcerted and unsure of what the man had meant – although he got the impression he didn’t like being addressed as ‘sir’.

  “Um, the man in the photo, he was here some months ago; do you have any recollection of when that was?”

  “July, ah think. What’s New Pussycat? wes showin’.”

  “Ah, very good, yes. Do you recall what day of the week this was?”

  “Nar, ah cannit remembor that.”

  “No; no. Never mind. Can you remember speaking with him?”

  “Aye ah dee.”

  “Can you remember any details of that conversation?” “Neet deed, nar.”

  “Well, thank you for your time. May I ask your name?” “Wot fo’?” he snapped suspiciously.

  “Well, it’s just that we may need to contact you – you may be required in court.” “Court! Ahm neet ganin tuh nar fuckin’ court.” he insisted angrily.

  “It would only be as a witness; you’d be helping an innocent man.” said Parmer in an attempt at conciliation. “Ah wey, ah divvint knar.” the man replied, a tad more amiably.

  “The police may well want to interview you and insist you attend court, if suits their cause.” informed Parmer, hoping to appeal to the man’s apparent antipathy toward law enforcement.

  “Rites, I’ll think abyeut it.” the doorman reluctantly offered.

  “Well, that would be very helpful... Mister?”

  “Yee wot?”

  “I’d be grateful if you would give me your name and address – for the record... So that we can contact you.” said Parmer in a somewhat cautious effort at persuasion.

  “Reet. It’s John Smth – rites?”

  “John Smith.” repeated Parmer, slightly in relief and slightly in disbelief. “Your address?”

  “Fourteen Badgor Lonnen.”

  Parmer was half-convinced that the man was having him on and wasn’t at all sure what ‘Lonnen’ meant, either, so he wrote it down as he heard it with a view to having someone translate it later. Feeling the police already breathing down his neck, no more than yards up the road, he decided to cut his losses in Liverpool and follow Jameson’s route to Rhyl (by bus) and locate a suitable hotel for the night, before continuing with his enquiries. Fortunately, there was a bus station not far from the Rialto, underneath a new shopping centre [just as described by Jameson]. Parmer was lucky enough to arrive just in time to catch the 4.50 PM coach (or rather, single-decker bus) to Ryhl, which would take about two hours to reach its’ destination. It was a tiresome journey, albeit a quite picturesque one; the seats were grubby and uncomfortable, while the air had a distinct diesel odour. On the plus side, the bus was relatively uncrowded, such that he had a whole bench seat to himself; on the down side, he hadn’t had time to acquire any reading matter before boarding – preferring to travel l
ight, he had only his notebook for entertainment.

  On arriving at Rhyl, it was a considerable relief to Parmer to again be able to breathe fresh air, not to mention stretch his tormented legs and gain some blood supply to his buttocks. He immediately noted that there was a fish and chip restaurant adjacent to the bus station exit, which was due to open at any moment; the attraction of wholesome high calorie, piping-hot food and the warmth of the diner’s interior were irresistible. His next port of call was the nearby Marlborough Hotel, a small 2-star establishment adequate for his needs and cheap enough to contemplate for a lengthy stay; given Jameson’s vagueness regarding the location of the guest house at which he had stayed, Parmer realised that it could take several days (at least) to identify the correct one, presuming that any record and/or recollection of his visit could even be established – although, it being out-of-season could be an advantage, assuming that the proprietors were in residence. However, he also hoped to uncover other witnesses who could independently verify Jameson being in Rhyl during the pertinent time period required to add veracity to his alibi. He intended to do this by placing a large advert in the local paper, appealing for information and including a picture of Jameson; this would be his first mission on Friday morning, before embarking on his arduous trawl of a large proportion of Rhyl’s hostelries – this didn’t just involve interviewing people, but also documenting the interior features of each of the premises in an attempt to find a match to Jameson’s sketchy (though invaluable) description. It was going to require every bit of Parmer’s charm and patience to successfully achieve a beneficial outcome to this particular enterprise.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  (11 - 12 January 1966)

  The first full day of the trial began at 10 AM on the Tuesday morning of the 11th of January. Prior to the start of the proceedings, Judge Ravensdale had summoned the two opposing barristers to attend a meeting in his chambers to ensure, given the previous adjournment, that both sides were now ready to progress with the trial – though he would have required considerable persuasion to do otherwise. Carmichael was a very old hand and was well acquainted with the judge, having tried many cases in his presence – he therefore knew not to push his luck too far; Norcroft was less than half Carmichael’s age and a relative newcomer; something of an upstart in the eyes of Carmichael and unknown to Ravensdale. However, Norcroft was wily enough to know not to push his luck, either. Consequently, despite a few private reservations on both sides, they all agreed that it would be judicious to continue forthwith.