Killing Satisfaction

by Jason De'Ath

  “The greater proportion? Could you be more exact: an expert guess?” asked Norcroft seizing upon the opportunity to undermine Carmichael’s attempted denigration of his data.

  “Um, an estimate? I suppose, I would have to say, at least two-thirds.”

  Carmichael slumped back in his chair, in defeat. Norcroft, conversely, now appeared to almost inflate with confidence, before making his consummate observation:

  “Two-thirds, Dr Ross. Two-thirds of 300,000, is I believe, 200,000, is it not?” “Yes.” admitted Ross with reluctance.

  “Members of the jury, you have it from the prosecution’s forensic expert: the gunman is one of 200,000 possible individuals. If I were a betting man, I would consider my client to be a rank outsider in this particular contention. No more questions my Lord.” Norcroft completed his victorious circumvention, while Carmichael seethed and simmered.

  “Do you have any more witnesses today, Mr Carmichael?” asked the judge.

  “No, my Lord.” replied Carmichael with obvious resignation.

  “In that case: court will adjourn until tomorrow morning...” ordered the judge, “Mr Carmichael and Mr Norcroft, please attend my chambers at 9.30 tomorrow morning.” he imperiously instructed.

  “This ruddy Norcroft is a smart one.” noted Allerton-Brown to Carmichael.

  “Hmm. Make sure we get a copy of that statistics report, there’s a good chap.”

  After the court had cleared, Robeson received a message from Jameson asking to see him, which he duly did. Sitting in the cell, Jameson was still stewing over the personal comments made by Norcroft earlier that day. Robeson stepped in to the claustrophobic atmosphere of the cell somewhat naive of Jameson’s mood.

  “Keep it short: we want to get ‘im back to Brixton.” the warder grumbled as he closed the door.

  “Well, Arthur, I think we’re definitely ahead on points...” started Robeson cheerfully.

  “What? I didn’t like what ‘e said about me today.” grumbled Arthur, adopting a decidedly aggressive stance.

  “Norcroft is doing a great job for you.” reminded Robeson desperate to placate Arthur.

  “Yeah, well, tell ‘im not t’slag me off again – right?”

  “Arthur, Arthur, it’s just tactics. He’s using your record to your advantage and stopping the prosecution using it against you – it’s a clever strategy.”

  “What was all that stuff about stat-ics?”

  “Statistics... Clever stuff, Arthur. Don’t worry about it, Arthur, just know that it’s working. Look son, Norcroft is a brilliant advocate. He might just be using this case as a spring-board, but if anyone can win this for you, he can. That’s all that matters. You don’t have to like him.”

  “Yeah...okay. When ‘ave I got to get in the box?”

  “Not yet. I think we might expect the prosecution to put you on the stand towards the end of their evidence; otherwise, not until the defence case begins. You can still change your mind about that...”

  “What about this identity fing?”

  “All to come, Arthur; all to come.”

  In his office at Snow Hill Chambers, Norcroft, along with his junior, Fiona Letheridge were mulling over the police evidence relating to the cartridge cases; Fiona, being the diligent and enthusiastic sort, had spotted a discrepancy between the police records and the forensic laboratory records, which she excitedly brought to Norcroft’s attention – he immediately had a eureka moment. Seconds later, the telephone rang: it was Parmer with news from Rhyl.

  “Hello Robi, my dear fellow...” exclaimed Norcroft brimming with gratification.

  “Mr Norcroft, I think I’ve got the witness we need. I found the boarding house Jameson stayed at.” “Excellent news!”

  “The landlady seems quite keen to support Jameson’s alibi. Did you get my message the other day?”

  “Er, yes, I think so: a witness came forward claiming to have spoken to Jameson in the street, or something?”

  “Yes. I’ve got them both lined up, ready and willing to give evidence on our behalf.”

  “Good man, good man – I knew I could rely on you. Get yourself back to London tout suite, my friend; by any means

  – charter a plane – just get here as quickly as you can. I’ve got several new leads for you.”

  “Right. I think the nearest airport is in Liverpool. I don’t know that I can get back there tonight; I don’t think there are any more buses or trains until the morning.”

  “Find a taxi. Don’t worry about the cost, old man.”

  “If you say so, Mr Norcroft. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.” “I’ll have a scotch and soda waiting.” promised Norcroft.

  Parmer laughed: “Make that a gin and tonic. See you soon.”

  Norcroft replaced the receiver and with a jubilant smile beaming from his legalistic face, addressed Fiona: “Miss Letheridge, I believe a celebration is in order.” He then perched himself on the edge of his junior’s desk and leaned flirtatiously toward Fiona, “Have you ever been to the Adelphi theatre, Miss Letheridge?” “Um, no, I haven’t actually, Mr Norcroft.” she replied with a nervous smile.

  “There’s a marvellous production on at the moment: Charlie Girl. Awfully good fun I hear. If we take a taxi we should just make it – what do you say, Miss Letheridge: shall we have some fun?”

  “Well, there’s still quite a lot of work to...” she started, slightly reluctant.

  “Nonsense, my dear. Champagne and a show – now that’s got to be better than a stuffy evening in chambers?”

  “Well, I suppose.” she was beginning to warm to the idea, “Yes, okay – why not.”

  “Just ring my dear wife: let her know I’ll be working late.” he disparately announced as Fiona put her coat on.

  Meanwhile, Jameson sat in his cell in Brixton prison, smoking a roll-up which he wasn’t enjoying very much. His cell mate, Eric ‘The Ferret’ Whittley, was buffing his shoes.

  “Where d’y’u get this snout, Ferret?”

  “Dennis gave it me.”

  “Dennis? Dennis who?”

  “Yeah, Dennis Crossby, y’u know?”

  “What fuckin’ Dodgy Dennis?”

  “Yeah, Dodgy Dennis, that’s ‘im.”

  “No wonder it tastes like parrot shit.” moaned Arthur stubbing out the obnoxious excuse for a cigarette.

  “That’s good stuff, that is.” argued Ferret, “Can’t be too fussy in ‘ere – you should know that.”

  “Yeah, well I only smoke when I’m jittery.”

  “Oh yeah... ‘Ow’s the case goin’? I fought you ‘ad a top brief.”

  “I ‘ave. Still gets me on edge, though.”

  “So, did y’u do it, or what?” asked Ferret rather blatantly.

  “Wha’d’you fink?”

  “I dunno, mate... Y’u don’t look like a killer.”

  “Don’ judge a book by its cover, tha’s what my old mum I always says.” replied Arthur a little cryptically.

  “I a’n’t sayin’ you a’n’t capable... Y’u jus’ don’ look like a killer, tha’s all. I’m guilty as fuck. If my brief gets me off, it’ll be a fuckin’ miracle – know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, well, I a’n’t guilty, all right?” affirmed Arthur defensively.

  “I ‘eard on the grapevine, like, that bird said y’u were a dead cert’ for it.”

  “Yeah, well she’s wrong.”

  “Funny, though, eh?”

  “What d’y’u mean?”

  “Another bloke jus’ like you runnin’ aroun’ shootin’ people...” goaded Ferret; Arthur refused to take the bait, “Wonder where ‘e’s at, like... I mean, y’u’re in nick an’ ‘e’s probably out shaggin’ an’ gettin’ pissed; ‘avin’ a good time, y’u know?”

  “Y’u’re a barrel o’ laughs, mate. Y’u’ really cheerin’ me up.”

  “You done plenty o’ time: why y’u so bovvered this time?”

  “I don’ wanna do any more time, tha’s all.”

  “Y’u kn
ow what they say: if y’u can’t do the time...”

  “Shullup will y’u?” grumbled Arthur climbing up onto his bunk. “Nice bit o’ skirt, I ‘eard...”

  “What?”

  “That bird...in y’ur case... Well, she use’ t’be – if y’u know what I mean?”

  “What? What the fuck y’u on about?”

  “I’m jus’ sayin’: she use’ t’be... When she still ‘ad two legs, like.”

  “Give it a fuckin’ rest will y’u?”

  “Jus’ makin’ conversation, mate.”

  “Well, make it somewhere else, will y’u – I need t’fink.”

  “Close, you an’ y’u mum, are y’u?” continued Ferret, determined to get a reaction; Arthur decided to ignore him. “I use’ t’ave a mum... Died, y’u see. I was just a kid, an’ all... I reckon tha’s why I went bad... What about you, Arfur?” “What about me?”

  “Why d’you go off the rails?”

  “I dunno. It’s jus’ the way I am.”

  “Wha’s it like?”

  “What?”

  “Killin’ someone? Did y’u get a buzz?”

  “I told y’u – I didn’ do it.”

  “Yeaah, I know. We all say that though, don’ we? I mean, I’m as guilty as fuck, but I a’n’t pleadin’ it.” smirked Ferret, then stood up so as to be on at eye level with Arthur; “Come onnn: what was it like pulling that trigger?”

  Arthur sat up and climbed off the bunk to stand face to face with Ferret, adopting a very threatening stance: “If you don’ shut the fuck up, I’m gonna knock y’u fuckin’ teef out... You got me?”

  “Hey, I’m jus’ windin’ you up.” declared Ferret, not wishing for any violence.

  “Yeah, well, I’ve ‘ad enough.” Arthur gave Ferret a hard stare, before returning to his bunk.

  “It’s okay, mate. If y’u say y’u didn’ do it, y’u didn’ do it...” Ferret paused for a minute, then suddenly said: “My missus fucked off wiv this bloke she met down some poxy club. Eight years we’ been married... Trouble is I’ve been inside most o’ that. Can’ expect ‘er to be a fuckin’ nun, can y’u...?”

  As Ferret’s voice continued to drone on, Arthur switched off and turned his thoughts inward. He was still upset about Carol Paris, suspecting that her pregnancy was the result of their brief liaison. The thing was he really did care for Carol; she had always had a special place in his heart – not love, exactly, but a deep affection. Now she had metamorphosed into his worst enemy and he really could not understand why.

  Chapter Thirty

  (13 January 1966)

  The morning of the 13th brought bad-tidings. Jameson was visited by Robeson soon after his arrival at the Old Bailey cell block – he had some difficult news to convey. Entering the cell, the unsuspecting Arthur greeted Robeson with an appreciative smile, which slowly drained from his face when it was clear that his solicitor had something sombre to inform him; he stood up in anticipation of some legal setback.

  “Arthur, you should sit down. I have something distressing to break to you...” Arthur sat on his bed morosely attentive,

  “Arthur, it’s...it’s your friend...Carol.” Arthur’s ears pricked up, his expression puzzled, “I’m afraid she had an accident on

  Monday afternoon...”

  Arthur leapt to his feet: “Wha’d’y’u mean?”

  Robeson put his arm on Arthur’s shoulder and gently persuaded him to sit back, before sitting down next to him: “Arthur, she appears to have fallen down a stairwell at a shopping centre... They were able to deliver the baby by caesarean...”

  “What? What’s sayzarian?”

  “Caesarean section: it’s a surgical procedure to remove a baby through the abdomen, as opposed to...normal means.” “What does that...? Why did they need t’do that?” Arthur was obviously beginning to panic.

  “They had to do that because the mother couldn’t deliver the baby, normally.”

  “Why not?”

  “The fall knocked her unconscious... She was in a coma, Arthur... She died Tuesday night.”

  Arthur sat transfixed, not moving a muscle, while this information slowly sunk in. Then, quite suddenly, he jumped off the bed screaming and started banging his head on the ground. The warder rapidly returned to the cell: what he found was not a legal representative in danger, but a grown man crying like a baby on the floor; Robeson side-stepped around the bereft body of Jameson.

  “You might want to get the psych’.” Robeson quietly suggested as he removed himself from the room rather hastily.

  Norcroft and Carmichael arrived outside the door of the judge’s chambers together, promptly on the stroke of 9 AM. The learned “friends” did not speak. Carmichael knocked on the panelled solid oak door: a barely audible distant invitation to enter was heard – Carmichael opened the door. The judge was seated behind his imposing desk in a rather grand leather trimmed chair.

  “Good morning my dear fellows. Do have a seat.”

  The barristers sat a respectful distance from each other and faced his Honourable Justice Ravensdale with baited breath.

  “I have read this Fallenberg’s jottings.” the judge began, slightly dismissively, “An interesting dissertation, I must admit... Mr Norcroft, you are certain of this man’s credentials, I hope?”

  “Er, yes, my Lordship: I have made a study of the illustrious professor. He is quite well known in the United States, I understand.” declared the wide-eyed Norcroft with optimism.

  The judge gave Norcroft a slightly dubitable look over his gold-rimmed reading spectacles: “Hmmm, I’m inclined to accept this gentleman’s findings... Do you have any objections, Mr Carmichael?”

  Norcroft braced himself for a soliloquy of contentious disparagement, but instead got a rather bland: “I doubt the jury will understand it.”

  “Perhaps not, but do you understand it, Mr Carmichael?” the judge asked exploratively.

  “I believe I do, my Lordship; though I am not convinced that a sufficient statistical population has been as yet employed as to demonstrate an incontrovertible proof of thesis. It is suggestive – no more.”

  “Mmm, you may be right. What of the proposed theatrical experiment?” asked the judge somewhat mockingly – Norcroft shuffled uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Well, my Lord, the Prosecution are of the view that such an exhibition could be more damaging for the defence than for our own endeavour.” smirked Carmichael.

  “Is that acceptance of the proposal, then, Mr Carmichael?” challenged the judge.

  “Not exactly an acceptance, but we will not object if Mr Norcroft chooses to pursue such a reckless undertaking.” was Carmichael’s supercilious reply.

  “I think then, Mr Norcroft, that on the basis of Professor Fallenberg’s postulations, I might allow you to conduct this little experiment. However, I will not allow this rather abstruse report to be entered into the evidence – we don’t want to overwhelm the jury with abstract psychological interpretations, inferred from complex mathematical computation. But you may cite the report as justification for your mootable scientific venture. I imagine Mr Carmichael will denigrate any result favourable to the defence in any event... Are we all agreed? Mr Norcroft?”

  “Um, yes – my Lordship is most gracious in his accommodation.” Norcroft grovelled; although he would have preferred the jury to have had the opportunity to read the report, he knew this was nonetheless a superlative outcome given that he had not been forced to fight his corner, possibly antagonizing the judge and precipitating hostility toward the cause of the defence.

  “Mr Carmichael?” the judge prompted for complete clarity.

  “Oh, whatever his Lordship thinks is most judicious.” Carmichael acquiesced with a bow, coupled with a sickly smile. Norcroft dutifully acknowledged Carmichael’s agreement with a subtle bow of the head.

  The Honourable Mr Justice Ravensdale reconvened the trial. Carmichael, noticing the absence of Jameson from the dock, gave Norcroft a bewildered look, at which point No
rcroft stood to address the judge:

  “My Lord, my client has respectfully requested that he be excused from attending court today...” “The reason, Mr Norcroft?”

  “It would seem that he received some distressing news this morning regarding a close friend, my Lord.” “How distressing?”

  “The lady in question is deceased as of Tuesday night, my Lord.”

  “Ah, I see...” the judge cleared his throat, somewhat flummoxed by that announcement, “Under the circumstances, the defendant may be excused for duration of today’s deliberations.”

  “My Lord is most kind.” thanked Norcroft in pseudo-gratitude, despite the fact that the defendant wasn’t obliged to attend court, anyway.

  As Norcroft sat back down, Carmichael pondered what he just heard and putting two and two together he wondered whether he might be making five; but there was no time for such frivolous contemplations, so he immediately rose to summon the next witness: “I call Denise Deneo to take the stand...”

  Denise sat nervously awaiting that dreaded call, but a whisper in her ear shortly before (from one of the prosecution team) allayed her foreboding of having to face Arthur while giving evidence against him. She took a deep intake of air and entered the courtroom...

  “Miss Deneo, you are a former friend of the accused, Arthur Jameson?” began Carmichael.

  “Yes.”

  “How long have you known the accused?”

  “About five years.”

  “And how did you come to know the accused?”

  “He heard I dealt in objet d’art, through the trade.”

  “I see. So you regular bought items from the accused?”

  “Yes – or sold them for him for a fee.”

  “Were you aware that Jameson was a thief and that the items he traded through your business were stolen?” “I suppose... I suspected.”

  “And over the years you developed a non-romantic friendship with Jameson?” “Yes. We were only ever friends.” She was determined to make that crystal clear.

  “Would you say you got to know him pretty well?”

  “Up to a point, yes... Sometimes he would stay overnight – on the sofa. We were pretty friendly.”