by Jason De'Ath
“Cast your mind back to a day in early May of last year – a few months before the crime was committed. Would you please tell the court about one particular occasion he stayed at your flat?”
“Yes. He came ‘round to mine late one evening; he needed somewhere to sleep for the night – for some reason he was a bit short of cash... The next day he was still there at lunchtime when I closed the shop for an hour – I go up to the flat to have my lunch... Anyway, we were just chatting; he was boasting about some conquest...”
“Conquest?”
“Yes. He’d spent the previous evening on a date with some girl.”
Norcroft interrupted: “Did he give the name of this girl?”
“No... At least, I don’t recall.” she lied, having been instructed not to say by Allerton-Brown, as the jury might construe that the person in question was Carol Paris – which they did not know for a fact.
“And what did he say about this girl he was with?” continued Carmichael.
“Well, he said something that unnerved me. He didn’t normally make sexual references in my presence – he knew I didn’t like that sort of thing... But on this occasion he implied that he had...you know, had his way with her.” “Had sexual intercourse?” helped Carmichael.
“Yes, that was the impression he was giving.”
“What did you make of that comment?”
“It made me feel uneasy: he seemed to be referring to her like she was...some prostitute.”
“What else did Jameson impart during that conversation?”
“I think he realised I didn’t approve of his sex-talk, and like some impetuous child, he needed to score a point back, or something...”
“What did he tell you?” pressed Carmichael. Deneo was struggling with her betrayal and began to snivel; she produced a hanky and blew her nose rather loudly.
“He mentioned that he had a gun.” she eventually admitted.
“A gun? Did you believe him?”
“I wasn’t sure, but, well he described where he was keeping it – it sounded convincing.”
“What did he tell you?”
“He said he kept it at his friend’s flat...Dickie Paris.”
“Richard Paris, my Lord.” Carmichael illuminated the obviously confused judge. “Miss Deneo, do you recall any details relating to that?”
“Yes. He said that it was in a bag hidden behind some pink towels in the airing cupboard.”
“What did he say this gun was for?”
“Protection. Better them than me, he said.”
“So, he was prepared to use this weapon if need be?”
“That’s what he was claiming.” she confirmed, albeit falteringly.
“Thank you, Miss Deneo... Now if you would cast your mind back again, this time to mid-July 1965: do you recall a personal item going missing around this time?”
“Yes, yes I do... I used to have a pair of black gloves – artificial leather; fairly old.”
“I see, and what happened to those gloves?”
“They disappeared. The only person who’d been to my flat since the last time I remembered seeing them, was Arthur, Arthur Jameson.” stated Denise confidently; Norcroft shuffled some papers and pulled an expression of incredulity.
Carmichael paused momentarily. “My Lord, I would like to draw the court’s attention to Vera Fable’s statement – exhibit 44. On page three, she describes the gloves worn by the gunman, which the jury may recall were mentioned in Miss Fable’s earlier testimony in court. She described them as ‘black, leather or artificial leather, quite worn’.” Carmichael looked up from reading this out and paused dramatically for a few seconds, before continuing: “This description seems awfully familiar, and that is because it is exactly the same as Miss Deneo’s description of her missing gloves. The defence have argued that Arthur Jameson was known not to wear gloves; I would suggest that he acquired Miss Deneo’s gloves specifically for the purpose of pursuing his criminal activities. The inference is I think, obvious.” Carmichael smiled in gratitude for Denise’s performance: “Thank you Miss Deneo. No further questions, my Lord.” Carmichael sat down, fairly satisfied with his witness.
“Mr Norcroft, your witness.” needlessly reminded the judge, as Norcroft momentarily hesitated.
“Thank you my Lord... Miss Deneo, would you be kind enough to show your hands to the jury and his Lordship.” Denise raised her hands above the witness box, giving Norcroft a perplexed look. “Miss Deneo, would you say you had small or large hands?”
“Small.” she answered sheepishly.
“Yes, small lady’s hands... Unfortunately, my client is not in court today, but I can assure the members of the jury that Arthur Jameson has average sized hands... Average for a man, that is.”
Carmichael winced and looked distinctly uncomfortable as several of the jury adopted wry smiles. Norcroft deliberately paused to allow this observation to disseminate fully, before continuing:
“Miss Deneo, apart from this one occasion in May last year, during the five years that you were acquainted with Arthur
Jameson, did he ever give you cause to fear him, or doubt his impeccability?”
“No. I knew he was no saint, though. But I had no reason to ever fear him.”
“So, you, a lone woman, were perfectly comfortable to allow this man to stay at your home, overnight?” “Yes.”
“He never made any overtures towards you?”
“No. Nothing like that.” she affirmed with conviction.
“What was your impression of Arthur Jameson’s intellectual ability?”
“He’s a bit ill-educated; a bit slow, sometimes. But we always managed to have a good conversation.”
“I see... I’m just struggling a little to understand your relationship with this man, Miss Deneo. Why would someone of your obvious decorum and intelligence wish to befriend someone like Arthur Jameson?”
“I...I just liked him... I suppose I felt a sisterly affection.”
“I put it to you, Miss Deneo, that you had amorous designs for Arthur and when he rejected them…you saw this trial as an opportunity to reap revenge – isn’t that right?”
“No! No, absolutely not. There was never anything like that.” Denise looked at the judge for assistance, “I don’t do...
I’m not interested in that sort of thing.”
“I think that’s enough, Mr Norcroft...” warned the judge, “Do you have anything else for this witness?”
“Yes, I do, my Lord. Miss Deneo, is it true that your mother died in ‘an accident’, falling down the stairs?”
Denise visibly shrivelled, her eyes stare unblinking; the colour slowly draining from her face, until she was decidedly corpse-like in appearance.
“I must protest, my Lord: the witness is not here to answer questions about her mother’s death.”
“I quite agree, Mr Carmichael. I don’t see that this has any relevance, Mr Norcroft. Unless you have any more questions relating to the case in hand...?” asserted the judge.
“No, my Lord.” Norcroft conceded, before dramatically adding: “Oh, forgive me; there is one last matter, my Lord – if I may?” Ravensdale nodded, if a little reluctantly, as Denise was still in a state of apparent petrifaction.
“In your police statement, Miss Deneo, you said that the gun Arthur told you about was, so he told you, a Beretta – is that correct?”
“I...I can’t remember.”
“It says it in your statement, Miss Deneo.”
“I don’t recall.”
“For the benefit of the jury, the murder weapon was an Enfield revolver, not a Beretta pistol. No further questions.”
“You may step down, Miss Deneo.” the judge courteously informed her, whereupon she practically fell out of the witness box; the court usher rushed to her rescue. Once Denise had been escorted from the courtroom, Carmichael addressed the judge:
“My Lord, the prosecution has been struck by several unexpected absences in the witness schedule. Apparentl
y, Miss Carol Paris unexpectedly died on Tuesday, we have been informed. Consequently, her parents, Richard and Mary Paris, are also unable to attend court today, due to their bereavement. I therefore request a two hour adjournment to allow us the opportunity to summon some alternative witnesses.”
“Certainly, Mr Carmichael. Court is adjourned until 1.30 PM.” the judge graciously granted an adjournment until after lunch as he had missed breakfast that morning.
Meanwhile, Denise Deneo was escorted from the Old Bailey by a court official, still unaware that Carol Paris was dead.
Chapter Thirty-One
(13 January 1966)
A black taxi drew up in front of the Old Bailey building and out stepped Derick Jacobsen, wearing a shabby raincoat and trilby hat. He was intercepted by the prosecution chambers’ clerk, who was waiting with cupped hands and looking decidedly chilled: he hurriedly escorted Jacobsen into the sumptuous Grand Hall, where Allerton-Brown was anxiously waiting for the prosecution’s substitute witness for the afternoon session.
“Good afternoon Mr Jacobsen. Good of you to come at such short notice.”
“No prob’s. Mr Cambridge says there’s a bottle o’ whiskey in it f’r me.” admitted Jacobsen, somewhat to Allerton-
Brown’s dismay, who was then compelled to pretend not to understand what this might imply about Jacobsen’s evidence. “Er, right. If you could come with me?” directed Allerton-Brown a little disconcerted.
“Yeah, I need a piss, first – where’s the bogs?”
Allerton-Brown cringed at Jacobsen’s uncouth manner as he pointed in the direction of the ‘Gents’ toilet. When Jacobsen emerged a few minutes later, the solicitor was nowhere to be seen, so he had no choice but to loiter like a piece of trash, which had randomly blown in from the gutter and defiled the splendour of the Grand Hall. A few moments later, he was in collision with a youngish man, whom unbeknown to Jacobsen was DS Anthony Collins.
“Sorry mate.” apologised Collins.
“No prob’s – y’u got the time, mate?” enquired Jacobsen.
“Er, yeah, ten past one...” replied Collins and was about to walk on when he turned back and asked: “You’re not here for the Jameson case, are you?”
“Yeah, tha’s right. Wha’s it to you?” asked Jacobsen cagily.
“Oh, I’m one of the investigating team. When are you due to appear?”
“‘Alf one, I fink.”
“Court 6 is it?”
“Dunno, mate.”
“Oh well, I’ll find it.” said Collins with a smile and continued on his way.
Seconds later, Allerton-Brown reappeared to escort Jacobsen into a side room where the prosecution team were encamped waiting for the call to court; there he was quickly briefed regarding his testimony.
Carmichael began his examination of Derick Jacobsen: “Mr Jacobsen, on the 29th of July last year, you were employed as a manager...” – Norcroft irreverently coughed at this misinformation – “...at the Verona Hotel in Maida vale – is that correct?”
“It is sir, yes.” Jacobsen firmly agreed.
“Was the hotel full at the time?”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“Pretty much?” quizzed Carmichael pointedly.
“Oh, well, there was one room vacant – number twen’y six.”
“Why was that, Mr Jacobsen?”
“Er, well, sir, ‘cause it’s like a big room wiv sev’ral beds – sleeps up t’four.”
“So, why would that be vacant?” continued Carmichael somewhat painfully.
“Oh, well, yeah, ‘cause it’s expensive, unless y’u share like.”
“I see. And did anybody take occupation of this room?”
“Er, not ‘til late.”
“Go on.”
“Well, at about eleven, this geezer come in wantin’ a room, so I says you can ‘ave twen’y six, but it’s like over two quid for the night...unless someone else comes in later and shares it, like – which weren’t likely at that time.” “I see. And did this man take the room?”
“Yes, yes ‘e did, sir.”
“What name did he give?”
“Er, if me mem’ry serves me right, it was ‘A. Johnson’.”
“It does, Mr Jacobsen... If I may I refer to Exhibit 27, my Lord: the hotel guest register.” The register was duly presented to Carmichael by the court usher. “The jury should note that there is an entry for Room 26 on the 29th of July with the name
‘A. Johnson’ given as the occupant... Now, Mr Jacobsen, were you be able to subsequently identify this guest as Arthur
Jameson?”
“Yes I was sir.”
“Members of the jury, this is not a matter of dispute: Jameson has freely admitted that he was the guest in that room on the night of 29th July... Mr Jacobsen, please tell the court what happened the next morning when Jameson booked out.”
“Erm, well, ‘e left the ‘otel, but came back a minute or so later. ‘E asked t’go back t’the room to get somefin’ ‘e’d forgot, like.”
“And then?”
Norcroft could not resist the temptation to interrupt any longer: “My Lord, has this witness been coached and require prompting?”
“Noted Mr Norcroft. Please continue Mr Carmichael.” granted Ravensdale.
“Thank you, my Lord. Please continue with your account Mr Jacobsen.”
“Yeah, as I was gonna say: when ‘e came back from the room, ‘e asked for the best way t’Paddington station... So, I suggests gettin’ the number firty six bus at the end of the ‘igh street.”
“The number 36 bus, members of the jury, is significant to this case, because the gun was found on that bus...” “My Lord, it was the 36A bus.” corrected Norcroft.
“Ah, yes, my learned friend is quite correct. The jury is advised that the 36 and 36A buses have similar routes and stop at the same place in Maida Vale. Either bus will take one from Maida Vale to Paddington, and vice versa.”
Norcroft immediately leapt to his feet, yet again: “My Lord, that as may be, but the gun was reported as found on the Monday morning, that is the 2nd of August, therefore there is no correlation with Jameson’s visit to Maida Vale.”
Carmichael rose for the counter-attack: “My Lord, my learned friend is quite correct, but I was not implying that the gun was left on the bus on the Friday before the crime was even committed.” A wave of tittering flowed around the courtroom. “Mr Jacobsen, you have been very helpful; please stay there – my learned friend may have some questions.”
“Indeed I do.” said Norcroft purposefully as he stood to address the shifty Jacobsen, “Mr Jacobsen, you’ve not been completely honest with this court, have you?”
“I don’ know what y’u mean sir?”
“Well,” Norcroft laughed derisively, “I’m not sure where to start... Let’s begin with a nice easy one: how long have you been ‘Derick Jacobsen’?” Carmichael had a look of puzzlement and horror on his face and turned to Allerton-Brown (sat behind him) to ask what it was that Norcroft was talking about. Norcroft continued, while Jacobsen stood silent in shock: “Let me help you further: were you once known as ‘Morris Finch’?”
“Er, well, I...”
“You’ve had many names?” suggested Norcroft with amusement.
“Um...”
“Answer the question, Mr Jacobsen.” insisted the judge.
“Well, I s’pose, I might ‘ave used some uvver names.” he finally conceded.
“Yes, quite a number I believe... But let’s run with Morris Finch, shall we? I understand that you are rather well known to the Midlands police under that name...? Let me remind you: during the period of 1954 to 1958, you were an informant, weren’t you?”
“I... I like to ‘elp the police sometimes.” he began to explain and then turning to the judge, added: “I ‘ave a sense of civic duty, my Lord.”
“Really?” commented Ravensdale, unconvinced.
“Mr Jacobsen, you are well known as a ‘coppers nark’, are you not, and i
n 1957, you were indicted, along with a member of her majesty’s constabulary, for taking bribes for giving false information...”
Jacobsen hesitated, before turning to the judge again: “Do I ‘ave t’answer that m’ Lord?”
“Yes you do, Mr Jacobsen – and please hurry up about it.” barked Ravensdale with growing impatience.
“Er, well, yeah, but I was acquitted.”
“Yes, you were. But no smoke...”
“My Lord, I must protest.” asserted Carmichael, desperate to recover some dignity.
“If the man was acquitted, then there can be no fire.” instructed the judge.
“No my Lord, of course not...” accepted Norcroft with a smile of satisfaction, “Mr Finch, sorry, I mean Jacobsen...” There was uproar in the public gallery, prompting Ravensdale to stiffly rebuke Norcroft, who had to restrain himself from laughing too. “I apologise, my Lordship... Mr Jacobsen, let’s move on to another issue: you said that you were employed at the Verona Hotel as a manager – is that correct?”
“Er, yeah, tha’s right.”
“Hmm, I note a hesitation there, Mr Jacobsen.” Norcroft observed pointedly, “Would that be because you were in fact an imposter at the hotel?”
“Eh, what?”
“Mr Jacobsen, you were never actually employed to work there, were you?” “I was gettin’ paid.” Jacobsen proffered as proof of his employment.
“Yes, but only because you had duped the Spanish couple who were actually working there.”
“Mr Carmichael?” prompted the judge for some explanation, but Carmichael remained seated, shaking his head and looking dejected.
“Mr Jacobsen, the owner of the Verona Hotel, a Mr Mickelman, claims to have never clapped eyes on you or your common-law wife, let alone offer you a job. What do you say to that?”
“Well, ‘e did. ‘E’s old, ‘e’s probably jus’ forgotten, like.”
“Did you have a contract?”
“Contract...? Nah, it was a gentleman’s agreement.” Jacobsen announced with a misguided sense of ascendency.
“Gentlemen?” mocked Norcroft to yet more sniggering in the public gallery, “Mr Jacobsen, it does appear that we have to take your word for it – because there is no one else to corroborate this story. Perhaps you would care to tell the court why you were ‘sacked’?” Norcroft continued his assassination with enjoyment; the jury were becoming noticeably contemptuous of Jacobsen.
