Killing Satisfaction

by Jason De'Ath

  “My Lord.” Norcroft conceded with a bow – but yet again, the boot had already been squarely put in.

  Following the lunch-time adjournment, the prosecution wheeled in several medical doctors who had examined and assessed Vera’s wounds on or soon after the 31st of July. They were swiftly succeeded by the pathologist who conducted the post-mortem of Gregg Mason’s body, along with some more ‘delightful’ photographs. None of this testimony was in dispute, being presented purely for the purpose of reinforcing the gravity of the crime upon the jury. The defence had no interest in cross-examining any of these witnesses and so the afternoon session, and the first week of the trial, ended rather uneventfully.

  Arthur returned to his cell in something of a huff and demanded to see Robeson before being shipped back to Brixton for the night. Robeson was rather loathed to see his client, guessing what the likely complaint would be; however, he had some positive news and needed to make a request of him, so agreed to see Arthur in an interview room with Joe Abercrombie (the chambers’ clerk) in attendance, just in case there was any trouble.

  “Hello, Arthur... The case is going well, isn’t it?” cited Robeson appeasingly.

  “Yeah, I s’pose it is.” reluctantly conceded Arthur, “But what was that put down about?”

  Robeson acted ignorant: “What put down?”

  “What Norrey said about flyin’?”

  “Oh, ‘pigs might fly’: yes, that put Ackroyd in his place, didn’t it?”

  “Eh? Wha’d’y’u mean?”

  “Everyone was laughing at Ackroyd, Arthur – the joke was on him.”

  “Oh, right. I fought they were laughin’ at me.”

  “Nooo. Norcroft scored big points with that one.” assured Robeson; Joe nodded in agreement. “Was that all you wanted to see me about?”

  “Well, no. I wondered if there was any news about Carol’s baby?” Jameson adopted a fatherly stance.

  “Er, not that we have been privy to... I could ask our prosecution friends whether they know anything, if you like?”

  “Yeah, alright.”

  “Now, Arthur, I have some good news: our friend John Leggett wants to interview you for an article; it would be a chance for you to give your side of the story. The Guardian newspaper is keen to publish such an article.”

  “Wha’s that then, some toffs’ paper?” Robeson and Abercrombie both laughed.

  “It’s er, what you might call, for the more discerning reader – intellectuals. It would be in your interest.” explained Robeson.

  “Yeah – okay.” Arthur agreed, not entirely convinced.

  Back at New Scotland Yard, DSupt Ackroyd was brooding over a large scotch in his office. DS Cambridge joined him before leaving for home.

  “How did it go, boss?”

  “Not great. I hate bloody smart Alec lawyers like Norcroft...He’s shown up Jacobsen for the fool that he is, and he’s managed to put doubt on all the key evidence... By the way, did you know that the Verona guest book had been doctored?”

  “Doctored?”

  “Yes. Someone rubbed out the note against Jameson’s entry. I imagine whoever did it, thought they were doing us a favour, but it looks highly suspect. You don’t think Jacobsen could have done it, do you?”

  Cambridge pulled an expression of sincere doubt: “He hasn’t got the brains or the balls.”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right; but if he didn’t, one of us must have...” noted Ackroyd slightly accusingly.

  “Now, now boss... I’ll have a word, see if anyone wants to own up – but I wouldn’t.”

  “I’m worried about these cartridge cases, as well. Now I think about it, it all seems a bit sus’.”

  “I spoke to the boys in the lab’: they say that no one from the met’ could have got hold of them before they returned them...”

  “No... Something’s not right, though – I can smell it.” Ackroyd looked genuinely concerned.

  “Surely you don’t think Jameson’s innocent, do you?”

  “No. No, I’m confident we got the right man. It’s just something... I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “You need a rest, sir. I’d have a few days off – you’ve surely earned that?”

  “Yeah, you may be right, Teddy. I’ll be glad when this is all over, sure enough.”

  Ackroyd wasn’t the only one with worries on his mind. Richard and Mary Paris had a few serious problems of their own to consider. Their daughter – their only child – was now dead, as the result of an ‘unfortunate accident’, which they strongly suspected was an attempt to abort her baby, which couldn’t have gone more wrong. They were left with a grandchild, a bouncing baby girl, who instantly demanded love and protection – the only descendant they would ever have. But it was very much a mixed blessing, because apart from the untimely death of their daughter, they now had a child to care for which they believed to be the product of an unlawful violation of their adored daughter. This in addition to their being shunned by their friends, associates, neighbours, even complete strangers, and branded ‘grasses’. The pressure upon them was mounting exponentially, as they felt more and more isolated. They had taken to renting a room in Hornsey, (where they were not known,) using money they had stashed away for their retirement. Their whole world now revolved around a baby that they both cherished and simultaneously despised. For Mary, the mothering instinct had taken over and enabled her to block out most her more negative emotions, while Dickie was a nervous wreck and constantly blaming himself for this catastrophic turn of events. And just to add insult to injury, he would still be obliged to give evidence against Arthur.

  Conversely, Anne Mason’s life seemed to be on the up and up. She no longer had the stressful burden of an errant husband and now had found love with a new and decent man, Detective Sergeant Anthony Collins, who was conjointly proving to be a great surrogate dad to her children. Collins had no children of his own; his previous marriage had been a disaster. Now he had put his career on the line for Anne, something that she was deeply grateful for, and this convinced her that he was the real deal. Anne’s brother, however, was less enthusiastic about this union; although he never made it known why, she was acutely aware of his opposition to it. Her parents, on the other hand, were delighted to welcome this respectable, yet down to earth, man of the law. Deep down, they were beginning to see this whole terrible episode as a blessing in disguise.

  Arthur returned to Brixton Prison during his wing’s association time and was immediately intercepted by Dave Stirling, one of his “wing mates”:

  “Hey, Arthur... You got a new cell mate.”

  “Yeah, the screw told me.” affirmed Arthur, before sitting down with Dave in the association area of the cell block;

  “What ‘appened to Ferret?”

  “Dunno... All a bit strange.” started Dave while offering Arthur a puff of his roll-up, “I ‘eard they’d transferred ‘im to

  Wandsworth. That’s all anyone knows – weren’t ‘e due for trial at the Bailey soon?” “Yeah, tha’s right – so why move ‘im to Wandswoff?” Arthur was concerned.

  “Dunno, but wait ‘til you see y’u’ knew cell mate.” sniggered Dave.

  “Why? Oo is it?” Arthur enquired cautiously.

  “It’s ‘Sissy’ Braithwaite.” informed Dave with a provocative smirk.

  “Oh, fuck.” lamented Arthur.

  “Don’t worry, mate – ‘e won’t bum y’u unless y’u want ‘im to.” Dave was struggling to contain his mirth.

  “If ‘e comes near me, I’ll rip ‘is balls off.”

  “Bad choice o’ words mate: bad choice o’ words.” noted Dave continuing his wind-up.

  “S’pose I’d better see what the shit’s done to the cell.” groaned Arthur, before reluctantly climbing the stairwell to the landing where his cell was located. He pushed the door open tentatively to find the cell decorated with feminine adornments.

  “Oh ‘ello cell mate.” Braithwaite effeminately welcomed him.

  “Yea
ah, ‘ello Sissy.” replied Arthur with undisguised malcontent.

  “Don’t worry Arfur: I won’t bum y’u unless you want me to.” Sissy assured him, and then added: “You don’t want me to, do you?”

  Arthur ignored the taunt and climbed on to his bunk: “Do you know why Ferret was moved?”

  “Ferret? That disgusting article? Who cares – good riddance to bad rubbish, that’s what I say.”

  “I fought ‘is trial started next week.”

  “Dunno; don’t care... Hey, Arthur: you don’t fart at night, do you? Only my last cell mate used to stink the place out.” “Not normally, no – but I’ll make sure I do tonight.” sneered Arthur.

  “Oh, ha-ha. I’ll just surround myself with perfume – I sha’n’t even notice.” scoffed Sissy. “I hear you’ve got a high-flyer for a brief... Lucky boy. You’ll need ‘im though, won’t you?” “I’ve been stitched up.” Arthur protested.

  “Yeaah, course you ‘ave, sweetie.”

  “Don’t call me ‘sweetie’.” snarled Arthur, already weary of the new ‘lodger’.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it...sweetie.” Sissy sniggered and returned to his crotchet.

  The Prosecution chambers were pretty peaceful. Carmichael was studiously examining the statements pertinent to the witnesses whom were due to appear in court on the Monday morning. Carmichael’s temperament was one of singular frustration; thus far, Norcroft had successfully undermined almost all of the primary evidence and he still had his witnesses to come; he also had his little psychology experiment still to run – the results of which could be anyone’s guess. Nigel Granger QC (Head of Chambers) poked his head in the door of the office to say goodnight before leaving for a pleasant weekend at home, away from the legal fray.

  “Still at it then, old man?” enquired Granger rhetorically.

  “Oh, hello Nigel.” replied Carmichael, lifting his head from the toil of testimony, “Yes, I’m afraid so. This Jameson case is a bally pain in the proverbial rear end.”

  “Not going awfully well, then?”

  “I don’t know; that wretched defence lawyer, Norcroft – do you know him?”

  “Vaguely heard the name.”

  “The man has been causing me interminable discomfiture... The trouble is, we have a rather weak case, and he’s quite justifiably unpicked every loose stitch in our sack cloth of a suit.”

  “How long before the defence starts?”

  “Middle of next week... We have got one more shock for them, but I sense some aggressive cross-examination will ensue.”

  “Well, Ollie, I’m sure you’ll get your chance to tear a strip off some of their witnesses.” noted Nigel encouragingly.

  “I’m going to need to if we’re to have any hope of winning this.”

  “Don’t take it personally, old boy, we can hardly be blamed for failing to make silk purses out of pig’s ears. It’s their job to provide us with the ammunition; one can’t be expected to fight machine guns with a swagger stick, no matter how good an advocate you are.”

  “I appreciate your support Nigel. But one just hates losing a case like this... Perhaps the CPS could have brought it to court a bit sooner, before chappy concocted his alibi...”

  “I blame Christmas.” started Nigel reflectively, “Interrupts the course of judicial process for the sake of some hymns and a mince pie. Never been a fan, myself; Mrs Granger always goes overboard, of course. Takes months to remove all the glittery bits from the shag pile, you know?”

  “Really, Nigel...” commented Carmichael with a hint of irritation – he was not particularly in the mood for chit chat.

  “Well, dear boy, I’ll leave you to your Herculean labours; I shall depart to my Olympia [which was code for The

  Athenaeum Club]... Goodnight old chap.”

  “Goodnight Nigel.”

  Meanwhile, at the enemy encampment of Snow Hill Chambers there was a celebratory assemblage on account of the junior barrister (Miss Letheridge) having turned the grand age of 25 years. Champagne and hors d’oeuvre were the order of the day, as all the chambers’ employees gathered to raise a glass to their promising new litigator.

  Norcroft dinged his champagne flute with his gold-nib fountain pen and duly called the legal congregation to order:

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my cordial honour to wish our lovely Miss Letheridge a very happy 25th birthday. A quarter of a century spent in chambers would be a certain path to perdition...” “Here here.” noted Stibbington, a veteran of thirty years.

  “Thank you, George.” Norcroft continued: “So, with that prospect ahead, let us all commemorate what can only have been a picnic in the park of life, thus far. To Miss Letheridge.” Whereupon, following a momentary titter, they all raised their glasses in homage whilst repeating the tribute in cheerful unison.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  (17 January 1966)

  Monday morning of week two of Regina v Arthur Jameson began with the Prosecution calling John Albertini to the witness stand. He and another man (Donald Cripp) had observed the stolen Singer Gazelle being driven erratically in the early hours of the morning of the 31st of July, not long before it was abandoned.

  “...Mr Albertini, you were walking on your way to work with another man, Donald Cripp, on the morning of the 31st of July last year along Caroline Street, in Hammersmith?” prompted Carmichael.

  “Yes.”

  “What time would this be?”

  “About 5.30 – in the morning.”

  “For the jury’s benefit: the car is estimated to have been parked at the bottom of Stevenage Road in Fulham sometime between 5.30 and 6 AM that morning...That is approximately five or so minutes’ drive from the top of Fulham Place Road, at the junction with Caroline Street... Please go on, Mr Albertini.”

  “As we approached the Fulham Palace Road, we heard a car approaching at speed...Don ran across the road ahead of me, but I waited...”

  “Don being Donald Cripp?”

  “Yes... A dark coloured car – green I think – screeched past and turned into the Palace Road. I noted the number plate started ‘KGV’ and there was an AA badge on the bumper; also, a sticker in the back window – I only caught the word ‘Auto’.”

  Carmichael again interrupted in order to instruct the jury: “The Mason car was dark green, licence plate KGV 88C and was further distinguishable by an AA badge on the bumper and a sticker in the back window bearing the ‘Maidenhead Auto Club’ insignia... Please go on Mr Albertini.”

  “Y’u don’t see too many cars at that time, ‘specially not driving at that speed. As it passed me on the corner, I caught a glimpse of the driver.”

  “Yes and the record shows that your description matches that of the accused. You also later picked out the accused from a line-up. Do you see that man in court today?”

  “Yes, in the dock.”

  “Thank you Mr Albertini. No more questions my Lord.” “Mr Norcroft?” enquired the judge.

  “My Lord.” acknowledged Norcroft rising to his feet. “Mr Albertini, I don’t doubt your veracity, but in regard to the line-up identification, may I ask, had you seen newspapers displaying Miss Fable’s identikit picture prior to that identification?”

  Albertini was momentarily agitated, glancing at the judge for mystical guidance, to which Ravensdale instructed him to answer truthfully.

  “Er, well, yes – I suppose I did.” he eventually conceded.

  “That’s all, my Lord.” Norcroft informed the judge with satisfaction.

  The next witness was swiftly wheeled in, that being John Albertini’s work colleague, Donald Cripp, who gave a more or less identical description of the event. Norcroft stood confidently to begin his cross-examination:

  “Mr Cripp, may I ask how you were able to get a view of the driver of the vehicle from the left-hand side of the street?” “Well, the car came straight past me.” Cripp grinned and glanced around the courtroom somewhat arrogantly. “Yes, but the driver would have been on the right-hand side of th
e car: how could you have got a clear view?” “Well...I caught sight of ‘im as ‘e turned into Fulham Palace Road.” said Cripp with an air of self-evidence.

  “I see... According to your colleague’s statement, your back was turned to the car as it turned – you only viewed it from the side and rear, didn’t you?”

  “No. That’s wrong. I saw ‘is face.”

  “You saw his face? If that were true, you would have got a closer view than Mr Albertini, wouldn’t you?” “Well, yeah.”

  “So, Mr Cripp, why did you fail to pick anyone from the line-up that you attended?”

  “I don’t know.” stated Cripp blandly.

  “You don’t know? Mr Cripp, a man’s freedom and reputation are at stake here, and you ‘don’t know’?” Norcroft stare harshly at Cripp, who was now shuffling uncomfortably. The judge’s eyes were also now burning into the back of his head, as he looked helplessly at the gallery.

  “Answer the question Mr Cripp.” demanded Ravensdale.

  “I can’t, sir...my Lord. I just didn’t.”

  “Indeed. Are you just trying to get in on the act, Mr Cripp?” asked Norcroft accusatively, which raised a titter from the gallery.

  “No sir... I’ve told y’u what I saw. That’s it.”

  “Really, Mr Cripp? No more questions my Lord.” Norcroft almost snarled as he sat down.

  The next three witnesses observed the car at distance and were only able to place it at a given location at an approximate time, all of which was consistent with what was believed to be the gunman’s route, therefore, Norcroft did not bother to cross-examine any of these witnesses. The final witness of the morning was Ronald Palmer, the attendant at the petrol station in Ripley (on the A3), a spotty man of twenty-one years of age, who wore NHS spectacles.

  “Mr Palmer, you were on duty on the night of 31st July and about to close-up, when a vehicle arrived; would you please describe those events.” instructed Carmichael.

  “Yes. A Singer – Gazelle, I think – pulled up just as I was about to close: that was midnight.”

  “Did you observe the occupants?”