Killing Satisfaction

by Jason De'Ath

  “Yes. A woman was in the passenger seat and a middle-aged bloke was drivin’. There was a younger bloke in the back of the car – he looked out at me; a bit threatenin’.”

  “What do you mean by ‘threatening’?” pressed Carmichael.

  “A hard stare, like ‘e was threatenin’ me. Then he sat back and I couldn’t see ‘im anymore.” “So, it was fleeting?” interjected Norcroft.

  “Yes, but I got a good look at ‘im.” Palmer affirmed.

  “Can you see that man in court today?” asked Carmichael.

  “Yes. It’s him.” Palmer turned and pointed at Arthur, who looked decidedly shocked and confused.

  “Thank you, Mr Palmer. No more questions my Lord.” Carmichael sat down, notably pensive.

  Norcroft quickly rose and smiled obnoxiously at Palmer, which had the desired effect of unnerving the young witness.

  “Mr Palmer, did you note the number plate of this vehicle?”

  “No. It didn’t seem suspicious.”

  “Can you be sure that it was even green?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “And you think it was a Singer? Not a Humber, perhaps? Or a Hillman?”

  “Yeah...I think it was a Singer.”

  “Did you get a good look at the driver?”

  “Not really – I wasn’t payin’ that much attention.”

  “But you vividly recall the passenger in the back?”

  “Yeah. Well, like I said, ‘e gave me a hard look.”

  “The thing is Mr Palmer,” started Norcroft leaning down on the bench and smiling creepily, again, “Miss Fable has no recollection of stopping at your garage...and has clearly stated that they had filled-up at Esher: so, why would they need to stop at Ripley?”

  “I don’t know.” sniffed Palmer – he was looking a little hot at this point.

  “It doesn’t seem very likely, does it?” insisted Norcroft forcefully.

  “Well,” stuttered Palmer, now overtly anxious, “I don’t know.”

  “Are you sure that this wasn’t some other car? Or, perhaps, you were tired – dreaming? Or, didn’t have your glasses on?”

  “Mr Norcroft...” subtly warned the judge.

  Norcroft continued unperturbed: “Did you hope to gain some popularity from your involvement in this case?” “No.”

  “Are you sure...? Are you sure there was a car at all?” demanded Norcroft.

  “My Lord, I must object...” started Carmichael.

  “Yes, yes. Stop barracking the witness, Mr Norcroft.”

  “My Lord, I am merely attempting to establish whether this witness has any credibility whatsoever.”

  The judge turned to face the witness: “Mr Palmer, remember you are under oath; perjury is a serious offence.”

  “May be it wasn’t the same car.” Palmer finally conceded, now desperate to escape from public scrutiny. Carmichael fell back into his seat and sighed heavily.

  “No more questions, my Lord.” stated Norcroft casually whilst restraining a grateful smirk.

  During the lunchtime interval, Norcroft noticed that a new witness had been slyly added to the Prosecution’s schedule, apparently in attempt to wrong foot the Defence; this was highly suspicious. Norcroft at once abandoned his smoked salmon salad and ran from the cafeteria to the nearest public telephone, whereupon he called his stalwart PI, Robi Parmer, to instruct his immediate enquiry into the mysterious Eric Whittley.

  The afternoon session was predisposed to be emotionally charged, with the belated, but inescapable appearance of Dickie Paris for the prosecution. Originally, all three of the Paris family were to give evidence, but under the unfortunate circumstances it was decided that only Dickie would take the stand, as Mary’s evidence would not have augmented the case, being essentially only supportive of Dickie’s testimony. No one in the courtroom was tenser than the man in the dock.

  “...Richard Paris, you have been a friend and associate of the accused since 1959, when you met during a mutual spell in Wormwood Scrubs – is that correct?” asked Carmichael.

  “Yeah. We’ve been chummy for about free years, since teamin’-up on the outside.”

  “So, would you say that you know the accused – and his activities – pretty well?”

  “Yeah – as well as anyone.”

  “What were the accused’s primary interests in life?”

  “Apart from nickin’, y’u mean?” Dickie responded in a strangely detached moment of hypocrisy. The comment induced a titter in the public gallery.

  “Criminal activity, I presume, would be his main source of income?”

  “Yeah. ’Ousebreakin’, nickin’ cars – that sort a fing. ’E liked to gamble a fair bit...” “What sort of gambling are we talking about?” pressed Carmichael.

  “’Orses, mainly... ’E ‘ad a reg’lar place in a poker game, or two. Casinos.” “A lot of this would be illegal in nature, would it?” “Er, yeah.” affirmed Dickie.

  “Did he have any non-profit interests?” Carmichael enquired with a sceptical tone.

  “Not many...Women, of course. Cars.”

  “Any woman in particular?” asked Carmichael in a deliberately ambiguous manner.

  “There were one...or two.” Dickie noticeably gritted his teeth and glared at the dock; Arthur just shrank back in his seat in a futile bid to hide from Dickie’s demonstrative fury.

  “Would you care to embellish that remark, Mr Paris?” encouraged Carmichael – he was seeking ammunition with which to assassinate Arthur’s character.

  “There was one pa’tic’lar whore, yes.”

  “Do you mean a prostitute, Mr Paris?”

  “Yeah, a prozzer... There was one ‘e liked to see reg’la’.”

  “What about girlfriends?”

  “Diff’rent one every week; plus, one steady bird.”

  “It sounds as though Mr Jameson is something of a rake, when it comes to women?” noted Carmichael, essentially addressing the jury; Dickie, being a little unsure what he meant, just made an expression that conveyed general agreement. “Now, I would like to move on to some conversations you had with the accused during the months prior to the crime...

  Let’s begin with a conversation relating to a gun, that you had with Arthur Jameson in mid-May 1965.”

  “Er, yeah. Arfur said ’e was int’rested in gettin’ a gun.”

  “I see. Did he explain why?”

  “Not really. I fink ’e just fancied feelin’ big – y’u know?”

  Carmichael paused briefly, aware of Norcroft shuffling in his seat as he dithered over whether to object; he decided not to – Carmichael, therefore, was condoned to continue:

  “And did he obtain a gun, do you know, Mr Paris?”

  “Well, I can’ say for sure, but ’e made inquiries, like.”

  “Enquiries?”

  “We, er, met some geezers I know...oo do armed robb’ries an’ stuff.” admitted Dickie with obvious discomfort.

  “Armed robbers?” declared Carmichael with feigned outrage, “Was Jameson considering moving up the criminal career ladder?”

  “Possibly. ‘E was def’nately showin’ int’rest.”

  Norcroft finally felt compelled to interject: “Did Arthur, to your knowledge, ever acquire a firearm?”

  Dickie shifted uneasily: “Well...no, not that I know of.”

  Carmichael decided to change tack: “Let’s move on to another conversation you had with the accused during June

  1965: I believe he made reference to hiding booty on buses – is that correct?”

  “Booty...? Oh, yeah, tha’s right: ’e reckoned the back seat of a bus was a good place to ‘ide stuff. ’E said that there’s a, like, space be’ind; underneaf, or somefin’.”

  Carmichael turned to address the jury, whilst holding aloft a thick wad of papers: “The members of the jury should note that within Jameson’s extensive statements, he was questioned on this point and admitted to having this conversation, and in fact, also the one relating to obtain
ing a gun... Now, Mr Paris, if we could move forward to the end of July, last year... Earlier you mentioned a ‘steady girlfriend’: where did this steady girlfriend live?”

  “Paddin’ton area. Don’ know exactly.”

  “Paddington. Paddington, members of the jury is where Jameson said he was going on the morning of the 30th of July, when he was given directions, by Mr Jacobsen, to catch a number 36 bus. You will recall that the gun was discovered on the 36A bus – which is a parallel route. Also, worth noting, is that both of those buses pass through the Soho area, where the accused is predominantly associated. Mr Paris lives in that general area... Mr Paris, were you aware of Jameson’s purpose for staying in Maida Vale on the 29th?”

  “Well, ’e told me ’e was takin’ out some bird.”

  “This is someone else, not the ‘steady’ girlfriend?”

  “Yeah: ’e cheated on ’er all the time.” Dickie revealed somewhat superfluously.

  “Indeed.” agreed Carmichael with glee at embellishing that particular point. “Why did he stay at the Verona Hotel?”

  “‘E told me that ‘e booked the room earlier in the day, ‘oping to get off with this bird.”

  “‘Get off’ I presume means, have sexual relations?”

  “Yeah, tha’s it.”

  “And did he?”

  “Nah, she weren’t up f’r it.”

  Norcroft leapt to his feet: “So, my client was hoping for consensual sex, wasn’t he?” “Yeah – I s’pose.” conceded Dickie with a note of reluctance.

  “Thank you, Mr Norcroft...” stated Carmichael ingenuously, “Mr Paris: so am I right in believing that he had arranged a date with a stranger in the hope of securing some sexual gratification?”

  Dickie considered this for a moment and when he had decoded it, said: “Yeah, tha’s right.”

  Norcroft was now tiring of this line of questioning: “My Lord, I fail to see what relevance any of this has to the crime my client is accused of?”

  Carmichael was immediately on the defensive: “My Lord, I am merely establishing a pattern of behaviour and the degenerate moral attitudes of the accused – I believe that is relevant to this case.”

  “I agree, Mr Carmichael, please continue.” overruled Ravensdale; Norcroft stewed quietly.

  “When did the conversations relating to this date, take place?”

  “On the Wen’sday, the 29th. Arfur came ‘roun’ to our flat, like ’e oft’n did.”

  Much to Carmichael’s exasperation, Norcroft again jumped to his feet: “What time did the accused leave your flat on the 29th?”

  “After dinner – about seven.” disclosed Dickie.

  “Thank you.” said Norcroft appreciatively; Carmichael, being focused on establishing Arthur’s psychological disposition, overlooked the significance of this admission and was momentarily derailed.

  “...Er, Mr Paris, returning to the 29th: what else did Arthur talk about that day?”

  “‘E was goin’ on about goin’ down Liverpool to flog some watches, or summit.”

  “Did he say when he planned to do this?”

  “...Er, sorry, that was the day before.” Dickie rather clumsily corrected himself – and Carmichael.

  “Ah, yes, my apologies my Lord, members of the jury: this was on the 28th of July.”

  Norcroft’s eyes narrowed as he scratched his head under his wig, suspecting that there had been some coaching. Carmichael looked decidedly shifty and avoided eye contact with Ravensdale, who suspicions were also raised. But it would have been against etiquette to suggest that the learned Prosecution might be guilty of colluding with their witness to pervert the course of justice: the benefit of the doubt being the order of the day.

  Carmichael regained his composure and continued: “Mr Paris, did the accused have an association with Liverpool?”

  “Yeah: ’e did some time up there an’ made a few contacts; fences, mainly.”

  “For the benefit of the jury: Mr Jameson had a spell in Walton Prison, in Liverpool. Fences are people who buy and trade in stolen property...” Carmichael again lost his thread momentarily, “Um, Mr Paris, we have heard earlier in the evidence that Jameson never wore gloves when pursuing his criminal activities: that isn’t in itself contested, but is there reason to think that Jameson may have changed his approach in the weeks leading up to the end of July?”

  “I kept tellin’ ‘im to wear gloves – I think it was gettin’ frew by then...”

  Norcroft interrupted: “Do you know for certain that the accused started wearing gloves prior to the 31st of July last year?”

  Dickie took a deep breath: “Well...no.”

  Carmichael was now beginning to lose the whole thrust of his attack on Jameson, and having exhausted his magazine of circumstantial rounds, he decided to tactically disengage. Now it was Norcroft’s turn:

  “Mr Paris, can you explain to the court the reason why you have chosen to give Queen’s evidence against your friend?” “Former friend.” Dickie corrected Norcroft acerbically.

  “I note some animosity in your tone, Mr Paris.”

  “I don’ approve of killin’ innocent people, or rapin’.”

  “I see...That’s very commendable of you, Mr Paris, considering your background.” sniped Norcroft; Dickie was visibly perturbed by this remark, “It isn’t exactly blameless, is it?”

  “I know I a’n’t been no model citizen, but there’s a world o’ difference between me an’ ‘im.” Dickie pointedly argued.

  “Perhaps, but you’ve inflicted your own fair share of hurt on others, haven’t you...?”

  Carmichael interrupted in a bid to rescue his witness: “My Lord, how is this relevant to the accused?” “Mr Norcroft, can you explain?” requested the judge with intrigue.

  “Certainly, my Lord: I am attempting to demonstrate that this witness is far from honest and decent, himself, and has a lot to lose if the police took it upon themselves to investigate him.”

  “I think I see where this is leading – please move on, Mr Norcroft.” instructed Ravensdale knowingly.

  “As his Lordship pleases... Mr Paris, and remember you are on oath, have you ever known the accused to be needlessly violent or aggressive?”

  “No. That don’ prove anyfin’, does it?” Dickie complained and glanced at Arthur, who looked openly saddened by his former friends’ betrayal.

  Norcroft decided to change tack: “You mention that my client had a steady girlfriend – how would you describe her?”

  “I never met ‘er.”

  “Well, how did Arthur speak of her?”

  “I got the impression she was respectable.”

  “A nice girl, then? Virtuous, would you say?”

  “‘E weren’ gettin’ any from ‘er, if tha’s what y’u mean?”

  “‘Gettin’ any’? A delightful expression, Mr Paris, which I presume refers to sexual relations?”

  “Yeah: ’e moaned about that sometimes.”

  “But, continued with the relationship, nonetheless?”

  “Yeah – I dunno why.”

  “Perhaps he was more honourable than he gave you to believe, Mr Paris. Perhaps most of what he told you was just for the sake of ‘bigging himself up’? Perhaps he was trying to impress you – a notorious hard man.”

  “I don’ fink so.”

  “May be, but you don’t know so, either, do you?” Norcroft contended; Dickie was somewhat muted by this. “I would suggest that there are hidden motives for the desertion of your good friend Arthur Jameson, aren’t there?” Norcroft was digging for implication of self-interest, unaware of the full extent of that interest. Dickie, however, remained tight-lipped.

  “Cat got your tongue?” goaded Norcroft – a member of the public sniggered rather loudly.

  “I a’n’t got nuffin’ else t’say.” Dickie calmly announced.

  “Have you quite finished, Mr Norcroft?” intervened Ravensdale, who was now tiring of this direction of questioning.

  Norcroft stare rather
disapprovingly at Dickie for a moment before signalling the end of his cross-examination. Dickie gave Arthur one last hateful glance as he left the witness stand – something which did not escape the attention of many of the jurors.

  The prosecution was brought to a close with the appearance of Mrs Pomfrey-Jones, whose primary purpose was to emphasize the callousness of the crime by recounting the appalling scene that she had stumbled across on the fateful morning of the 31st of July and the events leading up to the police arrival – which she did with considerable eloquence.

  Norcroft listened attentively and waited patiently for his opportunity:

  “Mrs Pomfrey-Jones, on the morning of the 31st of July, did you make a formal statement to the police?” “Yes, to a lovely sergeant.” she cheerfully affirmed.

  “The reason that I ask is that I notice that the police statement is typed and does not bear your signature...?” “Typed?” she queried, rather perplexed.

  “Yes; I have it here – Exhibit 1.” Norcroft directed the clerk of the court to pass the document to Mrs Pomfrey-Jones, “Is that your statement?”

  “Well...no.” she declared disconcertedly.

  “Er...sorry, Mrs Pomfrey-Jones, did you say it isn’t your statement?” asked Norcroft with surprise.

  “No it isn’t. Mine was hand written, you see – by me.”

  Carmichael began to coil up in anticipation of a major embarrassment.

  “I see,” started Norcroft, getting the bit between his teeth, “but the statement is in your words, is it?”

  Mrs Pomfrey-Jones studied the document for a “long” few minutes – there was complete hush in the courtroom. Finally, she looked up and addressed Norcroft with the bomb shell: “This isn’t what I said in my statement.” There were immediate conspiratorial whispers in the public gallery, while Carmichael frantically consulted with Allerton-Brown. “Not what you said?” pressed Norcroft for complete clarity.

  “No, not exactly. These are not my exact words.”

  “But in essence, does the statement reflect what you actually said?” “More or less.” she conceded.

  “That is reassuring...” quipped Norcroft, “I ask because there are a few details I would like to highlight...”

  “Before you go on, Mr Norcroft,” interrupted Ravensdale, “I would like a private word with prosecution counsel – please approach the bench, Mr Carmichael.”