by Jason De'Ath
“Er, busy, my Lord.” assisted Carmichael, “...Florence’s father, Eric Gazeley, drops her off and goes to the bookmakers next door – is that correct?”
“Yis.”
“And this is always around 5 PM?”
“Yis, ay think so.”
“So, that being the case, is it possible that the defendant could have visited your shop at around 5 PM on Thursday the 29th, rather than Friday the 30th?”
“Nah, it wasn't dat late in de avvy.”
“Can you be certain: it is only an hour’s difference?”
“It deffo wasn't as late as dat.”
“Given that this short, seemingly insignificant event took place nearly 6 months ago, how can you be so certain?” pressed Carmichael.
“Thuz wuz nah delivery de dee de feller came in de shop.”
At this point, Norcroft decided enough was enough: “My Lord, the witness has given her testimony. And I might add that the prosecution’s own witness, Richard Paris, testified that the defendant was at his flat that afternoon and didn’t leave until 7 PM – making it impossible for the defendant to be in Liverpool at 5 o’clock.”
“Sustained. Mr Carmichael, I think your argument has been exhausted; please move on.” the judge instructed jadedly.
Carmichael regrouped: “I don’t doubt your veracity, Mrs Copperton, but you are being asked to recall events from almost 6 months ago: is it possible you could have the time wrong – could it have been early in the afternoon, perhaps?”
“Ay dun think it wuz, but ay suppose it could 'uv beun.”
“My Lord,” Norcroft again interrupted, “my learned friend seems to be amending his theory as we go along and then trying to implant that on the witness.”
“I think this line of questioning has reached its zenith, Mr Carmichael.” insisted Ravensdale concordantly.
“My Lord.” Carmichael conceded respectfully, “No more questions.”
“Mr Norcroft, is your next witness’ evidence likely to be fairly concise?” asked Ravensdale, who was keen to break for lunch.
“Er, yes, I believe so.” Replied Norcroft a little hesitantly, and not without good reason: “I call John Smith.”
The burly Geordie John Smith, who presented quite a threatening persona, entered the courtroom and was sworn in; Norcroft was already aware of the judge’s strained expression.
“...Mr Smith, you worked as a doorman at the Rialto cinema on the corner of Exeter Road and Stanley Road – is that correct?”
“Aye.”
“And you were working there during July and August of last year?”
“Ah wes thor from January tuh Octobor.”
“Do you recall ever having a conversation with the man in the dock?”
“Aye, ah kind iv remembor ‘im.”
“Can you recall exactly when you met the defendant?”
“Sometime, end iv July.”
“Can you be more precise?” stressed Norcroft with some frustration.
“The las’ week iv July.”
“Can you recall the day?”
“Ah think, Thorsda or Frida.”
“Thank you. What time would this have been, approximately?”
“Mid or late affor.”
Norcroft decided to cut his losses: “No more questions, my Lord.”
Carmichael decided to forego the opportunity of quizzing John Smith, as Norcroft had already successfully produced satisfactorily vague answers. Ravensdale duly adjourned for lunch with considerable relief on his own part this time.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
(19 January 1966)
Dickie Paris stood on the tenth story balcony of the Watford flat provided by the council for the Paris’ long term accommodation, now that they had a small child to care for; the police had pulled a few strings to get them the flat in way of reparation for their troubles resulting from providing evidence against Jameson. Little Joanna Paris, being a few weeks premature, was still being cared for in hospital, with Mary in attendance. These past few weeks had been the worst of his entire life; everything that he had spent a lifetime depending on had now vanished: friends, all his sources of income and his social life were forever lost, and worst of all, his cherished daughter was gone. Little Joanna offered some emotional solace, but even this was tainted. He had apparently exposed his family to a psychopath, and however irrational it was, he endured a hideous guilt for his daughter’s death and bore shame for the crimes committed in Marsholm Wood. Dickie was deeply troubled by these tumultuous events and no amount of prescription anti-depressant was going to fix that. At this moment there was only one option open to him. He climbed up onto the metal balustrade, stood precariously for a moment teetering upon the abyss, before his foot slipped and he plunged like Icarus – the sun in his eyes – to crash and burn in a sea of his own blood.
Courtroom 6 reconvened for the afternoon session in readiness for some rather credulous Welsh visitors; luckily for the Eton educated judge (and everyone else), their accents were pretty mild. First up was Myfanwy Bevans, Rhyl guesthouse landlady, a jovial middle-aged woman with bouffant hair.
Norcroft smiled affably: “Mrs Bevans, you are the landlady at the Buena Vista guesthouse in Rhyl?” “Yes, I certainly am.” she answered cheerfully.
“Yes, a very exotic name.” commented Norcroft with ingratiating good humour, “I believe you have been running this guesthouse for quite a number of years?”
“...Er, yes. About twelve, all in all.”
“Do you have a good recollection of the guests that pass through your establishment?”
“I like to think so.”
“Now, if you could search your memory back to the end of July last year; the 30th of July, to be precise: do you recall a man arriving in the early evening, looking for a single room?”
“I do, yes. The top room, number 12 – in the attic – is our smallest, least desirable room. Guests in that room tend to be late comers looking for one or two nights stay; there’s not much of a view, you see.”
“Thank you, Mrs Bevans; and do you see the man who stayed in the attic room on the night of the 30th of July in this court today?”
“I do, yes: the man in the dock.”
“Thank you. Can you explain to the court how you can be sure of the date?”
“Yes. It was definitely a Friday night, because he booked out on a Saturday morning, when our laundry is collected.”
“I see, and could you describe the attic room decor?”
“Yes. It is decorated in a plain duck-yellow. There’s not much in that room – we just keep it for emergency bookings, you see.”
“Indeed. And where is the bathroom?”
“There’s a communal bathroom upstairs...on the first floor.”
“Could you describe that please?”
“Basic facilities – we don’t have any thrills in Rhyl.” she jested, “We got the bathroom suite cheap, like; it’s a limegreen colour: not very popular, you see; but no one minds putting up with that for a few days, do they? We’re very reasonably priced you see, especially for family bookings...”
“Indeed, Mrs Bevans...” interrupted Norcroft, before Mrs Bevans could launch into a promotional monologue, “Could you please describe the entrance hall of your guesthouse?”
“Oh, yes: we have a wooden table with a payphone on the wall above it, for guest usage...The hall and stairway are decorated with blue-flower design wallpaper – very stylish, I think.”
“Members of the jury, you will recall the defendant’s description of the guesthouse that he stayed at in Rhyl matches Mrs Bevans’ description... Thank you Mrs Bevans. I have no more questions for this witness, my Lord.” “Mr Carmichael?” prompted Ravensdale.
Carmichael stood and paused deliberately, giving Mrs Bevans an intensely inquisitorial stare: “Mrs Bevans, you have explained how you could be sure of the day that the defendant stayed at your guesthouse, but you have yet to explain how you can be certain of the date?”
For t
he first time, Bevans looked unsure of herself: “I know it was the end of a month...”
“How do you know?”
“Because my son came to stay for a week at the end of each month, May through to September last year, and he was there, when that man was there – I remember. My son was temporarily unemployed, you see, he lives in Sheffield now; he was at uni...”
“Yes, I’m sure, Mrs Bevans: if we could stick to the matter in hand. So, how can you be sure it was July?”
“I’m pretty sure. It was definitely summertime.”
“But you can’t be certain?”
“Well, I’m pretty sure.” she stated emphatically.
Carmichael decided to try another approach: “The guest book record, Exhibit 147: it doesn’t seem to record anyone occupying that room during the whole of last year – how do you explain that?”
“Um,” she appeared decidedly embarrassed, “I suppose because that room tends to get booked in the evening when we’re busy with dinner and such; never gets booked in advance, you see.”
“How many times was it occupied last season?”
“Well, I’d guess about six or seven times.”
“Is this some sort of tax fiddle, Mrs Bevans?”
“I beg your pardon?” she retorted in aghast. Ravensdale and Norcroft caught eachother’s eyes in a moment of astonishment. Carmichael didn’t wait for anyone to have the chance to react, swiftly changing tack:
“Where does your son stay when he visits?”
“In the attic room...but if a guest books it, he sleeps on the sofa in our private living room. That’s why I remember.” was her excellent rebuttal. Carmichael had inadvertently provided the defence with a beneficial validation of the alibi, which put him on the back foot:
“I still don’t see how you can be sure it was July.” Carmichael reiterated impotently.
“I’m just sure, that’s all.” she affirmed with a look of defiance.
“It couldn’t have been the 23rd of July?”
“No, because my son wouldn’t have been there: he stays from Sunday to Sunday.” stated Mrs Bevans with an air of vindication. Norcroft was beginning to enjoy this little exchange. Carmichael could see this was not going anywhere helpful and quickly shifted to a different line of attack:
“The police took statements from all the staff at your guesthouse and your husband, and your son: none of them had any recollection of this guest. What do you say to that?”
“My husband is hopeless; and my son, well, his head is full of pop music and girls.” There was ripple of laughter in the court.
“What about the staff?” asked Carmichael tetchily.
“We have a lot of guests during the summer; we’re very busy... I have a good memory – they don’t; they don’t notice the guests.”
Carmichael was starting to get ruffled, so withdrew gracefully: “No more questions, my Lord.”
The second Welsh protagonist was Edwyn Craddock, a mid-thirties father of three, with his own (one man) bicycle sales and repair business; he had a small shop in Rhyl’s Water Street, Craddock’s Bicycles.
“...It is your practice to go to the Co-operative Building Society on a Saturday morning to deposit savings – is that correct?”
“The Co-operative Permanent, yes. Every Saturday, unless Christmas falls...”
“Yes, yes – thank you, Mr Craddock.” Norcroft curtailed this ramble, “Now, do you recall the Saturday of the 31st of
July last year?”
“Yes; yes I do.”
“Could please tell the court what happened on your way to the bank that day?”
“Building Society.”
“Sorry?” queried Norcroft.
“You said ‘bank’. It’s a Building Society.” Craddock joyfully corrected him.
“Yeas, as you say, Mr Craddock. Perhaps you could tell the court what happened?” suggested Norcroft, slightly exasperated by his pedantic witness.
“Oh, yes. Well, I was walking down the High Street, towards the Co-op, when this fellow accosted me. He showed me a couple of watches he was selling. I wasn’t in the market for such things.”
“I see...And can you see that man in court today?”
“Yes. He’s the man on trial – over there...in the dock.”
“Thank you Mr Craddock. You certainly appear very certain.”
“Yes, I remember because I made a particularly large investment that day: a £110.”
“A £110...extraordinary. No wonder you remember.”
“Yes, and my pass book confirms it.”
“Indeed it does – Exhibit 153. Thank you Mr Craddock, you have been most helpful. No further questions my Lord.” Norcroft sat down extremely contented: his witness was so totally unambiguous, he was confident that Carmichael would not be able to shake the slightest grain of doubt from his testimony.
“You are a very exact man, aren’t you Mr Craddock.” noted Carmichael.
“Yes, I suppose I am.” Craddock agreed condescendingly.
“Hmmm. I imagine it gets pretty dull in a Rhyl bicycle shop, doesn’t it?”
“No. I like it. I enjoy tinkering, you see...Little details are very important...” “You’re not a train-spotter, are you Mr Craddock?” asked Carmichael derisively.
“Er, yes I am, actually – how did you know?” This induced a fair amount of mirth amongst the public gallery and consequential consternation in the witness box.
“Just a lucky guess, Mr Craddock.”
“Have you actually got any pertinent questions for this witness?” demanded Ravensdale.
Carmichael picked at his teeth, desperately trying to think of a meaningful question and finally just resorted to a frontal attack: “I put it to you Mr Craddock, that you are publicity seeker; a man whose life is so utterly dreary, that you have invented this story, simply in an effort to attain some sort of celebrity status – perhaps to sell more bicycles?”
Craddock was stunned to silence by the accusation, quite literally speechless. Ravensdale intervened: “You should answer the learned counsel’s allegation, Mr Craddock.” The poor man took another few agonising seconds to re-gather himself: “I...I just came here to help the court – that’s all.” he meekly proclaimed.
“Unless you have any proper questions, Mr Carmichael?” directed the judge.
“No, my Lord.” confessed Carmichael and sat down, not entirely dissatisfied.
The next defence witness was Stewart Gamble, the conductor who discovered the gun on the 36A bus. Gamble was thirty, unmarried and something of a loner; he had worked for the bus company for ten years and had an exemplary employment record.
“...Mr Gamble, you discovered the murder weapon on the Monday morning of the 2nd of August, under the back seat on the upper level of the bus used to operate the 36A route – is that correct?” asked Norcroft.
“Yes. It’s the conductor’s responsibility to check the bus before it goes out and at the end of a shift.”
“I see. So, when could the gun have been placed on the bus?”
“It must have got there overnight; that is, during the Sunday night.”
“So, to be clear: whoever placed the gun on that bus, must have entered the bus station during the night and somehow gained access to that particular bus – is that correct?”
“Yes...I must have left it unlocked...It should have been safe in the locked depot, though.” said Gamble in an attempt to exonerate his admitted mistake.
“Indeed it should.” Norcroft agreed supportively, “So, members of the jury, this means that the gun must have been placed on the bus at least forty hours after the car was abandoned in Fulham. This makes no sense: why would the gunman do that? And why the 36A bus? This has the hallmarks of a plant by person’s unknown, designed to incriminate my client. There can be no other logical conclusion. No further questions my Lord.” Norcroft believed this was cast iron proof of a frame-up. However, Carmichael had different ideas:
“Mr Gamble, you have an excellent wor
k record, do you not?”
“Yes: I’m very proud o’ that.”
“Yes, I’m sure you are. So, would it be fair to suggest that you would go to considerable lengths to avoid getting any black marks on your impeccable record?”
“Er, I don’t know what y’u mean?”
“Well, for example, you might not want to admit that you failed to carry out an obligatory check of the bus?”
“But I ‘aven’t.”
“Haven’t what?”
“Done what you said.” replied the aggrieved bus conductor.
“Hmmm. You see, Mr Gamble, I think my learned friend is correct to wonder how the gun came to be on that bus when it supposedly did.”
“Sorry?”
“Mr Gamble, I don’t believe that you carried out your checks properly and that you missed the presence of this item on the bus until either Monday morning, or perhaps even Sunday evening. What do you say to that?”
“I say that you’re wrong. I did the checks I was supposed to – the gun wasn’t there until after I checked the bus at the end of the shift on the Sunday.”
“Don’t you think it rather peculiar...” continued Carmichael, but Norcroft had seen enough.
“My lord, the witness has confirmed his evidence; his opinion on the matter of how the gun came to be on the bus is irrelevant.” Norcroft submitted with mock incredulity.
Ravensdale sniffed and pulled a pained expression: “Well, yes, as you say Mr Norcroft...Mr Carmichael, do you have any justification for pursuing this line of inquiry?”
“Only that which I have already indicated, my Lord.”
“In that case, unless you have any questions of substance...?”
“Um, no my Lord.” conceded Carmichael with a wry smile, satisfied to have managed to cast the idea into the arena.
“The witness is therefore relieved.” instructed the judge, “Any further witnesses today?” he asked wearily.
“Ah, yes. I have an expert witness.” informed Norcroft.
The expert was a Professor of Linguistics at Leeds University (Ormerod de Winter), who had written a number of distinguished papers about British dialects, including cockney and other London accents. His purpose for the defence was to discredit the implication by the Prosecution that the similarity between the gunman’s London accent and Jameson’s accent were highly distinctive and relatively uncommon. His determination was that Jameson’s accent was relatively common within the London and Essex areas (among others,) and although apparently of a generally similar type to that of the gunman’s, was typical of at least several million people; only precise study of the gunman’s vernacular could determine a more exact match – which was plainly not possible – and even then it would be difficult to link the individual to a specific location. Carmichael asked a few technical questions, but essentially could not argue with the Professor’s conclusions. That effectively concluded the business on the eighth full day of the trial.
