by Tim Parks
He had to admit that this had never occurred to him, this idea of himself and his respectable, conservative wife coming to the aid of a luckless ex-mistress. She was just a little fool in a scrape, Hilary insisted. For God’s sake, Dan, what do you think people do when they’re in a scrape? Especially little girls. They phone everyone they know, don’t they? Especially the older ones. They see if anyone will help. If anyone has an idea. And she’s not even pretty, for Christ’s sake! For the first time it occurred to Daniel that the Kwans wouldn’t have beaten him up if he wasn’t black. If he hadn’t been black they might have accepted that he was actually concerned, that he had had some sort of relationship with the girl and was worried for her. But a black! Probably all she wanted was help with an abortion, Hilary was saying. That would have been easy enough to arrange. Only now you’ll end up fired. We’ll have to sell up. What a fool! Tom will have his friends at school laughing at him. He’ll have to change school.
Suddenly Hilary was quite beside herself. Did you ever once think of the children? Did you? You’d better go, she told him. Get out! Oddly, she picked up the whisky bottle and splashed some into his glass. He’d parked it on her score of Debussy, on the piano, spilling a few drops over the precious wood. You’d better just get out of here, she repeated. I don’t want to go, he said. It’s stupid to act on the spur of the moment. Aren’t you worried about your daughter, she mocked him? Aren’t you concerned about your little Asian slut. Aren’t you afraid her nasty folks’ll come and get her back. They must be out there scouring the town for her. Go on, you’ve already given up everything for the girl. You’ve let yourself be beaten within an inch of your life for a slut. You’ve allowed your marriage to go to pieces because of your morbid relationship with your spoilt daughter. Because you had to let your daughter know that you had other women, that you weren’t just a henpecked husband. Well now, thank God, the two objects of your concern and affection are in the same place. Go. Go on. Go. You can live with them.
But he told her no. I don’t want to leave you, and I’m certainly not leaving Tom. Hilary, he said flatly, I’m not going. Actually I love you. She stared. Don’t you dare say that. Don’t you dare! I’ll stand firm, he thought. He drained the glass. Go! she shouted. No, I’ve told you, I’m staying here, where I belong. We all belong here. He looked up and saw her arrested in her icy rage. It’s an anger greater than she can express, he saw. I caused it. Her body was rigid. She was wild with perplexity. If I’d wanted to go, there’d have been no need to tell you anything, would there? I’d have just gone. But I don’t want us to split up. That was in the past Hilary, I’m sorry about it and I’m sorry it had to come out.
She walked rapidly to the door. Hilary always walks with remarkable straightness, shoulders straight, walking straight from A to B. Don’t leave, he told her. Come on. She crossed to the door. It’s midnight, don’t be silly. Let a day pass. The door slammed. Daniel stood still. From outside she opened it again. He heard her forcing in the key. He waited. The door stood ajar. She hesitated, then she slammed it again. Expect chaos, he thought. He waited. At the top of the stairs, he found Tom sitting in his pyjamas with his chin in his hands. Go to sleep, kid, he told him. Go to bed, Tom.
EIGHTEEN
NOTORIOUSLY, ONE OF the greatest impediments to rapid justice is the difficulty of gathering the parties involved and keeping them together at the same time in the same place from start to finish, or for as long as each one is required. A member of the jury is injured in a motorcycle accident. The key prosecution witness has flown to New York where his father is dying of cancer. Or the constable who responded to the initial emergency call has gone on holiday despite his summons. Your honour, my client is in prison while PC Mulligan is sunning himself on the Costa Brava.
Every pertinent witness must be heard, every pertinent fact set forth. On the second day of R. v. Sayle, Grier Davidson, Simmons, Crawley J., Crawley G., Riley, Bateson and Singleton, Crawley J., one of the two sisters accused in the case, jumped bail. The logistics are inevitably more complex in a group trial: nine men and women in the dock, nine defence lawyers, almost a thousand pages of evidence. The charge was Section 18, Grievous Bodily Harm. What is the point of my beginning this trial, Judge Savage wondered, when I am bound to be an object of scandal before it is over? On August 25th Mrs Whitaker, in coma, gave birth to a baby boy. Daniel had gone into and come out of coma in less than forty-eight hours, while this woman had been marooned there for months before and weeks after. At the outset five defence lawyers submitted that if her life support were removed during the trial her eventual death would unduly influence the jury. Judge Savage remarked that the court had no jurisdiction over the possible decisions of competent doctors and that the defendants might consider themselves fortunate they were not being tried for manslaughter or even murder. We will proceed without Miss Jennifer Crawley, he ruled after an adjournment of twenty-four hours to see if the girl could be rearrested. It was unusual but not unthinkable. The defendant would be back, he was sure. The Crawley sisters were the two who had accused their friend David Sayle of throwing the stone in an initial interview, then retracted.
Equally notoriously, once told, all the evidence must be weighed together as it were simultaneously, the versions superimposed to see which prevails, which blots out and invalidates the other. But beyond reasonable doubt? As if all the pages of a book, all the twists and turns of a marriage, could be savoured together simultaneously, in instant, unimaginable immediacy. By the reasonable man, no less. Had they loved each other or not? Had they behaved properly towards their children? If every action has a cause and if each cause another ad infinitum, how can I reasonably be held responsible, since inevitably the chain of events began long before I was born? These are old conundrums. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury – the prosecution counsel likes to finger his gown, pout his lips as his eye moves over one piece of paper or another – ladies and gentlemen let me remind you that the moment on which we must concentrate our attention is that moment of March 22nd, the time was 10.52 p.m. to be precise, when a stone weighing nine pounds and seven ounces, I repeat nine pounds and seven ounces, was thrown from the bridge where Malding Lane crosses Simpson’s Way, otherwise known at that point as the ring road.
Ladies and gentlemen, Daniel told the jury as the trial began. Many of you will perhaps already have heard and read something about the case you are to try It is natural in such circumstances that one forms an opinion, tends to one interpretation rather than another. The twelve good men and true were a rather younger group than was normal. Eight women and four men. I must now ask you to forget whatever you have heard and dismiss any views you may have had about the case. It is your duty to base the decisions you will eventually make only on the evidence you will hear in this court.
But if one is to superimpose all the conflicting versions and apparently discrepant facts relating to such a terrible crime, in what order must they be laid down? An ancient mechanics establishes the sequence of the speakers. The prosecution will begin. The defence will answer. But prosecution counsel is the least likely to begin at the beginning. He begins at the end with the ugliness of the crime. He impresses on the jury the seriousness of what has happened. The victim, ladies and gentleman of the jury, has now spent five months in coma. He seeks to encourage the idea that somebody must be found guilty. CPS had given the brief to Trevor Sedley QC, the most experienced lawyer locally available. A week ago, she gave birth, by Caesarean section. Her doctors, he said quietly, looking up from his papers, are unable to predict whether she will ever emerge from that condition.
Almost a whole day had been spent pre-trial arguing about admissibility and procedures. I see no reason why this trial should be severed, Judge Savage told two of the defence lawyers. There will be ample opportunity for each defendant to justify him or her self. At the same time Daniel couldn’t understand why he wasn’t being asked to justify himself. At least to the press. It was already more than a week since his statement to M
attheson. He had seen Kathleen Connolly only yesterday in a court users meeting and she had been brightly jolly, almost excessively friendly. Does she know, Daniel wondered? Would the policeman have discussed the situation with the CPS? He had no idea. But if she did know, why had Judge Savage been allowed to start this high profile trial? Defence are a very mixed bunch, he thought, watching the wigged heads lean over to whisper to each other. In a joint enterprise trial of this size, Daniel knew, there would inevitably be an element of intimidation. Or at least the fear of it. The order in which the defendants were to be heard was crucial.
When the doctors removed his eye-patch, the eye saw nothing. Not even darkness, he said. More like milk, bright milk. He was less frightened than he had expected. Do you sense any change in light intensity? His good eye was covered. Now? Now? He didn’t. The doctor said only time would tell. He began to give instructions. I’ve already applied for a disabled licence, Daniel told him. Then on impulse he drove directly to see Mattheson. I’m seeing fine, he thought. My vision is fine.
The inspector will be back shortly, an assistant said. He took a seat by a coffee machine. It is ridiculous, the judge told himself, for a crown court judge to wait for a police inspector. This is ridiculous, he had said a thousand times in imaginary conversations with Hilary. Now that she was gone, he spoke to her all the time. The first day of her absence he had left Tom with the Crosbys. When he returned, the boy was gone. Hilary picked him up a couple of hours back, Mrs Crosby explained cheerfully. She has taken Tom’s things, Daniel noticed back at the house. His clothes were gone, his bike, his Discman. This is ridiculous, he told her. Ridiculous.
The waiting room was neon lit. Picking up a magazine Judge Savage read about a man sexually obsessed with anorexic girls who had tried to starve his chubby wife. Attractively chubby, Judge Savage thought, studying the photograph. Said he’d be back any time, the assistant insisted of the bulky Mattheson. The man didn’t know what to make of a judge coming down to the police station. The obsessed man, of Latin origin, had previously been cautioned for stalking. I’m afraid I can’t wait more than a moment or two, Judge Savage told the assistant. As if it were Mattheson had asked him to come. Can’t you chase him on a mobile or something? But he stayed to read the feature article to the end. I have no trouble reading with one eye, he thought. The man denied charges of paedophilia but admitted imprisoning his wife in their bedroom to prevent her eating. He locked her up a whole week allowing her only oxtail soup. I never imprisoned Hilary, Daniel thought; if anything I was her willing prisoner. Enjoying my occasional escapades. Now his gaoler had flown. But did it matter what the relationship had been? Where was she? Where was Tom? What on earth is going on? Judge Savage demanded when Mattheson finally appeared.
Inspector Mattheson called for coffee. He was robust and avuncular. He took the judge into his office, sat him down. A man entirely in tune with his environment, Daniel sensed. What is happening? he demanded. Why haven’t you made any arrests? Or have you? The policeman sighed. The whole thing has got rather complicated. Daniel waited. He himself had never quite been in tune with his surroundings. In all sorts of ways, Mattheson added. I imagined you would arrest them at once, Daniel said. If only to avoid any danger for the girl. He didn’t even try to hide his nerves. I thought the story would break and I’d be forced to accept paid leave or something. Instead I find myself starting a big trial. I don’t know how to behave.
The inspector held a pen between two fingers and tapped it on the desk. Behave exactly as you always have. Well, bar an indiscretion or two. He coughed. Sorry, no, to tell the truth, there are complications. What complications? Mattheson’s repeated sighing was theatrical. In confidence, he said, it emerges that your people, the Koreans, are being investigated over another matter. Your people? Daniel barely took in the room they were sitting in. There was a fire extinguisher, a framed certificate, golf clubs. What other matter? he asked.
The inspector sat back. I haven’t been told myself. He watched the other man. He’s lying, Daniel thought. Mattheson was overweight, complacent. He says in confidence, Daniel thought, to flaunt the fact that there can be none. Is it immigration offences, he asked? It could be, the policeman said. Judge Savage didn’t tell Mattheson what he knew. Or drugs, he asked? It could be drugs. The policeman tapped his pen. This pen tapping, Daniel sensed, is a way of making another person aware of time and tension. It could be all sorts of things, the policeman sighed. When I was playing my own institutional role, Judge Savage was aware, I felt superior to the policeman. I rightly refused him PII for that informer. As a result, however, a possible drug dealer had gone free without even facing trial. Have you interviewed the girl at least, he asked, the Korean girl? What other girls are there? Mattheson laughed. Hold your horses, he smiled, no offence meant. Then he said: Actually, we haven’t.
But why not? As I see it, she needs protection. I would never have got into this position if I wasn’t concerned for her safety. I appreciate that, the inspector said. But he offered no response to Daniel’s question.
Mattheson asked if Daniel minded him smoking. The cigarette was already in his mouth. Actually yes, Judge Savage said. The policeman was squinting down to the flame of his lighter. I’m afraid smoke of any kind stings my one good eye. It wasn’t true. Mattheson laid cigarette and lighter by his papers. They really did put you through the mill, he sighed. Perhaps you should have taken a little longer convalescing. It takes a while for all the shock to come out after an incident like that. I’m sure, he went on quickly, that if you told them you weren’t up to it yet, that you needed another month or something, everyone would understand.
Daniel struggled to impose a professional voice, a legal syntax: On the last occasion we spoke, Inspector, I was under the impression, that you were eager to proceed rapidly to the arrest of the perpetrators of what was after all a most serious crime, and one that captured public attention in a spectacular way. You said yourself, if I rightly recall, that to make some convincing arrests would raise public confidence in the police. You also assured me that if she were in danger, the young Korean woman would be protected. As a result you told me in no uncertain terms to brace myself for public disapproval. You praised me for taking a courageous line of action that would be disastrous for my career and private life. You should know that in view of those remarks I explained the situation in some detail to my wife and family, provoking exactly the consequences that you can well imagine. And then despite my evidence nothing happens. We also agreed, if you recall, at that meeting, that on the following day I would deliver a full, signed statement. Yet early the next morning, one of your assistants phones to tell me that for the moment that won’t be required. Now, just as I have undertaken an important and high profile trial that will go on for at least two weeks, you suddenly suggest that I might go off sick. What is happening?
The policeman sucked his lips. When the phone rang he leaned across his desk and pressed a button to silence it. You have two possible courses of action, he announced. His voice was brusque. For the first time Daniel had the impression that he was being candid. You can continue as you always have and await developments. In that case I promise I will do my best to give you due warning if and when something is about to happen. He stopped. Yes? The policeman looked at him. Alternatively, you could go and speak directly to the press. That would make things happen extremely quickly, I imagine. If that is what concerns you.
Mattheson paused, perhaps to study the judge’s response. Daniel was sitting perfectly still. Actually such a course of action would be most inadvisable, the policeman added. In all sorts of ways. He paused again. He was tapping his lighter on the table now. For my own part, I can assure you, I would be delighted to arrest these people, regardless of your private situation. With due respect.
What was all this about? In court Judge Savage would have insisted that a witness respond more straightforwardly to the questions put to him. He was under oath to tell the whole truth. He must disclose what he k
new. But Mattheson was not under oath. So I just go on? he asked. Mattheson said nothing. The interview seemed to be at an end. Daniel was seized by the anxiety that there was something important he had forgotten to say. He did not want to go back to the emptiness and uncertainty of his private world with something important unsaid. He sat still. What was it?
I gather, Mattheson finally offered, that your wife’s taken the kids on holiday to think things over. Apparently he was being kind. He sat back, lifted his eyebrows. Yes, Judge Savage agreed. Yes she has. He stood up. Mattheson said vaguely: Of course we do still have our other suspect. Judge Savage sat down again. What? The Inspector rubbed the butt of his pen up and down the side of his cheek. The truth is that you can’t actually be sure it was the Kwans committed the crime. Can you? We have no evidence but the circumstantial business of your all being together in the cafe a few minutes before. Daniel said nothing. You didn’t see your attackers, Mattheson insisted. No, Daniel said, that’s true. I didn’t actually see them. I was hit from behind. Mattheson lifted the phone. Dennis, could you bring in the Savage file? A moment later he was asking: Do you recognise this man?
The photo was a grainy still from a security video. The time and date were printed in the top left corner. The original image must have been blown up to give the head and shoulders of a man yelling, fist raised; a white man, with tousled hair, beefy face, eyes lost in deep hollows. Daniel shook his head. Never seen him. That was recorded outside court after the Mishra verdict, Mattheson said. And this, he handed Daniel another photo, was picked up by the Barclays security video beside the pedestrian entrance to the car park. Seen from above in half profile the figure might or might not have been the same man. The time is right. We’ve identified the man in question and he does have a record for violence. Quickly, Judge Savage handed back the photo and in the same movement got to his feet. Let me know when there are any developments, he said.
