by Dick Francis
All in all, I wasn’t too hopeful, and so I still had to do my homework.
However, over our room-service dinner, eaten in our bathrobes, I told Eleanor about the news I had heard from Nikki at lunchtime.
‘What are you going to do about it?’ she asked.
I explained to her about the defence submission I had made to the court at the end of the prosecution case.
‘If the judge doesn’t rule in our favour in the morning,’ I said, ‘and I don’t think he will, I intend calling a couple of witnesses to explore what Nikki found out.’
‘Can you call anyone you like as a witness?’ she asked.
‘Yes and no,’ I said.
‘Explain,’ she said.
‘I can call whoever I like as long as their evidence is relevant to the case,’ I said. ‘But if I’m going to call the defendant as a witness, I have to call him first. I couldn’t call someone else first and then go back to Steve. But I don’t think I’ll be calling him anyway in this case. He’s a bit too volatile. And our defence is that he’s being framed, so all he could say is that he didn’t do it, and he knew nothing about it, and I can say that to the jury anyway.’
I paused to take a mouthful of my dinner.
‘I did think about calling character witnesses but I’m not sure that would be a good idea. Steve’s character is hardly as pure as the driven snow.’
‘You can say that again,’ she said. And she should know.
‘I asked my solicitor, Bruce Lygon, to contact both my new witnesses this afternoon,’ I said. ‘I am still waiting to hear what he says but I fully expect that at least one of them won’t want to come to court.’
‘But what happens then?’ Eleanor asked.
‘In the end, they don’t get any choice in the matter,’ I said. ‘I can apply to the court for a witness summons which is then served on the potential witnesses and then they have to be there. If they don’t turn up, the judge can issue a warrant for their arrest.’
‘But surely that doesn’t mean they also have to answer your questions.’
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘But if they don’t, they have to give a reason not to answer, and the only reason here would be that in doing so they might incriminate themselves. And that should, at least, do some good as it ought to put some doubt into the minds of the jury as to Steve’s guilt.’ I took another mouthful. ‘But what I really need is time. Time to get the witnesses I need to court, but mostly time for more investigating.’
‘And what will you do if the judge doesn’t give you time?’ she asked.
‘Probably lose the case,’ I said.
At least Julian Trent would then be pleased.
CHAPTER 18
As I had expected, on the Thursday morning at two minutes past ten, and prior to the arrival of the jury in the courtroom, the trial judge rejected the defence submission that there was no case to answer.
‘If it then please My Lord,’ I said, standing up. ‘The defence would like to submit a list of witnesses we wish to be summonsed.’
‘And how many witnesses are there on this list, Mr Mason?’ the judge asked rather sternly.
‘Initially I have two names, My Lord,’ I said, picking up a sheet of paper. ‘But there may be more, depending on the evidence of these witnesses.’
I passed the paper to the court usher who delivered it to the judge. He looked down at its brief contents.
‘Why have these names not been previously submitted to the court, so that summonses might have been issued to them in good time?’ he asked me.
‘My Lord,’ I said. ‘Information came to our knowledge only yesterday which indicates that these witnesses are essential to our case.’
‘And how is that?’ he asked.
‘Our case, My Lord,’ I said, ‘as detailed in the Defence Case Statement, previously submitted to the court, is that the defendant is innocent of the charges and that he is being framed for a crime he did not commit. In the light of fresh information, the defence now wishes to further this argument by calling these witnesses.
‘My Lord,’ I continued. ‘Mr Mitchell’s solicitor made an attempt to contact these potential witnesses during yesterday afternoon and evening. One of them indicated verbally to the solicitor that they had no wish, or intention, of attending court to assist the defence in this matter. Consequently, I would like to apply to the court for a witness summons.’
‘How about the other?’ asked the judge.
‘As yet we have been unable to contact the second one, My Lord,’Isaid.‘But I have every reason to expect the same outcome.’
‘Mr Mason,’ said the judge. ‘Have you shown your list to the prosecution?’
‘I have, My Lord,’ I said. ‘I gave a copy to my learned friend just prior to the court sitting this morning.’
The judge invited the prosecution to respond to the request.
‘My Lord,’ said the smarmy prosecution QC. ‘The prosecution has no objection to the summonsing of these witnesses if it is likely to aid justice. However, the defence has had ample time to prepare for this case and further procrastination should not be tolerated.’
Or in other words, I thought, we don’t object but, oh yes, we do after all. Anything to sound reasonable, while not actually being so.
The judge, God bless him, chose to hear only the first part of the QC’s statement.
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘As the prosecution have no objection, I will allow a witness summons to be issued for each name. But be warned, Mr Mason, I will take a firm line if I consider that the defence is in any way wasting the court’s time. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Absolutely, My Lord,’ I said.
‘Will these witnesses be ready to be examined by this afternoon?’ asked the judge.
‘My lord,’ said the prosecution QC rising rapidly to his feet. ‘The prosecution requests more time to consider the names of these witnesses and to prepare for cross-examination.’
It was exactly as I had hoped, because I was not in any position to call my witnesses. Not yet, anyway.
‘Would you be ready by tomorrow?’ asked the judge.
‘We would prefer Monday, My Lord,’ said the smarmy QC.
‘Any objection, Mr Mason?’ asked the judge.
‘No, My Lord,’ I said, trying hard to keep a grin off my face. ‘No objection.’
‘Very well,’ said the judge. He was probably already looking forward to an extra day on the golf course. ‘Court is adjourned until ten o’clock on Monday morning.’
Excellent, I thought. Just what I had wanted, and just what I needed.
I ordered a taxi to take all my papers back to the hotel. I had previously been to the court office to get the witness summonses issued for Monday, and Bruce Lygon had departed eagerly to try and personally deliver them into the correct hands.
As I waited inside the court building lobby, I called Nikki.
‘I now have the documentation,’ she said excitedly. ‘It all came through this morning.’
‘Great,’ I said. ‘Now I have something else for you to do.’
‘Fire away,’ she said.
‘I need you to go to Newbury to ask some more questions,’ I said.
‘No problem,’ she replied.
I explained to her exactly what information I wanted her to find out, and where to get it.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Call you later.’
She hung up as my taxi arrived.
The taxi took me to the hotel and then waited as the porter carried all the boxes up to my room and I packed a few clothes into one of my new suitcases. Then the taxi took me and my suitcase to Oxford station, where we caught a fast train to London.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Arthur as I walked into chambers soon after noon.
‘The case has been adjourned until Monday,’ I said. ‘Perhaps Sir James will be ready to take over from me by then.’
‘Er,’ said Arthur, floundering. ‘I believe that his case is still running on.’
‘Arthur,’ I said sarcastically. ‘I pay you to lie for me, not to me.’
‘Sir James pays me more than you do,’ he said with a smile.
‘Just so long as we know where we stand,’ I said.
I had no intention of telling Sir James Horley anything about my new witnesses. The last thing I wanted was for him to now feel that the case wasn’t such a lost cause after all, and for him to step back in and hog all the limelight. No way was I going to let that happen.
I went through to my room and set about looking a few things up in my case files and then I telephoned Bob, the driver from the car comapny. I urgently needed some transportation.
‘I’ll be there in about half an hour,’ he said.
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘I have some more calls to make anyway.’
One of them was to my father on the new mobile phone I had bought him.
‘Having a nice time?’ I asked him.
‘I suppose so,’ he said, rather reluctantly. ‘But everyone else here is so old.’ Just like him, I thought, rather unkindly.
I had sent him to the seaside, to stay in the Victoria Hotel in Sidmouth, Devon, where he could walk along the beach each day and get plenty of healthy fresh air, and where, I hoped, Julian Trent wouldn’t think of looking for him.
Next I called Weatherbys, the company that administered British horse racing, the company that had paid Scot Barlow his riding fees as detailed on his bank statements. I needed some different information from them this time and they were most helpful in giving me the answers.
I also called Eleanor and left a message on her mobile phone.
She had left the Oxford hotel early in the morning to get back to work in Lambourn, but not so early that we hadn’t had time for a repeat of the previous evening’s lovemaking.
She called me back on my mobile as Bob drove me away from chambers.
‘I got my time from the judge,’ I said to her. ‘And the witness summonses, too.’
‘Well done you,’ she replied.
‘I’m in London,’ I said. ‘The judge adjourned until Monday morning. I’ve already been to my chambers, and I’m now on my way to Barnes to face the mess. And I’ll probably stay there tonight.’
‘I won’t plan to go to Oxford, then,’ she said, laughing.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I won’t be back there until Sunday night.’
‘Sunday night!’ she said. ‘Don’t I get to see you before then?’
‘You could always come to London,’ I said.
‘I’m on call again,’ she said.
‘Isn’t anyone else ever on call?’ I asked.
‘It’s only for tonight,’ she said. ‘I could come tomorrow.’
‘I have plans for during the day tomorrow,’ I said. ‘And then I thought I’d come down to you for the night, if that’s OK.’
‘Great by me,’ she said.
The state of my home was worse than I had remembered. The stuff from the fridge that Trent had poured all over the kitchen had started to smell badly. It had been a warm May week with plenty of sunshine having streamed through the large windows into the airless space. The whole place reeked of rotting food.
I was sorry for my downstairs neighbours for having to live beneath it all for the past week, and I hoped for their sake that smells rose upwards like hot air.
I opened all the windows and let some fresh air in, which was a major improvement. Next I found an industrial cleaning company in the Yellow Pages and promised them a huge bonus if they would come round instantly to do an emergency clear-up job. No problem, they said, for a price, a very high price.
While I waited for them I used a whole can of air freshener that I found, undisturbed, beneath the kitchen sink. The lavender scent did its best to camouflage the stink of decomposing fish and rancid milk, but it was fighting a losing battle.
A team of four arrived from the cleaning company. They didn’t seem to be fazed one bit by the mess that, to my eyes, was still appalling.
‘Had a teenager’s party?’ one of them asked in all seriousness.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It was malicious vandalism.’
‘Same thing,’ he said, laughing. ‘Now, is there anything you want to keep from this lot?’ He waved a hand around.
‘Don’t throw out anything that looks unbroken,’ I said. ‘And keep all the paperwork, whatever condition it’s in.’
‘Right,’ he said. He gave directions to his team and they set to work.
I was amazed at how quickly things began to improve. Two of them set to work with mops, cloths and brooms, while the other two removed the torn and broken furniture and stacked it on the back of their vehicle outside.
Within just a few hours the place was unrecognizable from the disgusting state that I had returned to. Most of the furniture was out, and the carpets and rugs had been pulled up. The kitchen had been transformed from a major health hazard into gleaming chrome and a sparkling floor. Maybe they couldn’t mend the cracks in the marble worktops, but they did almost everything else.
‘Right, then,’ said the team leader finally. ‘That wasn’t too bad. No rats or anything. And no human remains.’
‘Human remains?’ I said, surprised.
‘Nasty stuff,’ he said. ‘All too often these jobs involve cleaning places where old people have died and no one notices until the smell gets so bad.’
I shivered. ‘What a job,’ I said.
‘Pays well,’ he said.
‘Ah, yes,’ I said. ‘Didn’t find my chequebook did you?’
‘All your paperwork’s over there,’ he said, pointing at a couple of large cardboard boxes sitting alone on the floor. Amazingly, my chequebook had survived, and was only slightly stained by the red wine.
I wrote him out a cheque for the agreed exorbitant amount and then they departed, taking with them most of my worldly goods to be delivered to the council dump.
I wandered aimlessly around my house, examining what remained. There was remarkably little. The cleaners had put cardboard boxes in each of the rooms, into which they had placed anything left unbroken. In my bedroom, the box merely contained a few trinkets and some old perfume bottles that had stood on Angela’s dressing table. Other than the fitted wardrobe, the dressing table was the only piece of furniture remaining in the room, and that was only because I couldn’t bear to see it go. I had asked the men to return it to the bedroom when I had caught sight of them loading it onto their truck.
Angela had sat for hours in front of its now-broken triple mirror every morning, drying her hair and fixing her make-up. She had loved its simplicity and, I discovered, it was too much of a wrench to see it taken away, in spite of the broken mirror on top and the snapped-off leg below.
My bed had gone, Julian Trent’s knife having cut not only the mattress to ribbons, but the divan base beneath as well. In the sitting room everything had been swept away to the tip. Only a couple of dining chairs and the chrome kitchen stool had survived intact, although I had also kept back the antique dining-room table in the hope that a French polisher could do something about the myriad of Stanley-knife grooves that had been cut into its polished surface. I had also saved my desk from the dump to see if a furniture restorer could do anything about the green embossed panel that had once been inlaid into its surface but which now was twisted and cut through, the sliced edges of the leather curled upwards like waves in a rough sea.
The trip back to Barnes had been necessary and worthwhile. Not only had I managed to bring some semblance of order to my remaining belongings, but my hatred and contempt for Julian Trent had been rekindled. There was fire in my belly and I aimed to consume him with it.
I decided not to spend the night at Ranelagh Avenue as there was nothing left for me to sleep on, other than the floor, and I didn’t fancy that. At about six o’clock I ordered a taxi and booked myself into the West London Novotel, overlooking Hammersmith flyover.
I lay on the bed in the room for a while idly watching the continuou
s stream of aircraft on their approach into London’s Heathrow airport. One every minute or so, non-stop, like a conveyor belt, each aluminium tube in turn full of people with lives to lead, places to go, each of them with families and friends, wives and husbands, lovers and admirers.
I thought about other eyes that might also have been watching the same aircraft. Some of my past clients, plus a few that I had prosecuted, were housed at Her Majesty’s expense in Wormwood Scrubs Prison, just up the road from the hotel.
At least I was able, if I wished, to join the throng in the air, coming or going on holiday to anywhere in the world I liked. Depriving someone of their liberty by sending them to prison may rob them of their self-respect, but, mostly, it deprives them of choice. The choice to go where and when they please, and the choice to do what they want when they get there. To lose that is the price one pays for wrongdoing, and for getting caught.
As I watched those aircraft, and their apparent freedom from the bounds of earth, I resolved once more to release Steve Mitchell from the threat of a lifetime spent watching the world pass him by through the bars of a prison window.
Bob collected me in the silver Mercedes at eight-thirty on Friday morning, and we set off northwards from Hammersmith to Golders Green.
Josef Hughes was waiting for us when we arrived at 845 Finchley Road. I hadn’t been very confident that he would be there, firstly because I’d had to leave a message for him with someone else in the house using the payphone in the hallway, and secondly because I had real doubts that he would be prepared to help me. But, thankfully, my fears were unfounded as he came quickly across the pavement and climbed into the back seat of the car.
‘Morning, Josef,’ I said to him, turning round as best I could and smiling.
He continued to peer all around him, sweeping his eyes and head from side to side. It was the frightened look that I had come to know so well.
‘Morning,’ he said to me only after we had driven away. He turned to glance a few more times through the rear window and then finally settled into his seat.
‘This is Bob,’ I said, pointing at our driver. ‘Bob is most definitely on our side.’ Bob looked at me somewhat strangely but I ignored him.
