by Peter Murphy
‘Absolutely spot on, Stephen,’ I reply. ‘The only other thing I might suggest is to deal with the lies he told during his police interview…’
He picks up Archbold triumphantly.
‘The Lucas direction,’ he says. ‘I was just reading about that. They have to consider why he lied before holding it against him, and they can’t convict for that reason alone.’
I spread my hands out before me.
‘Perfect,’ I say.
He smiles as if greatly gratified.
‘I am very grateful for your help,’ he says.
I look at him carefully. I don’t think he is having me on. I think he means it.
* * *
Thursday afternoon
Late in the afternoon, as I am about to go home, I decide to look in on chambers five to find out how the summing-up went. But, to my surprise, I find it empty. I make my way back to chambers one to collect my things. Stella comes to see me, and I ask about the whereabouts of Mr Justice Gulivant.
‘He’s gone,’ she says. ‘His jury came back with a verdict of guilty just after four o’clock. They were only out for about half an hour. Mr Justice Gulivant adjourned it for a pre-sentence report and says he will be back to do the sentence.’
I nod, very relieved.
‘There’s more,’ Stella says.
I look at her inquiringly.
‘The foreman of the jury left a note saying that the summing-up was very clear and made the jury’s job much easier than they thought it was going to be.’
I laugh. ‘Did he indeed?’
‘I’ll keep it in the file,’ Stella says.
‘Yes,’ I reply, ‘but there is one other thing I would like you to do.’
‘What’s that, Judge?’
‘I want you to make a copy of the note and leave it on Judge Dunblane’s desk.’
Stella nods cheerfully and makes for the door.
‘What do you think it would be like, being king of somewhere?’ I ask as she is leaving. ‘Perhaps I ought to declare myself to be the King of Bermondsey. What do you think?’
She turns away.
‘Good night, Judge,’ she replies soothingly. ‘See you tomorrow.’
FOR WHOM THE BELLES TROLL
Sunday morning
On Sunday mornings I have a regular date for morning worship – what we used to call Matins in the old days – at the parish church of St Aethelburg and All Angels in the Diocese of Southwark. To be honest, left to my own devices, I would not necessarily be in attendance every Sunday, but when your wife is priest-in-charge, you do feel a certain obligation to spend some time in the pews. The Reverend Mrs Walden does like to see me in the third or fourth row cheering her on – figuratively speaking, that is – when she mounts the pulpit to deliver her sermon or leads the congregation in belting out ‘Praise my Soul, the King of Heaven’, and if I am absent without leave, it is the subject of comment at home for some time thereafter. Besides, you can learn some interesting stuff at church, and it is surprising how often I pick up information from a sermon which later comes in useful in connection with a case. So here I am again. I have picked up some dark hints from the Reverend Mrs Walden during the week about the subject of this morning’s public admonition to the citizens of Bermondsey, and I know it’s going to be interesting.
I’ve been through the weekly process of sermon preparation with her so many times now that I have learned to read the signs. She will often throw out ideas during dinner, sketch out where she is going, sometimes even ask what I think of something she wants to say. I used to bounce ideas off her for my closing speeches when I was in practice at the Bar, so I see this as returning the favour and I am glad to contribute in whatever way I can. Once she has the basic idea, it builds steadily from Monday to Saturday, when it is left to marinate for a day, and by Sunday the sermon is ready to be delivered. There are weeks when it is all a bit routine, nothing to set the world on fire, a reassuring homily about the Disciples, for example. And then, there are weeks when she has something to say, weeks when the moral fibre of the nation is to be questioned and challenged, and the public is to have something to think about over Sunday lunch. During weeks of the latter kind, the atmosphere at home is noticeably different, more intense in every way. The Reverend Mrs Walden broods over cups of coffee and, when cooking, brings the large kitchen knife down on some hapless bell pepper with a particular vengeance. This is a week of the latter kind.
She rattles off the parish notices in no time at all, which is always a sign that she has something particularly important to impress on the congregation, and can’t wait to get on with it. Sure enough, she begins with a reminder of the kind of bad things that can happen to a wicked and adulterous generation, which, it seems, go far beyond an appearance in the Crown Court. Then, she really gets started.
‘Some years ago, my husband Charles and I visited Pompeii together. I found it fascinating that in this ancient city, perfectly preserved in a macabre way by the ash which erupted from Mount Vesuvius, a city which has so many points of interest, the first place the guide takes you to is the city brothel. Not the pizza restaurant, not the famous house with the guard dog mosaic, not even the public bath house. The brothel. I’m not denying that it is interesting. Let’s be honest about it. I suppose that on one level we all think it is fun to imagine the various things which went on behind closed doors – or actually, not necessarily behind closed doors, because the brothel does seem to have been quite open to the elements. And perhaps the guides feel that the brothel had a particular importance in ancient Pompeii. Perhaps it was a social centre in some sense, as well as being a place where sexual services were offered. Perhaps we don’t understand today exactly what part the local brothel played in the lives of the people in those remote times. Or perhaps it is just that the guides like to kick the tour off with something sensational, no more than that. Whatever the reason, when you go to Pompeii, you can’t avoid it. The brothel is going to be the centre of attention for the tourists just as much as it was for the residents before the eruption.’
I allow myself to look around quietly. The congregation, scattered rather thinly and unevenly throughout the massive church, seem politely interested, though one or two mothers with children in tow are fidgeting a bit. I have seen that before, and it will not deter the Reverend Mrs Walden in the slightest.
‘But today I want to ask you this question: have we not travelled any distance, morally speaking, from Pompeii? Because I don’t think I’m alone in thinking that I can’t pick up a newspaper or turn on my TV without reading about prostitution. I read about the control of prostitutes by organised crime families. I see documentaries about the trafficking of young women from Eastern Europe and South America, whose passports are taken away, and who are kept in slavery. And perhaps most disturbing of all – because all worthwhile news is local – I hear about the resurgence of the community brothel. Yes, my friends, just as in ancient Pompeii, the local brothel is alive and well in South London as we speak. And I want you to think with me today about what this means for us as a Society, and what it means for us as Christians…’
It’s not that I switch off, but I have learned to anticipate, and I anticipate that the Reverend Mrs Walden will now embark on a thorough examination of the evils of prostitution and trafficking from every angle. It is good stuff, and I would be paying closer attention if she hadn’t caused a degree of anxiety in my mind with the observation that the local brothel is alive and well in South London. As it happens, that very matter is on the agenda at the Bermondsey Crown Court for the coming week, and without any real reason, I find myself worrying about whether she is going to infect the jury pool with a hot sermon about the business of brothel keeping. We tell jurors to ignore press reports all the time, but I’ve never had to tell a jury to ignore their vicar before. In a moment or two I calm down, and realise that the odds on that happening are fai
rly slim. I take a deep breath and focus on the flower arrangement on the main altar. I allow my mind to wander to the case I will be starting tomorrow.
It’s a local issue, all right – no doubt about that. Judges have to be careful about local embarrassments, and I don’t mean just brothels, obviously. There are places – pubs, clubs, betting shops, the odd restaurant – which feature regularly in cases in Crown Courts, and which all of us who work in the court soon come to recognise the moment someone mentions them. A number of such places within easy reach of the Bermondsey Crown Court spring readily to mind. The George and Dragon, a dingy pub celebrated for the availability of drugs, stolen goods, and occasional wads of counterfeit bank notes, is one such. The more upmarket Blue Lagoon Night Club is a venue of choice for alcohol-fuelled violence and sexual malfeasance. No judge wants to be seen at a venue which has been mentioned in dispatches a bit too often as the scene of affrays, drug deals, the fencing of stolen goods, and so on. You never know when the press may get hold of the story, and woe betide any judge then. The Grey Smoothies will want to know why you weren’t aware of the venue’s reputation and why you have risked bringing the reputation of the judiciary into disrepute, to which there is really no very good answer.
Most judges wouldn’t be seen dead in the kind of establishment we are talking about anyway. They tend not to be our kind of place. But none of us would have included Jordan’s on that list – not, that is, until one Saturday night about four months ago. Jordan’s was one of those places where the young, smart set like to go to be seen – which obviously excludes the Reverend Mrs Walden and myself, but wouldn’t exclude certain colleagues such as Legless and Marjorie. The décor, I am told, was sophisticated, with subdued lighting and understated murals. The service was highly praised, and most importantly, the food was favourably reported on by the critics. The chef, the eponymous Robert Jordan, had been a contestant in one of those television cooking competitions, called ‘Britain’s Got the Best Chefs!’. He didn’t win, but neither was he booted out at an early stage as being completely useless, and the general opinion seems to have been that the food at Jordan’s was very acceptable. Jordan’s had everything going for it, and was well on its way to being a recognised venue in London. Then, as I say, about four months ago, Saturday night happened.
As this reflection comes to an end, I hear the Reverend Mrs Walden drawing to a close also. She smiles for the first time, but in a slightly sinister way. Even I find myself slightly unnerved.
‘Well, you all know what happened to the inhabitants of Pompeii,’ she says. ‘They were buried in several feet of volcanic ash. You can still see some of their preserved bodies. That’s what happened to them and their brothel. As most of you know, the God I worship is loving and forgiving. I’m not a fan of theories of divine vengeance. I don’t see the world in Old Testament terms, with an irritable, bad-tempered Deity throwing His toys out of the pram and striking people down in their thousands every time He doesn’t get His own way. I don’t see such things as earthquakes or outbreaks of Ebola as evidence of God’s judgement on people for their sins, and it’s certainly not my intention to scare anyone or to predict any dire happenings in London.’
She pauses, and seems all set to do the ‘in the name of the Father…’ bit, followed by her exit from the pulpit. But at the last moment she draws back and points her hymnal menacingly at the congregation.
‘On the other hand,’ she concludes, ‘you never know, do you? I could be wrong.’
After which we all join in a lusty rendering of ‘Guide me, O Thou Great Jehovah’, while trying to look around unobtrusively, just to make sure there is no immediate sign of volcanic ash.
So, you must be anxious to know: what did happen at Jordan’s on Saturday night, about four months ago? I will let Piers Drayford tell you.
* * *
Monday morning
‘May it please your Honour, members of the jury, my name is Piers Drayford, and I appear to prosecute this case. My learned friend Miss Emily Phipson represents the first defendant, Dimitri Valkov. My learned friend Miss Susan Worthington represents the second defendant, Robert Jordan. My learned friend Mr Aubrey Brooks represents the third defendant, Lucy Trask.’
All counsel nod politely to the jury, twelve good citizens of Bermondsey who have been carefully vetted to ensure that they have never darkened the door of Jordan’s. Piers is tall and thin, with a certain understated elegance, and actually looks very much like the kind of man about town who might have given Jordan’s a try, though he has assured us all that he never did.
‘This is a case about a restaurant and bar in Bermondsey called Jordan’s. It opened just over two years ago, and rapidly gained a good reputation for its food and ambience, which built up a cadre of loyal customers. The owner of the restaurant, and its head chef, is the defendant Robert Jordan. His girlfriend, the defendant Lucy Trask, was the front of house manager, which seems to have meant that she would take bookings, welcome customers as they arrived, and generally act as what you and I, in the kind of restaurant we might go to, would call the Maitre d’.’
Some members of the jury are looking at Piers in such a way as to suggest that the term Maitre d’ might not be in quite such common usage as Piers may imagine.
‘The defendant Dimitri Valkov is Russian, but he has resided in this country quite legally for several years now. You will hear that he was employed as the bar manager for the restaurant, dealing with any issues relating to the maintenance and upkeep of the bar, and that he also acted as an additional barman when things were busy.’
Piers pauses to hand some copies to the usher, Dawn, who whisks them over to the jury with her customary breezy glide.
‘Members of the jury, I am giving you copies of the indictment and of a floor plan showing the layout of Jordan’s, which we will be referring to during the trial. If you would look at the floor plan with me now, you will see that we have the ground floor on one side of the sheet, and the first floor, the upstairs floor, on the other side. For reasons which will become clear in a moment, few people even realised that Jordan’s had any interest in the upstairs floor at all. On the face of it, everything happens on the ground floor. As you enter, you come to the reception area, where you are welcomed and you can leave your coat and so on. There is a desk there, and behind the desk a small office and storage area. To your right is the bar, and to your left is the restaurant itself. It is quite a large area, as you can see. If you look again at the entrance to the restaurant, just to the left – and I have marked this with the letter A in a circle on the plan – there is a door. You will hear that this door had a notice on it, saying “Private”.
‘It was indeed private. You will hear that there were only two keys to that door. One was found in the possession of Dimitri Valkov, and the second was found hanging on a hook under the desk in the reception area, where all three defendants would have had access to it. The door leads to a staircase, which leads upstairs to the first floor. The first floor consists of four rooms, each quite small. At Jordan’s, everyone called the first floor simply “upstairs”, and that is what we shall call it in this case. This case is about “upstairs”.
‘Members of the jury, you will hear that upstairs, things were happening which were a world away from the fine dining, the carefully selected wines, the cultured ambience and the discreet service to which customers were treated in the restaurant. Upstairs, members of the jury, was a fully equipped brothel, where young women provided sexual services to men who were prepared to pay for those services. The prosecution say that the brothel was managed and operated by all three defendants in this case, although the main responsibility and day-to-day management was in the hands of the man whose brainchild it was, Dimitri Valkov. You will hear that it was a very profitable business, from which each of these defendants made a good deal of money. You will hear evidence of regular payments into the defendants’ bank accounts of substantial sums of
money which cannot be explained as legitimate income from the restaurant.
‘The activities going on upstairs came to light in this way, members of the jury. A police officer based at Bermondsey police station, PC Crane, was off duty one evening in October of last year, when he received a rather strange piece of information, which aroused his suspicions. He reported his suspicions to his sergeant, who in turned passed them on to a branch of the Metropolitan Police called the Serious and Organised Crime Unit. As a result DC Mitchell, an officer assigned to that Unit, attended Jordan’s one afternoon during the following week.
‘He was welcomed by Lucy Trask. The officer was working undercover, and so did not, of course, identify himself as a police officer. The officer asked to speak to “Dimitri”, and in response, Miss Trask showed him in to the bar. There, the officer spoke to Dimitri Valkov, and asked him whether a massage was available upstairs. Valkov asked him to wait, and left the bar, returning a few minutes later. On his return, he asked DC Mitchell to follow him, which the officer did. The officer noticed that Valkov appeared to take a key from under the desk in the reception area. Valkov then led the way through the door marked “Private”, and escorted the officer upstairs. He opened the door of the second room along the corridor from the staircase – you will see on the plan that I have numbered the rooms one to four – and invited the officer to enter, which he did.
‘DC Mitchell will describe to you what he found. The room was decorated with what seems to have been intended as a Chinese motif, with items of pottery, and prints with Chinese characters on the walls. In fact, members of the jury, you will hear that each of the four upstairs rooms had a different motif. Room one was decorated in a French style invoking the time of Le Siècle du Roi Soleil – the age of Louis XIV. Room two is the Chinese room. Room three has a Swiss theme, with murals of the Alps and bucolic scenes of goatherds and the like. Room four is an American room with the feel of a 1950s diner in Chicago. One particular detail of interest was a very fine –’
