Walden of Bermondsey

by Peter Murphy

  There seems to be an agreement among defence counsel to leave things to Emily for the time being, which makes sense since her client is the only person directly implicated in any of this, thus far.

  ‘When you spoke to Dimitri, officer,’ she begins, ‘the conversation took place in the bar, did it?’

  ‘It did, yes.’

  ‘In plain view of anyone who happened to be in the bar at the time?’

  ‘I suppose so, yes.’

  ‘He didn’t take you into the broom closet, to whisper in your ear conspiratorially, out of sight of anyone else, did he?’

  ‘No, he did not.’

  ‘Didn’t tell you to keep your voice down?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you were the one who raised the subject of massage, is that right? He didn’t offer a massage until you had inquired about it?’

  ‘That is true.’

  ‘As you have said, there was nothing downstairs to suggest that massages were available at Jordan’s, was there?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘No mention of upstairs rooms at all?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘You had to ask about massage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Officer, Dimitri Valkov didn’t say anything about a hand job, did he?’

  ‘No. He did not.’

  ‘Or about any kind of sexual activity?’

  ‘That is quite true.’

  ‘The only person who raised that matter was Laura?’

  ‘Yes.’

  DC Mostyn is next, and he tells us that his experience was almost exactly the same as DC Mitchell’s, with the exception that it took place in the American room, and the name of the young woman who made the offer of the full body massage was Crystal. And with that, we adjourn until two o’clock.

  This would normally mean lunch, my oasis of calm. But I’m not expecting much calm this lunchtime. I’m not sure I will even make it in to lunch, and if I do, it will only be for a few minutes. A new war with the Grey Smoothies seems imminent, and Stella and I have a meeting scheduled, a last-ditch diplomatic effort to avert hostilities. The stakes are high. In their latest effort to make ‘improvements and efficiencies’ – Grey Smoothie-speak for taking away even more of our few remaining resources – they are proposing to close down the kitchen facilities at Bermondsey Crown Court. I am determined to resist this if I possibly can.

  It’s not that I have any great affection for the kitchen or for the fare it serves up, but it does serve an important function at court. Quite apart from the four of us judges, there are the jurors, counsel and solicitors, defendants, and assorted members of the public, all of whom have to be back at court after lunch, and don’t have time to go very far. There are places they could go to for lunch within reasonable distance of the court, but it’s not easy to do it in the hour we allow them. In the case of those involved in the case, particularly the jurors, there are one or two places you would definitely not want them straying into. The George and Dragon comes to mind. And that’s before you consider the risk that the jurors, witnesses, and defendants or some combination thereof may all end up in the same place. But the Grey Smoothies seem unable to grasp the importance of jurors and other court users having a decent, and more importantly, safe place for lunch while they are performing a vital public service. To the Grey Smoothies, as usual, it’s all a matter of money.

  The Grey Smoothies are represented by our cluster manager, Meredith, accompanied by her minion, Jack. Jack will take the notes today. Taking notes is a big thing with the Grey Smoothies. Notes of meetings are sacrosanct. They are preserved for an indefinite period with the same loving care as genealogical records in Salt Lake City, and they can be retrieved from storage, not only years, but decades later, to prove some damning remark a judge may have made in an unguarded moment. ‘Ah,’ I have had it pointed out to me in the past, when complaining about some item of equipment malfunctioning and causing havoc in court one, ‘but the Resident Judge seven years ago said it was working very well.’ You can point out until you are blue in the face: first, that no RJ worth his salt would ever admit that anything works very well – that would scupper any chance of it being replaced or updated, ever; and second, even if he did, that doesn’t mean that the equipment is working very well now, seven years on. ‘Ah, but it’s in the notes,’ comes the reply. And there it is: the notes – conclusive proof of the state of the world according to the Grey Smoothies.

  Today, Meredith is wearing a light grey two-piece suit with a white blouse, a long string of imitation pearls, and black shoes with fairly high heels. Jack, who still looks about fourteen, is wearing his usual grey suit from off the peg at Burton’s which looks as though he outgrew it a couple of years ago, and a thin pink tie scrunched into a small tight knot.

  ‘We just don’t have the budget for it,’ Meredith is saying. ‘We have to consider what kinds of expenditure on the courts are good value for money for the taxpayer. We have other areas we have to spend money in. We can’t see a business case for keeping the kitchens open.’

  ‘Look, I’m not pressing this on behalf of the judges,’ I reply. This is substantially, though not entirely, true. Marjorie, Legless and I have been bringing our own lunch in for some time now, and it wouldn’t matter to us very much either way, but Hubert relies on the dish of the day to keep him going until it’s time for dinner at the Garrick Club. Closing the kitchen would be quite a blow to him.

  ‘It’s the jurors and witnesses I’m concerned about. They have very limited time for lunch, and when they have to go out there is a risk of running into defendants and their supporters. Counsel and solicitors are in the same position. It’s not as though they give the food away. Surely the kitchen pays for itself?’

  Meredith shakes her head. ‘The Ministry subsidises it,’ she replies, ‘and with so many competing demands we just can’t do it anymore. The court kitchen is a drain on resources.’

  It is genuinely hard for me to believe this. The quality of the food is, to put it politely, indifferent, and it’s not exactly cheap. Not only that, they must have a regular captive clientele, even assuming that some are now following our lead, and bringing in their own lunches. I’m sure the caterers must pay something to the Ministry for the rent of the kitchen space. Why is there any need for a subsidy, and how much can it amount to? But I know, without asking, that the answer to all this is in the notes of some meeting or other, and therefore unassailable.

  ‘We do recognise that some provision must be made for jurors,’ Meredith continues. ‘We were thinking of installing a vending machine in the jury area.’

  ‘A vending machine?’ I exclaim. ‘Vending what, may I ask?’

  Meredith pretends to flick through whatever she has in her file, in an apparent search for an answer to this question. Before she can find anything, Jack supplies one for her.

  ‘Crisps,’ he replies, ‘Coke Zero, that kind of stuff.’

  ‘That’s not lunch,’ I protest. ‘That’s just a collection of unhealthy snack foods.’

  Jack sniffs. ‘That’s what I have, usually,’ he replies.

  Meredith coughs. ‘Yes, well, I think they can sell other things too. I’m sure they can do sandwiches, fruit cake, chocolate chip cookies and so on. Perhaps even those wraps, you know, Jamaican chicken and so on.’

  ‘They would need some way of heating those up, though, wouldn’t they?’ Stella points out.

  ‘Microwave?’ Jack asks.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Meredith replies, apparently doing some quick mental arithmetic to see how much that might cost. She writes herself a note.

  ‘And that’s just the jury area,’ Stella adds. ‘Then you’ve still got the advocates, witnesses, police officers, and members of the public to provide for. That’s without mentioning the judges. They shouldn’t be going out for lunch, not with defendants and witnesses wandering aroun
d the streets. You never know what might happen.’

  ‘It just confirms our view that people have to get used to bringing their own lunches,’ Meredith says. ‘That’s the most cost-effective way of doing it. After all, people don’t expect lunch to be available if they go to the post office, or the driving test centre, do they? Why should they expect it when they come to court?’

  Stella and I look at each other blankly.

  ‘Do you really think that’s a fair comparison?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ Meredith replies.

  ‘It was Mr Bagnall who came up with that, wasn’t it?’ Jack says, with a mysterious smile in Meredith’s direction.

  She gives him a look which means, ‘For God’s sake, shut up.’ But it’s too late. The cat is out of the bag. Now it’s all starting to make sense. Jeremy Bagnall CBE is a high-ranking member of the Grey Smoothie Abwehr, the High Priest of improvements and efficiencies. Herr Reichsmarschall Bagnall would install a vending machine in his grandmother’s kitchen, let alone ours, and take away her cooker and fridge to boot, if it would save him five quid. God help us if this is coming from him.

  ‘Mr Bagnall said he was at the post office during lunch and there was nowhere to get a sandwich there,’ Jack adds nervously. ‘But actually, I know the post office he went to and it was in a WH Smiths and they sell chocolate bars and stuff at the checkout. So…’

  ‘The point,’ Meredith resumes after we have waited some time to see whether Jack will complete the sentence, ‘is that Mr Bagnall is responsible for administering the budget for an entire cluster of courts, not just Bermondsey, and he has to set priorities. He thinks we can’t afford the kitchen any longer.’

  ‘Does that mean Mr Bagnall is closing down kitchens everywhere?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m not allowed to discuss the position at other courts,’ Meredith replies primly, almost as if she is unaware that I am in phone and email contact with RJ’s at other courts and can find out what is going on without difficulty – one resource they can’t take away. ‘Mr Bagnall did make one other suggestion,’ she adds.

  ‘We are all ears,’ I reply.

  ‘The other suggestion he made is that perhaps the judges themselves could reach an agreement with an outside supplier to cater lunch at court.’

  ‘Really?’ I reply. ‘So that we can subsidise lunch instead of the Ministry?’

  ‘You might be able to find people who do better food,’ Jack suggests.

  ‘That wouldn’t be hard,’ I reply. I have a momentary vision of La Bella Napoli turning up with their wonderful Italian delicacies for the judicial mess every day, but a reality check extinguishes it as quickly as it came. ‘But we have enough to do as it is without turning ourselves into catering managers.’

  ‘Well, that’s up to you, of course,’ Meredith says. ‘We will make sure you have some time to make other arrangements if you wish. We have to give the caterers a couple of months’ notice. After that we will contact you about installing the vending machines.’

  With which the meeting ends, and Meredith and Jack depart, no doubt in search of a vending machine where they get themselves some crisps and Coke Zero. I decide not to go to the judicial mess today. I can’t face it. I eat Jeanie’s ham and cheese bap at my desk in chambers, feeling that it is a harbinger of things to come.

  * * *

  Monday afternoon

  ‘I now call Inspector Jarvis,’ Piers Drayford begins, once court is assembled.

  The Inspector, a tall, thin man wearing an immaculately pressed uniform sporting a couple of service medals, makes his way to the witness box with a measured stride. He introduces himself to the court and takes the oath in a brisk tone.

  ‘Inspector, I want to ask you about the raid on Jordan’s on the Saturday evening. Do you wish to refresh your memory from a note you made at or near the time?’

  ‘Actually, sir,’ he replies, ‘my note was incorporated into the police log of the raid, which is available for all the officers to use to refresh their memories. If I might be allowed to use the log?’

  Piers looks along the line of counsel. No one has any objection and the log is duly placed before the Inspector.

  ‘Inspector, were you the officer responsible for coordinating and leading a police raid on the upstairs rooms at Jordan’s which commenced at about eleven o’clock in the evening?’

  ‘I was, sir.’

  ‘What was the purpose of the raid?’

  ‘I was asked to assemble a team of male and female uniformed officers to conduct a raid on behalf of the Serious and Organised Crime Unit, in order to investigate suspected activities in the upstairs rooms at Jordan’s.’

  Piers looks down the line again, and receives shakes of the head.

  ‘I see there is no dispute about it, Inspector. Were you told that the Serious and Organised Crime Unit had reason to believe that acts of prostitution were occurring there, and that they had obtained a search warrant for the premises?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And was it your role to investigate that belief?’

  ‘Yes. Our mission was to visit the premises to investigate the claims. If there was any substance in them, we would then arrest anyone who appeared to be committing an offence, we would seize any evidence at the scene, and we would make sure that any vulnerable persons at the scene were properly safeguarded.’

  ‘By “vulnerable persons”, you mean…?’

  ‘It’s not uncommon in such a situation to find young women who are minors, or who have been trafficked, or have been abused in some way. We are obliged, for their protection, to ask certain questions of them and to complete a protocol to reflect the results of the questioning. If any such circumstances exist, we must then report the matter to other agencies.’

  ‘No doubt that is why you had a number of female officers present?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And is it right to say, Inspector, and I want to deal with this immediately, that none of the women you found there were minors, none had been trafficked, and none made any claim of abuse?’

  ‘That is correct, sir. In fact, several made a point of saying it was the best place they had ever worked.’

  This produces a chuckle from the jury, so Piers seizes the chance to score a couple of points. In the circumstances, the defendants can’t really object to being praised as enlightened employers, so Piers can be seen to be scrupulously fair while, of course, twisting the knife somewhat at the same time. He is not going to step out of bounds by asking who should get the credit for the establishment’s exemplary employment practices, but he doesn’t need to. If he is patient, that should emerge naturally in due course.

  ‘Did you understand by that, that the young women said they had been treated fairly in relation to money and the conditions of their employment?’

  ‘They all said that they had been treated very well.’

  ‘They had been paid what was due to them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They were free to come and go as they wish, and were in possession of their passports?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Very well. Let’s move on. What did you do on arriving at Jordan’s at about eleven o’clock that evening?’

  ‘The first thing I did was to secure the premises as far as I could, so that the raid could take place without interference.’

  ‘How did you do that?’

  ‘I stationed an officer at the door leading to the staircase, with instructions to allow no one to enter or leave the upstairs area. I then spoke to the receptionist, a woman I now know to be Lucy Trask. I introduced myself, showed her the search warrant, and instructed her to make the key to upstairs available to me, which she did without any objection. I then instructed Ms Trask to sit down behind the reception desk, and not to attempt to communicate with anyone. I assigned a female officer to keep
her under observation. I then asked Ms Trask where I could find Dimitri Valkov, and she told me he was in the bar. I instructed two officers to detain Mr Valkov and have him sit behind the reception desk with Ms Trask, which was done.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. Did you then go upstairs?’

  ‘I did, sir. I led a number of uniformed officers upstairs. The only officer not in uniform was DS Hayward of the Serious and Organised Crime Unit, who was present as an observer. When we arrived upstairs, I directed a team of uniformed officers to enter each of four rooms on the corridor at the same moment. In each case, one officer was designated as exhibits officer, whose job it was to take photographs of the scene and to record and seize any items which might potentially be evidence. I myself entered the first room together with two female officers, PC Walsh and PC Hargreaves, and a male officer, PC Davis. PC Davis was my exhibits officer.’

  ‘Was the door locked?’

  ‘No, sir. We were able to enter without difficulty.’

  ‘What did you see on entering the room?’

  ‘I saw that the room was decorated in a style which I later learned was associated with his late Majesty King Louis XIV of France, sir. It had elaborately carved chairs, a number of gilt-framed portraits, and an elaborate clock, its top depicting a hunting scene, on a dresser…’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Piers interrupts, anxious not to be drawn into another lengthy cultural detour. ‘Was there one particular piece of furniture which caught your eye?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘In the centre of the room was a chaise longue, which appeared to be covered in a rich, deep red cloth fastened with brass fittings. The kind of thing ladies used to lie on, if they were feeling faint, once upon a time.’

  ‘Yes,’ Piers says. ‘Let’s not worry so much about what it was used for once upon a time. I am more concerned with what it was being used for on the night you were there. Was it being used by a lady who was feeling faint?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Please tell the jury what it was being used for.’