Catalyst

by Michael Knaggs

  “What were you expecting to see, exactly?”

  “We thought they were going to kill him.”

  There were gasps and cries from the public gallery. Penny Cartwright sprang to her feet.

  “M’lord! There is no way this person – Damian – could know that. He… ”

  “Ms Cartwright,” interrupted the judge, “I don’t think that Damian is saying – or the Defence is implying – that he knew that was their intention. I think he has just said he wanted to stay to find out, but that is what he thought was going to happen. Carry on, Mr Calvert.”

  Dean addressed the room in general again.

  “Why did you think that, Damian?”

  “Think what?”

  “That they were going to kill him.”

  “Don’t know. Guess because that’s why they told us to ‘fuck off ’. We figured they didn’t want any witnesses so it must have been that.”

  “Did you expect it because you had seen them kill someone before?”

  Penny was on her feet again.

  “M’lord, merely an observation. Before you allow Damian to answer that question, should we be permitting this young person to possibly incriminate himself in other crimes, even as an accessory? There may even be implications for the future process of law should he refer to any cases currently under investigation or where charges have been made.”

  Owen Templar turned to Dean.

  “Mr Calvert, what is the purpose of this last question? I think Damian has painted an intimidating enough picture in terms of the pursuit of the accused, and his verbatim recollection of how one of the victims dismissed the gang. You may feel on reflection that this is sufficient for the purposes of mitigation.”

  “I take my learned friend’s point, m’lord, and withdraw the question,” said Dean. “And I do agree that the picture Damian has drawn for us graphically depicts the vulnerability of Mr Lorimar’s situation and the frame of mind of his would-be attackers. I am sure that if Damian believed the brothers intended to kill him, the thought would certainly have crossed Mr Lorimar’s mind as well.”

  He spoke again to the witness.

  “What did you do after Jimmy Brady had attacked the other boy?”

  “We left. Everybody did.”

  “And what did the Bradys do next?”

  “Don’t know. They were going down the street towards this guy. Well, I do know what they did – they got themselves killed, didn’t they?”

  “Thank you, Damian. That was very helpful.” He turned to the bench. “No further questions, m’lord, and that was my last witness.”

  “Any questions for Damian, Ms Cartwright?”

  “No, m’lord.”

  “Then thank you again, Damian, for your assistance with this case. Mr Calvert, you indicated that you would be calling Mr Lorimar to the stand… ”

  There was a hum of expectation around the courtroom which the judge chose not to address with a reprimand, although he waited for it to subside before continuing.

  “I assume you still wish to do this?”

  “I do, m’lord.”

  “Well, it is now four-fifteen. It seems inappropriate to begin what could be a lengthy session at this time. Court is adjourned until eleven o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  The Clerk of the Court got to his feet.

  “All rise.”

  David Gerrard and Jo Cottrell sat in the warm sunshine with their drinks outside the pub on Ludgate Hill. The Ye Olde London was a traditional English public house with a lively bar at ground level and a further extensive bar downstairs, plus an external courtyard popular with patrons for outside drinking and dining. The street frontage was mainly of leaded glass with the pub sign above in large gold letters on a bright red background. The half-dozen hanging baskets were a riot of colour at the very peak of their seasonal splendour.

  “Bloody ironic isn’t it,” said David. “We do all that bloody work for the Prosecution and the Defence call all our bloody witnesses. We had all those guys lined up to convince people he’d carried out a brutal, pre-meditated murder, and the same ones all get to show what a really good bloke he is – and by answering the same questions, more or less. There’s nothing normal about this case. And I tell you what; I reckon there’ll be another twist to this tomorrow. I think that revelations await us.”

  “Such as what?” asked Jo.

  “Well, we might find out who he is, for a start.”

  “You don’t think,” she whispered, her eyes darting theatrically from side to side as she spoke, “that he really is Pinocchio?”

  “Listen, Detective hanging-by-a-thread-Sergeant Cottrell, it’s the senior officer who takes the piss. Don’t you watch any television?”

  “Only wildlife programmes.”

  “Ah well, at least that explains why you don’t understand human beings.”

  Jo spluttered. “And you do, of course? All of them.”

  “Just listen to the girl,” said David, in mock exasperation. “You seem to be suffering from delusions of adequacy. What makes you think you can suddenly start treating me as an equal?”

  “Well, for a start, I bought the drinks…”

  “So?”

  “… as I did the last time and the time before that. You’d be dehydrated if it wasn’t for me… sir.”

  “You’re right,” he smiled, and then became serious again. “But you’re not right to dismiss this thing about Lorimar’s real identity.”

  “I’m not dismissing it, or saying you’re wrong about him, sir.

  I’m just still not sure it’s all that relevant.”

  “We’ll see,” said David, suddenly lost in his thoughts.

  “Time to go?” asked Jo, not wishing to end up sitting in silence for minutes on end until he emerged from his meditation.

  “Certainly not. My round,” said David. “Never let it be said… ”

  Tom stayed at the constituency office for the rest of the day for his regular Thursday surgery, which started at 1.00 pm with a planned finish at 7.00 pm in the evening. Allowing fifteen minutes for each meeting, this made him available, in theory at least, to twenty-four of his constituents, and more if they attended in pairs or groups.

  On this particular day, aside from a complaint about excessive litter on a pedestrian shopping street and another bemoaning the inadequacies of public transport in the area, everyone wanted to talk about the Lorimar trial. Twenty-one of the attendees were from the estate itself, with a variety of comments and questions. It was clear that the overwhelming view regarding the Bradys’ incident was that the main victim was James Lorimar, a casualty of State incompetence.

  He finished his last meeting at 7.45 pm, and rather than remain in Marlburgh, he decided to drive to London and spend the night at the apartment at Balmaha in SW1. His constituency home, the top floor of a large three-storey Edwardian detached house, was at the opposite end of Westbourne Avenue from his office – a few minutes’ walk. It was well appointed, beautifully furnished and airy, with high ceilings and open fireplaces, and overlooked a small park – the same one which gave its name to Parkside police station. It was a quiet and friendly neighbourhood and he always felt relaxed and comfortable there.

  However, the roads into the centre of London would be relatively quiet at this time of the evening compared to the morning’s white-water experience of the A12, A11 and beyond. The alternative to that – a gentle twenty-minute stroll to work – was enough to persuade him to make the effort tonight.

  Just after 10.00 pm, he parked his Audi R8 in his designated space in the basement car park and took the lift to the second floor apartment. Situated on Vauxhall Road, close – but not too close – to Westminster, this was Tom’s favourite of their four residences. He sat for several minutes in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the huge semi-circular living area while he went quickly through the mail which had accumulated since his last visit. It was luxuriously furnished in a modern style with squared black leather chairs and sofas on a
polished oak floor, and glass and chrome dining furniture and cabinets. The walls were plain white and hung with a selection of Mags’s paintings.

  After a while, he pulled on a fleece jacket, poured himself a very large Jack Daniels, then slid open the patio doors of the master bedroom and parked himself at the table on the triangular balcony overlooking the Thames. He sipped his drink and looked down the river past the Houses of Parliament to St Paul’s and, beyond that, the towering office blocks of the City of London.

  Then he took out his mobile and phoned Mags.

  “So,” he said, “what have you been doing with yourself while the cat’s been away?”

  She seemed pleased to hear his voice.

  “Well,” she said, “I’ve spent most of the evening at the Dilleys’. Angela enticed me round by saying there was some very important news I needed to hear. I should have known better.”

  “Even so, sounds exciting,” said Tom. “What was it about? It’s safe to tell me, I’m sitting down.”

  “Well,” said Mags, half whispering, as if she was about to reveal a startling secret, “Jock is taking early retirement.”

  “No!” gasped Tom. “Oh, my God! Whatever next?”

  “Perhaps I should have broken it to you a little more gently. Are you alright?”

  “Yes, but I’m going to need a really stiff drink. Luckily I have one in my hand.”

  Mags laughed.

  “So have I. What’s yours?”

  “JD.”

  “So’s mine. Cheers.”

  “Cheers.”

  “Actually,” said Mags, “I’ve already had a couple of glasses of champers with Ange. To celebrate the pending event.”

  “Celebrate? Well, from what I’ve heard about domestic life in retirement, I’m not sure it’s something to look forward to with champagne. What did Jock McDilley have to say? Did he get a word in?”

  “He wasn’t there. He was in his den mounting butterflies.”

  “Mounting butterflies! The dirty pervert! I always suspected he had a very small dick; but, I mean, butterflies!”

  Mags burst out laughing.

  “That’s very naughty,” she chastised. “By the way, did you watch Lorimar arriving at the Old Bailey? God, it gave me such a shock. Just for a minute… ”

  “Yes, same here. Spitting image. It scared me half to death. Did you hear any of the trial on the radio?”

  “No. Had a meeting this afternoon. Little Winton By-Pass Action Group. Better tell the filth to start dusting down their riot shields.”

  It was Tom’s turn to laugh.

  “Where are you, by the way?” she asked. “I can hear a lot of noise.”

  “SW1,” he said. “On the balcony. Bloody freezing.”

  “You’re back tomorrow evening?”

  “Of course. Poets’ day. Shouldn’t be late.”

  “Good. See you then.”

  There was a lengthy pause, as if each was waiting for the other to end the call. Tom spoke first.

  “Oh, Mags!”

  “Yes?”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Owen Templar arrived at the court at 10.00 am sharp the next morning. Like most people in employment, he always felt much better on a Friday than on any other working day. Today, the feeling would be short-lived. He was met in the doorway of his expansive office by his secretary, who was in the process of smoothing the creases out of the judge’s robe as he entered.

  “You have a visitor, sir,” he said, in a conspiratorial whisper. “Lord Chief Justice.”

  Justice Templar rolled his eyes in response, as if a precious secret was shared by the two of them.

  “Thank you, Billy.”

  Billy Wakeley was a little under medium height and slim to the point of thinness. His smiling friendly face looked impossibly young for someone in their mid-twenties. He wrapped the red robe carefully onto its padded hanger and hung it in its usual place on the back of the huge oak door, before leaving the room and closing it behind him.

  Lord Charles Nicholson rose from his seat and extended his hand.

  “Hello, Owen,” he said. “How are you?”

  “Fine thanks, Charlie, and you?”

  “Very well, thank you. Bet you’re enjoying all this limelight? With Lorimar, I mean.”

  Lord Charles was a large, well-built, distinguished looking man, in a grey pin-striped three-piece suit and bright yellow tie with matching handkerchief in the top pocket of his jacket.

  “Just another case, Charlie,” Owen replied with a wide smile. “You know me.”

  The two men sat down in the expensive Queen Anne chairs at either side of the Regency occasional table as Billy quietly opened the door again and pushed the tea trolley into the room.

  “Knew you wouldn’t mind, Owen, so I asked Billy to double up on the tea and biscuits.”

  “It’s unlike you not to be queuing outside when the doors open for elevenses at your club, Charlie. The other members will suspect that the beer is off or something. This must be serious.”

  His visitor chuckled. Then he frowned and leant forward in his chair.

  “Well, it is rather,” he said.

  Just before 11.00 am the small convoy repeated its journey of exactly twenty-four hours ago through the same crowds of on-lookers; same banners, same shouts, same emotional reception as James Lorimar stepped down from the back of the security van, like a king descending from his carriage.

  He waved to the crowd, ratcheting up the volume of their cheering. People had been camped outside the Old Bailey, and along the road approaching it, for a couple of hours. It was reminiscent of the final day at Wimbledon; the queue for tickets for a pop concert; or the January sale at Harrods.

  Inside the courtroom, the privileged hundred followers of the accused man who had gained entry to the public gallery settled excitedly in their seats feeling like a gathering of celebrities at ‘An Audience with James Lorimar’, With the order to “all rise” from the Clerk of the Court, they almost leapt to their feet as the judge entered the court, as if their own perceived haste might expedite the start of the proceedings.

  He addressed the Defence.

  “Mr Calvert, please… ”

  “I should like to take a small amount of the court’s time, m’lord, to establish the relationship between Mr Lorimar and Mrs Deverall.”

  Judge Templar said nothing but opened his arms wide in a signal to proceed.

  “Mr James Lorimar, would you please stand.”

  There was a burst of animation around the room with several people offering gentle applause as the prisoner rose to his feet.

  “Very briefly, Mr Lorimar, please describe to the court how you came to know Mrs Deverall,” said Dean.

  “Yes, of course. I am currently an Investment Manager with Germaine and Rolland. Before that I was in the armed forces where I was a close friend of Mrs Deverall’s only son. He was killed in action a few years ago, but before he died he asked me to look out for his mother, Alma, as he would not be around to do so any more.

  “Alma and I became friends. We pretended I was her carer – it was our little secret – and when she became ill and depressed, I found her the apartment in Hammersmith – as you heard from Mr Venables – for a period of respite. As you have also heard, it was there she took her life just prior to the end of the tenancy, when she was due to return to the estate.”

  The calm control he had displayed throughout the trial, seemed to briefly leave him and for a fleeting moment he visibly slumped. He recovered immediately.

  “Thank you, Mr Lorimar. No further questions from me, m’lord.”

  There was a ripple of disappointment around the public gallery.

  “Ms Cartwright?” The judge turned to Penny. “Do you have any questions for the prisoner?”

  “No, m’lord,” she said.

  “That will be all, Mr Lorimar. You may be seated.” He turned again to the Defence Counsel. “Over
to you, Mr Calvert.”

  “Thank you, m’lord,” said Dean. “If it pleases the court, I would like to summarise this plea for mitigation before you pass sentence.”

  Justice Templar gave the slightest of nods. Dean gathered himself for his keynote speech, sweeping his right arm round in almost a full circle to have it stop, pointing, open-palmed, towards the dock.

  “The man standing before you is a brave man… ” He paused for effect. “The man standing before you is a good man… a just man. And yet, the man standing before you is a guilty man. Guilty of what? Guilty of rendering a form of justice consistent with that which he has been required to do for a quarter of a century in the defence of the freedom of this country and its allies. In law, this man is a criminal; in reality, he is a saviour, whose efforts have liberated a community from a lurking menace which plagued their every day’s existence.”

  He paused again, this time receiving a gentle ripple of applause from the gallery. David Gerrard was thinking about the counsel’s ill-chosen adjective. ‘Lurking’ was not how he would have chosen to describe the Bradys. ‘In-your-face’, he thought – in every sense of the expression – would have been much more suitable. Dean Calvert continued.

  “We should not condone this act, nor praise it, nor rejoice in it. After all, the act of taking another human being’s life goes against every instinct of law-abiding people. But we can perhaps understand it, and I believe we have before us a person who was driven by sadness and desperation to do something in recompense for the sorrow in losing a person whom he clearly cared for very much.”

  Again a ripple of applause, the judge glowering to silence it this time.

  “And, m’lord, having taken such a decision, Mr Lorimar was clearly in no position to change his mind, faced with the wrath and venom of his intended victims. In the end, ironically, they left him no choice and, through their own evil intentions, sealed their fate. I respectfully request, m’lord, that you see this man as he is – as I said. A brave, good and just man, a criminal in law,” – he paused for emphasis – “but a victim of his own high ideals.”

  The courtroom spontaneously erupted in shouts of support and appreciation. Justice Templar banged his fist onto the bench in front of him, in obvious anger and exasperation. His voice boomed across the room.