Catalyst

by Michael Knaggs

  “We are nearing the end of these proceedings. That is the only reason why I will not be asking the attendants to clear this courtroom. Does everybody – I mean – everybody – understand?”

  The room almost crashed into silence. People nodded; some actually said ‘yes’; some even ‘sorry’.

  “Thank you, Mr Calvert, for your eloquent justification of the defendant’s act of murder. Because, notwithstanding your comments, a simple act of murder is what it is. Premeditated and callous. It is an undisputed fact that Mr Lorimar has shown much courage in his chosen profession. In that context, I agree that the word brave may be justifiably applied to him. But not so, I believe, in the perpetration of this crime. In spite of the numerical odds against him, the three young men would have had little or no chance against someone with his training. In any case, I must carry out my obligatory duty. Ms Cartwright, do you have any comments before I pass sentence?”

  “No, m’lord,” she replied.

  “And does the prisoner have anything to say for himself?” The question was asked wearily and mechanically to the court in general.

  “Yes, m’lord. My client would like to make a statement from the dock.”

  “Please have him go ahead.”

  The prisoner stood and removed three folded A4 sheets – stapled together – from the inside pocket of his jacket. He unfolded them, cast his eyes for a few moments over the first sheet, then looked up and addressed the judge directly.

  “First let me thank you, m’lord, for allowing me to speak today, and also for permitting Mr Calvert to spend so much of the court’s time yesterday on my behalf in relating the mitigating circumstances leading up to the incident. However, I want to make it clear to everyone that my act of retribution was premeditated and carefully staged. I could not be more gratified by the way this one incident has served to unite those oppressed people of our communities and highlight the plight in which so many find themselves. That has been an enormous bonus and a great and necessary comfort to me.

  “I say a necessary comfort, because it was certainly not my intention to get caught. Indeed, I did not expect to get caught, and my somewhat reluctant congratulations must go to Detective Chief Inspector David Gerrard and his team, for their tenacity and skill.”

  For one bizarre moment, David wondered whether he should get to his feet and bow to the gallery.

  “The proceedings of the last two days have also demonstrated how fortunate we are in possessing such institutionalised integrity in our judicial system. No-one need fear when the machinery of the law is in such good hands – no-one, that is, except people like me. So we have laws to protect us, we have good, professional people to ensure we comply with these laws, and we have solid reliable systems in place to enable those people to deal with the likes of me when they do not comply. So what is wrong? Because something most certainly is!

  “I quote from a statement made by ex-Squadron Leader Arnold Danby at a meeting of the Third Age Forum, just prior to my arrest. This quotation has been subsequently used by Mr George Holland and reported in the press.

  “‘… more important than the law is justice. It appears that, in the space of less than an hour, a single person, now being hunted as a triple murderer, and whose freedom – and, effectively, whose life – will end when he is caught, has put to rights something that all the agents of the law have abjectly failed to do for God knows how many years. Isn’t it ironic that justice, it seems, has been done, and the law will now punish the person who achieved it.’

  “I feel he captured the essence very concisely. However, I must take issue with one aspect of the squadron leader’s words. He said ‘… something that all the agents of the law have abjectly failed to do… ’ That part of his statement implies a level of incompetence on the part of those agents – the police, lawyers, barristers, judges. I do not believe that is true.

  “It is the law itself that is failing us! Or more specifically that part of the law that dishes out justice. How can it be right that the likes of the Bradys and their disciples are allowed to roam the streets like a pride of hungry man-eaters, causing widespread distress and intimidation, whilst good people cower in fear behind their curtains in darkened rooms? And all this is going on when the police are fully aware of the sort of people they are and the sort of things they are doing. So why don’t they put them away? Well, to do so we must rely on people with complete faith that their testimony will lead to these heathens’ imprisonment. And how can they have that faith when so many attempts to imprison them fail on technicalities and trivial details – not cautioning them at the right time, incomplete paperwork, and witnesses trapped into saying what they don’t really mean. And without faith in a guarantee of success, who with any sense would put themselves in a position where the likelihood is they will face retribution as this flawed system pours the antagonists back onto the streets.

  “If I had any doubts before, then the reaction of the public to this whole issue has wiped them out. I now know for certain how our society needs to change – must change. It needs to focus on the good people, the nice people. It needs to care a lot less about those who choose not to be good and nice. We are all sensitive to the effects of poverty, parental guidance, local environment, peer pressure, etcetera. These are massive forces for shaping behaviour. But even in their extreme forms they are resistible forces. Carrots are fine in the first place for attempting to lead these disadvantaged people onto the path of righteousness. But when the carrots have failed, or have all been devoured with no discernable effect, then we must bring sticks to bear – heavy sticks, hurting sticks. Not gentle apologetic taps which do no more than induce sneers and mocking laughter. And after the carrots and the sticks – the most singularly effective measure of all – so obvious, and with a guarantee of success, but so radical very few even dare to mention, let alone propose, it. Permanent separation and isolation!

  “And I don’t mean life imprisonment as we have it now. Judges are able to put away people for good as the law stands now – a situation where justice and law may be perceived as being the same. But so many times, life imprisonment means a relatively short period weighed against a full life span of, say, eighty years, or perhaps fifty or sixty remaining years. But this is not the point anyway! Not at all! Such sentences are currently reserved for extreme cases of violence and murder, and for those involved in the planning and execution of acts of terrorism. And it is right that such people are excluded from our society; they have no place in a civilised world.

  “But these are not the ones who plague so many lives day in, day out. People are not scared of going out for a walk around their neighbourhood streets in the evening for fear of being blown up by a suicide bomber, or brutally murdered by a psychopathic stranger lurking in the shadows. The chance of that happening is less than the likelihood of being killed by a slate falling from a roof as they pass. They stay at home to avoid the threats, hassle and intimidation heaped upon them by roving gangs seeking soft targets, whose success criteria is the look of fear on the faces of their randomly chosen prey.

  “They need stopping. They need stopping permanently. Or at least they need to be placed where they can pursue their interests without the wholesale pain and anguish they cause the people who wish to live in peace. Let them kill; let them maim and wound and torment. And let us find a place where they can do this away from the world they reject, where they can inflict their misery on each other. Forget the specific crime; forget the need for proof; forget the requirement for witnesses and their subsequent protection and – quite often – their necessary isolation for their own safety. The question should not be – ‘are they guilty or not guilty?’ It should be ‘would the world – society, community, define it as you wish – would it be better or not without these people in it?’ If the answer is ‘better’, then it is the law’s duty to make it so by removing them.

  “This is a radical step. It would mean an enormous amount of parliamentary work, even if there was a will
within the powers that be to address the nation’s concerns so controversially. But the controversy is all in the means; the end is indisputable in its benefit. Unfortunately, the do-gooders will concentrate on the means; they will point out that these criminals are just misunderstood, have had too little guidance, suffer from coming from a poor background, a poor area, have single parents, little education. In other words, none of it is their fault, so nothing should be done about them. Except, of course, pour more money into leisure facilities, counsellors, corrective centres and so on.

  “We must focus on the finished product, the end-game, the future state scenario, call it what you will. In other words, the end as opposed to the means. And it will be a painful process to get there, but well worth it. To do so we need to be prepared to put at risk part of a generation – those non-conforming to be banished for ever, irreversibly exiled. There would be mistakes, innocents swept up in the street-cleansing process. This would be unfortunate, but an acceptable risk for the overall benefit. I passionately believe that. We need to focus on that better world in the future – hopefully, the near future – where the good people can take charge of their simple needs and wants without fear and compromise. We need to insist that those who can achieve it for us do so, or move aside to make way for those who will. And in that better world, people like me will be justly castigated and repulsed for needlessly taking lives, instead of revered for doing somebody else’s job.”

  The whole public gallery stood to applaud, in appreciation of the message.

  “Thank you, Mr Lorimar,” said Justice Templar as the ovation finally subsided, assuming that the prisoner had finished.

  “If it pleases, m’lord,” he said, and quickly continued, “I have one further piece of information to impart. And for withholding this until now I wish to apologise to you, to my Counsel and the Prosecution, and to the court in general. The story of the killing of the Bradys has been recounted accurately and objectively. But one detail of this case has yet to be revealed.

  “My name is John Alexander Deverall. My death was reported three years ago. I am the son of Alma Deverall, the lady who took her own life three weeks prior to the death of her tormentors.”

  The courtroom was totally silent for what seemed a long time, and then erupted again, this time with incredulity. Dean Calvert and Penny Cartwright looked at each other wide-eyed before Dean looked down at the notes in front of him as if checking that he had not missed something obvious. Jo leant across to David and whispered in his ear, “Don’t you dare look smug about this.”

  The prisoner waited until the room became silent again.

  “I do not intend adding anything to my statement and I will not be pressed to do so. For the past three years I have been James Lorimar, but it does not matter what my name is. The only thing that is important is for the court to recognise the crime I committed and the reasons for doing it. I did it for my mother, Alma, and for the residents of Cullen Field Estate. Please do not lose sight of what is important here. We have all had a glimpse of what can be achieved by the removal of menace from the midst of decent people. I urge you to take up the cry as you already have done in this courtroom today. That is what is important. The future; a better future; a safer future.”

  It was a full minute before the judge tried to speak again above the sustained applause that followed. During that interlude he flashed several venomous glances at Charles Nicholson, sitting at the back of the courtroom, who returned them with a relaxed smile, which did nothing to lighten the blackness of his mood. However, when he finally did speak, after the room had become silent again, it was with calm authority.

  “To say the least, Mr Lorimar, you are a man of surprises. I commend you for your heart-felt oratory. We also thank you, of course… ” – this with kindly sarcasm – “… for your benevolent words relating to how we try to do our jobs. And I can assure you that, in spite of the revelation at the end of your speech, my mind is, as you requested, focused on the crime, including the whys and the hows. As far as this court is concerned you are James Lorimar, the man who has pleaded guilty to the violent, premeditated murder of Jimmy, Kevin and Karl Brady, and it is my duty to sentence you to a mandatory life sentence. This is the only sentence this court can impose. I recommend that you should serve a minimum of eight years after which time you should be considered for parole; the Home Secretary will then set the tariff.

  “For what it’s worth, Mr Lorimar, I empathise, if not totally agree, with much of what you said today. And I do hope some serious consideration will be extended to what I perceived to be an intelligent and well communicated argument.”

  The judge rose quickly, speaking as he stood up.

  “Both counsels to my office immediately, please?”

  The suddenness of his retreat took everyone by surprise. He was halfway out of the room before the rest of the gathering had responded to the Clerk’s “All rise.”

  David and Jo watched as John Deverall was led away from the dock to the retaining cells, each acknowledging his smile with a nod of their head. He seemed relaxed and satisfied with the outcome, leaving behind a scene of high excitement, raised voices and animated gestures.

  The press piled out of the court in one single mass as if the fire alarm had sounded, to collect their mobiles and such from the foyer and get to work on the new twist. Penny Cartwright immediately picked up her notes, anxious to follow the judge as quickly as possible, and was waiting impatiently as Dean Calvert exchanged angry words with Clive Granville, eventually joining her and strutting from the room. David and Jo made their way out of the building into bright sunshine. Neither had spoken since Jo’s whispered comment earlier.

  “Fancy a stroll along the embankment?” asked David.

  “Yes, sure,” said Jo. She peered intensely into David’s face as if studying his expression carefully.

  “This is satisfied,” said David, “not smug.”

  “Mmmm, well it looks like smug to me.”

  They walked, in silence again, down to Ludgate Hill, turning right up to New Bridge Street then left towards Blackfriars and the river. They found a small bar near the Millennium Pier and abandoned the idea of the walk along the embankment, sitting outside and ordering beer and sandwiches.

  “I think I’ll ask Lorimar – Deverall – to put all that about tenacity and stuff in writing,” said David. “I’ve got my annual appraisal with Allan next week. It might keep the subject away from my retirement, at least for a while.”

  “I have to say,” said Jo, “he’s a real collector’s item. I think I might go and visit him in jail. Perhaps he’ll take me out when they release him. I’ll only be thirty-nine. I can’t see him not fancying me, can you?”

  “Not when he’s been inside for eight years,” said David. “He’ll probably settle for anything.”

  “Well, thank you! You must admit though, he’s a bit fit, isn’t he? I guess it’s okay to say that now that I’ve helped put him away.”

  “Not my type. But an exceptional guy all the same. That speech was something else, wasn’t it? Even with six weeks to work on it. You know he spoke for over twenty minutes. I’ve never known the like before. Surprised old Templar didn’t cut him short. Well, I’m not actually; I reckon he had been told to give him his head.”

  “That’s just what I was thinking. Seemed to give up on the proceedings, didn’t he? Like he just knew it was going to run and run, and nothing he could do about it. Tell you what though; he was certainly listening as closely as anyone.”

  “Perhaps it’s his appraisal next week as well. His boss was there, you know. Charlie Nick was at the back of the court. Question is, now that it’s over and the secret’s out, is anyone going to work out how he managed to survive being blown up. Surely someone must be keen to know. I mean, he can’t have faked his own death in those circumstances. Not in some canyon in Afghanistan. It must have been set up for some very good reason.”

  “Well if you’re thinking of doing some more private d
etective work, I’ll bet you won’t get anywhere near anyone who can help you.” She tapped the side of her nose with her forefinger. “Hush, hush; top secret; National Security.”

  “Even so, they can’t stop us wondering, can they? He must have been reinvented for some very good reason.”

  “Perhaps to go around taking out people like the Bradys. Only we cocked it up by catching him.”

  “You don’t really think that’s possible, do you?” asked David, leaning forward with interest.

  “Not a chance,” said Jo, laughing. “I just figured you’re up for believing anything right now.”

  “Right, that’s it! Back to the station.”

  “Oh, come on, sir. Friday!” She checked her watch. “One-thirty. It’ll be three before we get there.”

  “How come?” asked David. “We’re only two minutes from the tube.”

  “Not at the pace I’m planning to walk.”

  David laughed.

  “All right. But only if you get the next drink, and don’t tell anyone I rolled over so easily.”

  “Sir!” said Jo, in a shocked voice, fluttering her eyelashes. “What do you mean?”

  “Take it anyway you like, but don’t forget it’s your appraisal the week after next.”

  Jo waved to the waiter and pointed to the bottles in front of them, mouthing ‘same again’. Half an hour later, they rose from the table, David picking up the whole tab for the refreshments, Jo wide-eyed with shock at his action, and her boss advising her not to expect it again. They started walking at a leisurely pace towards the tube station at Blackfriars.

  “Actually, sir, I’m staying in London with a friend this weekend. Back on Monday morning; might be a bit late in – if that’s okay, of course.”

  “No it bloody well isn’t,” said David. “So that’s the reason for the delaying tactics. All this ‘oo, sir, it’s Friday, please can we have another drink?’ It wasn’t my company you were craving, just a way of saving a few quid on the tube. I’m deeply hurt, Jo, and I don’t want to have your babies any more.”