The Verdict

by Nick Stone

‘Terry Flynt,’ I said, shaking her hand, which was as cool and smooth as a flat stone in a stream.

  ‘Terry’s the clerk,’ Kopf said to her.

  ‘Not a paralegal, then?’ she said.

  Nice…

  She got in the cab. Kopf followed her in. Then he stopped mid-stoop and looked over his shoulder at me. He shifted his eyes to the taxi and then back to mine. And he winked.

  76

  ‘Miriam Zengeni?’

  ‘Yes?’ a woman’s voice answered the Archer House intercom.

  ‘I’m a friend of Andy Swayne’s.’

  ‘Andy? You mean Andrew?’

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about him and Michael.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Number 75, third floor,’ she said and buzzed me through the gate.

  She brewed up a pot of ginger tea and carried it with cups on a tray into the living room. We both sat either end of a light-brown leather couch.

  The conversation started small; about the ruined, rainy summer; then how the building had changed in the last fifty years, going from a state-owned working-class council estate to the private, exclusive gated community it was today. She said the joy had gone out of the area. Poverty had bound people together. Wealth divided them. There’d once been a school just outside the block, which her daughter had gone to. It had been converted into luxury flats too. She missed the sound of children playing.

  I took in the room, the grey porcelain praying hands and red rosary beads on the mantelpiece, a variety of snow globes from all over the world, and the photographs – so many photographs.

  I noticed, in a frame on the shelf, the same black-and-white photo Swayne had pinned to his corkboard, but larger and clearer. Miriam was pregnant there and just starting to show.

  ‘I thought Andrew had stopped with the drinking nonsense long ago. Especially after —’ She caught herself. ‘How well did you know him?’

  ‘Only a few months. He told me about his time in prison, if that’s what you mean,’ I said.

  ‘He must have trusted you. He didn’t make friends easily. If at all.’

  She spoke in a surprisingly strong, clear baritone for someone her age. And her accent was pure bygone English, all clipped and proper, what used to be known as BBC English. She’d banished any and every hint of Mother Africa.

  ‘We weren’t friends exactly, more work colleagues,’ I said.

  ‘Work? I thought Andrew was retired.’

  ‘He was helping me with a case.’

  ‘A case? You mean an investigation?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, sipping the tea. It was sweet and spicy and surprisingly good, considering I wasn’t a tea person.

  ‘He didn’t tell me anything about that.’

  ‘Did you see him often?’

  ‘I saw a lot of him this year. He’d come by once a week, usually Tuesday or Wednesday. We’d have lunch, sometimes go for walks when the weather was good,’ she said, looking out of the window. ‘Before that our contact was irregular.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘He came twice last week, Monday and Tuesday. He borrowed that photograph you see there,’ she said, pointing to the picture of the three of them on the shelf. ‘He brought it back on Tuesday.’

  The day before he’d died.

  She sipped her tea.

  ‘Are you a private detective as well?’

  ‘I’m with a solicitors’ firm – Kopf-Randall-Purdom.’

  ‘You work for Sid Kopf?’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Of course. My daughter – Bridget – works for him.’

  Now this was awkward.

  ‘Which division?’ I asked.

  ‘Commercial. She’s a partner there. Done well for herself,’ she smiled, proudly.

  My turn to stare out the window, at the moored barges bobbing on the rusty grey Thames, then Chelsea Harbour and the brass pagoda-like roof of the Belvedere.

  ‘The reason I came to see you is that Andy – Andrew – died quite suddenly, just as I was getting to know him. I was curious about his past. He talked a bit about you and Michael.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Him and Michael were good friends.’

  She frowned and shook her head. ‘They only met twice.’

  ‘Oh…’ I was a little thrown, but not surprised. Typical Swayne; still messing with me from the grave. ‘Did they meet in Zim — in Rhodesia?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘What do you know about Michael?’

  ‘He was Thomas Nagle’s son.’

  ‘Michael’s father brought him over to England when he was four. In South Africa, mixed race children were rejected by both sides of apartheid. So he pulled some strings, got Michael a British passport and sent him to live with a couple who had a young son about his age. Thomas paid for his upkeep and education. Michael went to boarding school.

  ‘Apart from that, his father had no involvement in his life. There was no contact, and he never recognised Michael as his own. He simply wrote cheques. Which, I suppose, is a lot more than most men would do in the circumstances.

  ‘Michael lived in England until he graduated. Then he cut all ties and moved to Rhodesia. He had ambitions. He was interested in farming.’

  She fetched a photo album down from a shelf, sat closer to me and opened it on her lap. Michael as a young boy, in shorts, cross-legged in a back garden next to a slightly older white boy. Michael and the boy at the seaside, building a sandcastle together. The pair outside a small terraced house, in cowboy outfits, aiming toy sixshooters at the camera. Michael at a school prize-giving, Michael holding up a silver cup.

  ‘I met Michael when he was out buying feed in the market one day. Not the most romantic of encounters. I was a teacher. We married, moved to a farm. I fell pregnant. And then, one day, Andrew turned up with a letter from Michael’s father.’

  ‘Was that the first time you met Andrew?’

  She nodded. I glanced up at the picture on the shelf.

  ‘My mother took that with her camera. We’d bought her one for her birthday. She was trying it out.’

  Swayne knew I’d come here too. He’d wanted me to talk to Miriam.

  ‘What did the letter say?’

  ‘Thomas wrote that he was dying of cancer and wanted to make amends. He wanted to meet Michael in London as soon as possible,’ she said. ‘Michael didn’t want to go. He’d grown up knowing he was illegitimate, that his father was white and rich and British. He had a lot of anger about all that.

  ‘He said his father didn’t want to know him all his life, so why should things be any different now? But I insisted he went. He was about to become a father himself, and I thought it was only right he make peace with his own. I’ve regretted that ever since.’

  She wasn’t sad when she spoke those words, but I felt sorry for her. She’d unwittingly sent her husband to his death. From the other photos on the walls, I don’t think she’d remarried, maybe never even had another significant relationship since. There were no other men in the pictures. Only her, her daughter, and two young, light-skinned girls I took to be grandchildren.

  ‘Michael agreed to fly to London to meet his father,’ she said.

  ‘Where was Andrew?’

  ‘He left after he delivered the letter. Went back to England. He telegrammed Michael to say he’d meet him at Heathrow when he got off the plane.’

  ‘So, on November 27th, 1960, Michael left for Salisbury airport in his Land Rover. He never made it. They found his body a month later, hands tied behind his back. He’d been shot. We’ll never know what happened. Maybe the whites killed him because they were jealous of how well the farm was doing. Maybe the blacks killed him because he was a traitor. Or maybe it was just a robbery.

  ‘Scott Nagle – Michael’s half-brother – came to Rhodesia a week after he disappeared. He got the police to investigate. If he hadn’t come, nothing would have happened. The white police weren’t interested in blacks going mis
sing. The more the merrier. They found the car two weeks later, with the body in the back. Badly decomposed.

  ‘Michael was identified by the officer in charge of the investigation. Wingrove. He had to use dental records from England.

  ‘Thomas Nagle pushed for an inquest and a full investigation. He was determined to bring his son’s killer to justice. But he died and they never caught Michael’s killers.

  ‘Scott arranged for me and Bridget to come to London for the inquest. That was forty-nine years ago. We’ve never left.’

  I finished my tea.

  ‘Do you know Scott Nagle well?’

  ‘Bridget’s Uncle Scott – of course,’ she smiled. ‘He’s been very good to us. Thomas didn’t leave anything for Michael in his will, but Scott took care of us. Always has. We’ve wanted for nothing.’

  Thomas Nagle’s will. I’d seen a draft version in Kopf’s office. The father had split his estate equally between his sons. Maybe it had never been ratified because Michael failed to show; because he’d been murdered.

  ‘You know, it’s strange to hear that Andrew talked about Michael with you. He never did with me. Not until he asked to borrow the picture.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said he thought about Michael all the time, that he hadn’t stopped thinking about him from the day he died. And if there was one thing he could take back and undo, it would be the letter he brought.’

  77

  Day 2

  The first witness called was the receptionist from the Blenheim-Strand, a fair-haired man in his early twenties.

  He told the court how VJ had checked out of the hotel at around 6.30 in the morning. He’d noticed scratches on VJ’s cheek and cuts on his hands and lip – ‘like he’d been in a fight’ – as well as his dishevelled appearance. The receptionist had asked him if he was all right and VJ had replied he was ‘fine’. Then he’d signed for his bill and left.

  Carnavale thanked him and sat down.

  It was a short opener, both curtain-raiser and scene-setter.

  Christine stood up with my help.

  ‘Was Mr James drunk that morning?’ she asked the receptionist.

  ‘I don’t know if I’d call it “drunk”. He was a bit unsteady on his feet, his voice was slurry, and he reeked of alcohol,’ the receptionist replied.

  ‘Why didn’t you say this to Detective Fordham in your statement?’

  ‘He didn’t ask me.’

  Christine checked the witness statement – or rather pretended to, for the jury’s benefit.

  ‘DS Fordham spoke to you on March 21st, four days after the body was found. Correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Could it be you’d forgotten that Mr James was drunk?’

  ‘No,’ the receptionist said. ‘I’ve got a pretty good memory. The detective didn’t ask me if he was drunk.’

  ‘Thank you. No further questions,’ Christine said.

  Carnavale got up as Christine was still sitting down.

  ‘Are you sure the accused was drunk?’ he asked.

  ‘Absolutely,’ the receptionist said. ‘We all know what drunks look like.’

  Laughter.

  ‘Why didn’t you mention this in your statement?’

  ‘The detective didn’t ask me anything about that. I was asked about Mr James’s appearance.’

  ‘But you’ve just told the court he appeared to be drunk,’ Carnavale said.

  ‘He didn’t “appear” to be drunk. He was drunk,’ the receptionist replied, to more laughter.

  Carnavale consulted the receptionist’s statement. ‘Detective Fordham asked you – and I quote – “Did you notice anything odd or unusual about him?”’

  ‘And I said I’d noticed the injuries on his face and hands.’

  ‘But you didn’t find it odd or unusual that a guest was drunk at 6.30 in the morning.’

  ‘No,’ the receptionist answered. ‘We get a lot of footballers at the hotel.’

  More laughter.

  Carnavale sat down.

  Next up was one of the two maids who’d found Evelyn Bates’s body. Spanish, with dyed pink hair that was growing out and a nose ring. She’d since left the hotel for another job.

  She described how she and her colleague went to the suite to clean it at 8 a.m., as soon as their shift started. She described the wreckage in the lounge, the displaced minibar, the broken glass, the stench of alcohol. She remembered the bottle of champagne in the bucket on the coffee table, and the two glasses. While her colleague called hotel security as per procedure, she went to check the bedroom.

  She initially thought Evelyn was asleep, but then noticed her eyes were open. She knew something was very wrong. She left the bedroom and waited for Albert Torena – the head of security – to arrive.

  The court clerk passed a crime-scene photo to the jury foreman. It was Evelyn as the police had first found her – naked on the bed, her head slightly propped up on the pillows.

  ‘Watch the jury,’ Christine whispered. ‘If anyone looks at Vernon after they’ve seen the picture, we’ve lost them.’

  ‘How’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘They already think he looks the part.’

  Not one of them looked at VJ. And only the crime writer lingered over the picture, scribbling furiously. He’d probably realised he could use all of this as future material. He’d also become a key juror.

  Christine’s cross-examination was brief.

  ‘Did you or your colleague move or touch the body in any way?’

  The maid answered empathically. Definitely not. They’d been trained to call security immediately in an emergency.

  ‘No further questions. Thank you.’

  Albert Torena took the stand. He told the court he’d known Evelyn was dead ‘on sight’ because he’d been a cop in the Guardia Civil in Spain. He’d called the police and also found out the name of the guest staying in the room to ‘help them with their enquiries’.

  No questions from Christine. Torena looked disappointed when he was told he was done.

  After a short recess, we heard from the coroner who’d performed the autopsy. He confirmed that Evelyn Bates had been murdered, the cause of death manual strangulation. He estimated the time of death as between midnight and 3 a.m.

  He was precise as he described her crushed windpipe, the burst capillaries in her eyes and her swollen and distended tongue. I suppose dispassion came with the territory. He believed the killer to be right-handed because there was heavier bruising to the right side of the throat than the left. VJ was right-handed. So were most people.

  I handed Christine both the autopsy and the forensics reports, which she placed on the lectern before her.

  ‘Was there bruising to the victim’s face?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘So she wasn’t slapped or punched prior to being strangled?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘There was no indication of that.’

  ‘What about elsewhere on her body? Were there any injuries – bruises, contusions, wounds?’

  ‘Nothing recent,’ he said. ‘There was some old scar tissue on her left forearm, which appeared to be from a small cut.’

  ‘Was there any indication that she’d been tied up or handcuffed in any way?’

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘One further question,’ Christine said, running a finger down a page of the autopsy report. ‘I noticed you mentioned finding traces of several chemicals around the victim’s neck. Polychloroprene, aluminium, carbon and other substances. What are those commonly found in – if you know?’

  ‘This was from the fingerprinting process carried out by the forensics team. It’s in the report,’ he said.

  ‘Please explain for the benefit of the jury,’ she said.

  ‘The polychloroprene is found in glue. Carbon and aluminium are found in fingerprint powder. Forensics would have dusted the body for fingerprints. It’s very difficult to get a print off skin – living or dead. In death t
he body decomposes. The skin loses its elasticity and contracts, which would mean that any fingerprints will be distorted.

  ‘Forensics officers use a process called glue fuming, which involves blowing a mixture of steam and household glue over the area they wish to fingerprint. The heat expands the skin back to its prior state, and the glue seals whatever’s on the surface. They give it ten to fifteen seconds to dry and then apply standard print powder.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor,’ Christine said. ‘No further questions.’

  We broke for lunch.

  Everyone rubbed shoulders in the Old Bailey canteen – prosecution, defence, witnesses, clerks, solicitors, police, press and the accused who weren’t on remand. It wasn’t uncommon to find yourself sharing the same air as newsworthy sex offenders, fraudsters or even killers on a break from their trials. This was where the business of justice was conducted. Courtroom opponents broke bread – literally – and discussed possible deals. Cops and barristers gave reporters off the record interviews. Solicitors and freelance clerks touted for work.

  Christine, Redpath and I sat at a table by the window, overlooking the main road. It was raining outside, had been since yesterday night.

  Christine stuck to bottled water and the contents of a small bright-red pillbox, its quartered tray carrying a different coloured and shaped tablet apiece. I had an apple and black coffee. Redpath was eating a jacket potato, tuna and grated cheese.

  ‘What do you think of the prosecution’s tactics, so far?’ she asked me.

  ‘Methodical,’ I said. ‘Carnavale’s spoonfeeding the jury. He’s walking them through the case step by step: the accused leaves the hotel with facial injuries; a dead body is found in his room; the police are called; time and cause of death are established. It’s a straightforward linear narrative from crime scene to courtroom.’

  ‘Is it working?’

  ‘Seems to be,’ I said. ‘No confused looks or yawning from the jury.’

  ‘Any avid note-takers?’

  ‘Three. The Asian woman and the crime writer are the busiest, then the foreman,’ I said. They and the only other woman – who was middle-aged and wore thick square glasses – were the jurors who’d stood out so far, who I could even remember.