by Dexter Dias
I looked round the scene in Court 4 at the Old Bailey. It being a retrial, the court staff had followed the case from Court 8. Leonard sulked at the front of the court. Norman sucked on his biro. And then I remembered what Justine had told me.
Kingsley must be punished. This thing must be done.
I had spent a week in London and a week in Stonebury and was still very far from the truth about the murder of Molly Summers. Every now and then I even thought the unthinkable and imagined that Kingsley might be innocent. But a look at his face, a minute in his company disabused me of such fantasies immediately.
People had crammed into the rows of the public gallery, squeezing themselves against complete strangers, sketch artists from the tabloids hung over the railings to get a better view. Court 4 was full. Full as it had been during the trials of Victorian poisoners, and when Edwardian arsonists were in the dock.
The gallery was high above the well of the court, like the upper circle of some seedy flea-pit, high above the drama, up amongst the gods.
The defendant just sat in the dock, oblivious to everyone, to everything except the soft tones of Justine Wright, his prosecutor, who was trying to send him to prison for life.
When Justine began to talk about the evidence, Emma and I began to make notes. Justine very fairly admitted that although there was a partially smudged print on the knife, this could not, and should not, be attributed to Kingsley.
It was when Justine began to mention the confession to the police that Emma began to tug furiously at my gown.
“Object, Tom,” she whispered.
“Why?”
“So we can try to get it excluded.”
“By whom?”
“By the judge, of course.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Emma. For a nightmarish moment I thought we were in Hilary Hardcastle’s court.”
“Don’t be facetious. Even she has a discretion to exclude it.”
“Yes, but she can never decide which way to rule: in favor of the prosecution or against the defense. Tough choice that. Besides,” I said as Emma sank back into her seat, “I think we can have some fun with our boys in blue.”
Justine outlined the rest of the evidence with commendable brevity. But she did not mention the notice of alibi. Nor did she mention Philip Templeman. Had she forgotten? Was the omission deliberate? Or perhaps there was another reason?
The jury sat fascinated. Three people stood out immediately. An elderly woman with an intelligent face, her cashmere cardigan thrown over her shoulders. Then there was a big man: tattoos, leather jacket, thick gold bracelet, constantly looking around court. Finally, a woman with good bone structure, mid-thirties like Penny and Justine, Aran jumper, ethnic skirt. She made a very full note.
The grandmother, the taxi-driver and the social worker. Kingsley’s fate was in their hands.
“That, members of the jury, is some of the evidence the prosecution will call,” said Justine. She had not mentioned the girl in the graveyard, nor, of course, Vera Cavely. “You will note that the case is largely circumstantial. No doubt Mr. Fawley will bring his”—she looked at me and feigned a smile—“his almost legendary forensic skills to bear upon this point.”
Hardcastle glared at me.
“Don’t be taken in,” Justine warned. “Don’t be deceived by Mr. Fawley’s charms. A circumstantial case is not a weak case.”
Emma and Hilary Hardcastle made a note of this.
“Imagine,” said Justine, “and I’m sure it would never happen, but imagine Mr. Fawley and I had had an argument and he wanted…” She paused and then said, “And he wanted to hurt me.”
I could feel myself flushing, but could not control it. Everyone looked at me and I felt guilty but for reasons they could not begin to conceive.
Justine continued, “If Mr. Fawley was seen going into a room with a knife and if I was found brutally stabbed to death and the knife was found in his house. And imagine—and this is the diabolical part—imagine he confessed to an honest policeman. Well then, Mr. Fawley would say: the case is weak—it is entirely circumstantial.” Again she paused for the jury to catch up. “And what, ladies and gentlemen, would you say to that? These, I think, are the types of issues that you will have to decide in this trial.”
Emma came to my shoulder. “Lovers’ tiff?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“Don’t let it get to you. It’s not personal. Remember?”
“Emma, it couldn’t be more personal.”
The first witness then stormed his way into court.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
THE WITNESS ARRIVED IN THE BOX WITH A GREAT deal of fuss and bother. There was the pounding of large boots, the rustling of a starched uniform and short-tempered grunts. Before Norman, the usher, had a chance to raise the card and ask the witness to repeat the oath, the Bible was snatched from his unsuspecting hand and held toward the heavens.
“I swear by Almighty God,” the witness gabbled without taking a breath, the sacred oath becoming one long conundrum ending in, “and nothing-but-the-truth.” The man looked around, cheeks reddening, buttons popping, and added for good measure, “So help me… er, God.”
The judge was far from impressed. “There is no need,” Hardcastle snarled, “no need at all to invoke the assistance of the Almighty.”
The policeman was about to argue back when Justine intervened. “Can we have your name please?”
“PC 732, ma’am.”
There was a swift palpitation of the judicial eyelids. “You do have a name, I suppose? I mean, you haven’t changed your name to PC whatsit by deed-poll?”
The officer looked at Hardcastle, the Bible still suspended eight feet nearer its central character than was strictly necessary. “I do have a name, ma’am.”
“Well, what is it?”
“PC Lynch, ma’am.”
“Well, why ever didn’t you say?”
“I dunno, ma’am.”
“Don’t call me ma’am. Do use some common sense and let’s get on with it,” said Hardcastle.
Justine was perfectly calm. “Which force are you attached to?”
“Devon and Dorset.”
“And how long have you been there?”
Lynch looked around nervously at the court full of city dwellers. “All my life, ma’am—er, miss… er—all my life.”
“Now,” said Justine, “I’d like to ask you about the murder of Molly Summers.”
I whispered to Justine. “You can lead PC Plod through this part of his evidence. Do use your common sense.”
Justine’s mouth tightened a fraction, but relaxed when she turned toward the jury and the witness. “Did you assist in the arrest of Richard Kingsley?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell us where and when he was arrested?”
Lynch looked to the judge. “Your Honor, I made a note.”
“Well, can’t you tell us those simple details without consulting your notes?”
“I’d prefer to use my notebook.”
Hilary forgot for a moment which side she was on and, scenting blood, moved in. “When was the note made?”
“I can’t remember… exactly. It’s written in the notebook—I think.”
That much launched missile, the judicial pencil, fell rapidly to the Bench. “This is very unsatisfactory.”
I saw the chance to score a few points. “May I assist the court?” I said. “I have no objection to the officer using his notebook—if he can’t remember.”
“Well, thank you, Mr. Fawley.” Hardcastle eyed me suspiciously. “You’ve been most helpful.”
“A quick bow, then I was behind the curtain again. As I sat down, Emma yanked my gown painfully.
“Just what are you doing?” she said. “He was squirming there.”
“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” I replied.
“We shall see.”
“You shan’t. You’re going to St. Catherine’s House.”
As Emma got up, she
drew very near to my right ear. “What has got into you, Tom?”
Justine eventually managed to navigate her way through Lynch’s account. He described the scence at Kingsley’s manor, the arrest, how the police wore rubber gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints and momentarily he sounded like a real policeman. He told of how the knife was found and sealed in an exhibits bag and taken to the forensic science laboratory.
In solemn tones, he said that Kingsley had confessed and then struggled as he was taken away.
It was my turn to cross-examine.
“Is your evidence that after you cautioned Mr. Kingsley you asked him if he ‘did it’?” I smiled as I began.
“Yes, sir.”
“And lo and behold he said, ‘I was there’?” My gentlest tone.
“Yes.”
“And he said, ‘My knife was used’?”
“Yes.”
“And he said, ‘But you’ll never prove it’?”
Lynch quickly glanced at his notes.
“Don’t worry, Officer,” I reassured him. “It’s not a trick question.”
“Er, yes. That’s what he said.” Lynch smiled.
I turned slowly to the jury and shouted, “This is all lies.” The smile vanished. It was time to attack. “Did you ever show your note of this, this… conversation to Mr. Kingsley?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ever read it to him?”
“No, sir.”
“Ever let him read it?”
“No, sir.”
“Ever ask him to sign it?”
“No.”
“To witness it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t remem—I don’t know.”
“Ever ask him about it in interview?”
“I didn’t interview him.”
“Ever tell the interviewing officers the murder suspect had confessed?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
“I suppose I forgot.”
I looked at him sternly. “You forgot?” I repeated. Now a change of pace, a scratch of the chin. “And do you, Mr. Lynch, as a diligent policeman routinely do those things when someone ‘confesses’?” I sarcastically stressed the last word.
“This is no place for sarcasm, Mr. Fawley,” said Hardcastle.
“Nor for lies, Your Honor,” I turned back to the officer. “You do usually do those things?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But you didn’t here?”
“No, sir.”
“And can you give us a reason why ever not?”
“I don’t know… I mean, no, sir.”
The taxi-driver crossed his arms and stared without sympathy at the cornered policeman.
“Have you finished, Mr. Fawley?” asked Hardcastle.
“Not quite,” I said. “Now your evidence is that Mr. Kingsley—let me read my note—’scratched my face as I pushed him to the van and said: “I’ve got AIDS, you”—’”
“You bastard.”
“Thank you. ‘I’ve got AIDS, you bastard. You’re going to die.’ Is that your evidence?”
“Yes.”
I put my notes down and fixed Lynch for the next round. “Was Mr. Kingsley ever charged with assaulting you?”
“No, sir.” Then Lynch saw an opening. “It’s part of the job. Happens all the time.”
“What? A suspected murderer in a wheelchair scratches your face and tells you you’re going to die of AIDS? I imagine that’s as common as cow-pat on your rural beat.”
“No, I meant—”
“We all know what you meant, Mr. Lynch. It’s a tissue of lies as well.”
“No.”
“Really?” I eyed Lynch and tried to decide where to strike next. I looked below his belt. “I suppose Mr. Kingsley didn’t have a handbag on him?”
Lynch looked to the judge in confusion, but Hilary was a veteran and could see what was coming.
“Just answer the question,” she said wearily.
“No, he didn’t have a handbag.”
“Or a makeup kit?”
“No.”
“Or a nail file?”
“No.”
“And when he scratched your face, I imagine he broke the skin and it bled?”
Lynch tried to play the martyr. “A little. Not much.”
I intended to crucify him. “And he scratched you before he got to the police station?”
“Yes.”
“Well, tell us how it is that he had no human tissue under his fingernails when they were swabbed minutes later?”
He had no answer. Some witnesses babble when they are caught lying, others become quiet. Lynch was a silent perjurer.
“Mr. Lynch, was a photograph taken of this very serious injury? You know, for compensation or for that other thing—now what’s it called? Oh, yes. For evidence?”
Hardcastle didn’t bother to interrupt.
“No photograph was taken, sir.”
Then I gushed with enthusiasm. “Oh, but that’s where you are wrong, Mr. Lynch.”
In the excitement of bagging a murder suspect he had probably forgotten an arrest photograph, a Polaroid taken by the custody sergeant on arrival at Stonebury police station. There was Kingsley with an arrogant smirk on his face and Lynch standing next to the wheelchair.
“Take a look,” I said. “Any blood on you?”
“No.”
“Any scratches?”
“No.”
“So much as a nick from shaving?”
“I use an electric razor,” he said.
I noticed that none of the jury had laughed at his attempted riposte. “Thank you for sharing your depilatory routine with us, Mr. Lynch,” I said. “I mean, that is you in the photograph. Officer?”
“Yes.”
“Well, tell us. Which has been fabricated? The photograph or your evidence? You were trying to get a commendation, weren’t you? Did Sergeant Lynch sound so attractive?”
“That’s enough, Mr. Fawley,” Hardcastle said.
“Yes,” I replied. “I think that’s quite enough.”
We rose early and I returned to the robing room with what I knew was a smug grin on my face. But I also knew that it would not and could not last long in that trial. I was paged to answer the telephone. It was Emma from St. Catherine’s House.
“So how did the case go?” she asked.
“Oh, so so,” I gloated.
“Oh, God. Are you going to be unbearable?”
“Got to enjoy it while it lasts, Emma. Anyway, how did you get on?”
“Took me ages. Problem is…” She paused. “Well, how can I put this? You see, Tom, there is no Molly Summers.”
“What?”
“I’ll keep looking—but according to the records, she doesn’t exist.”
I looked at my watch and realized I would have just half an hour with Kingsley before they took him back to prison.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
KINGSLEY SAT IN THE SAME VISITING ROOM WHERE Whitey Innocent gave me his mysterious warning. The defendant had not spoken to me during the course of the first day’s proceedings. No notes, no suggestions, no instructions. It was as though everything was going according to plan—his plan. When the jailer let me in, Kingsley put down his copy of the evening paper.
“They’ve captured my likeness pretty well,” he said. “But they haven’t done you justice, Mr. Fawley. They’ve made you look like a worried cocker spaniel.” He handed me the tabloid sketch.
“It’s how I feel,” I said.
“You should get some rest, you know. Too much… running about.”
“I assume you’re referring to my encounter with your mate Templeman.”
“That’s rather a large assumption to make,” Kingsley said.
“He must have told you. Don’t even try to pretend—”
“What did you think of him?” Kingsley suddenly interrupte
d.
“I think he needs to work on his right hook.”
Kingsley smiled. Or at least that part of his face below the eyes smiled. The eyes were unchanged.
I gave the tabloid back to Kingsley and said, “I do know that you… well, that you didn’t write the handwritten note.”
“And just how do you know that?”
“The same way that I know Templeman isn’t what he seems. Call it—”
“Instinct?” Kingsley asked. “Or interference in matters that don’t concern you, perhaps? I did tell you the handwritten note wasn’t mine—”
“No, you just said you wanted a graphologist to examine it. Why couldn’t you just have said it wasn’t yours?”
“Would you have believed me?”
“Probably not,” I said.
“You see.”
“So what do you want?” I asked. “An apology?”
“That would be nice. But I’d settle for a teenage girl to—”
“What about the typed note? You haven’t said whether…” I paused. I heard a rattle of keys outside as other remand prisoners were being led to the prison van.
“I thought you gave a—satisfactory performance,” Kingsley said.
“Thanks for your undiluted praise.”
“Well, I think you were a bit harsh on that poor policeman.”
“He was trying to set you up for murder.” I realized that was the type of thing I would have said to one of my innocent clients, so I added, “Whether or not you did it.”
“But the real question, Mr. Fawley, is whether they will get their hands on the girl.”
“Which girl?”
“The only one left. I hear young Diane Morrow overdosed on heroin. Such a shame. Young people and drugs, what can we do?”
“How did you know her name?”
“Everyone knew. Oh, yes,” Kingsley added, “apart from you. Are you beginning to get the impression, Mr. Fawley, that you haven’t been invited to the party?”
“Look, I want to know.”
“To know?”
“Is it true you were a trustee of the home?”
