by John Fairfax
‘I remembered what you said about self-hatred,’ he said.
Abasiama seemed pleased. She said, ‘Good, because I’d forgotten.’
‘Is that why you wouldn’t tell me?’
‘I never repeat anything, you know that,’ she said.
Benson had only recalled Abasiama’s words when he found himself doing what she’d recommended.
‘It was pretty trite, to be honest,’ he said. His mobile phone buzzed in his pocket. ‘Not something I’d have written down.’
‘Perhaps you should have done.’
She’d said he’d only stop hating himself if he let someone else love him. And that meant taking risks. As long as he kept secrets, the fruit would remain in the tree. It would eventually rot. The conversation had come back to Benson as he’d watched Tess walk down Farringdon Street, trying to keep a bead on her green velvet hat as it got smaller and smaller.
‘For years now I’ve just kept myself to myself,’ he said. ‘It’s safer that way, for me, for everyone. But Tess is different. And not just because she comes from the time before I was convicted. She came to me. She was . . . interested in me. That’s why I had that panic attack on the boat. No one’s been interested in me since I was twenty-one. Except a cat. And even he’s a stray.’
‘Are you panicking now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she’s pulling away already.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I can feel it. She doesn’t look at me any more. She’s frightened.’ Benson’s stomach turned and he broke into a sweat. ‘She’s got a copy of the brief from my trial. I saw it on a table. I don’t know how the hell she got it but she’s going over what happened.’
He rode the nausea for a while, ignoring another buzz in his pocket. Abasiama was watching him take control of his breathing, nodding as he went through the checklist. When the sweating had slowed, he said, ‘She doesn’t trust me. And I thought she did. I thought she was one of the few. But she isn’t.’
‘What have you to lose if she finds the answers?’
‘Everything.’
‘What have you to gain?’
Benson wasn’t going to say, ‘Everything’, because that didn’t follow at all, except as a linguistic trick.
‘You’ve forgotten already, haven’t you?’ said Abasiama.
‘No, I haven’t,’ he said, suddenly childish. ‘You said I had to take risks. But I don’t want to.’
‘Well, that’s fine, then.’
‘What’s that’s supposed to mean?’
‘Just carry on hating yourself. As you said, it’s safer that way for everyone. You’ve always got Papillon.’
In prison Benson had learned to escape the accumulation of strong emotion by boxing up different experiences and then burying them in different places. It had taken years of practice. Contrary to the advice of the prison psychologists, it had been the only way to survive. If Needles was ahead of the philosophers and physicists on understanding the nature of time, he was ahead of Jung and the rest on questions of psychology. People who were ‘in touch’ with their feelings and brought them all together often killed themselves. It was a tricky one, and Abasiama was doing her best to establish connections between the different fragments of Benson’s life. But keeping intense feelings in different compartments had its benefits. It meant he could be beaten up on Seymour Road and then enter the Old Bailey as if nothing had happened. It meant he could talk about the threat from Tess de Vere without thinking about the Hopton Yard killing. And it meant that he could now return to the Hopton Yard killing without thinking about the threat from Tess de Vere. He checked his phone and went to Grapeshots.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ asked Archie, lumbering away from the bar. ‘Didn’t you get my messages?’
‘I did. But I’ve been clearing my head for tomorrow.’
‘Well, I hope you’ve got space for this.’ Archie ordered a Spitfire for Benson. ‘I found out where Alan Shaftoe lives.’
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The next morning Tess went to the Old Bailey earlier than usual. She went straight to Court 1. It was empty save for two court ushers. She walked into the centre of the room and looked at the exhibits table. On it lay Sarah Collingstone’s hat and coat along with the broken beer bottle and various bundles of photographs. But Tess was thinking of another case. R v. Benson. Sixteen years ago this table had looked pretty much the same. Benson’s jacket with Harbeton’s blood on the sleeve had been laid out beside other bundles of photographs. The only difference was the absence of a murder weapon – something Camberley had stressed but to no avail. Tess turned around and looked up to the public gallery. It was empty.
But sixteen years ago it had been packed. Mainly with the Harbeton family and their supporters. The only person missing was Gary Chilton and he’d felt the exclusion ever since. Aged twelve, he’d been too young to watch the hanging. For that is what it had felt like. Some of the friends were so intimidating that Tess had been scared to be associated with the defence. God knows what Benson had felt. Or his parents, who’d been seated on the back row, utterly isolated. A fearless member of the public had taken pity on them. Tess could see her now. A woman with neat, black hair. She’d probably come to the Old Bailey as a tourist, only to find herself witnessing a tragedy. She turned up every day. She helped Benson’s father when his wife collapsed on hearing the verdict; when Harbeton’s family cheered as if the winning goal had just landed in the back of the net.
It had been awful. Every day had been awful. Not knowing where the evidence would lead the jury. Feeling the tension in Benson; and the tension in Camberley, who knew what Tess had only learned much later: that a jury can swing in any direction, regardless of the evidence.
After the court had cleared, Tess had stood at this very spot. She’d been nineteen years old. Only a week earlier she’d imagined a future in shipping law because it sounded exotic. Cargo lost at sea. Proceedings in London arising from a contract signed in Cairo between parties based in Liberia and Hong Kong. She’d come to Hutton, Braithwaite and Jones of Field Court, London, intending to shadow Charles Hutton who handled this sort of thing, but then George Braithwaite had suggested she come and see a slice of real life. Standing here, Tess had asked Braithwaite if she could keep her copy of the brief. Standing here, she’d changed the direction of her life. She’d abandoned a glamorous future because of William Benson, the son of a fisherman from Brancaster Staithe. A philosophy student who loved the Proclaimers. And Tess now had a sudden burning insight. She didn’t regret it for one moment. She would never regret it, even if the Buddha turned out to be right.
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Tess had taken her place in the solicitor’s benches. The public gallery was full. The press were squashed together. The jury were expectant. Mr Justice Oakshott was arranging his papers. Benson sat immobile. Collingstone was in the dock with the awful isolation of someone who might not be going home. Glencoyne had her eyes on the bench, waiting for a signal from the judge.
‘When you’re ready, Miss Glencoyne.’
‘Thank you, my lord. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, do you recall the beginning of this trial, when I first addressed you? I warned you that you’d find yourselves moved by pity. And I’m sure you have been. Who could look upon Sarah Collingstone and not feel anything but pity? But you must now examine the evidence dispassionately.’
Unlike Benson, Tess had been following the media coverage of the Hopton Yard killing. Day by day the debate about Benson’s presence at the Bar had been displaced by reports of his performance in court. Commentators and columnists had expected him to falter and fall. He was conducting a murder trial without the requisite skill and experience. The tone of censure was uniformly sharp. But, come the day, Benson hadn’t only skilfully exposed weaknesses in the Crown’s case, he’d shown the investigation to be critically flawed. The critics, in turn, had begun to change their perception of the man who’d outraged their sensibilities. Hav
ing suggested he’d colluded with a lying defendant (after Collingstone had been stripped naked), they’d been compelled to acknowledge his unrelenting determination (after Grange had revealed the previous death threat). The trend, then, between reporters and observers was heading in the same direction. Regardless of his conviction and inexperience, Benson had the aura of a champion. All of which placed Glencoyne under intense pressure. For while the case was publicly about the murder of Andrew Bealing, in the legal world it was also about the reputation of a senior QC. She was meant to have wiped the floor with Benson. And she hadn’t done.
‘Mr Benson is going to talk to you at length about Andrew Bealing’s secret life. The life away from Debbie with Anna Wysocki. The life away from the Alington Trust with a criminal organisation. He’ll talk to you about the deadly nature of legal highs. He’ll talk to you about Daniel, and how Andrew Bealing abandoned him and used his mother for a one-night stand, just to shut her up. By the time he’s finished, you won’t like Andrew Bealing very much. But he’ll tell you that doesn’t mean he deserved to die. And then he’ll talk to you about sodium streetlamps and how the DNA of an innocent woman can be transferred on to a bottle. He’ll ridicule DCI Winter over a tin of tuna. He’ll tell you the police don’t know everything, even when they work for the National Crime Agency. He’ll tell you the gang that promised to kill Andrew Bealing killed Andrew Bealing. And if you have any doubts, he’ll remind you about Kym Hamilton’s husband, David. He’ll have all the bases covered and he’ll do everything he can to take your eye away from the terrible, tragic truth of this case.’
Glencoyne had spiked Benson’s speech. By mapping out what he’d say, she’d robbed his words of freshness and indignation. When spoken later in the day, they’d sound slightly worn and possibly hollow. The brighter light would shine on Glencoyne’s sympathetic assault upon the credibility of Sarah Collingstone. Tess listened as she went back to the summer of 1997, when a young girl who’d just lost her mother took a fateful train to Portsmouth.
The climax of Glencoyne’s speech came just before the midday break. The court was left with the hideous image of Sarah Collingstone standing over her victim as he bled to death. Benson declined lunch and retired to a conference room with the brief and his notes of evidence. For a moment Tess watched him through a window: he was intensely concentrated, comparing documents. Back in court at 2 p.m., a fever of expectation joined the jury to the public gallery to the press to the ushers and to the clerks. Tess’s heart was beating viciously. What was Benson going to say? Even Glencoyne looked brittle with anticipation.
‘Mr Benson,’ said Mr Justice Oakshott, invitingly.
‘I’m grateful, my lord,’ said Benson, rising. ‘But I don’t propose to address the jury.’
If a ceiling could fall silently, the ornate plasterwork of Court 1 seemed to have collapsed. And then the dust from the crash rose everywhere. The press were whispering, the public were talking, the usher was demanding order.
‘Silence, please, or I will clear the gallery,’ said Mr Justice Oakshott. And then, with great deliberation: ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Benson?’
‘I have nothing to say that will assist this jury.’
‘Are you sure? This is a grave and unprecedented step. Counsel should never waive the right to urge a jury to have a reasonable doubt.’
‘It is the step I wish to take, my lord. If I hadn’t already made the decision, I’d have said that Miss Glencoyne expressed my case with commendable precision, though I would never have ridiculed DCI Winter and his colleagues. I leave matters as they are, my lord, because I am confident this jury already knows the decision they must make. I place my client in their hands. I await their verdict.’
Mr Justice Oakshott began his summing up of the evidence. But his calm, measured delivery did nothing to diffuse the atmosphere of excitement that had filled the court. Tess’s heart wouldn’t slow down. This had been no cheap trick. Benson hadn’t outmanoeuvred Glencoyne at the last moment, spiking her strategy as she had tried to spike his speech. He’d genuinely planned to say nothing, which now made Glencoyne’s long exhortation sound like she’d tried too hard. It was an incredibly daring move – a move he could never repeat in the future. Benson had told the jury he trusted them; and in return – Tess could feel it in the air – they trusted him. There was mutual respect. He hadn’t tried to persuade them of anything; and in so doing he’d made his own case large in their minds. Everyone in Court 1 had been thrown by the decision, but none more so than Tess. Because she’d seen Benson hard at work in a conference room. He’d had no appetite. He’d had too much to do. But if he planned to say nothing, why had he been poring over the evidence?
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Benson found the waiting excruciating. After Mr Justice Oakshott had finished summing up the evidence, the jury were sent home. Unable to bear any company, Benson shunned Archie and Tess and took to the canal. But the press were there on the banks, taking photographs, all the way to St Pancras Basin. People shouted his name. For the first time since his release, Benson couldn’t work out if it was praise or abuse. He barely slept. And the next morning, he had to elbow his way through cameras and microphones fielding questions, as much about the case as about himself. The cloud he’d been living under had begun to lift. A different light was falling on him; and it was warm.
The waiting got harder as the morning dragged on. Benson was well aware that he’d taken an immense risk. Waiving his right to have the last word in a murder trial was unheard of. But Benson had felt in the marrow of his bones that it was the right thing to do, in this particular case, before this particular jury. It hadn’t been a decision. It had been a kind of obedience. But the longer the jury were out, the more he began to question the certainty that had seized him when he’d opened his notebook to plan his speech, only to close it again. He began to wonder if he’d missed a golden opportunity to move hearts and minds.
It was unbearable.
The hanging around reminded him of his own ordeal. He sat with Tess as he’d sat with her all those years ago, only this time they couldn’t find any words to pass across the table. She’d tied her name to his. Benson’s gambit was now hers, too. If Sarah Collingstone was convicted, the decision to make no speech would mar both their careers.
But if the jury let her go . . .
They still hadn’t made a decision by lunch time. Mr Justice Oakshott summoned everyone to court at 2.30 p.m. He asked the foreman if they’d reached a unanimous verdict and they hadn’t. They were sent out with a direction to reach such a verdict if at all possible. An hour later, Mr Justice Oakshott convened everyone again. The same reply was given to the same question. This time, Mr Justice Oakshott said he still wanted a unanimous verdict but, failing in that, he would accept one by a majority of 11-1 or 10-2.
The jury filed out and Benson turned to leave, but Glencoyne was standing in his way.
‘I regret how I spoke to you, Benson,’ she said. ‘I should never have accused you of manufacturing evidence or paying a witness. That was reprehensible. I am sorry.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Your performance in this trial has been remarkable and I congratulate you.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But I would be dishonest if I was to say that I will ever accept you at the Bar. I won’t. For my part, your conviction for murder is a stain that cannot be erased, even by genius. I am sorry that I cannot support you.’
‘Thank you.’ Benson wanted to say more and he called her back after she’d moved on. ‘You ought to know that I respected you for refusing my application to join the Inner Temple. I respect your honesty now. I will continue to respect your opposition in the future.’
Glencoyne offered her hand and Benson took it. Then she left court.
Fifteen minutes later he went to the toilets and threw up twenty-four hours of anxiety. By a strange quirk of circumstance, on leaving the cubicle he confronted the barrister who’d heard him vomit at the beginning of the trial. Win
ston Corby. And Corby looked at him very differently this time. On stepping outside, Benson heard the announcement:
‘All parties to Court One, please.’
At the beginning of the trial Benson had spotted a woman juror with short curly hair. She was a redhead with strident freckles. The blouse was complimentary. White with red spots. And he had concluded that she was either a person who led others or followed them, keeping quiet. He’d gambled on the former, addressing a number of remarks in her direction. The jurors had selected her as their foreman and she was now standing, waiting for the questions from the clerk.
‘Have at least ten of you agreed on your verdict?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is your verdict? Please only answer “guilty” or “not guilty”.’
There was no pause between the question and her answer but time still seemed to crawl; and then it came:
‘Not guilty.’
Benson collapsed. Not physically, but within himself. He turned towards the dock, thinking he might fall. Sarah Collingstone was weeping, her face covered by her hands. Applause was thundering from the public gallery. Members of the press were joining in. There were smiles of triumph on the faces of those who’d merely been watching. Mr Justice Oakshott was calling for order and Benson had to sit down. His vision was blurred and his throat unbearably constricted. He thought he might sob, and not just because the jury had let Sarah Collingstone go. He’d been ambushed by a memory. This is what he’d wanted for himself. Not the cheering, not the adulation. Just two words. And they’d been denied him.
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