‘I am, sir.’
Pearson turned to the judge. ‘I wonder, m’lord, if you would allow me to avoid having to ask Mr Davenport to reveal his home address.’ He paused. ‘For obvious reasons.’
‘I have no problem with that,’ replied Mr Justice Sackville, ‘but I will require the witness to confirm that he has resided at the same address for the past five years.’
‘That is the case, my lord,’ said Davenport, turning his attention to the director and giving a slight bow.
‘Can you also confirm,’ said Pearson, ‘that you were at the Dunlop Arms on the evening of September eighteenth 1999.’
‘Yes, I was,’ replied Davenport. ‘I joined a few friends to celebrate Gerald Payne’s thirtieth birthday. We were all up at Cambridge together,’ he added in a languid drawl that he had last resorted to when playing Heathcliff on tour.
‘And did you see the defendant that night,’ asked Pearson, pointing towards the dock, ‘sitting on the other side of the room?’
‘No, sir. I was unaware of him at that time,’ said Davenport addressing the jury as if they were a matinee audience.
‘Later that night, did your friend Spencer Craig jump up and run out of the back door of the public house?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘And that was following a girl’s scream?’
‘That is correct, sir.’
Pearson hesitated, half expecting Redmayne to leap up and protest at such an obvious leading question, but he remained unmoved. Emboldened, Pearson continued, ‘And Mr Craig returned to the bar a few moments later?’
‘He did,’ replied Davenport.
‘And he advised you and your other two companions to go home,’ said Pearson, continuing to lead the witness – but still Alex Redmayne didn’t move a muscle.
‘That’s right,’ said Davenport.
‘Did Mr Craig explain why he felt you should leave the premises?’
‘Yes. He told us that there were two men fighting in the alley, and that one of them had a knife.’
‘What was your reaction when Mr Craig told you this?’
Davenport hesitated, not quite sure how he should reply to this question, as it wasn’t part of his prepared text.
‘Perhaps you felt you should go and see if the young lady was in any danger?’ prompted Pearson helpfully from the wings.
‘Yes, yes,’ responded Davenport, who was beginning to feel that he wasn’t coming over quite so well without an autocue to assist him.
‘But despite that, you followed Mr Craig’s advice,’ said Pearson, ‘and left the premises?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s right,’ said Davenport. ‘I followed Spencer’s advice, but then he is’ – he paused for effect – ‘learned in the law. I believe that is the correct expression.’
Word-perfect, thought Alex, aware that Davenport was now safely back on his crib sheet.
‘You never went into the alley yourself ?’
‘No, sir, not after Spencer had advised that we should not under any circumstances approach the man with the knife.’
Alex remained in his place.
‘Quite so,’ said Pearson as he turned the next page of his file and stared at a blank sheet of paper. He had come to the end of his questions far sooner than he’d anticipated. He couldn’t understand why his opponent hadn’t attempted to interrupt him while he so blatantly led this witness. He reluctantly snapped the file closed. ‘Please remain in the witness box, Mr Davenport,’ he said, ‘as I’m sure my learned friend will wish to cross-examine you.’
Alex Redmayne didn’t even glance in Lawrence Davenport’s direction as the actor ran a hand through his long fair hair and continued to smile at the jury.
‘Do you wish to cross-examine this witness, Mr Redmayne?’ the judge asked, sounding as if he was looking forward to the encounter.
‘No thank you, m’lord,’ replied Redmayne, barely shifting in his place.
Few of those present in the court were able to hide their disappointment.
Alex remained unmoved, recalling his father’s advice never to cross-examine a witness the jury likes, especially when they want to believe everything they have to say. Get them out of the witness box as quickly as possible, in the hope that by the time the jury come to consider the verdict, the memory of their performance – and indeed it had been a performance – might have faded.
‘You may leave the witness box, Mr Davenport,’ said Mr Justice Sackville somewhat reluctantly.
Davenport stepped down. He took his time, trying to make the best of his short exit across the courtroom and out into the wings. Once he was in the crowded corridor, he headed straight for the staircase that led to the ground floor, at a pace that wouldn’t allow any startled fan time to work out that it really was Dr Beresford and ask for an autograph.
Davenport was happy to be out of that building. He had not enjoyed the experience, and was grateful that it was over far more quickly than he had anticipated; more like an audition than a performance. He hadn’t relaxed for a moment, and wondered if it had been obvious that he hadn’t slept the previous night. As Davenport jogged down the steps and on to the road, he checked his watch; he was going to be early for his twelve o’clock appointment with Spencer Craig. He turned right and began to walk in the direction of Inner Temple, confident that Spencer would be pleased to learn that Redmayne hadn’t bothered to cross-examine him. He had feared that the young barrister might have pressed him on the subject of his sexual preferences, which, had he told the truth, would have been the only headline in tomorrow’s tabloids – unless of course he’d told the whole truth.
6
TOBY MORTIMER did not acknowledge Lawrence Davenport as he strode past him. Spencer Craig had warned them that they should not be seen in public together until the trial was over. He had phoned all three of them the moment he got home that night to tell them that DS Fuller would be in touch the following day to clear up a few points. What had begun as a birthday celebration for Gerald had ended as a nightmare for all four of them.
Mortimer bowed his head as Davenport passed by. He had been dreading his spell in the witness box for weeks, despite Spencer’s constant reassurance that even if Redmayne found out about his drug problem, he would never refer to it.
The Musketeers had remained loyal, but none of them pretended that their relationship could ever be the same again. And what had taken place that night had only made Mortimer’s craving even stronger. Before the birthday celebration, he was known among dealers as a weekend junkie, but as the trial drew nearer, he had come to need two fixes a day – every day.
‘Don’t even think about shooting up before you go into the witness box,’ Spencer had warned him. But how could Spencer begin to understand what he was going through when he had never experienced the craving: a few hours of sheer bliss until the high began to wear off, followed by the sweating, then the shakes, and finally the ritual of preparation so he could once again depart from this world – inserting the needle into an unused vein, the plunge as the liquid found its way into the bloodstream, quickly making contact with the brain, then finally, blessed release – until the cycle began again. Mortimer was already sweating. How long before the shakes would begin? As long as he was called next, a surge of adrenalin should get him through.
The courtroom door opened and the usher reappeared. Mortimer jumped up in anticipation. He dug his nails into the palms of his hands, determined not to let the side down.
‘Reginald Jackson!’ bellowed the usher, ignoring the tall, thin man who had risen the moment he appeared.
The manager of the Dunlop Arms followed the usher back into the courtroom. Another man Mortimer hadn’t spoken to for the past six months.
‘Leave him to me,’ Spencer had said, but then, even at Cambridge, Spencer had always taken care of Mortimer’s little problems.
Mortimer sank back on to the bench and gripped the edge of the seat as he felt the shakes coming on. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could
last – the fear of Spencer Craig was being rapidly overtaken by the need to feed his addiction. By the time the barman re-emerged from the courtroom, Mortimer’s shirt, pants and socks were soaked in sweat despite its being a cold March morning. Pull yourself together, he could hear Spencer saying, even though he was a mile away sitting in his chambers, probably chatting to Lawrence about how well the trial had gone so far. They would be waiting for him to join them. The last piece in the jigsaw.
Mortimer rose and began pacing up and down the corridor as he waited for the usher to reappear. He checked his watch, praying that there would be time for another witness to be called before lunch. He smiled hopefully at the usher as he stepped back into the corridor.
‘Detective Sergeant Fuller!’ he bellowed. Mortimer collapsed back on to the bench.
He was now shaking uncontrollably. He needed his next fix just as a baby needs the milk from its mother’s breast. He stood up and headed unsteadily off in the direction of the washroom. He was relieved to find the white tiled room was empty. He selected the farthest cubicle and locked himself inside. The gap at the top and bottom of the door made him anxious: someone in authority could easily discover that he was breaking the law – in the Central Criminal Court. But his craving had reached the point where common sense was rapidly replaced by necessity, whatever the risk.
Mortimer unbuttoned his jacket and extracted a small canvas pouch from an inside pocket: the kit. He unfolded it and laid it out on the top of the lavatory seat. Part of the excitement was in the preparation. He picked up a small 1mg phial of liquid, cost £250. It was clear, high-quality stuff. He wondered how much longer he’d be able to afford such expensive gear before the small inheritance his father had bequeathed him finally ran out. He stabbed the needle into the phial and drew back the plunger until the little plastic tube was full. He didn’t check to see if the liquid was flowing freely because he couldn’t afford to waste even a drop.
He paused for a moment, sweat pouring off his forehead, when he heard the door at the far end of the room open. He didn’t move, waiting for the stranger to carry out a ritual for which the lavatory had been originally intended.
Once he heard the door close again, he took off his old school tie, pulled up a trouser leg and began to search for a vein: a task that was becoming more difficult by the day. He wrapped the tie around his left leg and pulled it tighter and tighter until at last a blue vein protruded. He held the tie firmly with one hand and the needle in the other. He then inserted the needle into the vein before slowly pressing the plunger down until every last drop of liquid had entered his bloodstream. He breathed a deep sigh of relief as he drifted into another world – a world not inhabited by Spencer Craig.
‘I am not willing to discuss the subject any longer,’ Beth’s father had said earlier that day as he took his seat at the table and his wife put a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him. The same breakfast she had cooked for him every morning since the day they were married.
‘But, Dad, you can’t seriously believe that Danny would kill Bernie. They were best friends since their first day at Clem Attlee.’
‘I’ve seen Danny lose his temper.’
‘When?’ demanded Beth.
‘In the boxing ring, against Bernie.’
‘Which is why Bernie always beat him.’
‘Perhaps Danny won this time because he had a knife in his hand.’ Beth was so stunned by her father’s accusation that she didn’t reply. ‘And have you forgotten,’ he continued, ‘what happened in the playground all those years ago?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ said Beth. ‘But Danny was coming to Bernie’s rescue at the time.’
‘When the headmaster turned up and found a knife in his hand.’
‘Have you forgotten,’ said Beth’s mother, ‘that Bernie confirmed Danny’s story when he was later questioned by the police?’
‘When once again, a knife was found in Danny’s hand. Quite a coincidence.’
‘But I’ve told you a hundred times—’
‘That a complete stranger stabbed your brother to death.’
‘Yes, he did,’ said Beth.
‘And Danny did nothing to provoke him, or make him lose his temper.’
‘No, he didn’t,’ said Beth, trying to remain calm.
‘And I believe her,’ said Mrs Wilson as she poured her daughter another coffee.
‘You always do.’
‘With good reason,’ Mrs Wilson responded. ‘I’ve never known Beth to lie.’
Mr Wilson remained silent, as his untouched meal went cold. ‘And you still expect me to believe that everyone else is lying?’ he eventually said.
‘Yes, I do,’ said Beth. ‘You seem to forget that I was there, so I know Danny is innocent.’
‘It’s four to one against,’ said Mr Wilson.
‘Dad, this isn’t a dog race we’re discussing. It’s Danny’s life.’
‘No, it’s my son’s life we’re discussing,’ said Mr Wilson, his voice rising with every word.
‘He was my son as well,’ said Beth’s mother, ‘just in case you’ve forgotten.’
‘And have you also forgotten,’ said Beth, ‘that Danny was the man you were so keen for me to marry, and who you asked to take over the garage when you retired? So what’s suddenly stopped you believing in him?’
‘There’s something I haven’t told you,’ said Beth’s father. Mrs Wilson bowed her head. ‘When Danny came to see me that morning, to tell me he was going to ask you to marry him, I thought it was only fair to let him know that I’d changed my mind.’
‘Changed your mind about what?’ asked Beth.
‘Who would be taking over the garage when I retired.’
7
‘NO MORE QUESTIONS, my lord,’ said Alex Redmayne.
The judge thanked Detective Sergeant Fuller, and told him he was free to leave the court.
It had not been a good day for Alex. Lawrence Davenport had mesmerized the jury with his charm and good looks. DS Fuller had come across as a decent, conscientious officer who reported exactly what he’d seen that night, and the only interpretation he could put on it, and when Alex pressed him on his relationship with Craig, he simply repeated the word ‘professional’. Later, when Pearson asked him how long it was between Craig making the 999 call and Fuller entering the bar, Fuller had said he couldn’t be sure, but he thought it would have been around fifteen minutes.
As for the barman, Reg Jackson, he just repeated parrot-like that he was only getting on with his job and hadn’t seen or heard a thing.
Redmayne accepted that if he was to find a chink in the armour of the four musketeers, his only hope now rested with Toby Mortimer. Redmayne knew all about the man’s drug habit, although he had no intention of referring to it in court. He knew that nothing else would be on Mortimer’s mind while he was being cross-examined. Redmayne felt that Mortimer was the one Crown witness who might buckle under pressure, which was why he was pleased he’d been kept waiting in the corridor all day.
‘I think we have just enough time for one more witness,’ said Mr Justice Sackville as he glanced at his watch.
Mr Pearson didn’t appear quite as enthusiastic to call the Crown’s last witness. After reading the detailed police report, he had even considered not calling Toby Mortimer at all, but he knew that if he failed to do so, Redmayne would become suspicious and might even subpoena him. Pearson rose slowly from his place. ‘I call Mr Toby Mortimer,’ he said.
The usher stepped into the corridor and roared, ‘Toby Mortimer!’ He was surprised to find that the man was no longer seated in his place. He’d seemed so keen to be called earlier. The usher checked carefully up and down the benches, but there was no sign of him. He shouted the name even louder a second time, but still there was no response.
A pregnant young woman looked up from the front row, unsure if she was allowed to address the usher. The usher’s eyes settled on her. ‘Have you seen Mr Mortimer, madam?’ he asked in a softer tone.
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‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘he went off to the toilets some time ago, but he hasn’t returned.’
‘Thank you, madam.’ The usher disappeared back into the courtroom. He walked quickly over to the associate, who listened carefully before briefing the judge.
‘We’ll give him a few more minutes,’ said Mr Justice Sackville.
Redmayne kept glancing at his watch, becoming more anxious as each minute slipped by. It didn’t take that long to go to the lavatory – unless . . . Pearson leaned across, smiled, and helpfully suggested, ‘Perhaps we should leave this witness until first thing in the morning?’
‘No, thank you,’ Redmayne replied firmly. ‘I’m happy to wait.’ He went over his questions again, underlining relevant words so that he wouldn’t have to keep glancing down at his crib sheet. He looked up the moment the usher came back into court.
The usher hurried across the courtroom and whispered to the associate, who passed the information on to the judge. Mr Justice Sackville nodded. ‘Mr Pearson,’ he said. The prosecution counsel rose to his feet. ‘It appears that your final witness has been taken ill, and is now on his way to hospital.’ He didn’t add, with a needle sticking out of a vein in his left leg. ‘I therefore intend to close proceedings for the day. I would like to see both counsel in my chambers immediately.’
Alex Redmayne didn’t need to attend chambers to be told that his trump card had been removed from the pack. As he closed the file marked Crown Witnesses, he accepted that the fate of Danny Cartwright now rested in the hands of his fiancée, Beth Wilson. And he still couldn’t be sure if she was telling the truth.
8
THE FIRST WEEK of the trial was over and the four main protagonists spent their weekends in very different ways.
Alex Redmayne drove down to Somerset to spend a couple of days with his parents in Bath. His father began quizzing him about the trial even before he’d closed the front door, while his mother seemed more interested in finding out about his latest girlfriend.
A Prisoner of Birth Page 4
