by Val McDermid
Imagine what this does to a woman in Mrs Hawkin’s unstable frame of mind. Of course she is suggestible. And what he says to her makes perfect sense. Because she wants answers. She wants an end to this terrible uncertainty. It is better to blame her husband than to live in constant fear of what might have happened to her daughter. And so, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you must treat Mrs Hawkin’s evidence with extreme scepticism.
As for the so-called physical evidence, not a single piece on its own points to Philip Hawkin.
Somewhere around six million men in the country share the same blood group features as Philip Hawkin and whoever left semen stains in that lead mine. How does that point to him? There are four hundred and twenty-three volumes in Squire Castleton’s study and no sign that the single book that details the lead mine had been touched by any hand, including those of Hester Lomas or Detective Inspector Bennett. How does that point to him? Boots the Chemist in Buxton sells between twenty and thirty rolls of elastoplast every week, two of which were sold to Philip Hawkin, who lives in a fanning community, where cuts and grazes are hardly an unusual feature of life. How does that point to him being a rapist or a murderer? It does not, of course. But weak as these circumstantial links are, it cannot be denied that when they are all dumped in one side of the balance, it does appear to tip against Mr Hawkin. So if it was not his behaviour that produced this undoubted effect, whose was it? There is one aspect of this job that every barrister hates. While the vast majority of our police officers are honest and incorruptible, from time to 272 time, things go wrong. And from time to time, it falls to us to expose the rotten apples in the barrel. What is even worse, to my mind, than the officer who falls by the wayside out of greed is the one who takes the law into his own hands out of zeal.
What has brought us here today is not Philip Hawkin’s evil but Detective Inspector George Bennett’s zeal. His desire to solve the disappearance of Alison Carter has led him instead to pervert the course of justice. There can be no other explanation for events. It is truly terrible what a man will do when he is blinded by conviction, even if that conviction is utterly mistaken. When we examine the circumstantial evidence, it becomes clear that one man had motive, means and opportunity to put Philip Hawkin in the frame. He is a young and inexperienced officer who was frustrated by his failure in this case. He must have felt the eyes of his superiors were on him and he was determined that he would find a culprit and win a conviction. George Bennett was left alone in Mr Hawkin’s study on more than one occasion, certainly for long enough to find a gun, to examine a book, even to discover the hiding place of a safe key. George Bennett had Mrs Hawkin’s confidence, and he had the run ofScardale Manor long before he ever had a search warrant. Who was better placed to remove one of Mr Hawkin’s shirts? He won the confidence of the villagers.
Who was better placed to persuade Mrs Lomas and her grandson that they were mistaken about the day on which they saw Mr Hawkin walking in his own field? And finally, the photographs. George Bennett shares a hobby with Philip Hawkin. He doesn’t just take holiday snaps with a Box Brownie like most of us. He was secretary of his school Camera Club, he wrote articles on aspects of photography when he was an undergraduate, he owns a portrait camera of the type that must have been used to manufacture these photographs. He knows what is possible in the world of photography. He knows about faking pictures. Philip Hawkin has dozens of photographs of Alison in his files, many taken spontaneously. In some of them, she is angry or upset. He also has photographs of himself. With such material as these, and access to the sort of confiscated pornography that many police stations hold, George Bennett could have created these supposedly incriminating photographs. At worst, we have uncovered a terrifying conspiracy resulting from one man’s arrogant conviction that he knew where justice lay. At best, we have established that the prosecution’s case is most certainly not proven beyond reasonable doubt. Ladies and gentlemen, I place Philip Hawkin in your hands. That you will acquit him on both counts is my firm and abiding conviction. Thank you.
36
The Trial 7
Extracts from the official transcript of R v Philip Hawkin; Mr Justice Fletcher Sampson sums up for the jury.
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it is the task of the prosecution to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the accused is guilty as charged. It is the job of the defence to discover whether there are sufficient weaknesses in their case to render it susceptible to doubt. Some of you maybe expecting me to indicate to you at this point whether I think the accused is innocent or guilty. But that is not my role. It is your responsibility and you must not seek to shirk it. My role is to see fair play, and in order to ensure that justice is seen to be done, it is my task to sum up the case and advise you on points of law.
The case before us is a difficult one in the main because of the absence ofAlison Carter, either alive or dead. Were she alive, the second charge, the murder charge, would obviously fail, but she would be the most valuable witness as to the first charge, that of rape. Had her body been discovered, it would have had a tale to tell our forensic experts and would inevitably have provided us with considerable amounts of evidence. But she is not here to give us her testimony, and so we are forced to rely on other sources of evidence.
First, I must tell you that the prosecution does not need to produce a corpse for there to be a presumption of murder. Men have been found guilty of murder where no corpse has ever been found. I will give you two examples which in some respects correspond to this case. An actress called Gay Gibson was returning home by ship from South Africa to this country when fellow passengers reported her missing. There was a search of the ship, and the captain even turned about and made a search. But no trace of Miss Gibson was found. A deck steward named 274 James Camb came under suspicion because he had been seen by a fellow crew member in the doorway of Miss Gibson’s cabin in the middle of the night. He was arrested when the ship docked and he admitted having been in the cabin, although he claimed she had invited him there for the purpose of sexual intercourse.
He further claimed that during intercourse, she had a fit and died. In the course of her fit, she had gone into spasms and clutched at him, scratching his back and shoulders. According to his story, he panicked and pushed her body out of the porthole and into the open sea. The prosecution argued that he had strangled her in the course of raping her and that if events had transpired as he described there would have been no reason for him not to seek medical help for her when she had her fit. James Camb was found guilty of murder.
Then there was the case of Michael Onufrejczyk. A Pole who earned a distinguished service record in the Second World War, he became a farmer in Wales in partnership with a fellow Pole, Stanislaw Sykut. A routine police check on resident aliens revealed Mr Sykut was missing.
Onufrejczyk claimed his partner had sold out his share of the farm and returned to his native land.
However, when police investigated, they discovered none of Sykut’s friends knew anything of such a plan. His bank account was untouched, and the friend Onufrejczyk claimed had lent him the money to buy the farm denied any such thing. Further inquiries revealed the men had quarrelled and that threats had been made. Bloodstains were found in the farmhouse and no satisfactory explanation was forthcoming. At his trial, it was claimed that Onufrejczyk had fed his partner’s body to the farm pigs, hence the absence of any trace of his body. In his judgement at the appeal against conviction, the Lord Chief Justice himself indicated that it was possible to demonstrate the fact of death by means other than the presence of a body.
So you see, under the law of the land, it is not necessary for there to be a body for a finding of murder to be arrived at by a jury. If you are persuaded by the prosecution that there is sufficient evidence here and it points inexorably to one conclusion, you are within your rights to bring in a guilty verdict. Equally, if the defence has managed to shake your certainty, you must bring in a verdict of not guilty. Now, as to the evidence in this case�
��
37
The Verdict
George was pretending to read a report on a break-in at a licensed grocery when the phone rang.
‘Jury’s out,’ Clough said tersely. ‘I’m on my way,’ George said, slamming the phone down and jumping to his feet. He grabbed his coat and hat and ran out of his office. He didn’t stop running till he threw himself behind the wheel of the car. As he skidded round the gatepost of the car park, he caught a glimpse of Superintendent Martin at his office window and wondered if he’d had the same message.
He roared through the town and out on to the old Roman road that cut through green fields and off-white dry-stone walls like a blade across a patchwork quilt. With his foot flat to the floor, the needle on the speedo climbed past fifty, past sixty and trembled on the wrong side of seventy.
Whenever anything appeared ahead of him, a long blare of his horn made sure they pulled over towards the verge to let him pass. He had no eyes for the simple beauty of the summer afternoon.
His focus was all on the road spooling out ahead of him. He passed the Newhaven crossroads and was forced to slow down as the Roman road disappeared to be replaced by a more winding country route that bounced him up and down hills, round tight corners and through speed-defying chicanes.
All he could think about was the ten men and two women cooped up in the jury room. Eventually, he cleared the small market town of Ashbourne and the road opened up before him again.
Would they have reached their decision by the time he got there, George wondered. Somehow, he didn’t think so. Much as he wanted to believe he’d supplied Stanley with enough bullets to shoot Hawkin down in flames, he knew they’d taken collateral damage from Highsmith.
As he turned down the side street by the county hall building that housed the assizes, someone pulled out of a parking place right by the side door. ‘It’s a good omen,’ George muttered as he swung the car into the space. He burst into the building, bemused to find it almost empty. The doors to the courtroom stood open, the place empty except for an usher sitting on a chair reading the Mirror.
George walked up to him and said, ‘Is the jury still out?’
The man looked up. ‘That’s right.’
George ran a hand through his hair. ‘Do you know where I’ll find the prosecution team?’
The usher frowned. ‘They’ll probably be in the residents’ lounge at the Lamb and Flag. Just across the square. The canteen’s shut, you see.’ He frowned. ‘You were here last week,’ he said accusingly. ‘You’re Inspector Bennett.’
‘That’s right,’ George said wearily.
‘Your pal’s been in court today,’ the usher continued. ‘The one that looks like a prop forward.’
‘Do you know where he’s gone?’
‘He said if I saw you to tell you he’d be in the Lamb and Flag an’ all. It’s the only place you can be sure of hearing when the jury’s coming back, you see.’
‘Thanks,’ George said over his shoulder as he headed out of the front door and across the square to the old coaching inn. He almost tripped over Clough’s legs as he swung through the main entrance.
The detective sergeant was stretched out in a chintz armchair in the reception area, a large Scotch in his fist and a cigarette smouldering in a pedestal ashtray next to him.
‘I hope Traffic didn’t catch you,’ Clough said, straightening up. ‘Pull up a chair.’ He gestured at the half-dozen armchairs that loomed over tiny round tables, filling the cramped area in front of the glassed-in reception desk. The loose covers with their designs of pink and green cabbage roses clashed violently with the rich reds and blues of the traditional Wilton carpet, but neither man noticed nor cared.
George sat down. ‘How did you manage that?’ he asked, gesturing at the Scotch. ‘They’re not open for another hour at least.’ Clough winked. ‘I got to know the receptionist when I brought Wells up from St Albans. Do you want one?’
‘I wouldn’t say no.’
Clough crossed to the wood-veneered reception desk and leaned over.
George heard the murmur of voices, then his sergeant was back at his side. ‘She’ll bring one over.’
‘Thanks. How was the summing-up?’
‘Very even-handed. Nothing to get the Appeal Court excited there. The judge laid out the evidence, fair and square. He made you sound like a wronged maiden one minute, then next minute he said someone had to be lying and they had to decide who. He went on a lot about the difference between fanciful doubt and reasonable doubt. The jury were looking very glum as they went out, I have to say.’
‘Thanks for coming down,’ George said.
‘It’s been interesting.’
‘I know, but it is your day off.’
Clough shrugged. ‘Aye, but the Martinet didn’t ban me from coming, did he?’
George grinned. ‘Only because he didn’t think of it. Where are all the press boys, by the way?’
‘They’re upstairs in Don Smart’s room with a bottle of Bell’s. One of the local-paper lads drew the short straw. He’s over at the court, ready to phone through soon as there’s any sign of the jury. The lawyers are all in the residents’ lounge. Jonathan Pritchard’s pacing up and down like an expectant father on hot bricks.’
George sighed. ‘I know just how he feels.’
‘Speaking of which, how is Anne?’
As he lit a cigarette, George raised his eyebrows. ‘Upset by what she reads in the papers. This warm weather’s getting her down too. She says she feels like she’s lugging a sack of spuds round on her stomach.’ He nervously chewed the skin on the side of his thumb. ‘Between her expecting and this case, I haven’t got a nerve left in my body.’ He jumped to his feet and walked over to the nearest window. Staring across the square towards the court, he said, ‘What am I going to do if they go ‘not guilty’?’
‘Even if he gets away with the murder, they’re still going to have him for the rape,’ Clough said reasonably. ‘They’re not going to believe you faked those photographs, no matter what Highsmith tried to make out. I think the worst that can happen is they might decide you got carried away when you found the pictures and decided to have Hawkin for murder as well.’
‘But Ruth Carter found the gun before I found the pictures,’ George protested, staring at Clough in outrage.
‘‘So you say,’ the jury might be thinking,’ Clough pointed out. ‘Look, whatever they think, they are not going to give him the benefit of the doubt on the rape charge. Come on, you were in court when they saw those photographs. The jury took against Hawkin then. Believe me, they’ll be dying to find a way to find him guilty on both charges. Now come on, your drink’s here. Sit down and stop fretting. You’re making me nervous,’ he added, trying vainly to jolly George out of his worries. George crossed to the table and picked up his drink, then walked back to the window, pausing to stare unseeingly at a luridly coloured Victorian hunting print. ‘How long has it been now?’ he asked. ‘An hour and thirty-seven minutes,’ Clough said with a glance at his watch.
Suddenly, the phone at reception rang. George swung round and stared at the young woman behind the desk.
‘Lamb and Flag reception,’ she said in a bored voice. She looked across at George. ‘Yes, we do.
What was the name?’ She paused and stared down at the hotel register. ‘Mr and Mrs Duncan. What time will you be arriving?’
With a frustrated sigh, George turned back to his study of the county hall building. ‘I’ve never understood why juries take so long,’ he complained. ‘They should just take a vote and go with the majority. Why does it have to be unanimous? How many criminals walk out of court because one stubborn juror won’t be persuaded? It’s not like they’re all Brain of Britain, is it?’
‘George, they could be out for hours. They could be out all night and all tomorrow, so why don’t you sit down and drink your drink and smoke your fags? Otherwise we’re both going to end up in Derby Royal Infirmary with high blood pressure,’ Clough sai
d.
George sighed heavily and dragged himself back to his chair. ‘You’re right. I know you’re right.
I’m just on pins.’
Clough pulled a pack of cards out of his jacket pocket. ‘D’you play cribbage?’
‘We’ve not got a board,’ George objected.
‘Doreen?’ Clough called. ‘Any chance of getting the cribbage board from the public bar?’
Doreen cast her eyes upwards in the universal, exasperated, ThenI’ gesture, then disappeared through a door at the rear of the reception area. ‘You’ve got her well trained,’ George commented.
‘Always leave them wanting more, that’s my motto.’ Clough cut the cards then dealt. Doreen returned and slid the cribbage board between them. ‘Thanks, love.’
She tutted. ‘Watch who you’re calling love, you,’ she said, with a toss of her head as she tottered back behind her desk on too-high heels. ‘I’m watching,’ Clough said, just loud enough for her to hear. Normally the banter would have amused George, but today, it only served to irritate. He forced himself to concentrate on the cards in his hand, but every time the phone rang, he jumped like a man stung by a wasp. They played cribbage in a tense silence, broken only by scoring claims and the sound of flint on steel as one or other of them lit a cigarette. By half past six, they’d smoked nearly twenty cigarettes between them and swallowed four large Scotches apiece. As they reached the end of a rubber, George stood up. ‘I need some fresh air,’ he said. ‘I’m going to walk round the square.’