Smitherman hadn’t read my report yet, so he asked how things had gone down. I explained that Bernie claimed he’d been helped by an accomplice whose name he didn’t know, someone Partias or Thornwyn might have got to help him. I repeated Bernie’s claim not to know who’d killed Partias. I mentioned my chat to Thornwyn and how I’d told him his little enterprise had failed, clueing him in about the deaths of Godfrey and Partias.
Smitherman sat in silence, nodding and staring at me for a few seconds.
“Were you aware that, just after you left Belmarsh earlier, Thornwyn went to see the prison governor about what he said was a serious matter?” he asked.
“About what? Wasn’t I deferential enough?”
“Apparently, he claimed to have been assaulted by the detective who came to visit him. Quite irate, he was.” He looked like he was trying not to smile. He then broke out into a broad grin. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said he was laughing. “After you left, Thornwyn showed the governor a bruise on his chin, said his visitor had just done that to him. The governor duly reported his complaint and it’s made its way to me as you’re the detective who visited him, and I’m your superior officer.”
He waited. He was clearly enjoying the moment.
“But, as I told the governor, it’s just as well I don’t believe any detective in Special Branch would act in so unprofessional a manner because, if one did, I’d have to suspend that person.”
He fixed me with a knowing grin. I nodded.
“I told him that because there was also a prison officer in the room who said he saw what happened, and he made a statement to the governor saying he saw Thornwyn lose his footing, fall over and hit his chin on the side of the chair. He said he and the detective helped Thornwyn up. Oh, yeah, apparently Thornwyn also dislocated his little finger when he tripped up.” Smitherman did not appear to be unhappy imparting this news.
“Should have been more careful, shouldn’t he?” I replied in a neutral tone.
“Yes, he should.” He nodded towards the door. I was dismissed. I got up and left.
Today, I’d learnt Stimpson was no longer after me, I’d ensured no black marks would go against Brian Turley’s name and I’d put Thornwyn on the floor with a quite delicious right cross. And tomorrow I was off duty. Tonight would indeed be beer night. And it was.
N I N E
Wednesday, nearly three weeks later
After reviewing the reports prepared by probation officers and psychologists, and no doubt having heard from counsel representing MI5, His Honour Mr Justice Lincoln QC sentenced Commander Neville Thornwyn to twenty-two years in prison. Thornwyn was escorted back to Belmarsh to await the final decision as to where he’d serve out his sentence. Wherever it was, much of it would be spent in his own company. Even allowing for parole he’d be at least in his mid-seventies when he was finally released. I morbidly wondered whether he’d survive incarceration behind bars for such a lengthy period.
I was in court number one at the Old Bailey as he was escorted into the witness box by two prison officers. As the judge entered the courtroom and we all rose to our feet, I noticed the expression on Thornwyn’s face. He was staring blankly at the bench as the judge took his seat.
The judge began with a lengthy reiteration of what Thornwyn had been convicted of, and expressed his horror at the scale of his crimes as well as the damage he’d inflicted on the good name and character of the British police. He then looked sternly at Thornwyn.
“Consequently, only a lengthy sentence can reflect the seriousness of the crimes committed and the harm caused to the reputation of the police by them. The public needs to be reassured that crimes of this magnitude will be punished accordingly, and this court will not shirk from doing its duty. You will go to prison for twenty-two years. Take the prisoner down.”
Thornwyn had no expression on his face as the two prison officers led him down to the cells beneath the court to await transport back to Belmarsh. He could have been waiting for a bus for all the emotion he showed.
I had watched Thornwyn the whole time the judge was speaking. He had stood motionless, hands crossed together in front and looking directly at the judge. It was like watching the aftermath of a car crash, horrifically compelling in its starkness. A once proud, legendary senior police officer being addressed like a common criminal.
I thought back to the first time I’d met him when I’d been promoted to the rank of DC. He was a legend and I was looking forward to the challenge of being worthy of working under such an illustrious superior officer. He’d shaken my hand and told me what he expected of his officers and I’d replied with something anodyne, along the lines of how I hoped I’d reward his faith in me. The excitement I’d felt at meeting him for the first time had now given way to a sense of betrayal.
When sentence was passed his expression didn’t change. It was as if the judge had just said good morning to him.
As he disappeared from view I realised his name would be forever associated with police corruption. His downfall, and the hubris accompanying it, would be taught in ethics classes for rookie police officers at Hendon Police College. It was a sad way for such a career to have ended. I was feeling confused as I left the court.
There was the usual unruly media scrum of television reporters, cameramen and journalists milling outside the court waiting to catch a glimpse of the van taking Thornwyn away, with uniforms attempting to keep them behind the barriers which would allow the van to leave unhindered. I wasn’t sure why, but I waited across the road. A few minutes later there was an excited surge and the noise increased as the gates opened. A security van pulled out into the road and turned towards Newgate Street, heading towards Southwark Bridge and the road to Belmarsh. For a few moments there were dozens of camera flashes and some frantic shouting as the assembled throng tried to move forward whilst the van pulled away and then disappeared from view in the traffic.
I was about to leave when I heard a questioning voice behind me.
“You’re not feeling sorry for him, are you, DS McGraw?” It was Smitherman.
“No, not at all.” I hoped I was lying with sincerity in my voice.
“Bastard deserves every minute of the sentence,” he said quietly, more to himself than to me. I nodded my agreement. He said he’d also been in court to see the sentence passed and was delighted Thornwyn had got such a lengthy spell inside, though he’d been hoping for at least thirty years. I wondered where he’d been sitting as I’d not seen him.
Then, to my equal surprise and horror, I heard another voice.
“Hello, Jack. What’d you think about that, then?” the voice said to Smitherman. I knew whose voice it was. Three seconds later the same voice addressed itself to me. “Oh, hi, Rob, didn’t realise it was you. How you been?”
It was Richard Clements.
“Hi, Richard. Yeah, I’m good. You?”
“Yeah, fine.” He was smiling. “Still writing for the Focus.” Smitherman, short-haired and in a crisply cut dark suit, pale blue shirt and tie, contrasted starkly with Clements, wearing black Levi jeans and a collarless navy blue cheesecloth shirt. Clements’ long hair wasn’t in a ponytail. I’d have loved to have seen the expression on Smitherman’s face had it been.
“Yes, of course, I forgot you two know each other,” Smitherman said, pointing between the two of us. “You both went to King’s, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, we were in the same constitutional law group, weren’t we?” Clements said. I agreed we had been, plus a British politics set as well.
“We’re about to meet my daughter and then go for lunch, DS McGraw. Would you like to join us?” Smitherman asked.
“No, I’ve got a few things I need to get done today. Thanks for the invite, though.”
Smitherman hailed a taxi and Clements followed his father-in-law into the back of the cab. As he got in, Clements turned and nodded at me and I returned it. We both knew the score here. Neither of us wanted Smitherman sensing any degree of familiarit
y between us, and we definitely didn’t want him knowing we were becoming good friends.
I watched the taxi drive away towards Ludgate Hill and speculated on whether, apart from them both loving the same woman, one as a father, the other as a husband, they actually had anything in common at all.
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