The Retribution

by Shankar Kashyap

  He stopped again and took a sip of water from the bottle in front of him. He wiped his mouth with a cloth he took out of his voluminous gown and continued.

  “The Defendant’s motive was likely to have been to obtain money to feed his addiction, whether by gift or robbery. He left some bank notes in the pockets of the deceased and failed to find some more which were in the car; this suggested a degree of panic by that stage.”

  He paused a little to see if this had any effect on the listeners in the court. When there was none, he continued.

  “The deceased was at no stage armed. Apart from a cut to his hand from his own knife, the Defendant was uninjured. The absence of defence injuries to the deceased indicated that, contrary to the Defendant’s account at trial, the majority of wounds were inflicted when the deceased was helpless rather than in equal struggle.”

  There was a sob from Sheena, who was sitting stoically all along. Sean, who was sitting not too far from her, looked up and stared at her. There was no expression on his face as his jaws tightened and bent down to look at his hands. The gruesome description of the murder was hard to take. Kishen put his arms around her to comfort. The judge did not take any notice and continued.

  “The Defendant abandoned the car a short distance away and in the ensuing days made partial confessions to a number of friends, as well as giving them false accounts of his actions. On arrest he asserted that he was not present at the killing, and then that he had been kidnapped by two men and had acted throughout in self-defence. At his trial he abandoned the story of kidnapping, but asserted that he had accepted an innocent lift home and had been in fear of rape.”

  There was a whispering at the back of the court. The judge put his papers down and scowled at the back benches, which was filled with media. All the major newspapers and Television journalists were inside listening and furiously taking notes.

  “If there are any more interruptions, I will have to clear the court”

  There was an immediate silence as he continued.

  “The representations now made by Mr D’Costa, on behalf of the Defendant include the submissions. Number one, that his trial story was true. Number two, that the killing was not premeditated. Number three, that the killing was not motivated by robbery. Number four, that the fire was intended only to burn a rag which had on it traces of his blood. And as to those representations. Number one, the jury’s verdict effectively rejected this account, and in any event I am sure it was false. Number two, I do not believe that killing was premeditated. Number three, I am sure that the Defendant sought money, and it is clear that he took some, but I am not sure if he killed for that purpose and finally number four, is possible, but the danger created was an obvious one.”

  He stopped and looked up to see if it had registered. There was a pin drop silence at this stage apart from faint scratching from the reporters jotting down notes furiously on their notepads. He put the papers down and took another sip of water. A bright pink cloth came out of his gown to wipe his face this time as he was sweating. The July heat was taking a toll on many. The court room was not air conditioned. Presence of so many people inside the room made it even worse. He took another sip of water before he continued.

  “Accordingly, the following aggravating features of the case which I set out in my report to the Home Office remain the relevant ones. Use of a knife habitually carried as a weapon. Number and ferocity of wounds, chiefly to back and neck. The fire, with enormous risk to adjoining life and property and the influence of drink and drugs Murder on any view followed immediately by theft.”

  He adjusted his glasses which kept on slipping from a sweaty nose and continued.

  “I repeat the mitigating factors. Number one, the conduct of the deceased. Number two, absence of demonstrated premeditation. Number three, absence of previous convictions for violence.”

  He looked briefly before continuing again, “But the Defendant had told a psychiatrist of a number of occasions when he had either been involved in fights or had felt impelled to destructive behaviour or to violence, against others as well as himself. Under the now operational terms of section 269 the starting point in this case, if the Defendant were now to be convicted of this offence, would be one of fifteen years. The same factors which I have set out would aggravate and mitigate the offence. Since he was convicted before section 269 came into force, the minimum term which I must set may not be longer than that which would have been set by the Home Secretary under the practice which he would have followed at the time.”

  There was a deathly hush among the audience.

  “On review of this case, I can see no reason to alter the view expressed in my life sentence report. The appropriate minimum term is one of sixteen years. In my view that recommendation would have been accepted by the Home Secretary under the practice then prevailing. The appropriate minimum term in accordance with Schedule 22, paragraph 6 of the Criminal Justice Act 2003 is sixteen years, less eight months spent in custody on remand.”

  There was a commotion from the right side of the court where Sharon had sat quietly all this time with David and Vanessa. She had started to sob. David tried to control her with no success. The judge did not stop and continued.

  “The term set is the minimum term. The Defendant may of course serve longer. The assessment of any danger he may represent in the future is for the authorities and not for me.”

  Jailing Lenny Mitchell for life, Justice Hughes told him: “It is perfectly clear to me that you were picked up by the deceased man in his motorcar.

  “It is quite impossible to believe you were not aware of what he was after. What happened is not clear - if there was sexual activity or not I don’t know. But there was some kind of altercation and the jury has decided it was not self-defence or provocation. It was a sustained attack from behind with a knife that you carried habitually.”

  The judge pronounced the sentence by bringing the gavel down hard on the oak desk.

  “Lenny Mitchell, of no fixed abode, this court sentences you to life imprisonment, to serve a minimum term of sixteen years.

  There was an immediate cheer from the priest’s family and supporters. At the same time there were jeers from the left side of the courtroom and shouts of “injustice!” and “unfair.”

  Sean walked got up to walk out of the room when he saw Sheena walking out with a deliberate step, clicking her high heels and turned at the door to look at Sean. There was a brief wave of right hand with a silk handkerchief and a smile. Just as she stepped out, she winked at Sean and disappeared among the throng of waiting reporters and crowd with flashing cameras. It was as if to tell him that she has won.

  Stoker joined him at the door of the courthouse looking down at the crowd on the stone steps. Sean saw the reporter, Derek Jacobs pull his hat down and walk away from the courthouse with his hands in his pockets.

  “She has won, Sean.”

  “Yes. Justice definitely did not.”

  The Retribution

  Sean saw her fielding the questions of the reporters and the TV crew with style. She could have been a professional all her life with the ease with which she was handling the press. He waited around the corner of the building out of sight of the press and still within earshot of what was being said. Most of them were inane questions about her reaction to the verdict. Stoker made a bland statement about how wonderful the support the police force had from the Asian community as well as the gay community in their enquiries leading up to the arrest. Dev’s brother, Kishen made an emotional statement and thanked the Leicestershire police force for the “hard and relentless work” they had done. One of the police officers herded the family into a waiting police car to whisk them away. Sean jumped out of the shadows just as Sheena was getting into the car. She had the door still open when Sean put his hand on the door to stop it from closing.

  “You must be pleased, Mrs Sharma?”

  She looked at him with a question mark.

  “Of course I am. Why do you ask?
” A tone of hesitancy in her voice. “But that still does not bring my husband back does it?”

  She knew Sean’s eyes were not on her face but on her top which had swung open slightly. She appeared to have suddenly regained her composure very quickly. She knew how to play the game.

  “Can I have a few minutes of your time in the next few days?” Sean stuttered.

  “Why Inspector O’Connor?” Kishen interjected from inside the car. “The case is finished and the murderer has been sent to jail. What is there to discuss? It will just cause more pain.”

  “I am sorry sir. I do understand. But there are a few loose ends still to be tidied up. I will be as brief as possible.”

  “That is OK Bhaiya.” Sheena replied to Kishen and turning back to Sean, “Give me a call and we will meet up. You still have my number?”

  Sean smiled. “Yes, I have your number.”

  The car pulled away as soon as he let go of the door. He turned around and nearly bumped into the reporter, Derek Jacobs.

  “I thought I had seen the last of you. Don’t you have to file your report to the newspaper or something?”

  Derek rubbed his forehead and pulled the collar of his jacket up against the cold wind. Early June was still cold with incessant rains the previous few days. Spring was yet to arrive in Leicester that year.

  “Yes, I do. But I don’t think the story is over yet.”

  “What do you mean? Did you not hear the judge? Lenny has been convicted and is on his way to jail as we speak.”

  “And do you believe that Inspector?” Derek’s voice was sarcastic.

  “It does not matter what I believe. Does it?”

  “Maybe not. But I have a feeling that you are not going to let that come in the way of your thinking.” Derek said as he pulled away from Sean.

  “What did that creep want?” Stoker’s voice made hi turn sharply.

  “Newspaper reporters chief. You know what they are like?

  “I’m starving. Fancy a bite to eat Sean? There is a nice little pub around the corner from here where all the lawyers hang out.”

  “Sure chief. I am starving too. Haven’t had any breakfast this morning. If we hurry, we might be able to catch a bit of lunch.”

  Sean pulled up his collar against the cold wind and the two of them walked across the wet and dark car park to the pub. Inside the pub was even darker with murky lighting. It appeared to be completely empty apart from a drunk who was dozing in the corner and a table at the far end with three people sat around it. They appeared to arguing quietly with a lot of gesticulations. It was difficult to make out who they were or what they were saying. Sean glanced in their direction and passed over to the bar where the Bartender was clearing up.

  “Do you think we can still get a bite to eat?” Sean said as he perched on the nearest bar stool.

  The barman stopped cleaning the glass he was holding and said, “I wouldn’t know. I will go ask in the kitchen. In the meantime, do you want a drink?”

  “Couple of beers please.” Stoker replied.

  Sean sat up on the bar stool and was drumming on the bar top while looking around the back of the bar when Stoker said,

  “Isn’t that the creepy reporter in the corner?”

  Sean turned around to have a closer look.

  “Yes it is. I wonder what he is up to now. Those two guys look familiar too.”

  It was almost as if they sensed being scrutinised and stopped talking and looked furtively around. Suddenly one of them got up and dragged the other guy off the chair. As the other guy appeared to be protesting, he whispered something bending down. The two of them made for the door going along the back wall. It was not until they were silhouetted against the door when Sean recognised them.

  “I know them. They have been hovering around the court room almost every day since the trial began.”

  Both were obviously of Asian descent. One of them was a large burly figure with thick beard and the other a weedy guy in his thirties. They appeared to be in a hurry as they hustled out of the pub. Neither of them looked at the two policemen sitting at the bar and had their heads down almost on their chest. As the two of them kept staring at the door, they could hear a car start and scream out of the car park.

  “Now, now. I wonder what did they have to hide from us?” Stoker said to no one in particular.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” It was Derek Jacobs again at his elbow now. He had sidled over while they were concentrating on the two men.

  “We can’t seem to get rid of you somehow.” Sean said with a barely disguised irritation in his voice. “What do you want now? And who were those guys?”

  “It may be worthwhile you spending a little time on those two guys Inspector.” Derek said completely ignoring the sarcasm in Sean’s voice. “You might learn something.”

  “Now, listen here. I have been very patient with you all this time. If you know something, I want to you to tell me now.”

  “I did tell you a long time ago Sean. You ignored me then.”

  “The case is closed now and the murderer has been convicted. He is well on his way to prison right now. Or did you miss the big black van pulling out with all of your fries snapping way their flashbulbs at its windows?” Sean would not hide his sarcasm.

  “You know very well as well I do that the wrong guy is behind bars.”

  “Mr Jacobs, you better tell us what you know and let the police do their job.”

  “I have heard a lot about you Mr Stoker. I am sure you would want the right guy in prison. All I am saying is this: you should talk to the widow.”

  “We have already spoken to her and I don’t think there is anything we have missed.”

  “I am not saying you have missed anything Mr Stoker.” Jacobs said as he pulled away from the two policemen. He took his little notebook out of his jacket and scribbled something. Tearing off the page and handing it to Sean he continued, “At least talk to these two guys.”

  He walked over to the door and turning back, “You might want to ask them if they know anything about the beating up of priests.”

  He had shut the door behind him before Sean had a chance to reply. The two of them were still staring at the door when the barman said,

  “Yes, the cook says he can rustle something up for you. Have a seat. The waiter will be with you in a minute.”

  Sean recovered first and said, “Thank you.”

  The two of them moved to the table vacated by the three men.

  “Now, what do you think of that?” Stoker asked.

  “I am not sure chief. There is certainly something not right here. He obviously has an axe to grind, but what and why?

  “Or maybe he really has a story to tell. What has written in that piece of paper?”

  Sean opened the crumpled piece of paper and squinted at it in the dull light of the pub.

  “There are two names here chief, Asian names with phone numbers.” Sean looked up. “That must be those two characters he was with just now.”

  “It won’t do any harm to have a quite chat with these two men.”

  “Will do chief, once I have something to eat.” Sean said looking around and rising his right hand at the Barman. “Where is this waiter he promised?”

  An young boy could be seen coming out of the kitchen door in the corner just as he spoke. He came straight to their table and said,

  “The cook can rustle up some fries and cod.”

  The two men looked at each other and nodded at the young boy in unison, “That will be fine, Thank you.” Stoker said to the boy. As they were waiting for their fish to arrive sipping their beers, Sean said.

  “Now the little red book has become even more crucial. I want to have another look at it. I bet the missing pages have a story to tell.”

  “You are right. Pity you did not get a chance to copy it.”

  “I didn’t have a chance. I only had it for a few hours. I am going to have chat with the widow and see if I can have another go at it.” />
  “Best of luck with that. I have a suspicion she won’t part with it.”

  They stopped talking when the food arrived. There was very little talk as they wolfed the delicious fish down and the last piece of fried chips was picked up. They finished the beers an as they walked down to their cars in the court house car park, Stoker said,

  “I don’t think you should say anything to anyone in the force till we have something more.”

  Sean nodded his head, “Sure chief. I will get on to it right away and keep you posted.”

  Sean was deep in thought as he drove his battered car down the motorway back to Leicester. His head was full of voices of Sheena and Jacobs and pictures of the two Asian men getting out of the pub in a hurry. Finally he could not take it anymore and stopped at the motorway services. He switched the engine off and dialled the first number in the sheet of paper Jacobs had given him.

  “Hello, who is this?” a gruff voice said over the mobile.

  “Is that Mr Prem Chandani?” Sean asked.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “This is Detective Inspector Sean O’Connor.” He had heard the voice somewhere before. He was scratching his brain to think where.

  “What can I do for you Inspector? I have already answered all your questions weeks ago.” The Brummy accent was unmistakable. It suddenly clicked. Prem was one of the men questioned while they were looking into the Asian connection of the murder. The burly guy they had seen in the pub a couple of hours ago.

  “I know Mr Chandani. I am just tying off some loose ends.”