by John Fairfax
Summary Justice
John Fairfax
LITTLE, BROWN
First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Little, Brown
Copyright © John Fairfax 2017
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
‘But I would walk five hundred miles . . .’ – ‘I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)’ by Charles Stobo Reid and Craig Morris Reid (The Proclaimers). Warner Music Group
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-40870-874-3
Little, Brown
An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK Company
www.hachette.co.uk
www.littlebrown.co.uk
For Ursula Mackenzie
All trials are trials for one’s life,
just as all sentences are sentences of death
De Profundis, Oscar Wilde
Contents
Prologue
Part One: Two days before trial
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
Part Two: The case for the prosecution
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
Part Three: ‘Have a quiet weekend.’
35
36
37
38
Part Four: The case for the defence
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
Part Five: ‘Who the hell killed Andrew Bealing?’
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
Acknowledgements
About the Author
PROLOGUE
Friday, 23 July 1999. Court 1, the Old Bailey, London.
‘William Benson, stand up.’
His Honour Judge Rigby stared across the court as if no one else was present, as if the prosecutor hadn’t turned to smile at the girl from the CPS; as if Helen Camberley QC, Benson’s defence counsel, hadn’t momentarily covered her face; as if Benson’s mother wasn’t crying; as if Paul Harbeton’s father hadn’t been removed from the court after another outburst of swearing. Judge Rigby had seen it all before. Justice, played out, was always a dreadful business. But even he was saddened by this latest episode. It was his task to put fresh words on another banal tragedy.
‘You have been found guilty of murder. You took a man’s life. In so doing you have shattered the lives of those who were close to him. You have devastated your own, and of those who are close to you.’
He seemed to appraise the dead body of Paul Harbeton as if it were laid out on the exhibits table between the bench and the dock. During the trial, unsmiling and remote, he’d leafed through the pathologist’s photographs, squinting occasionally at the close-ups while the expert serenely described every contusion and scratch. The butchery that had followed showed how seriously the courts took killing: every other possible cause of death had been excluded. Every internal anomaly had been explained. Every organ had been examined and weighed. The cause of death had been nailed down. And then Paul Harbeton had been stitched back together. Benson could almost see him now, lying on that gleaming aluminium table, horribly clean.
‘It should have been an ordinary Saturday evening in November. You went to the Bricklayers Arms in central London with your then girlfriend, Jessica Buchanan. She described you as a thoughtful, considerate young man, though she’d been drawn to a certain melancholy. Like you, she was a second-year student of philosophy; like you, she had a particular interest in ethics; like this court, and like everyone who knows you, she thought you incapable of shocking violence. The irony of your circumstances – a young man, aged twenty-one, fascinated by the structure of moral principles – is painful to observe.’
Judge Rigby paused, as if to turn a page. But his hand did not move. His eyes didn’t shift from the ghost of a body between them.
‘On that same evening, Paul Harbeton went to the same public house. He was a hospital porter at Charing Cross Hospital in Hammersmith. He was also an unpaid volunteer at Leadgate House, a day centre for people with Alzheimer’s disease. By all accounts he’d had a hard day. He’d done a night shift at the hospital, slept a couple of hours, and then gone to the day centre. I imagine he was tired when he went to the Bricklayers Arms. He might have been short-tempered. That would explain why he shoved you brusquely when he came to the bar, where you were standing. It would explain why he spoke to you abruptly. Provocatively. You had a right to protest – and you did, verbally. And it should have ended there. I am sure the same kind of brief encounter occurred in every public house in London that night. But none of them led to a senseless killing.’
Benson glanced at the public gallery. Paul Harbeton’s family were bunched along the front row, angry brothers flanking a broken mother. The spectators were lapping it all up – the same few who’d turned up every day of the trial, along with some tourists, chalking up a visit to the Old Bailey. Benson’s parents were on the back row. But Eddie, his brother, wasn’t with them. He couldn’t be. There was no wheelchair access. But even if there had been, he wouldn’t have come, and it was an act of wild imagination that made Benson look for him, wanting last-minute forgiveness. A wave. A sign. Anything.
‘Shortly after this encounter you left the premises with your girlfriend,’ said Judge Rigby. ‘It was 10.15 p.m. Jessica went one way, and you went the other. You then made your first great mistake. You went back to confront Paul Harbeton. You waited for him outside the Bricklayers Arms. And when he emerged at ten forty-five, you followed him down the street. I accept what you say, because it is confirmed by two independent witnesses. You called out to him. Words were exchanged. Mr Harbeton gave you a headbutt that cracked your cheekbone. You retaliated. Ineffectively it would appear, since the fight concluded shortly afterwards, with you lying on the pavement. When you came to your feet, Mr Benson, you should have gone to the police. You lost your chance for proportionate justice. Instead – and this was your second grave mistake – rather than c
all the police, rather than go to hospital, rather than stand back and see things in proportion, rather than think morally, you followed Paul Harbeton into Soho. You have denied what subsequently happened, but this jury, who listened carefully to all the evidence, did not believe you. You killed him. You struck him from behind and walked away with his blood on your hands.’
‘Bastard,’ yelled one of the brothers. ‘Rot in hell. You’re dead when you get out. You’re finished. You’re buried. You’re— Get your hands off me, get off, leave me—’
Judge Rigby merely looked at the public gallery. He said nothing, waiting patiently for the ushers to restore order. Paul Harbeton’s mother was staring into space, her eyes wide, her cheeks blackened by smudged make-up, seemingly unaware that her son was being carried away, arms flailing, spit flying from his mouth. The door closed. Benson thought he might be sick. He could no longer listen to the judge. A low sigh escaped from his mouth: he was with his mother by the blue wooden hut in Brancaster Staithe on the Norfolk coast. The front flaps were down and she was smiling, selling whelks and a crab to Mrs Pennington. The old woman came every week, same day, same time, with the same complaints about her husband, the weather, the state of her knees . . . He could smell the sea. He could taste salt on his lips. There were shouts from a fishing boat. The whisper of the surf filled a sudden silence and Judge Rigby’s voice returned like the slap of a wave.
‘. . . and they are heartbroken. The sentence of the court is fixed by statute, and I pass it now: life imprisonment.’ He closed his red trial book, hesitated, and then continued. ‘May I give you a word of advice, Mr Benson? Think long and hard about what you have done. Think carefully about what you might do . . . how you might salvage the ruin of your life. Take him down.’
A strong hand gripped Benson’s elbow. Suddenly he was no longer in court. There were bright lights and long, airless corridors. Somehow he was walking, though he had no control over his limbs. They reached a chipped counter. He handed over his watch, some money and his belt. Keys rattled. A holding cell door swung open. For a second, he caught the gaze of his jailor and he received the distant look reserved for those who’ve crossed a frontier and can never, ever come back. Benson belonged among them. He was a murderer.
An hour and a half later Benson stumbled into the late July sunshine. Two guards bundled him into a white van that looked like a rubbish truck. He was locked into a cubicle the size of an aeroplane toilet. The heat was stifling. Sweat ran into his eyes. He blinked at some scratched graffiti: YOU CAN BE A HERO . . . GEEZA . . . WELKUM TOO HELL. When the vehicle lurched out of the court block, cameras flashed at the darkened window. He turned aside, back to the conversation that had taken place in the holding room before the guards banged on the door.
‘There is no chance of appeal,’ said Camberley. She paused, knitting her fingers. One nail had been bitten. The torn quick was cherry red. ‘I’ve just seen the judge in chambers. His recommendation is that you serve eleven years. That’s lenient.’
She was searching Benson’s face. So was George Braithwaite, his solicitor. So was the Oxford undergraduate on work experience, Tess de Vere. Benson wouldn’t be free until he was thirty-two. For a twenty-one-year-old, that was getting on. Braithwaite spoke:
‘You see, Will, you never accepted that you followed him; that the fight hadn’t ended outside the Bricklayers Arms. But you did go to Soho. And that means it was always up to the jury to make the link. They—’
‘Got it wrong,’ said Benson. ‘Because the fight didn’t continue in Soho. Because I didn’t hit him from behind. I am still innocent, regardless of what the jury think.’
‘I know,’ said Camberley.
‘I know,’ said Braithwaite.
Tess didn’t speak because it wasn’t her place. She was standing by the scuffed wall, arms behind her back. They were roughly the same age. They’d shared a coffee and memories of the sea, because Tess, too, had grown up to the sound of waves and the shifting colours of wet sand. She was from Galway on the west coast of Ireland. They’d joined voices with the Proclaimers. But I would walk five hundred miles . . . It was a rebel’s song. Passionate. Adamant. Their eyes had locked in defiance.
‘I am sorry,’ said Camberley, aligning a stray, silver hair. ‘I wish there was something I could do.’
She’d fought as if defending her own son. The prosecution were relying heavily on circumstantial evidence. She’d deemed it weak.
‘There is,’ said Benson. He was one step ahead of Judge Rigby. He’d already decided what he wanted to do.
‘Well?’
‘I want to come to the Bar. Just tell me whether I have a chance.’
Camberley was quite still. Her sharp, almost black eyes lost their intimidating shine. The finger with the bitten nail found the same, offending hair.
‘You have to be serious, Will.’
‘I am deadly serious.’
He glanced at Tess and she smiled her rebel smile. What was a thousand miles if you knew what you wanted?
The prison van lurched to a halt and then lurched again. For ten boiling minutes, Benson sweated and sucked in the hot, fetid air, then the door opened and he was taken into a yard surrounded by brick walls, coiled wire and high fencing. This was HMP Kensal Green. A pink cloud hung in the sky like a used swab. Benson’s heart was racing. He was in a processing area now, surrounded by other men . . . only he felt like a boy who’d been kicked out of school, shifting dimension to a strange place on a distant planet. ‘Try not to look green, son,’ his dad had said, choked, as if he knew anything about prison. His mum took over. ‘Don’t let ’em know you’re scared, Will.’ She’d got that from a film. They’d looked at each other as if a grave had opened between them.
‘Hey, yoo. Gottaburn?’
The speaker was about Benson’s age. His limbs were shaking. He gnawed his lower lip. There were shouts and cries from somewhere behind, but he didn’t react. His twitching eyes were on Benson’s pockets.
‘Gottaburn or what?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Whatyainfor?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You deaf? WHAT-ARE-YA-IN-FOR?’
Benson hesitated. ‘Murder.’
The young man pulled at someone else. ‘Gottaburn?’
Benson thought of Tess de Vere’s smile. She’d believed him, even if the jury hadn’t. He was going to walk a thousand miles.
‘Inconceivable,’ said Camberley, finally.
‘Why?’
‘The cost is too high.’
‘Not for me.’
‘In order to be rehabilitated, you’d have to admit that you killed Paul Harbeton; and you didn’t.’
‘I’ll admit that I killed him.’
‘You’d have to live a lie.’
‘I can do it.’
‘Not for the rest of your life.’
‘But it’s already the rest of my life. I was convicted. There’s no appeal.’
Camberley shifted in her seat. ‘Even if you managed to get qualified, there would be no point, because no Inn of Court would accept you as a member. The Bar Council would never let you join the profession.’
‘Can’t I fight them?’
‘There’s no guarantee you’d win. And even if you won, no chambers would grant you a pupillage, and even if they did, no chambers would give you a tenancy. You’re talking madness, Will. This is the stuff of dreams.’
Braithwaite tried to lower the tone. ‘You have to be realistic. Even if you could beat back the opposition, they’d join forces and banish you. The Bar would never acknowledge you. No solicitor would instruct you. The Bench would never trust you. You’d be an exile.’
‘I didn’t ask if I was being realistic. I just want to know if it’s possible.’ Benson turned back to Camberley. ‘I chose to study philosophy because I was always asking “Why?” As a kid I drove my parents crazy. I got into trouble with my teachers. I annoyed my friends. But I’ve never known what I wanted to do with my life, not until this
trial. Until I saw you asking “Why?” Until I entered a room where “Why?” is the most important question in the world, where no one can tell you to shut up, where God himself would have to give an answer if he dared to enter that witness box.’
‘No, Will, you can’t—’
‘This is what I want to do, Miss Camberley.’
‘It’s too late.’
‘Question people. Expose assumptions. Challenge—’
‘I’m sorry.’
Benson looked her in the eye. ‘You’re sure about that?’
‘I am.’
‘Then why did you say there’s no such thing as a hopeless case when we first met?’
‘I was talking about a trial.’
‘We were talking about persuading people to believe in me. Would you mind explaining the difference?’
Camberley glanced at Braithwaite as if he might know the answer but Benson wasn’t going to wait. ‘I want to come to the Bar,’ he said. ‘Is there a chance? I don’t care how small it is.’
‘A chance?’ Camberley rose to go, a thumb nursing the edge of that ragged nail. ‘Yes. A sliver of a wafer. So forget it. You may as well ask if you can visit the moon.’
‘Gottaburn?’
This time it was someone else, but Benson was called to be processed. His details were taken down. He signed various forms. He was photographed. He was strip-searched. He was given some clothes and bedding. He became prison number AC1963. A doctor asked if he was suicidal. And then, strangely changed, he was taken up some stairs.
‘You’re going straight on to D Wing,’ said the guard. ‘The First Night Centre’s full. So’s the induction wing.’
They came to an iron lattice grille with a gate inset that opened on to a long, iron landing. New guards took over. Above and below, suicide netting stretched across the yawning well of the block, connecting three levels of endless blue doors. The lead guard stopped when he reached the middle of the landing. He pulled keys on a chain from his pocket. Moments later the blue door to a cell swung open and Benson froze in horror.
An old man was sitting on a toilet. He had greasy hair, pulled back in a pony tail. He was unshaven. Faded blue tattoos, more like graffiti, covered a scrawny neck. The lobe of an ear was missing. The man didn’t even stop what he was doing to look at the open door. He just reached for a roll of paper.