Summary Justice_An all-action court drama

by John Fairfax

  ‘Will, we both know a barrister can’t investigate a case. So let me help. A lot can be done between now and Wednesday. Without committed representation from the defence, the police may have cut corners.’

  ‘They have done.’

  ‘Your opponent at trial might well be overconfident. It’s your chance to surprise them.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘If this woman isn’t a liar, then there has to be more evidence out there. It’s axiomatic.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Someone has to find it. You can’t. I can. But the way I can help you most – and your client – is by changing how you are seen.’

  ‘And how would you do that?’ Papillon came between Benson’s feet, leaning on his legs, purring like a diesel-driven dredger.

  ‘Simply by coming on board,’ said Tess. ‘With Coker and Dale you’ve got some serious backing. You’re no longer someone they can joke about. Even Merrington will hesitate. Do you think Collingstone would be prepared to instruct me?’

  Benson was sure she would. Ordinarily, he’d have asked Archie to call on his behalf. But given the pressure of the moment – a conference the next morning at the client’s home address – professional courtesies were an extravagance. Every minute counted. So Benson stepped outside, on deck, and called Sarah there and then, explaining that things were already turning for the better. A solicitor of significant standing with international experience had volunteered to join the defence team. Would Sarah accept her services? And, as Benson expected, she most certainly would, but on one condition.

  ‘I want you to represent me in court, Mr Benson. No one else.’

  ‘Of course. Miss de Vere wouldn’t have it any other way.’

  Stepping back into the galley, he paused, surprised at the look of hope in Tess’s face. She really wanted this. It wasn’t pity. This was as much for her as it was for him.

  ‘Welcome aboard, Tess,’ he said. ‘We’re a team.’

  Tess smiled; and those far-off green-blue eyes flashed with something like sunlight.

  They talked for a long while, Benson relieved that Tess didn’t ask about prison. She already seemed to know and left it alone, as if it were an open sewer. Instead they went over the long haul: how Camberley, of all people, had been an endless source of encouragement and support; how Braithwaite, for all his frowning, had been a guide and friend. And all the while Papillon weaved his way between Benson’s legs, causing endless moments of confusion, because once or twice Tess and Benson’s feet collided under the table, prompting the usual apologies, waved away with the usual embarrassment.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Benson. ‘It’s pretty tight in here.’

  ‘If you hadn’t said anything, I’d have thought it was the cat.’

  They covered a lot of ground, only it was Benson who did the talking. Tess asked the questions but she didn’t give much away. And just as he was about to launch his own enquiry, she rose, saying it was time to go. She took a set of disks disclosed by the prosecution and they agreed to meet the next morning at a Tube station near Sarah Collingstone’s home.

  ‘If we are to work together,’ she said, ‘we’re equals. But you are the person who will stand up in court. So don’t hesitate to tell me what you need or tell me what to do. I won’t think you’re ordering me around. Just say please.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  Tess took a moment to admire the boat’s fittings – the curved oak beams, the wooden Hobbity windows, the racing green Aga cooker – and then she opened the stern door, pausing on deck by the garden table and chairs, the pots of plants:

  ‘Earlier tonight. The assault. Has that sort of thing happened before?’

  ‘Frequently.’

  ‘Because of the Sun?’

  ‘No. It started the day after my release.’

  ‘That’s five years of provocation.’

  ‘On and off. They work in twos and threes. One of them does something. The others watch. If I hit back, they’ll say I started it. If they’re believed, I end up back inside. I got a life sentence, remember. I’m only out on licence.’

  She nodded and Benson helped her on to the wharf. For a moment he touched her hand but then she was suddenly out of reach. Again, she looked around approvingly, and made her way towards the gate. Papillon brushed along Benson’s legs again, and he called out as Tess vanished into the darkness among the trees:

  ‘Tess, thanks . . . but I’m not sure being seen with me is a good idea. It’s hardly a career-building move.’

  She replied without stopping, a dark figure shifting among orange light and shadows. ‘It is actually. It’s new work. Cutting edge.’

  * * *

  When he was quite sure she’d gone, Benson went to Seymour Road and retrieved the handkerchief. He’d seen the lace trim. He’d seen the sewn initials, ‘T de V’. When he stepped back on board, he came to a halt as if he’d walked into a brick wall: his depression had gone. Normally it hung around for days, like rain in Lancashire, lifting only gradually; but the clouds had been blown away without him noticing. That had never happened before, never once since his release. He put on the Proclaimers – ‘Sunshine on Leith’ – and went to the shelves where Tess had been browsing. She’d walked straight past the history of Western philosophy, blithely ignoring everyone from the odd and important Heraclitus to the oddly important Sartre. She’d only stopped when she reached the poetry . . . the section devoted to Edward Thomas, Robert Frost, Andrew Young and W. B. Yeats: Benson’s cellmates, who’d conjured up blue-winged swallows, snowy woods, dust on nettles; sudden and shocking impulses of delight. He was desperate to know which collection she’d touched, but he couldn’t find it, not for sure. What he did find was a teacup; and he had to smile.

  ‘What do you make of Tess de Vere?’ he said to Papillon, who’d appeared between his legs. ‘After all that faffing around, she didn’t drink her Corpse Reviver.’

  8

  ‘I had this cellmate in HMP Stonton,’ said Benson. ‘He was called Jaffa. And when he cased a joint, he always checked the back garden, never the front. He reckoned it was a good way of finding out what someone was really like. Whether they were careful or not.’

  ‘Why was he called Jaffa?’ said Tess.

  ‘Because his scalp looked like an orange. He’d upset a smack dealer, so the muscle poured boiling water over his head . . . having added sugar to raise the temperature and make it stick.’

  They walked down a broken path skirting a block of terraced houses near Mogden Sewage Treatment Works in Hounslow.

  ‘This is it,’ said Benson, pointing.

  Sarah Collingstone’s back garden was neat and tidy. The old wooden fence had been repaired with new nails. The grass had been trimmed even though it was October. The windows to the house were clean. There were no net curtains. On either side the story was very different. The grass was ragged and long from the summer. In one, a mix of beer bottles were piled in a couple of soaked cardboard boxes. In the other, the shell of a car had been stripped beside a greenhouse with barely any glass.

  Benson humphed. ‘No one ever listened to Jaffa.’

  Sarah Collingstone led Benson and Tess into the entrance hallway. Passing the sitting room, Benson looked inside and halted. He’d seen a teenager in a wheelchair, his body folded, one wrist twisted on his chest, his head leaning to one side, and all at once Benson was back home in Brancaster Staithe looking at Eddie, his younger brother, a few years after the bike accident. He’d sit for hours in his wheelchair looking out at the sea, unable to speak or move with ease, his mouth half open. Once he turned to Benson and said, sluggishly:

  ‘I’ll never go to sea with Dad.’

  Benson was standing in the corridor, grass stains on his trousers, a batch of top marks in his school bag.

  ‘I’ll never bring in the lobster and the crabs.’

  Benson screamed inside. He’d have done anything to trade places. He’d said it over and again though no one really believed him. But they didn�
��t know what had happened. Even Eddie didn’t know. He couldn’t remember anything about the accident.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Sarah. ‘This is Daniel, my son.’

  Benson snapped back into Hounslow, but it was too late. For he recognised in Sarah’s eyes the years of rejection, prejudice, embarrassment, disinterest and pity that had tainted too many relationships. Benson was just another nice guy who’d flinched at her son.

  ‘Don’t say sorry,’ said Benson. He’d read that her son ‘had a disability’ but he hadn’t appreciated to what extent. He crossed the sitting room and took Daniel’s hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you. I’m Benson. Will Benson.’

  Daniel’s head tilted slightly but there was no pressure from his fingers. The nails were beautifully clean and trimmed. He was smiling, but not at Benson’s greeting: his expression hadn’t changed; this was how he looked normally. Was it paralysis or joy? At any given moment it would be hard to know, unless you were Sarah.

  ‘I’ll stay here with my grandson, Mr Benson,’ said Ralph Collingstone. ‘You can talk to Sarah next door. Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘Please.’

  They gathered around an oval dining table, Benson facing Sarah, and Tess to one side. On the pale yellow walls were posters of great stage plays. The Crucible. The Importance of Being Earnest. The Seagull. On the shelves were books and audio CDs, some of them read by Ralph. He’d been going somewhere, once. Benson pulled at the bow of the pink cotton tape tied around R v. Collingstone. He opened the back sheet and laid out the papers in front of him in piles: witness statements, forensic evidence, photographs, ground plans, police interviews . . . all the while sensing the tension in the defendant that no one believed. She was – Benson had to acknowledge – particularly attractive. It wasn’t so much the full lips or the shining, auburn hair, the pencil-line bones. It was the transparency of expression. The unprotected vulnerability. She was thirty-four with the fragile beauty of old age. Andrew Bealing can’t have failed to notice.

  ‘I forgot to ask,’ said Benson, after Ralph had brought the coffee and tiptoed out of the room, ‘does Daniel like music?’

  Sound and rhythm had been an important part of Eddie’s recovery, insofar as he’d recovered.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Sarah, suddenly animated. ‘We turned it off when you arrived. He loves sounds and rhythms and—’

  ‘Please turn it back on.’

  She quickly left the room. Moments later, Benson heard Coldplay. First track on Ghost Stories. A song he loved: ‘Always in My Head’. When Sarah resumed her seat she wasn’t quite relaxed. But at least she was smiling.

  9

  The case papers prepared by Trevor Hamsey, the solicitor sacked by Sarah Collingstone, contained a brief client biography, later supplemented by notes from Diane Wendling, the barrister she’d sacked the same day. It made sad reading. Tess had drawn up her own chronology:

  05.10.1981

  Born in Brampton, Cumbria.

  05.1993

  Parents (RALPH and JANET) separate. SARAH (aged 11) lives with mother.

  07.1997

  GCSEs (9 fails). Mother dies of cancer.

  Sarah (15) lives with father.

  15.12.1997

  Fatal car accident.

  Driver: ANTHONY GREENE (18).

  Passengers: Sarah (16) and PAULA RYAN (17)

  Greene and Ryan killed.

  Greene at fault. Jumped lights. Collision.

  Sarah hospitalised. Two months pregnant.

  12.05.1998

  Birth of DANIEL 5 weeks premature. ?Because of accident?

  25.05.1998

  Daniel admitted to hospital. Brain damage.

  08.1998

  Ralph and Sarah move to London. Ralph teaches at Eva Moore School of Drama. Richmond.

  26.06.2014

  Sarah (32) meets ANDREW BEALING

  Entrepreneur:

  Hopton Transport Ltd

  Hopton Imports Ltd

  Hopton Residential Holdings Ltd

  Tess had the document in front of her. Benson had nothing. He began with the birth of Daniel.

  ‘He just stopped breathing,’ she said. ‘I was holding him in my arms and I saw his lips had turned blue.’

  ‘How old was he?’

  ‘Just ten days. I called for an ambulance but they couldn’t get him to hospital quickly enough.’

  By the time Daniel was on life-support he’d sustained irreparable brain damage. The cause of the crisis was never nailed down because the bombardment of antibiotics that saved his life had removed the explanation. They’d taken advice, wondering if the original respiratory condition was linked to the car accident. There’d been years of hedging legal opinions and medical reports before the case was dropped.

  ‘We’d moved by then. I wanted a new start, away from the north-west, away from everything that reminded me of my mum, and the accident. And Anthony, Daniel’s father.’

  ‘You came to London?’

  ‘Yes. My dad took a part-time job. I dropped out of school. We had to manage.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you were overwhelmed by support?’

  ‘No. We’d imagined there’d be more facilities, but there weren’t. It was hard.’

  Together they’d handled the demands of twenty-four-hour care. With the sale of the house in Brampton, they modified a property in Hounslow. After that, all they had was Ralph’s reduced income and a handful of benefits. Which wasn’t enough. It still wasn’t.

  ‘To meet the needs of someone like Daniel, you need a fortune,’ said Sarah. ‘An absolute fortune.’

  And then, having teased out a motive for murder, Benson jumped sixteen years of round-the-clock nursing:

  ‘How did you meet Mr Bealing?’

  ‘I went to the Alington Trust. They’d opened a new state-of-the-art project for children with disabilities. The Sandridge Centre. I’d seen an article. When I turned up I discovered they did much more . . . they worked with other charities, employers, individuals . . . giving people a fresh chance, or a break . . . and the assessor told me about Hopton’s Imports Limited. She told me the company was looking for an assistant manager for three shops. That I should give them a call. I’d done part-time work at the Co-op, so I thought I wouldn’t have a chance, but the assessor told me Mr Bealing was really kind. That he’d been through the Trust himself. That I had nothing to lose. The Trust would help with day care and the income would buy additional help. She said it was important I get out of the house and build a future of my own.’

  ‘What was the assessor called?’

  ‘Paula O’Neill.’

  Tess wrote the name down.

  ‘You went to see Mr Bealing on Thursday the 26th of June last year?’

  ‘Yes. I had an interview and he gave me the job. I wasn’t adequately qualified but he said he couldn’t care less.’

  ‘On the 18th of September – three months later – you sent Mr Bealing an email saying, “You’ve changed my life. Thank you.” What did you mean?’

  ‘I meant what I said. Everything was better. For Daniel. For my father. My life was like it had never been before . . . not since Daniel’s birth. I was grateful. I thanked him.’

  Tess watched Sarah carefully. She seemed to be hiding nothing. She seemed oblivious of any second interpretation of her words, even now, when the prosecution were suggesting she’d started an affair with her benefactor.

  ‘Tell me about Anna Wysocki,’ said Benson.

  ‘She’s the manager of a shop specialising in Polish food. She was putting me under pressure to get health and safety manuals up to date, training courses organised . . . all sorts. But Mr Bealing kept putting me off.’

  ‘I mean her character. What’s she like?’

  Sarah hesitated, frowning.

  ‘Don’t think,’ said Benson, ‘just speak the first words that come into your head.’

  ‘Aggressive . . . jealous . . . strong-willed . . . ambitious . . . efficient . . . I’m sorry, I can’t think o
f anything else.’

  ‘Younger than Mr Bealing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Attractive?’

  ‘Very much so. She’d modelled in Paris and Milan.’

  ‘Why end up managing a shop?’

  ‘She’d never made it big. Like so many others.’

  ‘Single?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Again Benson wrote nothing down. But Tess was sure it was all being filed somewhere in his mind. A trial strategy was emerging.

  ‘Did you ever meet Debbie Bealing, Andrew Bealing’s wife?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you hear any gossip about her?’

  ‘Lots.’

  ‘To what effect?’

  ‘That she was unstable. She’d had problems with depression. At one point she’d worked with her husband, but then she’d had to pack it all in. I was told a nurse came to see her three times a week, just to make sure she was okay.’

  ‘People rarely gossip with sensitivity. What did they say?’

  ‘That she was crackers.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘That the nurse serviced her . . . you know, because Mr Bealing certainly didn’t.’

  ‘You held back a detail.’

  ‘With a thermometer.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Darren Weaver, a guy from Edinburgh.’

  ‘Anything else about Debbie? A nickname used by those close to Mr Bealing – behind his back, of course?’

  ‘Yes. Screwball.’

  Benson paused. ‘Sarah, have some coffee. Relax. You don’t have to do anything tomorrow. I do. And I’m not worried. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  He restarted his questioning before her cup had touched the table.

  ‘You arranged to see Mr Bealing on the night he was murdered. A Saturday. You arrived at the Hopton Yard premises in Merton at about 6 p.m.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Why see him on a Saturday night?’

  ‘To get the manuals sorted out, once and for all. He always worked late on a Saturday, organising the driving rotas and other business. I thought that was the best time to get him alone, and when he couldn’t find excuses and head off somewhere.’