by John Fairfax
‘Mrs Jonson, would you look at the photograph of the streetlamp at the entrance to Hopton’s Yard. Do you know what kind of light that lamp emits?’
‘Well, I should do, given I’ve lived right by it for most of my married life. It’s sodium.’
‘That’s right. Would you explain to the jury what that means.’
‘Certainly.’ Mrs Jonson turned to them as if they were a class of nine-year-olds. ‘If you take all the colours of the rainbow and mix the light all together the colours vanish and you get white light. It’s like magic. You can’t see them, but white light is full of colour. But sodium light is very different. It’s simply yellowy-orange light. There’s no other kinds of light in there.’
Benson intervened. ‘And what happens when you look at multi-coloured objects in that kind of light?’
‘Well, that’s getting complicated, Mr Benson. I didn’t do that with the children. That’s for secondary school.’
‘Would you do it with the jury, please? I think DCI Winter might be interested, too.’
‘All right, then. Here we go. When sodium light falls on an object with lots of colours, some of the colours will absorb the yellowy-orange light, and since there’s nothing left to reflect back, those colours will look all wishy-washy.’ Mrs Jonson paused to check she hadn’t lost her class. ‘Now, some colours will reflect the sodium light . . . but all they can reflect back is the yellowy-orange, because, remember, there’s nothing else in that kind of light.’ She paused again, only resuming when she’d received a wave of nods from the jury. ‘That’s it. Nothing could be simpler. When sodium light falls on a multi-coloured hat and coat all you’ll see are shades of yellowy-orange and shades of wishy-washy. Now you know why everything looks vaguely the same under a streetlamp.’
There was a pause of appreciative silence. Mr Justice Oakshott broke it. ‘Well, I never. I have to say, Mrs Jonson, I’ve never understood why that’s the case. Perhaps I’m not the only one who’s learned something today. I’m most grateful.’
Benson was, too. ‘Mrs Jonson, when you looked out of the window at 6 p.m., you saw a coat that was red and blue and green and yellow and orange. I never doubted your vision. I never doubted your memory. You are a careful and impressive witness. You saw my client arriving to see Mr Bealing.’
Mrs Jonson was looking at Benson in horror. ‘I’ve made a fool of myself.’
‘No, you haven’t. You just made a mistake. Because when you looked out of the window at 11.35 p.m., you couldn’t have seen a coat that was red and blue and green and yellow and orange. Or a hat that was multi-coloured.’
‘No, I couldn’t.’
‘Because the bomber lights had been turned off. The sodium light was on.’
‘It was, yes.’
‘So while you certainly saw someone leaving, you don’t know the true colours of their hat or coat.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘You couldn’t know if it was the same hat and coat you’d seen earlier that evening.’
‘No, you’re right, I couldn’t.’
‘That individual could have been wearing any of the fifteen hats and coats Detective Chief Inspector Winter showed you.’
‘Because they all would have looked much the same. I wouldn’t have been able to see the difference. Oh dear, how could I have made such a mistake. I’m so very sorry. I should have known better.’
‘There’s no need to apologise,’ said Benson. ‘It’s not your job to ensure that the evidence put before this court is reliable. That duty falls on Detective Chief Inspector Winter and my learned friend Miss Glencoyne.’
‘It’s a basic error.’
‘It is. And it is upon such evidence that my client faces a charge of murder. Can we just review your testimony?’
‘Of course.’
‘You have no idea if the person you saw leaving Hopton’s Yard was wearing the hat and coat on the exhibits table?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘You don’t even know if that person was a man or a woman?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘For all you know, it was Kym Hamilton?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Or Dave, her husband?’
‘Yes. It could have been anyone. This was February. It had snowed. Most people were wearing a hat and coat.’
‘Mrs Jonson, you ought to know that my learned friend will shortly tell this court that my client cut her right hand when using a broken bottle as a weapon upon Mr Bealing. Please think very carefully. Was there any indication that the person you saw had sustained a cut to their right hand?’
‘None.’
‘Please reflect longer. Was there anything odd about the way they walked or held their right arm?’
‘Absolutely not. The person was sliding their feet through the snow, so they wouldn’t slip, and they had their arms by their side. If there’d been a cut, there’d have been blood on the snow . . . and I saw no blood.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Jonson. I’ve no further questions.’
24
Glencoyne was calm and collected, her gestures slow and deliberate, but she was rattled. Benson knew it. One of the things he had learned in prison was how to read people’s behaviour. Apart from books, there was nothing else to pore over. Nothing else to do. He’d studied the likes of Needles and Jaffa for hours on end. So he wasn’t fooled by Glencoyne’s casual announcement that she wished to recall Kym Hamilton. She was worried. Holes were appearing in her case.
‘I’d like to ask you some questions about Mr Bealing’s attitude towards security.’
Hamilton nodded but she was looking at Benson, scared of what he might do next.
‘Why had bright security lights been installed?’
‘Firstly to help the drivers when they were coming in and out of the yard, but also because Mr Bealing was worried about trespassers . . . people who might try and break into the warehouse.’
‘How did the lights operate?’
‘The front ones were on a timer, but there were others at the back, and they came on if anyone approached the building.’
‘As regards the front door, there was a mortise lock?’
‘Yes. And a peephole.’
‘Was there anything distinctive about Mr Bealing’s work habits on a Saturday?’
‘Yes, he always worked on his own.’
‘Did he take any personal security measures?’
‘Oh yes, he’d lock the door and he wouldn’t open it to anyone, unless he knew them. That’s why there was a peephole.’
‘So in relation to the Saturday when Mr Bealing was killed, if someone had knocked on the door late in the evening, Mr Bealing would only have let them in if he recognised them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any doubt about that?’
‘None. The stock in the warehouse was very valuable.’
Glencoyne sat down. Hamilton was staring at Benson as if he might throw a brick across the courtroom.
‘Let’s stay with the evening when Mr Bealing was murdered,’ he said, staring back as if she was right.
Hamilton nodded.
‘Let’s imagine it was you who knocked on that door. Mr Bealing would have opened it, wouldn’t he?’
‘Yes . . . but I was at home.’
‘So you say. With poor old Dave.’
25
Douglas Coker was a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, and Downing College, Cambridge. Upon qualifying as a solicitor, he’d worked for five years at Freshfields and then set up his own firm with Maurice Dale from Slaughter and May, after which he hadn’t looked back. Tess had looked to Douglas when arguing with her parents about England over Ireland, saying she only wanted to follow in the steps of her godfather. He’d backed her argument, saying he’d look after her. He was wonderful and tweedy and adored. His eyes twinkled and his silver, untrimmed eyebrows curled up to his forehead suggesting optimism and – obscurely – mischief. His defining fault was fascism on questions of food. He’
d chosen the restaurant. He’d chosen the wine. He’d have chosen the fish if Tess hadn’t put her foot down.
‘Tess, the partners and development committee wanted you at C and D because of your human rights track record. They asked you to review our team structures and our research systems, to be an adviser on new and existing cases . . . and now they find the firm’s name being dragged through the gutter.’
The last phrase was true. The rest was only half the story; a loving story. Sure, the partners and development committee had made the decision to recruit Tess, and their current displeasure was no doubt genuine, but it had been Douglas’s proposal, and it had concealed another objective – one that hadn’t even been mentioned to Tess herself, though she’d seen through his flannelling. He’d engineered a one-year consultancy with her specifications in mind because he’d learned that Peter Farsely, her former boyfriend, had finally quit London for New York. Douglas had told Tess, in code, it’s time to come home, if you want. He continued:
‘They imagined C and D as a meaner outfit, better organised, better coordinated, better informed, with an enhanced reputation. Instead the firm is locked into a tawdry murder where counsel himself is a killer. They’re not pleased, Tess. This isn’t what they expected.’
‘It’s not what I planned,’ said Tess. ‘But this is a significant issue. Merrington wants to stop Benson from practising at the Bar. Okay, there’s a growing petition to shut him down, but human rights aren’t determined or protected by petition. That’s why we have a law. If Benson presents no risk to the public – and he doesn’t – preventing him from pursuing his chosen career might well be in breach of Article Three. This is the sort of thing the partners wanted, Douglas. It’s not popular. But it’s right. And . . . I just don’t want to do this any more.’
Douglas wiped the corners of his mouth and said, ‘I beg your pardon?’
And Tess explained. She had to tell him, honestly, that she’d tired of this very type of struggle, important though it was.
‘I went to Strasbourg last week and I realised I didn’t belong any more. And then, by chance, I heard about Benson, and meeting him has brought me back to where I began all those years ago. It’s hard to explain, but I’ve sort of gone astray. I really want to come home, now, Douglas. I want to come back to basic crime.’
Douglas was the only person who knew why Tess had quit London for Strasbourg, and she hadn’t told him. He’d found out. Things had ended badly between Tess and Peter; it had become very . . . complicated. Shortly afterwards, Douglas had flown to Strasbourg with a string of leading questions – questions which contained the answer, seeking merely a ‘Yes’ or a ‘No’ response – and Tess had answered none of them . . . confirming what he’d learned. It was their secret, a secret that permeated everything they said to each other.
‘You urged me to come back to London to rebuild my future, and I did. You told me to take my time until I found out what I really wanted to do . . . and I have done.’
He’d imagined something in human rights, possibly academic. So had Tess, though without much enthusiasm. But hearing about Benson, and meeting Benson, had changed everything. She’d felt young and foolish again. It had felt great to shake off all that acquired prudence. She’d glimpsed who she’d once been, before Peter Farsely came along. She’d heard the Proclaimers belt out some passion.
‘You want to join the crime team?’ asked Douglas.
‘Yes. As and when I can; if I can. If not, I suppose I’ll have to go somewhere else.’
A waiter poured the Sancerre and retired discreetly. Douglas had chosen Dover sole. He’d urged the same on Tess. She’d chosen the sea bass.
‘There’s room,’ he said. ‘We’re planning to recruit next year. But it goes without saying you’d increase your chances if you were to distance yourself from Benson.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Why am I not surprised?’ He thought for a while. Then he said: ‘I can’t guarantee you a future at C and D, you know that?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’d have to finish the consultancy on a high note.’
‘Obviously.’
‘And then apply for the job like anyone else. So let me nudge you again. After this trial, don’t you think you could find other counsel to instruct? Separate your name from his? If only to ease the fears of the partners?’
‘No. Because of Article Six. People have a right to choose who they want to represent them. You see, Douglas, this is nothing to do with me. Sarah Collingstone picked Benson. There’s no stopping him, now. He’s out there, with his name on a board. If he wins this case, against the odds, people are going to start asking for him, regardless of the partners and the development committee, regardless of the profession, the press and Richard Merrington.’
It went without saying that if Benson was victorious, Coker & Dale would share in the credit. And so would Tess. In a peculiar way, her future prospects were now intimately linked to Benson’s. If a pariah becomes a celebrity, so does his champion.
‘I’ve never told you this, Douglas, but it was my idea that he come to the Bar.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I told him to go for it; and he did.’
‘And now you feel responsible? You feel you should help him get established?’
‘No. A bit. Maybe.’ She moved her food around her plate. ‘But I’d be misleading you if I didn’t admit that I want to work with him. I think he has something . . . special.’
‘I know you do.’ Using his fish knife, Douglas carefully lifted the soft white flesh, exposing the bone underneath. ‘This is a really delicate situation, Tess. Not just for the firm, but for you. You’re putting yourself on the line because you’re convinced he’s innocent, am I right?’
‘Yes.’
‘But what if he isn’t?’
‘But I believe he is. I felt it, viscerally. I was there.’
‘Let’s imagine he isn’t. Let’s imagine that for whatever reason – shame, or not wanting to shatter his parents, his girlfriend, his friends, or whatever – let’s imagine he fooled you.’
‘Okay.’
‘That makes him, eventually, a pathological liar.’
‘Oh come on—’
‘I don’t mean back then, I mean now. If he told one great lie for the trial, because he couldn’t face what he’d done, then he has to lie for the rest of his life. There’s no way back. We’ve both seen this in the courts, Tess. A witness gets saddled with something they said under pressure, they’ve made a sworn statement, and years later we pull them apart because we’ve found some evidence that shows they’ve been less than honest. Benson is no different. Unless he came clean at the outset, he has to lie endlessly. Every day, just like you brush your teeth. It could be bitter in his own mouth, but there’s nothing he can do but keep up the brushing. He’s trapped.’ Douglas paused to examine the spine, wondering how best to remove it. ‘A lie like that, left deep in your life, well, it becomes a kind of cancer. It’s a disease that works itself right into the bone.’
Tess swished the wine in her glass, spilling some on the table.
‘And what makes Mr Benson different if not unique among the world’s liars, if he is one, is that he’s managed to swing it both ways. He’s only lied in private. He’s told the world the truth. He came clean, after all.’
‘So what are you saying?’
‘He’s not straightforward, Tess. If he’d admitted his guilt before trial, I’d have felt differently – Jaysus, I’m a lapsed Catholic, we don’t forget the big stuff – but he didn’t. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. You don’t know if you can trust him.’
‘You’re still not saying what you really mean. I know you.’
‘And I know you, Tess.’ Douglas lifted the spine with the edge of the blade, gently levering the finer bones away from the lower fillet. ‘And I’m worried for you. Honestly, I am.’
‘But why?’
He put down his knife and fork. ‘Loo
k, you’re thirty-five, this is nothing to do with me. You make your own decisions and I’m here whatever happens, you know that . . . but I didn’t urge you to leave the continent so you could come home and, God, I don’t know . . . I just don’t want to see anyone breaking your heart again.’
Douglas had always been a sort of watchman in Tess’s life. He’d guided her career. He’d seen opportunities and risks, vaguely nodding towards the better path, leaving her free to choose. But since that flight to Strasbourg, when he’d become the keeper of unspoken secrets, he’d turned into a special kind of friend. He knew things known to no one else: not her parents, not even Sally.
‘Peter didn’t break my heart, Douglas,’ she said. ‘Meeting him was the worst thing that’s ever happened in my life. Leaving him was the best. Strasbourg was simply a circuit breaker. And I’m not drawn to Benson in that way. I’m not sure I want to feel that way ever again.’
Douglas’s pained eyes said, Of course you will . . . and then he spoke: ‘Every once in a while there’s something special about meeting someone we knew when we were younger. Before things got complicated, all round, for everyone. There’s a kind of sigh, Jaysus, how did we get from there to here . . . and all I’m saying, Tess, is be careful. Watch over your heart. Hearts are restless and foolish. At least mine is, and I’m seventy-four. God, you’d think we get wise . . .’
‘He’s someone I admire, nothing more.’
Douglas said nothing, but Tess almost heard herself say, I know . . . I said that about Peter, too. You were right about him.
And Douglas, seeming to read her mind, spared her a knowing nod, because he’d tried to warn her; and now he was warning her again: ‘I have this fear he might be exploiting you . . . your name and reputation. That’s he’s drawing you into a complex world of . . . deceit – a deceit he can’t control, because—’
‘No, no, no. I went to him. He didn’t even know I was in London.’
Tess had lost her appetite. Her mind was clouding.
‘How do you know?’
She didn’t.
Douglas ordered more wine. ‘There was an announcement in the legal press. There was talk. He remembered you, like you remembered him. He’ll have checked you out, like you checked him out. He’d have seen your photograph, like you’d seen his. He knew you were back in London, Tess.’