by John Fairfax
Archie glanced at Tess.
‘Calm down . . . have a radish,’ said the clerk.
She looked confused and Benson felt embarrassed, acutely aware he’d made an admission, one he’d rather have kept to himself: that outside court he was barely alive. He’d been planning to show Tess an easy-going guy who was interested in human rights and weird cocktails. He’d pictured himself on the Albert Canal sipping a Body Snatcher or whatever it was called. Instead, he’d shown himself as he really was. Angry and half dead.
‘Let’s get back to court,’ he said.
32
It would be right to say that DCI Winter looked uncomfortable giving his evidence. And it wasn’t just the inflammation from a hasty shave. Word of Benson must have reached him. He answered Glencoyne’s questions as if he was desperate to please. As if he’d done his best. He kept throwing glances in Benson’s direction.
In effect, DCI Winter was bringing the prosecution case to a close. He was the final witness whose account brought together any loose ends. Benson watched him, thinking of Sarah Collingstone, scared and out of her depth, frightened for Daniel.
DCI Winter had arrived at Hopton’s Yard at 08.00 on Sunday, 15 February 2015. The divisional surgeon, a photographer and the scenes of crime officers were all on site by 09.15. While uniformed officers carried out house-to-house enquiries, he had gone to visit Debbie Bealing, the deceased’s wife. He’d found her extremely distressed, speaking of Chinese gangs and apparently hearing voices. He’d contacted Darren Weaver, her nurse, along with Dr Adrian Phillips, her general practitioner. Both parties had attended the premises and taken care of their patient. DCI Winter had then made contact with Kym Hamilton, who’d explained the structure of the various Bealing companies.
The next morning, Gloria Jonson had presented herself at the crime scene and described the individual she had seen arrive and leave. Kym Hamilton had recognised the description of the coat, saying it belonged to Sarah Collingstone. Two detectives had gone immediately to the defendant’s premises where her father, Ralph Collingstone, informed them that his daughter had departed for France that morning. She’d bought tickets for the 12.10 ferry. The defendant was apprehended at Dover at 11.15. On being cautioned she’d said, ‘I would never kill Andrew, never, never, never.’ She’d refused the assistance of a solicitor. The defendant was subsequently transferred to London and was booked into Merton police station at 16.32. She was examined by Dr Faisal Khan, who found a laceration to the right hand. The defendant said she had cut herself the day before when opening a tin of tuna. Dr Khan concluded that the wound was ‘not inconsistent with a broken glass injury’.
Trevor Hamsey, the duty solicitor, arrived at 17.20. The defendant was interviewed at 18.00 and made no replies to all questions. After overnight detention, the defendant was interviewed again at 12.00, once again in the presence of Mr Hamsey. And again the defendant refused to answer any of the questions put to her. The defendant was released on police bail with . . .
Benson remembered his own experience.
It had been so horribly similar. And he well knew that something else had happened in Merton police station that simply couldn’t be transmitted to the courtroom. And that was the inrush of fear. Your mind can’t handle it. You don’t know what PACE 1984 is or the Codes of Practice, even after they’ve been explained. You say things you don’t mean. The tape recorder is catching everything. Police officers know this. They know that as soon as the interview procedures kick in, ordinary people start drowning. Some will help you. They bring you cups of tea and a sandwich. They check you’re okay. One or two will exploit it. One officer – DC Terry Leyland – had told Benson in a corridor, ‘You’re a statistic, you murdering bastard. We’ve got you nailed to the wall.’
Indeed they had.
Like they’d got Sarah Collingstone when all she could think about was Daniel.
33
‘We’ve heard a great deal about what you have done, DCI Winter, shall we now have a look at what you didn’t do?’
Tess couldn’t help but see Benson with insight and clarity. He was different in the courtroom. He was someone else. He was only there for Sarah Collingstone. And that encompassed Daniel and Ralph, one small family confronting the powerful machinery of the state.
‘Did you check if Kym Hamilton had an alibi?’
‘No.’
‘Were you aware her husband – a man with a record for violence – had been sacked by Andrew Bealing?’
‘No.’
‘Did you examine their telephone logs, emails, computer hard drives . . . you know the score, everything you did with Sarah Collingstone?’
‘I didn’t, no.’
‘What about Anna Wysocki? I could ask all the same questions all over again, so let’s make this brief, did you explore her background and her movements on the night of the murder to find out if she had motive, means and opportunity?’
‘I didn’t. Her DNA wasn’t on the bottle. She hadn’t cut her hand.’
‘Ah, yes, the DNA. We’ll come back to that. What about her coat? Did you check it for blood spattering?’
‘No.’
‘Speaking of coats, where on earth did you get fifteen overcoats from?’
‘The Red Cross shop in Tooting.’
‘The Red Cross shop in Tooting? Why not go to Kym and Dave Hamilton’s in Mitcham? It’s nearer.’
‘This isn’t a joking matter.’
‘I’m being serious. When did you find out that the security lighting at the front of Hopton’s Yard only operated on a timer until nine in the evening?’
‘During this trial.’
‘Did you know that the streetlamp emitted sodium light?’
‘No, I didn’t. My lord, can I just say something to the court?’
Mr Justice Oakshott sighed. ‘You’d do well just to answer counsel’s questions. I’m sure Miss Glencoyne will look after you.’
‘I just want to say that in a murder inquiry, you have to start with the evidence you find, not the evidence that might exist. Mr Bealing employed over thirty people. Many of them came from different countries. He had contracts with hundreds of clients, here and abroad. We wouldn’t interview them all . . . not when we had a prime suspect.’
‘Have you finished?’ asked Benson.
‘Well, no, to be honest, I just want the jury to understand my position.’
‘Oh, they will do, DCI Winter, don’t worry on that score. Can I just return to what else you didn’t do?’
‘Sure. Yes. But—’
‘You didn’t check out if there was any substance to Debbie Bealing’s belief that her husband had got on the wrong side of a Chinese gang.’
‘I didn’t, no. Because Mrs Bealing was sectioned later that day, just like she was yesterday. This is what I mean. An investigation has to be targeted.’
‘And your target was nailed to the wall the day Mrs Jonson told you about a coloured hat and coat. The day you caught Sarah Collingstone at Dover. Since that moment, you left this case to the scientists.’
Tess hadn’t noticed that Archie had come into court. He leaned close and said, ‘I’ve found something in the files.’
They stood by a wall a few yards from the court entrance, Tess with arms folded tight, Archie bent forward, his voice hushed:
‘I think I’ve found a ghost client. Alan Richard Shaftoe. He runs a consultancy. The company’s based in Zurich with an office in London. Advises clients on business opportunities in East-Central Europe and Asia. At least that’s what the blurb says.’
The financial routing was complicated, but Bealing, personally and through his companies, had paid Shaftoe Management £3.7 million in the space of six months. ‘It’s all down as investment, disbursements, loans and fees. Infrastructure across the EU. He’s down as planning more supermarkets selling tins of cabbage from Romania. The tax people would find the hole easily enough, and so would the police, if they’d taken a careful look.’
‘So what was
the scam?’ asked Tess.
‘It could be money laundering, bringing dirty money into the business through legal highs and cleaning it up through the import business. But I think he was planning to disappear. I can’t find anything on an Alan Shaftoe. There are no tax returns. The London office doesn’t exist. The business was set up after the death of Hugh Wellborn and without the involvement of Roger Grange. It looks like Bealing shifted a wedge abroad and was going to vanish before the people he’d upset could get to him.’
Tess was making notes, thinking it through. ‘But once he’d gone the police would eventually find out that Alan Shaftoe was a fiction. And the tax people would find out they were owed a wedge as well.’
‘They would, but first they’d have to look. And even if they did, by then it’d be too late. They’d never find Alan Shaftoe. Shaftoe doesn’t exist. He has a Swiss bank account, that’s all, and the Swiss aren’t very helpful. Their best clients were Nazis, remember. So Bealing gets his money through Shaftoe, but he’ll have lived by another name. Far off. Out of reach. That’s my guess anyway.’
‘Far away from Debbie, too.’
‘Yep.’
‘And she’s part of the problem now. By selling up she’s muddied the water. Makes it difficult to track all the numbers. It’s not relevant, of course, but she undersold everything, you know. She sold the lot as fast as she could. I’m really surprised that nurse didn’t intervene. He must have seen what she was doing and just looked the other way.’
Tess gave her pen a click and closed her pad. ‘Archie?’
‘Yes?’
‘You look sensational.’
‘Really?’
‘It’s your granddad’s watch chain. Very Edwardian. And the silver hair to match. What chambers are you from? I simply have to send you tons of work.’
When Tess got back into court, Benson was winding up. DCI Winter was puce.
‘The painful truth, DCI Winter, is that you aren’t an old school police officer, are you?’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘In the old days, detectives knocked on doors and used their intuition. You belong to the generation that relies on computer programs. The generation that thinks a DNA profile is a magic bullet, and once you’d been told Sarah Collingstone’s DNA was on that bottle, you just filled in the boxes.’
‘Untrue.’
‘You left the basics undone.’
‘I did not.’
Benson leaned back and folded his arms. ‘What about the tin of tuna? Where is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Didn’t you look for it?’
‘No.’
‘Why not? This was my client’s explanation for the hand injury that you say was caused by the bottle even though her blood never dripped on to the floor at Hopton’s Yard. It should be on the exhibits table.’
‘I suppose it should be.’
‘That’s your first and only concession, DCI Winter. Am I right in concluding that if you could carry out this investigation all over again, the one difference is that you’d drive over to Hounslow and have a look in Sarah Collingstone’s rubbish bin?’
‘I wouldn’t put it like that, but yes.’
‘Thank you. No further questions.’
DCI Winter left court and Glencoyne addressed Mr Justice Oakshott:
‘My lord, that concludes the case for the Crown.’
The judge turned to the jury and informed them that it being Friday afternoon, he proposed to adjourn the case until Monday morning, when the defence case would open. After the usual warnings not to discuss the evidence or trawl the internet, the court clerk brought the assembled lawyers and journalists to their feet, and Mr Justice Oakshott retired with a friendly piece of advice:
‘Have a quiet weekend.’
Benson swung round to speak to Tess:
‘We’re in with a shout. It’s in our client’s hands. Let’s have a conference.’
34
Benson stood, head bowed, listening to Archie. When the clerk had finished they both entered the conference room. There was a sense of confident expectation made agonising by the fact that the trial wasn’t over; and not being complete, anything could still happen. But no one doubted that Sarah was in a very strong position. The jury was with her. There was only one problem. She still needed to explain how her DNA got on to that bottle. Benson put off the question for later.
‘There’s been a development in what we know about Andrew Bealing,’ he said. ‘It seems he was planning to skip the country and start a new life elsewhere. He was killed first.’
Ralph Collingstone could barely contain himself. The judge had to be told immediately. And Miss Glencoyne. And the jury.
‘It’s still not evidence, Ralph,’ said Tess. ‘This is what we think. We don’t know. We’re trying to make sense of holes in his business records, and at the moment, all we know for sure is that he transferred £3.7 million out of the jurisdiction. It’s suspicious. It’s alarming. But it isn’t necessarily linked to his death. We still haven’t got witnesses who can demonstrate that Mr Bealing feared for his life . . . which would then explain why he might try to create a new identity.’
‘Isn’t there anything you can do to force them to speak?’ asked Ralph. ‘Can’t you bring them here against their will?’
‘What would be the point?’ said Tess. She was sympathetic but firm. ‘Unless they want to give evidence, they’ll just deny everything they’ve told me in secret. I’m working on them. I’ve told them special measures can be taken to ensure their protection, but they aren’t interested. I’m hoping they’ll change their minds.’
Ralph was confused; and Benson understood his anguish: people thought you could come to court and tell the jury anything; and you couldn’t. He thought people could be forced to say what they knew, and they couldn’t.
‘How much did you say?’ asked Ralph, reaching for something he could understand.
Benson repeated the figure – £3.7 million. It was a fortune.
‘Does the name Alan Shaftoe mean anything to you, Sarah?’ he asked.
She was flushed and confused. ‘No.’
‘Who’s he?’ asked Ralph.
‘On the face of things, he was a client of Mr Bealing. He could be the false identity Mr Bealing was planning to assume. An alternative reading would be that Mr Bealing wasn’t planning to leave the country at all. And Alan Shaftoe was someone else’s fictional identity – perhaps related to the gang he feared. Perhaps the £3.7 million was laundered money from legal highs. This kind of speculation can go on for ever and it takes the spotlight off the most important issue in this case. It’s a distraction.’
Sarah had lost weight. She was drawn and pale and she turned to Benson, as if expecting what he was going to say.
‘Even if we could prove that a Chinese gang wanted to kill Mr Bealing, and we could prove that he was planning his escape, Miss Glencoyne would still say this is a very simple and tragic case. That you are the one who killed him. Because you’d been jilted. Because you’d had enough of the loneliness and poverty. There’s enough evidence to suggest you had an affair with him. And, most important of all, your DNA is on that bottle. It either got there because you touched it; or you touched someone who did . . . and for quite a long time.’
Sarah closed her eyes – like Benson had closed them the other night to escape the words of Abasiama. Seeking darkness within darkness. Ralph reached over and took her hand as if to stop her falling over the edge into an abyss. Benson felt for him. His own father had done the same thing. He, too, had looked helpless, choked with emotions he’d never felt before.
‘Reflect carefully on the evidence of Dr Gooding, Sarah,’ said Benson. ‘Have a quiet weekend, like the judge said. Think things through. And if you want to, call me. But remember this. On Monday morning you will go into the witness box. I will ask you to tell your story. And then, I’m afraid, it’s Miss Glencoyne’s turn. I won’t be able to do anything to pr
otect you.’ He wondered what phrase to give her that might work like a key. ‘Don’t be frightened of the truth, Sarah. If you tell the truth, whatever it might be, you’ll remain free for ever . . . even if they send you to prison.’
Benson, Tess and Archie braved the cameras outside the Old Bailey. They walked through them, frowning at the flashes of light; they pressed on, until the clamour and scuffling had died away; until the only person with an eye on them was the bearded saddo in the bomber jacket on the other side of the road.
‘Can’t I land one on him?’ asked Archie again, as if they were back in HMP Lindley.
‘Not today,’ said Benson. ‘Not any day. We’ve moved on, Archie.’
They reached Ludgate. Benson wanted to break out, get away from all that reticence and fear that had been implanted in him by the guilty verdict of a jury. He glanced at Tess. There was a sadness in her that had ignited his attention. He wanted to know how it had got there. Ever since he first noticed it – when she made that Grave Robber thing – he’d been visualising those greeny blue unprotected eyes, summoning them, not voluntarily, but instinctively, against his own need to protect himself. In the café, when he dropped his guard, the words had poured out, but he’d been staring into lonely pools of distant water, knowing she was in there somewhere. He wanted to jump in.