Nine O'Clock Bus To Brompton

by Kevin Fitzpatrick

  “No, further questions, My Lord.” Smith sat down.

  Davina, who had sat through the testimony without raising any objections, smiled indulgently in Danny’s direction.

  Don, who was sitting in the gallery next to Mavis Jackman, was growing concerned. After his experience giving evidence the day before, he knew only too well that this very attractive lady barrister’s beauty was like that of the tiger, smiling before devouring its prey.

  “Danny,” she said as she began her cross-examination, “am I right in assuming that you are someone who is fond of nature?”

  “I like animals, if that’s what you mean, Miss.”

  “You’ve been brought up in the countryside?”

  “Yes, Miss.”

  “So, you know all about the seasons, when to plant, when to harvest, that sort of thing?”

  “Miss Cooper,” the judge interjected, “I trust this line of questioning is taking us somewhere?”

  “Indeed it is, My Lord,” Davina replied. “If I could crave the court’s indulgence for just another few minutes, it will all become clear.”

  The judge nodded his assent, and Davina turned back to Danny. “So, Danny, do you know about the phases of the moon?”

  “Yeah, of course I do,” the boy replied. “Everyone does.”

  “No, not everyone, Danny, only clever country folk like you. Some city people know nothing about the moon other than the fact it’s in the sky.”

  Danny snorted derision.

  “So, you definitely know when it’s a full moon, like you described in your evidence?”

  “A full moon’s a full moon. It can’t be anything else.”

  “And you are certain you saw the lady dancing in the light of a full moon?”

  “Yes, Miss, definitely.”

  “Do you like stories, Danny?”

  “Sometimes,” the boy answered cautiously.

  “Do you sometimes make up stories?”

  “Miss Cooper!” The judge was angry. “If you intend to accuse the witness of telling lies, perhaps you could be a bit more direct and simply put it to him.”

  “Well, Danny, are you telling lies?”

  “No, I’m not!” shouted Danny. “Look!” he said and poked his tongue out. “It goes black when you tell lies, and it’s not black, is it?”

  “Do you recognise this, Danny?” Davina held up a white paper booklet. “It’s called Old Moore’s Almanac.”

  “Yeah, my dad’s got one. He’s always looking at it.”

  “My Lord,” Davina spoke to the judge, “I’ve taken the liberty of acquiring some extra copies.” She indicated a pile of almanacs on her desk. “May I show them to the court?”

  “Proceed.”

  The usher passed a copy to judge, then another to Danny, another to Smith, and finally gave one to the foreman of the jury.

  “I’ve indicated the appropriate passage,” said Davina, “and it clearly shows that on the night of the murder, there was no full moon. The previous one happened several days before the night in question, and the next was nearly three weeks later.”

  “Danny,” she continued, “I put it to you that you’ve made all this up. You weren’t there at all on the night Mrs Hoskins died, were you? It’s all lies, isn’t it?”

  Danny burst into tears. “No, no, it’s true, isn’t it, Mum? Tell them!” he looked pleadingly towards his mum who sat ashen-faced in the gallery.

  A murmur ran around the courtroom, and the judge tapped his gavel to call for order.

  “Have you finished questioning the witness?” he asked Davina.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Mr Smith?”

  Smith was totally taken aback. “My lord, there’s obviously an anomaly in the evidence that will have to be cleared up by the police. May I suggest a twenty-four-hour adjournment to allow us to investigate further?”

  “Have you any objection, Miss Cooper?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “In that case, we’ll adjourn to eleven am tomorrow at which point I would like to see both counsel in my chambers.”

  When the usher called the court to rise, Danny’s mum glared at Don then rushed forward to comfort her son. Don walked out into the lobby where he found Johnson pacing up and down, wondering what on earth was going on.

  When Don had explained to Johnson what had happened, the detective said, “Christ! What a cock-up! Where’s the boy now?”

  Don looked around, but the Jackmans were nowhere to be seen. He ran to the exit door just in time to see Mavis and her son pulling out onto Tilehurst Road in the family Land Rover.

  “Right,” said Johnson when Don got back to him. “I’ll speak to the superintendent. It’s probably best if you bugger off home. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Don went home, booked off duty and changed out of uniform. To cheer him up, Rosemary cooked him a nice dinner, and the two of them had just settled down in front of the television to watch Crossroads when the front doorbell rang. Rosemary got up to answer the door.

  “Don, it’s Dave here to see you,” she said, leading DS Johnson into the living room.

  “Sorry to bother you both,” Johnson said. “Can we chat, Don?”

  “I’ve told Rosemary what happened today,” Don said. “So it’s okay talk in front of her.”

  Johnson smiled at Rosemary. “Well, you won’t be surprised to hear the governor’s not exactly delighted at today’s fiasco. The bollockings will start tomorrow at the Chief Constable’s daily briefing – unless, that is, we can come up with some answers asap.”

  “Dave, I honestly don’t know what to say. I would have sworn Danny was telling the truth. You saw him today, what did you think?”

  “For what it’s worth, I agree with you, but I can’t see how he can be. I need to talk to him and find out what’s going on. But to be honest, mate, it’s a bit embarrassing. I’ve been trying to get to see him all afternoon, but I’m buggered if I can find the bloody house!”

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Don laughed. “That’s always happening around here,” he said. “The fact is, I haven’t got a clue myself, I’ve never been to his address, I only saw him here in the office. Tell you what though, I’ll give Emily Pritchard a bell and see if she can give us some directions.”

  Johnson was happily drinking tea and chatting to Rosemary when Don came back from his office. The young officer was holding a scrap of paper and looking amused.

  “Right, I’m pretty sure I know where it is, but I reckon I better come with you, it’s a bit complicated.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind, Don, that would be great. Stay as you are, though, look fine. You can drive my motor if you like.”

  Don took Johnson’s Cortina out of the village and across to the nearby common where he turned off the road and began driving along some unmade roads through Forestry Commission land towards some distant pastures where two ancient cottages stood side by side at the foot of a low hill. He pulled up outside one of the cottages and looked triumphantly over to his passenger.

  “Bloody hell, Don! I’d never have found this place. Are you sure you can get us back out of here without getting lost?”

  Before Don could reply, the door of the cottage opened, and a man strode out towards them. The man was not especially tall but was powerfully built. He was the quintessential farm labourer. He was wearing moleskin trousers with working boots, and the sleeves of his red check shirt were rolled up, revealing the knotted muscles of his forearms.

  Don noticed the heavy leather belt that held up the man’s trousers and wondered if that was the source of young Danny’s terror of punishment.

  Dave was out of the car in an instant. “Mr Jackman?” he enquired. “I’m Detective Sergeant Johnson from the murder investigation team. I take it you’ve heard what happened in court today?”

  “Yes, Mave told me.” Jackman sounded less than pleased. “I suppose you better come in.”

  He led the two policemen to the front of his cottage
where he stopped and turned before opening the door.

  “Look,” he said quietly, “my Danny’s a good boy, but a bit slow. I wouldn’t take too much notice of anything he says to you, if you know what I mean. He doesn’t really tell lies – but he’s not always all there.”

  “Thanks for that,” said Johnson reassuringly. “We’ll certainly keep that in mind.”

  The men entered the cottage and nearly gagged at the strong smell of freshly cooked rabbit. The front door led into an open-plan kitchen with a concrete floor, and there was a large wooden table in the centre of the room. Danny was seated at a smaller table operating a metal contraption with a long handle. There was a basket of used shotgun cartridges by his foot and another row of cartridges lined up in front of him.

  “He’s reloading spent cartridges for me,” said Dad by way of explanation. “My boss has a regular shoot on his land, and we tidy up after them. I get to keep the used shells as payment. Our Danny’s not much at schoolwork, but he’s really good with his hands.”

  “And his eyes, the dirty little pervert!” The men turned to see an attractive girl of about seventeen coming down the stairs that led to the upper story of the cottage. “He’s been going through my stuff again,” she continued.

  Jackman’s expression darkened. “Is that true, boy?” he asked menacingly.

  “The policemen don’t want to hear all our troubles, do you, Mr Barton?” This time it was Mavis Jackman who spoke as she joined the company from a back room.

  “We just want a word with Danny about his evidence today,” said Johnson. “If that’s all right with you, Mr Jackman?”

  “I suppose it has to be,” said Jackman grudgingly. “Just remember what I told you.”

  “We won’t keep you long. It’s just about this question of timing that came up in court today. We need to go back over a couple of details. Mrs Jackman, when did Danny first tell you about the dancers in the woods?”

  “Only a couple of days before I went to the police office,” the woman replied. “We explained to Mr Barton why Danny took so long telling me.”

  She stole an accusing glance at her husband who retorted, “We keep ourselves to ourselves around here. It never pays to get involved with these Londoners.”

  “Yes, I understand that.” (I’m glad you do! thought Don.) “But, Danny,” Johnson addressed the boy directly, “when did you first realise that the lady you saw dancing was the one who got killed?”

  “Straight away, when I saw her picture in the paper,” the boy said.

  “Which newspaper was that?” Johnson enquired.

  “The local paper, the Newbury Weekly News,” Mavis answered for her son.

  “Have you still got it?”

  “As a matter of fact, we probably have,” said Jackman indicating a large pile of newspapers standing beside the unlit fireplace. “We save them for the winter to light the fire with.”

  It took several minutes to locate the edition in question and, sure enough, the front page featured a full-face photograph of Suzanne Hoskins. The picture had obviously been taken some years previously, and Don guessed it was a file copy, probably furnished by the News of the World photo library.

  “So, you get the paper every week?” said Johnson. “I’m surprised the paperboy can find you all the way out here.”

  “Well, we don’t get it delivered,” said Jackman. “My boss at the farm gets it every week, and he gives it to me when he’s finished with it. It’s a week out of date, but that doesn’t matter. I mean it costs me nothing, and we mostly use it for the fire anyway.”

  “Yes, but I knew about that when Danny showed me,” said Mrs Jackman. “That’s how I knew it was the night of the murder. Danny said he saw the picture right away, so I knocked a week off the date and realised it must have been the same night.”

  “Just a minute,” said Mr Jackman. “Show me that paper again.”

  Johnson handed it over, and Jackman stared at it for a full minute or so.

  “I actually bought this paper,” he said finally. “The boss was away on holiday, and all the blokes at work were on about the murder, so I picked this up at the village shop.”

  The colour drained out of Mrs Jackman’s face, and she grasped the back of a chair for support.

  “Oh, bloody hell, you did and all. I totally forgot that,” she said. “Oh bugger! It looks like I’ve been leading you all up the garden path. Oh God, I am so sorry, it was my fault entirely. Danny can’t read so he wouldn’t have known. Oh dear, what can I say?”

  “Please don’t worry, Mrs Jackman,” said Johnson, giving her a warm, friendly smile. “There’s no real harm done as long as you’re sure of what you’re telling me.”

  “Yes, I am sure now. Oh dear, what have I done?”

  “Look we’re just pleased to get it all sorted out. You still did the right thing coming forward. We’ll just grab a quick statement off each of you to cover the anomaly then we’ll leave you in peace.”

  “Will we have to go back to court in the morning?”

  “Not unless we send for you. I’ll give you a ring once the judge decides what to do.”

  “Will Danny get into trouble?”

  “No, not now we know it was an honest mistake. God, the jails would be full of witnesses if everyone who got something wrong were to get prosecuted.”

  Mave gave him a grateful smile. “Make the tea, love,” she said to her daughter. “I think we could all do with one.”

  The girl scowled but nevertheless walked over to the kettle to do as she’d been bid.

  It was getting late when the two policemen finally drove back to Don’s house in Brompton.

  “Fancy a quick drink before going back?” said Don.

  “No thanks, mate. Another time though. I best get back; it’s been a long day – and I’m not as confident as you driving around these country roads at night. Thanks for coming out though, I’d never have found that place by myself.”

  “I’m just happy that the error got sorted before it caused a problem. I didn’t like that Jackman chap though, did you?”

  “An honest, country, working man is my assessment. But I wouldn’t fancy being in poor Danny’s shoes tonight if that sister of his carries on telling tales.”

  “You’re right there! That leather belt is the stuff nightmares are made from. It’s no wonder we’ve got so many perverts in this country with dads like Jackman around.”

  “I’m afraid so. Anyway, I’m off, we can chat tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Dave. I’ll see you in court.”

  Don watched as Johnson drove off before going indoors. As he entered his home, he had the sudden realisation of how lucky he was to be going back for an evening of love and warmth with Rosemary – unlike poor Danny who he’d had to abandon to the tender mercies of his leather-belted father.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The Verdict

  Johnson and another man were sitting at the big table waiting in the police office at the Crown Court when Don arrived the next day.

  “Good morning, Don,” said Johnson. “Have you met Superintendent Merryweather?”

  “Er, no. Good morning, Sir.”

  “Sit down and shut up, Barton. I’ll tell you when I want you to speak.”

  The superintendent obviously didn’t bother with niceties. So, feeling a bit like a naughty schoolboy, Don did as he was told and sat down next to Johnson.

  “The Chief Constable is spitting feathers over this cock-up of yours,” Merryweather continued. “And I’m here to get it sorted before we all end up with egg on our faces. To be honest, Barton, it’s not you I blame.” He glared pointedly at Johnson. “An experienced detective should have interviewed that boy and checked every aspect of his statement long before it ever went on the file, let alone ended up here in court.”

  His haranguing of the two men was abruptly curtailed when the barrister, Smith, breezed into the room.

  Sensing the tense atmosphere, he said, “Sorry, gents, have I i
nterrupted something?”

  “No, Mr Smith, these two were just getting a well-deserved bollocking, but we can forget that for the moment. What have you got to tell us?”

  “The good news is that the judge has accepted the Jackmans’ explanation and young Danny is off the hook as far as telling lies is concerned.”

  “And the bad news?” asked Merryweather.

  “Well, it was agreed that this evidence should never have been given. Of course, it’s too late to withdraw it now and the jury are in danger of being prejudiced towards the defendant. Consequently, the judge offered to order a retrial.”

  “With all the expense and trouble that would cause,” said Merryweather, conscious of the cost of a murder investigation. “All over the death of a London tart. I know it shouldn’t matter, but not everybody will see it that way.”

  “Quite. However, the defence have offered an alternative. If we agree to drop the murder and kidnap charges, they’ll submit a plea of guilty to involuntary manslaughter.”

  “What!” shouted Don. “Drop the kidnap? That was one of the most traumatic events of my life. I think I’m lucky to even still be alive.”

  “There’s also the matter of this officer’s claim for criminal injuries.” To the young officer’s surprise, Merryweather actually seemed to be taking Don’s side in this.

  “The judge was mindful of that and suggested that the charge could be left on the file but not proceeded with. The defence were reluctant at first but did eventually agree to it.”

  Don fell silent. He did indeed have a claim with CICB – perhaps this was the judge’s way of ensuring a good settlement.

  “How does the judge feel about the plea?” asked Johnson.

  “To be honest, I suspect it was mostly his idea. A sentence of three years has been mentioned.”

  “That’s rubbish!” said Don, fuming once again. “Those two little sods have stolen a car, been swanning about the countryside flogging hard drugs, procuring youngsters for the purposes of child pornography, ending up with killing an innocent member of the public – and we’re talking three years! Seriously?”