by Peter Murphy
‘What, if anything, did you do?’
‘I went also to stand by her, because I hope then she would be not so much afraid. But she is very afraid. I can see this.’
‘Was your brother standing to Miss Galloway’s right, and were you to her left, and were you both slightly behind her?’
‘Yes, that is true.’
‘What was he shouting about?’
‘Still, he is shouting about the Insalata Caesar. I am telling him: for God’s sake, Luigi, shut up about the Insalata Caesar, who cares, and can’t you see you’re upsetting the customers? But he isn’t listening to me.’
‘Then what happened?’
He hesitates. ‘His hand slips, and the meat cleaver hits Miss Galloway. It is accident. We call ambulance, she go to hospital. That’s all I see.’
Roderick ponders for some time whether to try to fix this. I’m sure he’s been expecting it. You can’t hope for much help with your case from a hostile witness, especially when the witness is the defendant’s brother. Blood, one supposes, is thicker than mayonnaise. But having already come this far, Roderick decides to give it a spin.
‘Well, Mr Ricci, what you saw was the meat cleaver strike Miss Galloway in the shoulder and chest. You don’t know what was in your brother’s mind at the time, do you?’
‘It is accident,’ Alessandro insists stubbornly.
‘What did Luigi do immediately after striking Miss Galloway with the meat cleaver?’
‘The witness didn’t say he struck her with anything, your Honour,’ Julian objects, not unreasonably.
Roderick grits his teeth. ‘What did Luigi do after Miss Galloway had fallen to the floor, bleeding extensively from her wounds?’ he asks.
The witness shakes his head. ‘He sit down in chair. He is in shock. We are all in shock. Valentina call ambulance. She bring towels from kitchen and holds them to stop the blood. Mrs Snape also help her.’
‘Thank you, Mr Ricci,’ Roderick concludes insincerely. ‘I have nothing further, your Honour.’
‘Just one matter,’ Julian says, leaping to his feet. ‘Mr Ricci, did you see what happened to the man we’re calling Arthur after the accident?’
‘He leave restaurant,’ Alessandro replies. ‘He does not return. Where he go, who knows?’
‘Had you ever seen Arthur before that evening?’
‘No.’
‘Or since?’
‘No.
‘Nothing further, your Honour. Thank you, Mr Ricci.’
Roderick seems to have little enthusiasm for taking matters any further this afternoon. By common consent we adjourn until tomorrow, to see whether any further information will come to light about the elusive Arthur.
* * *
Monday evening
Finding myself in something of an Italian frame of mind this evening, I suggest to the Reverend Mrs Walden that we take ourselves off to La Bella Napoli for dinner, a suggestion to which she offers no resistance. I dutifully peruse the menu, but I’m aware that I’m simply going through the motions. I think I could recite the Bella Napoli menu from memory if called upon to do so, but this evening my mind was made up before I ever left home. The temptation to sample the Insalata Caesar is overwhelming, and as I’ve been regaling the Reverend with the saga of the Ricci family salad wars on the way to the restaurant, she is also keen to know whether or not we can tell eggs from mayonnaise. There’s no chilled garlic soup on the menu, so we start with a tasty antipastiera, a basket of bread, and a bottle of the house Chianti, a vintage I doubt Julian Blanquette would approve of, but more than adequate to the occasion.
We are slightly disappointed when the salads arrive from the kitchen. I’d hoped that Tony, La Bella Napoli’s owner and head chef, might fancy giving us a demonstration of the classic tableside procedure, which would not only add a piece of culinary theatre but would also tell us on which side of the egg–mayonnaise divide the Bella Napoli kitchen stands. Instead, the salad is presented to us fully formed on the plate. Nonetheless it is delicious, and although I’d been fairly sure that I would know one way or the other more or less instantly, by the time I’ve eaten the final mouthful I’ve changed my mind three times, finally opting without any real conviction for the mayonnaise. The Reverend Mrs Walden, after similar vacillations, comes down on the side of the eggs. There’s nothing for it but to ask.
After dessert, as is his wont, Tony approaches with the offer of a Sambuca or Limoncello on the house to go with our coffee. I invite him to stay and have one with us, and as it’s getting late and his sous-chefs can manage the remaining sprinkling of diners easily enough, he cheerfully agrees, pulls up a chair, and pours us all a stiff Limoncello.
‘The eggs,’ Tony informs us without hesitation after I’ve explained the reason for my inquiry. ‘That’s the way I was taught. I know there are some chefs who use mayonnaise, but to be honest, if you’re going to do that, you may as well serve some commercial Caesar dressing out of a bottle and have done with it.’
‘Told you,’ the Reverend beams, sticking her tongue out at me. I reciprocate.
‘So, there’s definitely a right way and a wrong way?’ I ask.
‘In my opinion, yes. But all chefs have strong opinions about the food they prepare. And yes, it’s true that British tastes are different: you know, there are people who want salad cream on everything, and there are people who want ketchup or brown sauce on everything. But I don’t think we should change our cuisine just for that reason. If you make it properly with the eggs, an Insalata Caesar should be plenty sweet enough, in addition to the other tastes, the anchovies and the cheese and so on. The only question is whether it’s a well-made salad.’
‘Do you ever make it tableside?’ the Reverend asks.
‘In the old days, in Napoli, always,’ Tony replies, wistfully. ‘But in Italy people have more time. It takes up a lot of time to prepare the salad tableside all evening. Service takes longer throughout the restaurant. The problem is, people are always in such a hurry here. They have some place to be after dinner, or they have to go back to work after dinner – you know what I’m saying. We’re losing the art of the leisurely dinner, when everything may take a bit longer but the whole evening is devoted to dinner, so it doesn’t matter; when everyone is talking and enjoying the wine, and no one minds if it’s all a little slower. Then, we can practise the old skills. But as things are in this country…’ he sees her looking disappointed. ‘But I tell you what, Mrs Walden, next time you’re here, ask for me, and I will make it for you tableside – if I can still remember how to do it.’
She laughs. ‘Grazie, Signor Antonio.’
‘Prego, Signora.’
‘Tony,’ I ask, ‘do you know these Ricci characters by any chance?’
He smiles. ‘Primavera Toscana? Oh, yes. They’re what you might call a bit of a local legend.’
‘In what way?’
He nods, and refills our glasses. Then he raises the first finger of his right hand, and taps the right side of his nose several times.
‘I probably shouldn’t say too much, Mr Walden. But I’ll guarantee you one thing: whatever the problem was with those guys when this incident happened, it’s not about the right way to make Insalata Caesar. I’ll guarantee you that.’
* * *
Tuesday morning
The Standard having done full justice to the Insalata Caesar controversy overnight, with several of its regular columnists thoughtfully contributing their own recipes, Elsie and Jeanie are left questioning whether it’s even safe to go out to dinner any more. It’s not a question of whether the Caesar salad is prepared tableside or in the kitchen: it’s a question of whether anyone’s even safe in restaurants any more, what with mad cooks stomping around everywhere waving meat cleavers.
‘I mean, what had that poor girl ever done to him, sir?’ Elsie asks. ‘All she did was go for an eve
ning out, and the next thing you know, she ends up being stabbed because the chef doesn’t like the way his own kitchen made her dinner.’
‘It’s like a postcode lottery, innit?’ Jeanie replies. ‘Except, it’s not the postcodes, it’s what’s on the menu. If you choose the wrong thing from the menu, the chef comes after you with a big knife. How are people supposed to know what to choose with all that going on?’
‘I blame those chefs on TV,’ Elsie says, ‘the famous ones, the so-called chefs to the stars. I mean, just look at them. They’re always swearing and carrying on, aren’t they? Some of them even throw things at the people working with them while they’re abusing them. And then they blame them for making a mess of the salad. Their nerves must be in shreds, poor things. I’m surprised they can even find the lettuce, let alone make a salad. And these people are on TV. What are young people supposed to think when they see that kind of thing going on? They’re paid enough, aren’t they, these chefs? They should set a better example.’
Jeanie smiles. ‘Here you are, sir. One latte, and one ham and cheese bap with mayonnaise. Or I can do you one with raw eggs, sir, if you prefer.’
‘No, thank you, Jeanie, this one will be fine,’ I reply.
I hear them giggling as I make my way over to George’s newspaper stand.
‘Got a nice salad for lunch, have we, guv?’ he chuckles.
‘Don’t you start, George,’ I reply.
‘No, but it’s shocking, guv, innit? And it’s only because it’s foreign food, innit? I mean, you don’t see people knifing each other over the best way to make fish and chips or bangers and mash, do you?’
‘My mother had her own way of making Yorkshire pudding,’ I reply. ‘She and my aunt argued about it for years.’ I’m not quite sure why I’ve volunteered this information.
‘I don’t suppose they took a knife to each other though, guv, did they?’ George persists.
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘No, well, that’s it, innit? It’s just your foreigners, innit? Anyway, guv, I’ve got a little something you might want to take a look at this morning.’
‘Oh, yes?’
George has an uncanny knack of finding news items affecting his customers. It’s almost like having your own personal archivist, and over the years he’s unearthed any number of stories affecting the court, or yours truly, stories which otherwise would have passed me by until it was too late. How he does it, I have no idea. This morning he’s brandishing a copy of the Daily Telegraph in addition to The Times. I don’t usually buy anything other than The Times, but I’ve learned to take George at his word when he says there’s something worth reading elsewhere.
‘Page eighteen,’ he says with a grin, handing me my change.
I take my seat behind my desk, take my first sip of my latte, and turn to page eighteen. Once again, George is right. Page eighteen contains today’s letters to the Editor and one letter, in a prominent position at the top of the page, catches my eye immediately.
Failures to Disclose Evidence
From His Honour Judge Hubert Drake
Sir,
I am writing in the hope that you will allow me to bring to the attention of your readers the disgraceful and increasingly common practice of the prosecution in the Crown Court of withholding relevant and sometimes exculpatory evidence from the defence. I need hardly point out the potential of this practice to cause miscarriages of justice.
Recently I had occasion to stay proceedings as an abuse of the process of the Court when the prosecution failed to disclose a large quantity of relevant evidence to the defence, which put the defendant at a hopeless disadvantage and might well have resulted in an incorrect verdict of guilty. When I confronted prosecution counsel with this conduct on the prosecution’s part, he was unaware of the reason for it. I asked him to take instructions, which he did. I was then told that if the evidence had been disclosed, defence counsel would have been paid too much of the taxpayer’s money in fees for reading it. I was scarcely able to believe my ears. Leaving aside the fact that the amount of fees payable to defence counsel is no business of the prosecution, it is a piece of extraordinary arrogance for the prosecution to think that they are somehow the guardians of the public purse, and as such are entitled to dispense or withhold evidence in accordance with their own view of the country’s economic situation. I make clear that counsel was not to blame for this situation. He had not known of the reason for the decision and was visibly appalled by it.
I understand from colleagues that this practice is becoming widespread. Whether it is the result of deliberate malpractice, or of prosecutors being overworked, lack of experience or training, or simply administrative chaos caused by having too many cooks in the kitchen, I have no way of knowing. But it must be stopped before fair trials in this country become a thing of the past. We judges can’t do it all. The lead must come from our politicians. But so far, they seem to be burying their heads in the sand, as usual.
Yours sincerely,
Hubert Drake
Bermondsey Crown Court
Stella knocks and enters my chambers, Daily Telegraph in hand.
‘Good morning, Judge,’ she says in the doom-laden tone of impending disaster for which she is renowned at court. She sees the copy already open on my desk. ‘I didn’t know whether you’d seen it, so I thought I’d better bring my copy, just in case.’
‘Good morning, Stella. Have you seen Judge Drake?’
‘Yes. But I didn’t say anything. I know you’ll want to speak to him yourself. He’s in chambers, if you want to catch him before he goes into court.’
I shake my head. ‘No. I’ll talk to him later. I need some time to work out what to say.’
‘Well, I’m afraid you won’t have as much time as you might like for that, Judge.’
‘Oh? Why might that be?’
‘Because the Grey Smoothies are coming for lunch, and they want to speak to you and Judge Drake together. They called a few minutes ago.’
Roderick has asked for the jury to be kept out of court so that he can bring me up to date about the hunt for Arthur.
‘We haven’t found him yet, your Honour,’ he explains. ‘But we have had what may be a piece of luck. DS McGeorge checked the emergency call records again, and it appears that there were two 999 calls made that evening about the events at Primavera Toscana, not just one. The jury have been told about the call made from the restaurant by Valentina Ricci. But there was also a call made about five minutes later by a man who refused to give his name. That call was made from a telephone box in Tower Bridge Road, a short walk from Queen Elizabeth Street and Primavera Toscana. The piece of luck we’ve had is that there is CCTV footage showing a man answering Arthur’s description entering the phone box at the time the call was made. It’s surprising to find footage that hasn’t been erased after such a long time, but it seems that the local authority held on to a number of tapes from that period because there had been an upsurge in vandalism in the area, and when DS McGeorge checked they were able to provide it to him.’
‘Does that mean we may be able to identify Arthur?’ I ask.
‘DS McGeorge is working on it with other officers as we speak, your Honour. The question is going to be whether the CCTV image corresponds with any pictures the police may have, or with any in the public domain. The quality of the image is quite good, so DS McGeorge thinks it will be possible to match it. The question is whether there’s anything to match it with.’
‘I see. All right. What do you want to do while that search is going on?’
‘I see no reason not to press on with the evidence, your Honour,’ Roderick replies. ‘I can read the medical evidence, and then take the next witness.’
‘Mr Blanquette?’
‘I have no problem with any of that, your Honour,’ Julian replies, ‘as long as it’s understood that if Arthur is found,
and depending on what he has to say, I may ask for certain witnesses to be recalled; and I wouldn’t want to be called on to start my case until we know one way or the other.’
‘I quite understand that, your Honour,’ Roderick says, ‘and of course, I’ll give my learned friend every assistance.’
‘Yes, all right,’ I agree. ‘Let’s have the jury back.’
As foretold in Roderick’s opening, the undisputed medical evidence leaves no doubt that Linda Galloway had a near brush with death. The meat cleaver hit her shoulder and the right side of her chest, causing serious wounds. She sustained damage to her collarbone, and to the muscles in her neck and chest. She also lost a lot of blood: but not as much as she might have – the cleaver missed Miss Galloway’s subclavian artery and her anterior jugular vein by a matter of millimetres. Had either been severed, she might well have bled to death before the ambulance arrived, in which case Luigi Ricci would now be at the Old Bailey facing a more serious charge. As Roderick reads the evidence to the jury in his usual dry measured tones, you can see their lips tightening. To help that process along, Roderick also produces her heavily bloodstained dress and shoes in plastic exhibit bags, which Dawn happily holds up for the jury to peruse to their heart’s content.
Next, Roderick calls Valentina Ricci. She’s a strikingly pretty young woman with dark eyes and long black hair, dressed in a sharp red shirt and designer jeans, with moderately high-heeled black shoes. She doesn’t want to be here any more than her father, you can tell, but she’s not going to be sullen about it. For her, it’s more of a sad occasion. She will go through the motions of protest, but at the end of the day she knows that there is nowhere to hide. After giving Roderick her name and age, and the fact that she is Alessandro Ricci’s daughter and Luigi’s niece, she quietly tells me that she doesn’t want to give evidence that might hurt a member of her family.
‘What would happen if I don’t answer any questions?’ she asks me.