by Peter Murphy
‘Oh, really, your Honour…’ Aubrey complains.
‘Sorry, your Honour,’ Cathy replies with a casual wave of the hand, before I can tell her to knock it off. ‘I’ll move on. Marcus told you repeatedly, didn’t he, that he was in fear of your family, and that’s why he was going to marry you?’
‘No.’
‘He told you that your father and Trevor had threatened him, and I’m going to use his exact language: that if he didn’t marry you, the boys would be round, and he’d be lucky to get out alive?’
‘No. That’s ridiculous.’
‘Is it? Did Mr Findlay-Smyth know about their convictions at the Old Bailey for blackmail and grievous bodily harm?’
She lowers her eyes for a moment. ‘Yes. I told him about that.’
‘Why? To make sure he understood what he was up against if he didn’t marry you?’
‘No. I just thought it was only fair that he should know something about the family he was marrying into.’
Cathy nods and takes a pause for breath. ‘Did Marcus tell you that he has relatives living in the United States?’
‘Yes. One of his brothers moved to America: Edgar. Marcus told me that Edgar didn’t want to work for the family bank. He took his share of the inheritance and moved there. I never met him, but Marcus said he had a big ranch and he was doing well for himself.’
‘In the State of Utah, is that right?’
‘Yes, out in the country somewhere.’
‘And did Mr Findlay-Smyth also tell you that Edgar was a Mormon by religion?’
She thinks for some time. ‘Yes. He may have mentioned that.’
Cathy nods. ‘Lastly, Deborah, I think I’m right in saying that Mr Findlay-Smyth has not lived with you since his arrest. He moved out, and you and Charlotte have been living on your own in the flat on Park Walk: is that correct?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Is it also correct that despite his arrest, and despite knowing that you would be giving evidence against him, Mr Findlay-Smyth has continued to support you and Charlotte financially, exactly as he did before his arrest?’
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ she agrees.
‘Thank you, Deborah,’ Cathy concludes, sitting down.
‘Your Honour, I will call James Harhoff,’ Aubrey announces.
James Harhoff is a tall, thin man with a shock of hair in the process of turning from black to silver, and a slow, dignified walk. He’s wearing a black suit that looks a little threadbare in places, and a red and green tartan tie that has also seen better days. He takes the oath with a pleasant, understated Highlands accent.
‘Mr Harhoff, are you the brother of Monica Harhoff?’
‘I am, sir.’
‘Sadly, I believe your sister passed away in November 2016, is that right?’
‘Aye, sadly she did.’
‘And she died of natural causes?’
‘She died of breast cancer.’
‘Yes. Mr Harhoff, I won’t keep you long. I don’t have much to ask you. But on the twenty-seventh of June 1998, at about one o’clock in the afternoon, were you present at a church in Edinburgh known as the Canongate Kirk?’
‘I was, sir.’
‘Is that church in fact a kirk belonging to the Church of Scotland?’
‘Aye, right enough. As the name suggests, it is situated in Canongate in the Old Town in Edinburgh.’
‘Thank you. Mr Harhoff, what was your purpose in attending the kirk on that occasion?’
‘I was there to witness and celebrate the marriage of my sister, Monica, to Marcus Findlay-Smyth.’
‘Do you see Marcus Findlay-Smyth in court today?’
Without undue haste, he turns towards the dock. ‘He’s the man sitting next to the officer, sir.’
‘Did your sister Monica and Mr Findlay-Smyth attend the kirk on that occasion?’
‘Aye, they did.’
‘And in your presence and hearing, did Mr Findlay-Smyth participate in the marriage ceremony, and did he exchange marriage vows with your sister Monica?’
‘He did.’
‘Were you one of the official witnesses?’
‘I was, sir.’
‘And do you produce to the court a certified copy of the certificate of the marriage celebrated on the twenty-seventh of June 1998 between your sister Monica and Mr Findlay-Smyth, bearing your signature as a witness?’
The witness produces the certificate from his inside jacket pocket and hands it to Dawn, who in turn rushes over to present it to Aubrey.
‘Mr Harhoff, how do you come to be in possession of this certificate?’
‘I’m the executor of my sister’s estate, and so I’m in possession of all her personal papers. I found the certificate among them.’
‘Your Honour, may this be Exhibit two? I do have a solicitor qualified in Scotland on standby if my learned friend requires formal proof of the certificate under Scots law…’
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Cathy responds at once. ‘I have no objection.’
‘That will be Exhibit two, then,’ I confirm.
‘I’m much obliged, your Honour,’ Aubrey says. ‘Mr Harhoff, let me turn to another matter. Did your sister and Mr Findlay-Smyth live together as husband and wife after their marriage?’
‘Aye, they did.’
‘Where were they living?’
‘They lived in what we call the New Town district of the city. Marcus had bought a flat in one of the older houses in George Street, not far from St Andrew Square.’ He turns towards me, and for the first time there’s a suggestion of a smile. ‘Marcus was nae short of the odd shilling, ye ken, sir; and he was nae shy about splashing it around.’
The jury laugh, and I sense them warming to this quiet, modest man. In a few words and without being asked, he’s giving us a picture of the lifestyle the defendant chose for himself in Edinburgh, and it bears an obvious resemblance to the one he established in London.
‘Do you know why they lived in Edinburgh? Is your family from Edinburgh?’
‘No, sir. The family hails from Inverness for more than three hundred years. I believe we once had some Danish ancestry, from which we take our name, but we’re proud Highlanders. So no, Edinburgh’s not a family home, but Marcus’s bank has an office in Edinburgh, so it was the natural place for them to settle.’
‘Where were you yourself living in 1998?’
‘In Edinburgh also: I have the family home in Inverness, but I’ve also lived in Edinburgh for many a year now. I’m an academic at the university for my sins, in the faculty of History.’
‘Yes, I see. Did you visit your sister’s flat in George Street after the marriage?’
‘Aye, usually once a week, or at least once every fortnight.’
‘What did you observe about Mr Findlay-Smyth on the occasions when you visited the flat?’
The witness sniffs dismissively. ‘The main thing I noticed about him was that he was nae there most of the time.’
Aubrey nods. ‘When you say, “most of the time”, can you be a little more specific?’
Harhoff looks up at me. ‘I may have been a wee bit unfair tae the man when I said, “most of the time”, sir, and I dinnae want to be unfair tae him. But he was away a good half of the year, from my own observation, and from what my sister told me, naturally.’
Cathy is thinking about rising to her feet, but Aubrey nods almost imperceptibly.
‘I’m not allowed to ask you what your sister told you, Mr Harhoff.’
‘I’m a historian, sir,’ Harhoff replies. ‘I know all about hearsay.’ There is laughter, with the jury joining in. ‘But from what I observed myself, it was a good part of the year.’
‘And do you mean that he was absent continuously for a good part of the year, or that he was coming and going at various times du
ring the year?’
‘He would come and go. Half the time, Monica didn’t know when he would turn up, or how long he would stay, and I’m not sure he knew himself.’
‘Leaving aside anything your sister may have said, did Mr Findlay-Smyth himself give you any explanation for his absences?’
‘He did, sir. He always said that he regretted being away, but he had to spend time at the London office, and also go abroad to the offices in Hong Kong and wherever else they had them.’
Aubrey pauses for a moment. ‘To the best of your knowledge, did your sister ever know about Deborah Jane Martineau, or know that her husband had been through a ceremony of marriage with Deborah?
‘Not that she ever said; and I’m sure she would have told me if she had known.’ He smiles grimly. ‘She would have told him, as well,’ he adds. ‘You can bet every penny you have on that.’
‘From your own observation, how did your sister feel about being on her own for these prolonged periods?’
‘She didnae like it, sir, I can tell you that; but she was never one to complain. She kept her feelings to herself, and whenever I asked her about him, she would make excuses for him, “Look at how hard he works” and such like. He was very generous with money, sir, I will give him that. She never wanted for anything, and if she ever asked him for money she would have it.’ He pauses. ‘So I will give him his due. The only thing I can never forgive him for is not coming more often when she was in her final illness.’
‘Are you saying that he was away when she was dying from breast cancer?’ Aubrey asks.
I can feel Cathy holding herself down in her seat. If she objected to this as irrelevant she would have a point, and Cathy finds it hard to resist any objection that has half a chance of success. But she’s right to resist it now. There’s no protecting the defendant from this consequence of his actions – at least, not without turning the jury against him for the very attempt.
‘He kept the same schedule as he did when she was well,’ Harhoff replies, ‘and there’s nothing hearsay about that: I was with her myself almost every day. She was diagnosed six months before she died: sadly, they didnae find it in time to save her. She was in hospital for surgery, she had chemotherapy, and then back to hospital the final time: and if he was with her for three weeks during that whole time I would be very surprised. He didnae come even when I rang the London office and left word that she wasn’t expected to live though the week.’
Harhoff stops for some time, then turns towards the dock.
‘And for that,’ he adds, ‘I will never forgive him. I had little affection for Marcus in any circumstances. But for not being with her when the end came I will never forgive him.’
A silence pervades the courtroom. When the jury and I eventually tear our eyes away from the witness box, we notice that Aubrey has quietly resumed his seat. I look at Cathy. Without standing, she shakes her head briefly. I thank James Harhoff for his evidence and wish him a good trip back to Scotland.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he replies. ‘But if it’s all the same to you, I will stay and observe the proceedings.’
I tell Mr Harhoff he is most welcome to stay, and he takes a seat unobtrusively in the public gallery. But there isn’t going to be much in the way of proceedings for him to observe this afternoon. The two Martineau family enforcers, I’m told, have been contacted and will be brought to court to give evidence tomorrow morning, whether they want to or not. Understandably, Aubrey doesn’t want to call DI Bairstow, the officer in the case, before the court has heard what they have to say. In the meanwhile all that can be accomplished is to provide the jury with some agreed facts, mostly times, dates and places; and to read to them the undisputed evidence of Alice Clegg, the bright young HMRC officer who triggered the investigation by spotting that something was amiss while ploughing through the defendant’s tax returns. When this has been done, we adjourn for the day.
I have been greatly tempted to ask Aubrey and Cathy into chambers for tea this afternoon, to find out what they know about Hubert losing the plot. But out of caution, I prefer to be as prepared as I can before I throw that particular cat among the pigeons, and I decide, first, to acquaint myself with the related cases of Bourne and Karsten that Hubert was trying when the plot was supposedly lost. To my considerable satisfaction, I succeed in retrieving the files on my computer from the paperless court without any help.
But they turn out to be a bit of a disappointment: there’s not much in the way of clues. Both were cases of benefit fraud, albeit somewhat more sophisticated than the usual case in which the claimant simply lies about his circumstances and waits to be found out. In both cases, there was a sporting attempt to cover the fraud up, similar enough in fact to suggest that Messrs Bourne and Karsten had colluded in cooking it up together over a taxpayer-funded pint or two in their local. They had originally been jointly indicted, but since there was nothing else to link them to what were otherwise completely separate offences, Hubert had ordered that they be tried separately – a decision I can’t criticise at all. As Stella said, he had also ordered that they be tried back to back – probably not such a good idea, as jurors from the first and second trials were likely to be mingling together in the jury lounge during the mornings and at lunchtime: but he may have had good reasons for taking that risk, and in any case it hardly amounts to losing the plot. All things considered, I find myself none the wiser.
* * *
Monday evening
On the way home I remind myself of Marcus Findlay-Smyth’s hint that in his religious universe, bigamy is not an offence. I’ve been more preoccupied today with what appears to be his current defence of duress, and I haven’t really focused on the alternative scenario. But as I walk back to the vicarage, the spectre returns to my mind. In contrast to the Reverend Mrs Walden’s world, in mine the spectre of religion never bodes well. It’s an unwelcome complication, one that casts the long shadow of freedom of religion and the European Convention on Human Rights over a trial, and tends to obscure the more mundane aspects of the case. It also raises the spectre of being asked to rule on the subject of the defendant’s human rights, and of an outing in the Court of Appeal for Cathy if I get it wrong. Moreover, unless Cathy has decided to ditch her client’s religious defence in favour of the slightly more realistic story of duress – which would, to say the least, be untypical of her – the spectre seems poised to make an imminent appearance. I may have to deal with this tomorrow. I decide to consult an expert.
I find the expert in the kitchen cutting up vegetables for this evening’s tagliatelle primavera. I open a bottle of Aldi’s late harvest red table wine, and pour us both a glass. We clink glasses and toast each other.
‘I’m interested in polygamy,’ I begin.
She looks at me strangely and puts down her glass – though not the knife.
‘What? After all these years, Charlie?’ she asks plaintively. ‘I can’t believe it. After all this time I’m suddenly not enough for you? Who is she? Someone younger and prettier, I suppose…’
‘Clara…’
‘I suppose I’ll learn to adjust. But where will we put her? I suppose she’ll have to go in the big bedroom at the back, where we put the travelling missionaries.’
‘Clara…’
‘But I want you to know, I’m hurt…’ At which point she seemingly can’t continue. She suddenly gives way to laughter, which actually comes as something of a relief. I had been going somewhat hot and cold. As well as I know the Reverend Mrs Walden, when she’s in a mischievous mood I can’t always tell when she’s joking and when she’s being serious until she enlightens me. And at this precise moment she’s holding a rather large knife.
‘I’m sorry, Charlie, but you should see your face.’
‘I’m sure I should,’ I admit with a rueful grin.
‘So, it’s not personal? Well, that’s a relief.’
‘No, Clara,
I assure you, I have no personal interest in polygamy.’
She resumes her vigorous destruction of the vegetables. ‘So, tell me about it.’
‘I’m trying a case of bigamy. Chummy married wife number one in Edinburgh in 1998, but not being satisfied with just the one wife, he – quote, married, unquote – wife number two in London in 2012. He then spent a number of years commuting between the two on a regular basis until wife one died in 2016.’
She looks up from the destruction. ‘My goodness. That must have taken some effort, not to mention money,’ she observes. ‘And more than his fair share of good luck, too, if he got away with it for that length of time.’
‘He had some cover,’ I explain. ‘He’s a director of an investment bank which has offices in both London and Edinburgh.’
‘Even so…’
‘Yes, as you say, even so.’
‘What on earth is his defence?’ she asks. ‘I thought the law was pretty cut and dried on this. We don’t recognise polygamous marriage in England, do we? I know, during my training, we were always told we had to inquire about previous marriages before we could proceed to read the banns in church.’
I top up our glasses. ‘Well, the current defence seems to be that it was a shotgun marriage. She was pregnant, and he says her father and brother threatened him with dreadful consequences if he didn’t do the decent thing.’
‘How wonderfully eighteenth-century,’ she replies, laughing. ‘And it didn’t occur to him to disappear to Edinburgh or somewhere in the dead of night?’
‘Apparently not. We haven’t heard his story yet. We’ll see what he says if he gives evidence. But father and brother do have a certain amount of form for hurting people, so there may be some basis for it. Cathy Writtle is suggesting that they’re a couple of violent loan sharks. We’re going to hear from them tomorrow, I’m told.’ I take a long sip of wine. ‘But that’s not the story he gave the police.’
She smiles. ‘I’m all ears.’
‘He told the police that he liked being married, and that in any case polygamy was acceptable in his world, for religious reasons, details unclear. Is there any realistic basis for that, do you think?’