Keelton stood fractionally straighter: his face flushed slightly and his voice hardened. ‘I received a telephone call from the informer in which he gave me certain information. My daughter came home that night and in the course of a conversation she said something which caused me, in view of the information I had received, to ask my wife to search my daughter’s handbag.’
‘With what result?’
‘A brown envelope containing a sum of money was found in the handbag.’
‘What did you do with this?’
‘I took the envelope and the money to the police station the next day and gave orders for it to be given to the fingerprint expert.’
‘Evidence will be given by him as to the result of his examination. Can you say how much was in that envelope?’
‘No. I was careful not to touch the money.’
‘Would you look at this envelope, please.’ Peace beckoned to the usher who went over to the clerk’s table and picked up a brown paper envelope which he carried to the witness-box.
Keelton accepted the envelope. As he held it, his mind recalled with bitter clarity the scene as Mary had brought it out of Joanna’s handbag, the desperate and pathetic way in which Joanna had tried to make out the money was hers, the look in Mary’s eyes.
‘Mr Keelton,’ said Peace sharply.
He jerked his mind back to the present. ‘This is the envelope that was in my daughter’s handbag.’ He handed it back to the usher.
Peace read his proof, turned and spoke quickly to his instructing solicitor, then sat down.
Mettram, leading Ebony for the defence, was a broadly built man whose body was beginning to become slack through lack of exercise. At the Bar, he was a fighter who was always ready to go a little further in defence than most of his fellow silks, always ready to incur the wrath of the judge if he thought he might gain some advantage by doing so.
He stood up, then altered the set of his wig with his fingers that were strangely delicate, considering the size of the rest of him. ‘Mr Keelton, is your daughter an only child?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have no other children?’ There was a slight hint of Irish brogue in his deep voice.
‘I had a son who died.’
‘How did he die?’
Peace came quickly to his feet. ‘My Lord, that surely is not a proper question?’
‘My Lord,’ said Mettram, ‘it is with regret that I put such a question, but I assure you that it is strictly a relevant one.’
The judge leaned back in his chair. ‘But is it necessary?’
‘I think so, my Lord.’
‘Very well.’
Peace sat down.
Keelton answered the question. ‘My son died from a fall, probably while under the influence of the drug, L.S.D,’ he said, in a voice of bitterness.
‘Thank you for your frankness,’ said Mettram blandly. ‘Would you agree that this most tragic affair has caused you to hate all those who deal in drugs?’
‘It didn’t need a personal tragedy to do that.’
‘Surely it would be true to say, though, that there would always be an edge to your hatred? That in a drug case you would be keener than ever to bring a successful prosecution?’
‘The tragedy makes no difference.’
‘Very well.’ Mettram looked significantly at the jury. ‘How long has Robert Elwick been a member of the Flecton Cross borough police force?’
‘About four years.’
‘Did he have good references when he came? Good abstracts, I believe is the technical term?’
‘They were excellent.’
‘What was your opinion of him as a detective constable up to the beginning of this year?’
‘He was keen and efficient.’
‘Did he have no faults at all, Mr Keelton? Let us have the full picture, warts and all.’
‘He suffered the handicap of a large chip on his shoulder.’
‘Why was this?’
‘I would imagine he is best equipped to answer that.’
Mettram smiled at the neat — if obvious-escape from making any reference to Elwick’s past. ‘In view of this chip on his shoulder, did you welcome his friendship with your daughter?’
‘I neither welcomed it, nor disliked it. As I’ve already said, my daughter has always been left free to form her own friendships.’
‘You’ve suggested she should break off this particular one?’
Keelton hesitated.
‘Well, have you?’
‘After certain facts became known to me, I did suggest that I thought it was inadvisable.’
‘When did you first suggest this?’
‘I can’t remember exactly.’
‘I will refresh your memory. Was not the first time you made this suggestion — and there were many others — after the second abortive raid, on the house in Jamaica Road, when a certain souvenir had been found there?’
‘It may have been.’
‘This was early in your investigations, was it not?’
‘It depends what you mean by early.’
‘I think we may accept that I imply the literal and normal meaning,’ said Mettram, with heavy sarcasm. ‘Since, on your own evidence, you refused to believe in a traitor after the first raid, your advice must have been given soon, very soon, after the report of the finding of the souvenir reached you. Your advice to your daughter was tendered early on.’
‘It depends how you look at things.’
‘I look at them in the obvious light — that you were quick off the mark to warn your daughter against a man whom you assure us you considered a keen and efficient detective. Your mind must have been made up very early on?’
‘No.’
‘Then you spoke to your daughter before you could be certain?’
‘I thought it better to give her certain advice.’
‘Preparing for the worst from the very beginning?’
‘I did what I considered best.’
‘As a man who was eager to catch the traitor who had tipped off the drug racketeers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let us move on to the day on which you found your daughter in possession of certain money. Where were you at the time?’
‘At my home.’
‘About to eat dinner?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did she come into the room and accuse you of persecuting Robert Elwick?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was she upset?’
‘Yes.’
‘Upset because Elwick had been closely searched in an effort to find the money it was claimed he had accepted as a bribe the previous night.’
‘Yes.’
‘And was the only evidence of this accusation the evidence of a police informer?’
‘Yes.’
‘And was your word the only proof that the informer had given such evidence?’
‘I’m not lying.’
‘Answer the question.’
‘There’s only my word.’
‘How upset was your daughter?’
‘Very.’
Mettram leaned forward and thrust out his square chin. ‘So upset that she did not know what she was saying?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘So distraught that not until after she’d said it had she any idea she’d spoken about the money?’
‘Possibly.’
‘She was a daughter appealing desperately to her father, freely giving him her confidences?’
Keelton did not answer.
‘Did you respect her confidences?’
‘I did my duty.’
‘Then you did not believe you owed a duty to your own child?’
‘I did my duty,’ rasped Keelton.
‘You did your duty as you saw it … But I’m thinking that few of us with children would have seen things in the same light.’
Keelton flushed heavily. The cross-examination had done nothing to shake the evidence against Elwick — it had not been designed to do
so. It had been designed solely to picture him, Keelton, in the worst possible light, to create prejudice against him and therefore his evidence, and to this extent it must have succeeded.
***
Mrs Timmins gave evidence of the telephone conversation she had inadvertently overheard. The court then adjourned for lunch. The judge and counsel were guests of the mayor and corporation to a lunch in the mayoral dining-room. Elwick ate in his cell, almost immediately below the courtroom, watched for part of the time by a curious warder who did not bother to try to hide his curiosity: from time to time, he gripped his huge fists as bitter, impotent fury gripped him and he suffered an almost over-whelming desire to give way to a berserk fury. Keelton returned home to find Mary was out and a cold meal was on the kitchen table. Witnesses, the press, and the public, ate at restaurants or cafes, seldom getting a fair return for the money they spent.
Immediately after the court was reconvened, a uniformed constable gave evidence of the finding of the souvenir in an upstairs bedroom of the house in Jamaica Road. He was followed by Astey.
After putting the preliminary questions, Peace said: ‘Were you in charge of the first police raid: that is, the raid on the house in Ellers Road?’
‘I was.’
‘What was the result of this raid?’
‘We searched the house and the people in it and found nothing suspicious.’
‘Did this fact surprise you?’
‘Not particularly. One has always to be prepared for information received to prove inaccurate or for circumstances to have so changed that even if the information was all right originally, it isn’t at the time.’
‘Which possibility, did you believe had occurred in this case?’
‘It was impossible to say.’
‘Did you lead the second raid, on the house in Jamaica Road?’
‘I did.’
‘When were you first told to organise it?’
‘In the middle of the same morning.’
‘Whom did you inform about the coming raid?’
‘All members of the C.I.D and eight members of the uniformed branch.’
‘Will you describe the raid.’
‘The house was kept under surveillance throughout the day. Just after five o’clock that evening a man was seen to enter the house, carrying a small parcel. We made the raid at eight p.m and searched the premises and all persons found on them.’
‘What was the result of this search?’
‘We discovered no drugs and the parcel turned out to contain two packets of China tea.’
There was some laughter which was immediately stopped by a loud call for silence from the usher.
‘Did you discover anything apart from this tea?’
‘In the upstairs front bedroom a uniformed constable found a metal souvenir, in the form of Justice, bearing the legend “The Old Bailey”.’
‘Will you look at exhibit number eleven, please.’
The usher handed Astey the small souvenir.
‘This is the one,’ said Astey.
‘Had you ever seen that before the fourth of August?’
‘Elwick owned a souvenir exactly similar.’
‘Did you ask him if this were his?’
‘I did not carry out such questioning.’
Peace looked surprised by the answer. His instructing solicitor leaned forward and whispered something and Peace nodded. ‘Could he have lost it in the bedroom upstairs during the raid?’ asked Peace.
‘No. He remained downstairs throughout the raid.’
Peace clasped his hands together behind his back, then leaned forward and rested his stomach against the edge of the desktop. ‘You have told us that a parcel was seen being carried into the house in Jamaica Road. When you discovered the parcel in the house contained tea, did this suggest anything to you?’
‘It suggested the men in the house had been expecting the raid and the tea was their idea of being funny.’
‘In other words, Inspector, taking the mickey out of the police?’
‘If you like.’
‘What was the reaction of the men in the house when you opened the parcel?’
‘They jeered and laughed at us.’
‘One last question. On the assumption that there is a traitor in the C.I.D and that the traitor is not the accused, he obviously is one of the other members. Inspector, are you the traitor?’
‘No, sir,’ said Astey firmly.
Peace sat down. Mettram rose, leaned over and had a quick word with his instructing solicitor who sat in front of him since he was silk, then stood upright. ‘I suppose, Inspector, you did check whether the souvenir, exhibit number eleven, was a common one?’ His tone of voice suggested he would not be in the least surprised to hear that there had been no such check.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Astey.
‘What did you discover?’
‘It was and is made in large quantities.’
‘What is the rate of production?’
‘The makers quote about a hundred thousand pieces a year.’
‘You’d hardly call it rare, then?’
‘No, sir.’
‘For how long has it been produced?’
‘Ten years.’
‘Then in that time about one million of these souvenirs have been produced and, one must presume, sold to the public. Once one learns about this figure, the souvenir becomes of less importance?’
‘I’ve just given the facts, sir.’
‘There are ways of presenting facts that twist them out of shape.’
The judge intervened. ‘Mr Mettram, the witness, has, as he claims, done no more than give certain facts.’
‘And I, my Lord, have done no more than make an observation.’
‘An unwarranted one.’
‘My Lord, I protest … ’
‘I would prefer you not to do so.’
Mettram bowed perfunctorily. He knew from experience that on such a small point it was not worth clashing with Mr Justice Heller, whose bite was certainly worse than his bark. ‘Inspector, will you agree that you do not, and cannot, claim that the souvenir found at Jamaica Road can be definitely identified as belonging to the accused?’
‘That is correct.’
Mettram nodded. He looked at the jury and shrugged his shoulders in a gesture that suggested he had seldom met such weak evidence. ‘In answer to a question from my learned friend, you told us you were not the traitor. Do you imagine that if you were he you would confess it to us in this courtroom?’
‘Since I’m not … ’
‘Just answer the question.’
‘No.’
Mettram sat down.
Peace re-examined. ‘Inspector, how long was it after the souvenir was discovered in the house that you saw it?’
‘A few days, sir.’
‘At this time, did you believe it was Elwick’s?’
‘Don’t lead,’ muttered Mettram, not bothering to rise.
‘I thought I recognised it,’ said Astey.
‘Do you know whether word had been passed around that this souvenir had been discovered and where?’
‘I can’t say for certain.’
‘Would you imagine it was common knowledge amongst the searchers that it had been found, and where?’
Mettram half stood up. ‘Perhaps my learned friend would prefer to give the evidence himself?’ he suggested sarcastically.
‘You must not lead,’ said the judge, with little emphasis.
Peace sat down.
Simlex was called. His examination-in-chief was brief and although he was led by Peace, Mettram did not bother to object.
‘Sergeant, did you know beforehand that the raids on houses in Ellers Road and Jamaica Road were going to take place?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Simlex. He had dressed with care in his best suit, but this was shiny at the elbows and knees and it fitted him very badly around the neck.
‘Did you take part in them?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did you in either case inform any of the occupants of the houses or any other unauthorised person that the raid was due to take place?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Has the accused at any time ever told you he had lost his souvenir that was in the shape of Justice?’
‘No, sir.’
Mettram’s cross-examination was even more brief. ‘Would you agree that if you were the traitor you would not confess to that fact now?’
‘I … Well I don’t suppose I would, no, sir.’
‘Quite so, Sergeant,’ said Mettram dryly.
Praden was called. He walked stiffly, as if in pain. There were dark lines under his eyes, which were heavily bloodshot. The scar on his cheek stood out in sharp contrast to the rest of his pallid facial skin.
‘Constable,’ said Peace, ‘did you take part in the police raids on a house in Ellers Road on the eleventh of July and a house in Jamaica Road on the fourth of August?’
‘I did.’
‘Did you gain any impression, concerning the raid, from the actions of the occupants of the house in Jamaica Road?’
‘It was clear they’d been expecting us.’
‘Have you any idea how this could be?’
‘None.’
‘Did you warn them?’
‘I did not,’ snapped Praden.
‘Has the accused at any time mentioned to you the loss of his souvenir in the form of the figure of Justice?’
‘No.’
Mettram cross-examined. ‘If you were the traitor, would you stand in the witness box, now, and confess that fact to my learned friend?’
‘Of course not.’
Larksfray was called. He appeared nervous, which was strange since he was no stranger to the witness-box, and he kept reaching up to his collar and easing it away from his neck. He answered the preliminary questions in a hurried voice.
‘Did you take part in the raids on Ellers Road and Jamaica Road in July and August respectively?’
‘Yes, I did, sir.’
‘Did the results of these raids at any time suggest anything of special significance to you?’
‘I … I beg your pardon, sir.’
‘Did what happened during the raids suggest anything to you?’
‘It did seem as if the people had been told what was going to happen.’
‘Have you any idea who might have told them?’
‘No, sir.’
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