George Barlow was my last witness. Somewhat to my surprise he had agreed readily to give us an account of what happened at the gate, and we could not have wanted a better witness.
He was the archetypal former copper — tall, solid, careful in his speech, and with steady eyes that took in everything around him. He took the witness’ chair in his BDS Security uniform. Somewhere I read a piece of research that says that Courts believe a witness in uniform more readily than one in civvies — any uniform, Boy Scouts, commissionaires, bus drivers, whatever — so they ought to believe old George.
I took him through his years of service with the Staffordshire Police and the Central Midlands force, his two commendations and his rank of sergeant at retirement, then his employment at BDS.
I knew that his appearance here would be surprising to the Tribunal and I asked him about the new contract arrangements for security at BDS.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘I understand that, in the light of the American Retaliator contract, it was decided to extend security and a contract firm is in the process of taking over.’
‘So, at present, you work under Mr Cantrell, the contractor’s manager?’
‘That’s correct, sir.’
‘You don’t object to the new arrangements, Mr Barlow?’
‘No, sir. The company is entitled to make any arrangements it thinks necessary for security and, anyway, the new arrangements won’t affect me very much. I am due to retire shortly.’
I nodded. ‘So you’re not here to give evidence out of any resentment against BDS?’
The chairman interrupted. ‘Mr Tyroll! This is your own witness! You are not cross-examining him, are you?’
‘No, sir. I am seeking to establish Mr Barlow’s credentials as an independent witness, sir.’
The chairman nodded, suspiciously, and I signed to George to answer.
‘No,’ he said. ‘BDS has been a good employer to me.’
‘And you are not a member of the Union?’
‘No, sir. The company deemed it inappropriate for Security staff to be in the Union.’
‘So, you are not here in the interests of the Applicants or the Respondents?’
‘No, sir. I am here because you asked me for an account of the incident at the gate on the day the strike started.’
I nodded again. ‘I believe that, after that incident, you made an entry in the Occurrence Book which you keep at the gate, yes?’
‘I did. Yes, sir.’
I passed him the photocopy which Con had supplied. ‘And is that a true copy of the entry which you made?’
He scanned it. ‘Yes, sir. It is.’
‘And is it a true record of what took place?’
‘So far as it goes, yes, sir.’
Maddox and Bailey had been whispering urgently and now Maddox was on his feet.
‘I must object!’ he exclaimed. ‘If this document is what the witness has said it is, then it is a copy of a confidential company record, and all of BDS’ internal documents are covered by the Official Secrets Act.’
The chairman turned to me. ‘Is that your understanding, Mr Tyroll?’
‘The document is a copy of one passed to me by another witness,’ I said. ‘Insofar as it originates within the Respondent company, it is their property. It is not marked as classified under the Official Secrets Act, but I admit that it may be. I am quite happy to withdraw it and ask Mr Maddox to produce the original.’
Maddox rose, shaking his head. ‘No, sir!’ he declared. ‘This copy has been illegally acquired from the company’s premises. I object most strongly to its admission and I will not produce the original.’
‘Is it vital to your case, Mr Tyroll?’ asked the chairman. ‘It is, after all, a written record made by the witness. Surely you can ask him to tell us about the events described?’
I nodded, smiling inwardly. ‘I shall try to carry on without it,’ I said, knowing that I had got right round the problem of George Barlow not recording that his boss was drunk and I had shown the Tribunal that BDS were scared of the Tribunal seeing that entry.
I took the paper back from George and pressed on. ‘On the day of the strike you were on duty at the main gate of the BDS works in Russell Road, Belston?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And throughout the morning various parties of strikers left the premises. I am not concerned with them. After the shift had arrived, did anyone come in?’
‘Yes, sir. Mr Mulvaney and Mr Martin came to the gate once or twice.’
‘And you admitted them?’
‘Yes, sir. After I’d asked them their business on the site.’
And what did they tell you?’
‘Mr Mulvaney said that the company had alleged sabotage in previous strikes, and he wasn’t going to have it said about his strike, so he wanted to make sure that each section stood down properly, leaving all work finished.’
I could have done without the ‘his strike,’ but I passed over it, quickly. ‘And you thought that was a suitable reason to admit them?’
‘Yes, sir. It seemed to me that it was what the company would want.’
‘Then you had a telephone call from the front office?’
‘Yes, sir. It was Mr Cantrell, saying that Mr Bailey didn’t want to admit Mr Mulvaney and Mr Martin again.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I tried to explain why I had let them in, but he said that they were probably lying about their reasons, that they were dangerous and they should not be admitted again.’
‘And I believe that they arrived shortly after that call?’
‘Yes, sir, and I told them that I was sorry, that I had orders not to let them in again.’
I nodded. And where did this conversation take place?’
‘At the gate, sir.’
‘They were inside the fence?’
‘Well, yes, sir. They came to my office door, which is about a yard inside the wire.’
‘So you were standing talking to them, about a yard inside the wire. What happened next?’
‘Someone opened a window on the main admin building. That’s only about fifty yards from the gate, across to the right. Someone opened one of the ground floor windows and I could see Mr Bailey at the window, waving and shouting.’
‘Could you hear what he was shouting?’
‘No, sir. It wasn’t the distance, but he seemed incoherent, sir. I thought he was shouting at me to send them away, so I told them again that they couldn’t come in.’
‘And they showed no sign of hostility at being refused entrance?’
‘None that I saw, sir. In fact, Jimmy Martin laughed. They had just turned to go when Mr Bailey and Mr Cantrell and Mr Cheetham came running from the admin block.’
‘And what happened?’
‘Mr Bailey was in front. He was very red in the face. He came up to us and he started shouting at Mr Mulvaney.’
‘Do you recall what he said?’
‘I recall that it was abusive, sir. I believe the word “scum” was used.’
‘By Mr Bailey?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Mr Bailey was very angry, I gather?’
‘He was raging, sir. I didn’t think it very good for the Management to be having a shouting match with shop stewards at the main gate, and I tried to calm him, but he shoved me aside. Then he hit Mr Mulvaney in the face.’
‘He hit Mr Mulvaney in the face,’ I repeated. ‘Was that in response to something Mr Mulvaney had said or done?’
‘No, sir. He was shouting at Mr Mulvaney and then he just lashed out at him.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘Well, Mr Mulvaney staggered back against the side of my door, and hit out at Mr Bailey, striking him under the left eye.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘I moved in to stop it. Me and Mr Martin grabbed Mr Bailey and the others helped us.’
‘Did Mr Martin strike a blow at Mr Bailey?’ ‘No, sir. He was helping us restrain Mr Bailey.’
�
�Were any more blows struck — by anyone?’
‘No, sir. Mr Cantrell and Mr Cheetham took Mr Bailey away and Mr Martin and Mr Mulvaney went.’
‘That was the end of the incident?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You have told us,’ I summed up, ‘that Mr Bailey ran to the gate, very red-faced and extremely angry, that he abused Mr Mulvaney, calling him “scum” and that he struck him without provocation or reason, that Mr Mulvaney struck one blow in self-defence and Mr Martin struck no blows, but assisted you in restraining Mr Bailey. Did you believe that Mr Bailey would strike again?’
‘I don’t know, sir, but it seemed likely and I wanted to prevent any further violence.’
‘When the Applicants came to the gate, each time, do you know where they came from?’
‘Yes, sir. The cafe across the street.’
‘A cafe — not a public house? And were they sober on each occasion?’
‘Oh, yes. sir. They were sober so far as I could see.’
‘You stood and talked to them. Was there alcohol on their breath?’
‘No, sir. I’d have smelt it if there was and I wouldn’t have admitted them.’
‘Was there alcohol on anyone’s breath that day?’
He paused and shot a thoughtful glance at Bailey. ‘Yes, sir, there was. When Mr Bailey was abusing Mr Mulvaney I could smell drink on his breath, and when I took hold of him it was even stronger.’
Bailey snorted and a stage whisper of ‘What a surprise!’ came from the rear. The chairman snapped his pencil banging for silence.
‘You’re a former police officer, Mr Barlow. I take it you’ve handled a good few drunks in your time?’
A smile flickered. ‘Yes, sir. More than a few.’
‘In your experienced opinion, then — was Mr Bailey drunk when he came to the gate?’
‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, firmly.
‘Thank you, Mr Barlow,’ and I sat down.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Maddox rose, with Bailey still whispering at him, urgently. What followed was pathetic. There is no one more difficult to cross-examine than an experienced police officer, particularly one who happens to be telling the truth.
George Barlow blocked or foiled every attempt to suggest that he was mistaken, and Maddox was reduced at last to suggesting that the witness was lying. I let this go on a little while, then intervened.
‘Mr Chairman,’ I said as I rose, ‘My friend is, I suspect, harassing this witness. He has no other line of cross-examination than the witness’ honesty. Now, Mr Bailey, in his evidence, was good enough to state his belief in Mr Barlow’s honesty and reliability. If Mr Maddox will concede that Mr Bailey was not telling the truth, then I will not object to his attacks on Mr Barlow’s honesty.’
‘Don’t be flippant, Mr Tyroll,’ the chairman reproved me. ‘At the same time, Mr Maddox, the Tribunal would prefer your cross-examination to move onto substantive matters. We have heard the witness deny that he is lying several times.’
Maddox looked helplessly at Bailey, then rose.
‘There are no more matters I wish to raise with this witness, sir.’
The chairman adjourned for lunch. Con and Jimmy and their fans swarmed around George, slapping his back and shaking his hand as they pressed out into the corridor.
Sheila and I followed them, and I managed to get a word with George, to thank him. ‘That must have been difficult,’ I said. ‘I hope it hasn’t got you into trouble.’
He grinned. ‘Not much,’ he said. ‘Cantrell’s just told me that I retire tomorrow.’
‘Cantrell?’ I said, ‘Is he here?’
‘He’s down there with the bosses,’ and he pointed along the corridor.
I followed his pointing finger, then turned back. I had recognised the man who was in conversation with Bailey and Maddox. ‘That’s not Cantrell,’ I began, ‘that’s a freelance journalist...’ I stopped. That’s a man who told me he was a freelance journalist called Walters, I thought.
I dived into one of the conference rooms and snatched a telephone, calling John Parry to tell him that I’d located Walters. Luckily, I got straight through to him.
‘Where is he now?’ was all he wanted to know.
‘He’s leaving the Employment Tribunal building with Bailey and Maddox from BDS. I imagine they’ll be lunching together.’
Are you sitting after lunch?’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but I don’t know if he’ll be here.’
‘We’ll get onto West Mid Police and get their blokes to look around. If not I’ll see you at the Tribunal after lunch.’
When I got back into the corridor I saw Bailey’s back disappearing into the lift. Sheila confirmed that Maddox and Walters had gone with him.
‘Shall we follow them?’ she suggested.
‘Not likely,’ I said. ‘I’m for lunch. The Police can do the dangerous stuff.’
Over lunch in a cafe we pushed it around again. Walters killing Samson had never made any sense, but Walters being Cantrell killing Samson made even less sense. We ended up no wiser than we started and made our way back to the Tribunal for the afternoon session.
As we came out of the lift I saw Walters Cantrell again, still in company with Bailey and Maddox, emerging from the second lift further along the corridor. As I watched them, John Parry came up behind me.
‘I’ve got a couple of Brummy blokes with me,’ he said. ‘Is Cantrell here?’
I pointed along the corridor. ‘That’s him,’ I said. ‘The tall bloke with short hair and a brown jacket.’
‘You sure?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely,’ I said.
He turned to his two companions. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘He’s your arrest. Go for it!’
I watched as they moved swiftly along the corridor. Cantrell had his back to them as they approached him. One of them tapped him on the shoulder and I heard the detective say, ‘Mr Cantrell? I am Detective Sergeant Rowden and this is Detective Constable Archer. I am arresting you for the murder of...’
He got no further. Cantrell had swung around at the detective’s touch, but as soon as he knew what they wanted he plunged straight between them and dived along the corridor.
John Parry was standing just in front of me and moved to block Cantrell reaching the stairhead, but another factor intervened.
As Cantrell dived along the corridor towards the stairs, Sheila stepped out of the Ladies,’ straight into his path. I’ll give him credit for the fact that he hardly paused, but just took immediate advantage of the situation, scooping an arm around her and dragging her with him to the stair top.
As he reached the stairs I had every expectation that my feisty fiancée would recover from her surprise and give him a seriously hard time, but he produced a small pistol from his pocket and jammed it against her jaw as he held her.
The sight of the weapon turned everything to slow motion. Cantrell had reached the stairhead and was beginning to back slowly down the steps, grasping Sheila tightly in front of him and keeping his gun pressed against her neck. The coppers had stopped moving and members of the public were drawing away from the centre of the action.
John Parry began a slow advance to the stairhead. I stepped quickly back towards the lift which had brought us up. Once inside it, I went down to the floor below and tumbled out into an empty corridor.
I ran to the foot of the stairs and kicked off my shoes. The steps bent into two flights between this floor and the next above. To my right and above me, I could just see Cantrell’s feet on the steps. I knew enough of Sheila’s capabilities to know that if Cantrell lost his advantage for a split second, she would take advantage of it, and I intended to give her that chance.
Grasping the banister, I sprang silently up the stairs. It almost worked. I had just reached the landing between the two flights when Cantrell sensed my presence. At that point he was about four steps down from the top, holding Sheila above him, and the Police officers were bunched helplessly at the top of
the stairs.
As he sensed, heard or saw me, he swung his head towards me. A moment later he shifted the pistol and pointed it at me.
The irrelevant thought flitted through my mind that his gun was smaller than the last one that had been pointed at me, before my mind grappled with our situation.
Cantrell could not get up the stairs. His only way out was down. I was determined that whatever happened he was not going to get past the middle landing. He had only one alternative. If he shot Sheila, or abandoned her, he would be overwhelmed by coppers from above. He had to clear his way down. That’s what he tried to do. Even at the distance of a few feet between us, I saw the flash of his pistol, and felt the impact of the bullet in my left arm before I heard the shot.
There was no immediate pain, but the impact flung me back against the banister. He fired twice more, and one of the shots found a place in my left side, pulling me away from the banister. I clutched it to keep from falling.
It had worked. To fire at me, Cantrell had been forced to pull Sheila around to his side and take his attention away from her. She had not lost the opportunity. As he lined up a fourth shot, she smashed her elbow into the side of his head and grabbed his gun arm, forcing it upwards with both of her arms.
I was still standing — just — held up by my grip on the banister and a determination that Cantrell would not get past me, though I suspect that the most I could do to stop him was flop on him.
The struggle for the gun ended as it slipped from Cantrell’s fingers and bounced down the stairs. He loosened his hold on Sheila and dived for the weapon. A fatal mistake. She kicked him expertly between the legs as he broke away from her. He shouted an oath and pitched forward, stumbling down the steps and falling right into me.
I couldn’t even flop on him, but I didn’t need to. As he staggered into me, I lost my hold on the banister and fell against the outside wall of the landing. A bright rainbow wave of pain burst in my head as I collapsed underneath him and blacked out.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The next time I saw daylight it was from a hospital bed. As I forced my eyes open, I was cheered to see Sheila’s eyes staring into mine, though her freckles were standing out from her pale face as they only did when she was worried.
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