It was these references, published in the Sunday News, Patrick told the jury, that amounted to the libel; they were ‘the words complained of’ because they raised the ‘innuendo’ that they meant nothing less than that there existed an improper, a corrupt financial arrangement between Richard Tancred, the Minister, and Sleaven, the businessman. Those passages were intended to create the impression that Richard Tancred was favouring his friend Sleaven in the award of contracts and that Richard Tancred, to use common jargon, was getting a ‘back-hander’, ‘a cut’, a commission on the profits Sleaven received out of contracts arranged with Tancred’s ministry.
Here Patrick paused, looking steadily at the jury. Then he went on, ‘The accusation is totally and utterly false. There was no such corrupt arrangement between the two whatsoever; not a penny was ever demanded by Richard Tancred, not a penny was ever offered by Oscar Sleaven in respect of any contract entered into between Sleaven Industries and the Ministry for Defence Procurement. The contracts that were agreed between the Ministry and Sleaven Industries were decided in the same manner as every other contract with a department of state – upon an official assessment of the terms and conditions in the tender submitted and whether acceptance of the tender conformed with the national interest.’ The publication in so widely read a newspaper of these extracts from the Richmond diary, Patrick continued, had inevitably brought Richard Tancred’s political career to an end. The only way he could clear his name was to bring an action for libel. He had no alternative.
While Patrick was addressing the jury, the judge kept his eye on them, noting the tieless, pugnacious-looking man who was continually shifting around in his seat and muttering to himself. He’ll be troublesome, Jack Traynor thought. There was always one on a jury like this. But his eye in particular rested on the young woman in the sari who had sworn on the Christian testament. She was staring fixedly at Patrick, listening intently and she reminded him of Lois all those years ago. She had the same cast of features as Lois, the same dark beauty. It’s the sari, the judge thought. Perhaps it’s only the sari, and he turned back to his notebook to record Patrick telling the jury that the newspaper in their defence accepted that the words meant that there was a corrupt relationship between Tancred and Oscar Sleaven; above all, the defence claimed brazenly that the words were true. So the defence was saying, yes, Richard Tancred, Privy Councillor, Minister for Defence Procurement, was corrupt; he had been accepting money from an industrialist with whom the Ministry was doing business. A graver accusation could hardly be levelled against a public man, one who some thought might well become the next Prime Minister.
This defence by the newspaper, Patrick said, was known in the law of defamation as ‘justification’ – that the newspaper was justified in publishing the words because they were true. But under the law of defamation, Patrick went on to tell the jury, the burden of proving what the defendants claimed was true lay not upon the claimant, Richard Tancred, but upon the defendants, News Universal. The burden was heavy, because for the defence to succeed, News Universal, must prove – not hint, not suggest, not imply but actually prove – that the former Minister was corrupt. There was no obligation on Richard Tancred to prove he was not. If the newspaper failed to discharge that burden then the claimant, Richard Tancred, must succeed. ‘And if News Universal does fail,’ Patrick repeated, ‘then Richard Tancred is entitled to receive from your hands massive damages to compensate for the libel that had, in effect, ended a great political career.’
There were two kinds of damages in the law of libel, he said: first, general damages to compensate Tancred for ruining his life and his career, and for exacerbating the libel by coming here to this court and repeating the lies about him; and second, punitive damages to punish a greedy, irresponsible organ of the press, which printed falsehoods with the intent of swelling its circulation and increasing its profits. ‘Never has there been so wicked a falsehood published about a public man.’ Patrick paused, before concluding with a flourish, ‘The only way justice can be done and the reputation of Richard Tancred can be restored is by a massive award of general damages to demonstrate his innocence of the foul charge levelled so recklessly against him, plus a further massive award of punitive damages to punish the conduct of an irresponsible newspaper that dares to publish so gross a libel on a distinguished public servant in order to increase their circulation, swell their profits and fill the pockets of the proprietor from the broadcast of lies.’
And he sat down.
It had been generally expected, as it was indeed expected by the judge himself, that the opening by Patrick Foxley would last some time. In fact, it was surprisingly short.
As he listened, Goodbody had noted that Foxley said not a word about the suicide of Oscar Sleaven. Why? he wondered. The jury must have read or heard about it. Why hadn’t Foxley referred to it? Goodbody was not to know that Tancred had expressly forbidden it. ‘Raise it with me when I’m in the witness box,’ Tancred had said. ‘I shall deal with it.’
‘So will Ledbury,’ Patrick had replied and Tancred had nodded.
Apart from no mention of the death of Oscar Sleaven, the judge also noted that there had been no mention by Foxley of any documents. The jury had so far seen none, although Jack Traynor knew they existed for the defendants had disclosed certain documents and they were among his papers. To Jack Traynor they appeared very significant. Yet Foxley had made no mention of them. He realised he was resting his case on a blank denial of any corruption and leaving it to the defendants to prove it if they could. But what those documents revealed when the jury eventually saw them, as at some stage they must, would come, the judge reflected, as a considerable shock. The documents could have a decisive effect. The course Foxley had taken, the judge considered, was surprising. Was Patrick Foxley, he wondered, once again being too clever by half? But he, like Oliver Goodbody, was not to know that this high-risk strategy had been laid down not by Patrick Foxley but by his client, Richard Tancred himself.
Mordecai understood well enough what the other side was about. The burden of proof of dishonesty, of corruption between Richard Tancred and Oscar Sleaven, was being left to him fair and square. Much, perhaps all, would turn upon his cross-examination.
The judge turned towards Mordecai. ‘Yes, Mr Ledbury. Your opening statement, if you please.’
Without rising from his seat, Mordecai said, ‘I do not choose to make a statement at this stage.’
There was a moment of stunned silence in the court. It was unusual for the defence not to take the opportunity of making an opening statement. Both Price and Goodbody turned to look at Mordecai, surprised.
‘Why not, man?’ Price asked, loud enough for the jury to hear him.
‘Because I do not choose to,’ Mordecai growled. ‘The jury will understand what is my case soon enough when I start to cross-examine. It will come across better then.’ And Mordecai stared back at him, looking grimmer than ever.
‘Very well,’ said the judge and, with Price muttering at Goodbody as he turned back in his seat, he went on ‘Yes, Mr Foxley.’
Patrick rose again and called for Richard Tancred to enter the witness box.
Tancred took the oath, speaking quietly yet clearly; then turned to face his counsel. His evidence began with the story of his background and early life, and his entry into politics after a few years in the diplomatic service and then business.
Anna’s attention wandered. She was still thinking about Godfrey. What was it he could he say? It must be something about his former employers and it must be important; otherwise Patrick would not have announced it so early in the case and with such a flourish. Patrick had mentioned a memorandum that had been written after Godfrey’s return from Paris. That must have been about his meeting in Paris with the Chairman. What had Price said that could be so important?
But Spenser knew. He had listened to Foxley very attentively, especially to the passage about punitive damages and the claim that the extract from the diary had been pu
blished wilfully to harm Tancred – and to swell the profits of News Universal. If that was established and the defence failed, he knew that the damages could be enormous. His anxieties about the precariousness of News Universal’s financial position had not abated. If the defence failed, the price he’d get for the balance of his stock would be minimal. All he could do now was to pray that the defence succeeded.
Tancred was continuing with his evidence, speaking clearly in a light voice, answering Patrick’s questions about his birth – he was now forty-six – his education, his time as a diplomat, which he dealt with very shortly, his business career, entry into politics and rise to Cabinet office. Then he spoke of the publication of the diary extracts in the Sunday News, of how it was brought to his attention and of his realisation that to clear his reputation he had no alternative but to sue. ‘Public men and women,’ he said, ‘have to accept insult and criticism but this publication affected my personal integrity, my reputation for honesty. I knew I had to clear my name and I did not wish to embarrass the administration of which I was a member. So I decided that I must resign and take this matter to the court.’
‘Did you know Francis Richmond, the author of the diary?’ asked Patrick.
‘Slightly. I had encountered him many years ago. I knew of his books and articles in art magazines.’
‘Would you call him a friend of yours?’
‘No. I saw him sometimes at social functions. We had mutual social acquaintances. I rarely spoke with him.’
‘The late Oscar Sleaven,’ said Patrick. ‘Who was he?’
‘He was the chairman of Sleaven Industries, which is a conglomerate manufacturing vehicles and including, I believe, property interests.’
‘Was he a friend of yours?’
Tancred paused before answering, then he said, ‘No. He was not a friend. I have heard about his recent death.’
‘Did that distress you?’
Again Tancred paused. ‘I am sorry for anyone who meets such a violent end and at his own hand. I had heard that he was ill. But I cannot pretend that I am grieving for him.’
There was a stir in the courtroom. Price nudged Goodbody. ‘Nor am I,’ he whispered. Goodbody ignored him.
‘Did you do business with Oscar Sleaven when you were Minister for Defence Procurement?’ Patrick asked.
‘I did. He was one of the industrialists with whom I had to deal. His company was developing a new light armoured personnel carrier in which the Ministry was interested on behalf of the Armed Services. So I had many dealings with him. I had to in the course of my public duty.’
This time it was Patrick who paused. Then he asked, ‘In the course of your ministerial dealings with Oscar Sleaven did you ever ask for or receive from him a bribe?’
‘Never.’
‘In the form of money or in any other form?’
‘No.’
‘Did he ever offer one?’
‘No, he did not.’
‘In short, was there anything corrupt or financially improper in your relationship with him?’
‘Certainly not. The Ministry entered into certain contracts with him when I was the Minister. Those contracts were negotiated in exactly the same way as were any other contract. He never offered – he would not have dared to offer and I don’t think he ever for a moment considered offering – a bribe either to me or to anyone in my Ministry. That he did and that I accepted a bribe from him is totally and utterly false.’
‘Then why did he kill himself?’ Price again whispered to Goodbody, who again ignored him.
‘What was your reaction when you read the extracts of the diary of Francis Richmond that were published in the Sunday News?’ Patrick asked.
‘Anger, fury at the implication of what Richmond was hinting: that I was corrupt, dishonest. And I knew that with this publication in the Sunday News my political career was at an end, for I had no alternative but to deal with it.’
There was a moment of silence. Eventually Patrick turned to the judge. The judge looked up at the clock. It was just before one. ‘That completes my examination-in-chief, My Lord,’ Patrick said. ‘I have no further questions for the witness.’
Still no mention of the documents, the judge thought, even in the examination-in-chief. ‘You have completed your examination of the witness?’ he asked, trying to conceal his surprise.
‘I have,’ said Patrick.
Jack Traynor played with his pencil, debating to himself whether to enquire why the witness had not been asked about the documents. But he thought about his inexperience over the technicalities in the law of libel. Should he raise it with Foxley? But what if there were good reason not to refer to them at this stage? It would be unwise to be caught out should he be shown to be wrong. No, the less he interfered at this early stage, he decided, the better. After a pause he nodded. ‘Very well. I shall rise for the midday adjournment.’ Now was his opportunity to get on good terms with the jury so he took it. ‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he said in his broad accent, smiling jovially, ‘I can release you now from what, I fear, are those hard and uncomfortable seats in which you’ve been imprisoned for the morning.’ He smiled again. ‘These courts were built over a hundred years ago and our ancestors must have been midgets.’ He had once heard a judge say similar words many years ago in York and he thought he would repeat them. He grinned at the large black man. ‘I’m afraid they are mighty uncomfortable but I can do nowt about that and you’ll have to be imprisoned in them again this afternoon and until the case is over. Meanwhile, dinner. So stretch your legs as the jury bailiff takes you to your room. But before that, a word of warning. Don’t talk to anyone outside your own number about the case. It might be better if you didn’t even talk among yourselves until you’ve heard all the evidence and you retire to consider your verdict. But that’s a matter for you. What is a matter for me is to make sure you don’t talk with anyone else – not even tonight when you go home. That is very important. In other words, mum’s the word.’ He smiled genially, rose, bowed and disappeared.
The jury were led from the court to their luncheon room.
‘What was the old bugger on about?’ the pugnacious red-faced man said as they went.
‘I couldn’t understand a word he said,’ the middle-aged spinster complained.
‘He’s a Geordie,’ a juryman behind her chipped in. ‘From Newcastle, from the north-east. All he said was don’t talk about it to anyone who’s not on the jury.’
When they were seated at the table eating their lunch the older man with short grey hair wearing a blazer with brass buttons and a tie said to his neighbour, the large black man, ‘What did you think of the witness?’
Before the black man could reply, the red-faced juryman leaned across the table to help himself to salt. ‘He’s a politician, ain’t he? He’ll have been up to something. They all are.’
‘I thought he looked quite nice,’ said one of the younger women on the jury.
She was rather pretty, in a flowered dress, with blonde hair. Dyed, though, thought the man in the blazer. ‘What did you think of him?’ he asked the woman in the sari.
She thought for a moment. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said.
The black man nodded.
Chapter Three
A pot of coffee, plastic cups and sandwiches were laid out on the table in the defendants’ conference room. Mordecai flung off his wig and subsided into a chair. Adams produced a leather case from which he took a quart bottle of champagne and a glass. He opened the wine and handed it to Mordecai. Goodbody looked on disapprovingly but he knew better than to say anything. Digby Price glowered. Walter Morrison helped himself to the sandwiches and coffee.
‘Why didn’t you make an opening statement?’ Price demanded.
‘Because he didn’t refer to the documents. I wish to leave the disclosure of our case to my cross-examination. That, I judge, will have the greatest impact on the jury.’ Mordecai peered at Price over the rim of his glass before he added, ‘Let me remind you tha
t I am in charge of the tactics in the courtroom.’
Oliver Goodbody intervened hurriedly. ‘I have reserved a room for you for lunch in the Wig and Pen Club across the road,’ he said to Price. ‘My clerk will show you the way.’
‘You understand what is happening?’ Mordecai asked Price.
‘I understand that now’s your chance to go for him. All that sickening, sanctimonious crap about service and government. Not a word about screwing a fortune out of Sleaven. Bloody humbug!’
‘That was quite deliberate,’ Mordecai replied.
‘How do you mean?’
‘They’re waiting for me. That’s when we’ll hear the explanation.’
‘An explanation? There can’t be any! If he tries, then it’s up to you to demolish it. I am relying on you, Ledbury.’
‘That, presumably, is why you are paying me.’
Oliver took Price gently by the arm and steered him to the door. Spenser followed them.
Waite began. ‘Would you like me—’
‘No,’ Mordecai interrupted. ‘Just counsel and solicitor.’
Mordecai, Walter and Oliver were alone. For a time no one spoke.
‘Well?’ Mordecai began.
‘Very risky not to say a word about the documents either in opening or examination-in-chief,’ said Walter.
The Richmond Diary Page 18