The Scaffold: The sensational legal thriller everyone's talking about (Alistar Duncan Series Book 3)

by Douglas Stewart

  “Might have been people, sir. Mark did used to say as some of them were a bit thick.”

  “Which ones?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “Are you sure? If I gave you a moment or two to think about it, would you remember?”

  “No.”

  “Did your husband do odd jobs about the house?”

  “Yes. Very good about the house.”

  “Did he understand electricity?”

  “Suppose so.”

  “Could he change a plug?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mend a fuse?”

  “It never happened.”

  “But he understood the dangers of electricity?”

  “Yes.”

  “He would have known what would happen if he grabbed hold of an electric cable? Or put his fingers in a plug?”

  “He would know it were dangerous. I’m sure of that.”

  “So, if he did grab an electric cable at work, it was either a mistake on his part,” and here Duncan counted five before continuing, “or a deliberate act?”

  “I don’t think he did hold on to the cable.”

  “I can understand you saying that, Mrs Hillyer, but can you please answer my question.” Duncan felt sure that, if he’d turned round, he’d have been facing a battery of hostile stares from the jurors.

  “He didn’t catch hold of the cable. He didn’t. I know he didn’t!”

  It was the coroner who intervened. “Mrs Hillyer, I appreciate what you say but, as you weren’t there, you didn’t see what happened. We shall be hearing more evidence about that later. So, even if you don’t agree with the basis on which Mr Duncan is putting his question, nevertheless, we could get on a lot quicker if you would answer it.”

  If it were a mild rebuke to Mrs Hillyer, it was much more of a stinging slap to the advocate. It was a reminder that the coroner was not impressed with what he regarded as the red herring of suicide. Like all coroners, he would shy away from that verdict in the absence of the most overwhelming evidence.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve forgotten the question.”

  Duncan repeated it. Mrs Hillyer was thoroughly composed now. “If Mark did catch hold of the cable, then it wasn’t deliberate. It would have been an accident — a slip.” She turned her eyes away from the coroner and stared at Duncan. “In which case it were a bloody silly place to put a cable.”

  Apparently unabashed, Alistair Duncan smiled at the point which she had scored. “There may be others here who would agree with you but were you aware, Mrs Hillyer, that your husband was in charge of the site and was, therefore responsible for site safety?”

  “No. I didn’t know that.”

  “Thank you.” The solicitor sat down, unsure as to what he had achieved except the unease of the coroner and the hostility of the jurors. With a click-clack of high heels, the widow returned to her bench seat, where she sat by her dumpy and shabby mother, who uttered something which sounded very like “I’ll get that solicitor bastard.”

  When Duncan next looked up, his heart leapt. Marvellous! Peering out of the witness box, like an egg from an egg-cup, was Harold Plumb, blinking furiously as he took the oath with a degree of pomposity unprecedented in the history of inquests.

  The coroner took him through his evidence with difficulty and again Mr Shaw-Bligh asked no questions. There was no need for, on the basis of Plumb’s observations, the widow had a simple claim to pursue against Patrick Cowle and the insurers. “Mr. Duncan?”

  Knowing that there was no better opportunity to find favour with the jury, Duncan smiled across at Harold Plumb. To the irritation of the listeners, his evidence had been given with abundant pedantry.

  Plumb’s face was, as ever, expressionless. Only the eyes seemed to have any life, as his eyelids flapped up and down. All the rest of the waxy skin was dead. It was a face which had never shown emotion, containing a mind which had never felt it.

  “As I understand your evidence, Mr Plumb, you are suggesting that the scaffolding went live?”

  “Yes. And I’m saying that because . . .”

  Duncan stretched out a long arm and silenced the explanation with a flourish of his spectacles. “No, thank you, Mr Plumb. No reasoning. You’ve already given your evidence on that.” Even as he said it, Duncan felt, if not heard, the audible relief from the jurors. They’d had enough of Plumb pumping up his pomposity at the cost of their aching bottoms on the hard-bench seating.

  “But you saw no sign of chafing on the cable?”

  “None, sir.”

  “So you agree that the cable could not have been rubbing against the scaffolding?”

  “It wasn’t rubbing against the scaffolding because . . .”

  Again he was cut short. “You say there was a heavy voltage running through this wire?”

  “Yes. And, quite unnecessarily so, if I might add . . .”

  “Mr Plumb, I don’t wish to be rude but we shall get along very well if you simply answer the question. I’m sure that, if the learned coroner needs more by way of explanation, he will enquire — as indeed may members of the jury through their foreman.” At last Duncan felt safe to turn to the jury and identify himself with them, or perhaps to ensure that they identified themselves with him. He could see by their nods of appreciation that they agreed with his treatment of Mr Plumb.

  “Even with this heavy voltage you would agree that it would be remarkable for electricity to jump, to arc, through some eight or ten inches of air into the nearest scaffolding tube?”

  “This old type of overhead cable — fifteen to twenty years old — has almost no insulating features about it. It is as lethal as a naked wire. What’s more, it was only six inches from this cable to the scaffolding.”

  “Is that a precise figure?”

  “Yes.”

  “How often did you measure it?”

  “How often?” The little eyes open and shut in surprise. “Once.”

  “You regard that as sufficient?”

  “Yes.”

  “But come now, Mr Plumb. You remember the day of this accident. It was sleeting. It was almost snow. And it was very windy, was it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Met. Office tell me that the wind was never less than Force Six all day. Pretty windy, you’d agree?”

  “It was blowing across a bit.”

  “Yet you measured this distance between cable and scaffold only once?”

  “Yes.”

  “Unfair, don’t you think?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you think that, with the wind blowing this cable, its closeness could vary considerably?” Mr Plumb blinked once again. The small mouth open and then closed. Then it opened and closed again, so that he looked like a Negro whistling. Withdrawing a handkerchief from his pocket, Mr Plumb mopped his head, although the temperature in the courtroom was reminiscent of Murmansk. “Come now, Mr Plumb,” chided the solicitor. “I suggest what you did was to measure this distance by pulling this wire to its closest point?” There was silence. Duncan was unwilling to bale out the witness. At least fifteen seconds passed before the coroner intervened.

  “Should I construe your silence as consent?”

  “Yes. But I want to make quite plain that . . .”

  Duncan interrupted. The last thing which he wanted was any explanation. “So we are agreed. You held the cable to its nearest point to the scaffolding and then measured.”

  “Yes.”

  “In fact, on that day, the wind was blowing the cable away from the scaffolding. So six inches would have been the minimum.”

  “It could have been. I didn’t measure that.”

  One or two words of reaction were muttered amongst the jurors and Duncan turned to give Patrick Cowle a theatrical wink. More than that, it told the jury that Duncan knew that he had made his point and that there was more to come.

  “You’re satisfied, are you, that arcing could occur between this type of cable and the scaffold?”

  �
�Positive.”

  “Despite the covering on the cable?”

  “The type of PVC on this cable has no insulating features on a wet day.”

  “None?”

  “Very little.”

  “But some.”

  “A little.”

  “Then we are agreed on that. It has some insulating features. But electricity wouldn’t jump across a gap of eight or ten inches, would it? Wouldn’t then set the entire scaffolding alive, so as to cause electrocution?”

  “I don’t agree.”

  “Isn’t this right? Your theory depends on a six-inch gap?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I’m demonstrating a gap fifty per cent more than that. That makes your theory untenable.”

  “No.”

  “Not in the slightest?”

  “No.” The lack of confidence in the voice now came across. Nevertheless, the emotionless face remained impassive but the bald head remained hot and required constant mopping with a hanky.

  “So your evidence is that that this was an obvious danger?”

  “Yes.”

  “That an experienced man, such as Mr Hillyer, would recognise that this type of cable was badly insulated.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “That the risk of arcing was obvious?”

  “That is my view.”

  “Even if the cable were nine or ten inches away?”

  “It was an obvious danger. If Mr Hillyer were in charge of the site then he should not have permitted this risk.”

  Alistair Duncan sat down. He’d done well.

  *

  The next witness was Ronnie Arnold, the roofer whom Duncan had introduced to Plumb as Detective Chief Superintendent Dacombe. The coroner asked him a few questions but it seemed to add little to anybody’s knowledge, yet there was something in his demeanour, something which an experienced advocate would spot, would sense, without being able to understand or explain precisely why.

  As he rose to his feet, Duncan was determined to find out. It was time for a fishing expedition.

  “And you say that Mark Hillyer seemed normal?”

  “Yes. He were normal.”

  “How was normal?”

  “His usual self.”

  “Was he worried about anything?”

  “Didn’t say so.”

  “Did you like him?”

  “Not a lot. No.” The frankness of the reply was disarming.

  “Was he a good foreman?”

  “Knew his job.”

  “He’d have known that electric cable close to the scaffolding was a danger?”

  “I should think so.”

  “Why didn’t you like him?”

  “He were boastful. And he were a bully. Always picking on Dwight Riley.”

  “Deservedly?”

  “No. Dwight wasn’t very bright. It were easy to pick on him. Anyone could make him look stupid.”

  The witness felt able to speak freely because Dwight Riley was not in the courtroom. The coroner had seen his statement to the police and discarded him as a witness who could add nothing.

  Duncan decided to change tack.

  “And you were in the kitchen at the time of the . . . incident?”

  “Yes.” Was there a slight downturn of the eyes at this point. Duncan felt there was. “In the kitchen in the middle of the three cottages. We was taking a break.”

  “Who was with you?”

  “Three of us. Dwight Riley and Kenny Robertson. And me. Having a cup of tea.”

  “Quite sure about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, if someone were to say that the three of you weren’t there at all, they would be mistaken?”

  The novice reporter looked interested for the first time. The coroner’s face showed concern. The chill in the room seemed more intense. Even Bryan Shaw-Bligh was uncertain as to how much Alistair Duncan knew, a predicament shared by the witness. Ronnie Arnold’s face twitched in anguish as he sought inspiration. The quiet hostility of the room was no help. He coughed nervously and replied. “Well, I think we was all there.”

  “Which of you weren’t there?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “The truth, Mr Arnold, is that you weren’t there. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “No. I was there.” The witness looked at Kenny Robertson, who had still to give evidence. “I was there all right. But I’m not sure about . . . Dwight Riley.”

  “Where was he?”

  “Might have been in the kitchen. Might not.”

  “So, if someone said that you were not in the kitchen, they would be mistaken, would they?”

  “Yes.” The voice was sullen, resentful and Ronnie Arnold’s small face, with its heavy wrinkles and thinning, greased hair, mirrored the sound of his voice. It was unconvincing. But Duncan left it there. He had opened a door but wasn’t prepared to look behind it any further. Yet.

  “Had you known Mark Hillyer long?”

  “Only since he joined the Company.”

  “From where did he come? Did he tell you that?”

  “Might have done. Came from out Pilton way. Been in building all his life. So he said.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes.”

  Duncan made a note on his pad. A lifetime’s experience on sites ought to have taught the dead man the dangers of overhead wiring.

  “Were you up on the scaffolding that morning?”

  “No. Couldn’t do my job up there that morning. The weather.”

  “Where was Dwight Riley?”

  “If he weren’t in the kitchen, I don’t know.”

  “Has anyone suggested to you that there was a fight on the scaffolding? That Mark Hillyer, in falling, grabbed the electric cable?”

  “No.”

  Alistair Duncan sat down, satisfied that Ronnie Arnold had been lying, but the full extent of his lies was not evident. Before cross-examination, his evidence had been positive that all three had been in the kitchen. But this had not been true. Or might not have been true. But was he telling the truth about Riley? Or about his own whereabouts? Had there indeed been some horseplay? Murder even? Surely not. Yet, for some reason, Ronnie Arnold had been prepared to lie on oath.

  Duncan realised that he was enjoying himself at last. There was something which needed careful investigation but, whether it would minimise the insurance claim which the widow would advance, was still uncertain.

  He turned to watch Kenny Robertson being sworn. He was a nice-looking lad of about twenty, fresh country complexion and long fair hair without any pretence at style yet, nevertheless, tidy and well looked after.

  His evidence was formal until the coroner asked him where he was at the time Mark Hillyer fell. In the light of Ronnie Arnold’s answers, Mr Yeatman was rather more forceful than previously.

  “Who do you say was in the kitchen, Mr Robertson?”

  The young lad knew what Ronnie Arnold had said. He also knew that Dwight Riley was not in court. “Maybe the three of us. Maybe just the two. Whether someone had gone off to relieve themselves or whether they’d come back at that precise moment, I can’t recall. My impression is that possibly Dwight wasn’t with us.” The answer was clever. It might have been true. It was so vague that it committed the witness to nothing.

  The widow’s solicitor asked no questions so it was Duncan who again held the floor. “Did you hear a shout when Mark Hillyer fell?”

  “More a scream, I would say.”

  “Even though the kitchen is on the other side of the building to the scene of the accident?”

  “It was a loud scream. Unmistakable.”

  “When you heard it — what was your reaction?”

  “Something had happened to Mark Hillyer.”

  “Was the scream distinctive?”

  “No.”

  “Did you recognise the voice?”

  “No.”

  “Then why did you assume it was Mark Hillyer?”

  “Because he we
re out there.”

  “But it could have been Dwight Riley? He was out there too, wasn’t he?”

  There were smiles on the faces of the jurors, as they realised the incisiveness of the question. But the witness’s face was defensive, so Alistair Duncan continued. “If Dwight Riley, for example, were really out of the room and the scream were not distinctive, then you had no reason to suppose it was the foreman.”

  “Put like that . . .”

  “So I suggest to you that Dwight Riley must have been in the room, must have been with you.”

  “Might have been.”

  “Must have been.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Not if I say so, based on what you said, it must be so.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Well, why so grudging? Are you sure that you were in the kitchen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was Mr Arnold in the kitchen.”

  There was a pause. “I think he were in the kitchen. The pageboy cut fair hair bobbed up and down as the witness nodded. “Yes. I think he were there.” It was almost as if he were trying to convince himself but the impression to the jury was less certain. Patrick Cowle had been watching the witnesses with care, He, too, had formed the impression that someone was not telling the truth. But he didn’t know why.

  “Had you known Mark Hillyer long?”

  “No. Since he joined the firm.”

  “And what about his wife? How long had you known her?” It was a shot in the dark and Duncan half expected the irritation of the coroner, but he remained silent.

  “I had known her for about three years.”

  “Known her well?”

  “Saw her occasionally at dances.”

  “Did you ever go out with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was she your girlfriend?”

  “Yes. Long time ago.”

  “Did you resent her marriage to Mark Hillyer?”

  “No.” The slight trembling of the lip, the shadow of hesitation was carefully noted by the solicitor.

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Have you got a girlfriend?”

  “Lots.” There was a grin on his face and it was easy to believe him. There was something simplistic about Kenny Robertson. He had an open face and his build, features and physique, were like many a farm lad who would stack hay by day and romp in it by night. Village halls on a Saturday night were full of his type; full of honest to goodness randiness.