“Then I’m afraid—”
“An even higher authority.” The old man had opened a battered brown attaché-case, fumbled round in it and fished out a sheet of official-looking paper. PC Gurney saw that it was headed ‘Office of the Home Secretary’ and that it directed ‘All whom it might concern to give every assistance to Professor Ian Meiklejohn’, whose name was followed by a number of initials which meant nothing to Gurney, but certainly looked impressive. He said, “If you don’t mind, sir, I’d better just have a word with the Station.” He spoke into his personal radio and was put, almost at once, on to Brace.
“I suppose you can read,” said Brace. “It says you’re to give the Professor every assistance.”
“Yessir.”
“THEN DO IT.”
Brace had been called out on two false alarms the night before and was not feeling happy.
“Was that your Superintendent? He sounds rather a violent man.”
PC Gurney did not feel called on to comment on this. He said, “It’s all right for you to go in, sir.”
“Splendid,” said Professor Meiklejohn. He picked his way, over the charred beams and littered fragments in the outer room, into the inner room which had been the seat of the explosion. Gurney followed him.
“Anything I can do, sir?”
“Yes. Chase those boys away.”
A moment before the lane had been empty. Now three small boys had their chins on the front wall. Like sparrows, thought Gurney. Come from nowhere. He chivvied them away and turned his attention to what the Professor was doing.
He seemed to be particularly interested in an area in the middle of the tiled floor. He had taken a torch from his case and placed it on the ground so that it shone across the floor. Now he was taking photographs, using one of the smallest cameras Gurney had ever seen.
This was explicable conduct. The next move was less so. From the case had come what looked like a miniature battery-powered, vacuum cleaner. The Professor passed this in a sweeping circle round the central area in which he seemed to be interested. For these operations he had been on his hands and knees. Now he creaked to his feet and pottered across to the wall. This, built of stout breeze blocks and plaster-coated, had withstood the force of the explosion and the subsequent fire better than the roof. What the Professor seemed to be doing was collecting pieces of plaster. When the bag on the cleaner was full he detached it, labelled it with a felt-tipped pen and stowed it away in his case. Then he took out an empty bag and turned his attention to the opposite wall.
Gurney was fascinated. He felt certain there was something helpful he ought to be doing. Before he could offer, Professor Meiklejohn looked up and said, “Instead of breathing down my neck, Officer, would you very kindly get those boys to hell out of it.”
There were five of them now.
Saturday night tried Brace hard.
He had been sleeping, uncomfortably, on a camp-bed in his office. Another false alarm, set off by a nervous shopkeeper in the High Street, had dragged him from his first sleep. When the real alarm came, at two o’clock on Sunday morning, it took him a few moments to work his way back to reality. Then he said, “That sounds like business. Get after the bastards and get after them hard.”
A group of men had slipped into the Pakistani quarter by crossing allotments on the east side of Bannockburn Road.
Since few of the houses had garages, cars and vans were normally parked in the road. The wreckers, some two dozen of them, attended to each vehicle as they came to it. If it was small enough they heaved it over on to its side, pulled off the petrol cap and set it alight. If it was too heavy to deal with in this way they attacked it with sledgehammers. First breaking the glass, then cracking open the bonnet and smashing the engine.
The police at Reynolds Road were alerted by the fires even before the telephone began to scream for help. They sprinted towards the holocaust. Wynn-Thomas, who was in charge at that time, issued his orders. First, each exit from the area on to the High Street was to be blocked. As soon as the blocking parties were in position an assault party would go in and drive the wreckers towards the stops.
This was a perfectly sound plan. Unfortunately it had been foreseen by the opposition. As soon as their scouts warned them of the police arrival they knocked off and made for the railway. This was no obstacle. Once they were over it, they scattered in different directions across the marshes.
The police, beating through the streets and clearing the way for the fire-tenders that were following them, encountered no opposition. The episode was started and finished inside ten minutes.
Brace met Wynn-Thomas at the far end of Bisset Street. They stood for some minutes, in silence, surveying the battlefield. The firemen, armed with chemical extinguishers, were putting out the last of the fires, whilst the owners of the vehicles searched cautiously to see what they could salvage.
“Another professional job,” said Wynn-Thomas. “Quick in, quick out. No genuine feeling about it.”
“What do you think’s behind it?” said Brace. He had known his second-in-command long enough to ask his opinion.
Wynn-Thomas said, “Personally I’d be inclined to class all the things that have happened so far as what theatrical folk call ‘ticklers’. That’s to say, preliminary performances put on to excite the public and make sure that they roll up for the real first night.”
“The first night being tomorrow.”
“Correct.”
“Well, we shall be in the front row of the stalls,” said Brace. He didn’t sound displeased at the idea.
23
By five o’clock that Monday morning the crowds were already collecting.
At seven o’clock the police started to divert the traffic. At nine o’clock, as the crowd grew even larger, further diversions were organised.
Two hundred yards of the pavement on either side of the court had been lined by a row of linked steel barriers. It was impossible to prevent people from using the pavement. There were owners of houses and shops who needed access. What the police had to do was to keep them moving. The first trouble occurred when a group of men, walking down the barricaded stretch of pavement, decided to stop directly opposite the court entrance.
No amount of ‘Move along there, please’, had any effect. A dozen policemen came down the pavement to try more direct action. The group was well organised. They linked arms and stood their ground. More policemen arrived. A van drove up and after a struggle the men were hustled into it. There were casualties on both sides. Everyone who was in a position to see what was happening bellowed abuse.
A small man had managed to secure a second-storey window-seat opposite the court-house. He shouted down, through a loud hailer, “Leave them alone. It’s a free country. We’ve a right to see what’s going on. Why are you trying to stop us? What are you hiding?”
The crowd roared its appreciation.
Michaelson said, “Awkward, him being on private premises, but if he goes on we shall have to have him out.”
He had set up his own command post in the yard alongside the court building: two massive six-tonners, parked side by side. One was a communications vehicle which was in touch by radio and by line with the subsidiary posts which had been set up, one at each end of Reynolds Road and one at each of the traffic diversion points in Plumstead High Street. The other was a Public Order Surveillance vehicle, borrowed from the Home Office. It contained two television cameras and a 35 mm photographic system mounted on a periscope and backed up by a pair of video monitors.
“You can reckon that the media will be there in force,” Michaelson said. “Most of the photographs they print are slanted. We’ve found it’s useful to have a few unslanted ones to put alongside them.”
At half-past nine the people concerned in the court hearing started to arrive. This gave a fresh opportunity for the crowd to express its feelings. The five Pakistani boys escaped notice. They were driven along Maindy Road in an unmarked van and got into the court by a side en
trance. Mr. Norrie disdained concealment. He walked from his house to court. As he passed down the road between the solid ranks of police he received a good deal of advice as to how he should conduct the proceedings. It seemed to amuse him. The loudest cheers greeted Abel Drummer. The loudest abuse was reserved for Qadir Diwaker, which he took as a compliment.
When Michaelson had raised the question of admission of the public, Mr. Norrie had said, “As long as it can do so, justice should always function in public. We will admit the first thirty who turn up. That should fill the public benches comfortably, without crowding.’
“Suppose they interrupt the proceedings?”
“I’ll deal with that. You keep things under control outside the court, Superintendent. Leave the interior to me.”
The Clerk rapped with his gavel and said, “All Stand.”
Mr. Norrie entered, bowed, and took his seat. A quick glance round the room had shown him nothing unexpected. The press reservation was, of course, overflowing and two extra benches had been inserted in front of the press box. The public area at the back was full, but not uncomfortably so. Mr. Norrie recognised no one in it. He thought that they were all strangers. He had been told that the lucky ones who had got in had been queuing since four o’clock that morning.
Directing his remarks to both press and public Mr. Norrie said, “Most of you will be aware of the disgraceful scenes which occurred when I was sitting previously in this matter. I should perhaps let you know that you were all photographed as you entered the court. That is so that any trouble-makers – I trust there will be none – can be identified and dealt with. A man who took a leading part in the disturbance last time has been charged. If he is found guilty, his sentence may not be a light one.”
He allowed the last words to echo, for a moment, round the totally silent court. Then he leaned forward and said, “Mr. Leopold.”
Crown Counsel rose, bowed, and said, “I appear in this case for the prosecution. Mr. Rumford is with me. My learned friend, Mr. Diwaker, appears for the defence of all five of the accused. The original charge was one of theft. The theft of explosive from a locked shed in the Old Royal Arsenal grounds. My first witnesses will be dealing with this. It would, however, be idle to pretend that the matter rests there and, as you will note, additional charges have now been added of arson and conspiracy to cause grievous bodily harm, with an alternative charge of manslaughter. These matters arise not from the theft itself, but from the use to which the stolen explosive was put. Later testimony will deal with this point.”
The first witnesses, the officer commanding at the depot and his sergeant storeman, roused no excitement as they proved that a certain shed had contained a certain quantity of cordite on a certain day and now contained four pounds less. Diwaker asked only one question. He said, “The shed contained nothing but cordite?” The storeman assured him that this was correct. The next witness to be summoned, from the room in which all the witnesses were detained until they had given evidence, was Sapper Sunley. It was observed that as he made his way to the stand he avoided looking at any of the prisoners.
Leopold led him skilfully into his story. How he was persuaded to purloin the key of the powder shed – (it was noticed that he was not asked who persuaded him. Leopold had stringent instructions on this point) – how he met Salim Kahn and Javed Rahman, how they went to the shed and he unlocked it and took out four blue bags from a box of red, white and blue bags and handed them over and how he went back and replaced the key in the guard-hut and – that was all.
Mr. Leopold sat down. Qadir Diwaker stood up. He said, “I have reason to believe that what this witness says is, broadly speaking, true and I have no questions to ask him.”
This was the last thing the press and the public had been expecting. They looked like children deprived of a promised treat.
Leopold said, “It is the contention of the prosecution that, having obtained this explosive, the accused then used it to construct an explosive device. This consisted of the explosive itself, confined into a metal container, possibly the cylinder of a hydraulic jack, a homemade detonator and an electric firing arrangement which depended on the use of an ordinary alarm clock. You have heard how they obtained the explosive. My next witness will deal with the second and third items.”
The Manager of Petters and Mr. Lampeter of the clock shop each said their piece. Diwaker questioned neither of them. He seemed to have lost interest in the whole affair.
“I shall now endeavour,” said Leopold, “to show why the accused, having armed themselves with this infernal machine, chose to place it in premises used as a meeting place by Edward and Robin Drummer and three of their friends. It is a question which, in the ordinary way, should have been put to the accused. It was, I understand, intended by their original advisers that Salim Kahn should have been called. It seems that their new advisers have altered this plan.”
He looked at Diwaker, who smiled politely.
“There are, however, two people who are in a position to offer direct evidence of the hostility between those groups of boys. The father of two of the victims, Mr. Abel Drummer, and the Probation Officer in charge of their case. We felt that the latter was less personally involved and would be likely to speak with less prejudice and have decided to rely on his testimony. If the learned Magistrate would like to hear Mr. Drummer also, he is in court and available.”
“I must leave it entirely to you, Mr. Leopold. It is your case.”
“Very well. Call Mr. Leone.”
Anthony had been sitting in the witness room, empty now except for himself and Major Webster. When he had taken the oath, Leopold said, “I should like to make it clear that this witness did not volunteer to give evidence. He is here in response to a subpoena. Now, Mr. Leone, I understand that the leaders of what I might call these two gangs, Salim Kahn and Edward Drummer, were on probation to you as the result of a fight in Plumstead High Street.”
Not all that long ago, thought Anthony. But separated by such a chain of events that it seemed almost to be an episode of prehistory. He answered Leopold’s questions carefully, keeping to facts and avoiding opinions. The dog, the one-sided boxing match, the destruction of the Pakistani headquarters. When Leopold had finished, Diwaker stood up. He seemed uncertain how to begin. Then he said, “When you made your very gallant rescue, Mr. Leone, you first penetrated into the outer lobby, where you found Robin Drummer and dragged him clear. You then went back to see whether you could do more. You remember that? What was your impression, before you opened the inner door?”
“My impression was that I was standing in an oven.”
“The heat was intense?”
“Almost over-powering.”
“Thank you. Just one other point. It was part of your duty to talk to these boys?”
“Certainly.”
“And this would give you a fair idea of their characters?”
“Some idea, yes.”
“Very well. We’ve heard from you of the sort of things they did to each other. The sort of escapades that high-spirited boys might indulge in. But answer me this question, if you will. Do you think they would plan to kill each other?”
“No,” said Anthony. “I don’t.”
When Leopold rose to re-examine, he phrased his question very carefully. He said, “Do you not agree, however, that someone who constructs and uses the sort of machine which has been described must be held responsible for any damage that it does?”
Anthony said, angrily, “That wasn’t the question I was asked. I was asked if any of these boys would plan to kill. I said ‘No’. I should have put it more strongly. I think it is totally incredible.”
Having got the worst of that exchange Leopold was experienced enough to leave it alone. He said, “No more questions.”
“In that case,” said Mr. Norrie, looking at the clock, “it will be a convenient time to break. We can take the technical witnesses this afternoon. In the circumstances I have arranged with the police that anyone
who wants to, may lunch in the police canteen. No one will therefore need to leave this building unless they wish.”
Most of the members of the press and public showed distinct signs of relief at this suggestion. Only one man, at the back of the court, seemed to want to go. He slipped out, almost unnoticed, crossed Reynolds Road, was allowed through by the police cordon and disappeared up a side-street. A few minutes later he was talking to the small man who was still at his second-storey vantage point.
“Dull as ditchwater,” he said. “The opposition aren’t really putting up a fight. A couple of boffins to come after lunch, then it’ll all be over.”
“We can’t have that,” said the small man. “I’ve promised to keep the crowd happy until half-past four. Don’t want them drifting off.”
He turned to the boy at his side who seemed to be acting as his adjutant.
“Which do you think is the weakest of the four posts they’ve got manned?”
“They’re none of them exactly weak. I should think the one at the west end of Plumstead High Street would be the easiest to get at.”
“Right. In an hour’s time then. A quick rush. Knock out a few policemen. Then out again.”
The boy nodded and took himself off.
“Might as well all have lunch,” said the small man. “Who’s got the sandwiches?”
At two o’clock the court reassembled and Major Webster took the stand. He did not look happy, but this was possibly the result of wife trouble.
“You are Arnold Webster, formerly a Major in the Royal Army Ordnance Corps, an Ammunition Technical Officer, now attached to the Metropolitan Police?”
“Correct.”
“Would you explain to the court what your job involves?”
“If there is a report of a suspect explosive device, I or one of my colleagues examines it and attempts to deal with it.”
“You defuse it?”
“Not always, sir. If we decide it can be moved, we remove it to where it can do no harm and demolish it. Or we might have to clear the area and demolish it on the spot. Of course, if we can render it harmless we do so.”
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