‘Have you ever heard of this yarn, Tom?’ asked the DI.
Rickman was dismissive. ‘Yeah, but it’s just a bit of the daft gossip that gets dredged up now and then, when folks have a few too many pints.’
One of the younger DCs had been scanning a copy of the file, updated with local information. ‘That grass over in Handsworth mentioned the landlord of that pub, guv’nor. That seems fairly definite, doesn’t it?’
The inspector nodded.
‘That’s what you lot have got to follow up. Find this landlord, if he’s still around. Ask anyone you can think of, if they’ve any knowledge of this whole business. The chief super is keen to get this sorted, as he says he’s got the ACC on his back.’
After a few more minutes discussing shift rotas and other bits of housekeeping, the team broke up and went their various ways, Tom Rickman heading straight for the place where the demolished pub had once stood.
His tall, broad figure strode along the depressing streets of the area, where rows of shabby red-brick houses were interspersed with small workshops and warehouses. Many of the faces he passed were West Indian, who were coming in increasing numbers to work in the factories.
A few Asians were beginning to appear as well and Rickman, born and bred in Birmingham, wondered what it would be like here in thirty years’ time.
He strode on, his creased fawn raincoat belted tightly around his beer belly, a brown trilby pulled down to his prominent ears. On a corner just ahead, he saw the magic word ‘Co-op’ in large letters above the door of a shop. On each side, running up for fifty yards into each side street, were some new utilitarian maisonettes, the whole development built on ground once occupied by the old public house.
The detective sergeant stood on the opposite corner for a few moments, looking across as if he was looking into the past when the Barley Mow was still there. He remembered it as it was five years earlier, though by then it was well past its prime. He recalled its windows being boarded up before the bulldozers came to flatten it, together with an acre of adjacent terraced houses, making way for this cheap and nasty new development. No doubt a few brown envelopes had changed hands to ease planning permission, he thought cynically.
Crossing the road, narrowly being missed by an almost silent electric milk-float that came around the corner, he went into the shop, which was one of the new breed of self-service places that were springing up. A Caribbean girl was stacking bottles of Camp Coffee on a shelf and he asked her where he could find the manager. She pointed to a raised cubicle with glass windows looking down on the single till, where another girl was checking items produced from a wire basket by a customer.
Rickman went up a couple of steps and after tapping perfunctorily on the door he went in to find a middle-aged man in a brown warehouse coat peering suspiciously down at the transaction at the till down below.
‘Got to keep an eye on them,’ he muttered obscurely, as he turned to meet the visitor. The sergeant identified himself, but made no effort to show his warrant card, his usual practice unless challenged.
‘Have you been here since this place opened, sir?’ he asked. Like many people questioned by a policeman, the manager looked anxious, wondering which of his minor indiscretions was being probed. However, after he had admitted to being there since the place opened two years earlier, he was relieved to hear that the sergeant’s interest was in the previous building.
‘I remember the Barley Mow well,’ he admitted. ‘A damned rough place. I never drank there, even though I’ve lived within half a mile of it all my life. What’s all this about, Officer?’
‘Just routine enquiries, sir. Tell me, what happened to the cellars of the old pub? Are they still under the shop?’
The man shook his bald head. ‘No, they filled them in with all the rubble they had from knocking it down. This is the only floor we’ve got, as there’s a new storeroom built on behind.’
That’s one line of enquiry knocked on the head, thought Rickman, recalling the mention of the elusive head being kept in the cellar. ‘What about the last landlord, is he still around — or even still alive?’ he asked.
This time, the manager’s head wagged up and down.
‘Olly Franklin? The brewery gave him another tenancy when he lost this one. I don’t know where he went. It’s a wonder he got another pub, though.’
‘Why d’you say that?’
The man shrugged and made a face. ‘It was such a dodgy place, the Mow! Some right nasty bastards used to drink there. Everyone knew they were fencing stolen goods — and in the war, a lot of black-market stuff used to be handled there. I don’t remember that far back, I only got demobbed in ’forty-seven. But Olly had a bad reputation, as he was hand in glove with the gangs.’
The detective pondered this. If the pub had had such a bad reputation, it must have been well known to the police at that time. There should be records of what went on there, but Rickman was cautious, as if there was any signs of ‘the blind-eye act’ being operated by the police, he didn’t want to be the one to open that particular can of worms.
He left the Co-op and went about his other business for the day, as there was plenty of crime to occupy him. At the end of his shift, he went to the DI’s cubbyhole and found him still there, wading through the inevitable paperwork.
‘Nothing at all left of the pub, guv’nor. The cellars are filled in, so there’ll be no head to find, unless it’s buried. And you’ll have to demolish the Co-op for that!’
Trevor Hartnell sighed; he had enough work on his plate already.
‘This landlord, Olly Franklin. Nothing known about his whereabouts, is there?’
The grizzled sergeant turned up his palms. ‘Nothing, but I suppose a search of the electoral roll or the licensing authority might flush him out.’
He hesitated, but then took the plunge. ‘What about our own records from a few years ago? I got the impression that the Barley Mow was a hang-out for real villains, so surely this station must have some dealings with it?’
Trevor Hartnell thought he caught a wink from Rickman’s eye and he knew what was being suggested. Both of them were in other Divisions until a few years ago and were clear of any dubious goings-on before then.
‘I’ll get someone to go through Records to see if the place crops up. I doubt any pocketbooks will have survived from the end of the war, but you never know.’
Two days later, the DI held another morning briefing with his men. The youngest — and brightest — detective constable had been to police headquarters and trawled through the records for their Division for the latter years of the war and the first few after VE Day.
‘Nothing very serious involving the Barley Mow, sir,’ he reported. ‘Quite a few attendances for drunk and disorderly conduct and a couple for riotous behaviour in the pub. A few people were nicked for possessing stolen property and some black-market prosecutions as well — but they weren’t actually offences in the Barley Mow, they were folk who claimed that they had bought the stuff there, but no evidence brought to substantiate it.’
‘Any sign of the ex-landlord, this Olly Franklin?’ asked the inspector.
Another constable put his hand up. ‘I found an address, sir. I checked with the licensing people first. Franklin went from the Barley Mow to the White Rose in Smethwick for a bit, but it looks as if the brewery that owned them gave him marching orders about two years ago.’
‘So where is he now?
‘He’s not listed as a licensee any more. I went to the electoral roll and the Rating Authority and found he’s registered as residing at 186 Markby Road.’
‘That’s right in Winson Green,’ said Rickman. ‘D’you want me to pay him a call, guv?’
‘I think we’d both better go, Tom,’ replied the DI.
ELEVEN
The weather had turned very cold by the time Richard Pryor and Angela were due to go to Bristol for another conference about Millicent Wilson. As they drove down the lower part of the deep Wye Valley to Ch
epstow, the leafless trees looked black, except for a rime of frost on the upper branches. Richard was glad of an efficient heater in the Humber, which was still a novelty for him, as his Austin A70 in Singapore would have needed a heater like the proverbial hole in the head.
Under a grey sky which threatened snow, they made the now familiar ferry crossing over the Severn on a choppy tide the colour of lead, then across a frozen countryside towards Bristol. This was the first really cold weather Richard had experienced since returning from the Far East, and he was glad that the women in his life had recently persuaded him to buy an overcoat. He had returned from Singapore with a selection of locally-made linen suits, which Angela, Sian and Moira had privately decided made him look like Stewart Granger in one of his safari films. They had browbeaten him into getting a couple of more sober suits, better adapted to the British climate, for which he was now grateful.
This morning, Angela was even better equipped for the frost, as over her slimline business suit she wore a dark beaver lamb coat, with a matching fur hat. As she sat snugly in the passenger seat beside him, Richard thought she looked cuddly, an image which sustained him for the rest of the drive into St Paul’s.
When they arrived at the unprepossessing offices of Middleton, Bailey and Bailey, they found Penelope Forbes and Douglas Bailey already there, together with their ‘silk’, Paul Marchmont. He was younger than Richard had expected, probably just a couple of years older than himself. Instead of the portly, silver-haired orator that was the stage concept of a QC, Marchmont was tall and wiry, with an unruly mane of black hair which he kept flinging aside with a hand in an almost theatrical gesture. Richard guessed that he was bit of a showman, like many successful barristers.
After introductions were made, Marchmont got down to essentials, as his time was money — lots of it!
‘Miss Forbes, Mr Bailey and myself have spent an hour going over the legal aspects of the case and reviewing the circumstantial evidence,’ he began. ‘This Appeal stands or falls upon a defence of alibi, which is really the only issue we can use, so the medical contribution is vital.’
He turned a ten-kilowatt smile on Angela, making her decide that he could either be a charming advocate or a deadly adversary.
‘That includes you of course, Doctor Bray. Your opinion about the blood stains is very important. Perhaps we could lead off with that aspect first.’
Angela, a battle-hardened expert witness, had no hesitation in launching into a clear and succinct account of the significance of the blood found on the sleeve of Millie Wilson’s coat. She had her sketches and an album of police photographs on her lap as she spoke.
‘There seems no dispute that Millie hit Shaw twice on the nose with a pint milk bottle in retaliation for his assault on her late that evening. The post-mortem recorded a bruised and broken nose which accords with several heavy blows. Neither is there any doubt about the blood on her coat having coming from Shaw, as the forensic lab in Bristol clearly showed that it is of a group and subgroups consistent with him and quite unlike Millie’s own blood.’
Paul Marchmont listened intently, then nodded and, having brushed back his hair, came to the heart of the matter.
‘The Crown claims that it came from the fatal wound in the chest. You can dispute that?’
‘Yes, and I fail to see why it wasn’t challenged at the trial. The transcript of evidence shows that their pathologist agreed that it was “entirely possible” when it was put to him, but he wasn’t pressed about it. There was no contrary evidence led by the defence on that point.’
‘And you have some?’ queried the Queen’s Counsel.
‘Part of this is more in Doctor Pryor’s province, and I’m sure he can answer for himself. But from the forensic biology point of view, these blood “stains” are really blood “spots”, having travelled through the air and landed on the sleeve of the coat, rather than being smears. I also found, from trawling through all the evidence, that she was left-handed and this was the left sleeve. That point was never raised at the trial.’
‘But why could not the same spots have come from the chest wound?’ demanded Marchmont. ‘Her hand, whether left or right, would be virtually touching the chest if she stuck the knife in it.’
Angela shook her head and proffered the photograph album, opened at a page showing a close-up of the woman’s jacket sleeve.
‘These are a shower of tiny spots, quite well spaced. They are not contact smears; they are from a fine spray striking the cuff area.’ She held out her left arm and indicated the outside of her own sleeve, just above the wrist.
‘I think Doctor Pryor will bear me out in my opinion that a single stab wound through clothing in the chest, which did not penetrate any substantial arterial blood-vessels, would not produce any spray, as virtually all of the fatal bleeding was internal, within the chest organs.’
Though she needed little support, Richard came in here to confirm what she was saying.
‘You can see from the photographs of the body at the scene that there was hardly any bleeding externally. He was wearing a vest, shirt and waistcoat and all that is visible is a stain soaked into the cloth around the narrow slit where the knife went in.’
‘Could this spray not have come off the knife when it was pulled out?’ asked Douglas Bailey. ‘I’ve been involved in cases where there’s blood all over the room — even on the ceiling — from spatter off a weapon.’
‘Sure, that happens, usually with blunt instruments or things like axes. But almost always, the weapon has been applied to surfaces that are already bloody from previous blows. Usually, a single blow causes a momentary contraction of blood vessels and it’s a few seconds before enough blood flows for the second or third blow to pick enough liquid to throw around the place.’
‘And Millie hit him at least twice on the nose with her bottle,’ concluded Angela. ‘So she could have caused a splash with her second impact, throwing a local spray back on to her sleeve.’
‘The other thing is that when the knife was found on the floor, only a close inspection could tell it had been used,’ said Richard, with a quickening fluency of which his grandfather, a Welsh Methodist preacher, would have approved. ‘There were some faint dried blood smears on the blade, but it took proper examination in the laboratory to confirm it. So there was very little blood on it, certainly not enough to cause a shower of spots. When a knife is pulled out cleanly from a wound, the muscle contraction can close the edges tightly against the blade and wipe it. And then of course there were three layers of clothing to give it an additional wipe.’
The QC nodded. ‘You’ve convinced me, doctors, but we have to convince three sceptical Lords of Appeal. Now what about the time of death? That’s where we will win or lose.’
Coffee appeared, giving Richard time mentally to gird his loins before setting off on a much more detailed argument.
‘Let me make it clear, Mr Marchmont,’ he began after they had settled down again. ‘I cannot deny that Arthur Shaw might well have died at around eleven or twelve o’clock that night, as the prosecution claimed. But what I can do is show that, because of the uncertainty of the methods their pathologist relied on, he could have died several hours either side of that claim. Obviously, that could not have been on the earlier side, as a number of the people in the house saw him alive until he went upstairs to assault Millie. But the hours after that time are certainly in contention.’
‘This is where we need a detailed argument, Doctor Pryor,’ said Paul Marchmont. ‘You are directly at odds with their expert on this.’
‘Right, let’s take the easy ones first,’ said Richard. ‘Their Doctor Mackintyre said that he relied on a concurrence of post-mortem lividity, rigor mortis, stomach contents and temperature to arrive at his conclusion that death had occurred between eleven and twelve o’clock. That is utter nonsense, as any medical man who, from an imperfect examination fourteen hours later, puts a time of death within a one-hour bracket is either ignorant or foolish!’
‘If he had said “consistent with those times”, I would agree with him, but that then fails to destroy Millie’s alibi, as someone else could have done the deed outside the very short time bracket.’
Marchmont once again tossed his hair back. ‘Carry on, please, doctor.’
‘First, lividity, or “livor mortis” as it was probably called in Doctor Mackintyre’s day. Completely useless as a timer of death. It can even occur in deep coma, such as barbiturate overdose. But the time it takes to appear due to gravitational settling of the red blood cells is extremely variable. To use that to pin down a time to an hour, when seen half a day later, is little short of ludicrous.’
Penelope Forbes, who had been very quiet in the presence of her leader, came in with a query that showed that she had researched the case in depth.
‘Haven’t I read that this lividity becomes fixed after a certain number of hours, which can be used in timing?’
‘That is certainly in all the textbooks, but in practice it is very variable and often doesn’t occur at all,’ was the firm reply. ‘I’ve experimented myself and found it to be totally unreliable.’
Douglas Bailey was getting out of his depth here. ‘Can you explain that, Doctor Pryor?’
‘When the blood cells settle, they are still inside the veins under the skin, so that the dark reddish-purple colour is visible. The delay for this to happen is very variable — in fact, in some old or anaemic people, it is never visible. Now if the body is moved after death, such as being turned over, the blood may or may not reposition itself towards the new lowest areas. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t. For years, pathologists and police surgeons have tried to put a timeline on when it stops moving and becomes fixed. But even when fixation does occur, it’s so random in its timing as to be useless. I’ve copied out the opinions given for this and for timing rigor mortis from almost a dozen textbooks of forensic medicine and you will see that the range of disagreement runs to many hours, so it’s of virtually no value!’
Grounds for Appeal drp-3 Page 11