A Private and Convenient Place

by Michael G T Stokes

  The judge nodded. ‘Thank you, Dr Rogerson. I remember the case well. If you recall, I was the judge who tried it - in Sheffield. You are free to go.’

  Cronshaw leapt to his feet. ‘Could I ask a question arising from your Lordship’s helpful comment?’

  ‘If you must.’

  ‘In the case you mentioned, which my Lord tried in Sheffield, the call in question was a nine-nine-nine call to the emergency services?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And all calls to the emergency services are recorded automatically?’

  ‘That’s usually the case, yes.’

  ‘The call we are interested in was a call to an ordinary landline?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And there is no reason to believe that the caller – whoever it was – realised that what was being said was being recorded?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So no particular reason for the caller to disguise her voice?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Unless, of course, she appreciated she was engaged in some serious criminal enterprise?’

  Everdene jumped up quickly. ‘That, my Lord, is a comment and not a question!’

  The judge smiled, indulgently. ‘I suppose it was prompted by what I said, Mr Everdene. That will be all Dr Rogerson’

  Rogerson bowed to the judge before leaving the witness box. The judge noted the time and adjourned for the day. He waited for the jury to leave the court then stood, picked up his notebook and bowed to counsel. As he departed, Felicity Garrard whispered to her leader.

  ‘That was very decent of the judge, wasn’t it? I wasn’t expecting that. I don’t suppose Cronshaw was aware of the Sheffield case?’

  Everdene had noted the glum look on Cronshaw’s face immediately before he asked permission to question the expert further.

  ‘Me neither. But everything helps in a case like this. Hal made a bit of ground retrieving the situation, but the judge’s point will stay with the jury – I hope.’

  ‘Yes. It’s going much better than I anticipated.’

  ‘Let’s hope it continues to do so. But it’s Duffy’s turn tomorrow morning. He will certainly not be as easy to deal with.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  The jurors busied themselves looking for their coats as they prepared to leave for the day. Miss Duston sat in silence completing her notes of the evidence. On the opposite side of each page on which she had carefully written what the witnesses had said, she inserted her preliminary observations. But she had no intention of discussing her views with her fellow jurors, beyond the occasional comment, until the evidence was closed. And as her thoughts were written in shorthand, there was little prospect of anyone understanding what she had recorded. She was particularly intrigued by Savage. If he really did know that Julia Hamilton was pregnant, why did he stick around for as long as he did? And given his previous relationship with her, why did he act with such restraint in Brussels where they had shared a double room for six days? He didn’t strike her as much of a gentleman and he seemed obsessed with money. His off- hand remarks about the cost of the hotel, the champagne and his concern about excess baggage charges had not gone unnoticed. He would surely have tried it on with her? It would be interesting to hear Julia Hamilton’s side of the story, assuming she chose to go into the witness box. She underlined the two million pounds reserve on Savage’s painting. Perhaps the lovely Julia had designs on him? He was probably worth a lot more than Michael Doyle and his wealth had the advantage of being legitimate.

  ‘See you tomorrow,’ shouted young Jimmy, his tattoos now fully covered by his leather coat. ‘I’m going for a drink. Anyone fancy joining me?’ No-one responded in the affirmative. ‘Please yourselves.’

  The jury bailiff rounded everyone up and the twelve jurors walked in a line down the corridor towards the lift. They ascended in groups of four to the jury area on the top floor. Miss Duston observed that some were already breaking the judge’s injunction not to talk about the case unless all twelve of them were together in their jury room. Young Jimmy in particular was adopting a very cavalier approach.

  ‘I don’t reckon she fancied him; that’s why they didn’t sleep together.’

  The usher rebuked him, but gently.

  ‘It might be better if you kept things to yourself, sir. Remember what the judge said. Plenty of time to discuss things in the jury room. See you all tomorrow. Ten-thirty sharp.’

  * * * *

  When Jimmy Murphy left the court building he was quite alone. He was a little resentful that none of his fellow jurors had been inclined to accompany him. But he needed a drink. He had found concentrating on the evidence quite draining. Jimmy was twenty-three years of age, although he looked considerably younger. He was of average height but very thin. His mop of red hair and freckled complexion betrayed his Irish origins, although he had a typical Nottingham accent. His father hailed from County Mayo but had not featured in his life since he was a teenager. He lived in a flat with his mother and two younger brothers both of whom had done much better in life than he. Peter was in his first year at Southampton University and Martin was in his final year at school working towards the four ‘A’ levels which he was expected to pass with distinction. He did not resent their success, but he wished he’d worked harder at school and gained some qualifications. He was always on the look out for an opportunity to better himself and he was not over scrupulous about its legality. He thought it ironic that he had been called for jury service. He’d been arrested a couple of times in the past but never charged.

  ‘Luck of the draw,’ his mother had told him. She had never been summoned for jury service but she had no inhibitions about telling her neighbours that her Jimmy was serving on the jury in the case that was all over the newspapers and television news. She had already cut out the photograph of Julia Hamilton that appeared on the front page of the local paper and stuck it in the fridge in her kitchen. She had also insisted that her eldest son was to wear his best (and only) suit while serving as a juror. It would cover up all those tattoos she so disapproved of. He had managed to escape her ordinance this time and left home casually dressed, his leather coat concealing what he was wearing underneath, but he was reconciled to doing as he as told for the rest of the trial.

  Jimmy had not had a decent job for over three years after he had been made redundant from a factory manufacturing garden furniture. He had been accused, along with several other employees, of participating in a fraud which had put the future of the business in doubt. Although he was never charged, he was not surprised when he was selected for redundancy. He had picked up only temporary work since and had been on benefits for the last few months. Jury service had been quite a boon, providing he could mange to keep his jury expenses from the eager eyes of the Department of Social Security. Little did he know that they were automatically informed of any payments made to jurors.

  He headed for the nearest public house a few hundred yards from the court. It was closed. It wouldn’t open again until 6pm. He remained outside the Horse and Groom and looked at his watch. It was only five o’clock. He pulled the collar of his coat closer and gazed back towards the courthouse. He failed to notice the individual follow him from the court wearing a heavy coat with a scarf around his neck and an Indiana Jones Fedora which partially covered his face. Jimmy rubbed his hands together in the cold evening air and headed for the Irish Club a few streets away. He knew he would get a drink there. The man in the Fedora hat, who was now standing in a bus queue to avoid being observed, did not get on the bus that was pulling away as Jimmy turned out of Canal Street into the road that led towards the club. He followed Jimmy, stopping to purchase a newspaper from the vendor on the corner.

  Jimmy arrived at the club and pushed the doors open. A bored doorman, leaning on a desk in the foyer glanced up at him.

  ‘It’s yourself, Jimmy,’ he said in a friend
ly enough tone. ‘It’s a bit early for you isn’t it?’

  ‘I happened to be in this end of town,’ Jimmy replied. ‘And I couldn’t half do with a drink.’

  ‘Well the bar’s open, but there’s not many in there yet.’

  Jimmy felt in his pockets for some loose change. He suddenly realised he probably hadn’t enough money with him to buy more than half a pint. And he wouldn’t get any expenses for jury service before the end of the week. He was considering whether to leave and return to his mother’s basement flat in Top Valley when the man in the Fedora stepped into the foyer.

  ‘Is this the place then?’ he asked in a distinctive Irish accent.

  The doorman scrutinised him carefully. ‘Members only,’ he said, firmly, ‘unless you get signed in as a guest.’

  ‘And there was I thinking I’d get a welcome here.’

  Jimmy looked at him. The man was well-dressed and probably had money.

  ‘I’ll sign him in,’ he said.

  The doorman grunted and produced a shabby book from the desk and pointed to the next available line. The man penned an illegible signature and Jimmy scribbled his initials next to it.

  ‘You’re only supposed to sign in people you know. But I suppose there’s no harm in it.’

  The man smiled at Jimmy. ‘Well, don’t all Irish men know one another- even before they’re introduced? Dudley Manning,’ he said, offering his hand. ‘That’s very generous of you. You’ll allow me to buy you a pint?’

  ‘Only members can purchase alcohol,’ insisted the doorman.

  ‘Then I’ll have to get you one,’ said Jimmy with a knowing wink as he shook the stranger’s hand and told him his name before the two of them walked into the bar.

  * * * *

  Chief Inspector Hood had not been able to be present in court. He was to be called as a witness at the end of the prosecution case and Edwin Everdene had insisted that he should remain out of court until his turn came to give evidence. He was obliged to sit outside or in the conference room set aside for prosecution use. Harold Cronshaw had explained that this presented him with quite a problem. No-one knew more about the investigation than Hood.

  ‘That’s why I want him out of court,’ smiled Everdene. ‘I don’t want him tailoring his evidence to meet whatever may happen with the other witnesses.’

  ‘As if he would!’

  ‘If the time comes when I can relent, I’ll let you now. Perhaps after Hanlon has given his evidence?’

  Cronshaw was accordingly obliged to confer with Hood without revealing anything that had happened in court and the chief inspector had to rely on newspaper reports to discover how the trial was going. He placed his copy of the Daily Mail on the table as he disclosed to counsel the latest efforts of his team of detectives.

  ‘I see we are front page news,’ said Cronshaw, looking at the paper.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Hood, with a smile. ‘It must have been a slow news day yesterday. That’s an excellent photograph of Julia Hamilton, don’t you think?’

  ‘Makes her look almost innocent!’ said junior counsel, cynically.

  Cronshaw laughed. But he was anxious to learn what had been discovered about the movements of Kelly Maguire around the middle of March 1999. He was concerned that she was going say in evidence that she was nowhere near Hastings on 16 March. Otherwise there would be no point in the defence calling her. It was, of course, already known that she had been one of those who had entered Judge Campion’s home when his wife and son were kidnapped in the early hours of 6 April and that she had presented herself as a potential purchaser of the Campion’s home on 24 February. But her movements between those dates were much more difficult to establish. Hood had despatched both Sergeant Hooper and Raymond Craddock to South Wales to make inquiries.

  ‘We know her motor cycle was in Wales on the thirteenth of March,’ Hood revealed. ‘She picked up a speeding ticket on the M4 near Bridgend. There was a temporary speed limit through some road works and she was photographed by a speed camera.’

  ‘Was it definitely her?’

  Hood produced the photograph. Cronshaw looked at it then handed it to his junior.

  ‘That could be anybody,’ said Markham-Moore, dismissively.

  ‘But it’s definitely her bike,’ said Hood, ‘and she didn’t dispute it. She pleaded guilty by letter, paid the fine and took the penalty points.’

  ‘What about the fifteenth and sixteenth?’

  ‘We haven’t got anywhere with that. Where she was is anybody’s guess. Hooper has checked at the golf club. No-one recollects her being there over the week-end or in the days following.’

  ‘Which way was she travelling on the M4 when she was caught on camera?’

  ‘South-east, towards Newport.’

  ‘So she could have been going anywhere?’

  ‘Including the Midlands?’ offered junior counsel.

  Cronshaw sighed. ‘She hasn’t been picked up on any other speed cameras?’

  ‘No. And we’ve run a nationwide check. We concentrated on the routes from Hastings to London on the sixteenth of March. Nothing!’

  Cronshaw frowned. He stood up and took a few steps around the small conference room. He paused and looked directly at Hood.

  ‘Do you know what I think? Hamilton has had this planned all along. She’s anticipated that we might work out she travelled to and from Hastings by motorcycle and assume that it was Maguire who carried her. And I guarantee that when Kelly Maguire gives evidence next week she’ll have some cast iron alibi putting herself well away from Hastings or London on the sixteenth of March.’

  ‘It doesn’t follow that Hamilton wasn’t at the meeting in Hastings, though. Duffy and Hanlon will both say she was there. How she got there is a detail.’

  ‘But a very important detail, Edward,’ said Cronshaw.

  ‘So, it was someone else?’ said Markham-Moore. ‘Someone else carried her there and then to London.’

  ‘Undoubtedly. She’s had us all chasing this Kelly Maguire false trail. And we have precious little time before she gives evidence.’

  ‘But what about Hanlon? He says she was definitely there in Hastings, right along side Hamilton. And it was he who first hinted that Hamilton travelled by motorcycle.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that she did. Timing was essential for her alibi. I’m sure we’re right about the bike. That’s what’s so infuriating about it. It just wasn’t Kelly Maguire.’

  ‘Who could it have been?’

  ‘Someone with a London address, perhaps,’ said Hood. ‘She’d have had to have somewhere to change.’

  ‘And somewhere to leave her bag. Savage said she had nothing with her,’ added Markham-Moore. ‘She’s obviously in very deep with someone, and it’s not Doyle.’

  ‘And Hanlon?’ asked Hood.

  ‘That’s something else we need to think about. You’ll recall I was strongly against using him. I’ll speak with the Attorney early tomorrow. On her form so far, I wouldn’t put it past Hamilton having roped him in on this deception exercise too!’

  ‘But how could she possibly have done that? And why would he lie about it? He’s going to say that Maguire was there, in Hastings on the sixteenth of March!’

  ‘Is he though? Supposing he changes his evidence? Supposing he says it wasn’t Maguire?’

  ‘Surely he won’t do that? What would be in it for him?’

  ‘That, Edward, is the question we’ll never be able to answer, unless we get very lucky indeed.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  The following morning there was no sign of the Attorney-General when Cronshaw arrived at court. An usher knocked on the robing room door and asked to speak with him. The Attorney would, he was informed, arrive on the 11.05 train, always assuming it was running on time. He’d been delayed attending an early morning meeting with the Home Secretary. Crons
haw was asked to try and delay calling Duffy until the Attorney appeared.

  ‘Well, we could call the chambermaid,’ suggested Markham-Moore as they walked down the stairs. ‘The interpreter is here and we really should get her out of he way before we call Duffy.’

  ‘Does she need an interpreter? I understood she has quite a bit of English? You deal with her, Edward. I’ll concentrate on Duffy. I assume from the performance going on outside that he’s arrived?’

  Cronshaw looked down from the atrium and saw several obviously armed police officers positioned at the court entrance. The whirling blades of the police helicopter could be heard above the building.

  ‘Do we really need all this?’ asked Markham-Moore. ‘Duffy must be the last prisoner in Britain who wants to escape!’

  ‘It’ll be good practice for tomorrow when Hanlon gets here. I think it will certainly be necessary in his case.’

  The two barristers walked together into court number one, Cronshaw acknowledging the armed police officer standing as discreetly as he could by the door. Other uniformed police officers were searching members of the public and the press as they queued to enter. Marcus Beamer approached Cronshaw. He looked unusually solemn.

  ‘There will be a slight delay,’ he whispered. ‘One of the jurors hasn’t got here yet. He’s on his way. He wasn’t feeling very well this morning but he’s phoned to say he should be here presently.’

  ‘Which juror?’ asked Cronshaw.

  ‘Number Nine. The young chap with the ginger hair, James Murphy.’

  ‘He doesn’t look a particularly healthy specimen,’ replied Cronshaw. ‘Let’s hope this doesn’t happen again. It’s very important we keep to the timetable. The arrangements for Duffy and Hanlon can’t be changed at a moment’s notice, you know.’

  Edwin Everdene appeared at Cronshaw’s side.

  ‘Trouble?’ he asked with a smile.

  ‘Juror,’ said Marcus. ‘Under the weather, but he’s on his way in. We should be starting in ten minutes. The judge is raring to go. He’s got the High Sheriff with him today so he wants to put on a good show. He doesn’t want any more hold-ups.’