The Queen v. Karl Mullen

by Michael Gilbert

  He dialled Bantings number and after the usual rigmarole of telephonist and secretary, was put through to Roger Sherman. He had considered, very carefully, what he was going to say and hoped that he struck the right note.

  After giving his name and his office address, but without mentioning that it was a newspaper, he said, “Quite by chance, I’ve come across some information connected with the Mullen shop-lifting case. I feel you should have it, but I’d prefer to give it to you personally.”

  After a fairly long pause, Sherman said, “That’s very good of you. I shall be tied up for the rest of the afternoon. Could you possibly drop in this evening at my flat?”

  “Willingly,” said Tamplin and meant it. An interview away from the formal atmosphere of the office would be preferable.

  When he arrived at Osnaburgh Terrace the only member of the Sherman family present was sixteen-year-old Michael. He had a plummy mouth which, when he opened it, showed a gap in his front teeth.

  “It was dead stupid,” he explained, speaking with some difficulty. “If it had been a school match it wouldn’t have mattered so much, but it was just a pick-up game.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “Someone trod on my face. I’ve been allowed home because I’ve got a date with our own dentist first thing tomorrow. Really, I’m a bit young for false teeth, wouldn’t you say?”

  He sounded so aggrieved that Tamplin couldn’t help laughing. He said, “They’ll make a beautiful job of it. Soon you won’t know they’re there. Actually I believe I saw you kicking about before the game.”

  “Was that you in the car? We all thought it must be a talent scout from the Harlequins.”

  “Sorry. Nothing so grand. I play for one of the South-West London teams, on the ground next to yours.”

  “Are you coming to talk to dad about rugger, or about law?”

  “Law.”

  “About this shop-lifting case?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hope you’re on his side, then.”

  “Strictly speaking, I’m not on anyone’s side. But I’ve picked up a piece of information that might be useful to him.”

  “I’m glad about that. Some people seem to think dad shouldn’t have taken on the case. I don’t think that at all.” He added, speaking as seriously as the state of his face allowed, “It doesn’t matter if someone’s unpopular. That shouldn’t prevent him from getting a fair deal.”

  “Life would be a lot simpler if everyone thought that.”

  “Don’t they?” said Michael. He sounded genuinely surprised. “I should have thought it was obvious. That sounds like dad.”

  Tamplin’s first feeling on seeing Sherman was one of relief. He had had little experience of solicitors and none at all of the exotic type who operated from Lincoln’s Inn. He had pictured them as serious, rather elderly men wearing glasses and conversing in learned and measured periods. This sample looked like a soldier and spoke like a man who, when aroused, would have relied more on four-letter words than on polysyllables.

  “I hope my son has been entertaining you,” he said. “But I see he’s forgotten to offer you a drink. What’s your tipple?”

  “Beer, if available.”

  “Splendid. Two bottles, Mike. And two glasses.”

  When these hospitable preliminaries had been concluded and Michael had resisted a half-hearted attempt to eject him, Tamplin said, “When I confess that I’m a newspaper man, I hope you’re not going to sling me out.”

  “Bantings may be old-fashioned,” said Sherman, “but our intelligence department is second-to-none. We had already located you. The Highside Times and Journal, if I’m not mistaken?”

  “Correct. A small outfit, but progressive. The point is that my side-kick, Miss Parker, was in Court and was intrigued when the prosecution seemed able to quote something which Mullen had said, in private, to his chief.”

  “Which his chief denied.”

  “Indeed. But Mullen had already fluffed so much that I doubt if anyone believed either of them.”

  “I certainly didn’t. I’m quite sure he said it. The only puzzle was how the Crown got to hear about it.”

  “That’s one of the things I’ve come to tell you,” said Tamplin. And did so.

  “You mean that this Herbert – Hartshorn – girl had planted a bug and they blew it and her up?”

  “I’m sure that’s right. A colleague of mine had the same trick played on him. He was indulging in a piece of industrial espionage. In that case they used a high-powered Guy Fawkes cracker. Which was poetic justice, since the firm he was spying on was one which manufactured fireworks. He was stone-deaf for a week.”

  “That certainly explains how they got the information,” said Sherman slowly. “But it doesn’t explain how they contrived to feed it to the opposition.”

  “I don’t know exactly how they did that, but I’ve a fair idea of the way they’d have set about it. Have you really got any idea of the sort of organisation you’re up against? This self-styled Orange Consortium.”

  “No. But I’m learning.”

  “The thing you have to remember is that a lot of people would approve of what they’re doing. Up to now they’ve concentrated on the fight against apartheid. What is not quite so creditable is the way they did it. I can give you a personal example. I’m a supporter of our local volley-ball team. We had reached the final in the London Cup. Three of our best players happened to be South African students. We’d kept this fact under wraps, but somehow it got out. As the game was starting a task-force organised by the Orange Consortium rushed the hall. In the ensuing free-for-all one of the South African students had his arm broken and whilst he was being looked after other people were busy spreading fuel oil on the pitch. The game, of course, was abandoned.”

  “And the people responsible got it in the neck, I hope.”

  “I wish they had. In fact, nothing happened to them at all.”

  “That doesn’t sound possible.”

  “But it’s a fact. The volley-ball people went after the ones they took to be the ring-leaders. They didn’t know their names, but they identified them to the police fairly closely. One of them had red hair and another had a broken nose and so on. The police did quite a thorough investigation – one of them had been playing in our team and they were angry about it. They organised an identity parade and three youths were pointed out to them and charged. All of them had respectable family backgrounds and by the time they came to court they all had the most comprehensive alibis. The magistrate decided it was a case of mistaken identity and that was that.”

  “And the alibis were organised – don’t tell me – by one of the firms in the City that specialise in that sort of thing.”

  Michael said, in a voice choked by outrage and a split lip. “Then it’s true. Firms like that really do exist.”

  His father said, “They exist all right, Michael. In the year you were born – I remember the date from that – the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Robert Mark, gave the Dimbleby Lecture on the BBC. All the previous lectures had been by important people, so they attracted a very large audience. This one was a bombshell. Because Mark stated, as a matter of cold fact and without any qualification, that there were half a dozen firms of solicitors, known to the police, who fabricated evidence.”

  Tamplin said, “And I suppose the legal unions started screaming.”

  “It was before I came into the law, but a friend of mine went, on the morning after the lecture, to have lunch at the Law Society. I don’t know whether the unions were screaming or not, but he told me that he sensed no feeling of hysterical outrage in that dining-room. He remembered one man saying, ‘Well, we all know the names of four of the firms the Commissioner was talking about. I wonder which the other two are?’”

  Tamplin laughed, but Michael was not amused. He started to say something, fielded a look from his father and choked it off.

  “With lawyers like that on your side,” Sherman agreed, “I s
uppose it wouldn’t be difficult to filter information through to the opposition.”

  “Two other points,” said Tamplin, “which might or might not interest you. First, let me tell you about Anna.”

  When he had finished, Sherman said, “I can see that having Anna under their thumb would feed South African intelligence a lot of information about the Katanga household. But it isn’t Katanga who’s on trial.”

  “I agree. Then let us turn to another less attractive and even more confusing member of the female sex. One Mrs. Queen.”

  Again, Sherman heard him out in silence. When Tamplin had finished, he said, “I’m sure that what you’re telling me is important, but I can’t quite see how anything this good woman can have found out could affect Mullen’s defence.”

  Michael said, “Katanga’s an important prosecution witness, isn’t he?”

  “Certainly. In fact, without his evidence there wouldn’t be a case at all.”

  “Then suppose Mrs. Queen knew that he’d been concerned in another case – here or in South Africa – and had been found to have given perjured evidence. That would blow him out of court, wouldn’t it?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Well, you said that Mullen had his government’s money behind him. Surely they could afford five hundred pounds to find out what this woman knows.”

  “No doubt. But I couldn’t involve my client in that sort of expenditure off my own bat. It would have to be a partnership decision.”

  “But surely, if you explained how important it was.”

  Sherman sighed. He said, “I suppose I might be able to persuade them. But Bantings is an old-fashioned firm. We handle a lot of civil litigation, which is comparatively gentlemanly. We aren’t experienced in criminal work and all the infighting that’s involved in it. I’m sorry, but there it is.”

  That same evening, and not much more than a mile away, the same problem was being discussed in the smaller saloon bar of the Dick Whittington public house. This had become the recognised meeting place of Sesolo’s private army. Half a dozen of its regular members were there.

  “Have you got any idea, Boyo,” said Norman Hicks, owner of the BMW Alpina, “why the boss wants us to keep an eye on that old bag in Boswell Road?”

  “No idea, Norm.”

  “It’s not as if she was worth looking at. Now when we were put on to watching that little black packet at Katanga’s house, that was no hardship.”

  “Wheels within wheels,” said Boyo.

  “Must be something going on. Otherwise, why was the press snooping round her this morning?”

  “I’ll tell you what I think,” said Jepson. The others suspended their drinking to listen. He was clearly the leader. “I don’t think it’s anything to do with Katanga at all. I think that old buzzard has picked up something about Mullen. Something that would do him no good at all if it came out. And she’s waiting to sell it to the highest bidder.”

  “That’s an idea, Ronnie,” said Boyo. He did not have many ideas himself, but was prepared to give credit to those who did. “Let’s order another round.”

  There was no dissent to this proposal.

  Had Mrs. Queen known that two different sets of men were discussing her, she would, no doubt, have been much gratified by this evidence of her popularity and importance.

  15

  “We had every hope,” said Leopold de Morgan, “that the Foreign Office would give us a certificate under Section 4 which would have settled the question of your immunity once and for all.”

  “And they’ve refused?” said Mullen. “I find that difficult to believe.”

  “No. They have not refused. They have now given their certificate. They have decided that you are not in this country as a diplomatic agent.”

  “Clearly a political decision,” said Yule. “I suppose one should have guessed that they would spare no effort to be uncooperative.”

  “Not uncooperative,” said Mullen. “Hostile.”

  De Morgan looked at the three men on the other side of his big, bare mahogany table. Yule and Mullen were angry. Roger Sherman looked worried. He said, “I suppose there’s no way of reversing their decision.”

  “None at all. Section 4 says that their decision shall be conclusive in all proceedings.”

  “Then we have no choice. We must fight the shop-lifting charge in the Magistrates’ Court.”

  “Not necessarily.” De Morgan looked at Martin Bull who was sitting beside him. “We have discussed this development and I am indebted to my junior who has perceived what may be an alternative solution. I’ll ask him to tell you about it.”

  “It’s in the Consular Relations Act, 1968,” said Bull. “It’s a less comprehensive protection, but it’s worth trying. We shall argue that even if Mr. Mullen is not a diplomatic agent – which we have to accept, although we think it’s an unreasonable decision – it can still be argued that he is a consular officer. And there’s one thing to be said for it. It’s a matter for legal decision. The Foreign Office can’t interfere with it.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it,” said Yule. “I will not conceal from you that I regard your Foreign Office as prejudiced and unreasonable. Now explain the drawbacks which, I am sure, exist.”

  “If we establish that your premises, in Axe Lane, are part of your consular organisation – which should not be difficult – and that you, Mr. Mullen, are attached there—”

  “Which I am.”

  “Then it will be hard for the Crown to argue that you are not a consular officer. However—”

  Yule said, “I felt sure there was a ‘however’ in it somewhere.”

  “However,” continued Roger patiently, “consular officers are only immune from proceedings – I’ll give you the exact words of the Act – ‘in respect of acts performed in the exercise of consular functions’.”

  There was quite a long silence while Yule and Mullen thought this one out. Yule said, “If I say that I despatched Mr. Mullen to that bookshop to obtain copies of Katanga’s book, is that not the performance by him of a consular function?”

  “An affidavit on those lines would be most helpful. I will leave it to you and Mr. Sherman to work out the wording.”

  When the South Africans and their solicitor had left, Bull said, “Do you really think we’ve got a chance, sir? The Court’s not going to like our changing horses in mid-stream.”

  Leopold de Morgan, who had lit his favourite pipe and was now lying back in his chair emitting a cloud of tobacco smoke, said, “I thought we might have had an outside chance when I heard that Ackworth was going to head the Court.”

  Martin wondered why his task would have been made any easier if he had to argue in front of Lord Ackworth, one of the most formidable Lord Chief Justices of the century. He was about to say this when de Morgan added, expelling another puff of smoke, “Because I’m told that young Lashmar cornered Ackworth in his Club the other day and spent half an hour proving to him that the sun went round the earth.”

  “That should be helpful,” agreed Martin.

  “It would have been extremely helpful. Almost, you might say, decisive, if Lashmar had been going to handle the appeal.”

  “You mean—?”

  “I mean that the Attorney General doesn’t appear to have quite such a high opinion of young Mr. Lashmar as Lashmar has of himself.”

  “Then they’re going to use someone else?”

  “So Messenger tells me.”

  Mr. Messenger was their senior clerk.

  “Did he tell you who’s tipped for the job?”

  “He thinks it will be Eileen Wyvil.”

  Martin whistled. He said, “That’s a different proposition, isn’t it?”

  When she had first arrived, the schoolboy humour of the Junior Bar had translated ‘Wyvil’ into ‘Weevil’. But as she progressed upwards, attaining the position of Attorney General’s devil and Treasury Counsel, this disrespectful nickname had fallen out of use. To her friends in Chambers, like fat Sue St
udd, she had become ‘Steeple’, a reference both to her height of five feet eleven inches and to her celebrated ancestor, Bishop Wyvil, who had built the world-famous spire of Salisbury Cathedral.

  “She’s clever,” agreed de Morgan. “And she does her homework. It’s going to be a difficult case to argue anyway. You might not even have got home if they’d stuck to Lashmar.”

  “It’s a pity they didn’t. I’ve seen Steeple in action. She’ll twist those old boys round her elegant little finger.”

  “So it seems,” said Captain Hartshorn, “that the pencil story has leaked out.”

  “That’s right,” said Sesolo. “A man at the Whittington was talking about it last night.”

  “I’m sorry it should have broken.”

  “Why?” said Mkeba. “It’s powerful medicine.”

  “Agreed. But like all medicinal draughts it’s only really effective if it’s administered at the right time.”

  “And you don’t think this is the right time?”

  “Almost, but not quite. Our legal friends tell us that this second attempt to wriggle out on diplomatic grounds is likely to fail. That means that Mullen goes back to Court. He’ll opt, no doubt, for the Crown Court and that means a jury of good men and true.”

  “And women.”

  “Certainly. We mustn’t forget the women. Now if we could have arranged it so that the pencil story broke on the morning of the hearing, they’d all have been so revolted that they wouldn’t have had to leave the box before finding Mullen guilty.”

  Rosemary had been urging her father for some time to let her find another job. “Anything,” she said. “I don’t care what it is. I just want to get out and do something.” He had pointed out that this risked an enquiry into her P45 which could lead back to his friends in the City. Rosemary had agreed, reluctantly.

  However, that morning a letter had arrived which contained a promise of action. She showed it to her father, who looked first at the signature and said, “Who’s Kathleen?”