The Queen v. Karl Mullen

by Michael Gilbert

  When he had finished, Mullen said, slowly, “Now that you mention it I did see a sort of glass jar on the sideboard. That’s the one I’m meant to have tampered with, is it?”

  “Yes. And now I hope you understand the importance of that half-hour. And of the evidence which Anna will give.”

  “She can’t give any evidence about it. She wasn’t in the room.”

  “She was next door. And, as we have now discovered, the partition between the kitchen and the living-room is so thin that it constitutes no real obstacle.”

  “However thin it was, she couldn’t see through it.”

  “No,” said de Morgan softly. “But she could use her ears.”

  The silence which followed seemed to Roger to take a long stride into the future. It was Mullen who broke it. He said, in a stifled voice, “And just what is she supposed to have heard?”

  “Let me give you two alternatives. Neither of them may be true, but you will be able to judge, between them, the possible parameters of her evidence. She might say that during that half-hour she heard nothing apart from an occasional creak from the chair you were sitting in and perhaps an occasional rustle from the paper which you picked up from the table beside you and were passing the time by reading. Or she might say something quite different. She might say, for instance, that you were pacing up and down. That at one point, hearing a particular board squeak, she knew that you had come to a halt in front of the sideboard. That she heard what sounded like a clink of glass and she wondered what you could have been up to. And that you returned hurriedly to your chair when you heard Katanga put his key into the front door.”

  “You’re making it up.”

  “Of course I’m making things up,” said de Morgan sharply. “Until we hear exactly what this witness tells the Court we can only guess what she will say.”

  “Yes,” said Mullen. He seemed to have recovered his poise. “And since we’re both playing guessing games, perhaps I could give you my own guess. Her story will be a lot closer to your first version than to your second.”

  “I’m sure we all share your confidence,” said de Morgan.

  As Mullen was leaving, de Morgan signalled to Roger to stay behind. When they were alone he said, “I couldn’t help wondering why our client was so confident that this girl Anna would be on his side. Taking account of her nationality and background one would have supposed that she’d be only too glad to see him go down.”

  “I think I can explain that,” said Roger. “We’ve had a lot of help from a young reporter on the Highside Times and Journal—”

  When he had finished, de Morgan said, “Not easy for the girl. One sees that.” With the end of the formal part of the conference he had got his favourite pipe going. “Glad you were able to put us in the picture, Mr. Sherman. Because” —puff— “it’s pretty clear” —puff— “that this girl is going to need very careful handling.”

  21

  On Thursday the Sentinel published, on its leader page, an article, under a one-word headline in its blackest print:

  AGAIN?

  It began without preamble.

  In March 1984, four South Africans (Air Force Colonel Hendrik Botha and three businessmen, Stephanus de Jager, William Meteler Kamp and Jacobus La Grange) were arrested by British Customs and charged with illicit arms dealing. The charge was not disputed. It was shown that, in the six years between 1978 and 1984, they had channelled millions of pounds worth of high technology air force equipment from America and Europe to South Africa. The four men were first remanded in custody by the Coventry magistrates and in April were granted bail. To secure this, the First Secretary at the South African Embassy offered surety in the sum of £200,000. The men’s passports were confiscated and they were ordered to report daily to the police.

  When, six weeks later, the magistrates refused to relax these bail conditions, an application was made to Mr. Justice Leonard, in Chambers. In a ruling which was described at the time as unusual (one can think of other descriptions) the four men were allowed to go back to South Africa, on condition that they returned for the hearing of their case. They did not return. The bail sum, which had been increased to £400,000, was forfeited.

  At a press conference in South Africa Colonel Botha spoke, with pride, of the way he and his colleagues had helped South Africa to develop many weapon systems. He pointed out that £400,000 was ‘peanuts’ compared with the money they had saved their country in weapon purchases.

  Bearing all this in mind our readers will be interested to learn that yesterday, Colonel Karl Mullen appeared at the Mansion House on resumed committal proceedings. He stood charged with the murder of a citizen of Mozambique, Jack Katanga. An application was made on his behalf for bail. It was granted on condition that his passport was confiscated and he reported daily to the police. We cannot speak with absolute certainty, but as far as we have been able to discover this is the first occasion on which a person charged with the crime of murder has been granted bail. We can only hope that the outcome will not be as humiliating to this country as it was on the previous occasion.

  The Comet was crisper. It headed its article ‘A Champion Wriggler’ and said:

  Those who have followed the twists and turns of the bookshop case will remember Mullen’s two attempts – both unsuccessful – to wriggle out under pleas of diplomatic privilege. Though those two tricks were trumped, fate has now handed him an untrumpable card. The chief witness for the prosecution has been removed. How? Mullen is charged with his murder. Coincidence?

  “Have you noticed,” said Eileen Wyvil, “what a curious cross-fertilisation of information there is in this case?”

  The Attorney General said, “I’m not sure that I understand what you mean.” Like most of the members of the Chambers he was in some awe of his devil.

  “In most cases, until we get to court and hear what the other side has got to say, we have no idea of what’s been going on behind the scenes. Sometimes not even then. In this case we are both being fed, all the time, with the choicest tit-bits. Ours come mainly from these people who call themselves the Orange Consortium. Naturally they’re all out to help us. The defence, on the other hand, seem to be hand in glove with a north London newspaper who are equally well informed, but are against us.”

  “And is all this information going to be of any use to us?”

  “I’d go as far as to say that any information about this girl Anna is of paramount importance.”

  The Attorney General thought about it. He had not yet had time to study the case as closely as Eileen had, but he could see the force of this. “I suppose,” he said, “that it really boils down to a question of which side she intends to support.”

  “Exactly. And at the moment we know that she is being successfully pressurised to support the defence.”

  “You mean that business about irregularity in her residence permit?”

  “A very minor irregularity, really. De facto, if not in law, she is Professor Macheli’s adopted daughter.”

  “I suppose you might say so.”

  “So it occurred to me that we might be able to take steps to remove the pressure.”

  “Steps?”

  “Let me explain what I had in mind.”

  The Attorney General listened attentively. Then he said, “You realise I shall have to speak to the Home Secretary?”

  “In view of the anxiety of the government that nothing should go wrong in this matter, I fancy that you will find him a not unsympathetic listener.”

  After the excitement of the bail proceedings the tempo had slowed. Representatives of the press had tapped all promising sources. They had been headed off by the police from Dorothy and Anna, had received an interesting lecture on crystallography from Professor Macheli and a prepared statement, drafted by Govan Kabaka, on behalf of the Orange Consortium.

  The committal proceedings, being documentary, had proved unexciting and were, in any event, under a total reporting embargo. The press were not discouraged. Th
ey could feel the ground swell of public opinion and knew that the breakers would come roaring in when the Old Bailey was reached.

  Questioned about this in the House, the Attorney General had said that the Honourable Members would not expect him to go into details about a pending case, but he would assure them that the Crown and the defence were equally determined to waste no time. He thought it likely that, if nothing unforeseen transpired, the matter could be brought on before the end of January.

  Like the press the Honourable Members, it seemed, were happy to wait. As for Mullen, he had become as resigned as a man of his temper could be to his evening visits to Wood Street Police Station. On a dark evening, with snow threatening, the Desk Sergeant had said, “Soon be Christmas, Mr. Mullen.” And it was, in fact, ten days before that great Christian festival that he received a summons to King Charles II Street. It was the first word he had heard from there for nearly a month.

  He went unwillingly. He did not consider that the Consul General and his aides had taken his plight seriously enough. Fischer Yule had been a staunch supporter, and his lawyers had pulled out all the stops, but what had the representatives of his own government done, except point out unpleasant facts to him, as brutally as possible?

  On this occasion Dieter Langenhoven received him alone. As soon as his visitor was seated he switched on the warning light which indicated that he was not to be disturbed. The tape-recorder by his desk had already been disconnected.

  Without saying a word, he pushed across a copy of the London Gazette for that week.

  The page at which it was folded open was headed, ‘The Aliens Department of the Home Office’ – ‘The Home Secretary has had his attention drawn to ten cases of infringement by proposing immigrants of the Regulations made by him under S.R. and O. 917 for 1985. Although offences, in the cases subjoined, have been established they are all of a comparatively minor and technical character. It has therefore been decided that in order to relieve the pressure on the Immigration Tribunal, in the subjoined cases no further steps need to be taken. This is not to be construed as a concession that, should further similar cases occur, they will be treated in a like manner.’

  A list followed. Judging by the names, three of the parties concerned were Indian, two were Pakistani and five were West Indian. Mullen skipped the list and looked quickly down to the paragraph at the end, which had been side-lined in red.

  ‘For parity of treatment, in three further cases to which the attention of the department has been drawn, but in which proceedings have not yet commenced, it has been decided that no further steps need be taken.’

  The last of the three names was Professor Leon Macheli.

  Mullen stared at the entry for a long moment whilst its implications came home to him. He had hardly realised before how confidently he was relying on the friendly testimony of Anna. Now, for the first time, the future outlined itself before his eyes in uncompromising colours; a bleak landscape of disaster and disgrace.

  He was incapable of speech. It was Langenhoven who broke the silence. He said, “I see that you realise the implications of this. A notable piece of chicanery by the British government. It will turn this girl from a friendly, or maybe a neutral witness, into one who will lie her head off to send you down.”

  “Yes,” said Mullen.

  Footsteps across the floor. A creaking board in front of the sideboard. The tell-tale clink of glass. Suddenly, it was all horribly probable.

  “However,” said Langenhoven, “this is a game that two can play. You understand that we cannot allow you to appear before a British Court with a prejudiced jury, lying witnesses and a judge who has probably been instructed to secure your conviction. That cannot be allowed.”

  “No,” said Mullen.

  “So. You will be in your flat at half past six tomorrow evening. Yule will have ensured that by that time the office is empty and the commissionaire has left. There will be a visitor for you. A Mr. Brown. Yule will admit him, bring him up to you and leave you with him. He will give you certain instructions. You will follow them implicitly. You understand what I am saying?”

  “Yes,” said Mullen, thickly. He understood very well.

  When Mr. Brown arrived, punctual to the minute, Mullen thought he had never seen anyone so nondescript. Normal height, normal build, unremarkable face, no outstanding characteristics.

  He said, “You must understand that I have no official position with the Embassy. I am occasionally asked to help them. I am glad to do so. That is all.”

  His accent told Mullen nothing. It could have been of any class or any country. Maybe a South African, but long resident in England.

  “I have a passport for you. You will note from it that your name is George Alexander. You work for a firm called Alpine Tours, who have an office in Pimlico and specialise in arranging skiing holidays. A ticket has been purchased for you — a return ticket, of course—” Mr. Brown smiled faintly—”and a place booked for you on the 8.15 flight tomorrow from Heathrow to Geneva. You will pick the ticket up at the Swissair desk, identifying yourself by this passport. Is that quite clear?”

  Mullen had been examining the photograph on the passport. Mr. Brown said, “Yes. You will need to make a few, very simple, alterations to your personal appearance. Nothing elaborate. Passport photographs are rarely examined closely. Your beard will have to go. To cover any signs of its removal, you will wash your whole face over with a light-brown stain. I have the stuff here. And you will wear these heavy gold- rimmed spectacles which match those in the photograph. They will not interfere with your sight, the glass in them is plain. You have English money? Of course. And there are Swiss francs in this envelope. You will not need much. Arrangements have been made to look after you on arrival. Carry only this brief-case. Clothes? Your normal outfit, but I suggest that you wear this light overcoat. It will be cold enough in the early morning for it to appear a natural thing to do. Travel by underground. Use the Bank station rather than St. Paul’s. It is more crowded. Allow yourself ample time to reach Heathrow by half past seven. Is there anything more?”

  “No,” said Mullen. He felt oddly breathless. “No, I think that covers everything.”

  The five men who operated the watch on Yule’s office worked in six-hour shifts, an arrangement which allowed them one day off in four. Harold Ratter came on duty that morning at 2.00 a.m. He studied the reports of his two predecessors. Chris Woodray, taking the 2.00 p.m. to 8.00 p.m. shift, had finished his report with a note. ‘A man, not previously identified, arrived at half past six. Could have been a salesman. Was slung out pretty quick. Yule left ten minutes later.’ The next man had simply noted, ‘No comings and goings.’ His own stint, he guessed, would not get lively before eight o’clock.

  At a few minutes before seven he jerked upright in his chair. The front door had opened and someone had come out. Viewed from above, in the half-light, changes in facial appearance were unimportant. He knew, from his shape and his walk, that it was Mullen. No shadow of doubt about it. He had watched him, twenty times, coming and going. He noted the topcoat and the brief-case and jumped immediately to the right conclusion.

  Before Mullen had reached the end of Axe Lane, he was speaking on the telephone.

  It was the stout detective’s final and decisive intervention in the Mullen case.

  “It was cleverly done,” said Chief Superintendent Baron. “And if you want my honest opinion, if we hadn’t been tipped off, I think he’d have got away with it. Our men at the airport had photographs, but they’d never actually met Mullen. I think the slight changes in his appearance would have got him through all right.”

  “Thank God they didn’t,” said the Director. He knew that if Mullen had got to Switzerland the resultant gale would have blown anyone held responsible out into the street.

  “We let him pick up his tickets and took him when he went through Customs. I thought, for a moment, he was going to try to bolt, but he must have realised that he hadn’t a chance.”

>   “So where is he now?”

  “We’re holding him in the Remand Wing at Brixton. He’ll stay there until he goes to the Bailey. We shall have to mount a full-scale security operation for that move.”

  “You think he may try to escape?”

  “No,” said Baron. “To prevent him being lynched.”

  This was not an exaggeration. As soon as the news broke the press pulled out all their stops, the great organs blared and the chorus of public opinion was roaring behind them.

  The Sentinel was openly triumphant. They republished the whole of their previous article, and finished with a comment that nearly got them into trouble. ‘At his next Mansion House banquet we hope that one of the courses eaten by the Lord Mayor will be humble pie.’

  A few arrows were shot at the South African Embassy, but it was not the main target. It was assumed that a man in Mullen’s position would hold a number of alternative passports and could have organised his own evasion. There was, of course, the question of the tickets, but the girl at the Swissair desk was unable to give any description of the man who had ordered and paid for them. She tried very hard, but “I didn’t really notice him,” was all she could say.

  The popular press concentrated on the personal sureties. Nobody would have cared if the South African government had forfeited a million, or ten million, pounds, but they were outraged by the idea that two private citizens, who had come to Mullen’s assistance, with no thought of gain, but from an abstract idea of justice, should have been threatened with the loss of their life’s savings.

  Newspapers are never notably keen to puff a rival, but the Highside Times and Journal was felt to be sufficiently small to be allowed a modest share of approval. Simon Ramsay became a national hero. Finding, as many people have done, that sitting on a pedestal is uncomfortable, after three tiresome days he took himself off into retreat with a body of Anglican Friars.