by J F Straker
Chapter 2
‘Well, you’ve done it this time,’ Anne said. ‘You and your wretched pick-ups! And it was so unnecessary, Jim. You were on your way home. Couldn’t it have kept for a few hours?’
As usual she looked immaculate. And utterly composed. No tears, no mawkish sentimentality, no fervid expression of grief or comfort. Yet her attitude neither hurt not disappointed him, for he knew that behind the calm front she was worried. He knew it from her flippant approach and the extra brightness of her dark eyes. They were signs he had learned to read.
He ignored her comments. ‘I didn’t kill her,’ he said. ‘You know that, don’t you? It’s all a ghastly mistake.’
‘I don’t know anything,’ she said. ‘What you mean is, do I believe you?’ She considered this. ‘Yes, I think I do. You haven’t always been straight with me, Jim, but as far as I know you’ve never lied to me about something that really matters. And this matters. It’s a whopper. So I’m inclined to believe you.’ She looked round the interview room and grimaced. ‘Stark, isn’t it? However — what happens now?’
‘They’re taking me up to Felborough. No bail, of course.’
‘Have you seen a solicitor?’
‘Yes. Fellow named Hardy. He’s contacting a colleague in Felborough who will handle the case up there.’
‘Do you want me to come up too?’ she asked. ‘To stay, I mean.’
‘Can you? How about your job?’
She shrugged. ‘I could leave.’
After brief reflection he shook his head. He would have liked her to be there. But as an executive of a prominent travel agency she earned good money, and right now they were going to need money.
‘Come up at weekends,’ he suggested. ‘Hardy says there’s no hope of the magistrates dismissing the case at the committal proceedings. That means I’ll be kept in gaol until the next assizes.’
‘How long will that be?’
‘About five weeks, according to Hardy.’
‘Really? Poor you! That’s an awful lot of weeks to spend in gaol.’
Her visit had softened the despair that had enveloped him since the arrest. She was a welcome change from Brummit’s harsh animosity and the studied indifference of Sergeant Vaisey. Anne was part of his real life, Brummit and Vaisey belonged to his present nightmare. But as he considered the weeks ahead and the trial to come despair returned in force, and not even Anne could banish it.
‘It may not end there.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘God! What a stinking mess!’
‘But you’ll be acquitted, won’t you? They can’t prove something that isn’t true.’
‘You haven’t met Brummit,’ he said. ‘That bastard’s out to get me.’
‘But why, Jim? You’re a complete stranger to him.’
‘I don’t know why, dammit! I just know he is.’
For a few moments she watched him in silence. There were small furrows in her forehead and her voice had lost some of its firmness when she said, ‘Do you blame me for telling them what I did?’
It was a topic both had hitherto avoided. Connor had avoided it because what was done was done and he did not want to bitch up her visit with reproaches. But he got some encouragement from the fact that Anne could refer to it unprompted. It suggested she was not afraid of it — which again suggested that, as he had repeatedly assured himself, there had been no intention to shop him.
‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘At least — no, of course not.’
‘I was feeling bitchy, you going with that woman and then flying off to Holland without bothering to make it up the way we usually do.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘Or rather, I guessed it was that.’
‘You should have told me you were in trouble. I’d have kept my big trap shut.’
‘Dammit it, Anne, how could I? I didn’t know I was in trouble.’
‘No. No, of course not. Sorry, Jim. I wasn’t thinking.’
Was that true? he wondered. Had thoughtlessness been responsible for the reproach? Probably. But perhaps not in the way she wanted him to think. She could have lied when she said she believed he had not killed the woman. She could have lied because she considered it her wifely duty to lie, because she had not wished to add to his misery, to hit him when he was down.
Kessler managed a brief visit. We all know you’re a randy sod, Kessler said with heavy humour, but you don’t usually knock ’em off. Not your style at all. Someone’s boobed. Still, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer fellow. Kessler then discarded humour and talked business. Had Connor managed to sort out van Kemper’s troubles? Connor said he thought he had. Good man, Kessler said; now, how about your present predicament? Had Connor realised that the trial could come expensive? He was unlikely to be granted legal aid. Yes, Connor said, he had that in mind, he would manage somehow. Kessler said he was relieved to hear it. And Connor would be glad to know that his salary would be paid into his bank while he was awaiting trial, and that his job would be waiting for him when it was all over.
He travelled up to Felborough the next morning. Brummit sat with him in the back of the car, with Vaisey in front beside the driver. It was a silent journey. Connor knew it was useless to protest his innocence further, and what else had he to say to them? Brummit worked at a crossword; not very successfully, it seemed to Connor, for he seldom put pen to paper. For most of the way Vaisey dozed.
Felborough Gaol was in the new part of the town and comparatively modern. Connor was lodged in the hospital wing (‘It’s customary for prisoners awaiting trial on a murder rap,’ Henry Woolmer, his new solicitor, told him. ‘You’ll be under observation to decide if you’re sane.’) and he was agreeably surprised by the accommodation. The furniture was sparse but adequate, the bed reasonably comfortable. Even the food was more palatable than he had anticipated. ‘Best lodgings in the town,’ a warder told him. ‘And all for free. You’re lucky, mate.’
Henry Woolmer was a little man, not much over five feet, with a youthful, almost cherubic countenance. He told Connor he was thirty-four, but his face and stature belied his age. Over the weeks of their association Connor got to know him well. He found him an odd, rather moody character: bright with optimism one day, dark with pessimism the next. He was a vegetarian and a near teetotaller and a keen angler. And he seemed to take to Connor.
‘They have a case, all right,’ Woolmer said, after Connor had given his version of the events of that fateful Wednesday evening. ‘What evidence there is is all against you.’
‘But it’s entirely circumstantial,’ Connor protested.
‘It often is,’ Woolmer said. ‘Which means it depends on the interpretation of such facts as are established. The police have their interpretation, you have yours. We have to make yours more plausible than theirs.’
‘And can you?’
Woolmer shrugged. ‘I’ll do the necessary spadework. Whoever we get to defend you will provide the interpretation. How are you placed for funds?’
‘I’ll manage,’ Connor told him.
He had a letter of sympathy and encouragement from George Fitt and, surprisingly, another from Northropp. His father, a widower, travelled up from Dorset and announced his intention of staying until after the committal proceedings. You’re a fool, Jim, his father told him; what do you want with stray birds when you have such an attractive wife? Stray birds can be poison to a married man. Look who’s talking! Connor retorted; you’ve probably had more stray birds since Mother died than I’ve had hot dinners. Before too, for all I know. Not before, his father said. Now — well, I’ve nothing to lose, have I? You bloody have, Jim.
The committal proceedings were brief; unusually brief, Woolmer said later, for a murder rap, and mainly because witnesses and exhibits were few. He saw nothing to dispute in the evidence and did not cross-examine. Connor agreed with him; so far as his knowledge went the evidence was correct. Only when Brummit took the stand did he become restless and finally angry. Brummit said nothing that might elicit an objec
tion from Woolmer or a reprimand by the Bench, yet it seemed to Connor that every word the man uttered was heavy with bias. The bastard, he thought, the vicious, sadistic bastard! After this, anyone sounds off about the British police being wonderful and I’ll give them bloody Brummit.
The Bench refused Woolmer’s submission that there was no case to answer, and committed Connor for trial at the next assizes.
‘I didn’t go much on that,’ Connor said. ‘It was all them and no us. As for that bastard Brummit — well, I didn’t strangle the woman but I’d cheerfully strangle him. Why the hell has he got it in for me?’
‘I doubt if it’s personal,’ Woolmer said. ‘Superintendent Brummit is a much harassed man.’
‘How come?’
The Divisional C.I.D., Woolmer said, was in bad odour. Too many crimes, too few arrests. The final straw had been the murder of a local citizen in August, and it was freely said that the police had no vestige of a clue to the killer. ‘Now we have a second murder. Only this time, as Brummit sees it and to his immense relief, it’s an open and shut case. Within three days he has made an arrest. Can you wonder if he goes all out to get a conviction? You’re his salvation, Mr. Connor.’
‘I’m not. I didn’t kill her.’
‘That’s not the way he sees it.’
‘You mean he has closed the investigation? He’s not going to look elsewhere?’
‘I doubt it. Not unless something or someone turns up to cast serious doubt on your guilt.’ Woolmer shook his blond head. ‘Don’t be too hard on him, Mr. Connor. Like most police Forces in the country, ours is under-manned and overworked. If you were Brummit, would you go chasing shadows when you had substance safe under lock and key? Or believed you had?’
‘But it’s his duty to be sure,’ Connor protested. ‘It’s his duty, dammit!’
‘Wrong,’ Woolmer said. ‘That’s the duty of the court. The police present a suspect for trial. That’s all. It is up to the court — in effect, the jury — to confirm or reject their suspicion.’
In the weeks that followed Connor’s spirits waxed and waned with Woolmer’s moods. Anne had not been at the committal proceedings; it’s a formality, Connor had told her, it means nothing. But she had come up each weekend and had spent as much time with him as regulations permitted. His father had returned to Dorset. I’ll be back for the Assizes, he had said, and afterwards you and Anne can come and spend a week or two on the farm. You’ll need a holiday after this little lot. Kessler visited him once. I’ve fixed that sale with Northropp, Kessler said, and there could be more to come; Northropp’s going places. However, that will be for you to handle, you should be out by then. It seemed that none of Connor’s visitors had doubts about his subsequent freedom. Or professed to have none. Only Woolmer was less optimistic, his gloomy moods more frequent. He had briefed a circuit counsel, John Perfect, for the defence. He’s good, he told Connor, and he’ll come a lot cheaper than a London man. A pity we can’t give him better material. Still, as I said, he’s good. He’ll make the best of what there is.
He’d better, Connor thought. Otherwise I’m in dead trouble.
Chapter 3
The court was packed. As prosecuting counsel opened for the Crown, explaining to the jury what the case was about and what he hoped to prove, Connor’s eyes searched the public gallery. Anne and his father were there, but as far as he could see the rest were strangers. That was a relief. He had dreaded the prospect of facing a sea of familiar faces.
Thomas Main was the first prosecution witness to be called. He was a dour man and showed no emotion as he described how, while on his way to work on the morning of September the 19th, he had found the body of his daughter Rebecca lying in a ditch near the entrance to the track leading to his cottage. He had hastened to Berwen Farm, where he worked, and had asked Mr. Rushby, his employer, to ring the police. He had then gone back to wait by the body until the police arrived.
‘When did you last see your daughter alive?’ the prosecutor asked.
‘About a quarter to eight the previous morning,’ Main said. ‘When she left to go to work. She was a cook at the Felborough Zoo, you see, and used to catch the eight o’clock bus at the top of the lane.’
‘She didn’t return home that evening?’
‘No, sir. But we wasn’t that worried. We reckoned she’d be spending the night with a friend. Sometimes she did.’
John Perfect rose to cross-examine. He was a thin man, clean-shaven and bespectacled. ‘Didn’t your daughter inform you beforehand when she intended to be away for the night?’ he asked.
‘No, sir. It was when she missed the last bus, you see, or there wasn’t no one to bring her home. So she couldn’t, could she? She wouldn’t know.’
‘I see. And how often did this happen? Once a week? Twice?’
‘Yes.’
Perfect let the ambiguity pass. ‘No doubt there were other nights when she was home late. Very late, perhaps?’
‘Yes.’
‘Driven home by a friend, eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did she have a large number of friends?’
‘I reckon.’
‘Mostly men, were they?’
Main professed not to know. Rebecca seldom mentioned her friends, he said, and none of them ever came to the cottage. Didn’t he or his wife ever question her about them? Perfect asked. No, Main said. Perfect remarked that he seemed to show a singular lack of interest in his daughter’s movements, and even less concern for her welfare; whereupon Main retorted sourly that Rebecca was a grown woman and it was none of his business how she lived her life.
Or departed it, Connor thought, as Main left the witness box.
Other witnesses followed. A pathologist gave the cause of death as manual strangulation. There was no evidence of recent sexual intercourse, he said, and apart from a slight bruise on the left cheek the body was unmarked. Adam Grant told how he had met Becky by arrangement that evening and had taken her to the Malt House for a drink, how she had been introduced to Connor and how he had then left to drive a friend home. No, he said, he had not returned to the Malt House, she had made it plain that she preferred her new acquaintance. Perfect drew from him the admission that on two of his previous dates with Becky intercourse had occurred, and that on each of these occasions she had expected payment for her services.
The prosecutor was quick to re-examine. ‘Are you telling us that Rebecca Main was a prostitute?’ he asked.
‘Oh, no!’ The denial was almost a squeak. ‘I mean, a prostitute would go with anyone, wouldn’t she? Becky wouldn’t. She’d only do it if she liked you. But she — well, she expected something in return. It didn’t necessarily have to be money.’
‘A present, perhaps?’ the judge asked.
‘Yes, my Lord. Or an evening out. You know — just something.’
There was the vestige of a frown on Perfect’s lean face. Connor wondered uneasily what was wrong.
Harry Baynes, the barman at the Malt House, testified that Connor and the woman had left the cellar bar together shortly before closing time. They were not visibly drunk, he said, but they had consumed a fair quantity of whisky and in his opinion were not completely sober. Was the dead woman a regular customer? Perfect asked. Pretty regular, the barman said. How about her escorts? They varied, the barman said; and, as on the night she was killed, she sometimes left with a man other than the one who brought her. Very occasionally she left alone.
Giles Rushby, the farmer, was the next witness. On the night in question, he said, he had driven home from Felborough after spending the evening with friends, and had noticed a car parked near the entrance to the track leading to Woodside Cottage. That would be at around a quarter past eleven, he thought. It was not unusual to see a car parked there at night. His attention had been drawn to this particular car by the rear number plate. As his headlights picked it out he had noticed that the figures on it were those of his telephone number.
‘Did you notice the make or colour
of the car?’ counsel asked.
‘No, sir. But it was an open convertible. I couldn’t say about the colour, except that it was dark.’
‘An open car, eh? So you must have seen the occupants?’
‘No, sir. There weren’t any. The car was empty.’
‘Well, did you see anyone by or near the car?’
‘No, sir.’
Counsel nodded, as if this was the expected answer.
‘Would I be right in saying that the track leading to Woodside Cottage starts roughly halfway between the main road and your farm? About half a mile in either direction?’
‘About that, yes.’
‘Just one more question, Mr. Rushby. Did you see any other vehicles parked in the lane that evening?’
‘No, sir.’
Perfect rose to cross-examine. ‘This parked car, Mr. Rushby. Did you stop to examine it?’
‘No, sir.’
‘So as you drove past you noticed the number plate, the type of body and the fact that it was unoccupied. You must also have been keeping a watchful eye on the road. It’s narrow, isn’t it, and there’s a bend just ahead?’
‘Yes.’
‘With so much to occupy your attention, isn’t it possible — probable, even — that if someone had been standing by the bushes you might not have seen him?’
Rushby took time to answer. ‘I suppose it’s possible,’ he agreed.
Connor tensed as Brummit took the stand. Nothing that had been said so far, it seemed to him, had been conclusive one way or the other. It could be said now; if Brummit could fix him he would. This could be the crunch.
Brummit was thorough. In his raucous voice he told how, after visiting the scene of the crime and viewing the body, he had made inquiries at the Malt House and had learned that the dead woman had left there the previous evening in the company of a man named Connor, a stranger to the town. Connor had booked a room at the hotel, and although he had later cancelled the booking he had already registered, giving his address simply as London. Brummit had eventually obtained his business address from Alec Northropp, who had introduced him to the bar, and together with Detective Sergeant Vaisey he had journeyed to London. In co-operation with an officer of the Metropolitan Police he had gone to Connor’s home, having obtained his address from the accused’s employer. There Connor’s wife had informed them that her husband was in Holland, and with her permission they had searched the house and had taken away a suit and a pair of shoes belonging to the accused, and a pair of woman’s pants found under the nearside front seat of his car.