Return

by Brian Freemantle

  None of them could possibly conceive the sensation this was going to cause, thought Powell, listening intently, gazing around the totally silent court. He thought already he could see the fear, the horror. They’d flown from Washington four days before the trial, using the time recovering from jetlag for daily legal discussions on the admissibility of FBI evidence into an England court not competent to try American crimes. In the evenings there’d been the predictable hospitality from Malcolm Townsend and Henry Basildon, as well as a cocktail reception given by the Metropolitan Police Commissioner and Surrey’s Chief Constable. Powell had seen no reason why he and Amy shouldn’t share a room and she’d seemed to expect it. Nor did either feel it necessary to explain to Westmore, Sloane or Jeri Lobonski. None of them appeared to want an explanation, anyway.

  At the lunchtime adjournment that first day Amy announced: ‘He doesn’t frighten me. I expected that he would, when I saw him in the flesh for the first time, but he didn’t, not even when he looks directly at me.’

  ‘You’re in the minority,’ said Powell. ‘Every woman on the jury is terrified. Two won’t even look at him.’

  ‘One thing I’ve never understood – although I’m glad for all sorts of reasons – is why Taylor would only talk when you were with Townsend and Basildon.’

  ‘The simplest thing of all to understand,’ intruded Sloane. ‘He’s the supreme control freak. What more absolute control could he exercise than getting someone to come three and half thousand miles when he demanded it?’

  The drama ebbed and flowed over the succeeding early days but there was always more than sufficient to drive virtually every other event, in England or abroad, from news pages and airwaves. The insistence of a parade of photographic experts – the first incontrovertible scientific evidence – that the freeze frame faces, one unquestionably Taylor, were on the same body caused uproar both inside and outside the court, compounded by Fry’s confused and failed cross-examination to get them to agree the opposite. That was overtaken the following day by the unarguable forensic matching of the dead Myron Nolan’s fingerprints with those found at both current murder scenes, although Fry was more successful in getting the technicians, all of whom dismissed reincarnation as a possibility, to agree they didn’t understand how it could be possible. The biggest headlines came on the Friday with DNA evidence, which McLeash produced as three samples labelled A, B and C. Four British scientists each swore that all were identical and could only have come from the same person.

  ‘I seek the court’s indulgence on an unusual request,’ announced McLeash, as the last British forensic expert left the witness box. ‘I do so to assist the court, for continuity, to try to keep as clear as possible in the jury’s mind facts I have much earlier referred to as bewildering. And with the full agreement of my learned friend for the defence, I seek to call Wesley Powell, head of the FBI’s Violent Crime section, to testify upon just one point at this stage but on an understanding that I may recall him subsequently.’

  ‘Mr Fry?’

  Taylor’s hapless lawyer was quickly on his feet, anxious for the first evidence he regarded as potentially useful. ‘I support this application, My Lord, and will not oppose Mr Powell’s recall at any time in the future.’

  Powell had given evidence scores of times in scores of courts but had never felt as disorientated as he did mounting the steps to the unaccustomedly elevated witness box or taking the oath with which he was unfamiliar, although neither was the cause of his discomfort. When he looked across to the dock, which was at the same level as himself, he saw Taylor leaning intently forward, elbows on his knees, watching him. The man smiled and Powell only just avoided smiling back, burning with annoyance at the near stupidity. Perhaps, he thought, the disquiet he felt was because of the care he had to take to avoid influencing this trial by any direct mention of the American killings, preposterous though that caution seemed.

  He agreed to McLeash’s lead that he was familiar with the circumstances of a military tribunal in Berlin in August 1949, which had led to the jailing for life in America of Myron Nolan. Powell was aware of Taylor smiling fixedly at him, throughout.

  ‘Where was Myron Nolan sent to serve his sentence?’ asked the barrister.

  ‘Florence, Alabama,’ replied Powell.

  ‘How much of that life sentence did Myron Nolan serve?’

  ‘A little short of two years.’

  ‘Why so short?’

  ‘He was murdered in April 1951.’

  ‘Are you aware of an exhumation of the grave of Myron Nolan in Florence, Alabama, on 30 May this year?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘What was the purpose?’

  ‘Scientifically to obtain hair and bone samples, to extract DNA.’

  ‘Which was done?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you subsequently make available to police here in Britain copies of the DNA string that was obtained, marked on the outer edge of the envelope for later identification with your FBI personnel number?’

  ‘I did.’

  Half turning to the jury – playing to the gallery and the assured headlines – McLeash said, ‘I am now having handed to Mr Powell the DNA exhibit labelled C, previously identified as being the same as that found at the two murder scenes which are the subject of this trial …’ Coming back to Powell, he said, ‘Can you identify that envelope?’

  ‘It’s the DNA sample from the grave in Florence, Alabama, of Myron Nolan.’

  Two small screams, maybe three, were audible over the general gasp that went around the court.

  Fry was eagerly on his feet again, unusually prepared. Although he had no scientific expertise, qualified Powell at once, he understood it to be impossible by a calculation of several million to one for two people to carry completely matching DNA, unless they were identical twins. He further understood, however, that there could be similarities sufficient to prove family relationships.

  ‘You have exhaustively investigated Myron Nolan, as far as you are able?’

  ‘As far as the FBI was able,’ expanded Powell.

  ‘Was he married?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you discover any evidence whatsoever of his having had children?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you don’t know, for sure, that he did not have issue, do you?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Powell.

  ‘Tell me!’ demanded Fry, momentarily fulfilling his proper role, the papers before him undisturbed. ‘How then do you explain the presence of Myron Nolan’s DNA and Myron Nolan’s fingerprints at the scenes where Beryl Simpkins and Samuel Hargreaves were murdered?’

  It had to come, accepted Powell. ‘I believe Harold Taylor to be the reincarnation of Myron Nolan.’

  Once again astonishment silenced the court.

  ‘You believe!’ managed Fry.

  ‘The evidence has convinced me,’ admitted Powell. Taylor was smiling more openly than ever.

  Fry was granted permission to recall the four forensic experts, all of whom confirmed the uniqueness of DNA and all of whom sceptically dismissed the concept of reincarnation but it was Powell’s admission – and photograph – that dominated that day’s coverage.

  At their regular court cell conference later Fry nodded enthusiastically and said, ‘We’d have to make it available to the prosecution, of course. Advise them in advance we’re doing it.’

  ‘Of course,’ agreed Taylor. ‘Totally wreck all their clever scientific stuff though, wouldn’t it?’

  Much later still, as they lay side by side exhausted by love, Powell said to Amy, ‘Did I embarrass you?’

  ‘Of course you didn’t. I believe he’s a reincarnation, too, although I don’t want to. Are you embarrassed?’

  ‘I was, by the television and evening papers. And probably will be when I see the coverage tomorrow.’ He paused, uncomfortable with an admission. Then he said: ‘You know what happened to me today?’ He was glad of the darkness.

  ‘What?’

>   ‘I think I was truly terrified, for the first time in my life.’

  That weekend Powell and Amy played tourists. They went to Hampton Court by river and when Amy got off the boat she stumbled and went up to her ankles in the water, laughing that it would have never happened to Henry VIII, and walked with her sandals in her hand until they dried. He was recognized several times, as he had been that day with Beth by the Potomac marina, and twice asked for his autograph, which he avoided by saying it wasn’t legally permitted. Amy accused him of being stuffy. Powell bought Beth a sweatshirt with a picture of the palace printed on the front and they got back to London in time for Amy to buy the girl three sets of underwear, which Powell said were too brief, to which Amy replied it was girls’ stuff and that when they got back to Washington she’d have to think about getting Beth a training bra, because some of Beth’s friends were already wearing them.

  They ate alone that night, in a chosen-by-chance restaurant in Soho which wasn’t as good as their Georgetown favourite, and Amy solemnly said, ‘I’m going to be the best stepmother in the world to Beth.’

  ‘I know you are,’ said Powell, aware of her seriousness.

  She didn’t speak for several moments. Then she said: ‘But we will have a baby of our own, won’t we? I mean you do want to, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I do!’ assured Powell, seeing her need. Trying to lighten her mood he said, ‘The amount of times we make love we couldn’t avoid it if we wanted to!’

  She laughed and said, ‘Not immediately, I don’t mean. In a year or two maybe, when …’

  ‘When you’ve become an FBI star!’ he anticipated. ‘And next weekend we’ll shop for you.’

  Amy frowned. ‘What do I need?’

  ‘Aren’t fiancées supposed to have engagement rings?’ said Powell.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  To a buzz of expectation from the court, Janet Hibbs gradually became visible as she mounted the rear steps of the box, the main, personally involved prosecution witness, and Taylor smiled, expectantly himself, and thought what a cheating bitch she was. Trying to look good, the vestal virgin. Tailored suit, hair immaculate, make-up perfect. Wouldn’t last. Be a bigger stir than was going around the court at the moment when she had to tell everyone what happened. The whore was actually confronting him, taking the oath, turning slightly away from the judge and jury to look straight at him; even curling her lip, as if she wasn’t afraid. Smile back at her: let her know what was going to come when Jonathan Fry put the questions Taylor had so carefully coached the idiot lawyer to ask, writing them out, numbering the sequence. The only problem, employing Fry, was getting the right questions asked, even written down. Weak as cats’ piss. Couldn’t hold a thought in his head. Didn’t like the chin-tilted way the bitch was looking at him. Wished he could cross-examine her himself. Wipe that supercilious look off her face soon enough then. Cock-sucking cow. No room to be arrogant. All an act. Bad act at that. Sketch artists would probably glamorize her. Hope today they’d catch a better likeness of him than they had so far.

  ‘I know how traumatic this will be for you,’ McLeash was saying. ‘I apologize in advance for the distress it will cause you.’

  ‘I’ve suffered all the distress I’m ever likely to,’ responded Janet.

  Sanctimonious cunt. Still looking at him. Defiant. Not for much longer. Be distraught, crying, soon now. Not at the moment, though. Keeping up the pretence quite well, following the lawyer’s lead. Thinking she was impressing everybody, staring him out – trying to stare him out except he wouldn’t look away – as she answered. Go on smiling at her, waiting. Cheap shot, calling him Jekyll and Hyde. Rehearsed that. Reading too many newspapers. Got a lot of reaction from where the media were. Bitch.

  ‘Insane?’ queried McLeash, picking up on a reply to one of his questions. ‘You mean he was raving, making no sense?’

  ‘He wasn’t raving but he made no sense. He said he had to punish us, my mother and me, for what my father did to him, in 1949.’

  ‘Did to him, not somebody else? A relative, perhaps?’

  ‘To him,’ insisted Janet. ‘He called my father a bastard and said we had to suffer for what he’d done, at a military trial. He said our blood had to water – cultivate – his new life.’

  Taylor broke away from Janet’s gaze, nodding in satisfaction at the fresh gasps that went around the court. Hadn’t stared him out. He had an audience to respond to. Important they understood about the sacrifices. Tell them again when his time came.

  ‘Your blood had to water – cultivate – his new life?’ echoed McLeash.

  ‘Those were his words.’

  ‘What did you think he meant by that?’

  ‘That he was going to kill us. He had a knife with a very thin blade, almost like a needle. And a bag, a satchel thing. He had a medical knife in there, a scalpel.’

  Good that she hadn’t collapsed yet. Needed to be explained like this, as it had happened. Hadn’t expected her to be able to sustain it. Probably got something, pills, from a doctor. Need a lot more help before this was over. She’d be a laughing stock. A joke. Gave a blowjob to a dead man. Not one dead man: five dead men.

  ‘Which he used to cut some of your clothes off, when he rendered you naked?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Janet, her voice unwavering.

  ‘Was he naked?’

  ‘He undressed first, after he’d tied us up.’

  This is it! Coming to the part he wanted. See how long she could last out: keep up the act. McLeash wasn’t comfortable; he hesitated.

  ‘He did something else, didn’t he …? Something to his appearance?’

  ‘He made his face change completely, from one person to another.’

  Not what he’d expected, but it didn’t matter. This was just as good. Judge was having to shout for quiet. Everyone looking at him, not able to believe it. Should he do it now? Very good at it now. Not difficult to be Myron Nolan but he hadn’t been able to go back to anyone else. He wanted very much to do it now but it was too soon. Had to get the timing exactly right, when everyone was only listening to him, only watching him. Good enough that McLeash was offering the freeze frames.

  ‘Do you recognize the face, from these pictures?’

  ‘He became the older person.’

  The whore was doing brilliantly! So much noise now – he could actually hear shouts of ‘no!’, giggles of disbelief, nervous laughter – that the judge couldn’t make himself heard. Being ignored anyway. Smile and nod, let her know how well she was doing. McLeash having to shout, to ask the next question.

  ‘What did he say, when he did that?’

  ‘He’d gone through my mother’s private things, found some old letters of my father’s. One he said was about him. My father had referred to an inhuman monster. He said that’s what he was, an inhuman monster. That he was going to prove it by sacrificing us. Me first, while my mother watched.’

  More noise, much more noise, uproar, the judge going berserk, hammering the bench. No control. Not like he had control. Nod to let everyone know that’s exactly how it had been. Take the credit.

  ‘Your mother died, didn’t she?’

  ‘Of a heart attack. But he killed her.’

  Not as I should have done but it was good enough. Got him here. Making him famous. No! What the fuck was McLeash doing, thanking her, sitting down. What about the blowjob? What he was going to make the old lady do and how Janet had pleaded, wanting to do it herself! Taylor twitched, pulling up from his seat, but held himself back. Jonathan Fry was rising, shuffling through his papers, dropping some. The prompt sheet! He could see his prompt sheet. Get it right, asshole. All you’ve got to do is read the question. Train a monkey to do that.

  ‘That wasn’t how it was at all, was it, Miss Hibbs?’

  Not what they’d rehearsed! Improvising. Not clever enough for that. Go back to your script, asshole.

  ‘That was exactly how it was.’

  ‘You were in love with him, weren’t you
?’

  Better!

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thought you were going to marry him?’

  Reading from the questions: even managing the derisive intonation. OK now.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You considered yourself engaged?’

  Exactly right. No hurry. Build up to the denouement.

  ‘Yes I did.’

  ‘Told your mother? Had champagne to celebrate, when you brought her home from the hospital?’

  The whore had shuddered, remembering! The first sign. Face looked redder, too. Any minute now. Smile at her, make her aware he knew what was coming. Glad she was looking directly at him. Wanted to see her face when she broke down.

  ‘Yes, we did.’

  ‘You claim he tied you and your mother up against your will?’

  Frowning now, not properly understanding. Perfect.

  ‘That’s what he did do.’

  ‘You didn’t agree to what he was doing? Your mother didn’t agree?’

  Incredulous. Open mouthed. Not so assured, not any more.

  ‘Agree!! Don’t be absurd. Why – how – would we possibly have agreed!’

  ‘You’re a fit woman. Why didn’t you resist, tell him to stop?’

  He hadn’t had any cause to worry. Jonathan Fry had been the right choice.

  ‘He tricked me.’

  Almost there. He’d correctly anticipated every answer.

  ‘Tricked you! How did he trick you?’

  All she had to do was tell the truth, which he knew she would.

  ‘Told me to close my eyes. Hold my arms out, palms together.’

  She sounded so stupid! Confirming it!

  ‘Hold your arms out, palms together! It was a game, wasn’t it? A bondage sex game you were quite happy – eager – to play but which the police broke in, to interrupt …?’