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by Brian Freemantle

  His two prison warder escorts, both well over six feet tall, heavily built and clearly chosen for their size, sat directly opposite, unspeaking, not able to hide their apprehension. They’d stood well back from him when he entered the van and didn’t come near him when he stood to get out. He chose the moment, grabbing out as the larger of the two climbed after him. The man jerked back, frantically, catching his legs against the van steps and falling prostrate in the yard. It was crowded, with other watching warders and police. None came forward to subdue him or help the man up.

  Taylor said ‘Just having fun’ and walked, virtually unescorted, into the court basement at cell level.

  Jonathan Fry, flushed and sweating in his usual haphazard uncertainty, was waiting in the cell complex, after the pre-resumption hearing with the judge in chambers. So was the instructing solicitor, Michael Joliffe. Both positioned themselves close to the cell door, as overwhelmed by nervousness as they were by inability. Idly Taylor wondered how many other people, attracted by the inevitable notoriety, he had doomed to inadequate representation by these two men.

  ‘The judge is not just excluding the public,’ the barrister announced. ‘No-one who hasn’t a proper purpose is being allowed in the court, either.’

  ‘What about the media?’ He could afford to relax – look forward – but there were essentials to ensure. He still hadn’t decided upon his curtain call outrage. Was tempted, even to make his announcement about possession.

  ‘They’ve a right to be there,’ said Joliffe. ‘They represent the public.’

  ‘You get any steer from the judge, about the Myron Nolan defence?’ Taylor demanded. It could influence – guide – how he orchestrated things in America.

  ‘It wouldn’t have been proper for His Lordship to have given any indication,’ rejected Fry, formality overriding ambiguity. ‘But I didn’t get the impression he was sympathetic.’

  Your Lord, not mine, thought Taylor. An idea began to germinate. ‘What the hell did he say?’

  ‘That he didn’t want his court turned into a theatre.’

  Taylor smiled, his decision made. It would be brilliant, like everything else he’d so far achieved. If he hadn’t already decided upon possession next time it would have been difficult imagining it getting any better in the everlasting future. He was already thinking of England as a provincial run, finessing the major production for the bigger, better stage awaiting the live – how many lives? – performance on worldwide television. He was impatient to spring his final surprise. ‘How long will extradition take?’

  ‘If you’re still sure you don’t want to oppose the American application it’s little more than a formality,’ said Joliffe.

  ‘No opposition whatsoever,’ instructed Taylor. ‘There’s thousands of people out there in the streets. How many of them do you think believe I’m a god?’

  Both men shifted with their customary indecision, neither wanting to reply. Eventually Fry said, ‘I don’t know.’

  Taylor, the bully, said, ‘What do you two think I am?’

  Joliffe moved towards the door. Fry said, ‘It’s time for us to go upstairs.’

  It was all remarkably quick. Straightforward. In his final address to the jury Hector McLeash contended that not just upon irrefutable scientific evidence but upon his own admission Harold Taylor, the man in the dock, had murdered Beryl Simpkins and Samuel Hargreaves and was guilty as charged.

  Jonathan Fry’s defence submission was that the scientific evidence upon which the prosecution relied proved the contrary: that Myron Nolan was the killer and that therefore Harold Taylor, his physical vehicle for the crimes, could not be found guilty.

  ‘All of you believe in a God,’ insisted Fry. ‘I established that during jury selection. You have heard – and you must believe, because they were bound by Christian oaths – the evidence of learned churchmen and acknowledged experts on world deities that the doctrine of each and every one of you accepts the fact and the occurrence of reincarnation and possession. If that is your Church’s teaching then you must find that the accused committed the terrible crimes he did, not of his own volition but at the command of a previous existence over which he had no control and could not resist.’

  Mr Justice Lockyer’s final guidance to the jury was more measured, every word and phrase the antithesis of the sensation they had sat through for the previous two and a half weeks.

  He reviewed, point by point, all the scientific and forensic evidence, acknowledging each time that every DNA, blood group, fingerprint and handwriting sample that matched those of Myron Nolan were equally those of Harold Taylor, the accused before them in the dock. The judge also took them, point by point, through the uncontested statement that Harold Taylor had made, admitting the killing of Beryl Simpkins and Samuel Hargreaves and what was, legally, the kidnapping of Janet and Edith Hibbs, resulting in the old lady’s death.

  ‘You have, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, witnessed in this court events unprecedented in British legal history or experience,’ said Lockyer. ‘I cannot – nor do I seek to – explain them. You have heard evidence from ecclesiastical and religious authorities, which I hope goes some way towards assisting you there, far more than I can. My function is to guide you on the law …’

  He hesitated, turning briefly away from the jury to look at the barristers and then Harold Taylor. ‘In this court, yesterday, we saw the inexplicable: the apparent existence of two men within a single body … A defence has been offered, upon that manifestation.’ He hesitated again, consulting the notes before him. ‘The law of this country is quite clear and quite explicit upon the guilt of murder. If there are two men at the scene of a crime and one makes no attempt or effort to prevent or dissuade the other from committing that crime, that act of murder, then each is equally guilty. If Harold Taylor is Myron Nolan and Myron Nolan is Harold Taylor – and by his own admission Harold Taylor brutally and horrifically killed two people – then the single man before you in the dock, Harold Taylor, is guilty as charged.’

  It only took the jury an hour to agree.

  Taylor stood, as instructed, and when asked by the judge if he had anything to say before sentence prepared himself for his final English drama.

  Harold Taylor became Myron Nolan and Myron Nolan said to the jury: ‘Never forget that I always avenge myself upon people who harm me. And you’ve harmed me. You’ll never know when it’s going to happen but it will, I promise. I can’t be sentenced to death, not here in England. But that’s the sentence you’ve just imposed upon yourselves.’

  This time four women fainted and on her way to hospital the black girl of the previous day died of a terror-induced heart attack.

  It had been Cedric Solomon’s intention to make the application for an extradition hearing immediately but Mr Justice Lockyer was again forced to suspend the court after imposing a mandatory life sentence because of the need for medical treatment and the scenes that followed Taylor’s threat, although by comparison the mayhem was less than the previous day.

  Instead, wishing to be seen to earn his brief, Solomon convened a pointless conference of the subdued, unsure Americans. It was Amy who voiced the unspoken thought of every one of them.

  ‘We’ll be marked as having harmed him, too, won’t we?’

  ‘He could live for another forty years in a Texas jail,’ insisted Kirkpatrick, hopefully. ‘And in all the cases we know about he hadn’t started killing in his next reincarnation until he’s around twenty years old.’

  ‘So if I’ve died by then it’ll be Beth or her kids he comes back to kill,’ said Powell.

  ‘In court he said he could possess people,’ remembered Amy. ‘If he did that he’d be reborn immediately.’

  ‘Forty years at least before he dies,’ repeated Kirkpatrick.

  * * *

  ‘He’s a federal prisoner and it’ll be an FBI plane,’ declared Clarence Gale. ‘So we’re certainly not flying him straight to Texas, for them to get the glory for something they did damn
all to achieve.’

  ‘No,’ said Mark Lipton, not sure to what he was agreeing.

  ‘We’ll bring him here, to Washington. And give the world their first chance to see him in the flesh.’

  The Public Affairs director’s face cleared, in understanding. ‘At Dulles airport?’

  ‘Every facility,’ ordered Gale. ‘Television and camera positions, the lot.’ He paused. ‘Obviously we can’t set him up for a press conference but I think I might give one. It was the Bureau that got the bastard. I’m not going to let anyone forget or overlook that.’

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The unopposed extradition hearing was a formality, a rigidly structured legal quadrille with everyone dancing to a muted tune. The application was considered in camera, to prevent the reported evidence influencing any subsequent American trial, and the emptiness of the court added to the overwhelming and pervading sense of foreboding. No-one spoke without reason and those who did, did so in whispers. The judge, Sir Roger Black, was a fat, over-indulged man who normally dominated his court with a voice and personality matching his size. Now he hunched over his note ledger studiously avoiding eye contact or discussion with anyone but most of all with Taylor, who lounged even more than usual in the dock, content with – and enjoying – the effect his mere presence was creating. Without an audience he was actually uninterested in the proceedings, regarding them more than anyone else as an irritating, delaying necessity to get him to where he wanted to be next.

  Cedric Solomon, with Ross Kirkpatrick acting as his junior, consciously lowered his usual sonorous tone as he outlined the facts of the American murders, in advance of calling Powell, Amy Halliday and forensic expert Barry Westmore for their supporting evidence. For little other reason than to relieve his boredom Taylor amused himself silently engendering the palpable fear, particularly during testimony, staring with fixed, unbroken intensity at every witness until finally, always despite themselves, they looked back into his blank, expressionless eyes to realize they were being put on to a vengeance register for the future. Taylor achieved his greatest disconcerting effect upon Westmore, whose scientifically tramlined mind couldn’t accept what he’d seen and who, being examined himself with microscopic intensity, stumbled so badly through a lot of his forensic presentation that Ross Kirkpatrick thought some of it might have been devalued by concentrated cross-examination, which Jonathan Fry didn’t attempt at all. Powell, by complete comparison, openly challenged by staring back and didn’t stall, which got him put on the top of Taylor’s mental list. Amy’s faltering wasn’t so bad – she even tried, futilely, to outstare him at first – but he undermined her in the end, watching her colour grow, from embarrassment and anger or maybe both, at the mistakes for which she had to apologize and then had to correct.

  What he was never to know – but would have been delighted about if he had – was that the courtroom pressure he created caused the first ever argument between Powell and Amy.

  It was at the end of the initial day, with Powell midway through his evidence, which Amy was to follow. No-one was speaking very much outside the court, either, but Amy had lapsed into complete silence during an uneaten dinner and unthinkingly, preoccupied himself, Powell asked what was bothering her.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Wes! What the fuck do you think’s bothering me!’

  ‘It was a stupid question. I’m sorry. But it doesn’t help.’

  ‘What the fuck will? Tell me because I’d really like to know!’ demanded Amy, attacking the only available target.

  ‘Talking to each other,’ he tried, desperately.

  ‘Harold Taylor or Myron Nolan or whoever the hell he is isn’t on trial!’ she persisted. ‘He never has been and never will be. Ever. It’s us. You and me and everyone else. We’re going to die. Whenever he chooses. And if it’s not us it’s going to be Beth and any other kids we have …’ She gulped to a stop, full awareness settling. ‘You know what that means! That means for us to have any kids will be like doing it knowing we’re passing on some gene or medical condition that’s one day going to kill them. So we shouldn’t. Have kids, I mean. Can you believe that: honestly fucking well believe that! The bastard’s ruined our life together, before we’ve even started!’

  Powell hadn’t considered it in those terms. Badly – stupidly again – he said, ‘He won’t. We won’t let him.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, scornfully. ‘I knew you’d work it out. So how are you going to stop him?’

  ‘If there’s a way I’ll find it, I promise. Nothing’s going to ruin us.’

  Spacing her words, leaning towards him as intensely as Taylor had that day from the dock, Amy said: ‘He can’t be stopped!’ She was red faced, hardly in control.

  He didn’t have an argument against her but he didn’t want to concede she was right, either. ‘It’s all happened too fast. No-one’s had time properly to think. We’ve got to talk to psychologists and religious experts for ourselves. Try to understand it all better.’

  ‘What’s to understand! He dies, he comes back to life, he kills everyone he thinks screwed him in the past. End of story. End of us.’

  ‘Amy, give me a break! You think you’re telling me anything I don’t already know? Am not already terrified of? It’ll end here in England soon. Just days. Then we’ll all get back to America. Get Taylor back to America, where he can be locked up for the rest of his life and not do any more harm to anyone.’

  ‘And we just wait!’ she challenged. ‘We move house, we going to send him change-of-address cards, make it easy for him?’

  ‘No!’ said Powell, temper finally gone. ‘But if it takes something like that, we’ll do it. We’ll go into the Witness Protection Program. Change our names, location, Social Security, everything. We know from Durham that he has to find his victims, when he returns. We’ll make it so he can’t find us or our kids. Ever.’

  Amy’s anger stemmed, faltered. She looked at him curiously, head to one side. ‘Could that work?’ she asked, hopefully.

  ‘The Bureau’s keeping hundreds of people alive like that,’ exaggerated Powell. ‘And for us it would be easier than most. The greatest difficulty is for an already established family totally to change everything. But we’re hardly established yet. We’re not even married and Beth hasn’t moved in with us. And she’s only seen me on Saturdays and some holidays for the past three years. We were all three of us going to have to learn new lives anyway.’

  Amy’s face softened at last, as the idea took hold. ‘It would be a way, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘I promised I’d find one. And that’s only my first shot.’

  ‘What about you and the Bureau, if that’s what we’ve got to do?’

  ‘What about you and the Bureau?’ he asked back.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, wearily. At once she added: ‘I mean I do know, of course I do, if it comes down to the Bureau or us. About staying alive. But we can’t think everything through this quickly. Whatever we do has got to be right, first time.’

  ‘It will be,’ promised Powell.

  Solomon’s submission that sufficient evidence had been produced for extradition to be granted took five minutes and Jonathan Fry’s response, that the application was uncontested, even less. Mr Justice Black still didn’t look directly at Taylor when he declared the extradition granted and hurried from the court.

  Malcolm Townsend hosted the farewell party, although both the Police Commissioner and the Chief Constable made brief token appearances. There were toasts to a brilliant investigation even more brilliantly concluded from men made famous who knew their careers and promotions were assured, and promises of reunion at the Texas trial, which both Townsend and Basildon, together with their support officers, were flying to America to attend as potential witnesses. But the bonhomie was forced, like the drinking, and at one stage Basildon said quietly to Powell, ‘Thank Christ he’s going to end up with you. I’d be frightened to be in the same country as the bastard.’

  The FBI plane was not sche
duled to depart until the following afternoon. Powell had intended seeing Janet Hibbs in the morning but unexpectedly she’d accepted Townsend’s invitation to the party.

  Powell said, ‘We had to cut a deal. The only way we could get him back to America was on the undertaking he wouldn’t be executed.’

  ‘So I don’t get to see him die,’ accepted the woman. She’d maintained her recovery, looking even better than she had in court.

  ‘There’s still going to be a trial.’

  Janet snorted a laugh, shaking her head. ‘I’ve been through one of those already. There’s only one thing I wanted to see happen. Now it won’t. The bastard won!’

  There was silence between them for several moments. Amy was across the room with Lobonski. She smiled but didn’t come to join them.

  Powell said, ‘You’re looking great.’

  Janet smiled, genuinely this time. ‘I got almost half a million for the house: fifty thousand more than the agents estimated. Notoriety value. Isn’t that sick?’

  ‘God knows how much sicker it’s going to get before …’

  ‘No,’ she agreed, picking up from his pause. ‘It’s not going to get any better, is it?’

  He took out a card and offered it to her. ‘Keep in touch. Amy and I have been talking about it. Maybe we’ll think of something.’ She’d been a chief witness. She qualified for protection.