Summary Justice: 'An all-action court drama' Sunday Times (Benson and De Vere)

by John Fairfax

  Sally had no idea. Her world was pictures and prints. ‘She wanted someone she could manipulate? Get him to do and say what she wanted?’

  Tess rebuffed the idea. It was the evidence that determined what a lawyer said and did.

  ‘Maybe she wanted to exploit the controversy around his name?’

  ‘But why do that?’

  ‘Get the benefit of the doubt – not about her but about him. Maybe she’s thinking the jury will let her go because they’ll want to show they haven’t been influenced by all the mud-slinging. Do you have any lemons?’

  Tess went to the fridge. ‘But the woman I met wasn’t that calculating. That cold.’

  ‘She is, darling. You just can’t read between the lines, like me. I did warn you. I did say you couldn’t trust her.’

  ‘You said she was stubborn.’

  ‘I said she had a lot to hide. Butter?’

  If Sally was right that would mean Collingstone was almost certainly guilty. No innocent person would behave in such a way. It would mean all that ‘I just don’t know, Mr Benson’ stuff was a charade. It would mean the emerging picture of Andrew Bealing’s dealings with organised crime was an irrelevance.

  Sally banged the skillet. ‘You’re all confused, aren’t you?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘I don’t mean about Collingstone, I mean about Benson.’

  ‘I am, yes.’

  Tess wanted to believe that Benson was innocent, just as Benson wanted to believe that Collingstone wasn’t guilty. She had a great deal invested in his integrity. And the idea that he might have lied to her, like Collingstone might have lied to him, was profoundly destabilising. She wouldn’t have given the notion a second thought if someone other than Douglas hadn’t mentioned it. But Douglas was wise. He saw things. Like he’d seen the bastard in Peter Farsely. Sally was making a wholly unnecessary racket, banging and shaking the pan.

  ‘You do realise, don’t you,’ she said, ‘that this martyrdom stuff – letting people dump yoghurt over your head while you turn the other cheek – all that makes sense if you killed someone and can’t bear the sight of yourself any more? It’s completely consistent with a totally decent fellow who lost his temper and belted someone over the head with a crowbar or whatever. He was a philosophy student, wasn’t he? Well . . . he’s simply got to have a ballsed-up view of himself.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But you should see him in court, Sally. He’s there like some great defender of the little guy, a moral force. His integrity is palpable. He cares about the truth, not just the evidence. He couldn’t be all that in court and be someone else outside.’

  ‘Of course he could. That’s what it’s all about. There are drawers to his personality, remember? He keeps his ethics well away from his logic. And in public, he’s recreating himself. He’s inventing someone he can never be in real life, because back home, away from the Old Bailey, that possibility’s gone for ever. He’s got the mark of Cain. He’s a fugitive. He’s an outcast. Plates.’

  ‘Never sit on a jury, Sally.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re a fantasist.’

  Sally pondered the point. ‘My paying clients call me visionary.’

  38

  Helen Camberley called and she insisted. Benson didn’t want any help, but the woman who’d once defended him, and who’d given him a pupillage, wouldn’t take no for an answer. Call it parental worry. She wouldn’t be deflected. In fact, she was a little late in the day. The difficult work had been done. All that remained was the defence case: there was nothing to do but call Sarah Collingstone. Yet Helen wasn’t so sure. She’d invited him to have lunch followed by a cigar over billiards in her large Hampstead home.

  ‘That was a neat move with Collingstone’s DNA,’ she said.

  Helen, like Benson’s former tutor in epistemology, had always stressed the importance of challenging assumptions concealed in apparently irresistible evidence. ‘You were quite right. Collingstone’s DNA on that bottle is just another piece of data that requires an explanation. It’s up to her now. You’ve given her a chance. Let’s hope she takes it. For her sake.’

  Helen’s hair had once been light brown (apparently). It had gone silver by the time of Benson’s trial, and was now white, cut short. She was seventy-three years old and still haunting the courts with a rich, contralto voice. Diminutive, and dressed in black linen, she drew on her cigar as if she were George Sand worried about Chopin’s health.

  ‘Rachel’s in a difficult position,’ she said, referring to Glencoyne. ‘Personally, I think she’d have been better advised to risk presenting Bealing as a bit of a bastard who’d used Collingstone and then dropped her – which is what I suspect happened. Instead, she went down the prince and pauper route, not wanting to attack a dead man’s character, or present the jury with a man they’d dislike . . . and, inevitably, a defendant they’d pity. But now she’s stuck with the fact that the affair looks flimsy. And someone else might have come to Hopton’s Yard after Collingstone went home – if she went home. You’ve set things up very well indeed. It’s difficult to believe this is your first Crown Court trial.’

  Benson shrugged off the remark. He’d spent eleven years reading transcripts of evidence and articles on forensic science. There was no magic to it.

  ‘I find it delicious that colleagues think you’re responsible for anything that’s bad, and I must be responsible for anything that’s good,’ she said, chalking her cue.

  ‘You are, Helen, in every way, and you know that.’

  Without Camberley’s support Benson would never have made it to the Bar. She’d advised him not to try, but once he’d taken up the challenge, she’d been there at his shoulder, regardless of personal cost. She’d showered him with gifts, some of them humbling, like the wig that had belonged to her grandfather. And someone out there had paid for his legal training, bought him a boat, given him an income for three years and provided a library, all subject to those signed undertakings. But Benson had guessed it was Camberley, even if Camberley would never admit it. Secret patronage on such a scale creates a certain tension between the giver and the receiver, and he had felt that tension from the moment he began his pupillage. Everyone did. Everyone knew that Helen’s son had committed suicide. Everyone knew that Benson had appeared in her life like a dead body she longed to revive.

  ‘I met Rachel last night,’ she said, lining up her shot. ‘I was surprised. She was rather confident about the case.’

  So this was why Helen had called him.

  ‘Frankly, everyone thought you’d flounder and drown, but you haven’t done. The person who’s seen to be sinking is Rachel. So she ought to be embarrassed, given your limited experience. She ought to be worried that Collingstone is going to slip through her fingers. But she isn’t worried. I got the impression she’s looking forward to tomorrow.’ Camberley played a winning cannon but frowned. ‘I think you ought to be careful.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Rachel’s got judgement. She’s honest. But she’s not beyond a shit’s trick. She played fast with me once, and I’ve never forgotten it. So take nothing for granted. She might be planning your humiliation.’

  Benson had spent a great deal of his pupillage in this smoky, panelled room. The evenings mainly; and sometimes well into the night. It had all been work. She’d made him question her. Endlessly. Showed him how to dismantle a lie. How to construct a narrative. How to move in for the kill. Showed him when to drop an issue and when to leave it hanging in the air . . . like a noose; or a lifeline, it depended on who you were questioning.

  ‘Don’t worry, Helen,’ he said, holding his cue almost at a right angle to the table. He was planning a massé. Possibly the most exciting stroke in the game – and dangerous, because with a fraction too much pressure, the strained green cloth would tear. ‘I might have a surprise or two for Glencoyne. We’re on to Bealing’s killer. All I need is the evidence.’

  It was late when Benson ambled home along Seymour Road.
He was preoccupied, thinking of his dad, alone with five hundred lobster pots. When he left school, Benson had joined the family business, like all the Benson sons before him. He’d become a fisherman. He did his best to learn the trade, and to love it, but after a few months his dad pulled in the nets, so to speak.

  ‘You weren’t made for the sea, son,’ he said.

  Benson was confused, and worried that he’d somehow disappointed his father. He said he’d try harder, he’d work at it, he’d get there one day, and that . . . but his dad cut him short with a fond smile.

  ‘It’s not about trying, son. You’ve done all I’ve asked and more.’

  ‘Then what’s the problem?’ Benson replied.

  ‘You’ve stopped asking “Why?”. For years you’ve driven us mad with your endless questions, and now you don’t ask them any more. The sea isn’t your home. You don’t want to find lobsters. You want to find answers. So go catch ’em, my boy.’

  And so Benson enrolled to read philosophy at King’s College London. His parents were immensely proud. They bought him the college scarf. After leaving the shop, Jim kicked himself, and went back, insisting that Benson choose a pair of cuff-links to match.

  ‘Trust me, you’ll be needing those,’ he said, knowledgeably, though he’d never worn such things in his life. At no point did he reveal what must have been pressing on his mind, perhaps even as he wrote the cheques: that with Benson’s departure, three hundred years of family tradition would come to an end.

  So, thinking of his dad, Benson didn’t quite notice the white van parked right in front of his gate, and the three masked men waiting by the open back doors. When he did it was too late. They threw him inside, face down. He was pinned at the wrists and ankles while one of them, or maybe two, set to work, beating Benson across his legs, buttocks and back. They didn’t utter a word, just the odd grunt. It was all rather mechanical, businesslike, efficient. When they’d finished, they threw him on the pavement and drove off. The last thing Benson saw before he closed his eyes was the loser in the bomber jacket on his phone. The job had been done.

  PART FOUR

  The case for the defence

  Benson raised the matter of Needles’ mental problems with one of the screws – a screw he thought might be decent – and the screw said he’d mention it to the healthcare people the next day, but even as he was speaking, Benson knew nothing would happen. The screw already knew and he didn’t care, or if he did, he knew that mentioning it to the healthcare people wouldn’t make any difference. So Benson gave up looking for help, as he’d given up waiting to move. He went back to his cell to do his time with Needles.

  ‘What are you in for, Needles?’ he said, after he’d finished an article on fracture patterns in glass and polymers.

  ‘Petty theft, I think . . . I can’t remember, son.’

  Benson had already asked him, but Needles had replied as if he hadn’t, and with the same resignation. Needles had spent his life coming in and out of prison for minor offences until he couldn’t remember what he was in for. He couldn’t live outside any more.

  ‘What are you in for, Rizla?’

  ‘Murder.’

  ‘Silly boy.’

  Benson began reading another article, this time on the use of non-human DNA analysis in forensic science.

  ‘Hey, Rizla?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You lose touch when you’re inside, you know what I mean?’

  Benson looked over the top of his magazine.

  ‘Sure I do, Needles.’

  And Needles shook his head like a sage defeated by a rune. And Benson frowned. The yellow woollen scarf. It never got any longer. Needles kept knitting, but the thing got nowhere nearer to being finished. It didn’t make sense.

  39

  The policeman who found Benson and helped him to his feet got talking about the Hopton Yard killing as soon as decency would allow. And he volunteered that back at the station the lads were split fifty-fifty on whether Collingstone was going to get off. ‘My view, Mr Benson, is that Miss Glencoyne is going to eat your client for breakfast,’ he said. Which was probably Glencoyne’s view, too, because when Benson passed her on the stairs to the robing room – refusing to limp or give any indication of the pasting he’d received – she said, ‘Good morning.’ Such an outbreak of courtesy could only mean she was bursting at the seams with confidence.

  But Benson had a surprise of his own lined up. After declining a lift to the hospital, he’d bought a packet of Sobranie Black Russians, smoked three, run the packet under the tap, thrown it in the bin and gone to bed, lying face down to try and limit the pain. Methodically, he buried his rage. He piled a sort of clay on his longing to hit back. Slowly, he felt a deathly inner quiet like anaesthesia. The call from Sarah Collingstone had come shortly afterwards, while he was reading ‘March Hares’ by Andrew Young.

  ‘Mr Benson, I’m sorry. But I haven’t told you the whole truth. I’ve lied. And now I want to tell you what really happened.’

  * * *

  Camberley’s advice had always been let them tell their story. Efface yourself. Let the jury hear the witness as if you weren’t there.

  So Benson, in constant blazing pain, asked short and simple questions. And Sarah gave an account she’d never told anyone before, not even her father. Yes, she’d got close to Andrew Bealing (taken slowly, it all sounded so natural; Glencoyne had been right). Bealing had been very kind; he’d been understanding; he’d been very attentive. He’d eventually started to pursue her. He’d touched her, frequently, on the arm, the hand, the shoulder. At the Christmas party he’d pulled her towards him and she’d not wanted to resist.

  But there was no relationship. No affair. Just these moments when they could so easily go further; much further; only Sarah didn’t want to, because of Debbie. She felt confused, not knowing what the future might be, not knowing how to conduct herself. And it had been in this state of uncertainty that she went to Hopton’s Yard on Saturday, 14th of February 2015. As she’d always maintained, the reason for the visit was to tie Mr Bealing down in relation to the health and safety procedure manuals for Anna Wysocki. Sarah entered Mr Bealing’s office, saying how awfully cold it was outside. She took off her hat and coat and laid them on a chair. She rubbed her hands. When she turned around, Mr Bealing was standing there. He’d come from behind his desk. He cupped both her hands in his, holding them tight.

  This was the moment witnessed by the driver Ricky Warton. Sarah’s frustrations with Anna Wysocki’s demands overwhelmed her and she started crying, with Mr Bealing telling her not to worry, and Sarah saying she wasn’t leaving until he’d either called Wysocki or given her the wretched stuff she was after. Mr Bealing left the room to speak to Warton. When he returned, he drew a curtain over the window on to the warehouse. He drew a curtain over the window on to the reception area. And then he wiped a tear off her cheek with a thumb.

  Sarah had no real memory of how she lost self-control. Within what felt like seconds, Mr Bealing had lifted her off the ground and brought her to the edge of his desk; they made love, and yes, Sarah gripped the skin on his back. Benson was obliged to ask whether Bealing’s hands touched her skin, keeping them there for any length of time, and Sarah, crushed and humiliated, said, ‘Yes.’ Benson had to go further: ‘For how long?’ and Sarah told everyone watching what they already knew: ‘A lot more than two minutes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you explain all this to DCI Winter, the court and your legal representatives?’ said Benson, eyes on the jury as if they already understood the answer. ‘Why hide so much that was so important?’

  ‘Because I thought I’d be convicted of the murder.’ Sarah was holding on to the witness stand with both hands. ‘The detective already believed I was guilty . . . if I told him what happened, he’d have used it against me. I was at sea, Mr Benson. I didn’t know what to do . . . that’s why I said nothing in my first two interviews. I was wondering how much I could say without incriminating myself even more. That�
�s why I said nothing to you, because I was worried you wouldn’t believe me when I said I was innocent. I can’t go to prison, Mr Benson. I have a son who’s totally dependent on me. I have to be with him. I’m the only one who knows what he needs. I can read his mind . . .’

  Benson paused there, letting her find a tissue. Mr Justice Oakshott said there was no rush. He suggested to Sarah that she might like a glass of water. When she’d composed herself, Benson tidied up the rest of the evidence as if everything now made sense.

  Sarah had left Mr Bealing at about 6.30 p.m. She went home and made a tuna salad, cutting her right hand on opening the tin. She then listened with Daniel and her father to an audio book. She went to bed at 10.15 p.m. The next morning she felt awful about what had happened – because if Debbie found out it could send her over the edge and she’d feel responsible. She wanted to get away, to think and calm down. Impulsively, she bought tickets to France, telling her father she needed a break because of the Anna Wysocki business, which, of course, remained unresolved. She was then arrested at Dover. She panicked. The fear set in. She lied. She made things worse for herself.

  ‘You did,’ agreed Benson, in a tone suggesting we’ve all made that particular mistake. ‘Please remain there, Sarah. My learned friend Miss Glencoyne will have some questions for you.’

  As he sat down, Benson wanted to scream with agony. He allowed himself a pained sigh, suppressing the rest with the ecstasy of expectation. Because Sarah Collingstone was home and dry. She’d been patently honest. She’d been credible. She was out of Glencoyne’s reach.

  40

  Tess had met Rachel Glencoyne socially. She was charming. In a remote, intellectual sort of way. She’d endured a very public divorce from a much-loved judge who sat on the South Eastern Circuit (which encompassed London). Which meant she was not infrequently obliged to appear before him, as long as the client didn’t mind. In short, she could never quite escape her past. Her affair with an Australian neurologist specialising in pain control was always being mentioned, usually by understatement or innuendo, and often with some obscure sexual gloss. Such was the Bar’s Gossip Circuit, only to be distinguished from Hopton’s Yard by the vocabulary. The break-up and flippancy had marked Rachel. She was reserved. Those bright, black-lined eyes could cut you with a glance. Her cross-examinations were sometimes cruel.