by John Wilson
– Poor Bateman. His dear wife is lying dead in the road and he’s in bed with Mrs McKechnie.
And suddenly a cloud cleared in his mind. McKechnie hadn’t told Pemberton, or any of his legal team, about what was in the inquest notes. Whatever he had said about the death of Marjorie Bateman, if anything, he hadn’t told his lawyers the story that he had told the coroner. Adam was as sure as he could be that Victoria McKechnie’s version of events on that night would also differ from what she had said at the inquest. He, Jones and Blytheway were the only ones who knew about this. And Bateman, of course. But Bateman had done all he could to prevent him finding out. There had been a collective lie. But what was the reason for the lie? Could it be that Marjorie Bateman was murdered, by her husband, or McKechnie, or all three of them? Killed by Bateman because she had found out about his affair with Victoria McKechnie? Or simply killed for the insurance money? He saw now why Blytheway had immediately concluded that he should be following the money. But how did that help him on giving Bateman a defence? It was hardly a defence to a claim of adultery to pray in aid murder or conspiracy to murder. The evidence still pointed to adultery and that was all that the court was being asked to determine: did Arnold Bateman have sex with Victoria McKechnie?
Adam pulled out the notes he had written at Romford Town Hall and turned to the last page, where he had scribbled out Marjorie’s injuries. A massive injury to the head, crushing injuries to the spine and legs and multiple lacerations. Death, so the coroner had concluded, must have been almost instantaneous. It didn’t sound like murder. Unless Marjorie had been pushed into oncoming traffic? However, if Marjorie Bateman had not died, Arnold Bateman would not have received the insurance money. And if Arnold Bateman hadn’t received the insurance money, would McKechnie have gone to the expense of these proceedings? And if it was only because Bateman now had money, when did McKechnie find out about the adultery? Pemberton had implied that it was on the night of Marjorie Bateman’s death that his client had discovered the adultery. Indeed, that they were having sex at the time of Marjorie’s death. If Blytheway was right, then Adam needed to know a lot more about Marjorie Bateman if he was to find his way to the truth. He remembered Blytheway’s laughter over pre-prandial drinks. How was truth supposed to help him anyway?
Under the words “Arnold Bateman” he wrote “ask him about Marjorie”. And then drew a line across the page and turned over to a fresh sheet and wrote the words “Julia Pemberton” before crossing this out and putting simply “Pemberton” in capital letters. The final hearing was only ten days away now. Jones had tracked down Betty, met her by arrangement in a Lyons’ tea house and got her to sign a statement. He had a photostatic copy of it. She had been as good as her word and corroborated his story. There had been no mention of the death of her husband or of when she began working as a prostitute. That represented a worrying glitch in the timing for him. But – he took a deep breath – that was only one lie amongst a whole pattern of dishonesty on his part. He was getting ready to perjure himself, to try and pervert the course of justice. And he was using Betty to help him, to conspire with him. She had been sub-poenaed to attend on the second day of the trial. He had little doubt that she did not realise how serious were the consequences of lying on oath for money. What right did he have to put her in that position?
Then there was all Pemberton’s circumstantial evidence against them. If Pemberton’s Counsel persuaded the Court that Adam had indeed been going to the Stafford with Julia, the corollary of that was that he, and Julia, and Betty, had been lying to the court. He wrote on the otherwise blank page “Jenny Pemberton”. If she gave evidence on behalf of Julia that would carry enormous weight. Pemberton would have to argue that his own daughter was lying. But would she? Adam remembered Blytheway’s instinctive doubts about her evidence. What had Blytheway found out? What was he withholding from his client? Why hadn’t Jenny signed a statement?
He felt something rubbing against his legs. It was Delia. She mewed plaintively. He looked at his watch. It was already 4 p.m. He had missed lunch again and his ashtray was again overflowing with butts. The room was acrid with the smell of Turkish cigarettes. He opened a drawer and brought out the remains of the tin of fish-paste, took it across the room and scooped it into the saucer with the serrated edge of the lid. The smell made him hungry. Delia crouched down beside her bowl and began eating, oblivious to Adam’s presence. He stretched his arms out towards the ceiling and gave a silent yawn. His back ached. He ought to find something to eat, have a cup of tea.
He went back to his desk and closed the notebook, then headed for the door. Someone knocked before he reached it. It was Caldwell, slightly out of breath from the stairs and holding a dinner jacket and trousers, wrapped in cellophane.
– Come in. Come in. Good to see you, Caldwell. How can I help you?
– Mr Blytheway asked me to come and see you, sir. He asked that I give you this.
Caldwell handed over the suit. It was the one he had worn when dining with Blytheway.
– I don’t understand.
– Mr Blytheway asked that you try it on. I am happy to wait outside until you are ready.
– Look, Caldwell. This is very kind of him. But I don’t have any braces in chambers.
– Please try it on.
Then Caldwell excused himself and left the room. Adam felt he had little alternative but to do as he was asked. He placed himself to the side of the window, slipped off his shoes and climbed out of his suit trousers. He pulled on the new pair and, to his surprise, they fitted him perfectly. There was no need for braces. The jacket, similarly, had been taken in so that it felt as though it had been made for him. He understood now why Blytheway had scrutinised him so carefully, had put a forefinger into the front of his trousers and said “three inches” to himself. He went to the door and let Caldwell back in. Then did a turn so that the butler could see the dinner jacket from all angles.
– It’s a perfect fit!
Caldwell smiled and the scar on his face creased as he did so.
– Mr Blytheway was confident that it would, but he wanted to be sure. He asked me to convey his compliments to you and his apologies for being so busy of late. He has a number of suits that, for reasons of age, he can no longer fit into as comfortably as he would wish. He has arranged for them to be altered in the same way as this one but wanted to be sure that the measurements were right before commissioning the other alterations.
– That’s extremely kind … and quite unnecessary. Please pass on my enormous thanks for this suit but it would not be right for me to trespass further on Mr Blytheway’s kindness.
– But I’m afraid Mr Blytheway was quite insistent. He asked me to say that with the weeks ahead that are awaiting you, you will need to look your very best. I will come back on Friday with the other suits. Goodbye now, sir. Until Friday.
And with that he slipped out of the door and was gone.
Chapter Fifty-three
(Monday 3rd March 1941)
Tomas Novak was standing to attention under a spotlight. Then Katya shrieked and ran towards him, entwining him in her arms. And suddenly she was a kitten rubbing herself up against his calves.
– On the count of three, I will tell you everything. One … two …
There was an almighty bang. Novak and the kitten disappeared through the floor. There was a sickening snap and all that remained in the spotlight was a black square hole in the ground and a thick rope, swinging slowly and creaking over the abyss with the weight it carried. Two white hands emerged and Katya pulled herself back into the room. She said:
– You should have listened more carefully.
The blue mist that had been swirling around the room coagulated into a human form and shimmered towards him.
– The evidence. Sweetheart. Always start with the evidence. And don’t forget to polish your shoes.
– Have you got a cigarette, Roly? I’m dying for a cigarette.
The cobalt ghost lost shape,
becoming iridescent. It became a seething mass of shifting colours gradually resolving into crimson. Pemberton’s bloody ghost stood before him.
Don’t drink anymore. And I’ve never smoked. Bad for the health in my view. Don’t care what they say in their advertising. But the last time around cigarettes were better than money.
Adam woke with a start. It was cold and everything was black. Slowly the contours of his bed became visible. Delia was curled up next to him sharing the warmth of his body. He raised himself into a sitting position and fumbled for his cigarettes. The flare of the match lit up the room briefly. After lighting up he held it over his watch. It was 3 a.m. He took a long drag, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs, then let out a violent rasping cough. His eyes adjusted to the glow from the tip so that more of his room emerged from the shadows. The “all clear” had sounded just before midnight and then he had fallen asleep. Dawn was still a long way off. He had not slept in an air raid shelter or underground since early December.
He had been having that nightmare, or variations on it, for days but it was becoming more immediate as the trial approached. He thought of Novak, who was probably lying awake in his cramped cell; and Milo and Katya huddled together, or not, perhaps, in their bed, worrying. He finished his cigarette and lay flat again. Delia had not stirred. He placed a hand on her back and felt her rhythmic breathing. Then he turned on his side and tried to go back to sleep. He needed to be rested for the morning.
Sleep would not come, so he went through his inventory for the morning. He had polished his shoes. He had five sets of starched high collars and bands. Caldwell had arrived with five well-fitting suits on Friday afternoon and one of these was hanging from a door frame, wrapped in its cellophane against any dust. His papers were in a tidy pile at the centre of his desk in Lamb Building. Blytheway had lent him a copy of Archbold on Criminal Procedure and Practice. His wig and gown were in his blue bag, hanging behind the door. He began to go through the witness statements in his head. He had read them so many times.
Slivers of light appeared around the edges of the blackout material. He reached over to his watch. It was five in the morning. In less than five hours he would have to be at the Old Bailey. The statue of Justice, a sword in one hand and scales in the other, glimmered gold in his mind before finally he drifted back to sleep.
Chapter Fifty-four
(Monday 3rd March 1941)
Peter Preston KC was standing in the front row in Court 6, his hands resting on the wooden lectern, studying his notebook. Behind him his junior, Phillips, was arranging books and files. With more drama than was necessary he placed the cardboard cylinder and its coiled contents on a spare area of his desk.
Adam watched from junior counsel’s row. There was a strong smell of furniture polish and fresh paint. He could smell the starch on his collar, which was biting into his neck. He looked down at his hands, holding them out in front of him. The left one trembled, so he put it down quickly on the oak desk and stroked a finger across the smooth varnished surface.
He allowed himself to look around. The courtroom was cavernous. Designed to inspire awe and fear. Far above him was the raised seat reserved for the Judge. To his right was the still-vacant jury box. He turned around to look at the empty dock; a bevelled wooden hand rail topped a garrison of iron bars. At the back of the court in the far right-hand corner as he looked there was a large metal door. Novak would be produced from there. Adam had never been in the holding area behind that door.
His alarm had gone off at 7 a.m. and he’d jumped out of bed. He washed himself as well as he could in the hand basin and checked his hair. He had had it cut on the Saturday. Then he pulled on the new suit trousers and a clean white shirt, struggling as always with the collar studs. He stroked Delia, being careful not to get any hairs on his clothing, and then fed her some milk and fish-paste. Slipping on his jacket and overcoat he descended to Inner Temple Lane and made his way to Lamb Building.
His papers were where he had left them, but a small white note had been placed on top of them:
– Good luck, sweetheart!
He leafed through his papers and notes for an hour or so before leaving for court. It was a mere fifteen minute walk down Fleet Street and across Ludgate Circus. Jones was waiting on the first floor and strode over to greet him. He was not smiling. Adam found himself staring at the lines around the other man’s eyes. They were deeper than he remembered them, and the eyes were red-rimmed. Adam seemed to be seeing everything in microscopic detail, hearing every creak in the old building.
– Mr and Mrs Hoffer are over here.
There was a ghost of reproach in his voice that he was not entirely able to conceal. The Hoffers were seated on one of the many benches that dotted the hall. They were huddled in heavy coats with their heads down, like the refugees they were. Milo Hoffer had his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Adam, as counsel, was permitted only limited contact with witnesses or potential witnesses. But he was allowed to say hello.
– Mr and Mrs Hoffer. This is Mr Falling, Tomas’s barrister.
– Good morning. Thank you very much for coming along today.
Not the most tactful thing he could have said in the circumstances. The Hoffers raised their heads and looked mournfully up at him. Neither spoke. Katya Hoffer was as beautiful as Jones had said she was. Even the dark shadows under her eyes could not conceal that. He looked into those eyes with what he hoped was a kindly expression. She tried to remain impassive as she stared back at him. Lurking in her eyes he saw something that unnerved him. Terror. He turned to Milo Hoffer.
– I’m going to do everything I can for Tomas. Trust me.
Milo Hoffer sniffed and gave the barest acknowledgement to his words. Adam looked at his watch. 9.15. He had to go to the robing room and change, then he and Jones would go and see Novak in the cells. He left Jones with the Hoffers and made his way up to the top floor. Preston was already there, adjusting his wig in one of the full-length mirrors. He did not acknowledge Adam’s presence.
Ten minutes later he and Jones stood together in front of a large metal door and waited to be admitted. The door clanked open and they went through. There was a maze of cells under the court rooms. Novak had a cell to himself, for his own protection. Adam peered through the spy-hole and saw him sitting hunched in the near darkness. The guard unlocked the door, let them through and closed and locked the door behind them. Adam let his eyes adjust to the gloom for a moment before making his way across to his client.
Novak was thinner than ever. He was wearing a suit and tie and he had been given a haircut that made him look almost dapper. But his eyes were dark and showed no ray of hope. He held up a loose hand to shake Adam’s, then gripped it firmly and would not let go. The grip was not friendly.
– You must not make Katya give evidence. I forbid it.
– It is in your interests that she gives evidence for you. Your life may depend upon it.
– I forbid it! I forbid it!
– Your life is at stake, Mr Novak.
Novak gave out a roar and threw aside Adam’s hand.
– I would rather die than that she give evidence!
– You’re not thinking clearly, Mr Novak.
– Not thinking clearly?! I have done nothing but think for the past three months. I would rather die!
– Listen, Mr Novak … Tomas … we have limited time. Is there anything that you haven’t told us? Is there anything we should know that you have not passed on to us?
– I would rather die!
– I must just run through what is going to happen over the next two or three days.
Novak slumped back down onto the bench against the wall. He no longer appeared to be listening. Adam carried on anyway.
– You will be taken from here to a holding room behind the court itself and then brought into the dock. It’s a very big room but do not be intimidated by that. The charge will be put to you and you must plead not guilty. A jury will be chosen to hear your case. Then
counsel for the prosecution, Mr Preston, will outline the Crown’s case to the court and after that he will call his witnesses. Jones has some paper and a pen for you to use. If there is anything that is said that you disagree with, write it on the paper and he will hand it to me. I will ask his witnesses questions, and when they have finished I will call you to the witness box to give evidence. You will have to make an affirmation that you will tell the truth. I will ask you questions and then Mr Preston will cross-examine you. After that I will call witnesses in your defence. Mr and Mrs Hoffer are here and will be available to give evidence for you.
– I do not permit it.
– You can always change your mind.
– I would rather die.
– After the evidence is finished Mr Preston will sum up his case to the jury. Then I will do the same and finally the judge will also sum up. Then the jury will retire to consider their verdict.
Novak sat still and looked at his hands. He said nothing for a long time and it became clear that he had no more he wished to say. He allowed each of them a limp handshake before they returned to the main hall.