False Witness Page 6

  But from the moment I first saw the bundle, I could not forget any of it, and I constantly saw the girl’s dead eyes in my sleep. I had seen them again the previous night after Emma had produced the photographs in Johnson’s.

  “Do you object, Mr. Fawley?” asked Manly.

  “No,” I said.

  Davenport smiled. “We’ll come to the photographs in a minute, members of the jury. So perhaps you’ll be good enough not to look at them just at the moment.”

  The jury dutifully obeyed.

  “Now Mr.—I’m sorry—Doctor Molesey,” he said, “did you in fact conduct the post-mortem?”

  The pathologist reached for his mess of notes, shuffled them about, dropped the bottom sheet, caught it in mid-air and said in his peculiar high-pitched voice, “Yes.”

  “Can you tell us, Doctor—how many wounds did you find?” Davenport was constantly flicking through the thick bundle. It was an old prosecutor’s ruse to increase the sense of mystery for the expectant jury.

  “I counted, let me see,” said Molesey, quite neutrally, “yes, I counted… forty-three.”

  There was an ominous murmur from the jury box. I didn’t dare look up.

  “But it is a little difficult to be precise,” said Molesey.

  “Difficult?” asked Davenport feigning surprise. He knew exactly what the problem was: it was spelled out in great detail in the forensic report. “How can it be difficult, Doctor?”

  “Some of the wounds are multiple-entry and some of the wounds are so close together that it is difficult to say whether they are truly distinct.”

  Davenport turned to the jury. They had got the point. He turned back to Molesey and took him through some of the tedious details about dates, times, places and exhibit numbers. He also revealed how one of the wounds was cut out of the body and sent to the freezer section of the Home Office laboratory.

  One of the advantages of defending is that you sit closest to the jury. But it can also be a terrible strain. As Davenport and Molesey crawled through the formalities, I noticed the female juror. Her eyes flitted around the court waiting for an opportunity. She deftly moved the bundle below the front of the jury box and looked. Her expression did not change, but the color drained from her cheeks. She neatly put the photographs back and folded her arms tightly. Our eyes met. She knew I had seen her.

  Davenport was slowly working his way through the wounds, milking the moments for all he could. Eventually he scratched the most pendulous of his chins and pretended to search for an appropriate word.

  “Would you describe this attack as… as frenzied?” he asked.

  Molesey put his round nose in the air, as if he were sniffing out a scent. He used his right middle finger to push back his glasses.

  “That is a subjective word,” he said. “It is an opinion. Opinions can be wrong. The facts are never wrong. I prefer those. The fact is I counted forty-three wounds.”

  Harry Molesey was completely straight: he had no interest in innocence or guilt. His life was corpses and, as he once told me behind the old Hammersmith Coroners Court, there is a slab awaiting us all.

  But Davenport was not satisfied with the doctor’s professional caution.

  “Let’s consider the organs then,” he said excitedly, straining at the leash. “The liver?”

  “Punctured,” said Molesey.

  “The kidneys?”

  “Punctured.”

  “The heart?”

  “Well—”

  “The heart, Doctor?”

  “Punctured.”

  “How many times?”

  Molesey fingered his notes with his chubby little hands. “Three times,” he said.

  “And let me ask you this, Doctor,” Davenport raised his voice. “Were there any wounds on the hands?”

  “No,” said Molesey immediately.

  I knew this was coming. This was the strangest thing of all.

  “And using your twenty-four years’ experience as a pathologist,” said Davenport, “that is indicative of what?” Then he added, “In your professional opinion?”

  “In my opinion, as you have asked for it,” said Molesey. He hesitated.

  The jury were on the edges of their seats; three of them had pencils poised. One of the women covered her eyes.

  “In my opinion,” said Harry Molesey quietly, “Molly Summers did not fight back.”

  “What?” demanded Davenport.

  There were gasps of astonishment in the public gallery.

  “Forty-three wounds and she did not fight back?” said Davenport.

  The pathologist did not answer. He realized, as did we all, that it was a comment and not a question.

  “She didn’t fight back—at all?” asked Davenport again.

  “At all,” said Molesey.

  All around me people were furiously scribbling this down. Emma marked the passage with a yellow highlighter, then decided it deserved pink as well. Justine glanced at me and her face was completely white.

  “Doctor, can we deal with the murder weapon?” Davenport brandished the knife found at Kingsley’s home.

  I was about to object. I was going to say that the Crown was assuming that which it seeks to prove, or something equally lawyerly. But as I got to my feet, I saw Leonard, the clerk, whispering to Manly.

  “I see,” muttered the judge.

  When Leonard sat down, he grinned at me knowingly, revealing his tartar-stained teeth. It had to be bad news.

  “What’s up?” asked Emma, sharpening a blue pencil.

  I looked down at her helplessly.

  “Gentlemen,” said Manly with a sad resignation in his voice. “There has been a development.”

  The judge closed his eyes, highlighting his long, curly eyelashes, then began to massage his eyeballs with his thumbs. I could hardly breathe.

  “Gentlemen,” said Manly, “the previous witness has decided to give evidence.”

  The pathologist was asked to withdraw and the girl was brought in. She looked different.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “YOU SEE, ALL I WANT YOU TO DO IS TO TELL THE truth,” said Davenport.

  The girl eyed him suspiciously. She was clearly a stranger to human affection.

  “Do you understand what I’ve said?” asked Davenport with a foolish smile.

  It was her face that had changed. For the features had suddenly aged as though the fret of two weary decades had been visited upon her in one morning.

  “Did you speak to Molly Summers on the night of her death?” asked Davenport. He must have known that he had just one more opportunity with this witness and he was a soggy bag of nerves: every pore of his body seemed to perspire, his hands shook, even his mustache appeared to wilt. I did notice however that for some reason he skated over any facts about the home. Was it incompetence or was there another explanation?

  “Did you see Molly the night,” he said, wiping away some sweat, “the night she died?”

  The girl began to drum her fingers on the rim of the witness box and in the silence of the courtroom, I could hear every finger land.

  “So did you see her?” asked Davenport.

  Without looking up, the girl nodded slowly.

  Aubrey Davenport was elated. “I’m sorry, madam—er, miss, but for the court record, you see. Can you say yes or no? We can’t hear a nod.”

  It appeared to require much effort for the girl to raise her eyeballs from the bags under her eyes, and when she did, her gaze pierced Davenport’s bulk as a scalpel would cut through lard.

  “Yes, I see her,” she whispered.

  Leading counsel for the prosecution spent the next five minutes trying to establish the whys and whens, failing miserably to do anything other than provoke an occasional sniff from the girl and a sigh of despair from Justine.

  I noticed for the first time the tattoo on the back of the girl’s hand.

  After a few more abortive questions, Davenport’s resolve had disappeared and he was about to sit down when Justine prodded
him with her gold-plated fountain pen.

  Davenport duly tossed out a forlorn query, his face buried in his notebook. “Did you go to the stone circle?”

  The witness put one hand on top of the other, then she swapped them around. I noticed that in doing so she concealed the tattoo.

  “I was at the stones,” she said. There was a curious expression at the corners of her mouth. It could have been a smile. “I like them stones,” she added.

  Davenport dropped the counsel’s notebook from his right hand, knocking over a glass of water which Justine urgently mopped up. Here was Davenport’s opportunity. “Did you see anything unusual at the stones?”

  “How you means unusual?”

  “Well, out of the ordinary?”

  No response.

  “Abnormal?”

  Still silence.

  “Exceptional? Memorable? Bizarre? Um… peculiar?” Davenport ran out of adjectives.

  The girl began to drum the rim of the witness box again, but more slowly, and I could see that she had virtually no fingernails, and the tips of her fingers were sore, and the areas of flesh underneath the little pieces of bitten nails were bloodshot.

  Davenport was exasperated and took a stride along counsel’s row toward her. “Was anyone sitting down?”

  “I must object,” I shouted, surprising myself with the vehemence of my words, but this was a scandalous question. “M’Lord, this is the worst type of leading question.”

  Davenport ignored me, edged a little closer to the girl, trying to hold her in his stare. “Is that what you saw?” he asked.

  “M’Lord, really,” I protested.

  “Is that it?” said Davenport.

  “Mr. Davenport,” said Manly, “I forbid you—”

  “Tell us,” pleaded Davenport.

  “Sit down.” Manly was furious. “You will sit down now.”

  Aubrey Davenport slumped to his seat with a desperate sigh.

  Manly turned to me and in a calmer voice said, “I understand that you have an objection, Mr. Fawley.”

  “M’Lord, yes,” I said, pulling my gown over my shoulders. “Mr. Davenport is well aware of the rules against leading questions. I only ask that—” I couldn’t finish. I was interrupted by a tremulous voice from the witness box.

  “I didn’t sees it at first,” said the girl. “But after I was sure.”

  I was astonished and felt Davenport pouncing to his feet at my side. Even Norman looked up from his crossword.

  “What did you say?” asked Davenport.

  “I didn’t sees it at first.”

  “You’ve already told us that. What didn’t you sees—I mean, see—at first?”

  “That thing.”

  “What thing?”

  “The what-you-call-it.”

  “I don’t know,” said Davenport. He was admirably patient here. “You will have to tell us what you call it.”

  The girl sniffed so deeply that I felt sure that her lungs would explode. She wiped her nose twice with the back of her hand. She said, “The wheelchair.”

  At this, there was urgent mumbling in the public gallery, notes scrawled down in the well of the court; my heart pounded twice before deciding to sink. The only two calm people present were Davenport and the defendant, Richard Kingsley.

  Davenport took his time. He must have sensed victory. “And can you tell us who was in the wheelchair?” he asked.

  The girl looked at her feet and I noticed a chaotic pattern faintly visible in her tightly cropped hair.

  “It’s terribly important, you know,” said Davenport.

  The girl eventually looked at Kingsley, but only for a moment, for he stared back with eyes that were now unwavering, blackish and defiant.

  “Who was in it?” asked Davenport softly.

  The witness looked to the judge and then back to Kingsley.

  “Who?” whispered Davenport more softly.

  The girl twisted toward Ignatius Manly and opened her eyes plaintively. Her narrow back was now to Kingsley and she breathed deeply with her little shoulders heaving.

  Manly avoided eye contact. “I’m afraid you must answer,” he said.

  “But I’s said enough,” she said and the anguish in her voice pierced my heart.

  “You must answer,” said Manly.

  “Why?” she cried.

  “Who was in the wheelchair?” asked Davenport. “Who?”

  “You must answer,” said Manly.

  “No,” cried the girl. “No more. Please, no more.”

  “Are you frightened?” asked Davenport. “Of someone in this court?”

  While she looked at her feet, the girl’s head moved up and down.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “WE’RE NOT GOING TO PUSH HER,” SAID DAVENPORT as he puffed away greedily at one of his toxic little cigarettes below a “No Smoking” sign in the corridor outside Court 8.

  Manly had adjourned for five minutes. I wanted to talk to Justine, who stood by Davenport’s side. I wanted to invite her out to an Italian restaurant. But my mind was awash with images of the frightened girl: the tattoo, the hair, the coarsely bitten fingernails.

  “Fawley, did you hear what I said?” Davenport said. “We’re leaving her evidence there.”

  “Just too dangerous,” added a precise voice to my right. “Too distressing.”

  “You do know Doctor Stone?” asked Davenport.

  “Er—yes,” I replied.

  “Jenny’s advising us on what you might call the ‘psychiatric’ aspects of this case.” With that, prosecuting counsel blew a poisonous cloud in my direction.

  I had first met Doctor Jennifer Stone about three years earlier when she was prison shrink at Wormwood Scrubs. She sectioned off a client of mine who fervently believed that he was the lost son of God. But in fact he was just a bit bonkers. I imagine that in her time Jenny Stone has seen more messiahs than all the Old Testament prophets combined.

  “How’s life at the Scrubs?” I tried not to inhale Davenport’s smoke.

  “I’m at Holloway now,” she snapped. She was one of the cold, distant people you meet now and then who seem to breeze in from Siberia with a heavy dose of flu and a bad toothache. Her nondescript hair was tightly pinned back, her jacket buttoned right up to the neck, and her mouth was thin and mean. “I have advised the prosecution not to press her,” she said. “The damage could be permanent.” She ran a hand across her forehead, daring a single strand to be out of place. None had such courage.

  Then Stone and Davenport put their heads together and whispered among themselves. The rotund silk licked his lips. I noticed how dangerously close his tongue was to the psychiatrist’s unpierced earlobes. I used it as an opportunity to speak to Justine.

  “You don’t agree with their decision?” I asked Justine.

  “If Kingsley gets away with this one, who will be next?”

  “I can’t say that I’ve thought about it,” I replied.

  “Well, you should, Tom. You should think about it really hard. But you’re a barrister. A professional. Abuse happens to other people’s daughters, not your own.”

  I did not reply. I allowed a few seconds to pass for the tension to subside. It did not seem the time to invite her out for some pasta.

  “So how are you?” I asked, unable to think of anything more profound.

  “Just fine, Tom. How’s your wife?”

  I pretended not to notice the question. “Thanks for your note,” I said.

  “Not here,” Justine whispered, looking around quickly.

  “Why not?”

  “Not here, Tom. Can’t we change the subject?” Justine asked.

  I saw that Davenport and Doctor Stone had finished their conversation. As they approached, I asked Justine, “Who is Alex?”

  Justine seemed furious. “Did Penny tell you?”

  “No, she just told me to ask you. So?”

  “So it’s none of your business,” Justine snapped as she stormed back into court.

/>   “Try not to upset my junior, there’s a good chap,” Davenport said, putting his arm around my shoulder. He gazed at me through a cancerous fog. “We won’t ask the girl to name your punter. Got the other filly up our sleeve. She’ll do the job—after a spot of lunch.” He tried to smile, but conceit took over. “Just thought you should know.” He left me coughing smoke from my throat.

  Doctor Stone and I found ourselves alone together. It was a little embarrassing. As professionals in the same sort of game, we should have had much to discuss. But I could not think of a single thing to say.

  Finally, she could suppress her thoughts no longer. “Whatever happened to that funny little man?”

  “Which one?” I asked.

  “The one you represented.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve got a lot of those.”

  “You know the one. Got a message from—” she pointed to the heavens.

  “Oh, you mean Ezekiel.”

  “Ezekiel Smith, wasn’t it? You know, about as charming as an enema.”

  His real name was Edward or Ernest, but he was a bit of a religious freak. I became suspicious when Jenny Stone showed an interest in this client of mine. In fact, ex-client was more accurate. He sacked me. I was briefed to represent him on a nasty affray in Essex, when he got a message. A message from God. “Sack your barrister and have faith in the Lord.” It had been revealed to Ezekiel that he should defend himself. God told him he was sure to be saved. God, it seems, lied.

  “He got two years,” I said. “What’s it to you?”

  “When he sacked you, I had to see if he was sane.”

  “And?”

  “And I thought he was. Came in front of Judge Manly. He said Ezekiel couldn’t be completely mad if he sacked Tom Fawley.”

  “How very touching.”

  “Listen,” she said, tightly folding her arms, “you’re not going to traumatize that girl, are you?”

  “Why ever do you say that?”