sergeant’s past record, and the commendations he’d received for shrewd detective work. The sergeant, a heavily built man in his forties, was on the alert for traps and for some time his responses were cautious and monosyllabic. But gradually he began to unbend and by the time Vaulkhard moved on to his part in the Walter case, he was in the mood to defend his actions with vigour.
‘I suppose you will say that you were working long hours?’
‘As a matter of fact, I was. We all were. It was an important investigation and we had plenty more on besides.’
‘But you put considerable effort into detecting the man who committed this particular robbery?’
‘You can say that again.’
‘Yet no-one seems to have quizzed the real perpetrator, Denny Gurr, in any detail about the crime.’
The sergeant shrugged. ‘I was only one of the team. I can’t answer for everyone.’
‘So,’ said Vaulkhard. He paused for a moment before continuing and allowed himself the faintest of smiles. ‘The fact that you bullied Kevin Walter into his so-called confession had nothing to do with the fact that Denny Gurr was, at the time, going out with your only daughter, Tracey?’
The silence seemed to last forever. Harry could see spots of sweat shining on the sergeant’s forehead and watched as the man’s hand moved to loosen his tie. It seemed as if his legs were starting to buckle beneath him and he stretched out an arm to steady himself.
Vaulkhard’s face seemed more vulpine than ever. ‘Yes or no will suffice, sergeant.’
The man turned to the judge. His naturally florid complexion seemed to have darkened. ‘My Lord…,’ he began, but his voice was barely a whisper and it trailed away into nothingness.
‘Are you feeling unwell, sergeant?’ asked the judge.
For answer, the man clutched at his chest. He was gasping for breath. Then, as everyone looked on in frozen and fascinated horror, he slowly crumpled to the floor.
The silence was broken by a cry of alarm from someone in the public gallery. Harry was immobile. So Dostoyevsky had it right, he thought. And from the row behind him, he could hear the voice of Jeannie Walter: ‘It’s fantastic, absolutely fantastic! Paddy’s killed the bugger!’
‘I’ve heard of deadly cross-examinations,’ said a voice in Harry’s ear, ‘but this is ridiculous.’
He was standing outside the court cafeteria. The sergeant had been whisked away to intensive care: the paramedics reckoned he had suffered a coronary. Kevin and Jeannie Walter had departed to give their media minders their exclusive reaction to the morning’s sensational development and the staircase and corridors of the courthouse were no longer buzzing with excitement. The rest of the cases on the list today were humdrum by comparison: the usual assortment of broken marriages and shattered lives. The judge had adjourned the case until the following Monday, although over a coffee Patrick Vaulkhard had expressed the view that that was due more to old Seagrave’s fondness for a four-day week than to any serious expectation that the sergeant would soon rise Lazarus-like from his sick bed to explain why he had never drawn his daughter’s brief fling with Denny Gurr to the attention of his superiors.
He looked round and saw a lean woman in white shirt and black jacket and skirt. A Greenpeace badge was pinned to her lapel and an Amnesty International magazine peeped out of the briefcase at her feet. Kim Lawrence, partner in another small city-centre practice and specialist in civil liberties law.
‘So you’ve heard about our little sensation in court?’
‘You know what this place is like for gossip, and any new twist in the Jeannie Walter saga is hot news.’
‘She’s become a legend in her own time, I agree. And after this case, what’s the betting but that she’ll make a career out of it?’
‘Out of campaigning for justice?’
‘No, out of being Jeannie Walter.’
Kim Lawrence’s habitually watchful expression relaxed into a smile. Her blonde hair was brushed off her forehead and held in place by a slide; she shunned make-up and the only jewellery she wore was a pair of CND earrings. A career spent trying to bridge the gulf between truth and evidence had etched frown-lines into her forehead, and she wasn’t someone he had ever socialised with. But looking at her now, his interest was awakened, and not simply because she currently chaired the Miscarriages of Justice Organisation.
‘As it happens, I wanted to have a word with you. I’m interested in a case which is right up MOJO’s street.’
Kim leaned forward. MOJO campaigned on behalf of those who claimed to have been wrongly convicted, whether through mistake or malice, yet whose cases were deemed by the authorities to be closed. It had supported the original fight for Kevin Walter’s release although Jeannie’s bandwagon had soon developed a momentum of its own.
‘Another dodgy prosecution?’
‘Too soon to say — even though the case in question dates back thirty years.’
‘Thirty years? You’re going back in time, aren’t you? How come you’re involved?’
Harry described his meeting with Ernest Miller and outlined what he knew about the Sefton Park Strangling. She listened with care and he enjoyed the feeling that she was concentrating her attention upon him, even if only to hear the story he had to tell. He knew that, as he spoke, she was weighing up the facts, assessing the strength of the case against the convicted man. As soon as he had finished, she slipped into the role of devil’s advocate.
‘So — if Smith was innocent, did he plead not guilty?’
He hesitated before replying. ‘Apparently not. His confession stood and the jury took it at face value. Don’t forget, those were the days when most people thought the British bobby could do no wrong and it was inconceivable that someone might untruthfully admit to having committed murder.’
‘Okay, but what makes you think there’s anything in Miller’s story? The world is full of oddballs who like to spin strange yarns.’
‘Don’t I know it? Half of them seem to wind up on the other side of my desk. But sometimes those oddballs turn out to be telling the truth.’
She nodded and he knew that she understood. The people for whom she took up the cudgels were also apt to be social misfits and committing herself to their cause often meant a long and lonely struggle against judicial hostility and public indifference. Harry knew her prime concern was always to do her best for her clients, however unlovely they might be, rather than for Kim Lawrence.
‘True enough. Most of MOJO’s campaigns begin with one person who refuses to accept the received wisdom.’
‘Miller might be such a man. He makes my flesh creep, but he’s no fool. I’m sure he knows more about the Sefton case than he’s let on so far, enough to convince him Smith may well have been innocent. But at the same time he’s still gathering evidence. I simply wondered whether MOJO would be willing to become involved if I did find proof of an injustice.’
‘Sorry, we have enough on our plate at present with contemporary disasters. But if it would help, I’d be glad to look at anything you turn up myself. If Smith didn’t kill the girl, he deserves to have his name cleared.’
‘Thanks. I’ll let you know if I find anything of note in old Cyril’s file.’
She gave him a sceptical look. ‘If I know Cyril Tweats, you’re most likely to find a trail of paper which exists solely to prove that he strove mightily but to no avail. Did you ever hear of that eighteenth-century breach of contract claim where the plaintiff turned out to be a highwayman? Not only did he lose the action, but he was hanged into the bargain. I often suspect he was represented by Tyburn’s answer to Cyril Tweats.’
Harry laughed. ‘Good old Cyril. Yet his clients loved him. When they phone up now and find he’s retired, they’re desolated by the thought they now have to depend on Crusoe and Devlin. Cyril made them feel good. It’s a rare skill for a lawyer — and it earned him a few bob over the years.’
‘Another miscarriage of justice.’
Jim Crusoe was in reception when Harry stepped over the threshold of New Commodities House. He was a big, bearded man whose mane of hair was turning grey prematurely — something he always attributed to the strain of being in partnership with Harry Devlin.
‘I gather the police case collapsed this morning.’
‘In more ways than one.’
‘So Ronald Sou told me. He reckons the odds are that the police authority will make a much-improved offer.’
