Dryden held Marcie Sley’s hand as Lord Justice Clark led his two fellow judges back into court. Outside, the Strand’s traffic coughed its way towards Ludgate Hill in a heatwave, and the sound of bells marked three o’clock.
The case was of little public interest and Dryden was relieved the court had not, as a result, resorted to a written judgment. There was one journalist on the press bench, two rows of legal counsel, a scattering of the general public and a single persistent bluebottle circling the empty dock.
Dryden and Marcie sat beneath the royal coat of arms opposite the bench, while Laura’s wheelchair, brought up by lift, stood in the gangway. Below them, at the front, Ruth Connor smoothed down a stylish black linen jacket.
The judge continued to read the judgment, a process he had begun two hours before lunch. They waited patiently and Dryden took the opportunity to adjust the drinking tube for Laura so that she could sip some water. As she drank she flexed the fingers of her right hand, each one in turn, ending with a half twist of the wrist.
‘Finally,’ said Lord Justice Clark, his face red with the heat and lunch, ‘we come to the evidence of identification itself. Counsel for the applicant have put before us signed statements from two witnesses to the effect that they saw the alleged victim of the crime at issue – Paul Gedney – alive a month after the date upon which the prosecution in the original case alleged he had been beaten to death by the appellant. Another witness, Mrs Sley, has provided corroboration for their statements but is, herself, unable to make an identification in court. We have, however, been impressed by the clarity and consistency of all these statements although we are unable to test them, except in Mrs Sley’s case, by cross-examination. We cannot, therefore, allow them as primary evidence before this court, and they do not of themselves constitute evidence which could justify the removal from the record of the original verdict.’
Dryden shifted on the wooden bench and felt the pressure on his hand tighten.
‘However, evidence given in this court by…’ and here he shuffled his papers, ‘Mr Philip Dryden has been tested. It is clear that he was present on the night in question with the other witnesses and that he too – according to his sworn testimony – saw the appellant’s alleged victim alive on the night of 30 August 1974. He has been able to firmly identify the man he saw that day as Paul Gedney, as featured in the posters and photographs circulated at the time by the police and brought before this court. The appellant’s death, and indeed those of the two witnesses first put forward as a basis for an original appeal, are under investigation. Those matters, unresolved, cannot be pertinent to this appeal, but certainly do not add to our confidence in the conduct of the original case.’
The judge closed a file before him and looked first right, then left. All three judges, almost imperceptibly, nodded agreement. ‘In these circumstances we find the appellant’s conviction was unsafe. We are aware, as must be his widow, that Mr Connor cannot now enjoy this statement of his innocence. But the record will be altered to reflect it, and the conviction set aside. Justice should be done, and it is.’
They rose, the bluebottle fell silent, and the journalist yawned.
Outside, Dryden stood on the steps, the neo-Gothic towers of the Royal Courts of Justice behind him, watching the traffic inch past, climbing the hill from Fleet Street. Marcie Sley leant against him, the glossy black hair swallowing the light. Dryden held the handles of Laura’s chair, using his weight to balance it on the step.
Marcie opened her bag and produced a postcard: a picture of Whittlesea Market Place in limp Kodacolour. ‘John read it to me,’ she said. ‘It’s from Grace Elliot, my foster mother. She was in the phone book, so I wrote.’
Dryden flipped it over. The handwriting was a tracery of loops and curls.
‘Will you go?’ asked Dryden.
Marcie nodded, putting the card carefully away. ‘If you’ll come too. I want her to know the truth.’
Suddenly she was there: Ruth Connor stood below them, skin dry despite the sweltering city heat. She held out her hand for Dryden’s and let go almost as soon as they touched. ‘Perjury’s a crime,’ she said.
Marcie stiffened beside him, but Dryden could see Ruth Connor’s eyes, and the smile on the thin red lips.
The Capri crunched against the kerb and Humph hooted the horn twice.
‘Alone?’ asked Dryden, looking beyond her.
Ruth Connor glanced down at the deep shadow crowding in around her feet. Then she said what she’d wanted to say the night Paul Gedney died for the second time: ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, and walked away, the tap of the high heels scattering pigeons into the sky.
THE SKELETON MAN
