‘Nothing at all left of the pub, guv’nor. The cellars are filled in, so there’ll be no head to find, unless it’s buried. And you’ll have to demolish the Co-op for that!’
Trevor Hartnell sighed; he had enough work on his plate already.
‘This landlord, Olly Franklin. Nothing known about his whereabouts, is there?’
The grizzled sergeant turned up his palms. ‘Nothing, but I suppose a search of the electoral roll or the licensing authority might flush him out.’
He hesitated, but then took the plunge. ‘What about our own records from a few years ago? I got the impression that the Barley Mow was a hang-out for real villains, so surely this station must have some dealings with it?’
Trevor Hartnell thought he caught a wink from Rickman’s eye and he knew what was being suggested. Both of them were in other Divisions until a few years ago and were clear of any dubious goings-on before then.
‘I’ll get someone to go through Records to see if the place crops up. I doubt any pocketbooks will have survived from the end of the war, but you never know.’
Two days later, the DI held another morning briefing with his men. The youngest — and brightest — detective constable had been to police headquarters and trawled through the records for their Division for the latter years of the war and the first few after VE Day.
‘Nothing very serious involving the Barley Mow, sir,’ he reported. ‘Quite a few attendances for drunk and disorderly conduct and a couple for riotous behaviour in the pub. A few people were nicked for possessing stolen property and some black-market prosecutions as well — but they weren’t actually offences in the Barley Mow, they were folk who claimed that they had bought the stuff there, but no evidence brought to substantiate it.’
‘Any sign of the ex-landlord, this Olly Franklin?’ asked the inspector.
Another constable put his hand up. ‘I found an address, sir. I checked with the licensing people first. Franklin went from the Barley Mow to the White Rose in Smethwick for a bit, but it looks as if the brewery that owned them gave him marching orders about two years ago.’
‘So where is he now?
‘He’s not listed as a licensee any more. I went to the electoral roll and the Rating Authority and found he’s registered as residing at 186 Markby Road.’
‘That’s right in Winson Green,’ said Rickman. ‘D’you want me to pay him a call, guv?’
‘I think we’d both better go, Tom,’ replied the DI.
ELEVEN
The weather had turned very cold by the time Richard Pryor and Angela were due to go to Bristol for another conference about Millicent Wilson. As they drove down the lower part of the deep Wye Valley to Chepstow, the leafless trees looked black, except for a rime of frost on the upper branches. Richard was glad of an efficient heater in the Humber, which was still a novelty for him, as his Austin A70 in Singapore would have needed a heater like the proverbial hole in the head.
Under a grey sky which threatened snow, they made the now familiar ferry crossing over the Severn on a choppy tide the colour of lead, then across a frozen countryside towards Bristol. This was the first really cold weather Richard had experienced since returning from the Far East, and he was glad that the women in his life had recently persuaded him to buy an overcoat. He had returned from Singapore with a selection of locally-made linen suits, which Angela, Sian and Moira had privately decided made him look like Stewart Granger in one of his safari films. They had browbeaten him into getting a couple of more sober suits, better adapted to the British climate, for which he was now grateful.
This morning, Angela was even better equipped for the frost, as over her slimline business suit she wore a dark beaver lamb coat, with a matching fur hat. As she sat snugly in the passenger seat beside him, Richard thought she looked cuddly, an image which sustained him for the rest of the drive into St Paul’s.
When they arrived at the unprepossessing offices of Middleton, Bailey and Bailey, they found Penelope Forbes and Douglas Bailey already there, together with their ‘silk’, Paul Marchmont. He was younger than Richard had expected, probably just a couple of years older than himself. Instead of the portly, silver-haired orator that was the stage concept of a QC, Marchmont was tall and wiry, with an unruly mane of black hair which he kept flinging aside with a hand in an almost theatrical gesture. Richard guessed that he was bit of a showman, like many successful barristers.
After introductions were made, Marchmont got down to essentials, as his time was money — lots of it!
‘Miss Forbes, Mr Bailey and myself have spent an hour going over the legal aspects of the case and reviewing the circumstantial evidence,’ he began. ‘This Appeal stands or falls upon a defence of alibi, which is really the only issue we can use, so the medical contribution is vital.’
He turned a ten-kilowatt smile on Angela, making her decide that he could either be a charming advocate or a deadly adversary.
‘That includes you of course, Doctor Bray. Your opinion about the blood stains is very important. Perhaps we could lead off with that aspect first.’
Angela, a battle-hardened expert witness, had no hesitation in launching into a clear and succinct account of the significance of the blood found on the sleeve of Millie Wilson’s coat. She had her sketches and an album of police photographs on her lap as she spoke.
‘There seems no dispute that Millie hit Shaw twice on the nose with a pint milk bottle in retaliation for his assault on her late that evening. The post-mortem recorded a bruised and broken nose which accords with several heavy blows. Neither is there any doubt about the blood on her coat having coming from Shaw, as the forensic lab in Bristol clearly showed that it is of a group and subgroups consistent with him and quite unlike Millie’s own blood.’
Paul Marchmont listened intently, then nodded and, having brushed back his hair, came to the heart of the matter.
‘The Crown claims that it came from the fatal wound in the chest. You can dispute that?’
‘Yes, and I fail to see why it wasn’t challenged at the trial. The transcript of evidence shows that their pathologist agreed that it was “entirely possible” when it was put to him, but he wasn’t pressed about it. There was no contrary evidence led by the defence on that point.’
‘And you have some?’ queried the Queen’s Counsel.
‘Part of this is more in Doctor Pryor’s province, and I’m sure he can answer for himself. But from the forensic biology point of view, these blood “stains” are really blood “spots”, having travelled through the air and landed on the sleeve of the coat, rather than being smears. I also found, from trawling through all the evidence, that she was left-handed and this was the left sleeve. That point was never raised at the trial.’
‘But why could not the same spots have come from the chest wound?’ demanded Marchmont. ‘Her hand, whether left or right, would be virtually touching the chest if she stuck the knife in it.’
Angela shook her head and proffered the photograph album, opened at a page showing a close-up of the woman’s jacket sleeve.
‘These are a shower of tiny spots, quite well spaced. They are not contact smears; they are from a fine spray striking the cuff area.’ She held out her left arm and indicated the outside of her own sleeve, just above the wrist.
‘I think Doctor Pryor will bear me out in my opinion that a single stab wound through clothing in the chest, which did not penetrate any substantial arterial blood-vessels, would not produce any spray, as virtually all of the fatal bleeding was internal, within the chest organs.’
Though she needed little support, Richard came in here to confirm what she was saying.
‘You can see from the photographs of the body at the scene that there was hardly any bleeding externally. He was wearing a vest, shirt and waistcoat and all that is visible is a stain soaked into the cloth around the narrow slit where the knife went in.’
‘Could this spray not have come off the knife when it was pulled out?’ asked Douglas Bailey. ‘I’ve been involved in cases where there’s blood all over the room — even on the ceiling — from spatter off a weapon.’
‘Sure, that happens, usually with blunt instruments or things like axes. But almost always, the weapon has
