A Place of Execution (36 page)

‘Exhibit fourteen.’

The court clerk handed Ruth the Webley, tagged and labelled. ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘The handle’s chipped there, on the bottom, like I said.’ Hawkin frowned, casting a glance across at his barrister, Rupert Highsmith, who shook his head almost imperceptibly. Stanley moved on to the discovery of the shirt and gun in Hawkin’s darkroom, taking Ruth through the painful evidence with courtesy and patience. At last, he seemed to have reached the end of his questions. But halfway to his seat, he stopped, as if suddenly struck by something. ‘One more thing, Mrs Carter. Have you ever asked your husband to buy elastoplast for you?’

Ruth looked at him as if he’d lost his senses. ‘Elastoplast? When we need elastoplast, I buy it off the van.’

‘The van?’

‘The mobile shop that comes once a week. I never asked him to buy elastoplast.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Carter. I have no further questions, but you must wait to see if my learned friend wants to ask you anything.’ He sat down. By then, the town hall clock had long since struck noon.

Sampson leaned back in his seat and said, ‘We’ll adjourn now. We shall resume at two o’clock.’

Before the door had closed behind the judge, Hawkin was already being hustled from the court. He threw a look over his shoulder towards his wife and his mask of imperturbability finally slipped to reveal the bitter hatred behind it. Highsmith registered the look and sighed. He wished there was another way for him to exercise his skills to the full, but unfortunately, there was nothing more exacting or enthralling than defending someone he knew in his bones to be guilty. He was often asked how it felt to know he’d helped murderers escape punishment. He would smile and say it was a mistake to confuse the law with morality. It was, after all, the prosecution’s job to prove their case, not the defence barrister’s.

After lunch, he set out to do what damage he could to the prosecution case. He made no pretence at befriending Ruth. His face stern, he went straight to the heart of the case. ‘You’ve been married before, Mrs Hawkin?’ The prosecution might choose to obscure her relationship to the man in the dock, but he would use it against her like a weapon. Ruth frowned. ‘I don’t answer to Mrs Hawkin any more,’ she said coldly, but without defiance.

Highsmith’s eyebrows rose and he angled his head towards the jury. ‘But that is your legal name, is it not? You are the wife of Philip Hawkin, are you not?’

‘To my shame, I am,’ Ruth replied. ‘But I choose not to be reminded of the fact and I’d thank you to show me the courtesy of calling me Mrs Carter.’

Highsmith nodded. ‘Thank you for making it so clear precisely where you stand, Mrs Carter,’ he said. ‘Now perhaps you would be so good as to answer my question? You have been married before you vowed to love, honour and obey Mr Hawkin?’

‘I was widowed when Alison was six.’

‘So you’ll know what I mean when I speak of a full married life?’ Ruth gave him a mutinous glare.

‘I’m not stupid. And I did grow up on a farm.’

‘Answer the question, please.’ His voice was like a blade.

‘Yes, I know what you mean.’

‘And did you enjoy a full married life with your first husband?’

‘I did.’

‘Then you married Philip Hawkin. And you enjoyed a full married life with Mr Hawkin?’

Ruth looked him straight in the face, a dark flush on her cheeks. ‘He was up to it, but not as often as I was used to,’ she said, then gave a tiny shudder of distaste.

‘So you noticed nothing abnormal in your husband’s appetites?’

‘Like I said, he wasn’t that interested, not compared to my first husband.’

‘Who was of course much younger than Mr Hawkin. Now, did you ever see your husband in a compromising position with Alison?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

He was impressed. She was holding her own far better than he’d expected. Most women of her class were so intimidated by his handsome, forbidding presence that they crumbled and gave him what he wanted to hear almost immediately. He shook his head and gave her a patronizing smile.

‘Of course you do, Mrs Carter. Did he visit her alone in her bedroom late at night?’

‘Not that I ever knew about.’

‘Did he enter the bathroom when she was in there?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Did he even sit with her on his knee?’

‘No, she was too big for that.’

‘In short, Mrs Carter, you never saw or heard anything that made you in the least suspicious of your husband’s relationship with your daughter.’ It was so definitely a statement rather than a question that Ruth didn’t even appear to consider answering its implications. Highsmith glanced down at his papers. He looked up and cocked his head to one side. ‘Now, the gun. You told the court your husband had a gun which he kept in a box in his study. Did you tell anyone else about this gun? Any of your family, your friends?’

‘He said I was to keep my mouth shut about it. So I did.’

‘So we only have your word for it that the gun was ever there in the first place.’ Ruth opened her mouth to speak, but he steamrollered on.

‘And of course, it was you who handed the gun over to the police, so you had plenty of opportunity to memorize any distinctive features on this otherwise unidentifiable gun. So we only have your word for it that there is any connection between your husband and the gun, don’t we?’

‘I didn’t rape my daughter, mister. And I didn’t shoot her either,’ Ruth ground out. ‘So I’ve no call to lie.’

Highsmith paused. He allowed his face to slip from grimness to open sympathy. ‘But you want someone to blame, don’t you, Mrs Carter? More than anything, you want to believe you know what happened to your daughter, and you want someone to blame. That’s why you’re so willing to go along with the case the police have concocted. You want your heart put at rest. You want someone to blame.’

Stanley was on his feet, objecting. But it was too late. Highsmith had muttered, ‘No further questions,’ and sat down. The damage was done. Sampson frowned down at Highsmith. ‘Mr Highsmith, I will not have counsel using the examination of witnesses as an excuse for making speeches. You will have your chance to express your views to the jury. Kindly confine yourself to that. Now, Mr Stanley, am I correct in thinking that your next witness is the chief police witness, Detective Inspector Bennett?’

‘Yes, Your Lordship.’

‘I think it would be as well to begin with his evidence tomorrow morning. This court has civil matters before it and I am minded to deal with those today.’

‘As Your Lordship pleases,’ Stanley said, ducking his head in a bow. On the press benches, Don Smart drew a line across the page with a flourish. Plenty of good stuff for the headlines there. And tomorrow, he could watch George Bennett put the noose round Hawkin’s disgusting neck. The door had barely closed behind the judge when he was on his feet and heading for the nearest phone.

Clough still hadn’t appeared by the end of the afternoon, though a court usher had brought a phone message from Sergeant Lucas. ‘Clough has been held up,’ it read. ‘He says he will see you tomorrow in Derby before the court convenes.’ George wondered fleetingly what the detective sergeant was up to. Probably something to do with another case, he thought. In the weeks since the arrest of Philip Hawkin, both men had had plenty of work to occupy them during any time they had to spare from the construction of the Alison Carter case.

George emerged from the anteroom when he heard the murmuring of noise on the landing outside that told him the court had risen for the day. He caught a glimpse of Ruth Carter surrounded by friends and relatives, but made a point of not catching anyone’s eye. Now the case had started, it was important that none of the witnesses conferred before they actually appeared to give their evidence. Instead, George moved against the flow of bodies and made his way into the courtroom.

Highsmith and his junior had already left, but Stanley and Pritchard were still sitting at their table, heads together, deep in discussion. ‘How was it?’ George asked, helping himself to the chair next to Pritchard.

‘Desmond was marvellous,’ Pritchard said enthusiastically. ‘Tremendous opening speech. The jury were transfixed. Highsmith wouldn’t even speak to us at lunchtime. You’d have been so impressed, George.’

‘Well done,’ George said. ‘How was Mrs Carter?’

The two barristers exchanged glances. ‘A bit emotional,’ Pritchard said. ‘She broke down a couple of times in the box.’ He gathered together the rest of his papers and tucked them into a folder. ‘It works to our advantage, of course,’ Stanley interjected. ‘Nevertheless, I take no pleasure in making a lady cry.’

‘She’s been through the mill,’ George said. ‘I can’t begin to imagine how it feels to know you’ve married a man who’s raped and killed your child.’

Pritchard nodded. ‘She’s bearing up well in the circumstances. She’s a good witness. She doesn’t back down, and her very stubbornness makes Highsmith look like a bully, which the jury don’t like at all.’

‘What defence is he going to run? Do you know?’ George asked, standing up to let Pritchard and Stanley pick up their briefs and leave the courtroom for the robing room.

‘Hard to imagine what he could credibly run, unless he tries to convince the jury that the police have framed his client.’ Stanley nodded. ‘And that would be a bad mistake, I think. The British jury, like the British public, resents attacks on the police.’ He smiled. ‘They think of policemen as they do of Labradors—noble, loyal, good with children, man’s protector and friend. In spite of evidence to the contrary, they refuse to admit policemen can be corrupt, sly or untruthful because to do so would be to admit we are on the very verge of anarchy. So by attacking you, Highsmith would be employing a strategy fraught with risk.’

‘Needs must when the devil drives,’ Pritchard commented drily. ‘He’ll be struggling with anything else. We might only have circumstantial evidence, but there’s so much of it Highsmith needs a coherent counter-theory to undermine it. It won’t be enough merely to offer alternative explanations for each and every piece of evidence.’

George was reassured by the calm competence of the two lawyers. ‘I hope you’re right.’

‘We’ll see you in the witness box tomorrow,’ Pritchard said. ‘Go home to that lovely wife of yours and get a good night’s sleep, George.’ He watched them exit through a side door, then slowly walked from the empty courtroom. The last thing he felt like was driving back through the lush green Derbyshire evening. He wished he could find a quiet pub and get drunk somewhere. But he had a wife nearly seven months pregnant at home, and she needed to see his strength, not his weakness. With a sigh, George dug his car keys out of his pocket and walked back into the world.

The Trial 2

G
eorge entered the witness room on the second day of Philip Hawkin’s trial to find Tommy Clough sprawled in a chair, a bottle of lemonade by his feet, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth and the Daily News spread across his lap. He greeted his boss with a nod and waved the paper at him.

‘Ruth Carter seems to have made a good impression with the jackals. I reckoned they’d turn her into the scapegoat. You know the kind of thing—The Woman Who Married a Monster,’ Clough intoned with mock drama.

‘I’m surprised they let her off the hook so lightly,’ George admitted. ‘I was expecting them to say she must have known what Hawkin was like, what he was doing to Alison. Like you, I honestly thought they’d blame her. But I suppose they saw for themselves the state she’s in. That’s not a woman who’s turned a blind eye or connived at what that bastard did to her daughter.’

‘I had breakfast with Pritchard at his fancy hotel,’ Clough confided. ‘He said she couldn’t have been a better witness if they’d been coaching her for months. You’ve got a hard act to follow, George.’

‘Breakfast with the barrister, Tommy? You’re mixing with the toffs. By the way, where did you get to yesterday?’

Clough straightened up in his chair, folding his newspaper shut and tossing it to the floor. ‘Thought you’d never ask. I got a phone call late on Sunday night. Do you remember Sergeant Stillman?’

‘In St Albans?’ George was suddenly alert, leaning forward like a dog straining at a leash.

‘The same. He rang to tell me Mr and Mrs Wells were back from Australia. Back two hours, to be precise. So I jumped in the car and drove straight down there. Eight o’clock yesterday morning I was knocking on their front door. They weren’t best pleased to see me, but they obviously knew what I’d come for.’

George nodded grimly and threw himself into a chair. ‘Hawkin’s mother.’

‘Aye. Like we thought, she must have had a forwarding address after all. Any road, I acted the innocent. I explained that the description of the Webley he’d had stolen corresponded with a gun used in the commission of a crime up in Derbyshire. I laid it on with a trowel that we were impressed by the accuracy of his description and how it had made the match very likely.’

George smiled. He could imagine Clough’s subtle maneuvering of Mr Wells into a corner he could only get out of with a tunnelling crew. ‘So of course, when you showed him the photographs, he couldn’t do anything else except identify his gun?’

Clough grinned. ‘Got it in one. Anyway, I had to come clean then about Hawkin and the trial this week. Wells got into a right old state then. He couldn’t testily against a friend and neighbour, we must have made a mistake, blah, blah, blah.’

George lit a cigarette. ‘So what did you do?’

‘I’d been up half the night. I wasn’t in the mood. I arrested him for obstruction.’

George looked appalled. ‘You arrested him?’

‘Aye, I did. He was really annoying me,’ Clough said self-righteously. ‘Any road, before I could get the caution finished, he’d rolled over. Agreed to testify, agreed to come back to Derby with me then and there. So we both agreed to forget I’d arrested him. Then he gave his wife a brandy, since she looked like she was going to pass out, got his coat and hat and came back with me like a lamb.’

George shook his head in a mixture of outrage and admiration. ‘One day, Tommy, one day…So where is he now?’