The Verdict (47 page)

The first witness called was the receptionist from the Blenheim-Strand, a fair-haired man in his early twenties.

He told the court how VJ had checked out of the hotel at around 6.30 in the morning. He’d noticed scratches on VJ’s cheek and cuts on his hands and lip – ‘like he’d been in a fight’ – as well as his dishevelled appearance. The receptionist had asked him if he was all right and VJ had replied he was ‘fine’. Then he’d signed for his bill and left.

Carnavale thanked him and sat down.

It was a short opener, both curtain-raiser and scene-setter.

Christine stood up with my help.

‘Was Mr James drunk that morning?’ she asked the receptionist.

‘I don’t know if I’d call it “drunk”. He was a bit unsteady on his feet, his voice was slurry, and he reeked of alcohol,’ the receptionist replied.

‘Why didn’t you say this to Detective Fordham in your statement?’

‘He didn’t ask me.’

Christine checked the witness statement – or rather pretended to, for the jury’s benefit.

‘DS Fordham spoke to you on March 21st, four days after the body was found. Correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could it be you’d forgotten that Mr James was drunk?’

‘No,’ the receptionist said. ‘I’ve got a pretty good memory. The detective didn’t ask me if he was drunk.’

‘Thank you. No further questions,’ Christine said.

Carnavale got up as Christine was still sitting down.

‘Are you
sure
the accused was drunk?’ he asked.

‘Absolutely,’ the receptionist said. ‘We all know what drunks look like.’

Laughter.

‘Why didn’t you mention this in your statement?’

‘The detective didn’t ask me anything about that. I was asked about Mr James’s appearance.’

‘But you’ve just told the court he
appeared
to be drunk,’ Carnavale said.

‘He didn’t “appear” to be drunk. He
was
drunk,’ the receptionist replied, to more laughter.

Carnavale consulted the receptionist’s statement. ‘Detective Fordham asked you – and I quote – “Did you notice anything odd or unusual about him?”’

‘And I said I’d noticed the injuries on his face and hands.’

‘But you didn’t find it odd or unusual that a guest was drunk at 6.30 in the morning.’

‘No,’ the receptionist answered. ‘We get a lot of footballers at the hotel.’

More laughter.

Carnavale sat down.

Next up was one of the two maids who’d found Evelyn Bates’s body. Spanish, with dyed pink hair that was growing out and a nose ring. She’d since left the hotel for another job.

She described how she and her colleague went to the suite to clean it at 8 a.m., as soon as their shift started. She described the wreckage in the lounge, the displaced minibar, the broken glass, the stench of alcohol. She remembered the bottle of champagne in the bucket on the coffee table, and the two glasses. While her colleague called hotel security as per procedure, she went to check the bedroom.

She initially thought Evelyn was asleep, but then noticed her eyes were open. She knew something was very wrong. She left the bedroom and waited for Albert Torena – the head of security – to arrive.

The court clerk passed a crime-scene photo to the jury foreman. It was Evelyn as the police had first found her – naked on the bed, her head slightly propped up on the pillows.

‘Watch the jury,’ Christine whispered. ‘If anyone looks at Vernon after they’ve seen the picture, we’ve lost them.’

‘How’s that?’ I asked.

‘They already think he looks the part.’

Not one of them looked at VJ. And only the crime writer lingered over the picture, scribbling furiously. He’d probably realised he could use all of this as future material. He’d also become a key juror.

Christine’s cross-examination was brief.

‘Did you or your colleague move or touch the body in any way?’

The maid answered empathically.
Definitely
not. They’d been trained to call security immediately in an emergency.

‘No further questions. Thank you.’

Albert Torena took the stand. He told the court he’d known Evelyn was dead ‘on sight’ because he’d been a cop in the
Guardia Civil
in Spain. He’d called the police and also found out the name of the guest staying in the room to ‘help them with their enquiries’.

No questions from Christine. Torena looked disappointed when he was told he was done.

After a short recess, we heard from the coroner who’d performed the autopsy. He confirmed that Evelyn Bates had been murdered, the cause of death manual strangulation. He estimated the time of death as between midnight and 3 a.m.

He was precise as he described her crushed windpipe, the burst capillaries in her eyes and her swollen and distended tongue. I suppose dispassion came with the territory. He believed the killer to be right-handed because there was heavier bruising to the right side of the throat than the left. VJ was right-handed. So were most people.

I handed Christine both the autopsy and the forensics reports, which she placed on the lectern before her.

‘Was there bruising to the victim’s face?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said.

‘So she wasn’t slapped or punched prior to being strangled?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘There was no indication of that.’

‘What about elsewhere on her body? Were there any injuries – bruises, contusions, wounds?’

‘Nothing recent,’ he said. ‘There was some old scar tissue on her left forearm, which appeared to be from a small cut.’

‘Was there any indication that she’d been tied up or handcuffed in any way?’

‘No,’ he said.

‘One further question,’ Christine said, running a finger down a page of the autopsy report. ‘I noticed you mentioned finding traces of several chemicals around the victim’s neck. Polychloroprene, aluminium, carbon and other substances. What are those commonly found in – if you know?’

‘This was from the fingerprinting process carried out by the forensics team. It’s in the report,’ he said.

‘Please explain for the benefit of the jury,’ she said.

‘The polychloroprene is found in glue. Carbon and aluminium are found in fingerprint powder. Forensics would have dusted the body for fingerprints. It’s very difficult to get a print off skin – living or dead. In death the body decomposes. The skin loses its elasticity and contracts, which would mean that any fingerprints will be distorted.

‘Forensics officers use a process called glue fuming, which involves blowing a mixture of steam and household glue over the area they wish to fingerprint. The heat expands the skin back to its prior state, and the glue seals whatever’s on the surface. They give it ten to fifteen seconds to dry and then apply standard print powder.’

‘Thank you, doctor,’ Christine said. ‘No further questions.’

We broke for lunch.

Everyone rubbed shoulders in the Old Bailey canteen – prosecution, defence, witnesses, clerks, solicitors, police, press and the accused who weren’t on remand. It wasn’t uncommon to find yourself sharing the same air as newsworthy sex offenders, fraudsters or even killers on a break from their trials. This was where the business of justice was conducted. Courtroom opponents broke bread – literally – and discussed possible deals. Cops and barristers gave reporters off the record interviews. Solicitors and freelance clerks touted for work.

Christine, Redpath and I sat at a table by the window, overlooking the main road. It was raining outside, had been since yesterday night.

Christine stuck to bottled water and the contents of a small bright-red pillbox, its quartered tray carrying a different coloured and shaped tablet apiece. I had an apple and black coffee. Redpath was eating a jacket potato, tuna and grated cheese.

‘What do you think of the prosecution’s tactics, so far?’ she asked me.

‘Methodical,’ I said. ‘Carnavale’s spoonfeeding the jury. He’s walking them through the case step by step: the accused leaves the hotel with facial injuries; a dead body is found in his room; the police are called; time and cause of death are established. It’s a straightforward linear narrative from crime scene to courtroom.’

‘Is it working?’

‘Seems to be,’ I said. ‘No confused looks or yawning from the jury.’

‘Any avid note-takers?’

‘Three. The Asian woman and the crime writer are the busiest, then the foreman,’ I said. They and the only other woman – who was middle-aged and wore thick square glasses – were the jurors who’d stood out so far, who I could even remember.

‘Do I have any fans among them?’ she asked.

‘Not yet,’ I said.

She smiled at me. She appreciated my honesty. ‘How many times have you read the witness statements?’

‘Three, four times.’

‘And you can’t see what’s coming?’

‘No,’ I said.

‘Stick around. All will be revealed,’ she said.

The afternoon session began with DCI Reid taking the oath on the witness stand. Dark-blue two-piece suit, white blouse and black loafers – police uniform colours, I noticed. Subliminal messaging or an institutionalised imagination on wheels?

Carnavale got her to talk briefly about her career – fourteen years on the force, all at the Met. He referred to her by her longform rank the first few times – Detective Chief Inspector. Subtext one: senior officer, lot of experience, top of her game. Subtext two: you can trust her.

He eased her into the cross-examination. What was her role in the investigation? She headed it up. Had she been in charge of similar investigations before? Yes, several – unfortunately. Why ‘unfortunately’? Because they were all murders.

Nice touch. A caring copper, a regular bleeding heart.

It worked too: five jurors smiled, including the foreman.

‘Can you please tell the court what happened when you first encountered the accused?’

‘Myself and Detective Sergeant Mark Fordham went to Vernon James’s offices at One Canada Square, Canary Wharf —’

‘When you say “offices”, you mean the London headquarters of the business owned by the accused?’

‘Yes.’

‘Which occupies two floors?’

‘Yes.’

Point: Vernon James is very rich and
very
successful. His offices are in London’s second financial centre.

Jury: no reaction. We already
know
he’s rich, thanks.

‘When we were shown to Mr James’s office, we found him standing in the middle of the room. Straight away I noticed scratches on the right side of his face, and his swollen bottom lip. We identified ourselves as police officers and introduced ourselves by name.

‘Mr James said, “I know what this is about. It’s about what happened in my hotel room, isn’t it? I can explain everything. You really don’t need to be here.”’

‘Those were his exact words?’ Carnavale said.

‘Yes.’

‘You have very good recall.’

‘DS Fordham wrote everything down in his notebook,’ she said.

‘Please continue.’

They’d rehearsed this. There was a lack of spontaneity to their exchanges.

‘Mr James went on to say he’d got drunk in the hotel nightclub after the award ceremony and invited a group of people he’d met there up to his room. Things had got out of hand and the room was damaged as a result. He promised he’d pay for everything – and asked us to apologise to the hotel on his behalf.’

There was a stray chuckle from the press area.

‘What was his demeanour?’

‘Nervous, edgy. He couldn’t look us in the eye.’

‘Did he appear to be drunk?’

‘No.’

‘Was he lucid when he was making this unsolicited statement about a party in the room?’

‘Yes. Totally. We could follow everything he was saying.’

‘Please continue.’

‘I informed Mr James that a dead body had been found in his suite, which is why we’d come to see him.’

‘And how did he react?’

‘He was surprised. His exact words were “What are you talking about – a body? What kind of body?”’

Laughter from the press section. Judge Blumenfeld glowered at them until the laughter stopped. Carnavale waited for silence before asking DCI Reid to resume.

‘I then informed him that a body of a woman had been found in the bedroom of his hotel suite. Mr James replied, “I never went in the bedroom. I passed out on the couch.”

‘We told Mr James we were arresting him on suspicion of murder and taking him to the station for questioning.’

‘And what was his reaction?’ Carnavale asked her.

‘He said nothing. He sat down on the couch.’

‘He said
nothing
? He didn’t deny it?’

‘No.’

Another pause.

I checked the jury. They were
all
riveted.

I checked Christine. She was listening, casually.

I checked Redpath. He was listening, glumly.

Carnavale continued his cross-examination.

DCI Reid talked the court through VJ’s first interview at the police station. That was when he changed his story. There hadn’t been a party at all. It was just him and another woman there. He’d tried to seduce her and she’d attacked him ‘out of the blue, just like that’. Why had he lied? Because he didn’t want his wife to find out he’d been with another woman – and, more importantly (his words, she stressed), it would be highly embarrassing, given the award he’d just won.

That elicited a gasp and a ‘No!’ from a juror, and a shake of the head from the foreman.

Carnavale heard it. He cut off his cross-examination and asked for the video of the interview to be played for the jury.

No matter how many times I’d seen the tape, watching it in open court with a jury was like seeing it for the first time. Every inconsistency in VJ’s story was exposed and magnified. He looked and sounded guilty. His version of events came over as made up on the spot. DCI Reid would back him into a corner and he’d lie his way into a tighter one. He spoke haltingly, his voice rising and falling in pitch. His hands trembled. The most damning moment came when he was shown the post-mortem photograph of Evelyn Bates and asked if that was the woman he’d been in his room with. He studied it for a long moment – a whole minute – before saying, ‘I’m not sure.’