Upright Piano Player (28 page)
The police had pressed for the arrest on a charge of murder and the Crown Prosecution Service had agreed. At 2:00 p.m., Henry had appeared before a magistrate and had been remanded in custody at Brixton Prison.
His appearance in the magistrates’ court did not go unnoticed by the media.
For the next thirty days, Henry was an absentee from his own life. He was not at St. Mary’s Cadogan for the christening of Ivy Elizabeth, his friend Oliver’s granddaughter. He was not at the Albert Hall to hear Jessye Norman sing—and when England dismissed the West Indies for sixty-one runs in their second innings at Headingley, Henry was not on his feet in the pavilion, but sitting in a cell, two hundred miles away.
And then, more or less on the day that Walter had predicted, the Crown Prosecution Service advised that no charges were to be brought against Henry Cage. He was to be released immediately, with no stain on his character.
The decision was greeted with qualified approval. The
Guardian
was in no doubt that the finding was sound, but felt that in reaching this verdict the CPS had laid itself open to the suspicion that they had one law for the rich and another for the poor. The
Times
, acknowledging that the defense of self-defense was finely nuanced, had argued for more consistency
in the CPS rulings and an urgent review of the Code that guided its decisions.
The
Daily Mirror
’s reaction was less measured—CAGE FREE AS FARMER ROTS IN JAIL!
The farmer in question was named Tony Martin. A few months earlier, in a controversial trial, he had been found guilty of murder despite a similar plea of self-defense. Mr. Martin had been disturbed at his remote farmhouse by two intruders. He had fired his shotgun into the darkness and had hit two young men. One of them had died from two shots in the back and the other had been hit in the leg. Mr. Martin, an elderly man living alone, had claimed that he had felt under threat and had blasted away, hoping to scare off the trespassers. The jury, invited to weigh the evidence that the young men had been running
away
from the house when shot, had found Mr. Martin guilty of murder. The verdict had been widely criticized and was now under appeal. Most of the media and many lawyers anticipated that the sentence would be reduced to one of manslaughter.
Henry had asked if the Martin case would influence his own case. Walter believed it would not, in itself, make any difference.
“They will only bring charges if they believe there is enough evidence to result in a guilty verdict—it is as simple as that. But it’s true that the Martin trial has made self-defense high profile and I’m sure your case will be pulled apart by everyone right up to the D.P.P. himself.”
In that Walter was proved right. When the papers reached the Director of Public Prosecutions an informal commentary
from a senior prosecutor was attached to the summary page of the official recommendation:
In my opinion, no jury will consign Henry Cage to prison based on this evidence. Any prosecution would be unsafe; I believe we must let Mr. Cage get on with his life
.
The forensic report confirms that the bat had struck the victim’s shoulder before bouncing onto the temple. This is consistent with Mr. Cage’s insistence that he had been trying to thwart the attack and not kill the attacker
.
You will see that Detective Sergeant Cummings’s report confirms that Bateman had a history of violent behavior going back over ten years. He has recently interviewed Eileen Fisher, Bateman’s ex-girlfriend, and she testifies that he still had an explosive temper and frequently struck her. She witnessed Bateman’s assault of Cage on Westminster Bridge on New Year’s Eve and even more damning, she claims that Bateman had admitted hammering a masonry nail through the skull of a dog to even a score. (I suggest, unlikely to endear him to a British jury.
)
Cummings reveals, as you will see in the footnote, that the dog’s owner had sought to bring charges against Bateman, but at that time, Miss Fisher had not had the conversation with Bateman and had provided an alibi
.
Mrs. Connie Bateman, the victim’s mother, and Miss Julia Hughes, the victim’s aunt, have also provided statements citing Bateman’s violence at home
.
Mr. Dave Clarke from Apex Scaffolding claims that Bateman had attacked him with a short pole on a building site in
February 2000. There were several witnesses to the assault, but Mr. Clarke had decided not to press charges
.
It is understood all three women and Mr. Clarke have agreed to be witnesses for the defense if Mr. Cage is charged
.
Perhaps even more significantly, D.S. Cummings supplies the minutes of a meeting with Mr. Cage on 20 June, 2000, at which Mr. Cage identified Bateman as the man who had attacked him on Westminster Bridge on New Year’s Eve
.
D.S. Cummings informed Mr. Cage of Bateman’s record. The defense would certainly use this to suggest that Mr. Cage had good reason to believe on the fateful night that an armed Bateman was capable of the most serious violence
.
At the same meeting, Cummings reports that Mr. Cage had announced his intention of leaving London to live near his family in Norfolk. He was selling his London house and was anxious to put himself out of harm’s way and lead a more peaceful life. Not the posture of a vengeful man, I can hear the defense saying
.
There is a lot more for you to weigh, but I am satisfied, having read it all, that Mr. Cage genuinely felt that he was under threat and took reasonable steps to defend himself
.
I’m sorry I couldn’t get this to you earlier in the day. You weren’t planning to go out this evening, were you?
Jack had stocked up the fridge and prepared the bed in Nessa’s room. He was not adroit at hospital folds and looking back from the door, the bed had reminded him of the books he wrapped at Christmas, taut over the flat surfaces but a rumpled mess at either end. Still, he did not imagine Henry would object after his recent sleeping quarters.
It had been Tom’s idea that Henry should fly to Florida on the day of his release.
“Stay for a few weeks,” he had said, “until things calm down here. Jack will open up the house in Florida and Jane and I will handle the move to Norfolk.”
Not wanting to be recognized, Henry had shaved his head on his last day in Brixton. In fact, his looks had already changed, altered by one of those aging spurts brought on by a fall or an operation—or a month in prison. At arrivals, he had seen Jack and walked straight past him. As the last stragglers left the baggage hall and Jack was getting anxious, Henry had tugged on his sleeve from behind.
“Jesus, no wonder I didn’t spot you. Why the convict look—I thought you had got off?”
Henry had been annoyed, unprepared for Jack’s breeziness, but had said nothing. In the car, he had closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep.
At the house, Jack handed over the keys.
“There’s stuff in the fridge and you know where I am. Come over when you’re ready.”
Henry had ignored Jack for two weeks. When the food in the fridge ran out, he ordered pizza.
Tom called every other day at noon and Henry talked to Hal. In the afternoons he walked on the beach. In the evenings he slept in front of the television.
Jack waited it out. When Henry finally came over for breakfast, Jack was ready with an apology.
“I’m sorry about the convict crack. I have a fast tongue and a feeble brain. It’s a bad combination, I know.”
He reached out to shake Henry’s hand.
As the weeks passed, Henry relaxed a little and Jack asked him about his time in prison.
“I wouldn’t recommend it, but at least it was a hiding place. No cameras or reporters.”
At first, he had been fearful. He had anticipated hostility from the other inmates. A bookish, middle-class man, known to be wealthy, he had imagined himself an obvious target. But he had been wrong. He had been ignored. Overcrowding meant that the prisoners were confined to their cells for most of the day and time dragged. Boredom worked like bromide in the tea; nobody gave a toss who you were or what you had done.
The only relief came with visitors. Walter was there most
days and Tom or Jane once a week. Charles England had visited twice, bearing books and magazines. On his first visit he had brought something else to show Henry.
“You won’t like this, but don’t worry. I’ve put a stop to it.”
He had held up a white T-shirt with the bright-red legend:
DON’T CAGE THE CAGE!
Charles had been amused by Henry’s pained expression.
“The plan was for all the staff to march on Downing Street. Can you imagine? Not Henry’s style, I told them, but the sentiment would be appreciated.”
One afternoon, Walter had arrived in a sober suit and a black tie.
“I went to Colin Bateman’s cremation this morning. I thought you would want me to.”
“Thank you.”
It had been a brief, dry-eyed affair. Colin’s mother, his aunt, and Walter had been the only mourners. Outside, on the square meter of paving reserved for Bateman’s floral tributes, his mother had placed a large bouquet, a gaudy mix of dissonant blooms and hues. Mrs. Bateman had been insistent that the florist should pack in as many bright colors as possible.
Three days before Henry’s release, Maude had come to see him. She had talked about Nessa. She had read all the obituaries and had loved seeing the old photographs. “She was very beautiful.”
As she left, she told him she was thinking of moving on again, perhaps to live and work in Paris. She thought she might find work in a gallery. After all, she did have a degree in art history. She had not promised to send him her new
address, nor had she mentioned how easy it would be to take the Eurostar and join her for lunch in Paris—but in the lingering scent of her perfume, Henry had pictured himself making the trip.
Only once during his stay in Florida did Henry discuss the death of Bateman. They were in the car driving to Palm Beach for a Saturday night concert.
“I sometimes think it was meant to happen. There were thousands of people on Westminster Bridge that night and I was shoved into Bateman. Why him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps he was my punishment?”
“For what?”
Henry’s answer had been almost inaudible.
“My various failings.”
“It was wrong time, wrong place—that’s all, Henry. There’s no big finger pointing down from the sky.”
Jack had slowed down on a tight bend. Around the corner was the entrance to Donald Trump’s mansion and there were often limousines lined up, waiting to turn into the driveway. Once past the house, Jack had eased the car back to thirty miles per hour.
“Shit happens, Henry, it just happens. You think Nessa
deserved
her cancer?”
“No, Jack, I don’t.”
Henry had reached across and turned on the radio—the snap of the control as sharp as his reply. As fate would have it,
Tom Waits was singing “Looking for the Heart of Saturday Night.”
The conversation was never resumed.
