Wig Betrayed (17 page)

I lay on the bed facing the barred window of my cell with my back to the door. Next to the bed, the pile of books brought from my last cell remained untouched. I was now in the hospital wing of the prison. The cells were larger than usual but brutally minimalist nonetheless, preventing a patient with psychiatric problems from injuring himself – and that's why I had been transferred to it.

Sitting back in my cage in the courtroom, hearing my appeal being dismissed, I had decided to commit suicide. I was in no hurry and opportunities to do it would be limited but my mind was made up. My life, whatever I did now, was shattered forever.

My mistake had been to tell Andrea when she came to see me in the cells of the High Court prior to my departure. She broke down, telling me that I mustn't give up hope, that she would stick by me come what may, and would campaign for my release however long it took. After leaving the cell, she must have informed the guards of my intentions, because when we arrived back at the prison I was escorted to the hospital wing immediately.

As I was bundled into my new cell, the door of which was a barred gate, the senior officer of the wing had told me that I would now be kept under constant supervision for the time being, with a nurse observing all my movements. There would be another psychiatric assessment in the next few days. I was asked whether I wanted a TV, but I refused. I still had my books, of course, but had lost even my appetite to read.

Patience
, I thought. After all, I couldn't be kept under constant observation forever. That didn't prevent a wave of black depression from engulfing me. How was I going to get through the next few days? An acute fear was beginning to take hold of me. What if I lost my self-control altogether and began throwing myself against the walls? And found myself being restrained by a straitjacket?

I needed to talk to someone! Now!

Through the bars of my cell above the chair where the nurse was sitting, I saw a notice board with information for prisoners. One of the notices was headed ‘Samaritans'. I was just about able to make out the following words set in bold type: ‘
Whatever you're going through, we're here to help...'

“I want to ring them – the Samaritans,” I said to the nurse, pointing to the notice. “Is it possible for me to use a phone?”

I knew there to be call boxes in the corridor near the cells.

The nurse shook his head.

“I'm sorry, that's not possible. You're not allowed to leave this cell.”

Knowing that mobile phones were normally forbidden in prison and that the only available phones were land lines on the wings, I protested.

“Please, I'm feeling suicidal. There must be some way for me to speak to them!”

The nurse looked at me intently.

“All right, just give me a moment. There may be a way...”

He called across to a prison officer who was passing down the corridor. After a whispered conversation, the officer came up to my cell.

“I'll bring a mobile up for you to use. It's fixed in such a way that you can only contact the Samaritans, do you understand? So don't try and ring any other number.”

“Of course. Thank you,” I replied.

* * *

“Samaritans, can I help you?” a soft female voice said on answering.

“Probably not. I want to end my life but won't be able to for the time being. But I'm in despair – wondering how I'm going to get through the next few days without losing my mind.”

Then I told the volunteer on the other end of the phone the whole story. She didn't interrupt once, as the words tumbled out of my mouth in a torrent.

“Aren't you going to try to persuade me
not
to commit suicide?” I asked Beth.

We had exchanged names earlier on.

“That's not what we do. We believe that people must decide for themselves. Ending your life, or not, as the case may be, has to be your choice ultimately.”

“Well, I hope I'm not wasting your time – I just needed to get the whole thing off my chest. The problem is that I don't expect you to believe my incredible tale. The few people that do can't help me anymore.”

“I'm just here to listen, Charles, not to evaluate anything you've said or pass judgement in any way. What I can do, perhaps, is to help with the way you feel.”

Suddenly, that made sense to me.

“I know I didn't commit this awful crime, and in hindsight can't understand why I put myself through this nightmare...”

“Perhaps it was because you were used to passing judgement on others, Charles, and this time you felt compelled to do it to yourself. You needed to be punished so that your feelings of guilt would go away. But now you realize that the punishment you imposed on yourself was far too harsh. Is that a fair summary?”

“Yes,” I mumbled, my eyes wet with tears.

“Isn't that something you should focus on when you're feeling low, then?” the gentle voice continued. “In truth, you are not the reviled figure most people believe you to be. Try to bear that in mind in the next few days, and remember that you can talk to us anytime you want. So don't hesitate to ring again, day or night.”

After we said goodbye, a sense of calm settled over me. Perhaps if I could learn to live with myself
as I really was
, I might be able to come to terms with life in prison after all. But it wouldn't be fair on Andrea to feel obliged to share that life. I was still determined to drive her away for good.

Through the Governor, I was informed that Charles was no longer suicidal or depressed and had begun to adjust to prison life after transfer back to the main prison. Yet, once again, he hadn't answered any of my letters nor made any attempt to ring me and trying to call him from the outside was forbidden.

Reluctantly, I decided to begin divorce proceedings but on the morning I was due to meet my solicitor the phone rang.

“Is that Mrs Courtley – married to the English military judge who was involved in the Wolfram Dam case?”

A man's voice, clipped and precise, came over the phone.

“Yes. Who is this, please?”

“My name is Ernst Greiner. As you may be able to tell from my accent, I am German. It is about my father, Friedrich Greiner. He witnessed something on the day that girl went over the dam.”

My heart began to pound erratically.

“But nobody ever came forward. The press reports all said that there were no witnesses present at the scene!”

“Ah, there was one – my father – and I believed he saw what happened. You see, he was on an excursion to Wolfram Park that day from the care home where he had been living for a few months. Aged 83, he was confined to a wheelchair but liked to move around as much as he could. On the day of that girl's death, he suffered from a fatal stroke and was found lying on the ground next to his chair. It was quite close to the dam.”

“But even if he saw something, we'll never know what it was because he's dead.”

The hope rising up in me was subsiding fast.

“True. Yet there is something which might help significantly in that direction. He was a keen amateur photographer, you see, and had been taking pictures. One of them shows a young girl standing on the wall of the dam making as if she were about to dive, and there is no other person there.”

I caught my breath.

“That means my husband wasn't present and couldn't have pushed her!”

“So it would appear, Mrs Courtley.”

“How do you know all this? In what way did it come to light?”

“On arrival at the park, the attendants from the home were busy looking after the other residents and told my father to come back after 30 minutes. He was used to going off in his wheelchair taking pictures and didn't need someone to be with him all the time. When he didn't return, they found him not far from the edge of the dam. Of course, no-one knew anything about the girl then. My father's death wasn't unexpected either because a previous stroke had confined him to the wheelchair in the first place. An ambulance was called but he was already dead. Later, as his only child, I was contacted and went to the care home to pack up his stuff. This included the camera which had been found on the ground next to his body...”

I couldn't help interrupting, “So when did you first know about the picture?”

“Let me finish the sequence, please. At that time, the camera was only part of my father's property. I decided to go through all his possessions later – deciding what to keep and what to throw out – after I returned from a business trip to the USA. I am a sales executive for an American-based manufacturing company. Of course, I kept the camera and decided to have the film developed. By then, I knew about the girl's tragic death and that your husband was supposed to have killed her. I made enquiries and learned that, in England, your husband had pleaded guilty to killing the girl. As it did not involve the German authorities anymore, I contacted the British Army Headquarters in Brockendorf and they gave me your contact details.”

My hand was trembling so much now that I almost dropped the phone.

“Herr Greiner, would you be prepared to make a statement to an English lawyer about this? Even come to court and give evidence in person?”

“But of course. I visit London regularly on business and a meeting can easily be arranged.”

After being transferred from the hospital wing, I'd been taken back to my original wing where I would remain until the authorities decided where I should go for the longer term. Talking to, and indeed meaningful communication with, other human beings had ceased to matter very much but I still had my books and had now been granted a TV which I watched intermittently for distraction.

One night, I chanced upon a programme about sign language and became intrigued, subsequently borrowing a ‘teach yourself' book about the subject from the prison library. It was something I could practise to my heart's content, without even speaking out loud. I surmised that once proficient I might be in a position to request a transfer to a prison where a proportion of the prisoners were deaf-mute, and so help out in some way.

Then the letter from Byler came, together with another from Andrea, and the renewal of hope that these letters engendered cast apathy to the winds...

A tearful reunion with Andrea soon followed. Our marriage, which had been fractured almost beyond repair by recent events, now seemed stronger than ever as release became a distinct possibility once more.

* * *

Now, we were all assembled before Lord Justice Massamore and his colleagues for a second time. The court had granted leave to appeal on the basis of new evidence becoming available. The prosecution didn't challenge its veracity and had accepted Ernst Greiner's sworn statement to the English police, but maintained that the conviction should still stand. They contended that, although the girl in the picture was dressed in a similar way to Anke (she was actually facing away from the camera) there was no absolute proof that it
was
her without the testimony of Friedrich Greiner himself. Indeed, although the photograph was the last one to be taken before his death, there was no date or time record actually on the film itself which would confirm this.

Cuthbertson also maintained that, for other reasons, this new evidence wasn't conclusive. Anke could have been fooling around just
before
the row which led to her death. The picture only showed her preparing to dive, not actually going over the edge, and I could have pushed her over afterwards. In any event, my unequivocal plea of guilty – the best evidence of all, he maintained – was still damning.

Just before Fortescue rose to his feet to reply, I was amazed to see Peascod enter the court and hurry up to Byler who then caught Fortescue's attention.

“Before making my final submissions to you,” Fortescue said, “I seek permission to call some character evidence for my client. Sir Binden Peascod, the Judge Advocate General, wishes to speak on his behalf.”

After Massamore granted leave, Binden duly took the oath, gave his particulars, and addressed the court in a quavering voice.

“Courtley is a fine man who sticks by his principles,” he declared. “In doing his job as a judge advocate, he showed true courage and integrity at all times. On one occasion, he trawled through army records and persuaded me, reluctant as I was, to set right an ancient wrong. I would ask this court to bear all that in mind in assessing his honesty today.”

I felt my eyes moisten, never expecting any support whatsoever from that quarter.

By now, it was late in the afternoon. Massamore glanced at the courtroom clock and conferred with his colleagues.

“In view of the time we'll hear you tomorrow, Mr Fortescue.”

But in the morning, Massamore indicated that he and his brother judges had been pondering the issues over the adjournment and had concluded that they could no longer be sure of my guilt which, applying the law of the land they had to be, if the conviction was to stand. The new evidence, taken as a whole, had introduced an element of doubt in their minds which couldn't be ignored, and this was reinforced by Professor Dearman's report that there had been examples in the past of people admitting to crimes they hadn't committed.

Once again, I was asked to stand to hear the decision of the court.

Massamore now uttered the magic words, “Taking into account all that we have heard in this case, the conviction against you must be quashed because we believe it to be unsafe. Accordingly, the court discharges you and you are free to leave the dock.”

Trembling violently I sat down, hardly believing that my ordeal was over at last.

The prison officer escorting me touched my arm and said, “You can go, mate, and collect your stuff from downstairs later.”

I stumbled down the narrow staircase and into the waiting arms of Andrea, standing in the well of the court. We hugged each other, both crying uncontrollably as we had done during her last visit to the prison. In a daze, we left the court, made our way through the Great Hall, and out the front entrance of the building. The press were out in force and Byler, who had hurried out after us, took a sheet of paper from his pocket.

“Leave this to me, Charles,” he hissed and then began to read the bland statement which he had prepared for this eventuality.

But that didn't stop the questions coming thick and fast from the assembled reporters. I ignored them all, except one which came from a particularly persistent reporter who had pushed himself to the front by the time Andrea and I had reached the pavement.

“Now you've been acquitted, Judge, what's to stop you going back to your old job, then?”

I laughed out loud. The very idea was preposterous. In the circumstances, there was no conceivable way that I could ever be reinstated, even if I desired it. But I decided a serious response was required.

“I wouldn't want it even if it were possible. Instead, I'll be making a fresh start somewhere else.”

I had already made up my mind about that. I wanted to do something which involved my new interest in sign language but this was no business of the reporters.

“But surely you'll be writing your memoirs?” the reporter continued. “People are bound to want to read them when they see our headline tomorrow –
Murder Judge cleared by Appeal Court.
”

I put my arm around Andrea and hugged her.

“What do you think I should say, darling?” I asked.

“Only that one day you just might tell them the full story, Charlie,” she muttered.

But I opted for the classic lawyer's riposte often made in answer to unwelcome questions.

“I have no further comment at this time. Thank you.”