A Twist in the Tale (3 page)

It was on
August 26th – I shall never forget it – that I received a letter which made me
realise
it might be necessary to follow every word of the
trial.

However much I
tried to convince myself I should explain why I couldn’t do it, I knew I
wouldn’t be able to resist it.

That same
morning, a Friday- I suppose these things always happen on a Friday- I was
called in for what I assumed was to be a routine weekly meeting with the
managing director, only to be informed that the company no longer needed me.

“Frankly, in
the last few months your work has gone from bad to worse,” I was told.

I didn’t feel
able to disagree with him.

“And you have
left me with no choice but to replace you.”

A polite way of saying, “You’re sacked.”

“Your desk will
be cleared by five this evening,” the managing director continued,

“
when
you will receive a
cheque
from the accounts department for £17,500.”

I raised an
eyebrow.

“Six months’
compensation, as stipulated in your contract when we took over the company,” he
explained.

When the
managing director stretched out his hand it was not to wish me luck, but to ask
for the keys of my Rover.

I remember my
first thought when he informed me of his decision: at least I would be able to
attend every day of the trial without any hassle.

Elizabeth took
the news of my sacking badly but only asked what plans I had for finding a new
job. During the next month I pretended to look for a position in another
company but
realised
I couldn’t hope to settle down
to anything until the case was over.

On the morning
of the trial all the popular papers had
colourful
background pieces. The Daily Express even displayed on its front page a
flattering picture of Carla in a swim-suit on the beach at Marbella: I wondered
how much her sister in
Fulham
had been paid for that
particular item. Alongside it was a profile photo of Paul
Menzies
which made him look as if he were already a convict.

I was amongst
the first to be told in which court at the Old Bailey the case of the Crown v.
Menzies
would be tried. A uniformed policeman gave me
detailed directions and along with several others I made my way to Court No. 4.

Once I had
reached the courtroom I filed in and made sure that I sat on the end of my row.
I looked round thinking everyone would stare at me, but to my relief no one
showed the slightest interest.

I had a good
view of the defendant as he stood in the dock.
Menzies
was a frail man who looked as if he had recently lost a lot of weight;
fifty-one, the newspapers had said, but he looked nearer seventy. I began to
wonder how much I must have
aged
over the past few
months.

Menzies
wore a smart, dark blue suit that hung loosely on
him, a clean shirt and what I thought must be a regimental tie. His grey
thinning hair was swept straight back; a small silver moustache gave him a
military air. He certainly didn’t look like a murderer or much of a catch as a
lover, but anyone glancing towards me would probably have come to the same
conclusion. I searched around the sea of faces for
Mrs
Menzies
but no one in the court fitted the newspaper
description of her.

We all rose
when
Mr
Justice Buchanan came in.

“The Crown v.
Menzies
,” the clerk of the court read out.

The judge
leaned forward to tell
Menzies
that he could be
seated and then turned slowly towards the jury box.

He explained
that, although there had been considerable press interest in the case, their
opinion was all that mattered because they alone would be asked to decide if
the prisoner were guilty or not guilty of murder. He also advised the jury
against reading any newspaper articles concerning the trial or listening to
anyone else’s views, especially those who had not been present in court: such
people, he said, were always the first to have an immutable opinion on what the
verdict should be. He went on to remind the jury how important it was to concentrate
on the evidence because a man’s life was at stake. I found myself nodding in
agreement.

I glanced round
the court hoping there was nobody there who would
recognise
me.

Menzies’s
eyes remained fixed firmly on the judge, who was
turning back to face the prosecuting counsel.

Even as Sir
Humphrey
Mountcliff
rose from his place on the bench
I was thankful he was against
Menzies
and not me. A
man of
dom-inating
height with a high forehead and
silver grey hair, he commanded the court not only with his physical presence
but with a voice that was never less than authoritative.

To a silent
assembly he spent the rest of the morning setting out the case for the
prosecution. His eyes rarely left the jury box except occasionally to peer down
at his notes.

He reconstructed
the events as he imagined they had happened that evening in April.

The opening
address lasted two and a half hours, shorter than I’d expected. The judge then
suggested a break for lunch and asked us all to be back in our places by ten
past two.

After lunch Sir
Humphrey called his first witness, Detective Inspector Simmons. I was unable to
look directly at the policeman while he presented his evidence. Each reply he
gave was as if he were addressing me personally. I wondered if he suspected all
along that there was another man. Simmons gave a highly professional account of
himself
as he described in detail how they had found
the body and later traced
Menzies
through two
witnesses and the damning parking ticket.

By the time Sir
Humphrey sat down few people in that court could have felt that Simmons had
arrested the wrong man.

Menzies’s
defence
counsel, who
rose to cross-examine the Detective Inspector, could not have been in greater
contrast to Sir Humphrey.
Mr
Robert Scott, QC, was
short and stocky, with thick bushy eyebrows. He spoke slowly and without
inflection. I was happy to observe that one member of the jury was having
difficulty in staying awake.

For the next
twenty minutes Scott took the Detective Inspector painstakingly back over his
evidence but was unable to make Simmons retract anything substantial. As the
Inspector stepped out of the witness box I felt confident enough to look him
straight in the eye.

The next
witness was a Home Office pathologist, Dr Anthony
Mallins
,
who, after answering a few preliminary questions to establish his professional
status, moved on to answer an inquiry from Sir Humphrey that took everyone by
surprise. The pathologist informed the court that there was clear evidence to
suggest that Miss Moorland had had sexual intercourse shortly before her death.

“How can you be
so certain, Dr
Mallins
?”

“Because I
found traces of blood group B on the deceased’s upper thigh, while Miss
Moorland was later found to be blood group 0.

There were also
traces of seminal fluid on the negligee she was wearing at the time of her
death.”

“Are these
common blood groups?” Sir Humphrey asked.

“Blood group O
is common,” Dr
Mallins
admitted. “Group B. however,
is fairly unusual.”

“And what would
you say was the cause of her death?” Sir Humphrey asked.

“A blow or
blows to the head, which caused a broken jaw, and lacerations at the base of
the skull which may have been delivered by a blunt instrument.”

I wanted to
stand up and say, “I can tell you which!” when Sir Humphrey said, “Thank you,
Dr
Mallins
. No more questions. Please wait there.”

Mr
Scott treated the doctor with far more respect than he
had Inspector Simmons, despite
Mallins
being the
defendant’s witness.

“Could the blow
on the back of Miss Moorland’s head have been caused by a fall?” he asked.

The doctor
hesitated. “Possibly,” he agreed.

“But that
wouldn’t explain the broken jaw.”

Mr
Scott ignored the comment and pressed on.

“What
percentage of people in Britain
are blood group
B?”

“About five,
six per cent,” volunteered the doctor.

“Two and a half
million people,” said
Mr
Scott, and waited for the
figure to sink in before he suddenly changed tack.

But as hard as he tried he could not shift the pathologist on the
time of death or on the fact that sexual intercourse must have taken place
around the hours his client had been with Carla.

When
Mr
Scott sat down the judge asked Sir Humphrey if he wished
to re-examine.

“I do, my Lord.
Dr
Mallins
, you told the court that Miss Moorland
suffered from a broken jaw and lacerations on the back of her head. Could the
lacerations have been caused by falling on to a blunt object after the jaw had
been broken?”

“I must object,
my Lord,” said
Mr
Scott, rising with unusual speed.
“This is a leading question.”

Mr
Justice Buchanan leaned forward and peered down at the
doctor. “I agree,
Mr
Scott, but I would like to know
if Dr
Mallins
found blood group 0, Miss Moorland’s
blood group, on any other object in the room?”

“Yes, my Lord’
“ replied
the doctor.
“On the edge of the
glass table in the
centre
of the room.”

“Thank you, Dr
Mallins
,” said Sir Humphrey. “No more questions.”

Sir Humphrey’s
next witness was
Mrs
Rita Johnson, the lady who
claimed she had seen everything.

“
Mrs
Johnson, on the evening of April 7th, did you see a man
leave the block of flats where Miss Moorland lived?” Sir Humphrey asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“At about what
time was that?”

“A few minutes after six.”

“Please tell
the court what happened next.”

“He walked
across the road, removed a parking ticket, got into his car and drove away.”

“Do you see
that man in the court today?”

“Yes,” she said
firmly, pointing to
Menzies
, who at this suggestion
shook his head vigorously.

“No more
questions.”

Mr
Scott rose slowly again.

“What did you
say was the make of the car the man got into?”

“I can’t be
sure,”
Mrs
Johnson said, “but I think it was a BMW.”

“Not a Rover as
you first told the police the following morning?”

The witness did
not reply.

“And did you
actually see the man in question remove a parking ticket from the car
windscreen?”
Mr
Scott asked.

“I think so,
sir, but it all happened so quickly.”

“I’m sure it
did,” said
Mr
Scott. “In fact, I suggest to you that
it happened so quickly that you’ve got the wrong man and the wrong car.”

“No, sir,” she
replied, but without the same conviction with which she had delivered her
earlier replies.

Sir Humphrey
did not re-examine
Mrs
Johnson. I
realised
that he wanted her evidence to be forgotten by the jury as quickly as possible.
As it was, when she left the witness box she also left everyone in court in
considerable doubt.

Carla’s daily,
Maria Lucia, was far more convincing. She stated unequivocally that she had
seen
Menzies
in the living room of the flat that
afternoon when she arrived a little before five. However, she had, she
admitted, never seen him before that day.

“But isn’t it
true,” asked Sir Humphrey, “that you usually only work in the mornings?”

“Yes,” she
replied. “Although Miss Moorland was in the habit of bringing work home on a
Thursday afternoon so it was convenient for me to come in and collect my
wages.”

“And how was
Miss Moorland dressed that afternoon?” asked Sir Humphrey.

“In her blue
morning coat,” replied the daily.

“Is this how
she usually dressed on a Thursday afternoon?”

“No, sir, but I
assumed she was going to have a bath before going out that evening.”

“But when you
left the flat
was
she still with
Mr
Menzies
?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you
remember anything else she was wearing that day?”

“Yes, sir.
Underneath the morning coat she wore a red
negligee.”

My negligee was
duly produced and Maria Lucia identified it. At this point I stared directly at
the witness but she showed not a flicker of recognition. I thanked all the gods
in the Pantheon that I had never once been to visit Carla in the morning.

“Please wait
there,” were Sir Humphrey’s final words to Miss Lucia.

Mr
Scott rose to cross-examine.

“Miss Lucia,
you have told the court that the purpose of the visit was to collect your
wages. How long were you at the flat on this occasion?”

“I did a little
clearing up in the kitchen and ironed a blouse, perhaps twenty minutes.”

“Did you see
Miss Moorland during this time?”

“Yes, I went
into the drawing room to ask if she would like some more coffee but she said
no.”

“Was
Mr
Menzies
with her at the time?”