False Witness (33 page)

The jury sat fascinated. Three people stood out immediately. An elderly woman with an intelligent face, her cashmere cardigan
thrown over her shoulders. Then there was a big man: tattoos, leather jacket, thick gold bracelet, constantly looking around
court. Finally, a woman with good bone structure, mid-thirties like Penny and Justine, Aran jumper, ethnic skirt. She made
a very full note.

The grandmother, the taxi-driver and the social worker. Kingsley’s fate was in their hands.

“That, members of the jury, is some of the evidence the prosecution will call,” said Justine. She had not mentioned the girl
in the graveyard, nor, of course, Vera Cavely. “You will note that the case is largely circumstantial. No doubt Mr. Fawley
will bring his”—she looked at me and feigned a smile—“his almost legendary forensic skills to bear upon this point.”

Hardcastle glared at me.

“Don’t be taken in,” Justine warned. “Don’t be deceived by Mr. Fawley’s charms. A circumstantial case is not a weak case.”

Emma and Hilary Hardcastle made a note of this.

“Imagine,” said Justine, “and I’m sure it would never happen, but imagine Mr. Fawley and I had had an argument and he wanted…”
She paused and then said, “And he wanted to hurt me.”

I could feel myself flushing, but could not control it. Everyone looked at me and I felt guilty but for reasons they could
not begin to conceive.

Justine continued, “If Mr. Fawley was seen going into a room with a knife and if I was found brutally stabbed to death and
the knife was found in his house. And imagine—and this is the diabolical part—imagine he confessed to an honest policeman.
Well then, Mr. Fawley would say: the case is weak—it is entirely circumstantial.” Again she paused for the jury to catch up.
“And what, ladies and gentlemen, would
you
say to that? These, I think, are the types of issues that you will have to decide in this trial.”

Emma came to my shoulder. “Lovers’ tiff?”

“Something like that,” I said.

“Don’t let it get to you. It’s not personal. Remember?”

“Emma, it couldn’t be more personal.”

The first witness then stormed his way into court.

T
HE WITNESS ARRIVED IN THE BOX WITH A GREAT
deal of fuss and bother. There was the pounding of large boots, the rustling of a starched uniform and short-tempered grunts.
Before Norman, the usher, had a chance to raise the card and ask the witness to repeat the oath, the Bible was snatched from
his unsuspecting hand and held toward the heavens.

“I swear by Almighty God,” the witness gabbled without taking a breath, the sacred oath becoming one long conundrum ending
in, “and nothing-but-the-truth.” The man looked around, cheeks reddening, buttons popping, and added for good measure, “So
help me… er, God.”

The judge was far from impressed. “There is no need,” Hardcastle snarled, “no need at all to invoke the assistance of the
Almighty.”

The policeman was about to argue back when Justine intervened. “Can we have your name please?”

“PC 732, ma’am.”

There was a swift palpitation of the judicial eyelids. “You
do
have a name, I suppose? I mean, you haven’t changed your name to PC whatsit by deed-poll?”

The officer looked at Hardcastle, the Bible still suspended eight feet nearer its central character than was strictly necessary.
“I do have a name, ma’am.”

“Well, what is it?”

“PC Lynch, ma’am.”

“Well, why ever didn’t you say?”

“I dunno, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am. Do use some common sense and let’s get on with it,” said Hardcastle.

Justine was perfectly calm. “Which force are you attached to?”

“Devon and Dorset.”

“And how long have you been there?”

Lynch looked around nervously at the court full of city dwellers. “All my life, ma’am—er, miss… er—all my life.”

“Now,” said Justine, “I’d like to ask you about the murder of Molly Summers.”

I whispered to Justine. “You can lead PC Plod through this part of his evidence. Do use your common sense.”

Justine’s mouth tightened a fraction, but relaxed when she turned toward the jury and the witness. “Did you assist in the
arrest of Richard Kingsley?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us where and when he was arrested?”

Lynch looked to the judge. “Your Honor, I made a note.”

“Well, can’t you tell us those simple details without consulting your notes?”

“I’d prefer to use my notebook.”

Hilary forgot for a moment which side she was on and, scenting blood, moved in. “When was the note made?”

“I can’t remember… exactly. It’s written in the notebook—I think.”

That much launched missile, the judicial pencil, fell rapidly to the Bench. “This is very unsatisfactory.”

I saw the chance to score a few points. “May I assist the court?” I said. “I have no objection to the officer using his notebook—if
he can’t remember.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Fawley.” Hardcastle eyed me suspiciously. “You’ve been most helpful.”

“A quick bow, then I was behind the curtain again. As I sat down, Emma yanked my gown painfully.

“Just what are you doing?” she said. “He was squirming there.”

“You ain’t seen nothing yet,” I replied.

“We shall see.”

“
You
shan’t. You’re going to St. Catherine’s House.”

As Emma got up, she drew very near to my right ear. “What
has
got into you, Tom?”

Justine eventually managed to navigate her way through Lynch’s account. He described the scence at Kingsley’s manor, the arrest,
how the police wore rubber gloves to avoid leaving fingerprints and momentarily he sounded like a real policeman. He told
of how the knife was found and sealed in an exhibits bag and taken to the forensic science laboratory.

In solemn tones, he said that Kingsley had confessed and then struggled as he was taken away.

It was my turn to cross-examine.

“Is your evidence that after you cautioned Mr. Kingsley you asked him if he ‘did it’?” I smiled as I began.

“Yes, sir.”

“And lo and behold he said, ‘I was there’?” My gentlest tone.

“Yes.”

“And he said, ‘My knife was used’?”

“Yes.”

“And he said, ‘But you’ll never prove it’?”

Lynch quickly glanced at his notes.

“Don’t worry, Officer,” I reassured him. “It’s not a trick question.”

“Er, yes. That’s what he said.” Lynch smiled.

I turned slowly to the jury and shouted, “This is all
lies
.” The smile vanished. It was time to attack. “Did you ever show your note of this, this…
conversation
to Mr. Kingsley?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“Ever read it to him?”

“No, sir.”

“Ever let him read it?”

“No, sir.”

“Ever ask him to sign it?”

“No.”

“To witness it?”

“No.”

“Why
not
?”

“I can’t remem—I don’t know.”

“Ever ask him about it in interview?”

“I didn’t interview him.”

“Ever tell the interviewing officers the murder suspect had confessed?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“I suppose I forgot.”

I looked at him sternly. “You forgot?” I repeated. Now a change of pace, a scratch of the chin. “And do you, Mr. Lynch, as
a
diligent
policeman routinely do those things when someone ‘confesses’?” I sarcastically stressed the last word.

“This is no place for sarcasm, Mr. Fawley,” said Hardcastle.

“Nor for lies, Your Honor,” I turned back to the officer. “You do usually do those things?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But you didn’t here?”

“No, sir.”

“And can you give us a reason why ever not?”

“I don’t know… I mean, no, sir.”

The taxi-driver crossed his arms and stared without sympathy at the cornered policeman.

“Have you finished, Mr. Fawley?” asked Hardcastle.

“Not quite,” I said. “Now your evidence is that Mr. Kingsley—let me read my note—’scratched my face as I pushed him to the
van and said: “I’ve got AIDS, you”—’”

“You bastard.”

“Thank you. ‘I’ve got AIDS, you bastard. You’re going to die.’ Is that your evidence?”

“Yes.”

I put my notes down and fixed Lynch for the next round. “Was Mr. Kingsley ever charged with assaulting you?”

“No, sir.” Then Lynch saw an opening. “It’s part of the job. Happens all the time.”

“What? A suspected murderer in a wheelchair scratches your face and tells you you’re going to die of AIDS? I imagine that’s
as common as cow-pat on your rural beat.”

“No, I meant—”

“We all know what you meant, Mr. Lynch. It’s a tissue of lies as well.”

“No.”

“Really?” I eyed Lynch and tried to decide where to strike next. I looked below his belt. “I suppose Mr. Kingsley didn’t have
a handbag on him?”

Lynch looked to the judge in confusion, but Hilary was a veteran and could see what was coming.

“Just answer the question,” she said wearily.

“No, he didn’t have a handbag.”

“Or a makeup kit?”

“No.”

“Or a nail file?”

“No.”

“And when he scratched your face, I imagine he broke the skin and it bled?”

Lynch tried to play the martyr. “A little. Not much.”

I intended to crucify him. “And he scratched you before he got to the police station?”

“Yes.”

“Well, tell us how it is that he had no human tissue under his fingernails when they were swabbed minutes later?”

He had no answer. Some witnesses babble when they are caught lying, others become quiet. Lynch was a silent perjurer.

“Mr. Lynch, was a photograph taken of this
very
serious injury? You know, for compensation or for that other thing—now what’s it called? Oh, yes. For evidence?”

Hardcastle didn’t bother to interrupt.

“No photograph was taken, sir.”

Then I gushed with enthusiasm. “Oh, but that’s where you are wrong, Mr. Lynch.”

In the excitement of bagging a murder suspect he had probably forgotten an arrest photograph, a Polaroid taken by the custody
sergeant on arrival at Stonebury police station. There was Kingsley with an arrogant smirk on his face and Lynch standing
next to the wheelchair.

“Take a look,” I said. “Any blood on you?”

“No.”

“Any scratches?”

“No.”

“So much as a nick from shaving?”

“I use an electric razor,” he said.

I noticed that none of the jury had laughed at his attempted riposte. “Thank you for sharing your depilatory routine with
us, Mr. Lynch,” I said. “I mean, that is you in the photograph. Officer?”

“Yes.”

“Well, tell us. Which has been fabricated? The photograph or your evidence? You were trying to get a commendation, weren’t
you? Did
Sergeant
Lynch sound so attractive?”

“That’s enough, Mr. Fawley,” Hardcastle said.

“Yes,” I replied. “I think that’s quite enough.”

We rose early and I returned to the robing room with what I knew was a smug grin on my face. But I also knew that it would
not and could not last long in that trial. I was paged to answer the telephone. It was Emma from St. Catherine’s House.

“So how did the case go?” she asked.

“Oh, so so,” I gloated.

“Oh, God. Are you going to be unbearable?”

“Got to enjoy it while it lasts, Emma. Anyway, how did you get on?”

“Took me ages. Problem is…” She paused. “Well, how can I put this? You see, Tom, there is
no
Molly Summers.”

“What?”

“I’ll keep looking—but according to the records, she doesn’t exist.”

I looked at my watch and realized I would have just half an hour with Kingsley before they took him back to prison.

K
INGSLEY SAT IN THE SAME VISITING ROOM WHERE
Whitey Innocent gave me his mysterious warning. The defendant had not spoken to me during the course of the first day’s proceedings.
No notes, no suggestions, no instructions. It was as though everything was going according to plan—his plan. When the jailer
let me in, Kingsley put down his copy of the evening paper.