Make Them Pay (27 page)

‘Ah, quite so. My apologies.’ Forbes’s barrister spent a few moments examining his brief while he absorbed this initial setback. It’s always a good move to stop defence counsel dead in their tracks. It tends to throw them off balance just when they’re poised to strike with their first debilitating question. Well, debilitating in their view.

‘Now then, Chief Inspector.’ Forbes’s counsel quickly recovered from my interruption and afforded me what he imagined to be a disarming smile. ‘It strikes me that my client confessed to these murders all too readily. I would suggest to you that it was strange that he should have done so.’

I felt like saying that he didn’t have much of a choice, given the evidence stacked against him, but I confined myself to staring back at counsel.

‘Well, do you have an answer, Chief Inspector?’

‘If you have a question, sir,’ I said, doing my thick copper impersonation. I noticed the whisper of a smile crossing the judge’s face.

‘Let me rephrase it as a question, then.’ The barrister sighed audibly. ‘I put it to you that my client was coerced in some way into making what seems to be a full and frank confession. Is that not true?’

‘No, sir, it is not. The entire interview was recorded, as you will know, and the recording is available to the court should it so desire.’

‘Yes, yes, but what went on before the recording machine was switched on?’

‘Nothing evidential, sir.’

‘Thank you, Chief Inspector.’ Forbes’s counsel took one or two more sideswipes about procedural points, but was unable to cast any doubt on the substance of my testimony. But he had to try, I suppose; that’s what he was being paid for.

Dave followed me into the witness box and ‘proved’ the written statement he’d taken from Forbes.

Doctor Henry Mortlock gave his damning evidence, describing in lurid detail the injuries to Samson Adekunle’s body he’d found when he’d examined it. Just to drive the point home, he sought the judge’s permission to display, on a large screen, photographs taken at Clancy Street that showed the slumped and naked figure of Adekunle still secured to the kitchen chair in which he’d been found. The depiction of the Nigerian’s butchered corpse produced expressions of revulsion on the faces of the jury. Two of the female members actually turned away from the horrific images.

And as if that were not sufficient, Mortlock then displayed photographs of the chargrilled bodies of Eberhardt and Schmidt in the camper van, and later on his slab at the mortuary, and went on to describe, in graphic detail, the cause of their deaths.

The expert witness in ballistics, a young woman named Dr Jo Clark, displayed photographs on the large screen and gave evidence of the rounds taken from the three bodies. She explained such mysteries as striation and rifling characteristics, muzzle velocity and calibre. She talked of examining the pistol seized at Greenwich and how she had arrived at the irrefutable conclusion that it was the weapon used in all three murders.

Defence counsel continued to prove that he was earning his legal-aid fee, and rose to query the testimony regarding the rounds recovered from the tree in Richmond Park.

‘Could those rounds not have been damaged when they were removed from the tree, Doctor Clark?’

‘No. They were removed by a forensic examiner experienced in such matters. That examiner can be called, if so required.’ Jo Clark turned towards the judge as she said that.

‘Are the rounds taken from the tree at all relevant to the murders?’ asked the judge in a dry voice.

‘No, perhaps not, My Lord,’ said counsel, and sat down.

The remaining members of our little cast of players testified to their own particular area of involvement in the investigation, and so the trial dragged on to the eighth day and its inevitable conclusion.

‘Members of the jury are you agreed upon your verdict?’ asked the clerk, when the jury trooped back into court following its deliberations. It had taken them a mere forty-five minutes, and that had probably included a coffee break.

‘We are,’ said the foreman.

‘On the first count on the indictment, that of the murder of Samson Adekunle, do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty?’

‘Guilty.’

‘And is that the verdict of you all?’

‘It is.’

It came as no surprise that the jury also found Forbes guilty on the other two counts as well.

‘Very well,’ said the judge. ‘The prisoner is remanded in custody to appear here in two weeks’ time for sentencing. Take him down.’

Forbes half bowed to the judge, winked at the most attractive of the women jurors and descended the dock steps.

And two weeks later here we were again.

The Common Serjeant, his severe face seeming to imply regret that he no longer had the option of donning a black cap, gazed at Forbes for some seconds before speaking.

‘Douglas Forbes, you have been found guilty of three of the most heinous crimes of murder that it has ever been my misfortune to try. Although your counsel made a half-hearted attempt to convey the impression that you were of diminished responsibility, I can see no justification for that submission. You set about, deliberately and with malice aforethought, to seek out your unfortunate victims and murder them in cold blood. As an example of premeditated killings it is difficult for me to recall a precedent. You will go to prison for life on each count of the indictment and shall not be considered for parole until you have served at least thirty years. Take him down.’

‘Thank you, My Lord,’ said Forbes. He bowed to the judge and turned to descend the dock steps for the last time.

Outside Court Number One, in the vast echoing Grand Hall, I encountered a sombre Philip Forbes comforting his wife Nancy who was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

‘I imagine it to have been a foregone verdict, Chief Inspector,’ said Forbes.

‘I think so, sir,’ I said.

‘A case of our son’s misplaced idea of justice for his grandmother, I suppose,’ said Forbes, and he and his wife turned away.

Kate Ebdon, Dave and I crossed the road to the Magpie and Stump public house for a well-deserved glass of ale. ‘Well, that’s another one dealt with, guv,’ said Dave.

I bought pints of best bitter for Dave and me, and a gin and tonic for Kate, and we moved to a quiet corner of the saloon.

‘I understand that you’re thinking about moving in with Miss Sutton, guv,’ said Dave suddenly. Kate looked up, her face displaying great interest at this juicy snippet.

‘Where the hell did you get that idea from?’ I asked. I was surprised that he knew about it even though I was aware that Gail and Madeleine had fairly frequent phone conversations. But those calls were usually to compare notes about the difference between classical and modern dance.

‘I’m a detective, sir,’ said Dave. ‘But have you decided whether you’re going to move in with her, or not?’

I glanced at my watch. ‘Time we were getting back to the factory, Dave,’ I said.