Turn a Blind Eye

9

‘All rise!’ bellowed the clerk of the court.

Mr Justice Whittaker entered court number one to find it looking more like the opening night at a West End theatre than the first morning of an Old Bailey trial. The actors, the critics and the packed audience were all in place, waiting for the curtain to rise.

The judge knew it was his duty to be neutral and unbiased, and to make sure the jury was given every chance to reach a verdict, based on evidence, that was beyond reasonable doubt. Before his appointment to the bench he’d been a QC for many years, and he believed that in the course of his working life he had witnessed few, if any, serious miscarriages of justice. But after reading the submissions for this case, it was difficult not to have formed an unfavourable opinion of the defendant long before the jury filed into their places.

What made it worse for the judge was that he’d had to wrestle with his conscience, as his youngest son had been sent down from university after being caught smoking cannabis in his rooms. He was well aware that a lot of undergraduates experimented with drugs, but Roddy had had the misfortune of being caught. He had suggested to the Lord Chancellor that, given the circumstances, another judge should perhaps be considered for this case. However, Lord Havers was adamant. He needed an experienced, well-respected judge to preside over such a high-profile trial.

Mr Justice Whittaker took his place in the high-backed leather chair at the centre of the dais, rearranged his long, red gown and adjusted his ancient wig which, like a Test cricketer’s cap, gave an indication of how many matches he’d played.

He looked down at counsels’ bench, all too aware that the next of his prejudices would be more difficult to hide.

He admired Sir Julian Warwick, both as an advocate and a fellow bencher. A man who would do everything in his power to win a case without ever overstepping the mark.

Mr Booth Watson, on the other hand, didn’t know where the mark was. His only interest was to win at any cost, and the judge already feared that, as the trial progressed, defence counsel would test his patience to its limit. However, he was determined not to be provoked. Over the years Booth Watson had somehow managed to escape the full wrath of the Bar Council, which had shown him several yellow cards, but never a red one. But surely even he must accept it would take a miracle to prevent his client from ending up in jail.

The judge turned his attention to the jury, and gave them a beneficent smile. It was important they believed he was being neutral at all times, because he knew if there was one thing a jury couldn’t abide, it was the feeling that a judge had made up his mind even before the trial had begun.

He glanced across at the seven men and five women who would decide Assem Rashidi’s fate, paying particular attention to the man they had selected as their foreman. He sat bolt upright, giving the impression of being a professional man who might have worked in the Square Mile. He looked as if he was a firm believer in the rule of law and, equally important, that he was well aware this could be among the most important decisions he would make in his life, and of the need to carry the rest of the jury with him.

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,’ said the judge. ‘Before proceedings begin, I feel I should alert you to an anomaly concerning this particular case...’

All twelve jurors’ eyes were fixed on the judge.

‘The Crown will be represented on this occasion by Sir Julian Warwick QC while his daughter, Miss Grace Warwick, will act as his junior. That in itself is not unusual. However, Sir Julian’s son, Detective Inspector William Warwick, might at some point be called on to appear as a Crown witness. I therefore took it upon myself to ask Mr Booth Watson if he had any objection to this arrangement, and he assured me he did not. But given the circumstances, I would like him to confirm that in your presence.’

Booth Watson rose slowly from his place, and with what passed as a smile said, ‘I have no objection, m’lud; in fact, I welcome it.’

The expression on the Crown prosecutor’s face revealed nothing but Sir Julian had to admit Booth Watson had won the opening round before the bell had been struck.

The judge turned his attention back to Sir Julian, who was waiting patiently to begin proceedings. His small wooden lectern had been set up, with his opening statement in place. He glanced across at Booth Watson, who was seated at the other end of counsels’ bench, picking his nails, displaying an air of nonchalant indifference to all that was happening around him.

The clerk of the court rose from his place and faced the dock.

‘Will the defendant please rise,’ he said portentously.

Rashidi stood up. Dressed in a bespoke suit, white shirt and blue silk tie, he looked every bit the chairman of a City company who wouldn’t know where Brixton was.

‘On the first charge, the production of a controlled drug, how do you plead?

‘Not guilty.’

‘And on the second charge, possession of a controlled drug with intent to supply, how do you plead?’

‘Not guilty,’ repeated the defendant.

‘And on the third charge, possession of a controlled drug, how do you plead?’

‘Not guilty.’

The judge waited for the court to settle before he said, ‘Sir Julian, would you begin proceedings by delivering your opening statement?’

‘Thank you, m’lud,’ said the Crown’s advocate. He rose slowly from his place, gave the judge a bow, and looked down at the first page of his script, which he knew almost by heart.

‘M’lud, members of the jury,’ he began, ‘I appear before you today on behalf of the Crown, while my learned friend Mr Booth Watson QC represents the defendant.’ He barely gave his adversary a glance, and certainly not a bow.

‘I open the Crown’s submission by telling you that in all my years at the Bar...’

The jury listened attentively to Sir Julian’s every word, as jurors always do on the first day of any trial. The judge could tell already that the Crown’s senior silk was on particularly good form, and his concluding remarks would have left no one in doubt about what he believed the verdict must surely be.

‘You and you alone,’ Sir Julian proclaimed, staring directly at the jury, ‘will decide the fate of the man standing in the dock. After you’ve considered all the evidence in this case, I want you to imagine that it’s your own child who has suffered at the hands of this unscrupulous man.’

The judge gave an involuntary shudder, which he hoped no one noticed.

‘The world would undoubtedly be a better place if Assem Rashidi had not been born. You now have it in your power to ensure he can never again ruin the lives of the young, the vulnerable and the helpless in our society. Your own child,’ he repeated, his eyes never leaving the jury.

By the time Sir Julian resumed his seat, the jury looked as if they would have been happy to bring back the death penalty, while the journalists scurried out of the court to give their editors tomorrow’s headline, YOUR OWN CHILD, aware that anything said in court could be printed in block capitals without any fear of libel proceedings.

‘Thank you, Sir Julian,’ said the judge. ‘You may call your first witness.’

‘But does he know that we know he knows?’ asked the commander.

‘I don’t think so, sir,’ said Rebecca, ‘because we both followed the wrong man out of the cathedral, and ended up at the Goring Hotel. So neither one of us has any idea what Marlboro Man looks like.’

‘Let’s keep it that way,’ said the Hawk.

‘But why does Lamont need to know who MM is?’ asked Paul. ‘That’s the real mystery.’

‘My bet,’ said Jackie, ‘is that he suspects he’s still under surveillance, after some money went missing following the three-bags-full incident.’

‘Every penny was returned,’ said the Hawk abruptly.

‘Or perhaps he wants to get in touch with MM for some reason we don’t know about?’ suggested Rebecca.

‘Not much point second-guessing,’ said the Hawk. ‘For now, DC Pankhurst, continue to keep Lamont under close surveillance, but if you suspect even for a second that he’s sussed you, disappear, because the moment that happens we’ll have to replace you.’

‘Understood,’ said Rebecca.

‘And what about you, PC Bailey?’ asked the Hawk. ‘Have you anything worthwhile to report?’

‘Not a lot,’ admitted Nicky. ‘I’ve at last had a face-to-face meeting with Summers, but I can’t pretend it went well.’

‘Bide your time,’ said Paul, ‘and he’ll eventually show his true colours. Have you been able to check up on any of his more recent investigations?’

‘Yes, and they’re pretty impressive. He’s made a number of arrests over the past year for drug offences, burglary, and one for GBH when he clearly showed a lot of courage. He’s admired by his colleagues even if he’s not particularly liked.’

‘Have you come across anything that looks at all suspicious?’ asked Jackie.

‘There’s a petty criminal he turned into an informant who on several occasions has come up with intel that’s resulted in arrests for burglary and another for supplying drugs.’

‘Does this phantom have a name?’ asked Paul.

‘John Smith. Hardly original, but then no detective wants to give away the identities of their informants. Once their real name is revealed, both of them are out of business.’

‘Has he been paid for his services?’ asked the Hawk.

‘Several times. Very much above board, small amounts, always authorized by his controller, a local inspector who rarely sets foot out of Romford.’

‘That’s not untypical of a lot of the force,’ said Hawksby. ‘Well done, PC Bailey. And Paul is right. Bide your time, because if Summers is bent, it will be the little things that give him away.’

‘Like what?’ asked Nicky.

‘His lifestyle, clothes, possessions, even his girlfriends. But be careful, because if he’s bent he’s also likely to be on the lookout for anyone who’s on to him. So don’t be in any hurry. Right, let’s all get back to work,’ said the commander, ‘and hope that Booth Watson trips over his own shoelaces.’

‘He was wearing slip-ons,’ said Paul.

‘Call Mr Cyril Bennett,’ said the clerk of the court.

A short, immaculately dressed man entered the courtroom and made his way to the witness box. As he took the oath, Grace noticed that his three-piece suit was almost identical to the one Rashidi was wearing.

‘Before I begin my examination, m’lud,’ said Sir Julian, ‘I should point out that Mr Bennett had to be summonsed as he was reluctant to give evidence.’

The judge nodded, and made a note on his yellow pad before taking a closer look at the witness.

‘Would you please state your name and occupation for the record,’ said Sir Julian.

‘My name is Cyril Bennett. I am a bespoke tailor, and the proprietor of Bennett and Reed of Savile Row.’

‘So it would be safe to say you make suits for some of the most fashionable people in London.’

‘And well beyond London, sir.’

‘Let me ask you, Mr Bennett, how much would it cost to have a suit made by Bennett and Reed of Savile Row?’

‘That would depend.’

‘Top of the range?’

‘It could be as much as three hundred pounds.’

‘So, you cater only for the wealthiest customers?’

‘If you say so.’

‘As three hundred pounds is almost double the average weekly wage for a worker in this country, yes, I would say so.’

‘I have no idea what the average weekly wage is for a worker in this country.’

‘I’m sure you don’t, Mr Bennett,’ said Sir Julian, smiling at the jury. ‘Now, I’m going to show you a hand-tailored suit that was found at the defendant’s flat in Brixton.’

Booth Watson was quickly on his feet.

‘I must object, m’lud. The Crown has produced no proof that my client ever lived in Brixton, let alone owned a flat there.’

‘I apologize, m’lud,’ said Sir Julian. ‘But be assured, we will. However, I would still like Mr Bennett to confirm that this particular suit found in an apartment in Brixton was made by Bennett and Reed. Item number nine, m’lud.’

The clerk of the court took a suit across to the witness, who studied it for some time, but made no comment.

‘If you look at the distinctive red label on the inside of the jacket,’ said Sir Julian, ‘you will see that the suit was made by Bennett and Reed.’

The witness stared at the label before saying, ‘It would appear so.’

‘And do you also see the neatly sewn initials on the inside jacket pocket?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Would you tell the court whose initials they are?’

‘I have no idea whose initials they are.’

‘If you say so, Mr Bennett. Then perhaps you would tell the court what the initials are?’

‘A.R.’

An outbreak of loudly whispered comments erupted from some of those seated in the court. Sir Julian waited for a moment before looking directly at the jury and repeating, ‘A.R.’ He then turned his attention back to the reluctant witness and said, ‘Who did you make this suit for, Mr Bennett?’

‘I have no idea who it was made for,’ said the witness. ‘Those initials could have been added after the suit had been purchased.’

‘Then let me make it easier for you. Do you see any of your customers in court today?’

Mr Bennett looked slowly around the court. His eyes settled briefly on the defendant, but moved on until he finally looked up at the judge and said, ‘I believe we have made suits for you in the past, m’lud.’

Mr Justice Whittaker nodded, looking slightly embarrassed.

‘You have never seen the prisoner in the dock before?’ said Sir Julian, trying to recover from this unexpected blow.

‘No, I have not,’ said Bennett.

Grace looked across at Rashidi, who was leaning forward and staring at the witness, like a mongoose with a cobra in its sights. She smiled when she spotted a red label on the inside of Rashidi’s jacket. She scribbled a note and handed it across to her father.

‘But you’re not denying this suit was tailored by your company, Mr Bennett.’

‘I can confirm it was made in my workshop, but then I employ some twenty tailors and have over a hundred customers on my books, including His Lordship.’

‘I’m sure you do. However, I wonder how many of them are five feet nine, of average build, and have the initials A.R. I imagine that would reduce the numbers considerably.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘I suspect you know every one of your customers, Mr Bennett,’ said Sir Julian with an exasperated sigh. ‘No more questions, m’lud,’ he added before resuming his seat.

‘Do you wish to cross-examine this witness, Mr Booth Watson?’ asked the judge.

‘Just a couple of questions, m’lud,’ he said, rising slowly from his place.

‘Mr Bennett, can I confirm that your distinguished company has never made a suit for the defendant?’

‘I checked our books before coming to court this morning and couldn’t find anything to suggest we have ever made a suit for a Mr Rashidi.’

Sir Julian read Grace’s note and realized if Rashidi were to enter the witness box, that sentence would trap him. He turned around and nodded to his daughter.

‘My learned friend made great play of the fact that the initials A.R. are sewn on the inside of the jacket,’ said Booth Watson. ‘Have you by any chance ever made a suit for a Mr Arthur Rainsford?’

Sir Julian looked taken aback.

‘Not that I’m aware of,’ said Bennett, bang on cue. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘They just happen to be the initials of the father of my learned friend’s daughter-in-law. But let me assure the court,’ said Booth Watson, throwing his arms up in mock horror, ‘it’s just another coincidence, because like Mr Rashidi, Mr Arthur Rainsford doesn’t have a flat in Brixton, hasn’t had a suit made by Bennett and Reed, and isn’t a drug dealer. No more questions,’ he concluded, offering the jury his most ingratiating smile.

‘Enter lover boy,’ she muttered disdainfully.

Nicky looked up from her table by the window as Jerry Summers strolled into the pub and walked across to join a colleague at the bar, where a pint was already waiting for him.

‘Still, you should be safe,’ said the WPC who sat opposite her, sipping a Coke. ‘Jerry Summers is only interested in blondes with big boobs.’

Nicky could hardly conceal her surprise. Liz Morgan, her constable mentor, was usually the sole of discretion when it came to discussing colleagues, but clearly not on this occasion.

‘You speak from experience?’ she risked.

‘I lasted a couple of weeks before he moved on.’

‘That long?’ said Nicky, trying to make light of it. ‘But let’s be fair, everyone says he’s a good thief catcher.’

‘The best,’ admitted Liz. ‘More arrests and more convictions than anyone else in the division. But I’m told it doesn’t stop him making a few bob on the side.’

‘You mean he’s bent?’ said Nicky, feigning shock.

‘There’s a thin line between bent and straight. It’s what you might call malleable. But no one’s going to complain about Summers while he has a grass who delivers on such a regular basis.’

‘So he’s able to make a little extra cash on the side?’ said Nicky. ‘Where’s the harm in that?’

‘Which he flaunts. Doesn’t make him the most popular person in the nick. Anyway,’ Liz continued, looking across at the bar, where the two officers were sharing a joke, ‘DI Castle seems happy to sign all the necessary forms to keep their little arrangement legal and above board. Mind you, I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets more than the occasional pint for his trouble,’ she added bitterly.

‘What are we doing tonight?’ asked Nicky, wanting to change the subject, as she’d picked up quite enough intel for one evening.

‘Hornchurch Youth Club. Some of the locals have been complaining about the all-night raves. Can’t say I blame them. I think we’ll have to pay them a visit and give their team leader a slap on the wrist.’

‘And if that doesn’t work?’

‘We’ll charge in next week, torch the joint, and throw the little blighters in jail.’

Nicky laughed, finished her drink and said, ‘Time to leave if we’re not going to be put on report.’

They got up and headed for the door. Nicky glanced back, to catch Summers staring at her. He grinned, and she couldn’t believe that she blushed. Nicky quickly closed the door behind her and made her way back to the station.