Turn a Blind Eye

13

‘Please state your name and occupation for the record,’ said Booth Watson.

‘My name is Tony Roberts, and I own a chain of newsagents south of the river.’

‘And your home address?’

‘Flat 97, Napier Mansions, Brixton.’

‘Can I confirm, Mr Roberts, that your apartment is on the twenty-third floor of Block B?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And how long have you lived there?’

‘Just over ten years. I was rentin’ it for four years, and then I bought the place when the government made that possible, six years ago.’

Sir Julian made a note, underlining Ten years.

‘And yours is a larger apartment than any other in the block.’

‘That’s right, I got plannin’ permission to knock two flats into one.’

Sir Julian wrote the words Check whose name is on planning permission, and passed his query across to Clare, who was sitting on the solicitors’ bench behind him.

‘So, your newsagents business must be fairly successful?’

‘Can’t complain. Took over my old man’s shop when he retired. And since then, the business has grown like Topsy.’

‘And how many shops do you own now?’

‘Eleven, with a couple more under offer.’

‘As your business is so successful, Mr Roberts, have you ever considered opening a newsagents on the other side of the river?’

Sir Julian put a cross through one of the questions he had intended to ask.

‘I’m not a toff like you,’ said Roberts. ‘Born in Brixton, went to the local secondary modern, married a Brixton girl, and when my time comes, I’ll be buried in Brixton.’

‘But you must cross the river occasionally?’ said Booth Watson. ‘Because I can’t believe the suit you are wearing was purchased in Brixton.’

Sir Julian crossed out another question on his list.

‘Sunday best,’ said Roberts. ‘The wife thought it would be appropriate for my appearance in court.’

‘May I ask who the tailor is?’

Roberts opened his jacket with a flourish to reveal the red label of Bennett and Reed of Savile Row.

Sir Julian made a further note that he added to his list of questions.

‘Mr Roberts, I’m going to show you a photograph that was found on the bedside table of your apartment.’

Once again, the clerk retrieved the silver-framed photo from the bundle of evidence and handed it to the witness.

‘Do you recognize the lady in the photograph?’

‘Course I do. It’s my dear departed mother, God rest her soul.’

Grace made a note, and passed it to her father.

‘Where were you on the night the police raided the adjoining block, Block A?’

‘Havin’ a few jars at the Rose and Crown, with some mates.’

‘So you were unaware of the raid?’

‘At the time yes, but by the time I got home both buildin’s was surrounded by coppers. So many uniforms I thought the third world war must have broken out.’

One or two people in the court laughed, including a member of the jury.

‘You weren’t aware there was a drugs factory operating in the block next door?’

‘Heard rumours, of course. If it’s true, I hope the bastards get what’s comin’ to them,’ he said, staring directly at Rashidi.

‘Brilliant,’ whispered Grace. ‘A National Theatre player couldn’t have delivered that line more convincingly.’

‘I agree,’ said Sir Julian. ‘But let’s see what he’s like under cross-examination, when he doesn’t have a prepared script to rely on, with the occasional prompt from the wings.’

‘I’d like to move on to the day after the raid took place,’ said Booth Watson, ‘when the police obtained a warrant to search your apartment and came away with a number of your suits and shirts, and the photograph of your mother you have just identified.’

‘Not to mention the money that went missin’ from my safe.’

‘Some money went missing?’ said Booth Watson, feigning surprise while looking directly at the jury. ‘May I ask how much?’

‘A few bob short of seven hundred quid, which I’d intended to bank the next mornin’.’

This time it was Clare who made a note and handed it to counsel. Sir Julian nodded and added the question to his list.

‘I presume you made an official complaint to the police?’

‘What’s the point, when it was them what took it?’

Uproar broke out in the court, as the journalists began to pen a story they hadn’t anticipated. Booth Watson waited patiently for the chatter to cease before he put his next question. ‘Were you able to find out which officer was responsible for conducting the search of the apartment in your absence?’

‘Yep, I’ve got a mate who works in Brixton nick. He told me it wasn’t someone from our local patch, but an outsider from the other side of the river. Scotland Yard, no less.’

‘Did he give you a name?’

‘Sure did. Detective Inspector William Warwick.’

Several people turned around and stared in William’s direction. Only the journalists remained head down, scribbling away.

Sir Julian was on his feet at once. ‘I must protest, m’lud.’

‘Of course you must,’ said Booth Watson. ‘After all, he’s your son.’

Now the journalists had their banner headline, and it was still YOUR OWN CHILD. It was some time before the uproar had died down enough for anyone to be heard. Mr Justice Whittaker stared down at defence counsel.

‘That was uncalled for, Mr Booth Watson,’ he said, barely concealing his anger.

‘I apologize unreservedly,’ said defence counsel, giving the judge a slight bow. ‘However, m’lud, I should point out that I didn’t ask the witness who had stolen his money, only who had conducted the search.’

The judge was still seething, but managed to control his temper. ‘Very well. You may continue, Mr Booth Watson.’

‘Allow me to ask you once again, Mr Roberts, how long have you lived in your apartment in Block B?’

‘Just over ten years.’

‘And would you now look carefully at the man standing in the dock.’ The witness looked across at Rashidi. ‘Have you ever seen him before?’

‘No, never,’ said Roberts without hesitation.

‘Thank you, Mr Roberts,’ said Booth Watson, who turned to the judge and said, ‘I have no more questions for this witness, m’lud,’ before sinking back down into his place, well satisfied with his afternoon’s work.

Grace, who had remained outwardly calm during the bitter exchanges, leant across and whispered to her father, ‘Have you noticed that Roberts and Rashidi are wearing identical suits?’

Sir Julian took a closer look at both of them before saying, ‘You could be right. But I can’t do anything about it unless Rashidi gives evidence from the witness box, and I shouldn’t imagine BW will allow that.’

‘Do you intend to cross-examine this witness, Sir Julian?’ asked the judge.

‘I most certainly do, m’lud,’ said the Crown’s leading advocate, as he rose from his place.

‘Mr Roberts, if that is your real name,’ he began, looking directly at the witness.

‘What are you gettin’ at?’ said Roberts defiantly.

‘I only wondered if Tony Roberts was the name on your birth certificate. Think carefully before you answer the question, because I’m confident the judge will allow me a recess so I can visit the General Record Office to check the original document.’

‘OK, I was born Tony Burke. What of it?’

‘And when did you change your name to Roberts?’

‘Can’t remember the exact date.’

‘Could it have been about ten years ago?’

‘Might’ve been.’

‘Did you do so for any particular reason?’

‘Didn’t like being called a right berk, simple as that.’ The witness leant back, waiting for someone to laugh, but no one did.

‘I don’t think it can have been quite as simple as that,’ said Sir Julian, ‘because the initials sewn on the inside of your jacket...’

‘A.R., Anthony Roberts. My God-fearing mother never called me Tony. I only wish she was still alive today, then she could tell you ’erself.’

‘So do I,’ said Sir Julian, ‘because I could then have asked her some more questions about her son.’

‘Like what?’ said Roberts, defiantly.

‘If he knew the way to Savile Row.’

‘She’d have said yes.’

‘So when you leave your home in Brixton to visit your tailor for another fitting, which bridge do you cross?’

‘No idea. I always take a cab.’ He paused. ‘It’s somewhere in the West End, if I remember right.’

‘Somewhere in the West End,’ Sir Julian repeated, looking at the jury. ‘So let me ask you about a venue with which you appear to be more familiar, the Rose and Crown.’

‘My local.’

‘You told the court that on the night the police raided the drugs factory in Block A, you were “having a few jars at the Rose and Crown, with some mates”.’

‘Yes, and what’s more, I can name every one of them.’

‘I feel sure you can,’ said Sir Julian. ‘However, you went on to say that by the time you got home later that night, both blocks were surrounded by the police. You thought the third world war must have broken out, if I recall your exact words.’

‘At least you got somethin’ right.’

‘What time did you leave the pub?’

‘Just before ten. Don’t forget I own several newsagents so I have to be up early.’

‘And how far is it from the pub to your home in Napier Road?’

‘About half a mile.’

‘So it must have taken you ten, perhaps fifteen minutes to reach home?’

‘Sounds ’bout right.’

‘I must tell you it’s a matter of record that the police didn’t turn up in Napier Road until after ten thirty that night. So how do you account for the missing fifteen minutes?’

A worried look appeared on the witness’s face for the first time, before he blurted out, ‘Oh yeah, I forgot. I left the pub with one of my mates, and we stopped off at his place for another jar.’

‘Can you remember the name and address of that mate, Mr Roberts?’

‘Can’t say I do, but then it was more than six months ago.’

‘But only a few moments ago you told the court you could name every one of your mates who were in the pub that night.’

The witness pursed his lips, but made no attempt to reply.

‘Well, let’s move on to something you appear to remember in great detail. You told my learned friend that the police visited your home the morning after the raid and removed a number of Savile Row suits, a dozen shirts, a silver-framed photograph of your mother, as well as “a few bob short of seven hundred quid”, which you later found was missing from your safe.’

‘Spot on. And I’d like to know who stole it.’

‘So would I,’ said Sir Julian, ‘because you also told the court that you intended to bank the seven hundred pounds that morning.’

‘That’s right. I deposit the previous day’s takings on my way to work every mornin’, without fail.’

‘But you did fail on this occasion, Mr Roberts, because you told the court the money was still in your safe when the police searched your home.’

‘Must have forgotten for once.’

‘Then let me ask you something you couldn’t possibly forget if, as you claim, you’ve lived in that flat for the past ten years. What’s your telephone number?’

‘Two seven four—’ Roberts began, then stopped and stared blankly at Sir Julian.

‘It’s not a trick question, Mr Roberts. I imagine every member of the jury can remember their home telephone number, especially those who’ve lived at the same address for the past ten years.’ He was rewarded with some involuntary nods from the jury box.

‘I think it might have been changed recently,’ said Roberts.

‘Not according to British Telecom,’ said Sir Julian, holding up a letter for the court to see. ‘The accounts manager for the Brixton area assures me,’ he said, reading the words Grace had underlined, ‘this number has not been changed since it was installed in 1976.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I don’t say so, Mr Roberts, but British Telecom does.’ Sir Julian didn’t move on until he was certain the jury had realized the witness had no intention of responding. ‘I would like to return to the Asprey’s silver frame found in your flat, displaying a photograph of your late lamented mother.’

‘God rest her soul,’ said Roberts.

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Sir Julian, ‘because had she lived, there is another question I would have liked to ask her. How often did she pop into Asprey’s to buy presents for her son?’

‘What are you suggestin’?’

‘Just as we learnt earlier that you didn’t know where Savile Row is, despite having a wardrobe full of hand-made suits from one of its long-established tailors, I have a feeling your mother never visited Bond Street.’

‘You can’t prove that.’

‘You’re right, I can’t.’ Roberts assumed a smug expression, until Sir Julian asked, ‘Do you believe in coincidence?’

‘What are you gettin’ at?’

‘Allow me to explain exactly what I’m getting at. Ten years ago, you changed your name, rented a brand-new apartment in a recently built block, and acquired a bespoke tailor, even though you’re not entirely sure where Savile Row is. At that time you were the proprietor of a single newsagents shop, and you now own eleven, with another two under offer.’

‘What does that prove?’

‘That you’re a very resourceful man, Mr Roberts. But the jury might find it quite a coincidence that all this happened at the same time as Mr Assem Rashidi moved into the area, opened a drugs factory in the next block, and might have needed someone local who could move into his apartment at a moment’s notice, and look as if he’d lived there for the past ten years despite the fact he didn’t even know the telephone number of the flat.’

‘It was always my flat, not Assem’s,’ shouted Roberts, pointing at the defendant.

‘Shall we let the jury decide if it was your flat or Assem’s?’ said Sir Julian, allowing himself a smile. ‘No more questions, m’lud.’