A Kind Of Wild Justice (14 page)

She was about to ask him if he would like a drink later when his radio pager bleeped. He studied it briefly. ‘Have to leave you, darling,’ he said. ‘Much as it breaks my heart.’

God he was an annoying man. She could only follow him out into the street where mob rule still reigned. Anyway, Fielding wasn’t the key to it today and she didn’t really have time for buttering him up.

Pushing her way through the crowds, she hurried to her car, which she had sensibly parked in a car park on the other side of the town, just a few minutes’ walk away, so that she was able to make a relatively quick departure from Okehampton and head out to Five Tors Farm. A load of hacks and snappers were already gathered at the end of the farm lane, as before, and although Joanna did not actually expect to get very far on this day of the committal with so many press around, she knew the importance of trying to get close to the Phillips family.

She planned to stay down in Devon for a couple of days to make yet another attempt to obtain proper talks with the family who had so far turned down all interview requests. The
Comet
was after what they called background, the bulk of which would not be usable until after the trial had concluded or else it would break the sub judice laws, and some of it would not be usable even then unless Jimbo was found guilty. She couldn’t imagine that there was much doubt in this case, but regardless of the likely outcome, newspapers always spent a great deal of
time and money on background. It was considered vital. The paper with the best background after a big case ended was always the envy of the rest of the Street.

Jo waited, chatting to the others, quite enjoying being out in the fresh air. It was a sunny day and unseasonably warm. Jo hated doorsteps, they all did, but at least it wasn’t raining and you invariably gleaned a few nuggets of additional information when you were with the pack. She learned from the Press Association man that she had been right about the attack on O’Donnell. The police had announced that the assailant had been Jeremy Thomas and he had been arrested for assault which, harsh as it might seem, was only what she would have expected.

After about an hour, just as Joanna was wondering if she could be better employed and whether to ask the desk if Harry Fowler was free for the watching brief, a Land Rover came down the lane. Somewhat to the surprise of the pack, who had more or less given up on the family while still, of course, having to go through the motions, out stepped Bill and Rob Phillips. Neither had been in court that day. They both looked wan and drawn. Bill Phillips in particular seemed to have aged ten years since Jo had last seen him, a couple of days after his daughter had disappeared, making one of several public appeals for her safe return.

The old Nikon choir burst into action again. Cameras flashed. Motor drives whirred. The reporters also pressed forward, some clutching notebooks and pens, some brandishing tape recorders.

Rob Phillips barely seemed to notice the chaos going on around him as he spoke. ‘We have nothing
to say about today’s court proceedings except that we hope justice will be done and that the dreadful death of m-my sister …’ He stumbled over the words and looked for a moment as if he was going to break down, then with what appeared to be a great effort of will he gathered himself together and continued. ‘… the death of my sister A-Angela will be avenged.

‘But nothing can bring our A-Ange back and we are horrified at what happened in Okehampton today. We know that …’ He glanced at his father as if confirming that he should go ahead with whatever they had agreed. ‘… we know that there has been an arrest following an attack on the accused man. And, of course, we know who has been arrested. We don’t want anybody else to suffer because of what has happened to Angela. Sh-she …’ He stumbled again. It seemed that whenever he said her name, no doubt thinking about her and what had happened to her, he faltered. ‘She wouldn’t want that either,’ he continued. ‘Thank you very much.’

Reporters and cameramen ran towards their cars in order to get to phones and wire points so that they could file their copy and wire their pictures. Joanna stood for just a few seconds, watching the two dejected men, father and son, climb into their vehicle, swing it round and return to their home. The home that would never be the same again.

There were good people around. Unless she had got things very wrong indeed she had just encountered two of them. It was almost impossible to grasp what that family were going through. And yet they were still trying to behave like civilised human beings, to do what they felt was right.

She found that she was quite moved. And that didn’t happen very often.

During the long wait for the trial, which was scheduled to begin in April the following year, Harry Fowler took over the background down in Devon while Joanna and Manners concentrated on the London end.

The Phillips family continued to refuse to give interviews to anyone. Their brief statement at the end of their lane on the day of Jimbo O’Donnell’s committal was just about the sum total of their relations with the press.

There was little to justify a chief crime correspondent spending her time in Devon on the story and Jo wasn’t sure if she was sorry or glad about that. If there were to be any chance of saving her floundering marriage, then the longer she spent at home the better. Her trips away did not help anything, particularly since the anonymous phone calls, which seemed, mercifully, to have stopped.

Joanna was going through one of those torn-apart periods. She loved working for a daily newspaper and specifically covering crime. It was the sharp end all right – as tough as it got, but totally exhilarating. And, secretly, she revelled in being the first woman Scotland Yard hack. It was ground-breaking and she was damn proud of herself. But she was getting heartily sick of all the nonsense surrounding her job. Every time she saw Frank Manners she wanted to throw something at him.

She had not told a soul at the
Comet
about the moody phone calls. And neither, in the end, had she told any of her police contacts, in spite of suggesting
to her husband that she would. This had been a deliberate policy. As ever, she was not going to give the bastards the satisfaction. She didn’t want anyone, particularly Manners, to know that she had serious problems within her marriage. And in particular she didn’t want to give Manners the satisfaction of thinking that he might be responsible for it. Nothing would please the toe-rag more, she was quite sure of that.

Instead, she concentrated on the job in hand, which involved getting alongside the O’Donnells. Joanna had met Sam the Man before, of course. So had any crime reporter worth tuppence. Like the Krays before him, Sam saw himself as a bit of a star, loved to make showbusiness friends and prided himself on having a good relationship with the press. He enjoyed appearing in newspapers. He sent journalists thank you notes for coverage, even when it had been far from complimentary, Christmas cards and, if he could find out when your birthday was you got cards for those too. Joanna had received a birthday card from him every year since, as a very young general news reporter, she had first written a story about the O’Donnells. Against her better judgement Joanna had never quite been able to stop herself liking Sam the Man – on a superficial level, at any rate. However, she had no illusions about how evil he could be.

Sam’s right-hand man, Combo, a big burly minder whose build and blind loyalty to Sam made him a bit of a gangster cliché, took her call when she phoned Sam’s Dulwich home. ‘I’ll get back to yer,’ he said in his ponderous way. Not a man you wanted to quarrel with. Joanna had been told that he was given his
rather peculiar name because in a fight he was famous for employing a devastating combination of fist, feet and head. In spite of this she was pleased to hear from him when he returned her call only ten minutes or so later to say that Sam would see her at the Duke the following day.

She knew where Combo meant, the Duke of Denmark, a big, noisy pub not far from Sam’s home. They all knew the Duke. Sam held court there in a small back room behind the public bar. That’s where he liked to do business. His home was for family and Sam was a great family man. Jo was not surprised by his ready agreement to see her and, again, neither was she under any illusions. Sam would no doubt have agreed to talk to all the nationals; that was his way.

Sam appeared to be his usual avuncular self when she arrived at the Duke at the appointed time – although she felt sure he must be shocked by the horrific charges levelled at his eldest son. If Jimbo had been arrested on a straightforward blagging or, more likely in his case, a hit job, Sam O’Donnell would have regarded it as part of the cut and thrust of business. His business. But the rape and murder of a civilian was totally against his personal code. She knew that Sam considered himself to be a good, honest villain. Nonetheless, if he was anxious or in any way distressed, he certainly wasn’t showing it. Not to her, anyway. Arms outstretched in greeting, he rose from his big upright armchair to welcome her as the bartender showed her into the dark, wood-panelled room, its ceiling yellowed by decades of tobacco smoke. She noticed as he sat down again on the throne-like chair that a single spotlight on the wall behind cast the old gang boss slightly into silhouette,
giving an edge of mystery and menace to his appearance. Always good at theatre, was Sam.

‘A pleasure to see you, as ever, Joanna,’ he told her. His voice was deep and throaty from smoking, his smile displayed expensive dentistry, his abundant figure was immaculately encased in a beautifully cut pale-grey suit, fingers and wrists dripped gold, his nails had obviously been professionally manicured. She knew he must be almost sixty, but he still had thick, wavy hair although the colour was too dark to be natural. However, the stylish cut flattered his big, jowly features. His eyes, small for his face and peering at her through folds of flesh, were astute and intelligent. Anyone who underestimated Sam did so at their peril. Combo stood at his right arm, just fractionally behind his boss. Combo’s son, Little John, a teenaged clone of his father although already even taller and bigger, hence his ironic name, stood just a step or two back again. On the surface, at least, it was business as usual for Sam the Man.

Jo was untroubled by the beautifully presented
Godfather
tableau. All she was after was good copy. She enjoyed the challenge, that was the truth of it. And although she had no desire to fall out with the O’Donnells, she wasn’t scared of them. As a reporter she had no reason to be, she was the last kind of person the clan would want to harm.

Sam lit a large cigar and offered her coffee from a silver pot on the table by his side. He poured some for her into a dainty bone china teacup, the sort of cup which positively invited you to crook your little finger as you drank from it. It was well known that Sam didn’t drink alcohol and neither did anyone else while they were in the back room. If you wanted a proper
drink you were expected to go to the bar for it – but only when Sam told you that you could. Jo knew the rules.

‘What I want is for you to put the record straight about my boy, Joanna,’ Sam told her, puffing on his cigar and sending a cloud of dense smoke wafting towards the already discoloured ceiling.

‘That’s what I’m here for,’ she replied, although they both knew it wasn’t.

She would, however, appear to go along with anything Sam said. She needed him. She couldn’t afford to let the
Comet
be out in the cold on this one as far as the O’Donnells were concerned. So she was quite prepared to appear to display a sympathy she did not feel for both the family and Jimbo’s predicament.

‘My boy’s told me he’s innocent and I believe him absolutely,’ Sam went on. ‘We O’Donnells don’t harm innocent people and we never hurt women. None of us would hurt a young girl like that and the filth should damn well know it. My boy’s been fitted up. And we’re going to damn well prove it.’

Joanna studied the tough old gangster appraisingly. He was dealing with his son’s arrest in exactly the way Joanna would have expected. And he was giving nothing away. Down, but most definitely not out. Typical Sam the Man. She had already seen the names of the sharp legal team which had been hired for Jimbo. The O’Donnells had money, know-how, and influence – a lot more influence in all kinds of areas than they should have.

Jo just hoped the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary and the prosecution lawyers knew what they were up against. She didn’t think they had
villains quite like the O’Donnells in the West of England. Perhaps the family’s biggest strength was the way they saw themselves. They had no real perception of themselves as crooks at all – rather as tough but fair businessmen working in a certain area and operating under a different set of rules from the rest of society. They dealt out their own rough justice and if ever challenged would insist that their integrity was as great as anyone else’s.

Sam was still talking: ‘Jimbo’s never been able to keep his hands off the ladies, but that’s not rape. He was just a boy when he let things get out of hand before and I never believed he raped anyone then either. He was led on. He doesn’t need to force women against their will, he’s too good for that, my boy. And this Angela Phillips thing. It doesn’t make sense. Rape and torture of an innocent girl? No way, I’m telling you. And kidnap? Why in God’s name would he stage a kidnap? It’s the hardest scam of all. Everybody knows that. And he’s got no need, my boy, has he?’

Joanna didn’t doubt that Sam had convinced himself he was telling the truth.

She also didn’t doubt that he would move heaven and earth to get his son cleared of all the charges against him. And she knew he would be a formidable adversary.

The trial of Jimbo O’Donnell took place at Exeter Crown Court in April 1981, seven months after his arrest. Joanna returned once more to Devon to cover it.

She had not seen Fielding since the committal proceedings. Once the
Comet
’s background was in place there was little else that could be done until the trial began. Certainly very little that could be written. As far as Joanna was concerned there had been plenty of other stories to deal with. Plus Frank Manners. Plus all the other bastards. And plus, most important of all, her husband.