The Killing of Katie Steelstock (34 page)

“Let me repeat a question I put to you earlier,” said Mrs. Bellamy. “You do agree, I hope, that if facts
are
relevant, it is the duty of the police to share them with the defence?”

“Yes.”

“The object of a criminal trial is to elucidate the truth, not to secure a personal victory for a particular policeman.”

“The object of a trial,” said Knott, “is to determine whether the accused is guilty of the crime he is charged with. Not to examine any other crimes which may have taken place in the neighbourhood at the time.”

It was a good answer, in a debating sense, but, thought Mrs. Havelock, it was too long. It was the first small sign that the Superintendent was getting rattled.

Mrs. Bellamy said, “Of course. That’s right. And that is what I meant by the word ‘relevant.’ Relevant to this crime. Now am I not right in thinking that a considerable part of the police investigation was devoted to trying to trace the typewriter on which this famous note was typed?”

“It was one of the things we tried to do.”

“Was not one of your sergeants sent round all office suppliers in the neighbourhood with a description of the make of typewriter?”

“Yes.”

“And an advertisement put in the press?”

“Yes.”

“Would you not describe that as a persistent investigation?”

“All our investigations in a murder case are persistent.”

“And were they all as successful as this one?”

Knott looked at her for a long moment. The colour was creeping into his face. He said, “I’m not sure that I understand.”

“Then I must make myself clear. Did not one of your officers go up to London yesterday and visit a certain mission house in South London? Did he not find a typewriter there and take a sample from it, which he subsequently handed to the Documents Division in your own Science Laboratory for testing?”

“I believe that is correct.”

“And what was the result?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“I have not yet received an official report.”

The noise from the courtroom was like the hiss of expelled breath which has been held too long. Someone shouted, “The man’s a liar.” A woman sitting close behind Mrs. Havelock said, “Make him answer,” in tones of such venom that Mrs. Havelock looked around startled. It was a woman she knew quite well, a mother of three children and normally as placid as an apple dumpling. Now her face was transformed by fury.

Mr. Appleton looked around the room, from side to side, waiting until the noise had died away. Then he said, quite pleasantly, “I have no doubt you are as anxious as I am to hear the rest of the evidence in this case. But I have to warn you that if there is any further interruption, I shall adjourn the hearing and continue it with the press in attendance but with no members of the general public there at all. Have you any further questions for this witness, Mrs. Bellamy?”

“There is one further matter which I should like to explore. It concerns the statement which we have heard read out to us. A statement alleged to have been made by the accused.”

“A statement which was made by the accused,” said Knott. He was back on balance again.

“Could you explain to us exactly how it was obtained?”

“The accused was asked if he wished to volunteer a statement. He did so. And it was written down.”

“Sentence by sentence, as he spoke it?”

“Yes.”

“I am only raising the point because certain parts of it sound more like a police version of what the accused
might
have said than a verbatim record of what he
did
say. For instance”—Mrs. Bellamy adjusted her pince-nez—”’I proceeded to the scene of the fire, arriving at about half past ten . . . and conversing with the fire officers.’ That hardly sounds to me like something the accused would actually have said.”

“He did say it.”

“’I left the roadhouse at approximately a quarter to one and proceeded back via Whitchurch and Pangbourne.’ Did he say that, too?”

“Yes.”

“I thought it was only policemen who ‘conversed’ and ‘proceeded.’ Ordinary people ‘talked’ and ‘went.’”

“That’s what he said.”

“You’re sure this wasn’t the sort of statement which is obtained by the police asking a series of questions which suggest the answers they want.”

“Quite sure.”

“More lies,” said Jonathan.

“I am pressing the matter because I am going to suggest that at this point you inserted two or three words which the accused never said – ‘via Whitchurch and Pangbourne.’”

“He said them in his formal statement and in his earlier informal statement.”

“Which was not taken down verbatim?”

“No, but it was tape-recorded.”

For the first time Mrs. Bellamy looked taken aback. She recovered quickly. She said, “If this was done without the knowledge and consent of the accused, I do not see that it can be referred to in evidence.”

“I understand,” said Mavor, “that the tape itself will demonstrate that the accused was informed that his words were being recorded.”

“Before or after he made his statement?”

“The passage occurs towards the end.”

“And until then he knew nothing about it and had not consented to a recording being made?”

“He had not consented, but he made no objection.”

Mr. Appleton conferred with his clerk. He said, “When the accused made this earlier statement, had he been charged?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I don’t think it can be given in evidence in this court.”

Mavor said, “We accept your ruling, sir.” He had not thought they would get away with it, but it had been worth trying. And the intervention had robbed Mrs. Bellamy’s cross-examination of some of its sting.

“I shall resume at two o’clock,” said Mr. Appleton. “And might I ask spectators, if they intend to remain in court over the interval, not to leave a quantity of debris on the floor. Yesterday it took the attendants half an hour to sweep up.”

“It looks as though we should finish this afternoon,” said the Group Captain. “I thought Mrs. Bellamy made the best of the running this morning. How do you think the chances stand now?”

“Still fifty-fifty,” said Mrs. Havelock. “Thank God it’s Appleton who has to make his mind up and not us.”

At three o’clock that afternoon, Sergeant Shilling, who had been left in charge of the operations room, sustained two shocks, both of them severe.

The first shock arrived in the form of a telephone call. Shilling recognised the voice. It was a detective sergeant called Whittaker who worked in the Fingerprint Section at Central. Wrong. Not Whittaker. Whitmore. He seemed to be amused about something.

He said, “You remember that print you sent up to us?”

“The one off the cupboard door.”

“That’s the one. Well, guess what!”

“Tell me,” said Shilling. Already he could feel a faint tickle of uneasiness.

“You know we tried it on the main computer. No luck there at all. Not a chirrup. This morning, just for laughs, we put it on the SOC List.”

Shilling’s hand tightened on the telephone. He understood well enough what Whitmore was talking about. The Fingerprint Section maintained a separate record, known as the “Scene of Crime,” or SOC List. On it were recorded the prints of all those people who might have legitimate business at the place where a crime had been discovered. Not only police officers in all the forces in the country, but pathologists, police surgeons, photographers and the like. It was useful as an eliminator and could be keyed, if necessary, into the main print computer.

“Looks like he’s been a bit careless,” said Whitmore. “He’ll collect a rocket from Knotty.” Shilling was hardly listening to him. His mind was racing ahead, trying to absorb and work out the shocking implications of what he had heard.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” said Whitmore. “We all make mistakes. We’ll be sending you a written report by hand this evening.”

Shilling said, “Thank you,” and rang off. He was still staring blindly at the telephone when a second and greater shock followed.

He had been aware that something was happening across the other side of the courtyard. Someone had arrived. He heard Sergeant Bakewell’s voice saying, “It’s just across here, sir. I’ll show you the way.”

Then the door was opened and Terence Loftus, Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, stalked into the room.

Mrs. Mason said, “Of course I’m sure. You don’t stand for twenty minutes outside a lighted telephone box without being able to recognise the man who’s deliberately keeping you waiting. I can assure you it fixes his face very firmly in your mind.”

She glared at the man in the dock. Jonathan rewarded her with a charming smile.

“And you’re quite certain about the time?” said Mavor.

“Perfectly certain. You see, my sister doesn’t like being dragged away from her television set before midnight. Then she has to put the dog out. We have a standing arrangement, that if I want to ring her I do so at five or ten minutes after midnight. That suits us both. I don’t go to bed early myself.”

Mavor was on the point of saying, “Thank you very much,” when he noted that a disturbance was taking place near the side door. A uniformed policeman was forcing a passage through the crowd for a tall grey-haired man whom Mavor had no difficulty in recognising. By this time everyone in the room realised that something was happening.

Mavor said, “It seems there may have been a development of which I ought to be apprised. I wonder if you would allow me to hold up the proceedings for a moment.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Appleton courteously. He, too, had recognised the newcomer, who was talking to the solicitor for the police. Mavor joined the conference. Most of the talking was done by the grey-haired man. He had a gesture of chopping the desk in front of him with the edge of his hand, a karate blow.

Mavor returned to his place, placed the last paper he had been using neatly on top of his brief and said, “I understand that the Crown will offer no further evidence on the first charge.”

A curious sound broke from the packed ranks of the spectators. It was like a communal gasp, followed by an outbreak which started as a murmur, escalated into something more menacing and died away suddenly when it was observed that Mrs. Bellamy was on her feet.

She said, “I should like to understand that. Does it mean that the charge is withdrawn?”

“The first charge, yes.”

“In that case, since, as I have indicated, there is evidence of considerable provocation on the lesser charge, I should like to make an application that the prisoner be released forthwith on bail”

The response from the courtroom made it clear that there was strong popular backing for this suggestion.

Mr. Appleton turned to Mavor, who had Knott now at his elbow, whispering fiercely.

Mavor said, “The second charge may be a lesser one. It is nevertheless a very serious one. Wounding a member of the police force. It would, I submit, be most unusual to afford bail on such a charge. However, the decision must be left to you, sir.”

“Has he surrendered his passport?”

“I haven’t got a passport,” said Jonathan. His voice was so high-pitched as to be almost out of control.

“Something missing up top,” said the Group Captain. “I wouldn’t let him loose. Not for a minute.”

“On condition, then,” said Mr. Appleton, “that you report every evening before six o’clock to the Hannington police station and if you break that condition your bail will be automatically cancelled, I am prepared to grant the application.”

Jonathan had listened to this with a smile twitching his lips. Now he threw back his head and laughed. It was a horrible sound, part spite, part hysteria, with very little humour in it. Fortunately it was drowned by the roar of cheering which broke from the court.

There was a scene of confusion as the reporters fought to make their way out through the side entrance and the people at the back shouldered and elbowed their way through the slower spectators. The police had bolted the door to prevent a further invasion from the street and it took some seconds to get it open. Then the crowd belched out and the noise of the cheering spread down the waiting queue and flowed out into the streets of Reading, flowed down a dozen telephone wires into the offices of great papers and out to millions upon millions of readers.

The police had blundered. The man they had accused of the killing of Katie Steelstock was free.

“Thirty years of police work,” said the Assistant Commissioner, “have convinced me that it is always the most trivial causes which lead to the most disastrous results. If my daughter, Venetia, had known that Sergeant McCourt was stationed at Hannington, she’d have told me a fortnight ago what she told me yesterday morning and most of our troubles would never have happened.”

Knott grunted. They were alone in the Assistant Commissioner’s office. Knott’s face was still grey, but some of the life had come back into his eyes.

“It appears that she got friendly with McCourt when he was in London. They met over some trouble with a dog. A nice-looking boy, with an easy manner. She took him along to one of Ruoff’s parties. Ruoff gave him the full treatment. Hocussed drink and private photographic session in the bedroom. My daughter went looking for him and came in right at the end. McCourt was pretty well flat out by that time, though he realised afterwards what had happened and this must have been what finally decided him to change the filth of London for the clean countryside. When Ruoff gathered that his latest model was a police officer he was scared stiff. He’d just had one brush with the law and lucky to get away without a prison sentence. He assured my daughter he’d destroy the photograph.”

“But he didn’t,” said Knott.

“He didn’t,” agreed the Assistant Commissioner. “He kept it and Katie found it when she was rummaging through his cabinet and took it away. It was apple pie for her. She had that puritanical young man on the end of a string, with a hook in his mouth she could twitch whenever she felt like it.”

Knott was thinking it out slowly. He said, “Then it was really the photograph and the note that he was looking for when he broke into her house late that night.”