Wig Betrayed (16 page)

Deep down, I knew that Charlie still loved me and I was determined not to be driven away by what he had said when we last met...

* * *

I had often visited the Temple when Charlie had been a barrister, but never King's Bench Walk where Harris Fortescue had his chambers. They were housed in a Dickensian building, with small rooms leading off five floors. Fortescue's own room, where I was taken by his clerk, was right at the top with no access by lift. So I was not only nervous but slightly out of breath when he greeted me at the door. However, my first impression of the QC, a dynamic compact man with piercing blue eyes, reassured me. He was holding a document in his hand as I was ushered in by his clerk.

“Mrs Courtley, sir...”

Fortescue placed the document back on his desk. Even though it was upside down, I recognized what it was, the psychologist's report, prepared by Professor Jeffrey Dearman. Had I not sent it in to him myself after Giles Crossett had forwarded it to me?

After greeting me, the QC sat down and got straight to the point.

He began to read a passage from the report in a clipped voice,
“People make voluntary false confessions because of their inability to distinguish fact from fiction, to help or protect the real criminal or because of feelings of guilt over past transgressions...”

He paused.

“You marked that last passage for my special attention, Mrs Courtley, and in your letter to me you indicated that you felt this might bear some relevance to your husband's case. But before examining that more fully I have to be clear about one thing – is your husband now telling you that he made a false confession to murder?”

“He won't allow me to visit him. That's the problem and that's why I need your help. You see, although not mentally ill, he's withdrawn into himself to the point of refusing point-blank to talk about the case to anyone.”

The barrister pondered for a moment.

“Perhaps we can return to that in due course. But firstly, what possible past transgressions would make him admit killing that girl, when he didn't? Maybe it's just wishful thinking on your part, Mrs Courtley?”

“I know he's innocent, Mr Fortescue, and so, I believe, do you. You complained from the outset that you never received detailed instructions from him about what happened. After all, you told Giles Crossett it was the most extraordinary case you'd ever come across; particularly when Charles pleaded to murder at the trial when he indicated that he would put in a plea to manslaughter only. I really believe that Charles was trying to salve his conscience in some way for the death of the girl even though he didn't kill her. That's why I sent you Professor Dearman's report.”

The barrister sighed.

“Well, it's possible I suppose – but let's return to practicalities. The only way we can proceed with an appeal at all is on the basis that your husband's plea was undeniably equivocal and he hasn't even told
you
that, has he?”

I frowned.

“I'm not sure I quite follow...”

“Forgive me – lawyer's jargon. Basically, we have to show the appeal court that your husband's plea was completely unfounded because he was admitting to something which he hadn't done. That's impossible without your husband testifying to them under oath to that effect and, at the same time, why he chose to put himself in this predicament.”

“And that's why I'm asking you to go to see him! I know that this would be most unusual but, you see, I believe he's in a state of shock. He never really contemplated the consequences of his actions. Strong advice might just help to change his mind. Please, you're my last hope.”

The barrister stared out of the window, now deep in thought. I wasn't going to hurry him. Instead, I cast my mind back over the last few days.

* * *

Giles Crossett, who was proving to be a steadfast friend to me as well as to Charles, felt that this was our last chance. Charles had absolutely refused to see either of us, although he had written to me several times imploring me to divorce him and get on with my life. I hadn't dismissed the idea altogether but deep down I knew he really needed me. Moreover, something kept niggling me: I just couldn't accept he was guilty. The thing that didn't make sense was why he hadn't provided a full explanation to anyone. A column in a Sunday newspaper had picked that up: ‘
The Dam Killing – A British military judge admits to murder of lover – but did he really do it?
'

Some days before, Giles had called me and, realizing that we both had doubts as to Charlie's guilt, decided to meet up for lunch in a pub in London.

“I've thought about Charlie's case a great deal,” he said, “and I'm beginning to believe that your husband did this to punish himself in some way.”

“But why? What could he possibly have done that was so wicked to merit admitting a crime which effectively puts him away for the rest of his life?”

“I can't imagine, but who knows what was going on in his mind? The fact remains that murder, or even manslaughter, doesn't really stack up. I've looked at the facts. Remember, there's not a shred of forensic evidence on the girl's clothing to indicate that he propelled her towards the wall and forced her over it. Her coat was soaked, of course, as you would expect which could have obliterated any marks but it still doesn't make any sense.”

“Is there a way we could mount an appeal on the basis that his mind was disturbed when he stood trial?”

Giles shook his head.

“The prison psychiatrist stated that he's not suffering from mental illness as such, although clearly now suffering from clinical depression. However, I've been turning over an idea in my mind. What if we can persuade Harris Fortescue to take up the matter? He was wholly intrigued with the case, I know, and as an outsider might just be able to get through to Charles. Meanwhile, I will obtain a psychologist's report about people who admit to committing crimes they haven't done. I read an article about this phenomenon. It's not that uncommon, apparently.”

So that's how I came to be in Fortescue's chambers that afternoon. Giles had wanted to attend the conference as well but professional commitments made that impossible.

* * *

Fortescue looked up at me, his fingers tapping the desk.

“Very well. I'll do it, but there are certain problems to overcome. I'm no longer instructed by your husband, Mrs Courtley, so couldn't go in a legal capacity which means it will be difficult to see him unless he requests it.”

“We've found a way around that. Giles has taken the matter up with the Lord Chancellor, who has agreed that Giles should go and see Charles on his behalf in an official capacity. It's really to see whether Charles has anything to say before being formally dismissed. The Governor says that Charles will have to see Giles, come what may, as this is standard procedure. If you accompany Giles and take Charles by surprise, as it were, we feel you might be able to use your powers of advocacy to discover the truth.”

Fortescue gave a wry smile.

“That's if he doesn't tell me to bugger off first, of course. It's worth a try I suppose. It will certainly make a change for a defence barrister. Most of my time is spent in trying to get people off when the evidence suggests they are as guilty as hell. Now it's the other way round.”

“I'm really grateful to you, Mr. Fortescue. I ought to add that the Governor has been very sympathetic about this as far as I'm concerned too. He's suggested that I join him at the prison. He intends to observe the process which will take place in the prison's visits centre.”

Fortescue looked surprised for a moment.

“Well, as it's not actually a legal visit which would be covered by lawyer-client privilege, that's his right I suppose.”

* * *

Escorted by the Governor, I entered the communications room which contained a range of monitors covering all parts of the prison. He guided me towards a large flat screen in the corner which displayed the inside of the prison Visits Centre with great clarity. It was a large hall with fixed circular tables and chairs placed at various intervals. The camera revealed Charles sitting at one of the tables with Giles Crossett. It had been agreed that Harris Fortescue would enter the hall later at an opportune moment. There was no-one else present, apart from the customary wardens standing by the sides, as the hall was being used solely to deal with this visit.

“I know you've been refusing to see anyone, Charles,” Giles was saying, “but I'm not here as your friend but in an official capacity. The Lord Chancellor insisted that somebody comes to see you on his behalf before he takes the formal action necessary to dismiss you. That's because you are still entitled to make representations about the dismissal which, as I'm sure you know, entails not only loss of income but pension rights as well.”

“Anyone could have come, Giles, why you?”

“I wanted to do it, Charles, as a friend.”

Charles buried his face in his hands.

“I've nothing to say. What difference does it make?”

“Well, in his discretion, the Lord Chancellor could award you a small pension based on the years you actually served as a judge – if you were to show a measure of contrition for what you did.”

“Just go away – I don't want to talk about it.”

“Time you did then, don't you think?”

Fortescue's voice, sharp as a razor, cut in as he strode into the hall from a side entrance.

Charles's jaw dropped at the barrister's unexpected entrance.

“What gives you the right to come here..?”

“Remember the trial? You instructed me that you were going to admit to manslaughter only – then you took the full rap! Don't you recall what we were all told when we were called to the Bar? That it was an honourable profession dedicated to upholding the highest professional standards. That fellow barristers should always be able to trust one another. But at your trial you not only misled me but made me look a complete fool, too. Aren't you, at the very least, sorry for that?”

“Why should I be sorry? I was thinking of myself, my life...”

“Come on! You led everybody a merry old dance admitting that you were responsible for that girl's death but never getting down to specifics. Then you hinted to me that you weren't actually guilty of murder but might be of manslaughter. Talk about clients behaving in a devious and slippery way towards their lawyers. You're by far the most difficult person I've ever had to represent!”

“Well, that's your job, isn't it? Dealing with difficult people.” There was silence as Fortescue took a seat next to Crossett. Then, startling everybody, he banged the table with his fist.

“Damn it, man! You were a judge, used to hearing people prevaricate and fudge the whole time in court and that's exactly what you did with me! Still doing it actually. I want the bloody truth, do you hear? Your wife and Giles don't think that you did kill that girl. Just admitting responsibility for her death isn't quite the same, is it? So I demand a straight answer to a straight question. Did you push her off the dam?”

Charles looked down at the table.

“I've said, time and time again, I've nothing further to add to my story.”

Fortescue rose to his feet and raised his fist.

“Unless you bloody well answer the question, I'll fucking well hit you – in the presence of your wife and the Governor too. They're watching, you know. If I struck you, even if you refused to make a statement of complaint, I'd still be charged and that would ruin my career. Those are the lengths I'm prepared to go to get to the bottom of this. Do you think I would normally contemplate doing anything so extreme?”

He pulled back his fist, his arm trembling.

“Are you really prepared to ruin
my
life as well as your own and your wife's?” he hissed.

Charles slumped in his chair and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“All right. I can't let you do that. There was never any row and I didn't push her. She actually dived off the top of the dam because she was under the influence of LSD.”

Fortescue lowered his fists and sat down.

“Tell us the full story, Charles, right from the beginning.”

Then it all came out, not only Charles's gradual infatuation with Anke and the drug taking which culminated in her pointless death, but also his growing depression as the result of the last cases he tried. At the end of it, his voice broke.

“Don't you see?” he mumbled. “It was one death too many. Only recently, I'd caused a sergeant to take his own life because of a sentence I'd passed and now someone else was dead because of me – I had to be punished for what I did.”

Fortescue patted him on the shoulder.

“Well, that's quite a story, Charles. I'm sorry that I had to threaten you but I felt it was the only way I would get to the truth.”

Stifling a sob myself, I turned to the Governor.

“Will you allow me a visit, please? I'm sure he'll see me now.”

The Governor nodded.

“Of course, Mrs Courtley.”

I sat back on the bench in the concrete exercise yard, revelling in the sunshine and cool air. I could imagine I was actually in a public park, free to walk around as much as I wanted. In reality, barred windows faced me belonging to the wing of Canning prison to which I had now been transferred. As a result, I spent more time out of my cell, with frequent access to the yard as I was now housed with older, more responsible, prisoners.

I picked up the letter from Morris Byler, the solicitor whom I had instructed on the recommendation of Fortescue, and read it once again.

It wasn't going to be easy from the outset. The time allocated for an appeal against my conviction had lapsed. The first step in the process was to submit my sworn affidavit (setting out what had really happened at the dam and why I had chosen to take responsibility) to a High Court judge sitting in chambers.

The solicitor was a tall, thin man with a dry manner who had left me in no doubt as to the difficulties that lay ahead.

“We need a judge to grant you leave to appeal out of time, for a start,” Byler had said. “It's such an unusual situation that he probably will, bearing in mind what Mr Crossett and Mr Fortescue have both said in their accompanying affidavits. Then it's a question of him actually granting
leave
to appeal, which I anticipate he will refuse. No matter – we have the right to raise that with the full court anyway. So the end result will be a hearing which will deal with both aspects. With any luck, the court will decide the appeal on its merits at the same time as the granting of leave. Harris may be the best advocate there is, but the whole matter will depend on your evidence – and really, your evidence alone – to the court. There's nothing to back it up, I'm afraid.”

“Surely what Professor Dearman has to say about my condition counts for something?”

“Only to a point. Indeed, the courts have come across it before in other cases. But it can't be called wholly independent evidence which actually corroborates your story. Through an enquiry agent in Germany, I tried to contact anyone who knew Anke – someone who might have been able to tell us about a propensity for taking drugs – but without success. Even at university, she seemed to have been a loner. Her boyfriend in Berlin has disappeared too and she had no close relations who might have been able to help.”

I closed my eyes in the sunshine, enjoying the warmth. Soon enough I would be back in my cell; hot and rank, whatever the weather. At least I didn't have to share it, but could never escape from the repetitive rap music emanating from one cell or another further down the corridor.

I knew I had punished myself enough now and at least the enormity of what I had admitted was no longer clouding my mind. The apathetic state of depression I'd succumbed to had been banished, at least temporarily, by Fortescue's intervention. But the fact remained would anyone ever be able to understand why I had confessed to a crime which I hadn't committed; indeed, a crime which hadn't taken place at all?

There was only my word to say that Anke had taken LSD that day and had actually dived over the dam. Would anybody believe that I had lied in the first place? It wasn't as if I had been suffering, or was suffering now, from any sort of mental illness. The prison psychiatrist had only concluded that I was clinically depressed at the time he examined me.

I scrabbled in my tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette, which I smoked slowly. It wasn't as good as my pipe, but it was some consolation. One of the few that would be left, if my appeal failed and I was to spend much of my life in prison – which remained a very real possibility.

* * *

From the appellant's point of view, Court Number Six in the Royal Courts of Justice is an uncomfortable place. A small cage was set up high against the wall, on the right-hand side diagonally from where the judges sit. Inside the cage, there is only a narrow, hard bench to sit on and little room to stretch the legs. I found that the only place to put my documents was my lap.

Lord Justice Massamore was presiding, flanked by two nondescript High Court judges who played little part in the proceedings. The former lived up to the sonority of his name. He was a heavily-built man, with fleshy jowls and a husky voice. According to Fortescue, he had been a very successful QC in the libel field and possessed a fine brain but wasn't renowned for his patience with those who appeared before him. The other judges simply looked inscrutable.

Fortescue and the prosecutor came into court at the same time. Fortescue was followed by Byler who sat two rows back, and the prosecutor – a sturdily-built man with a neat, black beard – sat by the counsel who had appeared for the prosecution at the original trial.

Fortescue rose and when he introduced his opponent as Mr Denys Cuthbertson I realized who he was; the son of the distinguished barrister, Dermot Cuthbertson, who had prosecuted me in front of a disciplinary tribunal so many years before.

There was an exchange of legal formalities during which it became apparent that Cuthbertson had an amazing voice. Rich and deep, it resonated around the room and, together with his beard, made him look and sound like an Old Testament Prophet. It was almost reassuring in tone.

I began to relax. Somehow, I had anticipated having to do verbal battle with somebody like Fortescue – sharp and incisive. It wasn't until later that I realized how effective Cuthbertson's manner would be.

Soon, the important moment came when I was to give evidence. Let out of my cage, I descended into the courtroom via a narrow circular staircase (which exited into the well of the court) and went into the witness box. After giving my account to Fortescue, Cuthbertson lost no time in testing me on the crucial issue.

“Let me put this to you straightaway, Mr Courtley,” he rumbled, “and please take as much time as you need to deal with it. How could you
possibly
plead guilty to murdering Anke Stillsmann when her death was, according to you, the result of her own reckless act?”

“I felt compelled to take the blame for it. I'd allowed her to take the drug, after all. It may not seem rational now in the cold light of day, but that was the way I felt at the time. Let me try to put it into context.”

I began to tell the court about my growing depression over the last few months, of the previous cases where I'd been racked by guilt, particularly Sergeant Cockaigne's, and ended by telling them of the humiliating confrontation with Strawbridge outside the officers' mess.

Cuthbertson resumed his questioning.

“All right. Well, let's leave that aside for a moment, Mr Courtley, and explore what happened later. There was a trial coming up in weeks. Meanwhile, you saw Mr Fortescue in conference and we
know
that you canvassed a plea of guilty to manslaughter with him because that's what he told the Crown you were prepared to offer in advance. So why didn't you go down that road if it was just a question of feeling guilty because she'd died? ”

“That might have been a possibility, if the prosecution had accepted the plea to manslaughter at the outset. But they wouldn't, so I was required to give evidence in the trial. And that I couldn't do because it would mean lying under oath.”

“Come on, Mr Courtley, let's be real.” Cuthbertson's voice was seductively cajoling. “When the indictment was actually put to you – and, after all, as a barrister and judge, you'd seen this done countless times before – you faced up to it and pleaded guilty to
murder
not
manslaughter.
It was time to tell the truth! You knew exactly what you were doing – admitting your terrible crime in full. That's the reality, isn't it? No sane person would ever plead guilty to murder when they hadn't committed the crime!”

“I
had
to take responsibility for her death, don't you see? But, I couldn't bring myself to lie in court about what happened. Telling the truth in court is the bedrock of our legal system. I, of all people, know that – after all, I'd been a judge myself.”

I looked towards Massamore, hoping for a reaction, but he remained impassive.

“Very well. Let's return then to your statement to the police for a moment and attempt to analyse what you actually said in it.”

He read my statement to the court.

“You also repeated that you took full responsibility for her death in answer to the police corporal. Now, at the outset of the statement you said you killed her. According to your evidence now, that isn't true. Later, your statement says you had a row. Why add that detail at all? It wasn't necessary, was it?”

“Well, not strictly I suppose, but I felt I had to elaborate the story a bit...”

“Do you really expect this court to believe that? This wasn't a game, Mr Courtley. You were about to throw your life away! The fact is that you
did
have a row – perhaps because she wanted to finish the affair? Or,
you
wanted to end it and she was threatening to end your career?”

“But that's absurd! I was separated from my wife anyway. Having an affair was a private matter.”

“Not if she vowed to
destroy
it though. Perhaps she taunted you by saying she would tell ugly stories to the press – that kind of thing.”

“No…no…”

Cuthbertson sighed, lowering his voice a fraction, “But we don't need to
prove
any of that, Mr Courtley. Only you and the dead Anke Stillsmann know what really went on for those few, split seconds. The fact is you took the rap at the trial because you pushed her over the dam wall, didn't you?”

“No – that's not what happened.”

Cuthbertson paused, staring at me intently.

“Let's just examine the nobility of your conduct for a moment. You see, your case is that you made a huge sacrifice in order to square your conscience – throwing away your freedom forever, one way or another.” His voice had dropped to a virtual whisper. “Do you agree?”

“Yes, I had to do it. I know it isn't rational, but that was the way I felt it had to be.”

“An admirable – if somewhat extreme – sentiment on the face of it. Noble, as I said just now.” He stopped and brought his hand down on his lectern with a clatter. “But not so noble that you felt compelled to go to the police
at once
and admit killing her. You only did that a few days later. You agree?”

“Yes. I suppose I panicked, I wasn't thinking straight.”

“Because if you
had
alerted the authorities at the time, Mr Courtley,” Massamore growled from the bench, “Anna Stillsmann might have lived. We do not know when she actually drowned – it could have been some time after she fell into the water.”

“I don't deny it. I still feel terrible about not going to the police.”

I knew how despicable my conduct had been and of course it only served to add to my guilt, which in itself had contributed towards my decision to accept responsibility for Anke's death after her body had been
discovered. Whatever the outcome of the appeal, I knew I would be ashamed of it for the rest of my life.

But the judges were unlikely to interpret it that way. I glanced up at them. Their faces said it all. They simply didn't believe me. And I was going to lose the appeal...