A Place of Execution (1999) (42 page)

‘That’s right,’ George said wearily.

‘Your pal’s been in court today,’ the usher continued. ‘The one that looks like a prop forward.’

‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

‘He said if I saw you to tell you he’d be in the Lamb and Flag an’ all. It’s the only place you can be sure of hearing when the jury’s coming back, you see.’

‘Thanks,’ George said over his shoulder as he headed out of the front door and across the square to the old coaching inn. He almost tripped over Clough’s legs as he swung through the main entrance.

The detective sergeant was stretched out in a chintz armchair in the reception area, a large Scotch in his fist and a cigarette smouldering in a pedestal ashtray next to him.

‘I hope Traffic didn’t catch you,’ Clough said, straightening up. ‘Pull up a chair.’ He gestured at the half-dozen armchairs that loomed over tiny round tables, filling the cramped area in front of the glassed-in reception desk. The loose covers with their designs of pink and green cabbage roses clashed violently with the rich reds and blues of the traditional Wilton carpet, but neither man noticed nor cared.

George sat down. ‘How did you manage that?’ he asked, gesturing at the Scotch. ‘They’re not open for another hour at least.’ Clough winked. ‘I got to know the receptionist when I brought Wells up from St Albans. Do you want one?’

‘I wouldn’t say no.’

Clough crossed to the wood-veneered reception desk and leaned over.

George heard the murmur of voices, then his sergeant was back at his side. ‘She’ll bring one over.’

‘Thanks. How was the summing-up?’

‘Very even-handed. Nothing to get the Appeal Court excited there. The judge laid out the evidence, fair and square. He made you sound like a wronged maiden one minute, then next minute he said someone had to be lying and they had to decide who. He went on a lot about the difference between fanciful doubt and reasonable doubt. The jury were looking very glum as they went out, I have to say.’

‘Thanks for coming down,’ George said.

‘It’s been interesting.’

‘I know, but it is your day off.’

Clough shrugged. ‘Aye, but the Martinet didn’t ban me from coming, did he?’

George grinned. ‘Only because he didn’t think of it. Where are all the press boys, by the way?’

‘They’re upstairs in Don Smart’s room with a bottle of Bell’s. One of the local-paper lads drew the short straw. He’s over at the court, ready to phone through soon as there’s any sign of the jury. The lawyers are all in the residents’ lounge. Jonathan Pritchard’s pacing up and down like an expectant father on hot bricks.’

George sighed. ‘I know just how he feels.’

‘Speaking of which, how is Anne?’

As he lit a cigarette, George raised his eyebrows. ‘Upset by what she reads in the papers. This warm weather’s getting her down too. She says she feels like she’s lugging a sack of spuds round on her stomach.’ He nervously chewed the skin on the side of his thumb. ‘Between her expecting and this case, I haven’t got a nerve left in my body.’ He jumped to his feet and walked over to the nearest window. Staring across the square towards the court, he said, ‘What am I going to do if they go ‘not guilty’?’

‘Even if he gets away with the murder, they’re still going to have him for the rape,’ Clough said reasonably. ‘They’re not going to believe you faked those photographs, no matter what Highsmith tried to make out. I think the worst that can happen is they might decide you got carried away when you found the pictures and decided to have Hawkin for murder as well.’

‘But Ruth Carter found the gun before I found the pictures,’ George protested, staring at Clough in outrage.

‘‘So you say,’ the jury might be thinking,’ Clough pointed out. ‘Look, whatever they think, they are not going to give him the benefit of the doubt on the rape charge. Come on, you were in court when they saw those photographs. The jury took against Hawkin then. Believe me, they’ll be dying to find a way to find him guilty on both charges. Now come on, your drink’s here. Sit down and stop fretting. You’re making me nervous,’ he added, trying vainly to jolly George out of his worries. George crossed to the table and picked up his drink, then walked back to the window, pausing to stare unseeingly at a luridly coloured Victorian hunting print. ‘How long has it been now?’ he asked. ‘An hour and thirty-seven minutes,’ Clough said with a glance at his watch.

Suddenly, the phone at reception rang. George swung round and stared at the young woman behind the desk.

‘Lamb and Flag reception,’ she said in a bored voice. She looked across at George. ‘Yes, we do.

What was the name?’ She paused and stared down at the hotel register. ‘Mr and Mrs Duncan. What time will you be arriving?’

With a frustrated sigh, George turned back to his study of the county hall building. ‘I’ve never understood why juries take so long,’ he complained. ‘They should just take a vote and go with the majority. Why does it have to be unanimous? How many criminals walk out of court because one stubborn juror won’t be persuaded? It’s not like they’re all Brain of Britain, is it?’

‘George, they could be out for hours. They could be out all night and all tomorrow, so why don’t you sit down and drink your drink and smoke your fags? Otherwise we’re both going to end up in Derby Royal Infirmary with high blood pressure,’ Clough said.

George sighed heavily and dragged himself back to his chair. ‘You’re right. I know you’re right.

I’m just on pins.’

Clough pulled a pack of cards out of his jacket pocket. ‘D’you play cribbage?’

‘We’ve not got a board,’ George objected.

‘Doreen?’ Clough called. ‘Any chance of getting the cribbage board from the public bar?’

Doreen cast her eyes upwards in the universal, exasperated, ThenI’ gesture, then disappeared through a door at the rear of the reception area. ‘You’ve got her well trained,’ George commented.

‘Always leave them wanting more, that’s my motto.’ Clough cut the cards then dealt. Doreen returned and slid the cribbage board between them. ‘Thanks, love.’

She tutted. ‘Watch who you’re calling love, you,’ she said, with a toss of her head as she tottered back behind her desk on too-high heels. ‘I’m watching,’ Clough said, just loud enough for her to hear. Normally the banter would have amused George, but today, it only served to irritate. He forced himself to concentrate on the cards in his hand, but every time the phone rang, he jumped like a man stung by a wasp. They played cribbage in a tense silence, broken only by scoring claims and the sound of flint on steel as one or other of them lit a cigarette. By half past six, they’d smoked nearly twenty cigarettes between them and swallowed four large Scotches apiece. As they reached the end of a rubber, George stood up. ‘I need some fresh air,’ he said. ‘I’m going to walk round the square.’

‘I’ll keep you company,’ Clough said. They left their cards and glasses on the table, Clough telling Doreen they’d be back. It was a warm summer evening, the city centre empty now except for the occasional person kept late at the office by some pressing task. It was still too early for any cinema-goers to be about, and the two men had the square more or less to themselves. They paused under a statue of George II, leaning against the plinth while they smoked yet another cigarette. ‘I’ve never felt so tense in all my life,’ George said. ‘I know what you mean,’ Clough said.

‘You? You’re as relaxed as a three-toed sloth, Tommy,’ George protested.

‘It’s all show, George. Inside, my stomach’s tying itself in knots too.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m just better at hiding it than you. You know you were saying earlier you didn’t know what you’d do if Hawkin gets off? Well, I know exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to hand my papers in and get a job that doesn’t give me ulcers.’ He tossed his cigarette butt away with a vicious sweep of his arm and folded his arms across his chest, his mouth a thin line in his broad face.

‘I…I had no idea,’ George stammered.

‘What? That it bothered me this much? You think you’re the only one that lies awake wondering about Alison Carter?’ Clough asked belligerently.

George rubbed both hands over his face, pushing his hair awry. ‘No, I don’t think that.’

‘She’s got nobody else to fight her corner,’ Clough said angrily. ‘And if he walks out of that courtroom tonight, we’ve let her down.’

‘I know,’ George murmured. ‘You know something else, Tommy?’

‘What?’

George shook his head and turned away. ‘I can’t believe I’m even thinking like this, never mind saying it out loud. But…’ Clough waited. Then he said, ‘Thinking like what?’

‘The more I read in the papers that I was supposed to be this bent copper who fitted up Hawkin, the more I kept thinking that maybe I should have done what I could to make the whole thing more watertight,’ he said bitterly. ‘That’s how much this bloody case has got to me.’ Before Clough could reply, both men realized there was an exodus from the Lamb and Flag, led by the barristers, their gowns swooping around them like black wings in the speed of their passage. Behind them, journalists were tumbling through the doors, some still pulling on their jackets and cramming their hats on their heads. Clough and George looked at each other, both taking a deep breath. ‘This is it,’ George said softly. ‘Aye. After you, boss.’

Suddenly the square was alive with people. Carters, Crowthers and Lomases were approaching from the west, where a café owner had realized it was a profitable idea to stay open for as long as Scardale wanted to drink tea and eat chips. Hawkin’s mother appeared from the south with Mr and Mrs Wells from St Albans. Everyone converged at the side entrance to county hall, where the bottleneck forced them into uncomfortable proximity. George could have sworn Mrs Hawkin took the opportunity to give him a sharp dig in the ribs, but he was past caring. Somehow, they all squeezed through and into their allotted places in the courtroom. As they settled like a flock of birds in city trees at sunset, Hawkin was led in between the same two police officers who had stood beside him for every day of his trial. He looked sombre and more tired than he had the week before, George noticed. Hawkin looked around him and managed a little wave for his mother in the public gallery. This time, there was no smile for George, just a cold inscrutable stare. Everyone shuffled raggedly to their feet for the return of the judge, resplendent in his scarlet and ermine, and the High Sheriff. Then, at last, the moment everyone had been dreading for their own particular reasons.

The jury filed in, studiously looking at no one. George tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry. The conventional wisdom was that a jury who wouldn’t look at the accused were going to bring a guilty verdict. His own experience was that no jury ever looked at the accused when they returned to the box. Whatever the verdict, it appeared there was something shaming about having sat in judgement on a fellow member of society.

The elected foreman, a middle-aged man with a narrow face, pink cheeks and horn-rimmed glasses, remained standing when the others took their seats. He kept his eyes firmly fixed upon the judge.

‘Members of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?’

The foreman nodded. ‘We are.’

‘And how say you on Count One?’

‘Guilty.’

A collective sigh seemed to whisper through the air of the court. George felt the knot in his stomach begin to relax.

‘Count Two?’

The foreman cleared his throat. ‘Guilty,’ he said. A rising mutter filled the air like the buzz of bees round the hive at evening. George felt no shame at the pleasure Hawkin’s devastated expression gave him. The colour had drained from those handsome features, leaving his face as stark as a pen and ink drawing. His mouth opened and closed as if he was gasping for air. George peered through the animated Scardale crowd, looking for Ruth Carter. At that moment, she turned to him, her eyes filled with tears, her mouth a gash of relief. He saw her lips form the words, ‘Thank you,’ before she turned away towards the welcoming arms of her relatives. ‘Silence in court,’ the clerk thundered.

The murmuring died away and everyone turned to the bench. Mr Justice Fletcher Sampson was grim-faced. ‘Philip Hawkin, have you anything to say before sentence is passed on you according to the law?’ Hawkin got to his feet. He gripped the edge of the dock. The tip of his tongue appeared at either corner of his mouth. Then, with desperate intensity he said, ‘I never killed her. Your Lordship, I’m an innocent man.’ For all the effect of his words on Sampson, he might as well have saved his breath. ‘Philip Hawkin, the jury by their verdict have found that you raped your stepdaughter Alison Carter, a girl of only thirteen years, and that you subsequently murdered her.

That you used a gun in the commission of this crime permits me to pronounce the sentence which the law allows and justice requires.’ In absolute hush, he reached for the square of black material and carefully draped it over his wig. Hawkin staggered slightly, but the policeman on his right gripped him by the elbow and forced him upright.

Sampson glanced down at the card in front of him that held the fateful words. Then he looked up and met the frantic eyes of Alison Carter’s killer. ‘Philip Hawkin, you shall be taken to the place from whence you came, and thence to a place of lawful execution, and there you shall be hanged by the neck until you be dead, and afterwards your body shall be buried in a common grave within the precincts of the prison wherein you were last confined before your execution; and may the Lord have mercy on your soul.’

There was a stunned silence in the courtroom. Then a woman’s voice screamed, ‘No!’

‘Officers, take the prisoner down,’ Sampson ordered. They almost had to carry Hawkin from the courtroom. Shock seemed to have destroyed his ability to walk. George could understand the reaction. His own legs seemed unwilling to support him. Suddenly, he found he was at the centre of a group of people who all wanted to shake his hand. Charlie Lomas, Brian Carter, even Ma Lomas were shouting their congratulations. All the buttoned-up restraint he’d come to associate with Scardale villagers had dissipated with the judgement and sentence on Hawkin. Pritchard’s face swam into view. ‘Phone your wife and tell her you’re staying in Derby,’ he shouted. ‘We’ve got champagne across the road.’