The Shadows of Justice (11 page)

The mobile phones registered to the siblings were switched off for the whole time Annette was missing so there were no location traces to help the investigation. The CCTV of Annette being abducted from Catherine Street showed two indistinct figures who an expert testified were
similar in build and manner
to Martha and Brian Edwards. There were shoe prints from the scene matching their sizes, but the shoes themselves were never recovered.

There was also intelligence from a couple of police sources that the Edwards had been boasting of some spectacular project in the days before the kidnapping. But the informants were criminals, unwilling to give evidence. It was all temptingly suggestive but a very long way from conclusive.

***

The prosecution’s best hope was an alleged cell confession by Brian Edwards. He was being held on remand in Exeter Prison and had shared a cell with a young drug addict and burglar called Ernie Smith. Brian had taken some of Smith’s heroin and afterwards talked about
the
big story of the year, that young girl being kidnapped and what a fine job it was
.

There was a whole morning of legal argument about whether the jury should even hear Smith’s evidence. He was a career criminal, hoping to win some reduction in his sentence by inventing a story, said the defence. No, a man of dubious past, but one who had finally decided to do the right thing, claimed the prosecution.

Finally, Judge Templar ruled that Smith’s testimony would be heard. Adam’s sigh of relief carried across the courtroom. The odds on a conviction had changed in an instant. But it was the falsest of dawns.

Smith was young, nervous and faltering. His hair was cut short to the point of extinction, one ear was perforated with a line of metal hoops and he hadn’t shaved. In fairness, possibly as a gesture to the importance of the moment, he had at least the decency to wear his best track suit.

“You are a thief, aren’t you Mr Smith?” was Wishart’s gentle opening.

“It’s just – well, I didn’t have much in life and—”

“I suspect some members of the jury believe that at some point they didn’t have much in life either. But that didn’t prompt them to begin breaking into people’s homes.”

“I was going through a bad time.”

“As do many people, Mr Smith, but they don’t turn to crime.”

“I want to set the record straight and—”

“And you’re a drug addict.”

“It’s not easy in prison.”

“For whom no one is responsible for you being there but yourself, Mr Smith.”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“And you are a self-confessed liar, are you not?”

“Yeah, but who doesn’t tell the odd lie?”

Whishart let the words wander through the air, before turning to the jury box.

“And that, members of the jury, says it all. Ask yourselves this – can you really put any trust in this man?”

Based upon the look of the two lines of faces in the jury box, Dan began sketching out a script for a not guilty verdict.

In his years of observing the stately processes of the courts, Dan had come to the conclusion that he was, at very best, disillusioned with the legal system.

When arguing the point he would cite the way the law dealt with those who should be most central to its attentions. But for a victim, the English concept of justice was entirely capable of piling anguish upon suffering upon torment upon ordeal.

It was the night after one rape trial that Dan found himself sitting on the great blue sofa in the flat, sipping whisky and trying to forget what he had witnessed. The woman, whose misery lurked everywhere before his eyes, was in her early 30s, married with a young son, and was known in court as Wendy.

It was an early evening in the wintertime. She had been walking home from a coffee with a friend after work and was set upon. Wendy was pulled from a street near her house, dragged into a lock-up garage and raped.

The defence barrister questioned her at length about the attack, and unsurprisingly she broke down. Without her testimony, as is so often the way, the case collapsed. The alleged attacker, a body builder with a neck like a rhino’s and an attitude to match, swaggered out of court and made for the nearest bar to celebrate. As for Wendy, she had been left sitting in a bare ante room, crying.

Before finally going to bed, Dan looked up
victim
in the dictionary. He stared at the words, before picking up a pen, crossing them through and scrawling,
Person to be treated with contempt, preferably humiliated, and left as a pile of human wreckage
.

Other experiences of the courts had softened his definition not at all.

Lizzie had, on one occasion, allowed Dan to take up an invitation to join a public panel to debate the workings of the criminal justice system. It was a mistake never to be repeated.

It might have been the complimentary wine, but his comment – “I don’t have a great problem with householders attacking burglars. If they don’t want to get hurt, the answer is simple – don’t break into people’s homes” – caused a minor controversy and created a flurry of interest in the local press.

Dan was aware of his views and so careful when reporting that most essential moment of a trial, the victim’s evidence. The morning Annette took the stand was, then, one for which he had been preparing himself.

In the weeks that followed the kidnapping, he had got to know a little more of Annette. Dan’s role in the inquiry was largely over, employed as he was as a kind of freelance assistant investigator. Now it was for the real detectives to build a case against the Edwards.

But, at the invitation of Roger Newman, Dan had been asked to meet Annette, to be thanked for his help in saving her. It was an encounter he tried not to think about, given the woman he found.

The meeting was in the MIR, just a few feet from where her picture had stood on one of the felt boards, and it was brief. To say Annette had changed was to compare a shift of the weather from Mediterranean summer to Antarctic winter.

***

It was Katrina who took the lead in questioning Annette. But even her experience was faced by damage of a degree she had seldom before encountered. The interviews were marked by long silences and frequent breaks.

Dan only heard about it second hand from Adam at a couple of their regular discussions. During the last, over lunch, he had to ask to hear no more. Some roads are best left untravelled.

A psychologist had carried out an assessment. It took several months to prepare, despite the urgent need, because it was many weeks before Annette could speak about what she had gone through.

The Greater Wessex Police specialist, ‘Sledgehammer’ Stephens, produced a report with all his usual subtlety.

The subject is suffering SEVERE EMOTIONAL TRAUMA
, Stephens wrote, and for once his fondness for capitalisation was justified.
Her mental fragility is STARK and a matter of EXTREME CONCERN. Counselling and treatment appear to be having LITTLE EFFECT.

Her symptoms are classically those of someone who has suffered a NEAR DEATH EXPERIENCE. In simple terms – POST TRAUMATIC SHOCK.

The sense of helplessness is PALPABLE. As a consequence, a growing state of PARANOIA has taken hold and will, in my judgement, be EXTREMELY PROBLEMATICAL to address.

Annette has been suffering with continual MOOD SWINGS. She has a CONTINUAL, HEIGHTENED and EXAGGERATED fear of being abducted again. No amount of work has been able to ameliorate this.

She is experiencing VIVID and REPEATED NIGHTMARES. Sleep is intermittent and elusive, contributing a PHYSICAL FRAILTY to her psychological problems. She hardly eats. The deterioration in her CONTINUES.

FLASHBACKS are commonplace, and form with EXTREME DETAIL and REALISM. They are particularly triggered by smell, a reaction to the petrol which was set around her, one of Annette’s most fearful memories of the abduction.

Annette seldom ventures out. All strangers are viewed as POTENTIAL ENEMIES. She is DISTANT, WITHDRAWN and DIFFICULT TO REACH. She has an almost insurmountable inability to discuss and share feelings.

As with many such subjects, her personality has CHANGED MARKEDLY. Prior to the abduction, Annette was a virgin. Since, she has sought sexual experience and had a series of partners.

I note one further area of EXTREME CONCERN. Annette has, on two occasions now, confessed to suicidal thoughts. She should be CAREFULLY MONITORED, to ensure these do not grow and take an irreversible hold
.

“17 years old,” was Adam’s final comment, as he and Dan left the pub. “She had everything in life to look forward to. And now everything’s become an ordeal.”

***

Even the shortest of walks can be made to feel very long.

From her seat in the public gallery to the witness box, Annette had to cover perhaps fifteen metres. But the anticipation of the moment hardly helped. All in the court knew it was coming, but announced it had to be anyway. Just to be absolutely certain everyone was staring at her.

When someone suffers a crime the system insists they relive it, and never just the once. First they must be interviewed by the police, and a statement taken. Afterwards, there are many follow up visits. And then comes the climax of the torments: the court case. Once again the victim must go through what happened, and in a very public arena.

Even after all that there comes an added sting, just for good measure. The final revisiting of the crime must be carried out in full sight of the perpetrator, and usually only a few metres from them.

And so it was for Annette. The sound of her name being called came like an impact, an invisible blow, a physical recoiling from a dreaded moment. Roger reached over and gave her a hug. His daughter’s body was trembling hard.

And all this in front of every watching, staring eye.

Roger got up, gently pulling Annette. By her side floated the black robe of the usher, a kindly, guiding hand leading towards the witness box. She fixed her face ahead and began the walk. Each step felt like an effort of supreme will.

At first, she trod lightly, as if intimidated by the sound of her footfall on the wooden boards. But suddenly, her pace increased.

Annette was approaching the plate glass of the secure dock. Watching her, as she passed only feet in front, were the Edwards.

Annette never gave them a glance. There was an impenetrable wall of fear to her side, created of the condensed blackness of the countless nightmares and flashbacks. She kept her gaze set upon the witness box, walking faster and faster, reaching out for its sanctuary, until she stumbled over the low step and up and into it.

And there the young woman stood, breathless, hands gripping the curve of the carved wooden rail. And there she waited to relive her ordeal one more time.

On this mid-morning of a kind September day, the sun was making the most of the waning days of her reign. Radiance filled the skylights of Courtroom Number Three. As if they had been arrayed, ready for this moment, the brightest of the natural spotlights fell directly onto the witness box and the 17-year-old woman standing there.

Judge Templar produced a judicial smile; one of those intended to communicate warmth and understanding in the possession of great authority, but which never quite convince.

“Ms Newman, the court is aware of the ordeal you have suffered. We have no interest in adding to it. If at any point you would like a break, please say. Mr Munroe will take you through your evidence.”

The prosecution barrister was a short, chubby man, whose wig suffered a tendency towards a lopsided outlook. Stature being a strength in legal circles, Munroe had borrowed a trick from his female counterparts. As they might indulge themselves in stilettos, so he wore bespoke shoes with stacked heels.

Nature being a generally fair benefactor, Munroe had been compensated with a rich baritone voice of which an opera singer would have been proud.

He began the examination gently, taking Annette through her statement. For a victim of such a crime, it was remarkably short. There was little she could recall about the abduction itself. In the subsequent hours she was kept tied up and blindfolded. She had overheard no voices and had no recollection of anything which might be construed as real evidence.

The only detail upon which Munroe fixed was Annette’s view that she believed two people were involved in the kidnapping. One was driving the van, the other in the back with her. The barrister held a long look with the jury, and then pointedly let his eyes slide over to the Edwards.

Being bereft of facts, the majority of Munroe’s questioning concentrated on Annette’s feelings. Dan had seen it time and again. Everything the best of advocates did was designed to win the sympathy of the jury.

“Forgive me for this question,” Munroe said. “But some could perhaps think you came out of all this entirely unharmed?”

Annette stared at him. Her complexion, pale throughout the trial, had turned to milk in the witness box.

“Unharmed?”

“Yes.”

“As if – I didn’t suffer at all?”

“Just so.”

And now came a hiatus. There had been many in Annette’s testimony as she struggled with the recollections, but this felt different. It was the pause before the step into the land of shadow.

“I did suffer – I have suffered.”

“I appreciate from the medical report that it’s something you find hard to talk about,” Munroe replied, gently. “But – can you try to give us an idea?”

Another hesitation in the thick stillness of the courtroom. But when the words emerged, they came in a tumble, a rush of release.

“I hate the world! I daren’t go out. I’m so scared. I keep thinking it’s all going to happen again. I used to have loads of friends. Now I don’t have any. I used to have hobbies. Now I just watch TV. I think about what happened all the time. The only chance to escape is when I try to sleep. And even then it all comes back again. I’m afraid to sleep! But I’m afraid to be awake too, because it’s always there. It’s like, well… I’m just afraid to live.”

The tears were forming and Annette dabbed at them with a sleeve. The brightness of the court, the mix of sunshine and fluorescent strips channeled the light onto her cheekbones.

They were once so very fine, had made her the subject of a couple of photo-shoots in her sixteenth year. But with the shock of her suffering, they had tightened to gauntness.

“I’m sorry that this is upsetting,” Munroe continued, sympathetically. “But it’s important for the jury to understand this was not a story with a simple happy ending – you being rescued and returned safely to your father.”

He adjusted the neck of his gown. One of the jurors, an older woman, was wiping her eyes with a lace handkerchief. In the dock, the Edwards sat still, listening. Roger Newman was again bent forwards, only his face raised to his daughter.

Munroe cleared his throat and said quietly, “During all this, you were never physically assaulted, were you?”

“I was – touched.”

“The fingers on your skin you told us about? The tongue?”

Annette gulped. “Yes.”

“Some might think it’s very little to truly worry someone.”

She pulled at an ear lobe and reached for a glass of water.

“Take your time, Ms Newman,” Templar intervened.

Annette managed a couple of trembling sips and set the glass back down. The thud was loud in the quiet of the courtroom, amplified by the microphone above the box.

“I don’t know how long I was held,” she said. “They tell me it was less than a day. But it felt so much longer. And every second, every minute…”

The words faded. Munroe waited, then prompted, “Yes?”

“It felt like I was going to be – to be…”

“Yes?”

“Raped! Strangled! Beaten! Murdered! I knew he was there. He was with me all the time. I could hear him. I could feel him. Looking at me. His eyes all over me. I couldn’t stop thinking about what he was going to do to me. Every second I thought it would come.
I was waiting for the hands on my shirt, ripping it open. On my jeans, pulling them down. Every second, every single second I was waiting, expecting it to come.”

Annette glanced over at her father with fast, frightened eyes. She grabbed for the glass again and drank hard at the water. Munroe waited and let the words adhere to the old wooden panels of the court.

Raped. Strangled. Beaten. Murdered
.

“Finally Ms Newman, we’ve seen the video of how you were rescued. Can you tell us what you went through then?”

And now, for the first time, the answer came instantly. Annette’s voice was breathless, but stronger.

“I knew I was going to die. I heard him building a pyre around me. I could smell the petrol. I heard the match being struck.
I could hear the flames. They were roaring, all around me. Even through the blindfold I thought I could see the fire. I could feel the heat. I could hear the house starting to collapse. Every second, I was waiting for the flames to touch my skin. Melt my body.
I was waiting to die! I was helpless, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t cry out and I knew I was going to die in agony. That’s how it felt! Ok?!”

Once more Munroe waited and allowed his gaze to roam over the Edwards and to the jury before turning back to Annette.

“That’s all I need to ask, Ms Newman,” he said.

***

Wishart rose from the bench. He oozed empathy for the distress Annette had suffered and apologised for having to question her, before picking up on the first of his points.

“Would you mind taking us back to the moment you were abducted?”

“In the street?”

“Yes.”

“I had some sandwiches and I was walking towards this tramp who was sitting in a doorway. I bent down, and he pushed a—”

“I’m sorry,” Wishart interrupted. “Did you say
he
?”

“Well, I—”

“You did say he, didn’t you?”

“Well—”

“Because it’s the prosecution’s case that it was Martha Edwards dressed as a tramp. And that Brian was waiting in the van.”

Annette hesitated. “I’m not sure. I say he, but it could have been a she. I don’t really remember properly.”

Wishart nodded understandingly, but glanced towards the jury.

“Now, regarding the van. You are of the opinion there were two people involved in your abduction?”

“Yes. One driving and one in the back with me.”

“Could it have been more than two?”

“Well, I—”

“Because you didn’t actually see anyone for the whole of the time you were kidnapped, did you?”

“No, but I just thought it was two people.”

“But it could have been more? Again, you see, it’s the prosecution’s case that it was just Martha and Brian Edwards working together. But it could equally have been someone else, couldn’t it? There could have been anyone in that van. And later, in the house where you were held.”

Annette gripped hard at the wooden rail. The sunlight fell into the lines of her face, far too scored for someone of her age.

“Yes, I suppose there could.”

Wishart picked up one of the folders on the desk. “You’ve told us of your fears about what might happen to you. But, just to be absolutely clear – you were never actually assaulted, were you?”

“No.”

“Not touched in any indecent way?”

“It felt like it! All the time! That it was coming.”

“I understand. But in actual fact – you were not?”

“My back. The top of my chest. My neck. And the breathing on my face.”

“But not touched indecently?”

“No.”

“And you think that it was a man who touched you?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“I just – thought it was.”

“Why?”

“I assumed it was a man.”

“Assumed?”

Annette’s eyes again shifted to her father.

“Ms Newman, look at me please. Why did you assume it was a man?”

“I just thought it was.”

“But you have no evidence for that.”

“I just—”

“No evidence?”

“No, all right?! No bloody evidence!”

“Thank you.”

In the jury box the foreman adjusted his glasses, pushing them up to the bridge of his nose. Roger Newman’s hands were knotted tight together. Adam’s face was set hard, a finger pulling tetchily at the collar of his shirt.

The unyielding wood of the witness box was shifting, closing in on Annette, trapping, squeezing and crushing her. With the brightness of the sunshine pouring onto her, the small square of space had become a crucible.

Once more, Wishart checked through his file. “Let me bring you on to the matter of the phone call you made, the ransom demand. You were reading from a script which had been prepared for you?”

“Yes.”

“But still you saw nothing of who kidnapped you?”

Annette stared down at the floor. ‘I… I don’t know if I can do this.’

“Please, take your time.”

“It’s bringing it all back!” she yelled. “I can’t, I don’t want to, I can’t go back there again!”

Few were the fathers who could sit through such suffering of their own flesh. Roger Newman leapt up from his seat and was striding forwards. A security guard tried to grab him, but Newman was too quick, too intent and dodged past.

Annette jumped down from the box and into his arms. The usher was following, his black gown billowing, trying to stop Newman.

Munroe was on his feet. ‘Your Honour, is this questioning really necessary?’

Newman was hugging Annette tight. Adam was rising, Katrina standing too, reaching out for Annette’s hand. The court was filling with noise, hubbub and melee growing into cacophony.

“Order!” Templar called from the bench. “I’m calling a recess for lunch. We shall reconvene in one hour.”

***

Dan’s hopeful suggestion of something to eat earned only a derisive look from Adam. He spent almost the entirety of the lunch hour stalking the corridor, muttering unpleasantries about the law. Even the coffee Claire brought him remained untouched.

Annette was taken to a waiting room, to sit with her father and try, as best she could, to find some calm. Katrina joined them for a brief chat. Through the gap in the door, before it closed, Dan saw Annette give Katrina a long hug.

The usher who had intervened to try to stop Newman introduced himself as Jonathan Ivy. “It happens sometimes, that,” he told Adam. “I’ve seen it often enough. It’s not surprising, given what people have to go through.”

“You’re not wrong there,” Adam grunted.

“Anyway, thanks for helping to calm it all down. Judge Templar is no fan of disruptions I can tell you, particularly lately.”

Katrina emerged from the waiting room, looking flushed. “Annette’s struggling, but I think she’ll just about get through,” she said in response to Adam’s look. “I told her there’s not much more to come.”

“Bloody lawyers,” was the detective’s sullen response. “As if she hasn’t suffered enough.”

“Templar’s a decent judge,” Katrina soothed, to little effect. “He looked after Annette as best he could in there. I know him from his days as a barrister in London. He’s one of the good ones.”

“Didn’t know there was such a thing as a good lawyer,” Adam grunted. “From what I hear, Templar’s going off the rails. It’s no accident this is one of his last cases.”

A line of solicitors filed past, all dressed in identikit suits and carrying regulation leather briefcases. Claire looked to Dan, and without hesitation reached out and gave him a cuddle. “Sorry,” she apologised, disengaging. “I just needed that.”

Katrina muttered something about getting herself a drink and walked away.