A Question of Identity (2 page)

‘Seven . . . no, nearly eight years.’

‘And do you think you could still see well enough to pass the driving test?’

Mr Anthony Elrod: ‘Your Honour . . .’

Judge Palmer: ‘Yes. Mr Brockyear, you cannot ask the witness to speculate in that way.’

‘Mrs Phipps, will you please tell the court, in as much detail as you can, what or who you saw exactly when you looked out of your window that night?’

‘A man. It was definitely a man. That man.’

‘How can you be so sure of that?’

‘I . . . well, I think . . . no, I mean, I just know. It wasn’t quite dark and it isn’t far across the grass. I might have seen his reflection in the window.’

‘In which window?’

‘The one opposite mine, number 20. Carrie’s window.’

‘Are you saying you definitely did see this man’s reflection?’

‘I think I might have, yes.’

‘But you cannot be absolutely sure? Mrs Phipps?’

‘I don’t know . . . I’m saying . . . well, I don’t know how else I’d have seen him, is what I’m saying.’

‘Might you have been mistaken?’

‘No. I saw something.’

‘Something or someone? Something, as in an animal, or even a shadow – perhaps a tree threw its shadow across the grass?’

Judge Palmer: ‘Take your time, Mrs Phipps. Remember you are under oath. You must be sure about what you remember and if you aren’t sure you must say so. Do you understand?’

‘I do, but it’s – it’s quite confusing.’

Mr Jeremy Brockyear: ‘Mrs Palmer, did you see a man standing in the garden on that night?’

‘Yes.’

‘You are quite sure.’

‘I was sure.’

‘You
were
sure or you
are
sure? You see, what I think happened is that you saw something . . . and possibly it was indeed someone. Possibly it was a man . . . but a few minutes ago you said it was almost dark. You’re quite correct. There was indeed no moon that night. There was heavy cloud. Behind it, the moon was only one day from new. It would not have been visible behind such cloud. So in fact it was pretty dark in the garden when you looked out, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, but I saw someone. I definitely saw – well, I saw something, anyway.’

‘But you’re not sure it was a person at all, let alone a man?’

‘You’re making me think I’m not. But the light came on. The security light.’

‘You’re sure it did?’

‘It must have done, mustn’t it? It always comes on when something moves and I saw the man, so he must have moved and then the light came on.’

‘Now I think we are all confused. Mrs Phipps, I’m trying to get
you to be absolutely sure, and it seems to me that the more you think about this extremely important incident, the less sure you are. But let’s leave the garden and move on to the identity parade at the police station. At this parade you picked out one man as being the man you are certain you saw that night, didn’t you?’

‘I suppose I did.’

‘Did you or didn’t you?’

‘I feel . . . I don’t know. I just don’t know anything, you’ve confused me so much.’

‘I’m sorry if that’s how you see it because I am not trying to confuse you in any way. On the contrary, I am trying to get at the truth. I am trying to be clear and to make sure you yourself are clear, about what or who you saw that night. And you’re not sure, are you? About what you saw –’

‘I am sure about that. I was and I am. It was a man. I saw a man.’

‘So now let us again move to the identity parade at the police station.’

‘They confused me there too.’

‘Who confused you?’

‘The detective. The policeman. One of them, maybe the other . . . the woman detective.’

‘Mrs Phipps, we need to be absolutely sure about this. Are you saying that one or possibly two members of the police “confused” you during the identity parade? How exactly did you feel they were confusing you?’

‘It wasn’t confusing me so much as . . . I don’t know . . . pushing me. Making me say it was him.’

‘The defendant?’

‘Yes. I looked at them all and at first I didn’t recognise any of them, I’d never seen any of them before. But then I looked again and I really did think it was him – the one in the . . . that man. And they sort of hurried me . . . I felt they . . . oh, I don’t know. I’m sorry.’

Judge Palmer: ‘Mrs Phipps, would you like some water? It’s very important that you finish answering the defence questions but you should take as long as you need.’

‘I’m all right, thank you. Thank you, Your Honour.’

Mr Jeremy Brockyear: ‘When you were viewing the identity line-up, what made you hesitate and then look again at the accused?’

‘I just recognised something about him . . . maybe the way he was standing and his – well, his shape.’

‘His shape?’

‘People have a shape, don’t they?’

‘Was his shape the shape of the man you saw in the garden?’

‘I think it was, yes.’

‘So was there something unusual about his shape?’

‘Not really . . . only it was . . . I recognised it.’

‘You will have to do better than that, Mrs Phipps.’

Mr Anthony Elrod: ‘Your Honour . . .’

Judge Palmer: ‘Indeed, Mr Elrod.’

Mr Jeremy Brockyear: ‘I’m sorry, I withdraw that remark, Your Honour. Mrs Phipps, look at the accused now. Look at him carefully.’

Judge Palmer, to the accused: ‘Will you please stand?’

Mr Jeremy Brockyear: ‘Mrs Phipps?’

‘Yes. He’s got a – a sort of particular shape. It’s up here – his shoulders. They slope.’

‘So, solely on the basis of his shape – the way his shoulders slope – you identified the accused as the man you saw in the garden that night. You positively identified him as the same man, is that correct?’

‘I suppose it is. Only I’m still telling you that they pushed me . . . the detectives. They persuaded me I was doing the right thing.’

24 MAY, 2002

‘Will the next witness take the stand please?’

A thin woman, early thirties, worn-looking. Hair tied back, blonde with streaks. Strong black eyeliner.

Clerk to the court: ‘Will you please state your name?’

‘Lynne Margaret Keyes.’

Mr Anthony Elrod: ‘You are the wife of the defendant, are you not?’

‘Yes.’

Eyes on anyone, anything, but not once on him.

‘Will you please tell the court where you were on the night of 17 July 2001 between the hours of midnight and 6 a.m.?’

‘At home in bed.’

‘Do you know where the defendant was at the same time?’

‘I’ve said to the police. It’s in my statement. He was at home in bed with me.’

‘So the defendant’s alibi for the night of 17 July was that he was at home, in bed, with you? Do you also confirm that you were at home in bed with the defendant on the nights of 30 July and 4 August 2001 between midnight and 6 a.m.?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you and your husband share a bed?’

‘Of course we do.’

‘Always?’

‘What do you mean, always?’

‘Sometimes married couples have a spare room and one of them may sleep there if, say, they are ill or returning home very late? It’s not uncommon.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Are you a sound sleeper, Mrs Keyes? Or do you wake in the night sometimes?’

‘No. I work hard. I’m shattered. I never wake up.’

‘What work do you do?’

‘I work in a dry cleaner’s.’

‘I suppose the fumes from the cleaning machines are likely to make you sleepy, aren’t they?’

Mr Jeremy Brockyear: ‘Your Honour, I object strongly to the implication behind this question which is completely irrelevant to –’

Judge Palmer: ‘I agree. Mr Elrod, please stick to facts not speculation about fumes and machines.’

Mr Anthony Elrod: ‘Is the defendant a good sleeper as well?’

‘Yes. Never stirs.’

‘How can you be sure? If you sleep so soundly yourself, as you have just told us, how do you know that he’s doing the same? How can you be sure he hasn’t got up and made himself a cup of tea?’

‘Oh, I’m sure of that all right. If he wanted tea he’d wake me up and ask me to get it.’

‘And would you?’

‘Of course I would.’

‘Isn’t that a bit unusual these days? For a wife to get up in the middle of the night and make tea for her husband if he wants it, even though she has just been sound asleep? Wouldn’t most men these days get their own tea?’

‘He’s not most men.’

‘Can you explain what you mean by that?’

‘Your Honour, I object –’

‘Wait a moment, Mr Brockyear. Mr Elrod, I hope this line of questioning has a relevant point because it sounds dangerously like vague speculation about the nature of the population at large.’

‘I’m coming to the point now, Your Honour.’

‘Then please do so.’

‘Mrs Keyes, have you ever refused to make tea when your husband demanded it – in the middle of the night?’

‘No.’

‘Has he demanded it?’

‘No. I said. He sleeps as good as I do.’

‘Does your husband snore?’

‘Yes, like bloody roadworks.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I can hear him in my sleep.’

‘I see. Would you be aware of it if he got out of bed in the middle of the night and went to the bathroom?’

‘I don’t know. No, I probably wouldn’t unless he put the light on.’

‘And would he do that? Put the light on?’

‘Shouldn’t think so.’

‘So he could get out of bed, leave your bedroom, go to the bathroom, come back, get into bed again – and you would never know it?’

‘I probably wouldn’t, no.’

‘You probably wouldn’t know that he had been up? Have you ever woken because he’d gone in and out of the room?’

‘Not – if I have it’s not for years. I told you, I’m –’

‘. . . a very deep sleeper. Yes. So if he were not only to get out of bed and leave the room in the middle of the night, but go downstairs, open the door and leave the house altogether, you wouldn’t be aware of that either?’

‘No. I –’

‘I put it to you that in fact he did exactly that three times, on the nights in question, when you have stated that the accused was at home in bed with you. He got up and left the house and went out to commit three terrible murders of three innocent elderly women. He left you sound asleep and he returned later, got back into bed and you were still asleep – because you sleep well, as you have told us. You knew nothing else. Because you were undisturbed by his comings and goings. Isn’t that why your evidence is flawed? Why there has to be considerable doubt about its reliability? I am not accusing you of giving false evidence, Mrs Keyes. You are under oath and you know it. No, your evidence is not reliable and the alibi you have given to the accused is not reliable because when he left the house and returned on those nights, you were sound asleep. Isn’t this the case?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Mrs Keyes, will you look at the accused please?’

‘Your Honour, I . . .’

Judge Palmer: ‘Do you have a good reason for that request, Mr Elrod?’

‘I do, Your Honour, if you will allow me.’

Judge Palmer: ‘Objection overruled. There is no reason why the witness should not be asked to look at the accused. He is her husband, after all.’

‘Thank you, Your Honour. Mrs Keyes, will you please look at the accused? No, not a swift glance. Please look at him steadily. You seem nervous. Are you? Are you afraid of your husband, Mrs Keyes?’

‘Your Hon–’

Judge Palmer: ‘No, Mr Brockyear, sit down. Carry on, Mr Elrod.’

‘Mrs Keyes, you obviously have difficulty answering that question, just as you had difficulty looking steadily at the
accused. I put it to you that you are afraid of him – very afraid. That you have been afraid of him for a long time and that if you had not given him an alibi for the nights of 17 July, 30 July and 4 August 2001, you were afraid – terrified – of his reaction. He told you what to say and you said it. You know perfectly well that he got up and went out on those nights. You didn’t know why but you would never ask. You covered for the accused because you were and you are afraid of what he would do to you if you did not. Isn’t that the truth, Mrs Keyes? You are quite safe. You can say yes without looking at him now. Isn’t that the truth?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry, I can barely hear you, Mrs Keyes, and I doubt if the rest of the court, and especially the jury, could either. Will you please speak up and answer again?’

A long hesitation.

‘Yes.’

From the
Daily Telegraph
, 28 May, 2002

Alan Frederick Keyes is alleged to have slipped out late at night, leaving his wife asleep, and made his way on foot and without use of a torch to the complex of sheltered bungalows collectively known as Meadow View Close which lies about a mile and a half from his home at 33 Westway Road, Crofton. He was familiar with the bungalows because he had worked there several times as a builder, and has occasionally been called out to them at weekends and bank holidays to do urgent repairs.

Keyes is charged with the murders of Carrie Millicent Gage (88), Sara Pearce (76) and Angela Daphne Kavanagh (80), all of whom lived near to one another in the complex. Mr Anthony Elrod QC, prosecuting, said that Keyes had known precisely where to go, how to gain entrance to the bungalows, and how to cover his tracks and destroy any traces of his presence on the three nights. He had entered the bedrooms of Carrie Gage and Angela Kavanagh and strangled them. Sara Pearce was suffering from a chest cold and had been finding it difficult to sleep lying down and Keyes had found her sitting in an armchair in the living room.

Keyes overpowered these elderly ladies without any difficulty, but there was evidence that Angela Kavanagh had fought for her life and Keyes had to use some force to kill her.

Mr Elrod said: ‘You deliberately and callously, and with meticulous planning, went out to the bungalows belonging to these elderly women who, although they all lived alone, thought they were safe in their beds in a secure environment. You used previous knowledge of the layouts to enter each one and find each of the victims. You then strangled them without reason, motive or remorse, and left them to be discovered by their traumatised neighbours the next or on a subsequent day. You took care to destroy all evidence of your presence and left the complex to walk back through the dark and deserted streets to your own house. There you let yourself in, and went back to bed beside your still-sleeping wife. These are terrible, wicked acts of which you are accused. But you have lied consistently during every questioning, you have shown not only no remorse but, unbelievably, barely any interest in these events. You ostentatiously yawned your way through at least one cross-examination, and at several points, on hearing the details of these dreadful murders which you had so calmly committed, you smiled. I hope the minds of the jury are concentrating hard upon that, as well as upon all the other facts because they beggar belief.’