Catalyst (30 page)

The whole public gallery stood to applaud, in appreciation of the message.

“Thank you, Mr Lorimar,” said Justice Templar as the ovation finally subsided, assuming that the prisoner had finished.

“If it pleases, m'lord,” he said, and quickly continued, “I have one further piece of information to impart. And for withholding this until now I wish to apologise to you, to my Counsel and the Prosecution, and to the court in general. The story of the killing of the Bradys has been recounted accurately and objectively. But one detail of this case has yet to be revealed.

“My name is John Alexander Deverall. My death was reported three years ago. I am the son of Alma Deverall, the lady who took her own life three weeks prior to the death of her tormentors.”

The courtroom was totally silent for what seemed a long time, and then erupted again, this time with incredulity. Dean Calvert and Penny Cartwright looked at each other wide-eyed before Dean looked down at the notes in front of him as if checking that he had not missed something obvious. Jo leant across to David and whispered in his ear, “Don't you dare look smug about this.”

The prisoner waited until the room became silent again.

“I do not intend adding anything to my statement and I will not be pressed to do so. For the past three years I have been James Lorimar, but it does not matter what my name is. The only thing that is important is for the court to recognise the crime I committed and the reasons for doing it. I did it for my mother, Alma, and for the residents of Cullen Field Estate.
Please
do not lose sight of what is important here. We have all had a glimpse of what can be achieved by the removal of menace from the midst of decent people. I urge you to take up the cry as you already have done in this courtroom today. That is what is important. The future; a better future; a safer future.”

It was a full minute before the judge tried to speak again above the sustained applause that followed. During that interlude he flashed several venomous glances at Charles Nicholson, sitting at the back of the courtroom, who returned them with a relaxed smile, which did nothing to lighten the blackness of his mood. However, when he finally did speak, after the room had become silent again, it was with calm authority.

“To say the least, Mr Lorimar, you are a man of surprises. I commend you for your heart-felt oratory. We also thank you, of course… ” – this with kindly sarcasm – “… for your benevolent words relating to how we try to do our jobs. And I can assure you that, in spite of the revelation at the end of your speech, my mind is, as you requested, focused on the crime, including the whys and the hows. As far as this court is concerned you are James Lorimar, the man who has pleaded guilty to the violent, premeditated murder of Jimmy, Kevin and Karl Brady, and it is my duty to sentence you to a mandatory life sentence. This is the only sentence this court can impose. I recommend that you should serve a minimum of eight years after which time you should be considered for parole; the Home Secretary will then set the tariff.

“For what it's worth, Mr Lorimar, I empathise, if not totally agree, with much of what you said today. And I do hope some serious consideration will be extended to what I perceived to be an intelligent and well communicated argument.”

The judge rose quickly, speaking as he stood up.

“Both counsels to my office immediately, please?”

The suddenness of his retreat took everyone by surprise. He was halfway out of the room before the rest of the gathering had responded to the Clerk's “All rise.”

David and Jo watched as John Deverall was led away from the dock to the retaining cells, each acknowledging his smile with a nod of their head. He seemed relaxed and satisfied with the outcome, leaving behind a scene of high excitement, raised voices and animated gestures.

The press piled out of the court in one single mass as if the fire alarm had sounded, to collect their mobiles and such from the foyer and get to work on the new twist. Penny Cartwright immediately picked up her notes, anxious to follow the judge as quickly as possible, and was waiting impatiently as Dean Calvert exchanged angry words with Clive Granville, eventually joining her and strutting from the room. David and Jo made their way out of the building into bright sunshine. Neither had spoken since Jo's whispered comment earlier.

“Fancy a stroll along the embankment?” asked David.

“Yes, sure,” said Jo. She peered intensely into David's face as if studying his expression carefully.

“This is satisfied,” said David, “not smug.”

“Mmmm, well it looks like smug to me.”

They walked, in silence again, down to Ludgate Hill, turning right up to New Bridge Street then left towards Blackfriars and the river. They found a small bar near the Millennium Pier and abandoned the idea of the walk along the embankment, sitting outside and ordering beer and sandwiches.

“I think I'll ask Lorimar – Deverall – to put all that about tenacity and stuff in writing,” said David. “I've got my annual appraisal with Allan next week. It might keep the subject away from my retirement, at least for a while.”

“I have to say,” said Jo, “he's a real collector's item. I think I might go and visit him in jail. Perhaps he'll take me out when they release him. I'll only be thirty-nine. I can't see him not fancying me, can you?”

“Not when he's been inside for eight years,” said David. “He'll probably settle for anything.”

“Well, thank you! You must admit though, he's a bit fit, isn't he? I guess it's okay to say that now that I've helped put him away.”

“Not my type. But an exceptional guy all the same. That speech was something else, wasn't it? Even with six weeks to work on it. You know he spoke for over twenty minutes. I've never known the like before. Surprised old Templar didn't cut him short. Well, I'm not actually; I reckon he had been told to give him his head.”

“That's just what I was thinking. Seemed to give up on the proceedings, didn't he? Like he just knew it was going to run and run, and nothing he could do about it. Tell you what though; he was certainly listening as closely as anyone.”

“Perhaps it's his appraisal next week as well. His boss was there, you know. Charlie Nick was at the back of the court. Question is, now that it's over and the secret's out, is anyone going to work out how he managed to survive being blown up. Surely someone must be keen to know. I mean, he can't have faked his own death in those circumstances. Not in some canyon in Afghanistan. It must have been set up for some very good reason.”

“Well if you're thinking of doing some more private detective work, I'll bet you won't get anywhere near anyone who can help you.” She tapped the side of her nose with her forefinger. “Hush, hush; top secret; National Security.”

“Even so, they can't stop us wondering, can they? He must have been reinvented for some very good reason.”

“Perhaps to go around taking out people like the Bradys. Only we cocked it up by catching him.”

“You don't really think that's possible, do you?” asked David, leaning forward with interest.

“Not a chance,” said Jo, laughing. “I just figured you're up for believing anything right now.”

“Right, that's it! Back to the station.”

“Oh, come on, sir. Friday!” She checked her watch. “One-thirty. It'll be three before we get there.”

“How come?” asked David. “We're only two minutes from the tube.”

“Not at the pace I'm planning to walk.”

David laughed.

“All right. But only if you get the next drink, and don't tell anyone I rolled over so easily.”

“Sir!” said Jo, in a shocked voice, fluttering her eyelashes. “What
do
you mean?”

“Take it anyway you like, but don't forget it's
your
appraisal the week after next.”

Jo waved to the waiter and pointed to the bottles in front of them, mouthing ‘same again'. Half an hour later, they rose from the table, David picking up the whole tab for the refreshments, Jo wide-eyed with shock at his action, and her boss advising her not to expect it again. They started walking at a leisurely pace towards the tube station at Blackfriars.

“Actually, sir, I'm staying in London with a friend this weekend. Back on Monday morning; might be a bit late in – if that's okay, of course.”

“No it bloody well isn't,” said David. “So that's the reason for the delaying tactics. All this ‘oo, sir, it's Friday,
please
can we have another drink?' It wasn't my company you were craving, just a way of saving a few quid on the tube. I'm deeply hurt, Jo, and I don't want to have your babies any more.”

“That, sir, is a shattering blow, but what's done is done. I guess there's no going back for us.”

“Definitely not! So come in whenever you like on Monday. I don't care any more. And in the meantime, have a great weekend; you deserve it.”

He leant foreword and kissed her on the cheek.

“Thanks, sir,” Jo smiled back. “You doing anything special?”

“No, nothing in particular – and that's by choice. Mainly chilling for two full days and three full nights, with a couple of sessions at the gym to keep the blood circulating. That's my idea of a great weekend.”

“Actually, Detective Chief Inspector, that doesn't sound bad at all.”

They went their separate ways.

Billy Wakeley opened the door and poked his head round. The office of the Recorder of London was large and high and impressive, with oak-panelling on the wall where the door was and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the other three. Two crystal chandeliers hung from ornate ceiling roses. The large desk was covered in discarded wigs and robes, and the judge and two counsels, looking surprisingly ordinary now in just their normal clothes, were seated in three wing chairs around the table where Owen Templar and the LCJ had taken their earlier tea and biscuits.

“Lord Nicholson to see you, sir.”

“Ask him to come in, Billy.”

“Now, sir?”

“Now, Billy.”

Charles Nicholson entered the room with what was obviously a pre-set beam on his face. This changed to a questioning look when he saw Owen Templar was not alone.

“Just need a few minutes with you, Owen,” he said.

“You most certainly do, Charlie. Please, do sit down.”

The Lord Chief Justice took the seat vacated by Dean's standing and politely waving him to it with an elaborate flourish. He waited a few moments, expecting his colleague to dismiss the barristers.

“Yes?” Owen prompted, inviting him to speak.

“Just a quick word.”

“Oh, please feel free to speak openly in front of Mr Calvert and Ms Cartwright, Charles. They have been just as humiliated as I have.” His manner was ultra polite and matter-of-fact, belying the bitterness in the actual words.

Lord Nicholson hesitated a moment and the muscles around his mouth tightened, as if he was going to take up the challenge, then he relaxed and sighed deeply. “Yes, you're right. You all deserve an explanation. I promise I'll tell you as much as I possibly can.”

Dean and Penny, both feeling like innocent bystanders in this high-level crossfire, also sighed, audibly, with relief. Owen pressed a button on his desk and Billy appeared instantaneously, like a genie from a lamp, in the doorway.

“Could you get lunch for four please, Billy, and a chair for Mr Calvert.”

“Yes, sir.”

He disappeared for less than fifteen seconds before reappearing, effortlessly carrying another sizable wing-chair, which he placed next to where Penny was sitting.

“Lunch in ten minutes, sir?”

“That would be perfect. Thanks, Billy.”

He turned to Lord Nicholson.

“Please enlighten us, Charlie.”

“Okay,” he said. “Everything I know, which, I will tell you now, is not everything there
is
to know. What I can tell you is that John Deverall – let's call him that now – is a very special person, one of only six in the world. Four of those six, including Deverall, are in the UK; one in the US and one in France. So everything I say is covered by the Official Secrets Act, and I will need each of you to sign a copy today. Okay?”

They nodded.

“Deverall was previously a top sniper attached to an organisation known as the Multinational Termination Unit. It's not an official group as such, more a virtual pool of expertise. Because of his outstanding ability he was recruited from the MTU by a clandestine section of G-Branch specialising in… well you can imagine, can't you, given his skill set. Before he could transfer to this section – codename ‘Pages', a derivative of Phoenix Agency – or ‘Agents' – he had to adopt a new identity. This meant he needed to be killed off in Afghanistan.”

“And then rose from the ashes as James Lorimar,” said Owen. “How poetic.”

“That's right.”