The Doomed Oasis (44 page)

“You were talking to him from one of the embrasures of the tower or from the entrance hole?”

“From the embrasure. I should have been an easier target if I'd dragged myself to the entrance hole, and I was afraid of getting sniped at.”

“And the whole interview was carried on with you in that same position. You didn't move at all?”

“No.”

“Where was Colonel Whitaker?”

“Standing right below me.”

“Could you see him?”

“Yes.”

“And when the interview ended—where did he go then?”

“I think he moved nearer the tower, away to my right. I can't be sure, but I lost sight of him.”

“Towards the cliff-top?”

“Yes.”

“And what happened then?”

“Well, a little time passed, and then … then there was this shot.”

“A rifle shot or a pistol shot?”

“It was a rifle shot.”

“You're certain of that?”

“Yes.”

“And after the shot, was there any other sound?”

“Yes, a sound of falling stones. That's when I knew he'd gone over the cliff.”

“What did you do then?”

“I dragged myself to the southern embrasure, but I couldn't see directly down the cliff face, so I didn't know what had happened. I tried to call out to him, but I don't think my voice made any real sound.”

Counsel leaned forward, his voice pitched low. “You've heard a ballistics expert give it as his opinion that your father was killed by a bullet from a pistol, not a rifle.”

“It was a rifle.”

Counsel stared at him, and the whole Court could see the quandary he was in. But the evidence that had gone before had to be disposed of. “You have also heard Dr. Logan's evidence. He has said that postmortem examination strongly suggests that the shot that killed your father was fired at close range. He, too, thinks it was a pistol shot.”

“How do they know?” David said almost belligerently. “They didn't find the bullet, did they? And they weren't there. I was, and I'm telling you it was a rifle shot.”

The Judge leaned forward. “I would like to get this quite clear. You have said that your condition was such that you cannot remember what passed between you. You have, in fact, left the Court with the impression that your powers of perception at that time were at a very low ebb. Yet on this point of the shot, you are quite categorical. You say it was a rifle shot?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Had you a rifle in your hand?”

“No, sir. I didn't fire the shot. It was fired by one of those treacherous—”

But the Judge stopped him. “You will kindly confine yourself to answering the questions put to you. Am I to take it that you're absolutely clear in your mind that the fatal shot was fired from a rifle and not from a pistol?”

“Yes.”

The murmur of a sigh filled the courtroom. They didn't like it. The Judge sat back, nodding to Counsel to continue. I glanced at Sue. Her face was white. She, too, felt the change of mood in the room. It was obvious that David was withholding vital evidence about what had passed between his father and himself, and he'd been altogether too determined to put the blame for his father's death on the Emir's men. I heard the man next to me whisper to his companion: “He hasn't a hope if he goes on like this.”

Counsel stood for a moment staring down at his papers, undecided whether to pursue the matter further. Finally he lifted his head and faced the witness box again. “Suppose we consider for a moment that you were in no fit state to be certain on this point and that it was, in fact, a pistol shot that killed your father. Had you a pistol?”

David stared at him, sullen and white-faced. “You know I had. That ballistic chap's already given evidence that he examined it.”

“Quite. A six-chambered revolver with two rounds still left in the chambers. And you had some spare rounds loose in a leather bag. Exactly how many rounds had you fired with that weapon?”

“Just the four. I didn't use any of the spare rounds.”

“Why?”

“A rifle was more useful. I only used the revolver once. That was on the night Mr. Grant left. They got pretty close then, and when I'd emptied the magazine of my rifle, I used the revolver.”

“And you fired four rounds with it that night?”

“Yes.”

“I see.” Counsel paused. And then, speaking very slowly, he said: “If we accept the medical evidence, based on Dr. Logan's postmortem following the exhumation of your father's body, and the evidence of the ballistics expert, then the possibility of your father having been killed by one of the Emir's men is ruled out entirely.” He leaned forward, staring at David. “I want you to be quite clear on this point. There remain then only two possibilities. Either you killed your father or he killed himself.” A long pause this time. And then the question, put bluntly: “Did Colonel Whitaker kill himself?”

“He hadn't got a rifle. He wasn't armed.”

“Are you sure? He might have had a pistol concealed under his robes.” And then Counsel put the question again, trying for the way out, pressing the issue in an attempt to give David the one chance that might save him. “Did Colonel Whitaker shoot himself or did he not?”

David stared at him, his eyes unnaturally big in his dark face. And then his mouth opening slowly and the courtroom hushed, some sixth sense warning us all that he was about to close the door on this one hope of acquittal. And finally the words: “I've told you before—he was killed by a rifle shot fired by one of the Emir's men.” And then, turning from Counsel towards the Court, he added in a firm, clear voice: “Does any one imagine my father was the sort of man who'd kill himself?”

That, more than anything else, settled it in the minds of the Court, for he was voicing what everyone there felt. And after that there was nothing Counsel could really do to help him. “The Defence rests.” He sat down abruptly and the stillness in the courtroom was absolute.

The Judge spoke then, his thin, tired voice sounding remote and detached. “It is almost five thirty.” He was leaning slightly forward. “And I gather there are certain gentlemen here who have deadlines to catch.” The dry humour produced an easing of tension, a little whisper of relieved laughter. “I intend to adjourn now until tomorrow. But before I do so I think it is my duty to address a word to the prisoner. Your Counsel has advised you to go into the witness box, and you have elected so to do—rightly, in my view, since otherwise the Court would have no means of knowing what happened on the morning of your father's death.” The voice was warmer now, almost fatherly. “Today you have been answering questions put to you by your own Counsel. When the Court resumes tomorrow, however, it will be the Prosecution's turn to cross-examine you, and I must warn you that he is likely to question you most closely on what passed between you and your father. The witness George Grant has shown in his evidence that there was a great deal of misunderstanding, not to say friction, between the two of you. I feel it my duty to warn you, therefore, that it will greatly prejudice your case if you refuse to tell the Court what passed between you, and I would ask you to take advantage of the adjournment to consider very carefully your attitude here. Justice is dependent on the evidence of witnesses. You are now a witness. You would be wise not to withhold, from whatever motive, vital evidence.” For a moment he remained leaning forward, staring at the prisoner. Then he picked up his gavel and rapped. “The Court stands adjourned until ten o'clock tomorrow morning.”

The Court rose, the Judge bowed, and the rush for the doors began. Still standing in the box, David glanced slowly round the courtroom. He was sweating and he looked tired. For a brief moment his gaze rested on his sister and he gave her an uncertain, almost apologetic smile; then police guards closed round him and he was lost to view beyond the milling heads of the crowd.

“I suppose the Judge meant it kindly.” Sue's hand was on my arm and I could feel her trembling slightly. “But David won't change his mind, and tomorrow the Prosecution will make a strong case out of his silence, won't they?” She sounded nervously exhausted, her voice tired.

“It won't look good,” I said.

“And it was a mistake, wasn't it—trying to blame it on one of the Emir's men?”

“Yes.” No point in pretending it wasn't a mistake. “The medical evidence is against it; the ballistics expert, too.…” We passed out into the sunlight, and the humid heat of Bahrain engulfed us like a steam bath. The street was crowded with cars, packed with people, a solid mass of Bahrainis.

Gorde was waiting beside his car, and he called to me. “A word with you, Grant.” He took me aside. “That boy's going to be convicted if somebody doesn't persuade him to talk.”

“I thought you were behind this witch-hunt,” I said angrily.

“I made a statement; but I hadn't all the facts, had I?” He stared at me accusingly as though I were to blame for that. “Now that I've heard your evidence, seen the way he's behaving in the witness box …” He hesitated and then turned abruptly towards the car. “Get in, Grant. You, too, Miss Thomas. I want to talk to you.” And as the driver nosed the car through the crowds, he turned to Sue and said: “I think I could arrange for you to see your brother tonight.”

She gave a hopeless little shrug. “It wouldn't do any good. I think he'd rather be convicted, you see, than have the world know that Colonel Whitaker, that legendary figure of the desert, committed suicide.” She was very near to tears, and she added with a hint of wildness in her voice: “Just because his father's dead, all David's feeling for him, the hero-worship my mother fed him when he was a kid, has returned, magnified a thousand times by the friction there was between them when he was alive. Nothing that I can say will make him change his mind. I know that.”

“I see.” Gorde didn't seem surprised. “Then we must think of something else. Nobody's happy about the situation, least of all the authorities.” He put his hand out, and his gnarled fingers rested for a moment on Sue's arm. “Miss Thomas. Your father was a strange man. And he'd been a long time in the desert. A hell of a long time, and alone.” He spoke with surprising gentleness. “He was a great man in his way. You should be proud of him.”

She stared at him, dry-eyed, her face white. “Well, I'm not. I don't care about him. To me it doesn't matter a damn whether he killed himself or was killed by somebody else. He's dead. All I care about is David.”

Gorde sighed. “Would it help you to understand him if I told you that he tried to join David in that tower—that David either couldn't or wouldn't lower the ladder to him? He actually got as far as the entrance hole, but couldn't pull himself in.”

“How do you know?”

“Bin Suleiman. After he left hospital, he disappeared. I've had men scouring the desert for him ever since. They brought him in two days ago. Your brother says he was unconscious. So he was, most of the time.”

“You mean he regained consciousness?” I asked. And when Gorde nodded I thought he'd found the witness who could save David. “Why didn't you notify David's Counsel, then?”

“Because it wouldn't help. Bin Suleiman heard them talking, but he didn't know who it was David was talking to and he didn't know what they were saying. They were talking in English. And the fact that Charles climbed up to the entrance hole, which is the only material fact he can add to the evidence, would only operate against David. Bin Suleiman thought it was one of the Emir's men trying to get in, and he reached for his rifle. The effort, or more probably the pain of movement, caused him to lose consciousness again, so that he knows nothing of what happened after that.”

“But it's sufficient to cause you to change your mind about David's guilt,” I said. “Why?”

“Oh, it's not that. That's only a fragment of the picture that's been building up in my mind. One of the first things I did was to send Entwhistle down to take over at Charles's camp on the Hadd border. He reported the rig gutted, the seismological truck burnt out, the place deserted. He had the sense to go on to Saraifa, where he had a talk with some of Charles's men. That raiding party you saw heading into the desert towards the rig attacked the camp at dawn. They came in firing their guns, and when they'd got hold of Charles, the Emir's secretary had him bound to a camel and made him sit there whilst they set fire to everything. When they started back towards Hadd there wasn't a thing left that they hadn't destroyed.”

Visualizing the scene, I began to understand how desperate Whitaker's mood must have been. “He said he had some sort of hold over the Emir,” I murmured. “I can even remember his words. He said: ‘I know that little Emir inside out.'”

“Probably he did—certainly well enough to know that the man was in a vicious mood and prepared to go to any lengths. I sent a couple of the best Bedouins we've got on the payroll into Hadd a month ago. They reported that when he reached Hadd the Emir gave Charles the choice—either he brought his son down from the fort, alive or dead, or he'd be taken out into the Empty Quarter and left there to die.”

“Didn't it occur to him that Whitaker might throw in his lot with his son?” I asked.

“Oh, it was more subtle than that. The Emir also thought he knew his man. That was why he ordered the destruction of the rig. He offered to finance Charles's drilling operations once his son was out of the way and the Jebel al-Akhbar in his hands. That's the story, anyway.”

“But surely the Defence had a right to know—”

“Rumours,” Gorde growled. “It wasn't evidence. Besides, how could I be sure what had happened till I knew the facts? I wanted your evidence and David Whitaker's evidence.…” He shrugged. “Even now I can't be sure.”