A Prisoner of Birth Read online

  Sir Matthew waited long enough for the jury to become curious about why he had not been allowed to finish his previous question before he responded. ‘No, I am not, m’lord. However, I do wish to pursue a line of questioning that is relevant to this case, namely the scar on the defendant’s left leg.’ He once again made eye contact with Craig. ‘Can I confirm, Mr Craig, that you did not witness Danny Cartwright being stabbed in the leg, which left him with the scar shown so clearly in the photographs which you handed over to the chief inspector and was the evidence he relied upon to arrest my client?’

  Alex held his breath. It was some time before Craig eventually said, ‘No, I did not.’

  ‘So please indulge me for a moment, Mr Craig, and allow me to put forward three scenarios for your consideration. You can then tell the jury, from your vast experience of the criminal mind, which of them you consider to be the most likely.’

  ‘If you feel a parlour game will in any way assist the jury, Sir Matthew,’ sighed Craig, ‘please be my guest.’

  ‘I think you will find that it’s a parlour game that will assist the jury,’ said Sir Matthew. The two men stared at each other for some time before Sir Matthew added, ‘Allow me to suggest the first scenario. Danny Cartwright grabs the knife from the bar just as you suggested, follows his fiancée into the alley, stabs himself in the leg, pulls out the knife, and then stabs his best friend to death.’

  Laughter broke out in the court. Craig waited for it to die down before he responded.

  ‘That’s a farcical suggestion, Sir Matthew, and you know it.’

  ‘I’m glad that we have at last found something on which we can agree, Mr Craig. Let me move on to my second scenario. It was in fact Bernie Wilson who grabbed the knife from the bar, he and Cartwright go out into the alley, he stabs Cartwright in the leg, pulls out the knife and then stabs himself to death.’

  This time even the jury joined in the laughter.

  ‘That’s even more farcical,’ said Craig. ‘I’m not quite sure what you imagine this charade is proving.’

  ‘This charade is proving,’ said Sir Matthew, ‘that the man who stabbed Danny Cartwright in the leg was the same man who stabbed Bernie Wilson in the chest, because only one knife was involved – the one picked up from the bar. So I agree with you, Mr Craig, my first two scenarios are farcical, but before I put the third one to you, allow me to ask you one final question.’ Every eye in the courtroom was now on Sir Matthew. ‘If you did not witness Cartwright being stabbed in the leg, how could you possibly have known about the scar?’

  Everyone’s gaze was transferred to Craig. He was no longer calm. His hands felt clammy as they gripped the side of the witness box.

  ‘I must have read about it in the transcript of the trial,’ said Craig, trying to sound confident.

  ‘You know, one of the problems that an old warhorse like myself faces once he’s pensioned off,’ said Sir Matthew, ‘is that he has nothing to do with his spare time. So for the past six months, my bedside reading has been this transcript.’ He held up a five-inch-thick document, and added, ‘From cover to cover. Not once, but twice. And one of the things I discovered during my years at the Bar was that often it’s not what’s in the evidence that gives a criminal away, but what has been left out. Let me assure you, Mr Craig, there is no mention, from the first page to the last, of a wound to Danny Cartwright’s left leg.’ Sir Matthew added, almost in a whisper, ‘And so I come to my final scenario, Mr Craig. ‘It was you who picked up the knife from the bar before running out into the alley. It was you who thrust the knife into Danny Cartwright’s leg. It was you who stabbed Bernie Wilson in the chest and left him to die in the arms of his friend. And it will be you who will spend the rest of your life in prison.’

  Uproar broke out in the courtroom.

  Sir Matthew turned to Arnold Pearson, who still wasn’t lifting a finger to assist his colleague, but remained hunched up in the corner of counsel’s bench, his arms folded.

  The judge waited until the usher had called for silence and order was restored before saying, ‘I feel I should give Mr Craig the opportunity to answer Sir Matthew’s accusations rather than leave them hanging in the air.’

  ‘I will be only too happy to do so, m’lord,’ said Craig evenly, ‘but first I should like to suggest to Sir Matthew a fourth scenario, which at least has the merit of credibility.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ said Sir Matthew, leaning back.

  ‘Given your client’s background, isn’t it possible that the wound to his leg was inflicted at some time before the night in question?’

  ‘But that still doesn’t explain how you could possibly have known about the scar in the first place.’

  ‘I don’t have to explain,’ said Craig defiantly, ‘because a jury has already decided that your client didn’t have a leg to stand on.’ He looked rather pleased with himself.

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that,’ said Sir Matthew, turning to his son, who on cue handed him a small cardboard box. Sir Matthew placed the box on the ledge in front of him, and took his time before removing a pair of jeans and holding them up in full view of the jury. ‘These are the jeans that the prison service returned to Miss Elizabeth Wilson when it was thought that Danny Cartwright had hanged himself. I am sure that the jury will be interested to see that there is a bloodstained tear in the left lower thigh region, which matches up exactly with . . .’

  The outburst that followed drowned out the rest of Sir Matthew’s words. Everyone turned to look at Craig, wanting to find out what his answer would be, but he wasn’t given the chance to reply, as Pearson finally rose to his feet.

  ‘M’lord, I must remind Sir Matthew that it is not Mr Craig who is on trial,’ Pearson declared, having to almost shout in order to make himself heard, ‘and that this piece of evidence’ – he pointed at the jeans which Sir Matthew was still holding up – ‘has no relevance when it comes to deciding if Cartwright did or did not escape from custody.’

  Mr Justice Hackett was no longer able to hide his anger. His jovial smile had been replaced by a grim visage. Once silence had returned to his court, he said, ‘I couldn’t agree with you more, Mr Pearson. A bloodstained tear in the defendant’s jeans is certainly not relevant to this case.’ He paused for a moment before looking down at the witness with disdain. ‘However, I feel I have been left with no choice but to abandon this trial and dismiss the jury until all the transcripts of this and the earlier case have been sent to the DPP for his consideration, because I am of the opinion that a gross miscarriage of justice may have taken place in the case of The Crown versus Daniel Arthur Cartwright.’

  This time the judge made no attempt to quell the uproar that followed as journalists bolted for the door, some of them already on their mobile phones even before they had left the courtroom.

  Alex turned to congratulate his father, to find him slumped in the corner of the bench, his eyes closed. He opened an eyelid, peered up at his son and remarked, ‘It’s far from over yet, my boy.’

  BOOK SIX

  JUDGEMENT

  78

  Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not . . .

  Once Father Michael had blessed the bride and groom, Mr and Mrs Cartwright joined the rest of the congregation as they gathered around the grave of Danny Cartwright.

  And though I have the gift of prophecy and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith so that I could remove mountains, and have not . . .

  It had been the bride’s wish to honour Nick in this way, and Father Michael had agreed to conduct a service in memory of the man whose death had made it possible for Danny to prove his innocence.

  And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not . . .

  Apart from Danny, only two people present had known the man who had come to be buried in a foreign field. One of them stood upright on the far side of the grave, dressed in a black tailcoat, wing collar