21

Plan B

Detective Sergeant Hunt emerged from the shower to the dulcet tones of Frankie goes to Hollywood booming out ‘Two Tribes’ on the radio, resolving his mind that whatever happened, the second trial cannot go ahead in front of the same judge at Knightsbridge today otherwise he and Baz would be in serious difficulties, allegations of corruption, perjury and everything that comes with it. He had decided on a plan: he was going to fake a migraine when he got to court, which hopefully would get the case dropped out of the list. His only worry was that the judge might insist on it coming back in front of him as soon as Jim had recovered. He was mindful of Bob berating him for such a cock-up and the mantra of piss-poor planning leading to poor performance.

Basil wasn’t privy to Jim’s plan at this stage when he agreed to meet him in the booking hall at Piccadilly Circus. Coming in from different parts of London’s suburbia, they met by the Barclays Bank ‘hole in the wall’ adjacent to the ticket booths at eight thirty, and seeing as they had some time before the start of the day’s events, they went upstairs to the coffee shop at the bottom end of Regent Street near to the Café de Paris. Once seated Jim offered up his plan to Basil who hesitatingly agreed adding that he hoped it would work. Jim canvassed Baz for a better plan but none came forward, Jim sensing he was not entirely convinced. Thoughts raced through his mind that if it all went wrong Basil might have a rush of blood, discover God or whoever he held in high esteem and grass him up to the powers that be. But at this stage he felt he didn’t have a better plan. They polished off their coffees, with Basil bending forward on the corner of the bench seat, pretending to tie his shoelaces, meaning Jim had to pay!

The misty rain greeted them as they stepped out into the remainder of the rush hour busily going to and fro, oblivious to their presence on the pavement. Jim led the way against the tide of pedestrians towards Lillywhite’s on the corner opposite Eros where they descended the rain-soaked steps leading to the booking hall. What’s with the brass treads on the leading edge, bloody dangerous, Jim thought. Their journey took them down an old wooden escalator, the treads again proving slippery underfoot, as Jim’s leather-soled shoes illustrated and he responsed, “Fuck me I nearly went then!” They descended into the bowels of the Piccadilly line, Basil reassured that Jim had come up with a plan ensuring the second trial wouldn’t go ahead, Jim preoccupied in thoughts as to whether the migraine ploy would work. If only there could be something a little more definite which would knock the case out of the court list for a couple of weeks.

Their journey proceeded to Knightsbridge station with little conversation other than speculation whether it would still be raining as they emerged for the short walk to the court in Hans Crescent. The novel British preoccupation with weather was something that had always mystified Basil, as the only time he thought about it was when there was a risk of it spoiling a good day’s cricket! They followed the crowd of obviously excited punters making their way to donate their money into the coffers of Harrods, doubtless much to the pleasure of Al Fayed’s family. Slowly they made progress step by step up the escalator towards the exit barrier.

“Shit! There’s Errol Heath by the ticket box, Baz,” whispered Jim behind his hand so as not to been seen.

“Got him,” said Basil acknowledging he’d seen him but not wishing to raise his profile.

“He’s got bail conditions not to come within fifty yards of any Underground station,” said Jim referring to a recent hearing the guvnor had ensured was imposed on him at Horseferry Road Magistrates’ Court for a series of dippings and a knife-point robbery.

“Are you sure, sarge?” enquired Basil not really doubting Jim, more a case of needing reassurance as he knew they’d be challenging him and nicking him for breach of bail conditions. He knew what a violent individual he was; he deliberated in his mind how they’d take him out, drag him back to the floor by his dreadlocks, the surprise giving them enough time to hold him to the ground while they tried to ‘cuff’ him. Maybe a good kick in the shins, dropping him to his knees – he’d heard blacks were weak there and couldn’t withstand that pain. One thing he did know was that he could hit him as hard as he liked, even with his ‘stick’, aka truncheon, on his head, and he’d just shake it off.

“Errol!” shouted Jim, as Heath swung round to see his familiar face. He first barged past the exiting travellers at the top of the escalator prompting Basil and Jim to spin round and chase him themselves. Heath quickly realised his escape was hampered by the crowds disgorging from below, and so he turned again barging past his pursuers, charging towards the exit. Catching the pair of them off balance, Heath bounded up the stairs towards the street, two at a time like a gazelle fleeing from a hungry lion intent on taking it down and enjoying a long-awaited meal.

Realising they were never going to catch him, Jim shouted, “Police stop,” as he saw Heath’s heels disappear out of view. With a rush of blood, combined with the obvious failure of catching the dip, and his panic in the surrounding melee about the imminent need to dump the second trial, Jim saw his opportunity. He barged Basil down the escalator. He let out a yell, losing his footing, and tumbled from the top to the bottom arriving in a heap, his fingers dangerously close to being caught in the metal comb at the base of the escalator designed to capture discarded fag ends from the moving treads. Unfortunately, in his concussed state his face met with their cold steel and the hard tile floor. A passenger about to ascend adjacent to him managed to drag Basil free, pulling him across to the left-hand wall of the subway while looking up the shaft to search for a reason for such a dreadful and obviously painful fall.

“Police, mate,” shouted Jim down to the Samaritan giving rudimentary first aid to Basil, who was dazed but confused as to how he had sustained cuts and bruises to his legs, his suit jacket ripped up the centre stitching at the back, both knees of his trousers torn, the blood of his wounds knitting with the mesh of the material providing an improvised bandage stemming the flow of blood from the wounds. His back was killing him as if he’d been kicked by a mule, and his face was a mass of cuts and bruises as if he’d suffered at the hands of Henry Cooper.

“Look after him, is he OK? I’ll call for help,” said Jim as he disappeared from the view of the first aider. He dived into an adjacent phone kiosk next to the ticket barrier.

“We’ve just tried to arrest Errol Heath for breach of bail conditions at Knightsbridge tube. He violently resisted, and escaped from us into the street, but he pushed DC Chakrabarti down the escalators. He’s injured, I’m just going to him now. We need urgent assistance and an ambulance for one injured officer.” Jim’s storyline was accepted without question with the Information Room operator ensuring they wouldn’t be alone for long. DS Hunt bounded down the escalator to his colleague, immediately thanking the attentive passenger for his help. Confirming he hadn’t actually seen who had pushed Basil to his fate, he recorded his details as a witness.

“I’m really sorry Baz this happened to you mate, we’ll get Heath,” said Jim as he assessed his visible injuries hoping he didn’t tumble who had really been responsible, while Basil slipped in and out of consciousness. Unable to speak, he simply tried to make himself comfortable while the ambulance beat a speedy path to their location. The echo of the ‘cavalry’ arriving in the form of two tones could be faintly discerned by the two officers, Jim not daring to move Basil in case of further injury. His moral compass had gone into meltdown as he tried to conceal his guilt, continuing the storyline that the escaping dip had caused all this, while he vowed he would get the bastard who had done this to his colleague. His half-hearted assertion that, by way of compensation, every cloud has a silver lining as the second trial couldn’t now go ahead, rang hollow to Basil as he lay propped up against the wall, the blood now drying on the plethora of wounds he had sustained.

A rush of noise and several uniformed officers arrived at the foot of the escalators, leaving the remainder sealing off the various entrances and exits from the tube, until further updates from those arriving at the scene would dictate further action. Almost immediately, as a result of Jim’s account, the hunt was called off in the immediate vicinity after they learned the suspect had made good his escape from the scene. Those on the surface jumped back into their response vehicles and left like a bomb burst outside Harrods, commencing searching the surrounding streets armed with only a scant description given by Jim. He of course knew Heath and what he was wearing, but he couldn’t afford for him to be arrested too soon as his version of events might be compromised by the escaping dip, who might very well add to Basil’s vague suspicion of who was responsible.

As the two ambulance crew arrived, listening intently to Jim’s account while judiciously attending to obvious wounds and assessing the risk of Basil’s removal from the scene, one of them disappeared back to his vehicle from where he returned carrying a fold-away wheelchair. Within a few moments he was once again mobile and being conveyed up the escalator, covered in the mandatory red blanket, something to do with keeping him warm to negate shock, Jim thought, or maybe to hide the blood, his black humour kicking in!

You know when you’re told something and you’re just not sure about it? Well, I’ve just had that feeling. DS Hunt, you’ll recall, the one I bollocked over his quality of evidence, has just phoned me here as I wait for the result on Jackson. It seems he and Basil were on their way to Knightsbridge Crown for the second trial, with a female victim description the same as their first trial and to cap it all, in front of the same fucking trial judge, when they saw Errol Heath on the Underground, despite him having bail conditions not to stray anywhere near! Originally Jim’s plan to avoid it going ahead was to feign a serious migraine, probably with all the drama he could muster. But he says they tried to arrest Heath but he was too quick for them and in his effort to escape, he pushed Basil down the escalators. So now I have an officer badly injured, concussed at St Thomas’ Hospital awaiting examination. The one saving grace is that Hunt has been along to court and having told them of the story, succeeded in getting the trial taken out of the list. Added to which a member of the List Office court staff was passing through the station at the material time and saw everything, she’s willing to make a statement! So maybe my suspicions are unfounded, it just seemed a bit too rehearsed.

The arrival of the ambulance was announced with its two-tone horns as it swept across Westminster Bridge going south towards St Thomas’ Hospital, turning right and up the slope to Accident and Emergency, where the paramedic attending to Basil’s plight was relieved by an army of pre-warned doctors and nurses keen to admit him to assess his condition. The officer had been drifting in and out of consciousness, not really making any sense, but being told to relax and rest while the team went about their triage routines. To cut a long story short, the hospital staff were briefed by the paramedic attending the scene, their only source of information. Basil was in no condition to give any reliable account of how he came to be so badly battered. They were now advised in a short telephone call to reception that Jim would be arriving shortly to give the full picture.

“Hello mate,” said Jim as he pulled back the curtain to the side of Basil. A look of concern etched his face as he looked down at the result of his efforts at avoiding the trial. He tried to conceal his shock as his fellow officer tried to speak through a swollen mouth and intravenous painkillers now pumping around his traumatised body, giving him some relief from the pain, but making his responses less than coherent. Jim took the opportunity to remind him of how he came to fall from top to bottom of the escalator, stressing how it was that Heath, in all the fighting and confusion near the ticket barrier, had committed the ultimate coup de grâce. Over the next thirty minutes he continued to reinforce the storyline until he was ejected by nursing staff when Basil was whisked off for X-rays and scans.

“I’m going to get back to the office now, Baz, and I’ll update the guvnor. Your missus has been told by one of the uniform lads and they’re picking her up. So she should be here later this afternoon, mate.”

Basil thanked him for all his help, feeling content about the reason he at present was in so much bloody pain!

*

“What’s keeping them, Al? They’ve been out for bloody ages. I want to get down to Tommy’s to see how Baz is,” said Bob as he checked his watch looking up at the clock in the police room.

“I can cover this if you like, guv, so you can get on your way,” said Al obligingly.

“It’s tempting, but I think I need to be here for the result. Nip up to the court see if there’s anything going on.”

As they rose from their chairs, the court officer came in, telling them both it looked like they had a result. The jury was being called back in to deliver Bob’s desired result.

“Hi sir, I hear we’ve got a result?” said Bob enquiringly with his counsel for the prosecution.

“Yes, have you got the up-to-date previous convictions and antecedent history on the 609s and 402s? Is there anything else I should know? I rather suspect if we have a finding of guilt on the Section 18, he’ll probably remand him in custody for reports. Still, let’s not count our chickens.”

Bob nodded knowingly with his barrister.

“Court rise,” bellowed the clerk as the door at the end of the bench disgorged the judge back into the courtroom. He directed the jury to be called in, the occupants of the court remaining silent as they filed in. Bob couldn’t discern from any of the jury which way their thoughts were directed. The clerk enquired and confirmed that the spokesman for the jury was seated bottom left, nearest to the judge.

“Will the defendant please stand?” said the clerk now standing just below the judge. Jackson pulled himself to his feet from his slouched position on the bench. The prison officers also stood either side of him, conveying the unmistakable message that should he have a sudden desire to ‘play up’ or even dare to try escaping, his efforts would be very quickly curtailed in a robust manner!

“Members of the jury, have you reached a decision on which all of you are agreed?”

“Yes,” said the jury foreman standing nearest to him while the others remained seated and expressionless, looking across at Bob.

“To the count of causing grievous bodily harm with intent, do you find the defendant Jackson, guilty or not guilty?”

“Guilty,” came the response.

“And is that the verdict of you all?” enquired the clerk. The reply came back loud and clear that it was, reinforced by the rest of them nodding their heads.

Judge Salter turned towards the eleven jury members and thanked them for their time taken in reaching their decision and their obvious conscientious deliberations.

Ernie was straight to his feet but before he could utter a word, Playton stood to address the judge, almost second-guessing what the judge was about to say. Neither was right.

Salter said, “Stand up, Jackson. Now before I go any further in this case and hear from those representing you, I intend to rise for a few minutes. Members of the jury, your function is now complete but if you wish to remain to witness the conclusion of this case you are welcome to remain when we resume in a few minutes.”

Not one of them moved, each deciding they wanted to see the right punishment meted out to the defendant.

“Court rise,” bellowed the court usher, calling all to stand as the judge swept out through his ‘trap door’.

Dickson rushed to his client in an effort to console a bitter Jackson, who had believed he was going to get a not-guilty verdict despite everyone else in the courtroom, including Ernie Monee, realising his inevitable fate. Bob’s face couldn’t conceal the wry smile of satisfaction as he glanced across at the jury experiencing for the first time the procedure after their verdict. Catching the eye of several members in the back row he mouthed “Thank you” for their unanimous decision, knowing such a verdict would make it difficult for Jackson to appeal against it. Some of them made no response while others mouthed “OK” or just smiled and nodded back.

A knock on the door interrupted Bob’s enquiry of Al’s mystery movements prompting his lateness at court, disbelieving the original version of being stopped for speeding. Leave until later, Bob thought, as the judge assumed his position in the big chair. Monee prepared his notes to address the judge, endeavouring to mitigate the unfortunate circumstances his client now found himself in. Bob went back into the witness box and, being led by Ian Playton, he went through Jackson’s previous convictions for theft, robbery, and assault, galvanising the attentive jury that they had obviously made the right decision. Ernie had only the one question and that was to ask Bob if his client had used a knife in any of his previous convictions. Bob wasn’t able to say, but it didn’t seem to be the case. He pressed further: did he know that Jackson’s life had been threatened only a few days before the incident, and hence the reason for him carrying a knife? The officer knew nothing of this, dismissing it as a last-ditch ruse to reduce whatever penalty the judge had in mind, and by way of observation perhaps he should have raised it during the course of the trial. Salter immediately interjected thanking Bob, telling him he could now stand down, avoiding a tit-for-tat spat between Ernie and him.

Monee next launched into a tirade of mitigation for his client, pulling out all the stops, including that he had two older brothers both of whom had vast criminal careers, thereby causing a retrograde effect on such a young impressionable man leading to an early life of crime, etcetera, etcetera. He cheerfully danced past the fact that an older sister of his had a very good career, and was always in work, so clearly it was in his gift not to go down the same path as his brothers! Sadly then he played the race card, emphasising colour, housing, poor schooling, negative influences of his peer group, unemployment, and so droning on for about five minutes. His biggest error was to try to trivialise the injury as somehow accidental and not the vicious predetermined assault that it was. Bob thought any minute he’d add that someone stole his teddy bear when he was young. Why not? Everything else had been thrown in the mix. Next he addressed the judge on sentencing, emphasising that although he faced a serious conviction, he was young, desperately remorseful for his actions and somehow if a suspended sentence could be considered this would give him the opportunity to start life afresh. With that last plea for clemency, Ernie sat down.

The clerk turned to look at Judge Salter anticipating his final few words before issuing sentence. Both counsel, Dickson the rodent, Bob and Al were in unison transfixed by the judge’s every move, who with a half-smile and a nod caused the clerk to swing back around and stand.

“Will the defendant stand,” he said, as Jackson drew himself to his feet from his familiar slouched position.

Salter gave him an icy stare as if staring down the twin barrels of a shotgun about to be discharged when he launched into his sentencing speech. “Jackson, you have been found guilty of a most heinous assault, vicious in its commission and devastating in its result. You are a career criminal who set out that day to steal or rob from innocent members of the public. To assist you in that quest you carried a knife, one which I am given to understand was of the type carried by members of a group known as ‘Yardies’, nothing of course to do with Scotland Yard. By some good fortune, a plain clothes officer, going about his duties, ever vigilant, spotted you attempting to steal and prevented you from achieving your purpose. Frustrated at him stepping in and in an effort to escape arrest you sliced his face open in a most appalling manner, causing severe injury and blood loss requiring urgent surgery, and leaving him with a lifelong visible memory of your indiscriminate use of your knife. Having been arrested whilst on the run you then deployed every ruse possible to avoid identification to no avail. You came and pleaded not guilty, causing the officer and indeed a female member of the public to relive the ordeal at your hands. No credit can be given to you in this case to you or those you instruct. You will go to prison for seven years. Take him down.”

The dock officers standing either side of him took hold of Jackson firmly, and as they led him out he shouted, “Seven years for a fucking Mars Bar?” (Slang for scar.) The door slammed shut and he was gone, on his way to commence his incarceration. No family there, no friends to witness the event, just an isolated individual whom the state had little time for.

Ian Playton turned to Bob and in a brief chat agreed it was the right result. He asked that Innes receive his best wishes for the future and hoped he had conducted a fair but firm prosecution. Bob shook his hand, thanked him, confirmed he would be speaking with the officer, and left the courtroom to head over to the hospital to see Basil. Dickson scuttled off to speak with his client knowing there was little he could say to soften the blow he’d just received. As for Monee, he shuffled his papers together, and swung out of the court, intent on contacting his chambers to enquire what his next lost cause would be.

That’s a good result, I hear you say. Well, I thought so. We had a good rinse afterwards on the strength of it, pleased that we wouldn’t see that arrogant little shit’s face for some time. We had done a good job of culling the less desirable members of the Jackson family, so happy days. One problem: he appealed! I couldn’t believe it, but he did. Not against the conviction, because frankly he’d been roundly fucked on that. Our evidence was tight and compelling. No, by virtue of his age, in other words a young man in his twenties, seven years seemed to be a bit strong if he was to stand a chance of reforming his character and rehabilitate himself. So it was that a couple of months after we had weighed him off sending him away for an ‘HM’ holiday, I found myself sitting at the Royal Courts of Justice in Court Two, listening to some sponsored hack of a barrister setting out why poor little Michael wasn’t up for doing all of his porridge. I just sat there alone boiling inside at the tilt being put on the facts of our case, my ‘rent a barrister’ for the day already capitulating before we’d even taken a step inside the courtroom. I was reminded of the Irish comedian Frank Carson who after every gag would say, “It’s the way I tell ’em.” I didn’t have the heart to let John Innes know about the appeal. Least said, soonest mended, so I watched and listened to three ‘learned’ Appeal Court judges decide that in order to give Jackson a chance in life they would reduce his sentence to five years! What the fuck!