The Queen v. Karl Mullen (29 page)

He expected no trouble north of the river and met none as he crossed Hammersmith Bridge. No car passed him in either direction. He had worked out his approach march carefully and now plunged into the area of small streets round the filter-beds of the reservoir. Boundary Road, where the helpful Mr. Malcolmson lived, might or might not be guarded. Boswell Road, which was the next turning, certainly would be. Plevna Street ran behind both of them. The fog was a little less dense than it had been over the river. A gleam of light could be seen from the ground-floor rooms of most of the little houses. Roger padded along quietly.

The turning from Plevna Street into Boundary Road proved to be unguarded. In the third house along on the right he found Ian Malcolmson waiting for him, a small, wiry man with the build of a scrum-half. He talked in a series of short bursts. It wasn’t that he was upset. It seemed to be his natural style. He said, “You must be the lawyer. Fred told me about you. Shocking thing. I expect you heard. Happened just along the road. Bad as murder. I managed to have a word with Fred. Before the ambulance came along. He said you might be following it up. I stayed in on the off-chance. Tuesday night’s our selection night. South-West London Club. I’m skipper of our ‘A’ team. That’s where I ought to be now.”

“I’m very grateful that you did stay in.”

“Odd thing. I was going to suggest that Fred had a run with the first team on Saturday. He’s been playing very well lately.”

“I’m afraid he’s had his last game for this season,” said Roger.

As they were talking they had moved along the hall, through the kitchen and out at the back door. Malcolmson said, “Straight down the path and over the fence. I’ve cleared the wire from the top. Mrs. Queen’s expecting you. One thing. If the wife comes back early you won’t be able to get back through the house. She’ll start screaming. Have to find some other way.”

“I’ll think of something,” said Roger. “And thanks indeed.”

Mrs Queen was waiting for him. He followed her into the back kitchen, where there was a stove, open at the front, giving out a pleasant warmth. The scene that followed stayed in Roger’s memory when other, more important, things had been forgotten. Mrs. Queen, enthroned at the head of the kitchen table, under the light in its blood-red shade. Her sister and brother-in-law, ceremoniously presented, seated on either side. The flickering light from the fire, reflected from the polished coal scuttle and fire-irons, a clock on the dresser which whirred before it struck the quarters, like an old man clearing his throat; and Mrs. Queen, talking.

She had offered no objection when Roger had placed the recorder on the table. She had spoken, without hesitation, hardly prompted by questions, for fifteen minutes. When she had finished she said, “Will you be asking Mr. and Mrs. Walworth to speak at the trial?”

“It will be Counsel’s decision, but I rather think not. Your own account is perfectly clear.”

He explained that if the Court didn’t believe Mrs. Queen they wouldn’t believe the Walworths. Also that when three witnesses spoke on the same matter they were apt to contradict each other and could be tripped up. His eye was on the clock, which now gave an exceptionally loud whirring as a preamble to announcing the hour. It was high time to go.

He took out an envelope, which he laid on the table and said, “I was authorised, if I thought what you had to say was particularly important, to increase our suggested offer. There is three hundred pounds in this envelope. We will pay you a further seven hundred—” he paused to let this sink in—”when you have repeated it in Court.”

“Well, I’m sure that’s very handsome,” said Mrs. Queen. “You’d better go out the way you came. There’s one or two men hanging round the front door. Up to no good, I imagine.”

“If there’s any trouble when it comes to the point,” said Roger, “we’ll send a very adequate escort to get you to Court.”

“Trouble,” said Mrs. Queen. “They won’t make no trouble that I can’t take care of.”

Roger believed her. He thought that he had rarely met anyone who looked more capable of taking care of themselves. He was thinking about this when he reached the fence at the bottom of the garden and was preparing to climb over it. From the house ahead a woman was shouting. “Come inside, can’t you, and shut the bloody door. Do you want us all to catch our bloody deaths of cold? What are you doing out there, anyway? Come in at once.”

He heard the door slam. Mrs. Malcolmson was back.

He had said that if this happened he would think of something. There was only one way. It meant a move sideways and it involved the climbing of two garden fences and one wall. The first fence proved easy. It was made of wood, about six feet high and the wire on top of it was old and badly fixed. He jerked it out of its staples and climbed over. The next fence was a different proposition. New wire, firmly fastened. His leather gloves partly protected his hands. In the end a desperate jerk brought the wire and the top board of the fence down together. He heaved himself over and landed in what felt, and sounded, like a glass frame. As he picked his way out of it he heard someone calling something from the house and sprinted for the final obstacle which was a brick wall, the top fully two feet above his head.

It was not the height that deterred him, but the fact that, as he turned into Boundary Road, he had received the distinct impression that someone was standing further along, in Plevna Street. If he climbed the wall he would land almost on top of him. But there was another possible exit. If this house was constructed on the same plan as Malcolmson’s, it would have a covered passage along one side. And so it had and the door at the garden end was unfastened. He opened it as quietly as possible and found himself in a dark place which seemed to be full of obstacles. No time to waste. The householder, alerted by the noise of broken glass, would be coming out at any moment to investigate. He stumbled forward, kicked a pram out of his way, trod on something that might have been a rabbit hutch and reached the door at the far end. This was bolted, but on the inside. Ten seconds later he was back in Boundary Road.

His blood was up and he was looking for trouble.

When he turned left at the end of the road he saw that he had made no mistake. The fog had thinned a little and he could see a man standing there, with his back to the wall. As Roger came up he said, “What’s up? Thought I heard someone shouting.”

“That was Sam,” said Roger.

“Sam who?”

“Sam Browne. You know. The man who invented the belt.”

He was now perfectly placed. Holding his stick by the thin end he swung it viciously. He heard a crack. The man tumbled back against the wall with a strangled yelp.

One broken arm, thought Roger. That’s a small payment on account for Fred. He ignored the man and plodded steadily on. The main opposition would be in Boswell Road.

Sure enough there were two men standing at the corner. They seemed worried, too. One of them said, “Who was that calling out?”

“It was Sam,” said Roger. “Having a nightmare.”

He was holding the stick, as he had been taught for close combat, in the middle. He jabbed upwards with it at the man on his right. The point landed somewhere, either in the stomach or the throat. As he went down the second man hit Roger with his clenched fist, full in the face.

This removed the last vestige of Roger’s self-restraint. He used his feet, kicking the second man twice with his steel-capped shoes, first on the shin, then, as he doubled up, in the middle of the body hard enough to topple him. Other men were coming down Boswell Street, but he gave himself time to stamp hard on the first man’s ankle as he lay on the pavement. He then took off down Plevna Street.

The mess he had left behind him held the opposition up, but not for long. Then they were coming after him and they were moving faster than he was. His heavy boots were fine for fighting, but not so good for running.

Decision. Take the next turning to the left. Get out of the jungle and head for civilisation. He could see the overhead lamps of Barnes Avenue ahead of him, glowing orange through the fog. There must be people there. Perhaps a patrolling policeman.

He got there, only yards ahead of the pursuit. The first buildings that he passed were shops and were shut. Next came the entrance to a block of flats. As he glanced in he saw that half a dozen youngish and athletic-looking men were coming down the stairs and had reached the hall. In that desperate moment he remembered something that Malcolmson had said. They must be – surely they could only be – the selection committee of the South-West London Rugby Football Club, who had completed their deliberations and were dispersing. As he dived into the hall he could see, over his shoulder, that his pursuers had blocked the doorway. Controlling his breathing with an effort he said, “Those people who are after me. They’re the ones who knocked off Fred Tamplin.”

This produced a moment of complete silence. All movement ceased in both camps.

The man who had been leading the group coming down into the hall said, “Interesting.” He was huge and fair-haired, like a blond lion. After a further moment of silence he said, “In that case, I think we’ll go back to your flat, Colin. Come along with us, will you, sir?”

Nothing further was said until they were inside the second-floor flat and the door was shut.

“But if that’s right, Norman,” said a red-haired, red-moustached man, “mightn’t it be a good idea to go down and sort them out?”

“No, Mike. It would be a bloody silly idea. With Fred out of action we’re one short for Saturday already. We don’t want two or three more casualties. The police are paid to deal with a shower like that. I’ll ring for them to see our friend home. We haven’t finished all your beer, have we, Colin? Because this bloke looks as though he could do with a drink.”

“I think I ought to explain,” said Roger. “I can’t tell you everything, but I can put you in the picture to a certain extent.”

When he had finished, the red-haired man said, “I know Mrs. Queen. Quite a girl. Boxes welter-weight.”

“I hope you realise,” said the blond lion seriously, “that on the whole we agreed with people who were against apartheid.”

There was a murmur of assent.

“Except when they went too far,” said the red-haired man, “and interfered with rugger.”

“Or cricket,” said Colin.

This amendment was also well received and was followed by a discussion on the rights and wrongs of apartheid which was broken up by the arrival of two police officers. There were vague explanations of unwarranted assault in the street and everyone escorted Roger to his train at Hammersmith Broadway. The opposition may have been hanging about, but made no move.

As the train started Roger relaxed in his seat and began to laugh. An elderly woman, who had been sitting next to him, edged away.

“It’s all right, madam,” said Roger. “I’m not drunk.”

He was not drunk. He was laughing because he had just seen a great truth. Opposition to apartheid was a good thing. As long as it didn’t interfere with rugby football. Or cricket.

When he got home Harriet took one look at his face and said, “Mrs. Queen seems to be a dangerous sort of woman to interview.”

“She boxes welter-weight,” said Roger.

On the following afternoon he took the tape-recorder down to Dr. Johnson’s Buildings with a typed transcript. De Morgan ignored the transcript. He put the recorder onto broadcast and they all listened to it, twice, right through.

“It opens up an interesting line,” said de Morgan. “You realise that if we use it, it will mean turning our tactical scheme upside down.”

“Attack instead of defence,” said Roger.

“Correct. And it’ll make us pretty unpopular, too. Well, we’re so unpopular already that I suppose a little more won’t hurt. All right. Leave it with me.”

When Roger had gone he said to his junior, “Incidentally, Martin, I take back anything derogatory I may have said about Bantings.” He was puffing happily at his pipe which, to the relief of everyone in Chambers, had been unearthed from behind a pile of old affidavits. “In fact, it might be a good thing if all solicitors had some army training, don’t you think?”

The Attorney General inspected the jury with satisfaction. Twelve responsible citizens, eight male and four female, none of them under thirty.

“It was a close-run thing,” said Wyvil.

The original panel for Court 1 had consisted of thirty-six persons. This was smaller than normal, but was accounted for by the fact that a fourteen-defendant City fraud in Court 2 had absorbed most of the reserves.

Two of the thirty-six had been found by the C.R.O. to have been guilty of minor criminal offences and had been removed. The Crown had exercised its right to six peremptory challenges and had got rid of two youths with long hair, one whose hair was short, but red, and three girls who looked intellectual and argumentative. The remaining twenty-eight had then been decimated by the judge’s ruling that anyone who held strong views about apartheid should be exempted from service.

“Entirely a matter for their own consciences, Mr. Attorney. I have no intention of cross-examining my jurors.”

This had caused something approaching panic for the jury bailiff, who knew how thin his reserves were. All concerned had breathed a sigh of relief when the very last member on the panel had proved acceptable.

“Let them be sworn,” said the judge. Well timed, he thought. It was now half past twelve, so he and the jury could adjourn for their lunches. The jury would be taken by their bailiff to a private room reserved for them in a nearby hotel. He trusted that they would enjoy their meal and return refreshed.

Mr. Justice Hollebrow was a tiny man, enormously experienced in criminal matters. He was seventy years old, but as mentally alert as many men ten years his junior. The Bar recognised the soundness of his judgment and tolerated his occasional quirks.

Bonnie Parker thought he looked like a little parakeet up on his perch. In the face of considerable competition she had procured a ticket for a seat in the well of the Court. She had done this on the advice of Fred Tamplin, now convalescent, and unhappy, in Bart’s. “Have a word with Mr. Crankling,” he said. “Mention my name. His son and I were at the Polytechnic together and he’s one of my oldest friends. The staff get an allotment of tickets. He’ll let you have his if he can.”