The Wrong Man: The Shooting of Steven Waldorf and The Hunt for David Martin (25 page)

Also in court was a young woman, who may or may not have been the person who appeared in the public gallery on the previous occasion, who identified herself as ‘Natasha'. Weeping noisily, she called out, ‘I've got fags for you but they won't let me see you,' and an attempt to pass both cigarettes and cash to Martin was promptly halted. Outside the court, she told reporters, ‘I've tried to see David four times in the last eight days but they won't let me. David helped me when I had money and a prescription stolen. He helped me through a bad time in my life.' This helpfulness on Martin's part may also have been the case with regards to an acquaintance who was a homosexual lorry driver. Apparently, he and Martin had shared an interest in yoga, wholefoods and the occult while the driver was waiting for a sex-change operation.

As it can be well imagined, security was very robust both for Martin's arrival and departure at court; the arrival coincided with a rather unpleasant allegation of police misconduct. Three police cars, two Rovers and a Fiat accompanied Martin's prison van to court but as they arrived and reversed into the yard of the court, it was alleged that there was altercation between the accompanying detectives and the waiting press photographers. Possibly the cause was the Rover, which was following the van and reversed into the Fiat, but it appeared there was a bad-tempered exchange in which it was said that cameras were smashed and newsmen were threatened and knocked over. Pointing to a hole in the road, caused by roadworks, one officer supposedly told a photographer that he would ‘fill the hole in with a few of us if we did not move back' and another stated, ‘The police accused us of being animals. There was a hell of a scrap involving about a dozen policemen and ten of us. Punches were thrown by the police. It was general harassment.'

The ubiquitous Scotland Yard spokesman stated: ‘Any complaint about police behaviour towards photographers will certainly be investigated.'

And so it was. Several days went by and then a senior officer told us, ‘Right, a DCI's coming tomorrow to interview you lot about that complaint.' This was the first I'd heard of a complaint, so I replied, ‘What complaint's this, then?'

This spineless senior officer simply sighed and rolled his eyes and fixed me with the sort of expression adopted by unkind parents and reserved for a dim-witted child who has failed a simple intelligence test, as if to say, ‘You know
exactly
what I'm talking about.' The reason for his recalcitrance was this: he felt that if he were to explain the complaint in detail, it might rebound on him to suggest that he knew all about it and therefore he would in some way be accountable.

I was annoyed and it showed. ‘I've got no idea what complaint you're talking about,' I snapped and he grudgingly gave me the bare details. This was the first time I'd heard of it. In fact, it had been reported in a couple of newspapers but I was unaware of it. Nobody had mentioned it to me and of course, at the time of it happening, I was lolling about at home. Still, now I knew about the bare bones of the case, it did strike me as being rather odd. The press had given us pretty good coverage about the case – not about the shooting of Waldorf of course, but then we hadn't been involved in that aspect of the investigation. But we'd come out of the arrest of Martin smelling of roses, so why would any of us want to have what appeared to be a confrontation with the press? It didn't make sense.

The following day, the chief inspector arrived, with a detective sergeant as his bag-carrier, whom I shall refer to simply as ‘Trevor'. In common with the whole of the Metropolitan Police Force, I detested him. He had the ability to get under anybody's skin, just by a look or a word; within seconds he could transform the mildest-mannered soul into an infuriated psychopath. This had happened with a CID typist who was known for her sunny, outgoing, placid temperament – in fact, she practised yoga to preserve her tranquillity. It took just the blinking of an eyelid for Trevor to seriously upset her and for her to pick up a metal tray, full of mugs of tea and smash him over the head with it. Staggering around the office with blood running down his face, Trevor looked a pitiful sight and the officers who were present immediately expressed profound concern; for the typist, that is, not Trevor, who was ignored and permitted to bleed, quite copiously.

So the chief inspector cautioned me and proceeded with his questioning; I told him that I was not present at the alleged fracas, did not know who had been, and had heard nothing about the supposed incident. Trevor wrote the notes containing my unhelpful replies which I signed as being correct. I left the office and promptly forgot all about the matter about which I knew nothing in the first place; that is, until a couple of weeks later.

In the meantime, I had a great deal to be getting on with. Although the Martin investigation had only occupied me for a couple of weeks, I had a large backlog of work to contend with, which until now had had to be placed on the backburner, plus more work coming in. The Metropolitan Police Solicitors' Department was understandably getting a bit shirty because they hadn't received any documentation from me in respect of the ‘Eric' case, so that report had to be addressed as a matter of urgency. There were other reports to be submitted as well, plus disposal of property and the thousand-and-one other matters which took up a Flying Squad officer's life. There was also a number of people who demanded my attention; one was a well-known ‘key man' – not one of Martin's standing, but pretty close, nonetheless – who, without any further discourse, I wanted to put on the sheet for conspiracy to burgle safety deposit boxes in Mayfair and then follow this up with a more leisurely discussion about his involvement in a high-value burglary in Knightsbridge. At the other end of the criminal social scale, there was a yob from a Barking council estate who required an interview regarding a conspiracy to rob in Hendon and also, I needed to know the whereabouts of a young man from Dalston, in respect of possessing a gun. This trio was well aware that I was after them and the fact that I hadn't made any overt moves in their respective directions for a couple of weeks must have made them think they were home and dry. To disabuse them of this notion, I needed to crank up some informants, with the promise of a handsome bursary from the Yard's informants' fund if they were successful in housing these three and a kick up the arse if they were not.

It was a few weeks later that Trevor telephoned me. Because this internal investigation had gone nowhere – no one it seemed knew anything – it appeared that this had become a source of annoyance to the chief inspector who was now allegedly threatening havoc, by returning to check everybody's mileage claims, refreshment expenses, etc. All this, said Trevor, could be avoided if I were simply to provide him with the names of the guilty parties and as I began to gibber with rage at this infamous suggestion, he hung up. Trevor obviously hadn't learnt a lesson from the tray-wielding typist! He never did phone back, which saved him from receiving an earful of blasphemous filth from me. But there you are: a small, unpleasant episode in a busy Flying Squad officer's life. Rather more was going on in David Martin's life, because on 14 March 1983, he appeared at Lambeth Magistrates' Court, London's top security court, for committal to the Old Bailey.

It appeared that Martin had gone off the idea of the hunger strike and also Miss Stephens, for the time being at least, because through the dock's bulletproof screen, separating the court from the public gallery, he carried out what the
Glasgow Herald
described as ‘an animated conversation' with a girl named ‘Natasha'.

David Boyd, representing the Director of Public Prosecutions office, outlined the case, mentioning his threats regarding firearms on the two occasions he had been confronted by police. In a statement, part-read out in court, Detective Inspector Tony Brightwell had asked him, ‘Do you know Steven Waldorf, the man who was shot?' Martin had replied, ‘No, I don't think I have ever met him. I read somewhere he's a Jew. I would not have met him because I don't like Jews.' This was no more than grandstanding; in fact, one of Martin's associates while he was serving his nine-year sentence had been Jewish.

Anthony Blok once more represented Martin; he made a submission to the magistrate Maurice Guymer that there was insufficient evidence for his client to be committed on the charge of attempting to murder PC Carr. Mr Guymer felt otherwise. In one final attempt to show his contempt for the system, Martin instructed Blok to make an application for bail, saying, ‘He feels that if he is granted bail, this will give him a chance to prove to the court that he can and does indeed wish to go straight.' Blok added that as part of his bail conditions, Martin would live with his parents but perhaps Mr Guymer had read Martin's father's comments in the press, in which he exhorted his son to ‘keep on running' and with masterly understatement he mildly replied, ‘I don't feel that I can, in all the circumstances, grant bail,' and Martin was committed in custody to stand his trial at the Old Bailey.

Anthony Blok seemed a little close to his client; later he got even closer to another client after Blok appeared at Croydon Crown Court on 30 June 2009 and at the age of 72 was sentenced to four years' imprisonment for three counts of money-laundering, perjury and perverting the course of public justice. The matter was referred to the Solicitors Disciplinary Tribunal later that year – he had previously appeared before the tribunal seven years earlier – and they decided that he was not fit to practise as a solicitor again.

The press, perhaps in revenge for their staff and equipment being allegedly knocked about, launched an attack on the Flying Squad, alleging corruption in general and being responsible for the shooting of Steven Waldorf in particular. The Assistant Commissioner (Crime), Gilbert Kelland, who prior to this CID appointment had spent all of his thirty-seven years' service in uniform, hastily checked the facts and when he was more than satisfied that no Flying Squad officer had been present at the shooting in Pembroke Road, he issued a denial, saying in part: ‘Following this incident, the task of locating and arresting David Martin (for whom Mr Waldorf had been mistaken) who was wanted for the attempted murder of a policeman was given to the Flying Squad and successfully accomplished on January 28 1983.' According to Kelland's memoirs, the squad was practically in a state of exultant swoon at being exonerated from a situation in which they had never been involved.

So in the judicial process of things, this was the end of round one for Martin. He of course was the subject of twenty-four hour security while he was on remand. Although the evidence had been served on his solicitors, the papers were being checked and rechecked to ensure there were no loose ends. Everything now depended on the strength of the prosecution case, which would commence in six months' time.

O
n 21 September 1983, Martin's trial commenced at No. 2 Court at the Old Bailey. The no-nonsense judge was Mr Justice Kilner-Brown OBE, TD, who eleven years previously had sentenced Frederick Joseph Sewell, who had shot and murdered Superintendent Gerard Richardson GC during the course of a £106,033 jewel robbery in Blackpool, to thirty years' imprisonment.

Martin performed his usual trick of refusing to plead to the indictment. ‘It's not possible to make a plea at the moment,' he said when the first count of the indictment was put to him by the court's chief clerk, Mr Michael McKenzie, and when each of the fourteen remaining counts were put, he answered, ‘The same.' The judge ordered that pleas of not guilty were entered. By saying nothing, Martin was tacitly suggesting to an unkind legal world that it should ‘do its worst', but given the weight of evidence against him it was just as well that he had the services of Ivan (later, Sir Ivan) Lawrence QC, MP, who led John Caudle, to defend him. Lawrence had defended in over ninety murder trials, and his clients included Ronnie Kray (in both his earlier blackmail trial and the later sensational murder trial) and the mass murderer Dennis Nilsen.

The prosecution was represented by Kenneth (later, His Honour Judge) Richardson QC who led John Nutting (later Sir John Nutting QC) and opened the case for the Crown, detailing all of the crimes with which he had been charged since his release from his nine-year prison sentence. It was also made clear to the jury that although DC Peter Finch was an important part of the case against Martin, he would not be giving evidence since he was soon to go on trial for the attempted murder of Steven Waldorf. Referring to Martin's escape from Marlborough Street Magistrates' Court, Richardson told the court, ‘How he escaped, we do not know. When he was asked, he declined to say and perhaps one is not surprised at that.'

Two days later, PC Carr limped into court and told the jury of his near fatal encounter with Martin on the night of 5 August the previous year. After Martin had started to walk towards the door, and he and PC Fretter had closed with him, PC Carr said, ‘I grabbed his right arm with both my hands. My right hand went to his wrist and my left hand to his elbow.' Within seconds, a shot rang out, followed by another and Carr realised that Martin was holding a gun. ‘Let go, or I'll shoot,' said Martin, but Carr hung on, and told the court, ‘I carried on pulling his arm round towards his back, hoping to force the gun out of his hand. There was a third shot. It hit me in the top of the groin. I didn't realise I had been hit. I felt a movement on my hip. Then I felt a wet, warm, sticky dampness down my leg. I carried on fighting with him, hoping to bring the gun under control. I carried on for one or two seconds and my leg gave way. I collapsed backwards and Martin said, ‘‘If you move, I'll give you another.'''

As PC Carr lay bleeding on the floor, Martin ran down the stairs. ‘I placed my right hand on my groin as hard as I could and put my left hand hard on top to try to control the bleeding,' said Carr. ‘I believe I managed to stop the flow of blood with my hands.'