In general, the police were wary of the CPS because of its negative attitude towards bringing cases to court, and indeed Banks had had more than one argument with Oakes on this subject. On the whole, though, Oakes was a fair man, and he didn’t usually—like so many Crown Prosecutors—do more damage to the case than the defence did. Banks had even had a pint with him on a couple of occasions and swopped stories of life in the trenches of London, where they had both spent time.
Oakes’s office was as untidy as the man himself, briefs and files all over the place. Many of them bore his trademark—linked coffee-rings, like the Olympic games symbol—for Oakes was a caffeine addict and didn’t care where he rested his mug. Today it sat on top of the post-mortem report on Deborah Harrison.
It was already only a couple of weeks before Christmas, more than two weeks since they had first consulted by telephone. DNA tests had confirmed that it was, indeed, Deborah’s blood on Owen’s anorak and Owen’s tissue under her fingernail. Banks had sent over all the witness statements and forensic test results collected in the Initial Case File. Owen Pierce’s defence team would also have copies of them by now.
“I like this,” Oakes was saying, tapping the foot-thick heap of files on his desk. “I particularly like this DNA analysis. Something I can really get my teeth into. No confession, you say?”
“No,” Banks answered.
“Good.” He slurped some coffee. “Nothing but trouble, confessions, if you ask me. You’re better off without them. What do you think, Denise?”
“We’ve had
some
success with confessions. Limited, I’ll admit. As often as not they’ll retract, say the police falsified it or beat it out of them.” She gave Banks a stern look. “But even scientific evidence isn’t entirely problem-free. Depends very much on how it was gathered and who’s presenting it.”
“Oh, I know that,” said Oakes, waving his hand in the air. “Remember that dithering twit in the Innes case we did in Richmond?” He looked at Banks and Stott and rolled his eyes. “Open and shut. Or should have been. Simple matter of bloodstains. By the time the defence had finished with this chap, he was a nervous wreck, not even sure any more that two and two made four. But what I mean is, a good, solid case rests on facts. Like DNA. That’s what judges like and that’s what juries like. Facts. Indisputable. Beautiful. Facts. Am I right, Denise?”
Denise Campbell nodded.
“Now,” Oakes went on after another slug of coffee, “I trust that Mr Pierce gave his permission for the blood and hair samples to be taken?”
“Yes,” said Banks. “They were taken by a registered police surgeon. You should have copies of the signed consent forms.”
Oakes frowned and dug around deeper in the pile. “Ah, yes,” he muttered, pulling out a few coffee-ringed sheets. “Here they are. Good. Good. And I trust his anorak was legally obtained in the first place?”
Banks looked at Stott, who said, “Yes. He gave us his permission to take it in for tests and we gave him a receipt.”
“But you didn’t go into his home with a search warrant?”
“No,” said Stott. “At that stage in our enquiries we merely wanted to talk to Mr Pierce. Then, when I saw the orange anorak, having heard descriptions of a man in a similar orange anorak in the vicinity of the crime scene, I took the initiative and—”
Oakes flapped his hand again. “Yes, yes, yes, Inspector. All right. You’re not giving evidence in court. Spare me the formalities. It’s a bit flimsy, but it’ll have to do.”
Stott sat stiffly in his chair, red-faced, mouth tight. Banks couldn’t resist a smile. It was the new lad’s first taste of Stafford Oakes.
Oakes went on, thumbing through the pile on his desk. “Good stuff, most of this,” he said. “DNA, hair, blood analysis. Good stuff. Can’t understand a word of it myself, of course, but get the right man in the box and we’d even be able to sell it to your average
Sun
reader. That’s the key, you know: plain language, without talking down.” He put a thick wad of papers aside and flapped a few statements in the air. “And this,” he went on. “Not so bad, either. Your vicar, what’s his name … Daniel Charters … places our man on the bridge around the right time.” He touched his index finger to the side of his nose. “Must say though, Banks, there’s a hint of moral turpitude about the fellow.”
“Daniel Charters was accused of making a homosexual advance to a church worker,” said Banks. “A Croatian refugee called Ive Jela
č
i
ć
, who was also a suspect in this case, until we turned up Pierce. If it’s of any interest, I don’t believe Charters did it.”
“Doesn’t matter what
you
believe. Does it, Denise?”
“No,” said Denise.
“See, my learned colleague agrees. No, what matters, Banks, is what the jury believes. Vicar with a whiff of scandal lingering
around the dog-collar like a particularly virulent fart.” He shook his head and tut-tutted. “Now, there, they say to themselves, goes a true hypocrite, a man who preaches the virtue of chastity, a man who belongs to a church that won’t even ordain homosexual ministers, caught with his hand up the choirboy’s surplice, so to speak. Well, you see what I mean? It’s tabloid scandal-sheet material, that’s what it is.”
“The point is academic, anyway,” Banks said, “as Owen Pierce openly admits to being on the bridge at the time.”
“Ah-hah,” said Oakes, raising a finger. “I wouldn’t take too much notice of that. It’s about as useful as a confession. And remember, that’s what he said
before
he talked to his solicitor. A lot can change between now and the trial. Believe me, we need as much evidence as we can get.”
“Charters isn’t the only one who can place Pierce on the bridge around the right time. Deborah’s friend Megan Preece saw him, too.”
Oakes shook his head. “I’ve read her statement. She’s not entirely
sure
it was him. Damn good thing, too. Nothing worse than children in the box. Oh, we’ll use your vicar. Don’t worry about that. Just playing devil’s advocate. Have to anticipate all eventualities.” He glanced at more statements. “The landlord of the Nag’s Head places Pierce in the pub a short while before, too, I see. He’s reliable, I suppose?”
Banks looked at Stott again. “Well,” the latter said stiffly. “He seems a bit slow to me, but given that it wasn’t a busy night and Pierce seems to have been about his only customer, I think we can rely on him, yes.”
“Good. And what’s this other place now … Ah, the Peking Moon. A Chinese restaurant.” He wrinkled his nose. “Chinaman, I suppose?”
“Born and bred in Whitechapel,” said Stott.
“Chinaman with a cockney accent, then?”
“Yes.”
Oakes shook his head. “Juries don’t like Chinamen. Don’t trust them. Still think of the old Fu Manchu image, you know, inscrutable, yellow peril and all that. Don’t go for it myself, but you can’t seem to get these racist attitudes out of people’s minds as
quickly as you’d like, and you certainly can’t legislate them away. Still, we’ll do our best. Bright fellow, is he?”
“He’s very articulate,” said Stott.
“Good, that’ll help. Unless he seems too bright, of course. Juries don’t like people who come across as being too clever. Especially foreigners. They expect it of the boffins, of course, but not of your common-or-garden sort of restaurateur. Well, can’t be helped.” He got up and refilled his coffee mug from the machine on the filing cabinet. “Now what really bothers me,” he went on, “is this other stuff here.” He reached into the pile again and pulled out more papers. “You took a statement from a woman called Michelle Chappel, an ex-girlfriend of Pierce’s. It’s all above board, of course, but the whole issue’s dodgy.” He clicked his tongue and rested his hand on the papers, as if ready to swear on the Bible. “Dodgy in the extreme.”
“In what way?” asked Banks.
Oakes sat back in his chair, linked his hands behind his head and quoted at the cracked ceiling. “‘A trial judge in a criminal trial has always a discretion to refuse to admit evidence if in his opinion its prejudicial effect outweighs its probative value.’ Lord Diplock, Regina v. Sang, 1979.”
“And do you think this is the case with Michelle Chappel’s statement?” Banks asked.
“I’m saying it could be a problem. ‘There should be excluded from the jury information about the accused which is likely to have an influence on their minds prejudicial to the accused which is out of proportion to the true probative value of admissible evidence conveying that information.’ Same source. And it usually relates to evidence of similar fact. You’re implying here, by trying to introduce the woman’s statement as evidence, that Pierce was just the kind of person who would commit such a crime. Freudian mumbo-jumbo, and juries don’t like it, except on television. And, more to the point, a lot of judges don’t like it, either.”
Banks shrugged. “I’m aware of the similar fact rule,” he said, “but what we’re trying to establish here is a history of violence against women. And there’s a marked physical similarity between the two victims. We’re trying to get at a motive.”
Oakes’s eyebrows shot up. “Ah, yes, that’s all very well and good, Banks. But then you’re an imaginative sort of chap, kind who reads a lot of fiction, aren’t you? If you understand the problem of similar fact evidence, then you must see that what you’re doing is saying that Pierce was the sort of person who would commit such a crime because he once acted in a way
similar
to the perpetrator of the crime under consideration. And, what’s more, it’s an unreported crime based purely on the evidence of a woman who no doubt despises the man for rejecting her.” He tut-tutted again and drank some coffee. “Still,” he mused, “stranger things have happened.”
“So what’s your conclusion?” Banks asked.
“My conclusion?” He slapped the stack of coffee-stained files. “Oh, we’ll give it a try. Why not? At worst, her evidence can only be declared inadmissible.” He chuckled. “It used to be that the definition of inadmissible evidence was anything that might help the defence. That was in the good old days. Sometimes, depending on the judge, you can get a bit of leeway on these matters, especially in a case as serious as this one. I’ve seen similar fact evidence admitted more than once. What the rule actually states is that the
mere fact
that the accused has previously acted in a similar way to the crime he is standing trial for is not relevant. However, if there’s a
very close
similarity, something that links the two events in a convincing way as part of a whole system of actions, an emerging
pattern,
so much so that it becomes more than a matter of mere coincidence, then such evidence may be admissible. Do you follow me?”
“I think so,” said Banks.
“If we attempt to show that the two assaults are part of such a pattern,” Oakes continued, “then we might just be able to squeeze it in. Depending on the judge, of course. Have you got a psychologist you can consult on this? What about that young woman I’ve seen you with in the Queen’s Arms? Pretty young thing. Redhead. Isn’t she a psychologist?”
“Jenny Fuller?”
“That’s the one.”
“Yes. But Jenny’s still teaching in America. She won’t be back until after Christmas.”
“That’ll do fine. No hurry, dear boy, no hurry. We’ve got enough for committal already. Just need something to beef up the admissibility quotient, if we can.”
“Are you going to prosecute, then?”
Oakes drank more coffee, looked at the papers and sniffed a few times. “Oh, I think so,” he said, after what seemed like an eternity. Then he nodded. “Yes, yes, I think we’ve got a good case. What about you, Denise?”
Denise Campbell nodded. “Let’s nail the bastard,” she said. Then she blushed and put her hand over her mouth as if she had just burped.
II
Owen’s committal proceeding occurred in early February. The whole affair was about as exciting as a damp squib, more reminiscent of a college faculty meeting than an affair at which grave matters were decided. Nobody was even wearing wigs and robes.
He appeared before three JPs one bitter cold morning, and on Wharton’s advice, they heard the “new-style committal.” That is, they read all the prosecution’s statements and the defence offered no case. It was basically committal by consent. And just as Wharton had guaranteed, the JPs agreed there was
prima facie
case and Owen was bound over for trial in the Crown Court. A trial date was set for late March. There were a few spectators in court, and Owen’s name was now known to the general public, but only the charges and bare details were made known to the press, not the actual evidence.
Luckily, Owen had quickly got used to the monotony of prison routine: lights on, slop out, lights out, sleep. After the first few weeks, he had lost track of time. He was allowed out of his cell only to exercise in the dreary yard for half an hour each day. He hardly saw another soul there but for his guards, and it was no pleasure walking around in circles alone.
The food reminded him of school dinners: bread-and-butter pudding, grey leathery beef, lumpy custard, Spam fritters. Usually he left most of it. Even so, he felt constipated most of the time.
The cells around him were all occupied. At night he heard voices, even crying sometimes, and one evening the person in the next cell tried to strike up a conversation, asking him what he’d done. But Owen didn’t answer. What could the man possibly want to talk about? Compare notes on rape and mutilation?
Mostly, he listened to the tapes Wharton brought him and read poetry and science fiction. He had Wordsworth almost by heart after the first month.
Every few days, for some unknown reason, the prison authorities played musical cells with him. Only the smells were different. One place had a mattress acrid with spilled semen; one of the washstands seemed to breathe vomit fumes from its depths. But maybe that was his imagination. The predominating odour was of disinfectant and slops. In one cell, he discovered in the middle of the night that there was no chamber pot or bucket. He called a warder, who told him to piss on the floor. He pissed down the sink. That wasn’t his imagination.
As time went on, it was the little things that began to get him down: the rough feel of his prison clothes, the lack of cooking or tea-making facilities, the lousy coffee, the dreadful food … The more he thought about them, the less petty they seemed. These were the essential parts of the tapestry of his liberty, things he took for granted normally. Now he had no access to them, they assumed greater importance in his mind.