The Heirs of Owain Glyndwr (38 page)

85

Andrew Pilkington had theatre
tickets for the evening. He was all set to see an acclaimed new production of
Lear
in the West End. Not only that, he was taking a young woman he was very anxious to get to know better, and there were tentative plans for a light supper after the show. Consequently, when John Caswell, a senior member of the staff of the Director of Public Prosecutions, made an unscheduled appearance in Treasury Counsel's room at the Old Bailey to tell him that the Director needed him urgently, he was very far from pleased. But when he was told what the assignment was, he was intrigued and, despite his irritation, agreed to start work without delay. A series of clerks carried a vast array of documents into his room in brown cardboard boxes, and left them behind his desk. He phoned his clerk and asked him to send a note of apology, and twelve red roses, to the young lady he was obliged to stand up; and to send the junior clerk to bring him some sandwiches. He started work at 5.30.

Andrew was now one of the more senior Prosecuting Counsel to the Crown at the Old Bailey. He was trying to prepare a drug importation case, but now he had to read up, on short notice and with very little time, on the case of Caradog Prys-Jones and others. Like almost everyone in the country, Andrew had followed the trial in the press, but he had never seen the evidence for himself. Now, he not only had to see it; he had to become thoroughly familiar with it overnight. In addition to being a first-rate lawyer and a highly competent courtroom advocate, Andrew was an intuitive prosecutor. He could often read as much between the lines of a witness statement as he read in the lines. His reading of this case disturbed him. He was barely ten pages into Trevor Finch's affidavit when he concluded that Finch was undoubtedly telling the truth. Before reading any further he sat back and thought about what that meant. He then set about reading the remainder of the affidavit, several volumes of witness statements and exhibits, and some transcripts of evidence from the trial, including the evidence of Arianwen Finch. At 2.30, he took off his shoes, and his collar, set his alarm clock for 6.30, and stretched out on his sofa, where he turned the case over in his mind until he fell asleep.

The question in Andrew's mind was: what had gone on after Finch had reported back to Special Branch on the activities of Caradog Prys-Jones and Dafydd Prosser? Plans had, of course, been made for the arrests on the morning of 1 July, and it was understandable that some arrangement had been put in place so that Finch was not caught up in the net. But to Andrew's mind, it then became obvious that the prosecution had to take a decision – a decision which was by no means easy, but was one which had to be made. The police had a legitimate interest in protecting the identity of an informant, but not where withholding his identity would prevent a defendant from receiving a fair trial. That presented a stark but unavoidable choice: either disclose his identity, or drop the case. The one option not open to the prosecution was to hide the truth from the defence, and paint Trevor Hughes as a conspirator who had somehow managed to escape the clutches of the law. But that was what had happened.

As two members of the Court of Appeal had pointed out, that was very far from implicating counsel in any wrongdoing. Indeed, leaving counsel in ignorance might have been the only way to ensure that Finch remained the police's secret. But Andrew, putting himself in the position of prosecuting counsel at trial, was certain that he would have asked some hard questions before committing himself to that version of events. He was also as certain as he could be that Evan Roberts and Jamie Broderick had not asked those questions. Even with the advantage of hindsight, Andrew could not understand why. They were, it seemed to him, questions that must have been obvious even to the most inexperienced advocate. It all left him with a very sour taste in his mouth.

When he awoke at 6.30, he called John Caswell at home, to request that the conduct of the appeals should be taken out of the hands of Evan Roberts and put in his own. That decision, Caswell explained, was one which only the Director could take. In that case, Andrew insisted, the Director must be informed immediately. Caswell reluctantly woke the Director and, within an hour, Andrew had the authority he wanted.

The Director had also asked Evan Roberts and Jamie Broderick to make themselves available in the Crypt Café in the basement of the Royal Courts of Justice at 9 o'clock, in case Andrew had questions. At 8.30, when he gulped down a final cup of black coffee before making his way to court along Fleet Street and the Strand, Andrew had a lot of questions, but he had not decided how many of them he would put to Roberts or Broderick. When he arrived, feeling tired and uneasy, at the Crypt Café, Evan Roberts was very uncommunicative. He seemed unwilling even to accept that Andrew was now on board as one of the prosecution's counsel, much less that the Director had given Andrew the final say in how the appeal should be conducted. Jamie Broderick, seemingly out of his depth now, said not a single word. To Andrew's frustration, Evan seemed unable or unwilling to take the Court of Appeal's concerns seriously. He began to wonder whether Evan had lost the plot or, for that matter, whether he had ever understood the plot. It was a frosty and unproductive meeting, and eventually Andrew abandoned the attempt and made his way to court.

Outside Court 4, he saw Ben Schroeder and took him aside. They talked quietly for several minutes.

86

Tuesday 16 June 1970

‘My Lords,' Ben began,
‘I now proceed to my application to call the evidence of Detective Constable Finch and other evidence, including the evidence of a handwriting expert, whose opinion, I am told, is not disputed. My Lords, in May of this year, all three appellants were convicted by a jury at the Central Criminal Court of a conspiracy to cause explosions at Caernarfon Castle, on the occasion of the Investiture of His Royal Highness Prince Charles as Prince of Wales. The Investiture took place on 1 July last year.'

As he began to open the facts to the Court, Ben turned slightly to his left and nodded to Andrew Pilkington, who was sitting behind Evan Roberts. It was a huge relief to know that Andrew was now in charge of the prosecution's case. Ben and Andrew knew each other well. Andrew had prosecuted in Ben's first serious trial, a rape case at the Old Bailey. He had also prosecuted Billy Cottage, and argued successfully to uphold Cottage's conviction in this very courtroom almost six years earlier. But he and Ben liked and trusted each other, and Ben felt a new surge of energy as he threw himself into his argument. The Court seemed receptive, and he decided not to be too long in his remarks.

‘My Lords,' he concluded, ‘your Lordships cannot answer the questions raised by these appeals without the evidence of Detective Constable Finch. The Crown is not prepared to admit the facts stated by the officer, and so there is no way for the appellant to present that evidence except to call him as a witness. He is present, and ready to give evidence when called.'

Ben resumed his seat. Evan Roberts stood.

‘My Lords, may I first say that the prosecution has no objection to the evidence of the handwriting expert, and as my learned friend has said, her opinion is not disputed. The prosecution accepts that the various handwritten passages and signatures she refers to are not in the handwriting of DC Finch.'

‘I am much obliged,' Gareth interjected, only half rising to his feet.

‘Yes, very well,' Lord Parker said.

‘But, my Lords, I submit that there is no basis for admitting the evidence of DC Finch. In the first place, insofar as Finch was acting as an informant, the prosecution was entitled to withhold, not only his identity, but any details of his activities as such. That has been the law at least since the last century, when it was confirmed by the case of
Marks v Beyfus.
'

Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw Andrew look down and shake his head.

‘But that is not an absolute principle, surely,' Lord Parker protested. ‘The point of that very case was that it has to give way to the interests of justice, if the evidence is necessary to establish the defendant's innocence.'

‘It was not necessary for that purpose in this case,' Evan replied. ‘These appellants were caught red-handed in circumstances which clearly suggested their willing involvement in the conspiracy. Even if you leave Trevor Hughes out of it altogether, the evidence against them was overwhelming.'

‘But you didn't leave Hughes out of it, did you?' Lord Justice Carver interrupted. ‘If you had, that would have been one thing. But you didn't. You painted a picture of Hughes as being just as guilty as the appellants. You made him part of the prosecution's case. I am having some difficulty in seeing how the prosecution could have done that without being frank with the jury about who he was, and what he was doing.'

‘It's not as though there was any threat to his safety,' Mr Justice Melrose added. ‘That's one reason for the identity rule, isn't it? That doesn't seem to me to apply to this case in any real way.'

‘Those are my submissions, my Lords,' Evan replied, resuming his seat abruptly. Ben saw Andrew lean forward and tug urgently on Evan's gown. Evan shook his head without turning round.

Lord Parker glanced at Ben.

‘The only thing I would seek to emphasise, my Lords,' Ben said, ‘is that the evidence was obviously crucial to Mrs Finch's defence. The jury had to hear what he knew about any involvement, or lack of involvement, on her part. It went directly to her state of mind – what she knew or believed about what she had in the car. For the prosecution to withhold Finch, to deny her the opportunity to question him about it, cannot have been right. I am not seeking to prove what she knew in this appeal, because in my submission, I am not required to do so. I am simply seeking to show why it was wrong to allow the trial of Arianwen Finch to proceed without the jury knowing the truth about Trevor Finch.'

The judges conferred briefly, Lord Justice Carver leaning over towards the Lord Chief Justice, and Mr Justice Melrose standing behind and in between them.

‘The Court will hear the evidence of Detective Constable Finch,' Lord Parker said. ‘We are persuaded that it is necessary for a fair hearing of the appeal – particularly in the case of Mrs Hughes, or Finch, but also in the case of the two other appellants.'

87

‘I swear by Almighty
God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. My Lords, I am Detective Constable Trevor Finch of the Metropolitan Police, currently attached to Special Branch.'

Trevor Finch handed the New Testament back to the usher and folded his arms behind his back. He was smartly dressed in a restrained blue suit and tie. If he was nervous, he gave no sign of it. In demeanour, he might have been giving evidence about a routine traffic stop at his local magistrates' court.

At the back of the court, Arianwen suddenly realised that she had been holding her breath ever since he had come into view on the opposite side of the courtroom, making his way to the witness box. She released her breath in one sudden, violent exhalation which was audible throughout the courtroom, and which caused all three judges to look briefly in her direction. The prison officer put a glass of water into her hands, and she drank gratefully. She knew that she was unprepared to see Trevor again after all that had happened, but the jumble of memories and emotions that flooded her left her confused. She had expected to feel something straightforward – hatred, loathing, even contempt – which would have concentrated her mind and enabled her to channel all her energy into silently sending in his direction the rejection he deserved. But to her surprise, while the sight of him made her angry – angry enough to hit him if she had been close enough – she also felt the remains, feeble but still real, of her feelings for him as her lover, her husband, and the father of her child. To her dismay, there was to be no clean, convenient, pathway for her feelings. This man had done such violence to her life, but still she could not hate him. She had been trying to hate him ever since she had learned the truth about him, but she was not capable of it. Nor could she simply erase him from her emotional memory. She stared at him helplessly.

‘Detective Constable Finch,' Ben was saying, ‘Do you have a copy of your affidavit with you?'

‘Yes, sir.' Finch had carried the affidavit with him into the witness box. He now laid it out in front of him.

‘Are the contents of that affidavit true, or when you state an opinion, true to the best of your knowledge, information and belief?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Thank you. Officer, the Court has read your affidavit, and so I am not going to take up time unnecessarily by taking you through it in detail. But there are a few matters I want to ask you about. After that, my learned friends may have some questions.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘You joined the Metropolitan Police in 1954, and became a Detective Constable in 1959, is that right?'

‘It is, sir.'

‘At that time, you were attached to Holborn Police Station, carrying out inquiries as a member of the CID?'

‘That is correct.'

‘But in 1961, you were asked to undertake an assignment for Special Branch, is that right?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘For what period?'

‘The period was not specified. It would depend on events. As long as I was needed in the role, I would remain attached to Special Branch.'

‘The role being an undercover assignment in Wales?'

‘Yes.'

‘And taking it briefly, was this assignment the result of certain concerns Special Branch had about the rise of more militant forms of nationalism in Wales?'

‘Yes, sir, it was.'

‘Please tell their Lordships what your qualifications were for such a role?'

Finch turned towards the judges.

‘My parentage is Welsh, my Lords, and I speak Welsh, though in all honesty, having lived in London for many years, my Welsh today is mainly due to what I learned in Caernarfon from Arianwen. Before that, it was only just about adequate.'

‘Arianwen being your wife, one of the appellants in this appeal?'

‘Yes, sir.'

Arianwen saw Trevor's eyes turn to her and, to her amazement, felt herself returning something approaching a smile.

‘In addition to that, sir, the fact that I had lived most of my life in London and had little background in Wales, made it easier for them to give me a legend that would work.'

‘A legend being a fictitious identity and personal history, to be used for the purposes of your assignment?'

‘Exactly, sir. It has to be very detailed, because you have to anticipate that someone may inquire into it if you attract suspicion while on assignment, and it's a lot easier if the legend takes the inquirer into places farther from home, where inquiries may be more difficult for him.'

‘And as a result, in October 1961, you were provided with a position as the manager, and apparent owner of the – you must forgive me if I mangle the pronunciation, as I am told I usually do – the
Tywysog
book shop in Palace Street in Caernarfon?'

Finch laughed. ‘Your pronunciation is very good, sir, and yes, that is correct.'

‘Where in due course, you met Caradog Prys-Jones, his sister Arianwen, and Dafydd Prosser, known to his friends as Dai Bach?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘What name did you use for the purposes of your assignment?'

‘Trevor Hughes.'

Ben paused and turned over some pages in his notebook.

‘I'm going to jump forward in time. Did there come a time in April 1963, when you married Arianwen Prys-Jones?'

Arianwen saw his eyes flash in her direction again.

‘I did, sir.'

‘And, so that there is no doubt in their Lordships' minds about the lawfulness of that marriage, were both of you free to marry?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Where did the marriage take place?'

‘At the Register Office in Caernarfon.'

‘Was it celebrated with all due formalities, witnesses, and so on?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘Are you and Arianwen still husband and wife?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘In May 1965, did Arianwen give birth to a child?'

‘Our son, Harri, yes.'

‘And – forgive me, I don't mean to be crass, but it is important to be precise – are you Harri's father?'

‘Yes, sir. I am.'