The Freedom Trap. Desmond Bagley

had some sandwiches and a pint. I was chatting to the barman, an Irishman. He ought to remember me.’

      ‘And what time was this?’

      ‘It must have been after ten o’clock because the pub was open. Say, half past ten.’

      ‘That alibi comes a little late,’ said Maskell. ‘It’s not relevant.’ He consulted a sheet of paper from the folder. ‘I must tell you that the police version differs from yours substantially – and they have a great deal of evidence to show.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘Do I have to point out the dangers of lying to your lawyer?’

      ‘I’m not lying,’ I said indignantly.

      He spoke gravely. ‘Mr Rearden, let me say that you are in deep trouble. I gather you want to enter a plea of not guilty at your trial, but I must warn you that, on the evidence now extant, you are likely to lose the case. Public concern about crimes of violence of this nature has been increasing and this concern is reflected by the heavy sentences imposed by the courts.’

      He paused to collect his thoughts and then went on in measured tones. ‘Now, as your solicitor I cannot prejudge this case, but I would like to say this: If the diamonds were to be returned, and if you entered a plea of guilty, then the court would be inclined to leniency and, in my opinion, your sentence would be not more than five years and possibly as little as three years. With a remittance of sentence for good behaviour you could be out of prison in as little as two years.

      ‘On the other hand, if the diamonds are not returned and if you enter a plea of not guilty then your sentence is going to be very heavy – assuming you are convicted, an assumption which on the evidence I have is very likely. If I may use slang I would say that his Lordship is going to throw the book at you; he’ll lock you up and throw away the key. I doubt if you would get away with much under fourteen years, and I assure you that I have great experience in these forecasts and I do not speak lightly.’

      He cleared his throat. ‘Now, what do you say, Mr Rearden? What shall we do about this?’

      ‘The only diamonds I saw that morning were in the shop windows of Bond Street,’ I said distinctly.

      He looked at me in silence for a long time then shook his head. ‘Very well,’ he said quietly. ‘I will go about my business – and yours – but with no great hope of success. I ought to warn you that the police have such evidence that will be very difficult for defence counsel to refute.’

      ‘I’m innocent,’ I said obstinately.

      He said no more but collected his papers and left the room without a backward glance.

      II

      So there I was in the dock of the Central Criminal Court – the Old Bailey. There was much pomp and circumstance, robes and wigs, deferences and courtesies – and me popping up from the bowels of the earth into the dock like the demon king in a pantomime, the centre of attraction. Of course, I had competition from the Judge. It seems that when a man gets to sit on the Bench he feels that he’s entitled to be a licensed jester and he loves nothing more than to have the audience rolling in the aisles at his witticisms. I’ve seen worse music hall turns than a Criminal Court judge. Still, it does lighten the atmosphere – a court would be a pretty grim place without the comic bits – and the Chief Comic isn’t prejudiced; he aims his barbs at prosecution and defence alike. I found that I quite enjoyed it and laughed as much as anyone else.

      Maskell was there, of course, but in a minor role; defence counsel was a man called Rollins. Maskell had tried again, just before the trial, to get me to alter my plea of not guilty. He said, ‘Mr Rearden, I want you to consider once more the consequences of losing this case. You will not only receive a long sentence but there are certain other implications. Long-term prisoners are invariably regarded as high-risk prisoners, especially those who are regarded as having financial backing. In the absence of diamonds to the value of £173,000 you would undoubtedly come into that category. A high risk prisoner is treated very differently from the ordinary prisoner and I understand that the circumstances can be rather unpleasant. I would think of that if I were you.’

      I didn’t have to think of it. I hadn’t a hope in hell of getting the diamonds back and that was the crux of the matter. Even if I pleaded guilty I’d get a stiff sentence in the absence of the diamonds. The only thing to do was to put on a brave face and make the best of it. It struck me that Mackintosh was a very smart man and that maybe Mrs Smith was even smarter.

      I said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Maskell, but I’m innocent.’

      He looked puzzled. He didn’t believe a word I said but he couldn’t figure out why I was keeping my mouth shut. But then a wintry smile came to his face. ‘I hope you don’t think the investment of so many years of your life is worth the money. Too much time in prison is apt to change a man for the worse.’

      I smiled at him. ‘I thought you said you wouldn’t prejudge the case.’

      ‘I think you are a very foolish young man,’ he said. ‘But you have my best wishes in your unfortunate future.’

      The trial got under way laboriously. First the jury details were settled and then the action began, the prosecution getting first crack. The prosecuting counsel was a tall, thin man with a face like the blade of a hatchet, and he fairly revelled in his job. He led off with a rather skimpy introduction and then began to lay on the prosecution witnesses, while Rollins, my counsel, looked on with a bored expression on his face. I had met Rollins only twice and he had been offhanded on both occasions. He knew this was one he wasn’t going to win.

      The prosecution witnesses were good – very good, indeed – and I began to see why the prosecuting counsel was looking so cheerful despite the misfortune of his face. Expert police witnesses introduced photographs and drawings of the scene of the crime and, that groundwork laid, the pressure was applied.

      There was the motherly old soul who had identified me at the police station line-up. ‘I saw him strike the postman,’ she testified, the light of honesty shining from her eyes. ‘I was standing in the corridor and saw the accused hit the postman with his fist, grab a yellow box from him, and push him into an office. Then the accused ran down the stairs.’

      The prosecutor offered her a plan of the second floor. ‘Where were you standing?’

      She indicated a place in the corridor and looked across the court straight at me as guileless as you please. The sweet old lady was lying like a flatfish, and she knew that I knew she was lying. She couldn’t have been standing in the corridor because I’d checked, and the details of her evidence were all wrong, anyway. There wasn’t a thing I could do about it, though.

      Another highlight was a man from Fortnum and Mason who testified to having sent a packed picnic basket to a certain hotel. The order was telephoned in by a Mr Rearden. Questioned by the defence he said he couldn’t be certain that the Mr Rearden who ordered the basket was the accused.

      A hotel employee testified that the accused stayed at his hotel and that a basket had been delivered addressed to Mr Rearden. Asked what had happened to it he said he didn’t know but presumably the accused had collected it. There was a bit of argument about that and part of his answer was struck out.

      A detective produced a picnic basket in court and testified that he had found it in the office of Kiddykars Ltd. It had been identified as coming from Fortnum’s. Another police witness testified that the basket was liberally covered with the accused’s fingerprints, as were other items in the room; to wit – an electric kettle, a coffee pot and several pieces of crockery and cutlery.

      The jury drew its own conclusions.

      Then there was the police witness who said he had been interested in tracking down the ownership of Kiddykars Ltd. Apparently it was a genuine company but not doing any business. The lines of ownership were very tangled but he had finally cracked it with the helpful assistance of the South African police. The owner proved to be a Mr Joseph Aloysius Rearden of Johannesburg. No, he had no means of knowing