Bernard Knight - Grounds for Appeal

‘Where were you thinking of going on that bike?’ asked Meirion, conversationally. ‘Back to Birmingham, was it?’

Beran remained mute, as he did when he was taken to a dismal interview room on the ground floor of the police station on the Esplanade. However, after being given a cup of tea and a cigarette, he unbent enough to complain that he had done nothing wrong and that they had kidnapped him unlawfully.

‘I reckon your parole has gone down the tubes now,’ advised Trevor Hartnell. ‘Obstructing the police in the course of their duties is enough for that. And now we want an explanation of how you happened to have had a van which has traces of human blood in the back.’

Vehemently, Beran argued that he knew nothing about it. ‘The bloody van had many owners before me, you find the log book and see their names,’ he snarled. ‘Then I sold it to a farmer, they all carried black-market meat for years.’

Meirion for once felt the urge to be facetious.

‘I know this is Cardiganshire, but even so, there’s not many cannibals around these parts. This was human blood, of a rare group which was the same as that body found less than half a mile from your cottage.’

Hartnell took up the questioning. ‘Funny you should mention black-market meat. We know you were mixed up with Mickey Doyle in Birmingham years ago. He ran rustling and illegal meat rackets, didn’t he? Is this all to do with that?’

For the first time, Jaroslav failed to deny anything. He sat staring down at the table, his cigarette burning down unheeded between his fingers.

‘Listen, we want some answers,’ continued the Birmingham DI. ‘Firstly, who was this man in the bog? Secondly, how did he die — and finally, did you kill him?’

The last question jerked Beran into sudden animation.

‘No, I not bloody kill him! Don’t try to hang that on me!’ he flared.

‘Hang it on you might be quite near the mark, Jaroslav!’ said Meirion heavily. ‘You can still hang in this country, you know. Both for murder or even being an accessory to killing.’

Trevor Hartnell nodded his agreement. ‘But you might be able to do yourself some good if you’re helpful to us by telling us everything you know.’

For a moment, they thought the Czech might be about to ‘cough’. But then the obstinate expression came back across his heavy features. Having learned about criminal proceedings from hard experience, he uttered the words he knew were his best defence.

‘I want lawyer — now!’ he muttered.

It was now Friday, the day before Christmas Eve, and as everyone at Garth House was planning to be away over the coming holiday, there seemed little point in hanging up festive decorations in an empty house. Moira was going to Newport to spend three days with her sister and Angela was off to Berkshire for the whole week. Sian was going home to her large family in Chepstow and Richard was off to his parents in Merthyr Tydfil, though as he had agreed to be on call for the police until Boxing Day, he was leaving his contact number with the forensic science laboratory in Cardiff. Though there were no chains of coloured paper festooning the rooms, Moira had put up several sprays of red-berried holly from a tree in her garden — and Sian had hopefully hung a sprig of mistletoe from a light in the staff room.

The following week was a barren one for getting much work done. Though more people died over this period, from road accidents, suicides and increased natural disease precipitated by cold weather, overeating and overdrinking, the legal machinery ground to a halt for quite a few days, as solicitors’ offices were closed, coroners held no inquests and the other courts were suspended. However, the police and forensic pathologists had to carry on as usual — and in fact, the homicide rate increased slightly, mainly due to more alcohol-induced disputes. Richard had arranged with the several coroners’ officers with whom he dealt to begin post-mortems again on Wednesday, as a Sunday Christmas meant that an additional day’s holiday was due after Boxing Day.

After lunch on Friday, they held a modest office party in the staff room, where they exchanged Christmas presents and spent an hour in pleasant relaxation. Richard contributed a bottle of Harveys sherry and one of Mateus Rose, while Angela brought Gordon’s gin, her favoured tipple, and a bottle of cherry brandy.

Moira had made mince pies and an iced cake with Santa and reindeer decorations. Jimmy came in long enough to drink two pint bottles of Rhymney Bitter, then vanished on one of his mysterious expeditions with friends ‘up the valley’, which Richard suspected involved shotguns and dogs.

They ate and drank in a convivial mood, looking back contentedly at the first seven months of their forensic venture and looking forward to even more success in the coming year. No one was driving that day, so the level in bottles dropped without challenge and as it did, so the level of chatter and gossip rose. Their more memorable cases were revisited and the star event was, of course, the Body in the Bog.

‘Haven’t heard a word from the cops about it lately,’ said Richard, relaxing deeply into the sagging armchair that had once belonged to Aunt Gladys. It sounds as if the trail has gone cold — hardly surprising after more than ten years.’

He was about to add that even Scotland Yard had given up and gone home, but looking across at Angela, he decided to close his mouth, as he knew she did not want to be reminded of Paul Vickers.

‘What happens when an investigation stalls like this?’ asked Moira. ‘Does the coroner just put the file on the top shelf and forget about it?’

Richard warmed to her abiding interest in legal matters.

‘No, eventually he will have to hold an inquest, but inevitably there would be an “open verdict”, which allows the body to be buried, but leaves the option for a later criminal trial or a reopened inquest, if further evidence ever comes to light.’

Moira, a couple of glasses of wine making her less reserved than usual, broached a subject that she had been nurturing for some time.

‘My eyes have been opened since I’ve been with you all,’ she said, rather emotionally. ‘You all are experts in various things and I’ve just been stagnating, especially since I lost my husband. It’s time I did something myself. Doctor Pryor, if I tried to start training as a lawyer next year, would you help me, please? You know so many solicitors, barristers and all about college applications and so on.’

Though it was hardly a Christmas party topic, Richard was immensely pleased that he seemed to have stimulated someone to move on to better things.

‘Of course I would, Moira. I’d be delighted to do what I can. Let’s talk about it after the holiday. It can be your New Year resolution!’

Angela and Sian also added their encouragement. ‘Only on condition you find us someone who can cook as well as you!’ chaffed Angela. ‘Seriously, it’s a great idea. I’m sure you’d do well. You could be a QC cross-examining me before very long!’

Sian came across and gave Moira a hug. ‘You’ll knock them out, a great girl like you!’ she enthused. ‘Why not go the whole hog and do a degree, like me? I know you’ve got double matriculation from your School Certificate, so you could apply to Cardiff or London. There are grants for mature students; you could start next October.’

Richard beamed like a benevolent father with his forensic family. ‘That would give us time to scour the kingdom for a secretary almost as good as you!’

Moira, throwing caution to the winds, went over to Richard and kissed him on the cheek, her eyes moist with gratitude to these good friends. After a hug for Angela and another for Sian, she pulled herself together and demanded that they all tucked into her mince pies and iced cake.