Brian Freemantle - A Mind to Kill

‘Indeed,’ he intoned, ‘I will submit to you there have been few murders in the last hundred years – even longer – when the preponderance of guilt can be more strongly proved.’

‘ You listening? ’

Jennifer jumped, startled, angry at herself for allowing one concentration to become greater than the other.

‘ Yes, you did relax, didn’t you? Got to stay on your toes, Jennifer. I’m going to destroy you: everything about you. The game is for you to try to stop me. Shall we do that? Winner takes all, you or me. Fight to the death.’

Jennifer stiffened against any response. And succeeded.

‘… You may feel, after having heard certain evidence that will be produced before you, that there is a clinical explanation for this horrendous crime,’ Keflin-Brown was saying. ‘Upon that, upon the law, you must at all times be guided by my Lord. But from the outset, you must know the prosecution’s case. It is that Jennifer Lomax, before you in the dock…’ The man performed his first obvious trick, turning to extend an unwavering, accusing finger in Jennifer’s direction. ‘… is a calculating, premeditating murderess who killed her husband most horribly having discovered that he was having an affair with another woman, a woman, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, whom Jennifer Lomax once regarded as a friend… just as she believed her marriage and future with Gerald Lomax was untouchably secure…’

‘ Don’t worry, Jennifer. No-one will think you’re that. A month from now we’ll have you safely tucked up with all the Jesus Christs and Franklin D. Roosevelts and Napoleons and Catherine the Greats, just one big happy, crazy party.’

Jennifer sat upright, arms straight by her side, anchoring herself by gripping the underside of the uncomfortable chair, thinking again how much the prosecutor was making her sound like the sign-here package that had been delivered that morning. Me! she thought, agonized. It’s me! Me sitting here, holding on here: a person, a body. Jennifer Lomax. Me. Flesh and blood. A person with feelings. Not ‘her’. Or ‘the accused’. Or ‘this woman’. Or ‘a calculating, abandoned wife who decided upon the ultimate punishment for a deceiving husband’. Not true: hadn’t known.

‘ Tell them it’s not fucking true, you lying bastard! ’

‘Not fucking true, you lying bastard!’ Jennifer was on her feet before she could stop herself, the unpreventable shout reverberating around the court to the discernible echo of sharply indrawn breath. She said, ‘No… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean…’ but her control was gone and the voice said, ‘ Don’t let the short-assed judge stop you: tell him to stay under his fucking mushroom where the pixies belong,’ and as Jarvis opened his mouth to speak Jennifer stopped him by saying, ‘Stay under your fucking…’ before she managed to halt. Silence embalmed the courtroom, every eye upon her. Hall was swivelled, horrified. Perry was coming half bent, crablike, towards her. The interrupted Keflin-Brown struck a pose, head to one side, bewilderment sculpted into his face.

‘Sit down!’ said the solicitor, in a stage whisper heard by everyone.

But Jennifer didn’t sit down, despite the wardresses plucking at her arms. At the dock rail she said, imploringly, ‘I’m sorry! It wasn’t me! It’s never me! It’s Jane.’

‘Shut up and sit down!’ said Perry, still loud.

‘Mr Hall!’ demanded the judge.

‘I beg the court’s indulgence, my Lord. A problem from which my client is suffering which I intend bringing to your Lordship’s notice, during the course of this trial-’

‘A problem this court does not wish to suffer,’ cut off the tiny, irascible man. ‘Do I need to remind you about turning this court into a music-hall?’

‘No, my Lord.’

‘Do you wish an adjournment, to advise your client how properly to behave in my court?’

‘I do not think that will be necessary, my Lord.’

‘Don’t have me make it necessary, Mr Hall.’ Jarvis raised his head, looking directly at Jennifer. ‘Do what your legal advisors tell you, Mrs Lomax. Sit down. And do not interrupt the proceedings of this court again.’

As Jennifer once more was put back into her seat Jane said, ‘ The dwarf doesn’t like you. No-one likes you. Not even Gerald liked you. All alone. Poor little Jennifer No-Friends.’

‘May I proceed, my Lord?’ unnecessarily asked Keflin-Brown.

‘I wish you would,’ said Jarvis, grimly.

Keflin-Brown’s opening had been broken at his background sketch, back to which he returned with a professional’s skill. Jennifer Stone had been born to privilege and known no other life, the barrister resumed. She was the only daughter of an army Brigadier whose outstanding service as military attache first in Washington and then in Moscow, at the very height of the Cold War, had culminated with his appointment as deputy chief of the Britain’s Defence Staff and for a time permanent NATO representative.

‘The accused travelled and lived in high places. She knew no other life. Such echelons were her life.’

Nothing in that life had been difficult for her, nothing barred to her. She was a natural linguist, fluent in German and French. The Oxford double degree in economics and mathematics had been gained with an appropriate Double First.

‘Before you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, sits a woman upon whom life has always smiled, the sun always shone…’

‘… And a murderess. Tell them you’re a murderess! ’

Jennifer was clutching the underside of the chair and tensed as the words and the desire again to leap up surged through her. She kept her head tight against her chest and wrapped her feet around the chair legs, the effort shuddering through her. There was a stir from the press gallery and the jury looked. Hall jerked around, face creased. Keflin-Brown remained looking steadfastly at the jury, his only concession a hesitation measured with stop-watch accuracy.

‘… Truly a beneficiary of the Gods,’ the man picked up on the absolute edge of hyperbole. The transition from a brilliant academic student to an even more brilliant financial career was as flawlessly smooth as everything else that Jennifer Stone had ever undertaken in that flawless life.

‘She became, ladies and gentlemen, a commodity trader, a vocation so far removed from the sort of mundane lives that you and I enjoy as to be difficult for us to comprehend. In previous centuries such people would have become swash-bucklers, pirates even. Today they are the sort of entrepreneurs who daily pledge millions, hundreds of millions, upon their ability to forecast and predict the value of commodities – metals, oil, grain, meat, money even, in fact every essential of life – in a month, three months, a year. It is a piratical existence, a hard, unrelenting, dog-eat-dog, give no quarter occupation. Those who follow it are hard, unrelenting, unforgiving people which as the facts of this case unfold you might well bear in mind, ladies and gentlemen of the jury…’

It was overly theatrical and flamboyant but at the same time true, thought Jennifer. That’s exactly how she so nostalgically remembered Enco-Corps: price-assess before anyone else, better than anyone else, buy or sell before and better than anyone else, forgive and forget no-one else, no mercy, no excuses, no escapes, ready to kill to stop being killed…’

‘ Kill to stop being killed.’

Jennifer’s mouth was open, the words formed. ‘Kill’ emerged although indistinctly and she managed to smother the rest in a choking cough. There was a what-did-she-say coming together of heads among the assembled journalists and another nervous, backwards glance from Jeremy Hall. Perry half rose, then lowered himself again. The judge remained poised longer, waiting.