Hilary Bonner - When the Dead Cry Out

The big man kept his hands over his face as he was led away down the steps which led directly from the dock to the courtroom cells. His nickname so far could have been Houdini, but surely even he knew that he was finished at last.

Karen’s attention was then drawn once again to Jennifer Roth, sitting at the front of the public gallery a few places to Mac’s right. The young woman was again smartly dressed in the same grey trouser suit that she had in fact worn almost every day, with her long chestnut hair drawn back; she had been in court throughout the trial, not missing a minute. Her face was even paler than usual. She had turned quite white and she looked totally stunned. As the court rose and all the people sitting around her started to get up and make their way to the doors Jennifer Roth remained in her seat. She made no attempt to move. Instead she sat quite still, a bit like Mac, staring straight ahead.

Karen watched her for several seconds before joining the crowd pushing its way out into the historic old courtyard where once upon a time hundreds of men and women had been summarily executed upon the command of the notorious Hanging Judge Jeffreys and his like. It was a bitter January day but, although her breath formed mist in the freezing air and she was wearing only a light jacket, Karen did not feel cold at all. The elements meant nothing to her that day. She was elated. So it seemed was almost everyone else. All the police officers present had broad smiles on their faces. And so did the press, many of whom, like John Kelly, predictably the first reporter at Karen’s side, had also waited a long time to see Richard Marshall go down.

“Great, fucking great!” exclaimed Kelly.

Karen grinned at him. He was irresistible sometimes. For a journalist who had once been one of the most feared and respected of Fleet Street reporters, Kelly had retained an extraordinarily childlike quality. His enthusiasm was contagious. He was a man who had an ability to communicate second to no one she had ever met. She knew that was what reporters were supposed to do — but it was somehow different with Kelly.

Maybe his own life story was what it was all about. Kelly had a chequered past. He had reached the heights of his chosen career, been the darling of Fleet Street for many years, and then, thanks to his own weakness, mostly drink and drugs, had sunk so low that he actually ended up living on the streets before returning to work in the local press in the town where he had been born and brought up. There was a lot more to Kelly than was apparent at first sight. You could not doubt that he was genuine somehow. That he cared.

The reporter reached out with both hands and grabbed Karen by the shoulders. Meanwhile Cooper and two uniformed officers were ushering her forwards. Karen knew she should pull away from her old friend, but she didn’t. Kelly was in this too. Kelly had also wanted this day. Badly. She could see it in his eyes. She remembered then what Talbot had said that night in the pub just before she had been drenched in tomato juice. He had said Kelly had his own reasons for wanting to see Marshall go down. She almost asked the journalist about it, there and then, as they stood together in the ancient courtyard. Then suddenly the rest of the press corps were upon them and there was a chorus of requests, some sounding like demands, for a comment.

“How do you feel now, Detective Superintendent?” “Are you satisfied with the result, after all this time?” “Can you make a statement please, Miss Meadows?” Suppressing her euphoria, Karen looked around frantically for the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary press officer. She needed somebody to take control of this lot. Gloria Smith was also pushing her way through the crowd, something she had considerable experience in doing and was, fortunately, rather good at. Gloria was a small woman equipped with sharp elbows and a voice even bigger than her somewhat extravagant blonde hairdo.

“OK, Karen?” she asked.

Karen nodded. It had been prearranged that she would give a statement outside the court. Pretty standard procedure, in fact. Although, she thought to herself, she might not have been quite so keen had Marshall not been convicted.

“Right, quieten down you lot,” bellowed Gloria so effectively that Karen involuntarily started away from her and the press corps shut up at once. “Detective Superintendent Meadows will make a statement on behalf of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary.”

Karen took in the assembled throng, the reporters waving their notebooks and tape recorders, the photographers rattling off frame after frame, the TV cameramen standing firm, their cameras balanced on their shoulders, sound booms thrust towards her face. She didn’t feel nervous. For once this was a statement she wanted to make. She had done her share of apologizing for the perceived shortcomings of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary. This time her confrontation with the press was sheer unadulterated pleasure.

“It has taken us almost thirty years to bring Richard Marshall to justice,” she said. “But at last, today, justice has finally been done—”

She was interrupted by a muffled cheer. It was unusual for the press to respond in such a way, but although members of the public, standing at the back of the gathered newsmen and women, had probably instigated the cheer, some of the press had joined in. Certainly John Kelly had done so.

“Justice has been done for Clara Marshall, and by default for Janine and Lorraine Marshall, and for their family, notably Clara’s father who has believed for many years that his daughter’s killer was walking the streets a free man, yet had no choice but to live with it.”

“Justice has also been done for generations of Devon and Cornwall Constabulary police officers, who have refused to give up. We have put a monstrous killer behind bars. I am just one of a dedicated team who have waited a very long time for this day.”

There was the merest hint of a catch in Karen’s voice. She hoped nobody would notice it, but she was sure John Kelly would. She glanced at him. Kelly was staring straight at her, making no attempt to write in his notebook. She knew he wouldn’t need to. He would remember every word that she had said. He had always had a brilliant short-term memory and the ability to report verbatim without notes, as long as he did so quickly. In this case, so important to all of them, Karen reckoned he’d remember every detail for a long time to come. She could see that he was as moved as she was.

She made herself remember her job and her rank. “That’s it, ladies and gentlemen,” she concluded briskly. “Thank you for your interest.”

The press did not back off, of course. Karen was well enough aware that they never knew when they had had enough. Their attentions switched to Sean MacDonald who had finally left the court and was standing, a little uncertainly it seemed, a few paces behind Karen. But the older man seemed mentally and physically unable to say much at all. Unusually for someone who was normally so articulate, he stumbled over his words. However, what he did manage to say was possibly the most moving part of the whole day.

“I’m able to bid a Christian farewell to my daughter at last,” he said quietly. “And I’ve seen the man who murdered her punished for his crime. It was all there was left, all I’ve had to live for all these years. But nothing will bring my Clara back, nor her beautiful daughters, my grandchildren...”

Then the tears started to come again. Karen ushered him towards the waiting car.

“C’mon, Mac,” she said. “I’ll take you back to the Grand.”

Phil Cooper pushed through the crowd just as they were climbing into the car and hurried across to them, his progress hampered by a pronounced limp. Karen knew that the sergeant had picked up a nasty injury to his left ankle during a rugby match, but if Phil was suffering any pain he certainly wasn’t showing it. His eyes were bright, his face flushed. He looked absolutely delighted.