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- Herausgeber: Biteback Publishing
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
"Fast, funny and readable, Murder at the Bailey is an enjoyable romp through a criminal world more recognisable decades ago: rogues' justice often prevails, against a background of colourful lifestyles – from expensive restaurants and bars to flashy cars and mistresses… Few lawyers can turn their hand to fiction after a lifetime processing the dry details of the law. Milner clearly can, and with verve and humour." – The Times "A pacy, witty, riveting tour de force" – Wensley Clarkson *** A notorious loan shark is shot dead, in broad daylight, right outside the front doors of the Old Bailey. The killer is arrested at the scene and Adrian Stanford is lined up to take on the toughest defence case of his career. Can he steer his client past the no-nonsense Detective Chief Superintendent 'Iron-Rod' Stokes, hell-bent on achieving a murder conviction in his last case before retirement? That's assuming he can keep his client alive in prison long enough for the trial to go ahead. Can his illustrious defence QC, Patrick 'The Edge' Gorman, swerve the case past the acerbic judge known to all as Mack the Knife, whose own resolve is being tested to the limit by an adulterous wife? And why is London underworld numero uno Big Jake Davenport showing such a keen interest in the proceedings? A wickedly eccentric cast of brilliantly drawn characters populate this daring debut from one of Britain's top criminal defence lawyers. Dripping with sparkling dialogue and delicious wit, Murder at the Bailey is a masterly picaresque romp through the courtrooms, custody suites and London restaurants graced by the cognoscenti.
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Seitenzahl: 441
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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ii
PRAISE FOR NO LAWYERS IN HEAVEN
“A no-holds-barred exposé of the highs and lows of defending serious crime.”
Andy McNab
“Henry Milner’s colourful account of a career over decades as a criminal defence solicitor evokes a bygone era of the criminal justice system. In a highly readable style with plenty of wry self-deprecating humour, Milner gives a compelling insight into a life defending some of the big-league criminal names. A must-read.”
Frances Gibb, former legal editor, The Times
“A fascinating read as a top-class criminal defence lawyer tells the story of his top-class clients and their top-class crimes.”
James Morton, author ofKrays: The Final Word
“An entertaining and revealing insight into the world of the criminal defence lawyer – and the inside stories behind some of the Old Bailey’s most famous cases.”
Duncan Campbell, journalist and author
“In more than forty years at the top of his game as a criminal defence lawyer, Henry Milner has been on speed dial for many of Britain’s most notorious alleged villains. Sometimes serious, sometimes very funny but never, ever dull, No Lawyers in Heaven offers a sharply observed insight into his most gripping cases, from murder to money heisting, drug trafficking and beyond.”
Martin Brunt, Sky Newscrime correspondent
iii
v
To Magalys Valentines can’t buy her
vi
‘No friend ever served me, and no enemy ever wronged me, whom I have not repaid in full.’
Lucius Cornelius Sulla (Roman general and dictator, 138–78 bc)
‘I know exactly where to draw the line – the trouble is I don’t draw it often enough.’
Big Jake Davenport (London underworld’s numero uno, 1951–)
Contents
Chapter 1
A Timely Passing
No one paid him the slightest heed. Why would they? Just another shortish, podgy, middle-aged barrister in wig and gown, holding his brief in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette in the other, looking like he’d popped out of the Old Bailey for a quiet smoke in the morning break, and glancing from time to time towards the main door of the building, as if he was waiting for someone.
He was.
* * *
‘Put up Robert Maynard,’ called out the clerk in Court 7 to the dock officer.
Judge Buchanan QC, sitting high up on his throne, grimaced at the expression ‘put up’. Put up, indeed. He wanted to put him down – and for a long time. The judge stared across the court at the man entering the dock some 30ft away. He was almost as broad as he was tall, with an enormous, shaved head and a thick neck. Striped, flashy brown suit and a bright yellow tie. A 2pair of mean eyes set deep into a tight face with loose layers of fat that hung downwards from his chin. You wouldn’t want him moving in as your next-door neighbour, thought the judge.
Prosecuting counsel stood up. ‘My Lord, as you are aware, this is the third hearing in this case, and I’m sorry to report that we have not progressed. The unhappy situation remains that our chief witness, Mr William Churchman, refuses to testify. He has been brought to court today by your order, and the senior officer has spoken to him yet again, but he stands firm. He is adamant and will not change his mind.’
‘Has it been made clear to him that he will be in contempt of court if he persists with this refusal?’
‘Repeatedly, my Lord.’
‘And the potential consequences, including prison?’
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘Has it been explained to him that the court can offer all sorts of protection for witnesses? He could give evidence from behind a screen, and police protection can be put in place afterwards – all quite common nowadays, unfortunately.’
‘In some detail, my Lord.’
‘And what did he have to say about that?’
‘Quite a lot, my Lord. He told the senior officer, and I quote – “I’d feel safer in a Siberian labour camp.”’
The judge grimaced for a second time. ‘Well, that certainly has the ring of finality about it. I think I’ll have him in court after we dispose of Mr Maynard. I may yet grant his wish of incarceration, although I’m afraid it will have to be on British shores. Is there evidence of any threats?’
Prosecution counsel carefully considered his response. ‘There’s 3the opinions of the senior officer and the rest of his team, for what they’re worth, but nothing that we can use in a court of law. In all the circumstances, and with the greatest of reluctance, the Crown is left with no option but to offer no evidence and ask the court to enter verdicts of not guilty on the two counts of blackmail and threats to kill. Put simply, without Mr Churchman’s live evidence, we have no case.’
‘Quite right too. Outrageous allegations,’ mumbled Robert Maynard from the dock, whilst winking at his peroxide-blonde wife and his son in the public gallery. ‘Not a word of truth in them.’
‘A good deal more than one word, I would venture to suggest, Mr Maynard,’ commented the judge wryly. After an uncomfortable silence, proceedings were brought to an end. ‘Very well. Mr Maynard, you’re free to go – let us all pray you never return.’
‘Amen,’ came from the nodding head of Maynard as he fled from the dock.
‘Amen, indeed,’ echoed the judge.
* * *
‘Here he comes.’ Maynard’s wife and son were standing outside the main door of the Bailey as he walked out, arms aloft.
The podgy barrister made his move. Pulling off the pink ribbon from his brief, he grabbed a Webley revolver hidden within and, taking three steps forward, fired at point-blank range at the ample stomach of his target. The barrister then removed his wig before firing again, this time at the heart of his defenceless victim, slumped and bleeding at his feet. 4
‘You!’ croaked Maynard, eyes wide open, mouth agape – a flash of recognition passing across his face. It was to be the last word he would ever utter.
There were high-pitched, terrified screams from Maynard’s wife which, together with the gunfire, caused a small crowd to gather. The barrister made no attempt to escape. Instead, he placed the gun in his jacket pocket and removed a packet of cigarettes. With a shaking hand, he lit one and pulled deeply, his eyes darting between the faces of the horrified onlookers.
It was only the second cigarette he’d smoked in over twenty years.
Chapter 2
Enter Big Jake
1951
It poured in London the night he was born. The heavens opened up with thunder and lightning to welcome him. The nurses reassured his mum this was a good omen, and that her son would make his mark in life. He was a huge baby, 10lbs 4oz. His mum had been worried as he hardly cried on birth, but the nurses comforted her that this was another good sign and that he would grow up to be big and strong.
‘But will he be kind and gentle?’ she asked.
‘With a mother as soft as you – what else could he be?’ was the reply.
* * *
On a sunny spring afternoon in London there are few more pleasant pastures to take a leisurely stroll than Kenwood and Hampstead Heath.
Jack Davenport – known to friend and foe alike as Big Jake – had been a frequenter there for years, invariably with Ernie 6(his right-hand man) and his G Men (Greaves and Gilzean), two Labradors named after his Spurs heroes. This week was no exception. A Friday afternoon amble, a drink or two at the Wells Tavern, where his dogs could roam around at will, annoying all and sundry, before a lazy short drive to Camden, where he bought his weekly food supplies. Well, not exactly bought – procured. Jake rarely bought anything retail. The word was anathema to him. The very mention of it aggravated his eczema. The truth was he had an inside man in the food department at Harrods who, on the quiet, was running a local branch from his one-bedroom flat off Camden High Street. Meat, wine, Belgian chocolates – you name it, Jake got it trade minus 50 per cent. After all, he lived in a world where VAT was still a nasty rumour. Jake was a veritable cash man, and these days the only banks he visited were in Geneva.
It had not always been so. In a fifteen-year run between the ages of twenty and thirty-five, he had visited banks on a regular basis, kitted out with a balaclava on his head and a gun in his hand. Anyway, no one was hurt badly or, rather, no one was killed. The banks never really felt the loss, and not everybody can go to university and become a doctor or a lawyer. Jake’s university was the streets of London, where he graduated with a double first in illegality.
Mind you, Jake had his own unique sense of morality too. He knew right from wrong or, put more accurately, wrong from very wrong. Oh yes, Jake knew exactly where to draw the line. The trouble was he didn’t draw it often enough. Still, no drugs, no blackmail, no loan sharking and no pimping. On the other 7hand, no tax either. Actually, that would be doing him a disservice. He owned a minimarket on a street corner near Tower Bridge from which he threw the taxman a bone or two each year to keep him off his broad back.
And he wasn’t without an education. Oh no, Big Jake wasn’t your typical villain – far from it. He was comparatively well-read, an avid viewer of the documentary channel on TV and a subscriber to the Daily Telegraph. It had the best crime reports, and it was essential for Jake to know at any given time who was going in and who was coming out. And just to show all around that he was no registered moron (as he constantly referred to most of his team), he had kept a thick book of famous quotes on his bedside table for years, from which he stole regularly as the occasion demanded.
Now in his sixties, he was considered numero uno amongst the cognoscenti. His business had moved with the times and he now called himself an entrepreneur. He bought and sold properties in the names of others, and stolen jewellery in no name at all. He had everything a successful villain could desire: broad shoulders, a big house, a Bentley, a close family, a loyal wife who saw only what he wanted her to see and, of course, a virtually tax-free business. More importantly to him, he believed he had the respect of others (although many called it fear). He prided himself that he could walk into any pub within a mile radius of his home in Primrose Hill and never have to pay for a drink. He was popular as well. Ask any poor family in his manor who it was who came round at Christmas with a turkey and a bottle of stolen whisky, and they would answer in unison, ‘Big Jake’. 8A modern-day Robin Hood was how he liked to be known. If he could choose his own epitaph, it would read: ‘Stole from the rich and gave to the poor (after taking a modest cut).’
Jack Davenport was, by any standards, a huge man. He was 6ft 3in., over 20 stone, plus VAT, with a 52in. chest and a giant gait, which any of his crew and the entire Flying Squad could pick out at 200 paces in a blizzard. He was the proud owner of a thick crop of dark, curly hair, with just a hint of grey to register his experience in life.
On these walks on the heath, Ernie would give Jake a weekly update on his finances. He was Jake’s official/unofficial accountant – a poor cousin to the Italian consigliere. No documents were ever produced during their stroll and both left their mobile phones in their cars before the walk started. This was strictly de rigueur. Ernie kept all the facts and figures in his head. Had he tuned himself into more lawful pursuits in his youth, he could undoubtedly have qualified as an actuary. Ask Ernie what 8 per cent of £275,000 was and he would answer you in a jiffy. Conversely, percentages were not Jake’s forte. He didn’t do sharing, and the only figure he really understood was 100 per cent. There was a written record of business conducted each week, but this was kept by Ernie at a location known only to the two of them. Naturally, Jake needed to know where in case Ernie was unlucky enough to be hit by a passing bus or a stray bullet.
Jake and Ernie had been friends for over thirty years. Their paths had first crossed in the late 1970s when they found themselves sitting next to each other at the roulette table in the Playboy Club in Mayfair. They were both laundering their ill-gotten gains from thick wads of cash on entry to a thin cheque on their 9departure, and they soon discovered they had a good deal in common other than gambling – crime! The pair quickly entered into an unholy alliance, with Jake as the boss and Ernie his trusted lieutenant. Jake found the work and Ernie the team to carry it out.
On this particular walk, Jake was deep in nostalgia. ‘Ernie, do you remember that quarter of a million we had to leave behind on that botched City job years ago? When that blind idiot, Bungalow Bill, roared into a cul-de-sac and we had to scarper on foot with the Old Bill in hot pursuit? It’s a wonder I didn’t have a heart attack. It was the last job that I went tooled up on. After that bloody disaster, I sold my stock and moved on.’
‘What stock might that have been, Jake?’
‘My gun and balaclava, of course – what else? Do you remember that I had to call a meet because I had a regular stiff neck from looking around the whole time, wondering which one of us was a wrong’un?’
‘How could I forget it?’ said Ernie, before starting to mimic Jake’s voice. ‘Lads, there is a grass in our team – and I had a good look in the mirror this morning whilst I was shaving and it ain’t me!’
‘We never found out who it was, did we? Wasn’t you by any chance, was it?’ Jake glared at Ernie. ‘Only joking, only joking.’ These days Jake kept himself in the background. True, he still financed a deal here and there, and he may not have been strictly kosher, but he knew where the crease was, and he kept his right foot firmly on the inside. You’d find no drug dealers at his door. Maybe a bit of unofficial pawnbroking here and there, and the contents of some errant lorries, but no longer anything 10beyond the pale. ‘Anyway, Ernie,’ Jake continued, ‘I’m thinking of hanging up my boots. I mean, how much money does a man need? I’ve had a real good run. I don’t want to wind up being the richest man in Wandsworth Prison, do I?’
‘Yes, there’s always a vacancy for that position, Jake. But look at the upside. You’d be sharing a tiny cell with no more than one or two other losers with free board and lodging – and think what it would do for your figure.’
Jake gazed down despondently at his indiscernible waistline. ‘I’ll make the jokes around here, Ernie – you stick to bookkeeping. Talking of jokes, I heard a great one from an old mate of mine, who I bumped into outside the Scrubs waiting to see Albert on his twenty stretch. Want to hear it?’ Ernie rolled his eyes and sighed. He’d been listening to Jake’s jokes for decades.
‘No, not really. You’ve probably told it to me already.’
‘No, this one’s fresh to the market. OK, it goes like this: So, two old mafiosos, Luigi and Alfonso, meet up for a reunion dinner. They haven’t seen each other for about fifteen years. “How’s your wife, Luigi?” asks Alfonso. Luigi replies, “Actually she’s not so good – in fact, she’s dead.” “Dead!” exclaims Alfonso. “Such a beautiful woman, dead! What did she die from, if you don’t mind my asking?” Luigi replies calmly, “She died from an incurable disease.” “What incurable disease?” enquires Alfonso. “Herpes,” says Luigi with a straight face. “But Luigi,” protests Alfonso, “herpes isn’t an incurable disease.” Luigi answers, “It is when you give it to Luigi!”’
Jake started chuckling. Ernie didn’t – he’d already heard it. ‘What do you like about that joke, Jake?’
‘Well, it’s so delicate – just like me.’ 11
They strolled on at a snail’s pace with Ernie bringing Jake up to date on the week’s nefarious activities. This always took a while. Forty minutes later, they were nearing the end of their trek and both were relishing the prospect of a couple of beers at the Wells.
As always on a late Friday afternoon, the Wells was beginning to come to life, and being outside of his manor, despite the fact he was a regular, Jake was actually going to have to pay in hard cash. ‘Two pints of lager, Bessie,’ he ordered, as they strode up to the bar. The TV was on in the background but no one seemed to be watching. Jake waited impatiently at the bar and glanced at the screen. The headline running across the bottom of the screen shocked even him.
‘MAN SHOT DEAD OUTSIDE THE OLD BAILEY’
Sky’s ubiquitous Martin Brunt was giving a report from right outside the very court, just a few yards away from where the killing had taken place, which had now been barricaded off and was guarded by two police officers.
It seems that the victim, Robert Maynard, against whom charges of threats to kill and blackmail had just been dropped in court, was leaving the building and being greeted by his wife and son, when he was approached by a middle-aged man disguised in a barrister’s wig and gown. Two shots were fired at close range. Apparently, the suspect made no effort to escape and was arrested at the scene. At present, there is no information as to whether the killing was related to the charges Mr Maynard was facing, although it appears Mr Maynard was well known in criminal circles.
12‘I’ve gone to heaven,’ said Jake, slapping one hand down hard on the bar whilst punching the air with the other. ‘Mercenary Bob, topped at the Bailey and all. That’s a perfect storm, if ever there was one. My prayers have been answered.’ Then, after a rare moment of reflection, ‘This Sunday I’m going to church with my missus – and that’s for sure.’
Jake volleyed new instructions at the barmaid. ‘Bessie, bugger those two lagers, bring us your best bottle of bubbly.’ For such an order the pair didn’t have to wait long.
‘Well, Ernie my boy,’ announced Jake, whilst giving Ernie a friendly shoulder barge as the two of them clinked glasses. ‘It seems that our old friend Bob has been a trifle careless and caught an incurable disease himself in the form of a bullet or two. Cheers! Here’s to you, Bob.’
They both drank long and deep.
Chapter 3
Bored!
Adrian Stanford was just taking his seat with his wife for an early supper at Le Vesuvio on the seafront in Cannes, with nothing on his mind but an unimpeachable sole meunière, when the call came through from his office manager. He and his wife, Sally, had flown out the day before. They had stared up together at the departure board at Heathrow and tossed a coin. Sally had chosen Cannes, Adrian Rome. Adrian had won the toss, for what it was worth. A marital pyrrhic victory.
* * *
Two days earlier, late on a bleak Wednesday spring afternoon, Adrian had been slumped in his regal red leather chair, feet up on his desk, hands behind his head, with his collar open and his tie pulled halfway down, staring vacantly out of his Wigmore Street office window at a brooding grey sky. A bottle of Chivas Regal and a half-empty glass stood in close attendance.
‘Bored, that’s what I am – bored rigid,’ he sighed.
His long-suffering secretary, Joanne, stood nearby with a pile 14of letters to sign. ‘Stop behaving like a spoilt child, Adrian, and stop complaining so much. You’re doing very well.’ Joanne took no prisoners. Why should she? In her second job as Adrian’s in-house therapist, she had listened to his constant moaning for more than twenty years. Win or lose, he would find something to grumble about – usually the barristers he instructed. For example, ‘That was the worst mitigation I’ve ever heard and, believe me, I’ve heard a few bad ones in my time – no heart.’ Or, ‘For what he’s charging you’d have thought he could afford to fork out for a coffee at the break.’ Or, ‘Couldn’t hear a word he said – the old mumbler – nor could the jury… probably for the best.’
‘Oh yes, I’m doing very well indeed,’ Adrian responded. ‘One dull fraud case after another. Piles of papers everywhere and you won’t find a fingerprint of mine on any of them. What’s happened to real crime? Daring bank robberies, underworld killings – all gone for ever. I tell you, Joanne, it may sound arrogant, but I wasn’t put on this earth to study receivers’ reports.’
‘No? Why were you put here, then? Remind me.’
Joanne needed no such reminder, but Adrian grabbed the opportunity to let off some more steam. ‘To sit back in an armchair, listen to a client’s woes, give my opinion on their prospects and advise on tactics, of course. If I never see another balance sheet it’ll be too soon. Worse still, virtually every client is a first-time offender who hasn’t a clue about crime or the court system. I feel like a university lecturer when they first come in. They don’t know the Old Bailey from St Paul’s Cathedral. What I need is a case to get my teeth into. But what have I got? Mortgage frauds, confiscation hearings and a few miserable drugs cases. 15And, whilst I’m at it, what’s happened to the alibi defence? These days it sounds like something out of a chess manual. You know, Joanne, what’s killed the crime game? It’s those bloody mobile phones, DNA and CCTV cameras everywhere. A man can’t even put his dustbin out without being snapped.’
‘Go and buy another vintage car, that should keep you happy for a couple of days. Or why don’t you get away for a few days? You won’t be missed.’
Adrian gave Joanne a look as if she had just invented an instant solution to his boredom. ‘Not a bad idea, not a bad idea at all. I think I will.’ Then he picked up the phone and dialled home. ‘Sally, pack a couple of bags for us – we’re going away for a few days, first thing tomorrow morning. Yes, I know it’s Nora’s fiftieth birthday tomorrow, that’s the best reason of all to get away. Where are we going? Haven’t the foggiest. When we get to Heathrow we’ll stare up at the board and toss a coin. Yes, yes, OK, the usual rules – heads you win, tails I lose.’
Buoyed by the call and downing the remainder of his whisky in one gulp, Adrian turned his attention once again to his in-house therapist. ‘You know what, Joanne? I’m feeling better already.’
* * *
Now, two days later, in France, the telephone call from Adrian’s office manager on an early Friday evening could only mean that a new case had come in or a report of a bounced cheque – usually the latter.
Adrian was in high spirits. The sea air was working wonders. 16‘OK, Jeremy, whet my appetite. Who’s been arrested – a Texan oil tycoon or Carlos the Jackal?’ asked Adrian whilst his eyes carefully scanned the restaurant’s ample menu.
‘Neither, unfortunately. But listen to this – guess who’s been murdered?’
‘I just can’t wait to hear,’ said Adrian, stifling a yawn and eyeing the size of the sole meunière being served up at the next table.
Jeremy couldn’t wait to tell him. ‘Bob Maynard – the one and only. Yes, Mercenary Bob – shot dead outside the Bailey. It’s all over the news, and the killer’s asked for us to act.’
Finally, Adrian’s ears pricked up. After putting down the menu, he walked outside to avoid the hubbub from the other diners. ‘Outside the Bailey? Well, that’s a first. Thank God he was never a client of mine or I’d be out of a case.’
‘Well, you’ve got a case now, Adrian. He’s being held at Charing Cross Police Station. The police tell me they’ll be ready for his interview at 7 tonight. What do you want me to do?’
Adrian weighed up his options. ‘Who is this hero? He’s due a Duke of Edinburgh award at least, possibly a knighthood and, who knows, maybe even a statue outside the Old Bailey at the scene of the crime.’
‘Apparently he’s middle-aged and his name’s David Dennis. I’ve made a few calls and no one’s heard of him – he’s a complete unknown. The police won’t tell me any more except that they’ve got the shooting on CCTV and a confession at the scene.’
‘Who’s in charge of the case?’ Adrian enquired.
‘A Detective Chief Superintendent Stokes.’
Adrian started chuckling. ‘The Iron-Rod himself, eh?’ Adrian 17glanced at his watch. ‘Well, it’s 6.30 here now and I can’t get to Charing Cross in an hour and a half, or even tonight. They’ll just have to wait for me until tomorrow morning before they start interviewing.’
Jeremy was sceptical. ‘Adrian, this is a top underworld killing. The police will never put off the interview just to suit you.’
‘Will they not? We’ll see. Give me the police station number. Stokes and I know each other very well. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled to hear from me on a Friday night. We’re old friends or, rather, old enemies.’
Then Adrian walked back inside to his table, pausing only to glance at the trays of tarte Tatin on display in the window. ‘Sally,’ he said, with a boyish glint in his eye, ‘things are looking up. What’s that fancy wine you like with your fish here – Puligny-Montrachet? Yes, let’s have a bottle.’
Adrian’s state of boredom was already a distant memory.
Chapter 4
Enter the Iron-Rod
‘Say that again, Neil.’ Detective Chief Superintendent Rodney ‘Iron-Rod’ Stokes couldn’t believe what he was hearing on the phone from his detective inspector. ‘Outside the doors of the Bailey? In broad daylight? You’re kidding me!’
Early Friday afternoon had found Stokes attending a conference, deciding with prosecuting lawyers whether there was enough evidence to charge a merchant banker with murder. His wife had been missing for more than a year from the family home and minute traces of her blood had been found on the floorboards under their new carpet, which was exactly the same pattern as the old one.
Then the call had come in.
‘What did the hero say on arrest?’ Stokes enquired.
‘“I did it and I don’t regret it” were his only words. But you’ll like this part, Rodney. When they got him to the police station, he pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and guess which lawyer’s name and telephone number he had written on it?’
Stokes started scratching his chin, thinking about all the solicitors he despised – it was a long list. He started at the top. 19
‘Don’t tell me, Stanford?’
‘Right in one.’
He scratched a bit harder. ‘That’s all I need – bloody Adrian Stanford,’ he moaned, as he dug desperately into his pocket for a couple of calming tablets.
Iron-Rod Stokes had earned his nickname when he’d been a detective inspector in the Flying Squad years earlier. He’d wanted to be a cop ever since the mid-1970s, when, together with his father, he would watch, week in, week out, episodes of The Sweeney on TV. Too late his eyes had been opened to the cruel reality that the CID did not spend their entire working lives in pubs or in bed with villains’ wives.
PC Plod on the beat since leaving school, detective sergeant at the age of twenty-eight and inspector seven years later. He was a straight-talking policeman with no airs or graces. Woe betide any junior officer who crossed him. They would find themselves seconded at speed to a dog-training course or, even worse, a desk job in the complaints department at Scotland Yard. Iron-Rod might not be the first person you would want to accompany you on a world cruise, but you knew exactly where you stood with him. He was simply not the delicate sort. If a thought entered his head, it lost no time exiting through his mouth. By the age of thirty-five, the Met Police had recognised he was a potential high-flyer and had sent him to Bristol University to study English. A Flying Squad officer who could both read and write had become a high priority for the force.
But now he was long in the tooth and short on patience. He was nearing retirement and yearned for summers spent camping and fishing in the Ardennes with his wife and daughter, far 20away from his mother-in-law and the murder squads. He was also hoping for an easy last nine months, going through the motions, before he turned in his badge. But no, the commissioner himself had decided that he was the man to oversee the Old Bailey shooting. Like it or not, he was stuck with the case – and Stanford as well.
On arrival at Charing Cross Police Station, Stokes went straight to the cells to size up his new customer. There he found Dennis sitting on a hard bed with a pillow bent in two as a backrest. Several well-worn paperbacks left by previous patrons lay stacked by his side.
As soon as Stokes entered the cell, Dennis had the good manners to stand up and shake hands. Not the typical sort of reception he’d experienced from men arrested for murder. Dennis wasn’t at all what Stokes had expected. Thick dark-brown hair swept back, clean-shaven, about 5ft 6in. tall, overweight with a nervous but polite manner, as if he were resigned to his fate. No hitman here, that’s for sure, thought Stokes.
‘My name’s Chief Superintendent Stokes and I’m in charge of this inquiry.’
‘Fair enough,’ replied Dennis.
‘And let me tell you from the outset, Mr Dennis,’ went on Stokes, ‘everything’s going to be done by the book – no quiet-corridor off-the-record chats. So, you can forget what you might’ve seen on TV.’
‘No verbals either then? Good,’ replied Dennis.
Stokes did a double-take. ‘You’re behind the times, Mr Dennis. That went out of fashion in the mid-1980s – straight after the Brink’s-Mat fiascos.’ 21
Stokes told Dennis that his interview was going to start at 7 p.m. that night and that the firm he’d asked for, Stanfords, had been contacted and was going to be representing him. ‘May I ask who recommended Mr Stanford to you?’ asked the inquisitive Stokes, trying to give the impression that he was just making conversation.
‘As you’ve just said, officer – no quiet-corridor off-the-record chats, if you don’t mind.’
He’s shrewder than he looks, thought Stokes.
Later, Stokes was in the police canteen with the officers who had been to the scene, going over the basic facts, when the tannoy announced, ‘Call for Detective Chief Superintendent Stokes.’ He took the call in what the police euphemistically refer to as the custody suite.
‘Mr Stokes?’ said the voice at the other end.
‘Who’s this?’ Stokes knew only too well who it was thanks to his previous encounter with Adrian Stanford years before. Only Stanford persistently refused to call him by his full title just to irritate him.
‘Ah, Mr Stokes,’ the caller continued unrepentantly. ‘Adrian Stanford here. Our firm’s been asked to act in the Maynard murder or, should I say, “mercy killing”.’
‘Yes, I know. How can I help you, Mr Stanford?’ replied Stokes, as if he was addressing a complete stranger.
‘Well, I’m in France at the moment, hoping to take in some of the Cannes Film Festival. But as things stand, I’m intending to fly back to London tonight, and I can be with you for my client’s interview as early as you like tomorrow morning. Shall we say 9 o’clock?’ Stanford was already treating his request as a done deal. 22
Stokes was having none of it, particularly because he wasn’t prepared to oblige Stanford. ‘Mr Stanford, your client’s interview will start at 7 o’clock tonight, as planned. This is a very serious murder inquiry and I have no intention of putting it off overnight for your personal convenience.’
‘Well, what’s the problem?’ Stanford asked. ‘As I understand it, the killing was done in broad daylight and captured on CCTV. You’ll have hours tomorrow to question him. Anyway, you’ve already got a confession.’
Though Stokes couldn’t deny Stanford’s logic, he was damned if he was going to give him an inch. ‘Mr Stanford, I’ve just seen your client in the cells and I’ve told him, come hell or high water, his interview will start at 7 tonight. So, unless you’re as superhuman as some of your clients no doubt think, I suggest you instruct someone else to attend tonight. I repeat, the interview starts at 7 tonight – with or without you.’
The interview did indeed go ahead at 7 p.m. that night, but not without Stanford having his say first. After speaking to Stokes, he rang the station again and spoke to the custody officer, who removed the prisoner from the cells to speak to his lawyer on the phone.
‘Mr Dennis, I’m Adrian Stanford. At the moment, I’m in France, but I intend to travel back to London tonight and to be at the police station before 9 o’clock tomorrow. Is there a police officer listening in?’
‘I don’t think so, Mr Stanford,’ replied Dennis calmly. ‘They’ve left me alone for this call.’
‘Good, now, here’s the score. Your first interview’s at 7 o’clock tonight. Of course, I can’t get back by then. I could arrange for 23one of my assistants to stand in, but frankly, with an allegation as serious as this, it’s essential I deal with everything myself from the outset. Do you follow?’
‘What would you like me to do, Mr Stanford?’
Stanford liked the sound of his new client already. ‘Look, I can’t stop them trying to interview you tonight. But I would strongly urge you to tell them you have spoken to me and that I’ll be at the station early tomorrow and that you’ve been advised by me not to answer any questions at all until I’ve seen you, and that you intend to take that advice. The police will then give you a whole spiel that if you don’t answer it can be held against you later, and offer to get you some kid duty solicitor to stand in. Don’t fall for it. I want to hear your account in private, face-to-face, before we start the interview.’
‘Not a problem, Mr Stanford. I’ll see you in the morning then.’
‘On second thoughts, I’ll be at the station by 7.30 tomorrow, at the latest. That’ll stop the police moaning later that time was wasted by my tactics.’
At 7 p.m. that night, the tapes were switched on and Dennis was cautioned and offered free legal advice that was politely declined. Forty minutes of questioning followed, but to no avail. Dennis gave a standard reply to each question.
‘My solicitor of choice, Mr Stanford, will be here very early tomorrow morning and, on his advice, I won’t be answering any questions until I’ve seen him.’
At 7.40 p.m. the interview was reluctantly abandoned. Dennis was returned to his cell for the night and offered a cheese sandwich and a slice of apple cake with stone-cold custard. He ate 24the lot – he was starving. Nothing had passed his lips since a bowl of Rice Krispies that morning before he left for his day’s work.
The interviewing officers reported the frustrating news back to Stokes. How he hated Stanford, but how Dennis, an unknown entity, had got hold of him of all lawyers remained a mystery.
* * *
That very night, Stokes held a briefing with his murder squad, consisting of eight officers, in the incident room at Charing Cross Police Station. From the outset, Stokes was very much in charge.
‘Right, men, I can see from your expressions that you’re asking yourself what all the fuss is about. After all, the man’s confessed at the scene, hasn’t he? And he’s done the country a right old favour. Well, you can get that attitude right out of your heads, for starters. I’m retiring in nine months and I don’t intend to end my career with some enormous cock-up. No man walks on my watch if I can help it. And he’s got Stanford as his brief to boot. He won’t be instructing some two-bob QC either. Stanford’s buggered me about with the interviews – calling all the shots from France – and the fact is none of us have a clue why this johnny-come-lately has put two bullets into our beloved Mercenary Bob. I tell you, this case has really got me twitching.’
Stokes surveyed the motley crew who stood around the table in front of him. The usual mix, he thought to himself – three who 25know what they’re doing and the rest who couldn’t hit sand if they fell off a camel. ‘Split yourself into two teams. I want half of you at Maynard’s home for a thorough search and the other half at Dennis’s flat. Photograph everything and take any piece of paper you find. I want every single document from Maynard’s home, as well as Dennis’s. I don’t care if it’s an overdue council tax notice – seize it! We’ve already prepared a request for telephone printouts of all numbers – Dennis’s home telephone, his mobile, his wife’s mobile. Mercenary Bob’s far too shrewd to have his own mobile, so that’s bound to be a dead-end. But we’re getting a printout of his home calls, for what they’re worth – which will doubtless be zilch.
‘The press are already crawling all over this case, which brings me to another point. No one’s to speak to them. Nothing on the record, nothing off the record. No boozy pub chats, no gossiping with your wives or anybody else’s wife.’ This drew the first and only smiles at the meeting.
‘You boys are in for a long night.’ There were deep sighs all round. ‘Well, off you go then. We’ll meet again tomorrow at 7.30 a.m. sharp for an update. And let’s all pray that Stanford’s plane gets fogbound.’ The officers stood to leave. ‘And, by the way, I’m going to be doing the interviewing myself tomorrow. Yes, I know these days it’s unusual for a senior officer to get himself involved in interviews, but when a man is shot dead in cold blood, bang outside the Bailey, it’s time for me to get out of my rocking chair and right back into the action. I’m taking nothing for granted.’
Dennis was not the only one due for a restless night – he had Stokes for company. 26
* * *
Having finished his meal by 8.30 p.m., Dennis faced the depressing prospect of eleven lonely hours in a cell before his lawyer arrived. He decided to put it to good use. He banged on the cell door. Five minutes later, the custody officer rolled up.
‘Yes, Dennis, what’s the problem?’
‘I wonder if I could have a pen and some paper, please?’ answered Dennis, polite as ever.
The custody officer gave Dennis a long stare. He had to satisfy himself that Dennis wasn’t a suicide risk before he gave him a pen. ‘Pen and paper! What do you want that for? Writing your memoirs already?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Well, it’s bound to be a bestseller,’ replied the officer, with a self-indulgent chuckle. ‘I’ll see what I can find.’ The custody officer trotted off down the corridor, returning a few minutes later with some sheets of paper and an old chewed-up biro.
‘Not exactly Smythson’s, is it?’ joked Dennis. The custody officer stared at him blankly. Apparently Bond Street wasn’t on his patch.
‘This is the best I can do for you,’ he said as he passed over the pen and paper. ‘Better keep to the point or you’ll run out of paper.’
‘I intend to.’
The grill was slammed down and Dennis was left alone save for a drunk in the next cell, who was serving up a rather melodic rendering of ‘When Irish Eyes are Smiling’ with ‘I Belong to Glasgow’ as an encore. 27
There was no table in the cell, so Dennis improvised by pulling the damp mattress from the steel-framed bed onto the floor and sitting on it. Using the bed as a table, he leaned back for a few seconds, staring out the tiny double-locked windows high up in the wall for inspiration for an appropriate title. In bold print he wrote, ‘Me and Mercenary Bob Maynard’. He began his tale in the smallest script that he could manage. After all, it was going to be a long and sad story. Whether it would have a happy ending was quite another matter.
Chapter 5
The Grudge Match
Unlike Dennis and Stokes, Adrian Stanford slept like a baby. Leaving his wife and her credit card running wild and loose at the Martinez Hotel in Cannes, he caught the last plane back from Nice to Heathrow and was fast asleep in his own bed in Belsize Park by 1 a.m. Why should he worry? He always gave his best and, to him, a new murder case was no more than meat and drink. The next morning, he rose at 5.30, drank two espressos and watched Sky News until 6. It was still covering the Maynard killing, although it told him nothing new.
As the only child born to a working-class family in Willesden, north London, Adrian had attended the local grammar school up until the age of sixteen, excelling in sport and little else. After getting a handful of O-levels, he wanted to leave school, which the headmaster thought was an excellent idea. His parents thought otherwise and forced him to stay on at school for another two years. To everyone’s surprise, he turned out to be a late developer and managed to secure a place at the University of Sussex to read economics. On graduating, he had no idea what he was going to do. So, at twenty-one, with some 29money he’d saved from a market stall he ran on Saturdays on Portobello Road, selling old pens and lighters, he set off on a six-month European tour with two school friends. He spent too much time in Paris, where he fell hopelessly in love with a dancer from the Folies Bergère, until he discovered that she in turn was spending too much time with an elderly Italian lothario. Stanford had the testosterone, but the Italian had the Testarossa – no contest!
Back again in London at twenty-two, he was thinking of getting a job as a sports reporter when, out of the blue, he received a letter to attend jury service in a court near Elephant and Castle. The first trial involved a wheeler-dealer found in possession of ten Burberry raincoats, which seemed to have mysteriously walked themselves out of Selfridges. The defendant looked the part, what with a floral handkerchief in his jacket pocket and a pack of thinly disguised lies for a defence. He was duly convicted.
The second case was far more to Stanford’s liking. A beautiful Russian croupier was accused of systematic theft from a top London casino. £10,000 worth of chips, which she claimed were tips, were found in her handbag. Her defence was woefully weak. But there were twelve good men on the jury and her cheeks held the blush of a ripe Californian peach. When her tears started to flow in the witness box as she told the court in her delicious Russian accent how she had fled from Moscow at the age of seventeen, having been raped by her stepfather, the game was up for the prosecution. After a twenty-minute retirement, she was acquitted. Even the judge smiled.
This got young Adrian to thinking about a career in the law. 30It didn’t look that difficult and was bound to be a lot of fun – especially the jury trials, which seemed to depend more on looks and first impressions than on hard evidence. His parents were thrilled with his new-found ambition, and so it was that he converted to law. Eventually, at twenty-four, he became articled to a criminal law specialist in the West End. His boss was already in his late sixties, and the pay as a trainee was appalling. But he knew the eventual rewards would make it all worthwhile. Anyway, he loved the life and the challenges a new case would bring.
When he finally qualified at twenty-six, Stanford was already building a reputation in the less-salubrious parts of south London. He was a good judge of character, his boss was on the verge of retiring and, in effect, Adrian was running the show. By the age of twenty-nine, he bought the business for a pittance, changed the name to Stanfords and never looked back.
He married on the same day as the firm’s name was changed. He had met his wife, Sally, when he had missed his flight back to London after an extradition case in Belgium. She too had missed the flight and they’d locked eyes at the check-in desk. She had been modelling in Brussels. Their mutual annoyance and her striking good looks led to Adrian suggesting a late supper. The romance blossomed, and all because his taxi had been late for the trip to the airport and her chauffeur’s car had conked out en route. As he said in his wedding speech, ‘Fate is the cards you’re dealt; destiny is the way you play them,’ before adding that, in Sally, he’d been dealt the Queen of Hearts, which was met with huge applause.
Now, Adrian was in his late forties and generally considered 31to be at the top of his game. He never arrived at the office later than 8.30 a.m., worked solidly all day but rarely took any files home. When clients told him he was expensive, he replied that hopefully they’d be free to tell him so again after their case was over. He pulled no punches, and always instructed the best counsel his clients could afford.
At home in the evenings and weekends, he switched off. In August, you would never find him in London. He was unflashy, but he had a good life. His main hobby was vintage cars, on which he wasted far too much money, and tennis, on which he wasted too much time. He was generally impatient, particularly when it came to bureaucracy. He knew the police considered him too cocky, but hopefully gracious in defeat. The so-called underworld treated him with respect, but he kept his distance, never socialising with his clients.
Stanford had first crossed swords with Iron-Rod Stokes about twelve years previously, when Stokes had been an inspector in the Flying Squad. Mickey Moss, a regular client of Stanford’s, had been targeted by the Squad for weeks. The grapevine had spread the rumour that he was much in demand as a getaway driver with the nickname ‘Stirling the Wheelman’ – Rotherhithe’s answer to Steve McQueen.
The Squad had watched his every move day and night: whether he was in his flat near Tower Bridge, easing about town in a black Mercedes coupé or hanging around with a selection of local talent at Le Pont de la Tour on the river. One day, they saw him paying rather too much attention to a bank in Bromley, whilst sitting in a stolen Jag with false plates. A Securicor van came and went peacefully, with Stirling looking on intently 32through his rear-view mirror. A week later, the Jag was there again, but this time, when the guards had finished their collection and were exiting the bank, two of the three men in the car were up and out, leaving the driver in situ with the engine purring. They had balaclavas covering their faces and pistols in their gloved hands. With their swag secured, the chase was on. But the driver of the Jag was a real pro and possibly colour blind as well. The car roared through three sets of red lights on the wrong side of the road with £100,000 rocking to and fro on the back seat, leaving four police cars in its wake.
Stirling’s home lay empty for two weeks, but on his return, suitcase in hand, he was nabbed and taken in for questioning. Stanford got a call and attended the police station for his client’s interview. Stokes was in charge. Stirling flatly refused to come out of his cell for the interview, so Stokes went in and sat himself on a chair with Stanford sitting on the bed next to his client – a cosy affair. Not a word could Stokes get out of Stirling’s mouth, so he tried a novel approach.
