Jools motioned to the bailiff to come to him, then reached into his trouser pocket for his locker key. 'In my locker there's a package that'll be corroboration for what's in the letter I wrote to old Herbert,'
he whispered. 'Please retrieve it, without a song and dance, and get it to him.'
He saw it done with discretion. He threw his sandalled feet forward, leaned back, yawned, and yawned again. They'd think of him as a bloody hero, wouldn't they? They would never know he was merely the spineless bloody coward who had crumpled under the weight of his wife's morality.
'You'll put it in place, Chief Inspector. I will rely on you to do that.'
'The cost, sir, of such a procedure is prohibitive.'
'I am not in an area of discussion and argument. It will happen. I will not countenance the losing of the case at such a late stage. I would estimate that the Crown has already invested more than two million pounds in this prosecution and if we go for a mistrial — and a subsequent rehearing — we will be looking for another million, at least, in expenditure. There is the further consideration, and it is a weighty one, that the abandonment of the trial in its last hours would be a victory for the forces of corruption. No, if the jury needs protection, I am charging you with providing it.'
If Mr Justice Wilbur Herbert was flustered by what he had learned that morning, he gave no indication of it. He anticipated that preliminary estimates of cost and expenditure were now scrambling at speed in the chief inspector's mind. But justice was his, concern, not the spilling of further sums from the public purse. He had played the card of the expense of a retrial, and had loftily dismissed the prospect of such an action, yet he was economic with his motivation. Regina v. Curtis and Curtis was a high-profile matter, one that would attract the attention of the Lord Chancellor: a successful conclusion would enhance his prospects of a legal peerage and, ultimately, a seat on the benches of the Court of Appeal. He had no doubt that his diminished jury would bring in 'guilty' verdicts on all counts, and had already framed a wording of the statement he would make to the accused when he sent them away to serve most, if not all, of the remainder of their lives as Category A prisoners. Well hidden under a veneer of polite calm he felt a fierce desire to purge, whenever it was within his power, the culture of organized and serious criminality. If he had lived half a century before, Mr Justice Herbert would have had a clerk slip a freshly ironed and uncreased square of black cloth carefully on to his wig, then pronounced the death sentence on murderers. Not appropriate here, but breaking stones in a quarry would have been — in his opinion — proper retribution by society on such men as Ozzie and Ollie Curtis. Preferably granite.
The thief inspector, the senior investigating officer on the case, seemed to squirm. 'The cost, sir, is but one side of the problem.'
'I'm not in the mood for having problems deflect us.'
'The reverse face is manpower, sir.'
'I doubt that is insoluble. An officer of your experience and ability can and will, I'm sure, find a route round such difficulties.'
The objections were shoved aside with the ruthlessness 'that was the hallmark of Mr Justice Herbert's successful climb on his career ladder. But when he spoke it was with his old-world courtesy, with which all who appeared in his courts were familiar. There was a thoroughness about him that scuppered the mention of appeals being won on the basis of his guidance to juries and his dealings with defence lawyers. His exterior was one of moderation and patience. His listed hobbies of reading Victorian melodrama, poetry, and sailing an eighteen-foot yacht off a mooring at Southwold, along with his regular Sunday attendance at morning worship in the cathedral of his home city, St Albans, all proffered an image of caring reasonableness, and truth was disguised. He believed that the chief inspector would soon weaken, but he tolerated a trifle of the man's obstinacy and allowed him his moment.
'The cost, sir, of protection is awesome. We have a jury of ten persons and although we have had one jury member come clean about an offer—'
'And not only "come clean", but also hand over a most considerable sum of money, thereby giving two significant markers of honesty and courage.'
'Of course, sir…but I cannot assume that this one individual is the only one who has been approached. You are asking me—'
'I am instructing you, Chief Inspector.'
'Yes, sir. Your instruction means that I have to rustle up the manpower to protect the jury members, ten of them, and look after their families. I would have to move the jury for the rest of the trial into secure accommodation, while at the same time ensuring that their families are guarded in their homes. We are talking about upwards of a hundred officers, and the requirement that a percentage of them would be armed. That's a big call, sir.'
'Then your job is to make the call.'
'Over and above that, we would have to acknowledge Duty of Care for the future, both to the jurors and their families. It won't all grind to a halt, sir, when the case concludes, could go on for months. Frankly, I hear a cash register going out of control here, and we could be looking at relocation.'
'The price of justice, Chief Inspector, is not cheap. What'll you do? Put the jurors into a hotel for the duration?'
'I don't think so. Hotels are about as insecure as things get — people wandering in and out, unvetted staff, back-of-the-building fire escapes and trade entrances…I'll look elsewhere. Then there's the business of keeping the jurors calm: "Who's going to be looking after my wife, my mother, all the rest?" They could panic and want out.'
'That is my responsibility and I will field it. I'm very grateful for your positive response, Chief Inspector, and I guarantee that your cooperation will be reflected in the personal letter I will write to your commissioner. Confidently, I leave these matters in your capable hands…and let us not forget the public-spirited action of this most courageous man, Julian Wright. Thank you.'
Signifying the termination of the meeting, Mr Justice Herbert returned to the hillocks of paper notes on his desk, but he saw from his eye's corner that the chief inspector had slipped on plastic gloves before he picked up the package that was ripped open at one end to show the wads of banknotes. He was alone in his room. Did he care about the costs? He did not. Did he care about the disruption of the jurors' domestic lives? He did not. Did he care about a mistrial and the prospect, then, of losing the opportunity to make a crafted speech on the threat of organized crime to society at large? Most certainly. Modern intruder alarms were wired throughout his home: he himself lived under a permanent threat of attack from the associates of those he had sent down for long terms of imprisonment. Because of the obligations of justice, he wore a hair-shirt, as had the ascetics and penitents of history, and others could ape him.
He buzzed his clerk. He told her that he needed the presence in his room of the QCs heading the prosecution and defence. He saw them, heard their comments. When they had finished, he thanked them effusively and announced that he would resume in ten minutes.
He wrote a note of what he would say, pondered on each sentence and checked a reference to a case a year before that had gone to appeal. He rewrote a line, then slipped into his robes. In front of the mirror he adjusted his wig and tightened his sash. He put the envelope and the letter into the floor safe, swung the combination dials, locked his room's door behind him, walked the corridor and heard the shout ahead of him: 'All rise.'
Mr Justice Herbert, with the full majesty of his office, swept into court eighteen, took his seat and read out what he had written.