John Creasey - Alibi

“Very well. If you will give the Clerk your name and qualifications, we may proceed,” said Gunn.

In a clear voice, she gave her name: Rachel Warrender. She was a junior partner in the firm of Warrender, Clansel and Warrender, of Lincoln’s Inn. She asked if she could consult with her client while he was in the dock, having no wish to take up the court’s time. She went up to Rapelli, and placed a hand on the rail, obviously for no purpose but to touch his. Only the warders could hear what they said, but it was obvious that Rapelli spoke in little more than monosyllables.

At last, Rachel Warrender turned and looked at Chief Inspector Leeminster. Leeminster had not moved from the time she had arrived, and in some way—a way which made him invaluable as a detective—he seemed to have faded into the background. Only now did anyone appear to notice him.

“I confirm my client’s plea of not guilty,” she said, “and I would like to ask for a dismissal of the charge, which has no justification whatsoever.”

“Oh,” said Gunn, and pursed his lips. “Dismissal.” If this young woman persisted in her request then he would have to decide how to respond: order an eight day remand, the normal way, without taking evidence; or accept evidence now, which he could by stretching a point. If he did this the court would have to call police and other witnesses, hear much more than the simple evidence of arrest already given. It could take an hour; several hours, perhaps. Well, this was his job and time wasn’t vital; but there were at least six other cases waiting, each of them likely to be one for summary justice. He might have to adjourn and make arrangements for another magistrate to take the waiting cases.

“The police submit that they will need at least six or seven days in which to complete their enquiries,” Leeminster stated. “We respectfully repeat our application for a remand in custody, your honour.”

“The enquiries can be completed in this court, in ten minutes,” stated Rachel Warrender with stinging acerbity.

“I think I can satisfy the court that there is no case to answer.”

“Do you propose to bring witnesses?” asked Gunn.

“Yes, sir. Three witnesses who will state—”

“ Really! ” Farriman exploded. “We cannot be told in advance what witnesses will state.”

“We can and should be told in advance what the accused’s representative expects to establish,” Gunn said urbanely. “What do you hope to establish, Miss Warrender?”

“That my client could not have committed the crime he is accused of because he was at least six miles away from the place where it was committed,” stated Rachel. She spoke much more clearly now, her voice was firmer and her manner assured. She glanced at Farriman, as if to say: I know what I’m doing as well as you.

Gunn said, “And what have the police to say?”

“The police are quite satisfied that they can prove the charge,” Leeminster declared with equal firmness.

“And can you bring witnesses?”

“We can, sir, in due course.”

Gunn contemplated them both, aware of West watching him intently, and sensed that, for a reason which he couldn’t yet see, this was an important issue for the police. There was another point: the prosecution, in this case the police, could not be denied a remand to enquire into an alibi. If she were a good lawyer, the young woman certainly knew that as well as the police. So they were deliberately sparring, as if each was anxious to find out how far the other would go.

So Rapelli would have to be remanded. The only question was whether it should be on bail or in custody.

“How long do you say it will take the police to prepare their case?” he asked.

“About a week, sir,” Leeminster repeated.

“I can submit the defence now,” said Rachel Warrender. “I have my witnesses outside the courtroom.” She really was pushing hard, as if hoping that the police would yield, even withdraw the case, or at least withdraw their opposition to bail. When Gunn didn’t respond she went on with a touch of impatience, “If there are three witnesses who can state categorically that my client could not possibly have committed the crime since he was in another place at the time the crime was committed, surely that would justify a dismissal, your worship.”

Leeminster kept silent, leaving this to the court.

“No,” said Gunn, after a brief pause. “As it is a defence of alibi, the police will have every right to insist on a remand. When can you produce your witness, Chief Inspector?”

“I would hope within the week, sir, but I cannot say for certain until we have completed our enquiries.”

“And you still ask for a remand in custody?”

We do, sir.”

“On what grounds?”

“That the accused’s life could be in jeopardy, or alternatively that he could leave the country,” Leeminster stated.

Gunn did not speak immediately, but pursed his lips, leaned back in the beautifully carved oak chair and looked up at the intricately decorated ceiling. He was aware of the way everyone looked at him, knew that his decision would be as important to the police as to the accused and his lawyer. He, Charles Gunn, was suddenly and unexpectedly presented with a very difficult problem. He was quite sure that the police would not have asked for custody on any grounds unless they were convinced of the need, and the decision rested solely on him. With Farriman, stickler for the rule and regulation, breathing stertorously below him, West, the prisoner and this young woman staring at him intently, he felt very much on the spot.

Suddenly, he leaned forward.

“Mr. Farriman—”

Farriman climbed slowly, arthritis-bound, from his — chair, and his head and shoulders appeared over the front of the bench. He kept his voice low so that no one else could hear.

“Yes, your honour?”

“Is there any provision, Mr. Farriman, for hearing a witness in order to assess the advisability of bail or otherwise?”

“There’s no provision, sir, but I have known such an occurrence. I have indeed. There is no provision specifically against it.”

“Thank you,” said Gunn, sitting back, and linking his fingers together. “I would like to hear one of your witnesses, Miss Warrender, before making any decision. I trust,” he went on, peering down at Leeminster but more concerned with West’s reaction, “that the police have no objection.”

Leeminster, obviously taken off his guard, hesitated, then turned and sent a silent appeal across the courtroom to his superior. And on that instant, all eyes turned towards Chief Superintendent Roger West.

Chapter Two

DECISION

Roger West had been virtually sure what would happen, and there was no reason for him to hesitate; yet he did. Magistrates, even considerate ones like Gunn, had a certain sense of their position and did not like to have their decisions anticipated. Moreover, it was never wise to look slick and over clever in front of the Press; further, he did not want to make Leeminster feel small. So he paused for a few seconds before mouthing “no objection” so that Leeminster could turn immediately and say, “I’ve no objection, sir.”

“Then if Miss Warrender will call a witness, we can proceed.”

Soon, from the well of the court, came a buxom girl in her early twenties, fair-haired, blue-eyed, fresh-com- plexioned. She wore a loose-fitting, loose-knit jumper in sky blue and a black mini-skirt which showed very long, very white legs, tiny ankles and surprisingly small feet. She took the stand, hesitating about taking the oath on the Bible, until Rachel Warrender said, “You are going to tell the truth, aren’t you?”

“I certainly am.” The fair girl’s lips had a tendency to pout, and were too-heavily lipsticked with bright red. “That is all you’re promising,” said Rachel. “. . . so help me God,” said the girl.

“Your name,” demanded Farriman, formally.

“Maisie Dunster of 41, Concert Street, Chelsea, S.W.3,” stated the girl.

Farriman wrote very slowly, very deliberately, and the court paused as if for breath.

“Very well—please proceed.”

“Miss Dunster,” said Rachel Warrender, “did you see the accused, Mario Rapelli, at all last evening?”

The witness’s eyes were turned towards Rapelli, and she nodded.

“I did.”

“Will you tell the court what time you were with him?”

“From seven o’clock until nine,” answered the witness, precisely.

“Seven o’clock until nine,” echoed Charles Gunn, frowning. He had a feeling that this over-made-up young woman was enjoying herself, finding this appearance before the court quite fun. He felt disapproving, not at all sure that she would hesitate to perjure herself, but that wasn’t his chief anxiety. It would be difficult to make sure that the evidence was keyed to the remand, and he had a feeling that Rachel Warrender proposed to bring evidence about the accusation. He alone was the authority in the court, and he alone could decide how far to let her go with her witnesses.

The fair girl, at all events, was under oath. He glanced down at Farriman, who came into his own at last.

“Will you please read the charge, Mr. Farriman, and all relevant statements made in court?”

“Gladly, sir! The police witness, on oath, stated that he called on the accused, Mario Lucullus Rapelli, at his home at eleven sixteen o’clock last night, Thursday, May 21st, and first cautioned and then charged him with assaulting a Mr. Ricardo Verdi at 17, Doons Way, Hampstead, last evening between eight o’clock and nine o’clock and of causing Mr. Verdi grievous bodily harm by striking him over the head with an electric guitar. The accused denied the charge. After cautioning the accused for a second time the witness stated he told him he was under arrest. He took him to the Mid-Western Divisional Police Station and there he was lodged for the night.”

Leeminster gave a little nod.

“Thank you,” Gunn said, and at last looked at the witness. Before he could speak, she burst out, “He couldn’t have attacked Ricky, he was with me, in Chelsea, in my flat.” Then she drew herself up and thrust her provocatively lifted bosom forward, adding in a ringing tone, “In my bed! And I’ve two witnesses to prove it.”

Someone gasped; two or three tittered; the newspapermen made notes with great eagerness, and Maisie Dunster surveyed the court with an air of triumph at having created a sensation. And she had. Gunn kept his self- control with an effort. He should have questioned the witness himself, of course; by allowing Rachel Warrender to do so he had invited trouble. It was partly because he wanted to hear what would be said. Then, almost unbelieving, he saw Roger West stand up and ask in a most casual-seeming voice, “As a point of interest, Miss Dunster, were the other two witnesses in your bed at the same time?”

Maisie Dunster turned to look at him.

“As a matter of fact, they were, ” she said defiantly. “Have you never heard of a sex-party?”

Charles Gunn sat very still and expressionless. He was of a generation which could still be shocked, yet not surprised, by Maisie Dunster’s brazen statements; at such moments he concluded that he was much more Victorian than he had realised. But the essential thing was to rebuke West, and he said in his sternest voice, “Superintendent, you have no right at all to intervene. Such intervention amounts to contempt of court, as you must know.”

Farriman, glaring at Roger, obviously agreed. West’s expression was difficult to assess, and Gunn knew he had been fully aware of his offence but had taken the risk in order to throw some doubt on to the reliability of the witness.