A Twist in the Tale Read online

  Once again Menzies took a long time to reply.

  “Four sixteen to four thirty,” he said eventually.

  “I didn’t hear that,” said the judge.

  “Would you be kind enough to repeat what you said for the judge?” Sir Humphrey asked.

  Menzies repeated the damning figures.

  “So now we have established that you were in fact with Miss Moorland sometime before four sixteen, and not, as I suggest you later wrote in your diary, five o’clock. That was just another lie, wasn’t it?”

  “No,” said Menzies. “I must have arrived a little earlier than I realized.”

  “At least an hour earlier, it seems. And I also suggest to you that you arrived at that early hour because your interest in Carla Moorland was not simply professional?”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Then it wasn’t your intention that she should become your mistress?”

  Menzies hesitated long enough for Sir Humphrey to answer his own question. “Because the business part of your meeting finished in the usual half hour, did it not, Mr. Menzies?” He waited for a response but still none was forthcoming.

  “What is your blood group, Mr. Menzies?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Sir Humphrey without warning changed tack: “Have you heard of DNA, by any chance?”

  “No,” came back the puzzled reply.

  “Deoxyribonucleic acid is a proven technique that shows genetic information can be unique to every individual. Blood or semen samples can be matched. Semen, Mr. Menzies, is as unique as any fingerprint. With such a sample we would know immediately if you raped Miss Moorland.”

  “I didn’t rape her,” Menzies said indignantly.

  “Nevertheless sexual intercourse did take place, didn’t it?” said Sir Humphrey quietly.

  Menzies remained silent.

  “Shall I recall the Home Office pathologist and ask him to carry out a DNA test?”

  Menzies still made no reply.

  “And check your blood group?” Sir Humphrey paused. “I will ask you once again, Mr. Menzies. Did sexual intercourse between you and the murdered woman take place that Thursday afternoon?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Menzies in a whisper.

  “Yes, sir,” repeated Sir Humphrey so that the whole court could hear it.

  “But it wasn’t rape,” Menzies shouted back at Sir Humphrey.

  “Wasn’t it?” said Sir Humphrey.

  “And I swear I didn’t kill her.”

  I must have been the only person in that courtroom who knew he was telling the truth. All Sir Humphrey said was, “No more questions, my Lord.”

  Mr. Scott tried manfully to resurrect his client’s credibility during reexamination but the fact that Menzies had been caught lying about his relationship with Carla made everything he had said previously appear doubtful.

  If only Menzies had told the truth about being Carla’s lover, his story might well have been accepted. I wondered why he had gone through such a charade—in order to protect his wife? Whatever the motive, it had only ended by making him appear guilty of a crime he hadn’t committed.

  I went home that night and ate the largest meal I had faced for several days.

  The following morning Mr. Scott called two more witnesses. The first turned out to be the vicar of St. Peter’s, Sutton, who was there as a character witness to prove what a pillar of the community Menzies was. After Sir Humphrey had finished his cross-examination the vicar ended up looking like a rather kind, unworldly old man, whose knowledge of Menzies was based on the latter’s occasional attendance at Sunday matins.

  The second was Menzies’ superior at the company they both worked for in the City. He was a far more impressive witness but he was unable to confirm that Miss Moorland had ever been a client of the company.

  Mr. Scott put up no more witnesses and informed Mr. Justice Buchanan that he had completed the case for the defense. The judge nodded and, turning to Sir Humphrey, told him he would not be required to begin his final address until the following morning.

  That heralded the signal for the court to rise.

  Another long evening and an even longer night had to be endured by Menzies and myself. As on every other day during the trial, I made sure I was in my place the next morning before the judge entered.

  Sir Humphrey’s closing speech was masterful. Every tiny untruth was logged so that one began to accept that very little of Menzies’ testimony could be relied on.

  “We will never know for certain,” said Sir Humphrey, “for what reason poor young Carla Moorland was murdered. Refusal to succumb to Menzies’ advances? A fit of temper which ended with a blow that caused her to fall and later die alone? But there are, however, some things, members of the jury, of which we can be quite certain.

  “We can be certain that Menzies was with the murdered woman that day before the hour of four sixteen because of the evidence of the damning parking ticket.

  “We can be certain that he left a little after six because we have a witness who saw him drive away, and he does not himself deny this evidence.

  “And we can be certain that he wrote a false entry in his diary to make you believe he had a business appointment with the murdered woman at five, rather than a personal assignation some time before.

  “And we can now be certain that he lied about having sexual intercourse with Miss Moorland a short time before she was killed, though we cannot be certain if intercourse took place before or after her jaw had been broken.” Sir Humphrey’s eyes rested on the jury before he continued.

  “We can, finally, establish, beyond reasonable doubt, from the pathologist’s report, the time of death and that, therefore, Menzies was the last person who could possibly have seen Carla Moorland alive.

  “Therefore no one else could have killed Carla Moorland—for do not forget Inspector Simmons’ evidence—and if you accept that you can be in no doubt that only Menzies could have been responsible for her death. And how damning you must have found it that he tried to hide the existence of a first wife who had left him on the grounds of his cruelty, and the four mistresses who left him we know not why or how. Only one less than Bluebeard,” Sir Humphrey added with feeling.

  “For the sake of every young girl who lives on her own in our capital, you must carry out your duty, however painful that duty might be. And find Menzies guilty of murder.”

  When Sir Humphrey sat down I wanted to applaud.

  The judge sent us away for another break. Voices all around me were now damning Menzies. I listened contentedly without offering an opinion. I knew that if the jury convicted Menzies the file would be closed and no eyes would ever be turned in my direction. I was seated in my place before the judge appeared at ten past two. He called on Mr. Scott.

  Menzies’ counsel put up a spirited defense of his client, pointing out that almost all the evidence that Sir Humphrey had come up with had been circumstantial, and that it was even possible someone else could have visited Carla Moorland after his client had left that night. Mr. Scott’s bushy eyebrows seemed almost to have a life of their own as he energetically emphasized that it was the prosecution’s responsibility to prove their case beyond reasonable doubt and not his to disprove it, and that, in his opinion, his learned friend, Sir Humphrey, had failed to do so.

  During his summing up Scott avoided any mention of diary entries, parking tickets, past mistresses, sexual intercourse or questions of his client’s role in the community. A latecomer listening only to the closing speeches might have been forgiven for thinking the two learned gentlemen were summarizing different cases.

  Mr. Scott’s expression became grim as he turned to face the jury for his summation. “The twelve of you,” he said, “hold the fate of my client in your hands. You must, therefore, be certain, I repeat, certain beyond reasonable doubt that Paul Menzies could have committed such an evil crime as murder.

  “This is not a trial about Mr. Menzies’ lifestyle, his position in the communi
ty or even his sexual habits. If adultery were a crime I feel confident Mr. Menzies would not be the only person in this courtroom to be in the dock today.” He paused as his eyes swept up and down the jury.

  “For this reason I feel confident that you will find it in your hearts to release my client from the torment he has been put through during the last seven months. He has surely been shown to be an innocent man deserving of your compassion.”

  Mr. Scott sank down on the bench having, I felt, given his client a glimmer of hope.

  The judge told us that he would not begin his own summing up until Monday morning.

  * * *

  The weekend seemed interminable to me. By Monday I had convinced myself that enough members of the jury would feel there just had not been sufficient evidence to convict.

  As soon as the trial was under way the judge began by explaining once again that it was the jury alone who must make the ultimate decision. It was not his job to let them know how he felt, but only to advise them on the law.

  He went back over all the evidence, trying to put it in perspective, but he never gave as much as a hint to his own opinions. When he had completed his summing up late that afternoon he sent the jury away to consider their verdict.

  I waited with nearly as much anxiety as Menzies must have done while I listened to others giving their opinion as the minutes ticked by in that little room. Then, four hours later, a note was sent up to the judge.

  He immediately asked the jury to return to their places while the press flooded back into the courtroom, making it look like the House of Commons on Budget Day. The clerk dutifully handed up the note to Mr. Justice Buchanan. He opened it and discovered what only twelve other people in the courtroom could have known.

  He handed it back to the clerk who then read the note to a silent court.

  Mr. Justice Buchanan frowned before asking if there were any chance of a unanimous verdict being reached if he allowed more time. Once he had learned that it was proving impossible he reluctantly nodded his agreement to a majority verdict.

  The jury disappeared downstairs again to continue their deliberations, and did not return to their places for another three hours.

  I could sense the tension in the court as neighbors sought to give opinions to each other in noisy whispers. The clerk called for silence as the judge waited for everyone to settle before he instructed him to proceed.

  When the clerk rose, I could hear the person next to me breathing.

  “Would the Foreman please stand?”

  I rose from my place.

  “Have you reached a verdict on which at least ten of you have agreed?”

  “We have, sir.”

  “Do you find the defendant, Paul Menzies, guilty or not guilty?”

  “Guilty,” I replied.

  CLEAN SWEEP IGNATIUS

  FEW SHOWED MUCH interest when Ignatius Agarbi was appointed as Nigeria’s Minister of Finance. After all, the cynics pointed out, he was the seventeenth person to hold the office in seventeen years.

  In Ignatius’ first major policy statement to Parliament he promised to end graft and corruption in public life and warned the electorate that no one holding an official position could feel safe unless he led a blameless life. He ended his maiden speech with the words, “I intend to clear out Nigeria’s Augean stables.”

  Such was the impact of the minister’s speech that it failed to get a mention in the Lagos Times. Perhaps the editor considered that, since the paper had covered the speeches of the previous sixteen ministers in extenso, his readers might feel they had heard it all before.

  Ignatius, however, was not to be disheartened by the lack of confidence shown in him, and set about his new task with vigor and determination. Within days of his appointment he had caused a minor official at the Ministry of Food to be jailed for falsifying documents relating to the import of grain. The next to feel the bristles of Ignatius’ new broom was a leading Lebanese financier, who was deported without trial for breach of the exchange control regulations. A month later came an event which even Ignatius considered a personal coup: the arrest of the Chief of Police for accepting bribes—a perk the citizens of Lagos had in the past considered went with the job. When four months later the Police Chief was sentenced to eighteen months in jail, the new Finance Minister finally made the front page of the Lagos Times. A leader on the center page dubbed him “Clean Sweep Ignatius,” the new broom every guilty man feared. Ignatius’ reputation as Mr. Clean continued to grow as arrest followed arrest and unfounded rumors began circulating in the capital that even General Otobi, the Head of State, was under investigation by his own Finance Minister.

  Ignatius alone now checked, vetted and authorized all foreign contracts worth over one hundred million dollars. And although every decision he made was meticulously scrutinized by his enemies, not a breath of scandal ever became associated with his name.

  When Ignatius began his second year of office as Minister of Finance even the cynics began to acknowledge his achievements. It was about this time that General Otobi felt confident enough to call Ignatius in for an unscheduled consultation.

  The Head of State welcomed the Minister to Durden Barracks and ushered him to a comfortable chair in his study overlooking the parade ground.

  “Ignatius, I have just finished going over the latest budget report and I am alarmed by your conclusion that the Exchequer is still losing millions of dollars each year in bribes paid to go-betweens by foreign companies. But have you any idea into whose pockets this money is falling? That’s what I want to know.”

  Ignatius sat bolt upright, his eyes never leaving the Head of State.

  “I suspect a great percentage of the money is ending up in private Swiss bank accounts but I am at present unable to prove it.”

  “Then I will give you whatever added authority you require to do so,” said General Otobi. “You can use any means you consider necessary to ferret out these villains. Start by investigating every member of my Cabinet, past and present. And show no fear or favor in your endeavors, no matter what their rank or connections.”

  “For such a task to have any chance of success I would need a special letter of authority signed by you, General…”

  “Then it will be on your desk by six o’clock this evening,” said the Head of State.

  “And the rank of Ambassador Plenipotentiary whenever I travel abroad.”

  “Granted.”

  “Thank you,” said Ignatius, rising from his chair on the assumption that the audience was over.

  “You may also need this,” said the General as they walked toward the door. The Head of State handed Ignatius a small automatic pistol. “Because I suspect by now that you have almost as many enemies as I do.”

  Ignatius took the pistol from the soldier awkwardly, put it in his pocket and mumbled his thanks.

  Without another word passing between the two men Ignatius left his leader and was driven back to his Ministry.

  Without the knowledge of the chairman of the State Bank of Nigeria and unhindered by any senior civil servants, Ignatius enthusiastically set about his new task. He researched alone at night, and by day discussed his findings with no one. Three months later he was ready to pounce.

  The Minister selected the month of August to make an unscheduled visit abroad as it was the time when most Nigerians went on holiday and his absence would therefore not be worthy of comment.

  He asked his Permanent Secretary to book him, his wife and their two children on a flight to Orlando, and to be certain that it was charged to his personal account.

  On their arrival in Florida the family checked into the local Marriott Hotel. He then informed his wife, without warning or explanation, that he would be spending a few days in New York on business before rejoining them for the rest of the holiday. The following morning Ignatius left his family to the mysteries of Disney World while he took a flight to New York. It was a short taxi ride from La Guardia to Kennedy, where, after a change of clothes an
d the purchase of a return tourist ticket for cash, Ignatius boarded a Swissair flight for Geneva unobserved.

  Once in the Swiss financial capital Ignatius booked into an inconspicuous hotel, retired to bed and slept soundly for eight hours. Over breakfast the following morning he studied the list of banks he had so carefully drawn up after completing his research in Nigeria: each name was written out boldly in his own hand. Ignatius decided to start with Gerber et Cie whose building, he observed from the hotel bedroom, took up half the Avenue de Parchine. He checked the telephone number with the concierge before placing a call. The chairman agreed to see the Minister at twelve o’clock.

  Carrying only a battered briefcase, Ignatius arrived at the bank a few minutes before the appointed hour. An unusual occurrence for a Nigerian, thought the young man dressed in a smart gray suit, white shirt and gray silk tie, who was waiting in the marble hall to greet him. He bowed to the Minister, introducing himself as the chairman’s personal assistant, and explained that he would accompany Ignatius to the chairman’s office. The young executive led the Minister to a waiting lift and neither man uttered another word until they had reached the eleventh floor. A gentle tap on the chairman’s door elicited “Entrez,” which the young man obeyed.

  “The Nigerian Minister of Finance, sir.”

  The chairman rose from behind his desk and stepped forward to greet his guest. Ignatius could not help noticing that he too wore a gray suit, white shirt and gray silk tie.

  “Good morning, Minister,” the chairman said. “Won’t you have a seat?” He ushered Ignatius toward a low glass table surrounded by comfortable chairs on the far side of the room. “I have ordered coffee for both of us if that is acceptable.”

  Ignatius nodded, placed the battered briefcase on the floor by the side of his chair and stared out of the large plate-glass window. He made some small talk about the splendid view of the magnificent fountain while a girl served all three men with coffee.

  Once the young woman had left the room Ignatius got down to business.