Free The Veteran by Frederick Forsyth

estate?”
    “No, sir.”
    “So, after, what? over a hundred enquiries, you found not one shred of evidence to link my clients to the time and the place?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Thank you. Inspector. No further questions.”
    Jack Burns was next. He was led through his lengthy statement from the first call in the canteen to the final formal charging of Price and Cornish with murder. Then Vansittart rose.
    “You have conducted a very thorough investigation, Mr. Burns?”
    “I hope so, sir.”
    “Left no stone unturned?”
    “I would like to think so.”
    “How many officers were in the search team, the POLSA?”
    “About a dozen, sir.”
    “But they found no trace of Mr. Price’s blood at or near the crime scene?”
    “No, sir.”
    “So here is a badly broken nose, streaming blood in a fountain, and not one single droplet fell to the pavement?”
    “None was found, sir.”
    Burns knew better than to allow a lawyer to bait him.
    “You see, Mr. Burns, my client will say that none of his blood was found there because he did not break his nose at that place, because he was never there that Tuesday. Now, Mr. Burns ...”
    Vansittart had made a mini speech in place of a question. He knew there was no jury present to be impressed. He was talking to Stipendiary Magistrate Jonathan Stein, who looked at him expressionlessly and made notes. Miss. Sundaran scribbled furiously.
    “Penetrating the estate itself, did your POLSA team search for anything else the miscreants might have dropped?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And how many binliners did they manage to fill?”
    “Twenty, sir.”
    “And were the contents searched with the finest of toothcombs?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And in twenty binliners, was there one shred of evidence linking my clients to the time and the place?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Yet, by noon the next day you were actively looking for Mr. Price and Mr. Cornish with a view to arresting them. Why was that?”
    “Because between eleven and twelve the next day I had established two positive identifications.”
    “From the CRO photographs, the so-called mug book?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And made by a local shopkeeper, Mr. Veejay Patel?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Tell me. Inspector, how many photographs did Mr. Patel examine?”
    Jack Burns consulted his notes.
    “Seventy-seven.”
    “And why seventy-seven?”
    “Because the twenty-eighth photograph he positively identified as Mark Price and the seventy-seventh as Harry Cornish.”
    “Is seventy-seven the total of youngish white males who have ever come to the attention of the police in the northeast quadrant of London?”
    “No, sir.”
    “The figure would be higher?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “How many photographs did you have at your disposal that morning, Mr. Burns?”
    “About four hundred.”
    “Four hundred. And yet you stopped at seventy-seven.”
    “The identifications were absolutely positive.”
    “And yet Mr. Patel never had the opportunity to look at the remaining three hundred and twenty-three?”
    There was a long silence.
    “No, sir.”
    “Detective Inspector Burns, my client, Mr. Price, seen from the neck up, is a beefy, mid-twenties white male with a shorn head. Are you telling this court there are no others like that among your four hundred photos?”
    “I cannot say that.”
    “I suggest there must be a score. Nowadays, beefy young men who choose to shave their skulls are two a penny. Yet, Mr. Patel never had the opportunity to compare Mr. Price’s photograph with any similar face further down the list of four hundred?”
    Silence.
    “You must answer, Mr. Burns,” said the stipendiary, gently.
    “No, sir, he did not.”
    “Then there might have been another face, further on, remarkably similar to Mr. Price, but Mr. Patel had no chance to make a comparison, go back and forth, stare at both of them, before making his choice?”
    “There might have been.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Burns. No further questions.”
    It had been damaging. The