best people to sort everything out. We really shouldn’t be seen to be taking sides.’
‘They’re friends of mine but it’s not a question of taking sides,’ insisted Gordon. ‘I just want to see justice done and I have the feeling that the police are more interested in securing a quick conviction than in investigating any alternative possibility.’
‘John Palmer confessed to the crime of his own volition,’ exclaimed Julie. ‘You can hardly accuse the police of fitting him up or even of exerting undue pressure on him.’
‘People confess to things for a whole variety of reasons,’ said Gordon. ‘Not all of them connected with guilt.’ It sounded weak and he knew it. He could see that Julie was far from convinced.
‘I still don’t think you should go,’ she said.
‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ said Gordon.
As it turned out, Gordon couldn’t get near the court when he arrived in Caernarfon. The narrow street leading down the side of the castle to the court building was full of angry people. He made a left turn the other way and parked by the harbour on the far side of the castle. He hurried back up the hill to discover that it was John Palmer they were angry about.
‘Murdering bastard!’ shouted one man to cries of encouragement from a group of women nearby.
‘They should bring back hanging, poor mite!’
Hanging’s too good for the bastard!’
A white police van escorted by two motorcycle outriders edged its way slowly through the throng. Fists pounded at its sides and more obscenities were shouted. Gordon could only look on in horror. Who were these people? Where had they come from? Surely they weren’t local? They looked like a mob borrowed from a film set of the French revolution, a bloodthirsty rabble egging each other on. Their cries even competed with those of the seagulls overhead as they wheeled round the towers of the castle, waiting to swoop down on the litter they knew a crowd must leave.
Gordon, feeling sick in his stomach, turned his back on the awful scene and went in search of a newsagent. He didn’t actually have to buy a paper to discover the fuel that had fired the crowd. An advertising board outside the shop announced: Father slays three month old baby. Police in grisly find. Gordon went in and bought a selection of papers to take back to his car down by the harbour.
The clunk of the car door shut out the distant but still audible noise of the crowd but the scream of the headlines was almost as disturbing. Teacher slays crippled child … Police find baby in shallow grave … Father confesses at child’s graveside.
Gordon had to concede that he had little or no chance of getting into the courtroom so he drove slowly back to Felinbach, still feeling haunted by the faces he’d seen in the crowd, their features distorted by hatred, their mouths bawling obscenities. Why? He wondered. There couldn’t have been a personal element to it so where had all that hatred come from? These people knew nothing of the circumstances of the case, only what they’d read in the morning papers yet that had been enough for them to make a snap judgement and parade their second-hand emotion outside the court room. As he reached the outskirts of the village he concluded that the whys and wherefores must lie in the province of the psychiatrist but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know any more.
Gordon thought he detected a coolness among several patients attending morning surgery. It couldn’t be construed as rudeness, more a change from friendliness to distant politeness. He mentioned this to Julie when they had coffee together after surgery was over.
‘It’s this Palmer baby thing,’ said Julie.
‘What about it?’
‘I tried to warn you earlier; the villagers have got it into their heads that you are sympathetic to the Palmers. You’re on their side.’
‘I am,’ said Gordon forcibly.
‘Exactly,’ said Julie. ‘Everyone else thinks they’re guilty.’
‘Including
‘They’re friends of mine but it’s not a question of taking sides,’ insisted Gordon. ‘I just want to see justice done and I have the feeling that the police are more interested in securing a quick conviction than in investigating any alternative possibility.’
‘John Palmer confessed to the crime of his own volition,’ exclaimed Julie. ‘You can hardly accuse the police of fitting him up or even of exerting undue pressure on him.’
‘People confess to things for a whole variety of reasons,’ said Gordon. ‘Not all of them connected with guilt.’ It sounded weak and he knew it. He could see that Julie was far from convinced.
‘I still don’t think you should go,’ she said.
‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ said Gordon.
As it turned out, Gordon couldn’t get near the court when he arrived in Caernarfon. The narrow street leading down the side of the castle to the court building was full of angry people. He made a left turn the other way and parked by the harbour on the far side of the castle. He hurried back up the hill to discover that it was John Palmer they were angry about.
‘Murdering bastard!’ shouted one man to cries of encouragement from a group of women nearby.
‘They should bring back hanging, poor mite!’
Hanging’s too good for the bastard!’
A white police van escorted by two motorcycle outriders edged its way slowly through the throng. Fists pounded at its sides and more obscenities were shouted. Gordon could only look on in horror. Who were these people? Where had they come from? Surely they weren’t local? They looked like a mob borrowed from a film set of the French revolution, a bloodthirsty rabble egging each other on. Their cries even competed with those of the seagulls overhead as they wheeled round the towers of the castle, waiting to swoop down on the litter they knew a crowd must leave.
Gordon, feeling sick in his stomach, turned his back on the awful scene and went in search of a newsagent. He didn’t actually have to buy a paper to discover the fuel that had fired the crowd. An advertising board outside the shop announced: Father slays three month old baby. Police in grisly find. Gordon went in and bought a selection of papers to take back to his car down by the harbour.
The clunk of the car door shut out the distant but still audible noise of the crowd but the scream of the headlines was almost as disturbing. Teacher slays crippled child … Police find baby in shallow grave … Father confesses at child’s graveside.
Gordon had to concede that he had little or no chance of getting into the courtroom so he drove slowly back to Felinbach, still feeling haunted by the faces he’d seen in the crowd, their features distorted by hatred, their mouths bawling obscenities. Why? He wondered. There couldn’t have been a personal element to it so where had all that hatred come from? These people knew nothing of the circumstances of the case, only what they’d read in the morning papers yet that had been enough for them to make a snap judgement and parade their second-hand emotion outside the court room. As he reached the outskirts of the village he concluded that the whys and wherefores must lie in the province of the psychiatrist but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know any more.
Gordon thought he detected a coolness among several patients attending morning surgery. It couldn’t be construed as rudeness, more a change from friendliness to distant politeness. He mentioned this to Julie when they had coffee together after surgery was over.
‘It’s this Palmer baby thing,’ said Julie.
‘What about it?’
‘I tried to warn you earlier; the villagers have got it into their heads that you are sympathetic to the Palmers. You’re on their side.’
‘I am,’ said Gordon forcibly.
‘Exactly,’ said Julie. ‘Everyone else thinks they’re guilty.’
‘Including
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