Her second set, A Jazz Christmas, ended with even more applause than her first. She found herself wishing Lawrence had seen it. He was quite different to her usual taste in men but she liked his cheekiness and confidence. She would dress for lunch.
She gathered up her music and went to the bar, had a single
nightcap. She became conscious that a man was trying to catch her attention.
Hoping he was not a fan, she beckoned him over.
“Sorry to bother you, Miss Johnson, I have a message from Mr
Foster.” He handed her an envelope saying, “No answer is required, Miss.
Goodnight.”
She looked at it for a full minute trying to guess what
might be inside then, ripping the top open, she discovered it was a short note
inviting her to his hotel after she finished for the night. She was not
expecting that nor would she ever do such a thing after a short time of knowing
anyone. As was her habit she would take a cab home. Putting her coat on, she
went outside and immediately saw an orange light. It stopped on her wave and she
got in.
“She’s in the cab.” Mitchell heard this and only this when
he answered his telephone. He replaced the receiver, lifted it again, dialled
and said, “It’s on, you know what to do. Make her talk.”
Edward Mitchell’s life was one of solving the problems that
he himself had caused, particularly where women were concerned. He had stopped
counting years ago but usually a wedge of cash was the price of his doings. He
had disposed of three tarts over the years but recently discovered that the
very clever Valerie Johnson apparently had information about them. He did not
believe that but could not take any chances. They would make her talk, he was
confident of that. Once she had, she would be no more and that bastard Robert
Bond would be up for her demise. He could not believe that such low-life people
like them could possibly beat him. He, who had changed history with his radical
change in housing for the “proletariat”. He, the next prospective PM. He so
sure that he would be, that he pictured himself standing outside No.10
addressing the Country.
The next day dawned and Robert was being transported to the
Old Bailey feeling that the evidence against him was not strong enough to
convict because there would no trace of him on Valerie. However, the
prosecution’s Barrister, Gerald Barber, was exceptionally sure of securing a
conviction which would mean disaster on a grand style for both him and his
family. He cleared the thought from his head.
His own barrister, William Carlton, was a good man and would
put a good case together but his defence had a great deal to prove. He had told
him Mitchell was involved in some way but could not prove it. All he had was
the tyre tracks. The Prosecution’s evidence amounted to very little except that
he was arrested in the house where the unfortunate Valerie Johnson was found.
“Guilty” kept ringing in his ears. Mitchell was going to fit him up, he knew it.
He spoke to William who met him as he arrived.
“I’m going to ask for an adjournment. I have some new
information which I will discuss with you later, assuming my request is
agreed.” Robert was taken into Court
before he could say anything.
The adjournment, after a lot of blustering from the
Prosecution, was successful in the light of important new evidence. Two days.
Lawrence Foster was slightly disappointed Valerie had not
answered his invitation and he wished now that he hadn’t been so crass as to
write it, but the truth was that he was smitten for the first time in his life.
He wondered now if she would join him for lunch but, having realised his error,
he made his way back to the club to apologise. As he approached, he noticed a
cab stationary with its engine running and, as Valerie stepped outside, the cab’s
orange light came on and she hailed it, got in and it drove off slowly.
Valerie’s life was ebbing away gradually but she was not
aware of it. She was unconscious after being water-boarded for hours. She
couldn’t tell them anything because she did not know anything about Mitchell’s
lifestyle. Briefly, while still alive, she did remember his name but not the
context. Death was rapidly approaching and she was glad. She was tired, cold.
She was positioned in an old bath so that a tap would run water directly into
her mouth. She died silently, alone.
Mitchell was pacing his office after learning of the adjournment. He had not expected any hitches and could not fathom what the new evidence could be. He had covered every angle. He went through every piece of his plan and was convinced all would be well but – no he had planned it and he never failed. He poured another single malt and relaxed. His telephone rang.
“Keep me out of this, Mitchell.” The line went dead. He telephoned his own barrister but he was not taking calls.
He sat down, thought it through again. He smiled. It was a
smile that left his face only to be replaced with an expletive. For two weeks
he had followed Robert to the site as he did his security rounds. On the
morning before Valerie was taken there, he could not resist a closer look and
had driven a little closer. He remembered the ground was muddy and therefore must
have left both tyre and footprints. His ego had got the better of him once
more. This time he was sure he would not win. He left his office, walked to his
car and drove to the site. He took a last look then put the gun to his mouth.
The trial resumed and the new evidence was presented by
Robert’s barrister.
In the evening prior to her death, Lawrence told the court
that he had seen Valerie get into a black cab outside the club. However, he
became suspicious that it was not a black cab because it did not have the
trademark roof indicators nor the correct entry door. He memorised the number
and gave it to the police as soon as he learned of her death.
The police found the fake cab, with fake service light, in an
abandoned warehouse complete with a woman’s earring which matched the one
Valerie was wearing. The final pieces of evidence came from the fingerprints of
James Marchant, a well-known driver and who anonymously tipped off the police
about Valerie’s whereabouts. Mitchell had sent Robert’s security schedule to
him. Marchant never gave Mitchell up nor mentioned his name. He was found not
guilty of murder but guilty as an accessory. Valerie’s murderer was never
found.
Mitchell’s life story, by David Beaman, Daily Express
reporter, became a bestselling book and film. Several of his close
confidantes were arrested.
Valerie’s agent released an album of her performances to much acclaim.
