The Collected Short Stories - Jeffrey Archer [65]
“And you have left me with no choice but to replace you.” A polite way of saying, “You’re fired.”
“Your desk will be cleared by five this evening,” the managing director continued, “when you will receive a cheque from the accounts department for 17,500 pounds.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Six months’ compensation, as stipulated in your contract when we took over the company,” he explained.
When the managing director stretched out his hand it was not to wish me luck but to ask for the keys of my Rover.
I remember my first thought when he informed me of his decision: At least I would be able to attend every day of the trial without any hassle.
Elizabeth took the news of my firing badly but only asked what plans I had for finding a new job. During the next month I pretended to look for a position in another company but realized I couldn’t hope to settle down to anything until the case was over.
On the morning of the trial all the popular papers had colorful background pieces. The Daily Express even displayed on its front page a flattering picture of Carla in a swimsuit on the beach at Marbella: I wondered how much her sister in Fulham had been paid for that particular item. Alongside it was a profile photo of Paul Menzies that made him look as if he were already a convict.
I was among the first to be told in which court at the Old Bailey the case of the Crown v. Menzies would be tried. A uniformed policeman gave me detailed directions, and along with several others I made my way to Court No. 4.
Once I had reached the courtroom I filed in and made sure that I sat on the end of my row. I looked round thinking everyone would stare at me, but to my relief no one showed the slightest interest.
I had a good view of the defendant as he stood in the dock. Menzies was a frail man who looked as if he had recently lost a lot of weight; fifty-one, the newspapers had said, but he looked nearer seventy. I began to wonder how much I must have aged over the past few months.
Menzies wore a smart dark blue suit that hung loosely on him, a clean shirt, and what I thought must be a regimental tie. His gray thinning hair was swept straight back; a small silver moustache gave him a military air. He certainly didn’t look like a murderer or much of a catch as a lover, but anyone glancing toward me would probably have come to the same conclusion. I searched around the sea of faces for Mrs. Menzies but no one in the court fitted the newspaper description of her.
We all rose when Mr. Justice Buchanan came in. “The Crown v. Menzies,” the clerk of the court read out.
The judge leaned forward to tell Menzies that he could be seated and then turned slowly toward the jury box.
He explained that, although there had been considerable press interest in the case, their opinion was all that mattered because they alone would be asked to decide if the prisoner were guilty or not guilty of murder. He also advised the jury against reading any newspaper articles concerning the trial or listening to anyone else’s views, especially those who had not been present in court: Such people, he said, were always the first to have an immutable opinion on what the verdict should be. He went on to remind the jury how important it was to concentrate on the evidence because a man’s life was at stake. I found myself nodding in agreement.
I glanced around the court hoping there was nobody there who would recognize me. Menzies’s eyes remained fixed firmly on the judge, who was turning back to face the prosecuting counsel.
Even as Sir Humphrey Mountcliff rose from his place on the bench, I was thankful he was against Menzies and not me. A man of dominating height with a high forehead and silver gray hair, he commanded the court not only with his physical presence but with a voice that was never less than authoritative.
To a silent assembly he spent the rest of the morning setting out the case for the prosecution. His eyes rarely left the jury box except occasionally to peer down at his notes.
He reconstructed the events as he imagined