Assassin Read Free

and handed them to the foreman of the jury. 'What did you do then?'
    'We killed them.'
    'You killed them,' Briggs repeated, the knot of muscles at the side of his jaw pulsing. 'But fast you cut out Melissa's tongue and removed Felicity's eyes with a kitchen knife, correct?'
    'Oh Jesus,' the groan came from somewhere at the back of the court.
    'Correct?' snarled Briggs, rounding on the defendant.
    'See no evil, speak no evil,' said Crawford, smiling.
    'Answer the question,' Justice Valentine said, scribbling something in his notes.
    'Yes, we killed them; said Crawford, brushing his long hair from his collar. 'Just like we killed the other fucking parasites.'
    'By parasites I gather you refer to the other people who you stand accused of murdering?'
    'The rich bastards, yes. How many do you think have died to make them their millions?'
    'The Donaldson family were scarcely millionaires. Mr Donaldson owned a small factory complex in Woolwich.'
    'From little acorns,' said Crawford, softly.
    'So, that was sufficient reason to butcher Mrs Donaldson and her two children? I suppose we should be thankful that Mr Donaldson escaped this bloodbath.' The QC turned to the judge. 'The prosecution will not be calling Mr Donaldson as a witness M'Lord. He is under sedation at the moment.'
    Valentine nodded.
    'Why did you pick out the Donaldson family?' Briggs continued, turning his attention back to Crawford.
    'They had money,' the younger man replied. 'We had to start somewhere.' Again that smile hovered on his lips.
    'By "We" I gather you refer to the others who helped you in these murders?'
    'There are others apart from me, yes.'
    'But you chose to appoint yourself leader to fight this ..."class war" as you call it?' Again the QC raised his voice. 'You declared war on the rich, on, as you call them, "the enemies of the state". Is that correct?'
    'We are fighting a class war, yes, but I didn't appoint myself as leader. I was chosen.'
    Because of your natural charisma and organisational abilities presumably?' hissed Briggs, unable to control the sarcasm in his voice.
    'Very possibly,' Crawford said, smiling.
    'And this ... war against the rich, it was to consist of a series of brutal murders of men, women and children whose only crime, in your eyes, was that they were fortunate enough to have enough money to live comfortably. Perhaps how you would secretly like to five yourself, Mr Crawford?'
    'They were killed because they were parasites. They made their money by exploiting ordinary people. People who had no way of striking back at them.'
    'Oh I see,' Briggs exclaimed, tapping his forehead. 'You undertook the role of avenging angel, you and your followers decided to act as executioners on behalf of all those not as fortunate as Mrs Donaldson. Mrs Donaldson who had begged for the lives of her children. Who had begged that her own life be spared but who ended up like this.' Briggs roared the last sentence and slammed a black and white photo of the dead woman down on the witness box in front of Crawford.
    The younger man took the photo and glanced at it, raising his eyebrows.
    'It's not a very good likeness of her,' he said, pushing the photo back towards the QC. It fell from the side of the witness box and lay on the floor.
    The silence was broken by that insistent burbling of voices which was again stilled by the gavel.
    At the back of the room Detective Inspector Peter Thorpe nudged his companion and nodded in the direction of the door which led out of the court.
    Detective Sergeant Vic Riley got to his feet and the two men slipped out of the court.
    In the corridor outside, Thorpe pulled a packet of Rothmans from his jacket pocket and offered one to Riley who accepted, fumbling for his matches when Thorpe's lighter refused to work.
    The two men sucked hard on their cigarettes, Riley leaning against the wall. At thirty-seven, the DS was three years younger than his superior although it was he who had smudges of grey in his hair.
    'Class war my