Henry Milner - Murder at the Bailey

A no-holds-barred expos of the highs and lows of defending serious crime.

A ndy M c N ab

Henry Milners colourful account of a career over decades as a criminal defence solicitor evokes a bygone era of the criminal justice system. In a highly readable style with plenty of wry self-deprecating humour, Milner gives a compelling insight into a life defending some of the big-league criminal names. A must-read.

F rances G ibb , former legal editor , T he T imes

A fascinating read as a top-class criminal defence lawyer tells the story of his top-class clients and their top-class crimes.

J ames M orton , author of K rays : T he F inal W ord

An entertaining and revealing insight into the world of the criminal defence lawyer and the inside stories behind some of the Old Baileys most famous cases.

D uncan C ampbell , journalist and author

In more than forty years at the top of his game as a criminal defence lawyer, Henry Milner has been on speed dial for many of Britains most notorious alleged villains. Sometimes serious, sometimes very funny but never, ever dull, No Lawyers in Heaven offers a sharply observed insight into his most gripping cases, from murder to money heisting, drug trafficking and beyond.

M artin B runt , S ky N ews crime correspondent

N o one paid him the slightest heed. Why would they? Just another shortish, podgy, middle-aged barrister in wig and gown, holding his brief in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette in the other, looking like hed popped out of the Old Bailey for a quiet smoke in the morning break, and glancing from time to time towards the main door of the building, as if he was waiting for someone.

He was.

* * *

Put up Robert Maynard, called out the clerk in Court 7 to the dock officer.

Judge Buchanan QC, sitting high up on his throne, grimaced at the expression put up. Put up, indeed. He wanted to put him down and for a long time. The judge stared across the court at the man entering the dock some 30ft away. He was almost as broad as he was tall, with an enormous, shaved head and a thick neck. Striped, flashy brown suit and a bright yellow tie. A pair of mean eyes set deep into a tight face with loose layers of fat that hung downwards from his chin. You wouldnt want him moving in as your next-door neighbour, thought the judge.

Prosecuting counsel stood up. My Lord, as you are aware, this is the third hearing in this case, and Im sorry to report that we have not progressed. The unhappy situation remains that our chief witness, Mr William Churchman, refuses to testify. He has been brought to court today by your order, and the senior officer has spoken to him yet again, but he stands firm. He is adamant and will not change his mind.

Has it been made clear to him that he will be in contempt of court if he persists with this refusal?

Repeatedly, my Lord.

And the potential consequences, including prison?

Yes, my Lord.

Has it been explained to him that the court can offer all sorts of protection for witnesses? He could give evidence from behind a screen, and police protection can be put in place afterwards all quite common nowadays, unfortunately.

In some detail, my Lord.

And what did he have to say about that?

Quite a lot, my Lord. He told the senior officer, and I quote Id feel safer in a Siberian labour camp.

The judge grimaced for a second time. Well, that certainly has the ring of finality about it. I think Ill have him in court after we dispose of Mr Maynard. I may yet grant his wish of incarceration, although Im afraid it will have to be on British shores. Is there evidence of any threats?

Prosecution counsel carefully considered his response. Theres the opinions of the senior officer and the rest of his team, for what theyre worth, but nothing that we can use in a court of law. In all the circumstances, and with the greatest of reluctance, the Crown is left with no option but to offer no evidence and ask the court to enter verdicts of not guilty on the two counts of blackmail and threats to kill. Put simply, without Mr Churchmans live evidence, we have no case.

Quite right too. Outrageous allegations, mumbled Robert Maynard from the dock, whilst winking at his peroxide-blonde wife and his son in the public gallery. Not a word of truth in them.

A good deal more than one word, I would venture to suggest, Mr Maynard, commented the judge wryly. After an uncomfortable silence, proceedings were brought to an end. Very well. Mr Maynard, youre free to go let us all pray you never return.

Amen, came from the nodding head of Maynard as he fled from the dock.

Amen, indeed, echoed the judge.

* * *

Here he comes. Maynards wife and son were standing outside the main door of the Bailey as he walked out, arms aloft.

The podgy barrister made his move. Pulling off the pink ribbon from his brief, he grabbed a Webley revolver hidden within and, taking three steps forward, fired at point-blank range at the ample stomach of his target. The barrister then removed his wig before firing again, this time at the heart of his defenceless victim, slumped and bleeding at his feet.

You! croaked Maynard, eyes wide open, mouth agape a flash of recognition passing across his face. It was to be the last word he would ever utter.

There were high-pitched, terrified screams from Maynards wife which, together with the gunfire, caused a small crowd to gather. The barrister made no attempt to escape. Instead, he placed the gun in his jacket pocket and removed a packet of cigarettes. With a shaking hand, he lit one and pulled deeply, his eyes darting between the faces of the horrified onlookers.

It was only the second cigarette hed smoked in over twenty years.

1951

It poured in London the night he was born. The heavens opened up with thunder and lightning to welcome him. The nurses reassured his mum this was a good omen, and that her son would make his mark in life. He was a huge baby, 10lbs 4oz. His mum had been worried as he hardly cried on birth, but the nurses comforted her that this was another good sign and that he would grow up to be big and strong.

But will he be kind and gentle? she asked.

With a mother as soft as you what else could he be? was the reply.

* * *

O n a sunny spring afternoon in London there are few more pleasant pastures to take a leisurely stroll than Kenwood and Hampstead Heath.

Jack Davenport known to friend and foe alike as Big Jake had been a frequenter there for years, invariably with Ernie (his right-hand man) and his G Men (Greaves and Gilzean), two Labradors named after his Spurs heroes. This week was no exception. A Friday afternoon amble, a drink or two at the Wells Tavern, where his dogs could roam around at will, annoying all and sundry, before a lazy short drive to Camden, where he bought his weekly food supplies. Well, not exactly bought