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The Old Bailey with Britain's last court reporters
The long read: The cases heard at the Old Bailey offer a vivid, often grim portrait of England and Wales today. What happens when there is no one left to tell these stories?
In corners lie objects that look as if they were unthinkingly put down decades ago and never moved again: a stack of museum-worthy beige laptops; a row of abandoned shoes; two stepladders, both bearing the inscription: “This belongs in press room so FUCK OFF.” To one side, a blue pinboard displays cuttings from a remote tabloid heyday when a different kind of story made the papers: “Wife Burned to Death By a Pan Of Spuds”; “Christian Soccer Thug Preys on Ref”; “Blackmail Victim’s ‘Sweets Up Bum’ Torture”. On seeing Toyn, the barrister ran back into court and re-emerged with a taped-up box, marked “Evidence”, which contained a 2ft-long knife that looked so unreal in its design – blood-red, with baroque, curling, lethal edges – that it resembled a theatrical prop more than a murder weapon. Watching Toyn explain himself to the judge with all the formality the court demands, the “M’ladys” and little bows, the acts of grovelling that he somehow performs with both deference and irony, I’d imagined a volley of “Fuck offs” passing through his mind.
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