Laura and Mahmood

 Cardiff, 3rd September 1952

Rain was falling, slowly but steadily, not too heavy, but enough to keep most people indoors if they could help it. But Laura Mattan was not concerned by this: in her blue raincoat and headscarf, she made her way across the streets towards her destination: Cardiff Prison. For that was where he was, her husband, Mahmood, watched over all day and night, only allowed to leave his cell once a day for an hour of exercise, fed on the meanest of diets. She shuddered when she thought of it: what a horrible existence. But, she thought, he would soon be cheered when he saw her.

But when she reached the prison gate, she froze. There was a notice pinned there, and it read: "Today at 9 am Judgement of Death was executed on Mahmood Hussein Mattan for the murder of Lily Volpert. The execution was carried out expeditiously and without a hitch."

For a moment Laura stared in horror at the notice, struggling to take in what it said. Then she cried out:

"No! No! No! It can't be!"

She began to cry. Poor Mahmood, dragged to the gallows and killed in so awful a fashion, and for something he didn't do. She sobbed even louder as she recalled that she would never see him again, they would never embrace again, he would never see David, Omar and Eddie grow up. Sadness mixed with anger as she felt the cruel injustice of it all. She remembered Mahmood's barrister, Thomas Rhys-Roberts, addressing the jury.

"You have to ask yourself this question when you saw him: 'What is he? Half, child of nature; half, semi-civilised savage?' ".

Her Mahmood, a semi-civilised savage? She was furious now. This brave, intrepid man, who had left his home in British Somaliland to join the Merchant Navy? The man who had made a new life for himself in Tiger Bay? This kind, generous man who had loved her and their sons?

Then that was that lying Jamaican, Harold Cover, who had told the court he had seen Mahmood walking away from the shop about that time that poor Miss Volpert had been killed. Impossible! Mahmood could not have done it, she knew that. Cover had lied, she knew it, and one day everyone else would realise it as well.

Still weeping, she bowed her head as she recalled the black cap being placed on the head of Mr. Justice Ormerod, before he pronounced the dreadful words:

"Mahmood Hussein Mattan, the sentence of the court upon you is that you be taken from this place to a lawful prison, and thence to a place of execution, and there suffer death from hanging, and that your body be interred within the precincts of the prison in which you were last confined before your execution, and may the Lord have mercy on your soul."

Mahmood, she remembered, had stood facing the judge as sentence was passed, showing no emotion. How brave he had been, how calm, how dignified.

Then she remembered seeing Mahmood in prison, just two days ago. He had then said:

"If these people in here kill me, you leave me in here until you find the man that did kill that woman."

She also remembered them laughing, and how they had held each other tightly. How warm, how soothing that had felt.

"Don't worry", Mahmood had then said. "I'll be with you soon. They won't kill me."

She cried even harder on recalling this. Then she remembered how they had met: Mahmood had stopped her in the street one day, saying, "I think you nice girl". She had been rather flattered by this, and smiled at him, and he had then invited her to go to the cinema with him. She had hesitated, knowing that her family would not have wanted her to date a black man, but she had agreed to it in the end. She also remembered the hostility they had faced, the buckets of water doused over her, the shouts of "black man's whore", and "you've brought shame on us all", and how in the end they had had to separate. Yet Mahmood had never seemed to understand this, it had never occurred to him that there were people who hated him for the colour of his skin. That was why, she thought, that was why the police had been able to build a case against him, because he was black.

Next thing she knew, she felt two strong but gentle hands around either side of her body. She briefly wondered if she might be in Heaven, with Mahmood, but then she heard the voice of her mother, Elizabeth Williams:

"Laura, are you OK?"

Suddenly she realised she was now lying face down: she must have collapsed from all her crying.

"They killed him, Mam, they killed him . . .", she said, breathing through heavy sobs.

Laura found herself being lifted off the ground and stood up, facing her mother. Elizabeth glanced at the prison gates, and having seen the notice of execution, turned back to face Laura.

"Well", she said, "I'm afraid there's nothing you can do about it now, and, who knows, maybe one day you'll find a better man."

Laura gave her mother a blank stare.

"But he was innocent, and they killed him", she pleaded.

"He might still be alive if he'd agreed with what I said in the trial", Elizabeth replied.

Laura didn't answer. She remembered how Elizabeth had testified that Mahmood had called at their house just after eight o'clock in the evening on the fateful day, just 10 to 15 minutes before the murder - a virtually cast-iron alibi - but Mahmood had denied this, insisting that he had visited some 20 minutes earlier than this.

"I think it's time to come home now", said Elizabeth. She put her arm around Laura, who did not resist. Rather awkwardly, Elizabeth supported her daughter, who was shaking violently, until they arrived at 8 Davis Street. Once inside the house, Laura broke free of her mother, and made her way to the room where she and the boys slept, locked the door and once again gave free vent to her emotions.

Four-year-old David popped his head out from under his blanket.

"What's happened, Mam?", he asked.

"It's . . . your Dad", sobbed Laura. "He's dead."

"Dead?", exclaimed David. Omar and Eddie, who had been having a play fight in the corner, immediately stopped and looked at their mother.

"Drowned. Lost at sea", said Laura, before once again giving in to her tears. The three boys all ran to her, and she held them tight as, if anything, her crying became even louder.

And so it went on, for weeks and weeks afterwards. In the end, Laura ached so badly from crying, that she had to be taken to hospital. After she was discharged, she desperately hoped that someone, anyone, would show some kindness to her and her boys, but instead people crossed the street when they saw her coming, or would point at her saying "There's the wife of a woman killer", or would shout "killer's wife" or "you married a murderer" at her, and when she insisted that there was no way Mahmood could possibly have done it, they would laugh and sneer at her. She would go into shops, waiting in the queue, but when it was her turn to be served, the assistant would instead serve the next person, pretending she wasn't there.

Ely, mid-1950s

The glass shattered with a piercing, ominous noise. Laura looked up, terrified: there were shards of glass all over the living room, and a large brick in the middle of the floor. The three boys ran to the corner of the room. More bricks, and some tins, flew through the newly formed gap in the window. She could hear shouts of "Out! Get out of our street!": she looked up, and saw a large crowd outside the house. She heard a noise at the door and ran to the porch to investigate: someone seemed to kicking it. She bowed her head: about a year after Mahmood's death, she had moved to Ely, hoping for a fresh start, but that nasty gossip Hilda had spilt the beans, and the abuse and the threats had started all over again.

"Mammy".

She looked up: David, quivering with fear, had made his way to the porch.

"Yes, darling", she said.

"Why are they doing these things to us?"

"It's . . ." she began, and then stopped. What could she tell him?

"Is it about Daddy?", he asked.

"No", she said hastily.

David stared at her.

"Then why . . . ?"

"It's nothing", said Laura. "Please just . . . let's get back in the living room shall we." She spoke in a firm voice that brooked no argument. David looked at her again for a moment, but then obeyed. Laura followed him slowly, wondering when it might be right to tell the truth.

The following day, Laura went to the local police station to call on Detective Chief Inspector Harry Power, telling him about what had happened the previous night.

"So, Mrs. Mattan, if I understand you correctly", said Power, "you believe the crowd were angry about your husband." He had his feet up on the desk.

"Yes, sir", said Laura, "and I would like you to do something about it."

"But you see, Mrs. Mattan", said Power, "your husband committed a truly horrific crime against an innocent woman, that's why these people are angry with you. You do realise that, don't you?"

"Mahmood was innocent", said Laura, a little more stiffly than she had intended.

Power threw his head back.

"I admire your devotion, Mrs. Mattan", he said, "but I'm afraid you're in denial. I led the investigation, I gathered all the evidence, your husband was convicted on overwhelming evidence."

"He was convicted on the word of a liar", said Laura forthrightly.

"So you say, Mrs. Mattan, but I interviewed Harold Cover, I found him to be truthful, and so did the jury."

Laura sat expressionless on her chair.

"So", Power continued, "may I make a suggestion to you, that you change your family name. I mean, even among Somalis, the name Mattan isn't exactly common, everyone knows that you're the family of the hanged man. Choose something different, like Davies or Jones . . ."

"Mahmood was innocent." Laura stood up, firmly enunciating each syllable. "I knew him, he couldn't possible have done a thing like this."

"But think of your children, Mrs. Mattan, how much easier their lives would be . . ."

"My children will be told that Mahmood was innocent", said Laura, her voice now shaking. "They will be proud to carry the name of a good man who never murdered anybody."

"But he let you down, he was a murderer who left you and your children bereaved . . ."

"He was a good man". Laura was shouting now. "I loved him, and I still love him, and I will not betray him."

She stormed out of the office: she thought she could hear Power muttering something like "such a foolish woman".

Ely, 1957

Music. Sweet music. It was a Sunday evening, and, as Omar knew well, a Salvation Army band played on the corner of the street every week. He decided to go outside and listen: it would make a nice change from life in the school playground, where he and his brothers were always bullied, and where no one ever wanted to be friends with them. Omar and the other two would often ask their mother why they were so hated, but she would never answer. It was quite maddening, to be treated so badly, and have a mother who seemed to know why, but would never tell you. But, anyway, Omar thought, as he gently prised open the door and cautiously made his way up the street, he could forget about that for now, and just enjoy listening to some music

Omar carefully sidestepped all of the other children walking in the same direction, and eventually took up a position just a couple of feet away from the musicians: the perfect spot, as far as he was concerned. But, almost immediately, he felt a cold, hard slap against his cheek. The eight-year-old boy staggered back, confused, and looked up into the face of the trombonist, who said to him:

"We don't want any murderer's children here."

Daddy a murderer? Omar did not know what to say. He ran back to the house, through the still-open door into the living room.

Laura looked at him severely. "Where have you been?", she asked.

"Outside. To see the band", said Omar breathlessly. "I went up to them, but one of them slapped me, and said they didn't want any murderer's children. Was Daddy a murderer, Mammy?"

"No", said Laura immediately.

"Then why are the other children at school always mean to us?", asked David.

Laura didn't answer.

"Please tell us what happened to Daddy", pleaded Eddie. He looked at his mother imploringly.

Laura sighed.

"Your Daddy was hung for murder", she said, very slowly, as though this somehow made it easier. "But he didn't do it", she added.

"Then why didn't you tell us? Why did you lie to us?", asked Omar, a note of anger in his voice.

"It's because, well you were very young", said Laura gently. "I wanted to protect you."

"But that didn't happen", David pointed out. "Instead we've had all these people being horrible to us, and we didn't know why."

"It's always better to tell the truth", opined Eddie.

Laura buried her head in her hands. Eventually, she raised her head and spoke:

"I'm sorry, I just thought it was for the best."

None of the boys answered.

Cardiff Prison, 1968

"Mattan, is it?", laughed the prison officer. "Well, well, well, it runs in the family, so it seems."

"But at least you'll get out alive", smirked another prison officer. "Unlike your dear father."

Both men lapsed into guffaws. Omar didn't answer. Though inwardly seething, he stared impassively at the two prison officers until they finished laughing.

"Well", said the first officer, "I think it's time to show you your new home. Come along now, don't hang around."

"We're going to show you the ropes", said the second officer.

The two of them marched Omar down the corridor.

"I must say, you're coming much quieter than your father did", remarked the first officer. "I heard they really had to wrestle to get him to the gallows."

"Yeah", said the second officer, "and when the noose was placed around his neck he fell to his knees simpering like a woman. Note a good role model, I say."

"And didn't he also pray to a false god?", added the first officer.

"Quite so", said the second officer. "That must be why he was a murderer, these Mohammedans obviously don't believe in the Ten Commandments."

Omar did his best to remain silent. Once we get to the cell it'll be OK, he thought, then they'll leave.

"But, anyway", said the first officer grandly. "Here we are. Welcome, Mattan, to your humble abode."

The three of them entered the cell. Before Omar could begin to take in the surroundings, the first officer marched over to the bed and announced:

"Look at this, Mattan."

Omar looked at where he was pointing: a noose had been placed on the bed. The two officers burst out laughing once again. Omar lunged at them, but they dodged him with ease and carried on laughing.

"And another thing", choked the second officer, "the exercise yard" - he pointed through the cell window - "is built on top of your dear father's grave. I'm sure you will like to get reacquainted."

The two of them were now laughing so hard, they were almost doubled up. Omar felt the urge to attack them, but before he could act, the first officer remarked.

"Oh by the way, it's completely slipped my mind, but your brother is in here as well."

"Yes", said the second officer, "three Mattans in this establishment, two alive and the other dead."

They laughed again, and they seized Omar and hustled him along to another cell. They pointed, Omar looked inside, and there, sitting on the bed, trying to pretend that nothing was happening, was Eddie.

"See what we've done", said the first officer. He pointed: Omar saw that someone had drawn hangman on the inside of the door. He lunged again, but his targets once more easily evaded him.

"Well, well", said the second officer, "see how violent all these Mattans are. We're best not hanging around."

He and his colleague walked away, still laughing.

A fuming Omar tentatively entered Eddie's cell.

"I see you've met the two jokers", said Eddie bitterly.

"Yes", said the angry Omar: he told Eddie everything that they had done to him. Eddie sighed.

"I've had it even worse."

"Worse?", asked Omar.

"Yes", said Eddie. "When I came to this cell, they told me it was same one Dad was in, before they hanged him. I don't know if they're telling the truth or . . . but anyway, there's been much worse than this. They took me to the punishment bloc, kept me there far longer I should have been, hosed me down with ice-cold water, them soaked me and left me there for three days."

"What?", exclaimed Omar.

"There's more", said Eddie. "They took my bed out of the cell, forced me to take some drugs, and put some horrible things in my food. I only got out of there when the other prisoners held a protest for me."

"The rotten bastards!", shouted Omar.

"Yes", said Eddie, "but don't get too angry, don't give them an excuse to do horrible things to you as well."

"They've already done plenty of horrible things", replied Omar. "Apart from everything else, they told me the exercise yard is built on Dad's grave."

Eddie's jaw dropped.

"So I'm never going there", Omar finished.

"Good for you", answered Eddie. "And", he added, "maybe if we can stick together, it might not be too bad in here."

Western Cemetery, Cardiff, 20th September 1996

It wasn't what she would have wanted, but it was better than nothing. Those were Laura's thoughts as she watched the dirty blue Transit van pull into the Muslim section of the cemetery. Mahmood's body was inside, housed in a cheap plywood coffin. She remembered how two years earlier, she had been allowed into Cardiff Prison after Philip, Mahmood's stepson, had written a letter to the South Wales Echo. Things had moved pretty quickly since then: the Echo had published a story about Mahmood's case, solicitors Bernard and Lynne de Maid had begun an investigation, and Laura had been allowed into Cardiff Prison, accompanied by Philip, to lay a wreath on Mahmood's grave. She had also been able to have the body dug up so Mahmood could be given a decent burial. She had been pleased with this, though shocked to see that Mahmood's neck was longer than she had remembered, and that there was bruising on it: no doubt caused by the hanging rope. The Home Office had insisted that they would not pay for the funeral of a man they called a murderer: the family had had to pay themselves, at a cost of £1400. All around were TV cameras: the family had requested these to help with their campaign to clear Mahmood's name.

The van came to a halt, the back doors were opened, and Laura's sons stepped forward to lift the coffin out. No sooner had they hoisted the plywood box onto their shoulders than a voice rang out:

"Stop!"

Everyone looked round. A man, who had not been invited to the funeral, was waving his arms.

"Stop!" He said again. "There are no TV cameras allowed."

"Who are you?", shouted Omar: he and the other pallbearers had to look over their shoulders to see.

"I'm a trainee bereavement counsellor from Cardiff City Council", replied the stranger. "I repeat, the cameras must be removed forthwith."

"But we wanted them here, sir", said Laura, trying her hardest to be respectful. "For our campaign."

"The Council does not exist to help with campaigns", said the stranger. "We are there to enforce the rules, and the rules state that TV cameras are not allowed at funerals."

"Why, you . . .", began Omar, but Eddie whispered in his ear, "Leave it, Omar, he's not going to change his mind." Omar glared at his brother, but did not retort.

"I'm afraid there's nothing for it", sighed David, turning the face the photographers. "I'm sorry about this, but you'll have to leave, you heard what the man said. I'm sorry about all this."

The photographers slowly filed out of the cemetery. The stranger kept his eyes fixed on them as they did so: it was plain that he would not allow the funeral to resume until they were out of sight. When they had gone, he gave a curt nod and strode away.

Laura tried to appear calm, but inside she was boiling. How dare he interrupt Mahmood's funeral? First Mahmood had been killed by the state, then the bricks through the window, and now this. Would there never be dignity for the family?

Mahmood's coffin was lowered into the grave and then covered with earth. It should have been a solemn, respectful occasion, but instead there were angry faces all around, and a brittle atmosphere: it felt like there had been a family argument.

Court of Appeal, London, 24th February 1998

Laura struggled up the steps of the impressive classical building in her walking stick. Getting around always seemed to be an effort these days. She was feeling nervous: Mahmood's conviction had been referred to the Court of Appeal by the newly formed Criminal Cases Review Commission. Would it all finally come right, or would the family suffer yet another indignity? She had had a cup of coffee and a cigarette that morning, but was still shaking as she walked through the door. Her three sons were there, as well as Lynette, Eddie's partner, and Philippa Cherrison, the South Wales Echo journalist whose article four years ago had led to this day. Her companions offered to support Laura to walk, but she declined their offers. Inside, they were met the family's barrister, Michael Mansfield QC. He smiled when he saw them.

"Are you ready?", he asked.

"Definitely", said Omar forthrightly. The others nodded.

"OK, then", said Mansfield, "We're about to go into the courtroom now, if there are any problems, just let me know."

The family filed into the courtroom and found a row of seats near the back.

"All rise!"

No sooner had they all sat than they had to stand up again: the three judges had just come in.

Once everybody had taken their seats for the second time, the judge in the middle spoke:

"We are gathered here today to hear the appeal in the case of Regina v Mahmood Hussein Mattan. We have concluded that the conviction of Mattan is unsafe and therefore shall be quashed. The court shall reconvene at two o'clock where we shall give our reasons for our judgement. The court will rise."

And they disappeared almost as suddenly as they had arrived.

Laura looked around, bewildered

"What's happened?", she asked.

Cherrison, sitting next to Laura, leaned over.

"It's happened", she explained, "his conviction's been quashed."

"But . . . but . . ." Laura could hardly get the words out. "I thought we were having . . ."

"No", said Cherrison firmly, "they've read the evidence and that's it, they've said that Mahmood's an innocent man, he shouldn't have been hanged, they've just said it."

Laura sat back in her seat, gasping and shaking her head. Was it all a dream? No, apparently not, it really had happened, Mahmood had been found innocent, his name had been cleared. She looked across at her sons, who were all applauding. She grabbed hold of them, sobbing. She had not cried so much since that awful day 46 years ago, but this was different, these were tears of happiness, of joy, of victory. She had said all along that Mahmood was innocent, and now she had been proved right.

The Mattans walked out of the courtroom, Laura still crying, her sons cheering loudly. Outside, they all began to dance: Laura had never been the most graceful dancer but what did that matter today?

"We did it!", shouted Omar, and then he burst into song, with the others quickly following.

The next few hours went by in a blur, nothing but shouting and and dancing and singing: they didn't stop until they saw Mansfield walking up to them.

"Well you've been having a bit of a party", he beamed. "Looks like you've missed something."

He pointed to the clock on the wall: it was half past two.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Mansfield", mumbled Laura.

"There's no need to be", he replied. "So anyway, the judges have now given their reasons for the overturning of the conviction."

"And what were they?", asked Laura.

"We've discovered a statement from Harold Cover, the chief prosecution witness, to the police, made just days after the murder, in which he names a man called Tahir Gass as the man he saw leaving the scene. That statement was not disclosed at the time of the original trial."

"What do you mean?", asked Laura.

"I mean that it was not shown to the defence. Mahmood's defence didn't know that Cover had named this other man."

Laura's happiness was beginning to fade, and be replaced by anger. So Harold Cover had lied, she had known it all along.

"And what about Mr. Power?", she asked. "The policeman who led the investigation? Did he know about this? That Cover lied?"

"It seems as though he did", said Mansfield gravely.

"The rotten bastard!", exclaimed Omar.

Laura said nothing, but she was furious with Power. She remembered how he had suggested that she change the family name and had told her Mahmood was guilty. She had always known he was wrong, but now it turned out that he had known all along that Mahmood was innocent, and had let him hang. What sort of man would do that? She wondered how he could sleep at night. David and Eddie placed their hands on her shoulders, and whispered to her that she should forget about Power and Cover, and just celebrate. She tried to, but she knew that the feeling of anger and bitterness and injustice would never go away.

"Only one thing so far I am concerned. I am black man, and nobody like my favour, because my life is buy cheap. I am the first man to get hanged for nothing in this country, and I don't think that anybody believe what I say right now, but before long, one time, you do believe it." - Mahmood Hussein Mattan

"My sons and I have not lived, we have simply existed. My sons toughened themselves up to cope. I have never been happy since Mahmood died. I have lived on the breadline all my life. However I have three sons by Mahmood who I love, and I love my grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I have not loved anyone since Mahmood. He was my friend, and the love of my life . . . I cannot emphasise enough the sadness I feel for my husband, whom I understand went to his death with dignity and control, the scenario of which I can only imagine with horror, which incidentally has haunted me all of my life. My simple wish is that I should be reunited with my husband." - Laura Mattan

In February 2001, Mahmood Mattan's family was awarded £725,000 in compensation for his wrongful execution.

In June 2001, Mattan's family erected a headstone over his grave with the inscription, "KILLED BY INJUSTICE".

On 9th March 2003, Omar Mattan was found dead on a beach near Cleardon Havon in the far north of Scotland. A bottle of whisky was found nearby, and the amount of alcohol in his body was over three times the legal driving limit. The coroner recorded an open verdict. His brother Eddie was in no doubt that he had been adversely affected by his father's execution.

Laura Mattan died peacefully on New Year's Day 2008 after a long illness. She was 78 years old.

Eddie Mattan died in 2012, aged 61, and David in 2014, at the age of 65. Both their deaths were attributed to alcohol abuse.

In September 2022, South Wales Police apologised to the Mattan family for the miscarriage of justice, acknowledging that the investigation had been tainted by racism.