Walker felt the tension in his body ease a fraction. Fletcher was OK. He might even be prepared to take a few risks, stick his neck out. He looked at Griffith, whose mouth was slightly open, ready to pounce with another interjection. But Fletcher was having none of it. He held up his hand.

  ‘The forensic evidence can place the child in Michael Dunn’s flat all right. But its value is reduced by the fact that Dunn doesn’t deny she visited the flat at other times. That’s a card in the defence’s hand. But – a major card in ours is that he didn’t say so in his first interview. According to the transcript, let’s see . . . Yes, Dunn didn’t reply when asked if he knew her, then said he didn’t know whether he did or not.’

  Griffith got in as Fletcher paused for breath. ‘Of course, a fortiori, the doll proves that she was, in fact—’

  But Fletcher shut him firmly down. ‘Yes, first he lied about where he found it, then became agitated and admitted the lie in his second statement. But his solicitor had got it all tuned up and running sweetly the second time out, hadn’t she?’

  ‘What about the Gillinghams?’ asked Walker.

  ‘Mmm, well, it’s difficult. This evidence is of indecent assault on two girls thirteen years ago, never reported and it’s only hearsay in the form we have it at the moment, the mother’s statement – unless you have a development there?’

  ‘The young women are being interviewed now.’ Walker hoped to God it was true. The Gillinghams had been giving them the runaround for weeks.

  Fletcher nodded. ‘Good.’

  ‘Well, look,’ Griffith put in, ‘can I ask you for an overall view at this stage, Mr Fletcher?’

  Fletcher raised his large frame slightly from the seat and then resettled himself comfortably. ‘Yes, all right. The forensic evidence may not be direct, Mr Griffith, but the cumulative weight of the evidence is strong. I think it’ll get past half-time all right.’

  *

  Derek Waugh discovered the committal bundle on Belinda’s desk during her lunch hour. It had been delivered in her absence by the CPS. When she came in, she found the senior partner sitting on the side of her desk leafing as if casually through Mallory’s forensic reports.

  ‘Is that the committal bundle?’ she asked. She was miffed that Waugh was wrapped round the prosecution’s case before she’d even had a chance to read it. Bloody cheek.

  ‘Yes, you don’t mind? I’ve had a look through. I understand you’ve been having some discussions about getting Dunn’s case dismissed at committal.’

  He didn’t like the idea – Belinda could hear it in his voice. What was the bloody man playing at?

  ‘That’s right, Derek,’ she said icily. ‘I think we could argue that there’s no case to answer.’

  Waugh turned a page of Mallory’s findings and read a paragraph or two before answering.

  ‘Mmm. But all they’ve got to do at committal is show there is a case to answer. And I think they’ll succeed. You won’t get it thrown out – and you will have very helpfully alerted the Crown to the weak points of their case.’

  ‘But if we put a bit of effort into the committal, we might—’

  ‘Work smarter, Belinda. Not harder.’ He wafted the air with his hand. ‘Let it go through. We don’t contest anything.’

  He wants the trial, thought Belinda. He doesn’t give a shit about the outcome. He just wants the glory of an Old Bailey appearance. How pathetic. But then, a little bit of her wanted that too – quite a lot of her, if she was honest.

  ‘Who’s prosecuting?’ She couldn’t help letting her interest show.

  Waugh smiled in a sickly way. ‘Looks like Willis Fletcher. He’s only cruiser-class as regards my personal naval estimates. Robert Rylands is in a different league.’

  ‘Have we got Rylands then?’

  By a few thin millimetres, Waugh’s smile widened. ‘He can’t commit till we’ve got a trial date. But my informants tell me he’s very interested.’

  *

  Pat North had driven down to the Gillinghams’ home in Kent with a single image in her mind. As she was getting ready to leave, the Incident Room fax had started spewing and Meg Richards had ripped it.

  ‘What is it?’ Pat asked while putting on her coat.

  ‘One of Anita’s catalogue shopping accounts. Julie’s anorak came from here.’

  Richards was frowning as she ran through the rows of figures. North looked over her shoulder and found the coat’s purchase date.

  ‘Twenty-second of August. That’s two weeks before the murder – too long. No good to us.’

  ‘Yes, but, oh, God, look at this, Pat,’ said Richards, running her finger under a payment made only the previous week. ‘That little girl’s been dead over a month, and they’re still paying for her anorak.’

  *

  The Gillinghams lived in a tidy piece of Tudabethan suburbia, a place of black-and-white half-timbering and trim evergreen hedges. The hum of garden vacuum machines sucking away the fallen leaves could be heard as she threaded her way through the Acorn Drives and Beech Avenues looking for the address. There was money here but, more important, there was respectability, a way of life that regarded itself as traditional, a sense of self-belief.

  Mrs Gillingham opened the door and took her into the living room. North asked to see the sisters separately and it was Madeleine, the elder, who was offered up first. At twenty, she was a slim, fair girl in a print dress. Her manner was tentative and nervous.

  ‘I know this is difficult for you, Madeleine,’ North began, ‘but we need to know about Michael Dunn. Can you tell me what happened when you were seven and he was living here?’

  ‘What happened?’ Madeleine’s voice was trembly and soft, almost a whisper. ‘Yes, I’ll tell you. He frightened me. He used to touch me, you know . . .’

  The voice trailed away. Pat gave it ten seconds before she prompted.

  ‘Touch you? How do you mean? In a sexual way?’

  Madeleine thought for a moment, then swallowed. She closed her eyes and clenched her fists together in her lap. ‘Yes. Yes, that’s what I mean. He touched me in a sexual way. And I didn’t like it.’

  By the time she had finished her story she was crying. The mother came in, all concern, and stood at the door while Catherine, the younger sister, pushed past into the room.

  ‘Thank you, Madeleine,’ said North. ‘Thanks very much. You can go now.’

  She smiled at the other girl. ‘You must be Catherine?’

  Catherine sat down. She was wearing denim Levi’s and an open-necked shirt. Her manner and movements were not like her sister’s – they were decisive and confident.

  ‘Would you like me to stay, dear?’ asked her mother.

  ‘No thanks. I’m perfectly capable of handling this, Mother.’

  Mrs Gillingham followed Madeleine out and shut the door.

  ‘Can you tell me about Michael Dunn, Catherine? And what happened?’

  Catherine lay back in the plump cushions of the comfortably upholstered armchair. ‘I think it’s been blown out of all proportion.’

  ‘Oh? How do you mean?’

  ‘With Michael. It was just affection, you know? I was never scared of him. He was so funny, always playing games.’

  ‘Games?’ asked North. ‘What games, Catherine?’

  The girl was completely still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, remembering. Then suddenly, she sat up, leaned forward and put her hand up to conceal her eyes for a moment, then jerked it away. ‘Hide-and-seek!’ she said.

  CHAPTER 17

  WEDNESDAY 16 OCTOBER. 8.30 A.M.

  MICHAEL DUNN was duly committed for trial and, talking to her client on the phone, Belinda sensed his heavy depression, close to some crisis. The rope found in his bin was a grave problem and she went to the Scrubs specially to discuss it.

  ‘I never put any rope in the bin, or anywhere else,’ Dunn moaned. ‘It wasn’t in my flat, not before I left it, I’m telling you.’

  ‘There’s no doubt in your mind – maybe one of your friends brought it in?’

  ‘I never saw it or touched it.’ He sprang to his feet and walked in an odd, jerky manner around the room.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Calm down.’

  Dunn came back to the table. ‘I’m sorry, but one minute you’re telling me my case is going to be dismissed and the next I’m going up for one hearing after another and now the police are planting stuff on me. That rope in my bin? I never had a rope in the bin.’

  ‘You are to stand trial, Michael.’

  He put his face in his hands, shaking his head.

  ‘Do you know Ann Taylor?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I know her,’ Dunn snapped. ‘I did some work for her too. I’ve said this before.’

  ‘I know, Michael. Just be patient. Go on.’

  Dunn sighed. ‘She paid me to do a few odd jobs. That’s it.’ He was slowly moving his head from side to side.

  ‘Just how well did you know her, Michael? . . . Michael!’

  Dunn traced the edge of the table with his finger. He frowned. ‘She wouldn’t like this to get out. It just happened, see?’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was clearing stuff out of her mother’s bedroom. She’d died, you see, and Ann was . . . she was very upset. We had a few drinks. She was crying. I put my arms around her and . . . it just led to us being, you know . . .’

  Belinda had to stop herself from gasping. She was having a hard time grasping this. She said, very slowly, ‘You had a sexual relationship with Ann Taylor?’

  He nodded. ‘I promised I’d never tell anyone.’

  Belinda’s head cleared. What were the implications of this? Probably nothing. Ann Taylor had undoubtedly kept quiet about it and they would too.

  As she left him, she said, ‘We’ve got Robert Rylands for your defence.’

  ‘He’s good, is he?’ asked Dunn.

  She had smiled broadly at the understatement. ‘Very good, Michael. In fact, he’s the best. And I’m bringing him to see you in two weeks’ time.’

  *

  THURSDAY 31 OCTOBER. 4 P.M.

  In thirty years at the bar, Robert Rylands QC had made a considerable name as an anti-establishment barrister of principle, but these days he rarely had time to think deeply about right and wrong. Years ago he’d formulated a personal code that he applied to his practice with a degree of pragmatic flexibility. He wouldn’t defend capitalists accused of fraud (he hated big fraud trials anyway: they were ‘quagmires’). He would only represent celebrities in libel if he thought they’d been targeted by the puritan establishment. He’d steer clear of organised gangsters and drug cartels – at least, he wouldn’t appear for them in open court. (Written opinions, outside the public domain, were perhaps another matter.)

  What Rylands liked, and thrived on, were cases involving the little man – legal aid cases, miscarriage of justice appeals, frame-ups. He enjoyed standing up for lone defendants, the weak, the deprived, anyone easily crushed by the juggernaut of the law. Cynics said that, for a man of Rylands’s skill, such briefs were the perfect vehicle. If he won, his reputation soared; if he lost, few found the issue serious enough for comment. These days Rylands rarely lost a case he could have won, but nor did a loss cause him to lose sleep. He could turn in a stunning emotional act in court, but no case ever touched his own emotional core.

  He had read the solicitor’s summary of the Michael Dunn case, and he’d talked about it to young Sampara. Child murder as such had obvious drawbacks for Rylands, in particular the public’s revulsion. Some of it could always rub off on the accused man’s barrister. On the other hand, it did sound as if the CPS and police were in a bit of bother over Dunn. A pathetic drunk with no serious form, he looked an all-too-easy collar. Rylands decided to take the case. He smelled a scapegoat.

  Today, a fortnight after Dunn had been committed for trial, the instructing solicitor, Miss Sinclair, was taking Rylands to a conference. So he’d got up early in the morning to read the brief. Now, with the papers in his hand, he wandered into the room that he shared with Willis Fletcher, finding the prosecutor at his wide mahogany desk hunched over Halsey.

  ‘Are you prosecuting me for this little girl in the pipe?’

  Fletcher straightened up. ‘I have that honour.’

  ‘Pleasant family party then.’

  Rylands eased the door shut with his heel and strolled across to the mantelpiece. He leaned against it, studying the grim police photographs of Julie Ann Harris’s body. He flashed them at Fletcher.

  ‘Do you see any particular need for these to go in? There’s nothing to see that isn’t in the pathologist’s report.’

  Fletcher had returned to his research and was running his finger along a line of closely printed text. ‘No, I suppose there isn’t.’

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s any question of keeping the mother out of things, too?’

  Fletcher’s finger stopped moving across the page. What was Robert up to? With his thoughts full of an entirely different case, he had to think for a moment to recall Anita Harris’s testimony. Then he shook his head.

  ‘Absolutely not, Robert. Unless you’re prepared to admit the daughter left the doll in your flat.’

  Rylands smiled. ‘There’s no question of agreeing the doll. In fact, I’ll be objecting to the identification. The woman was distressed, emotional. They dumped it down in front of her first thing in the morning – it’s like a leading question to my mind.’

  Fletcher sighed. ‘All right, I won’t open it.’

  ‘And the Gillingham girls – they’re no good to you either, Will.’

  Fletcher took off his half-moon glasses and looked warningly at his colleague, who was grinning at him wolfishly. ‘Now look, Robert—’

  ‘One says he touched her, the other – and younger – thinks it was good clean fun. The facts aren’t similar enough, so you won’t get it in on that count, will you?’

  Fletcher closed Halsey with a sound like a distant explosion. ‘So be it. Let’s talk about you. You’ve got a drink problem, haven’t you?’

  Rylands smiled, motioning with the brief. ‘Apparently.’

  ‘There’s no question of a sudden medical expert popping up to say you did it all in a daze?’

  Rylands shook his head. ‘No, absolutely not. I’m temperance now and I remember everything. I am quite certain I was having a long talk with my friend—’

  There was a rap on the heavy oak door and it opened. A secretary showed Belinda Sinclair inside. Rylands instantly changed his demeanour, stepping forward with a hand extended. ‘Ah! You must be Belinda Sinclair. I’m Robert Rylands. It’s very nice to put a face to the name.’

  They shook hands and Rylands indicated Fletcher. ‘You’ve caught me fraternising with the enemy. Do you know Willis Fletcher?’

  Fletcher rose and Belinda shook his rather fleshier hand in turn. She was surprised.

  ‘I didn’t know you two actually shared a room here.’

  Rylands laughed. He looked the sumptuous Miss Sinclair up and down.

  Fletcher said, ‘Oh, we huddle together for warmth, you know . . .’ He picked up Halsey and replaced it on the shelf. ‘Need the room? I can clear off now, Robert.’

  ‘Don’t bother. We’re going.’ He flashed a look at an expensive watch. ‘We are taking tea with Mr Dunn.’

  *

  The wind gusted, making their unbuttoned coats fly as they waited for a taxi. Unsure whether it was the appropriate question, Belinda asked Rylands what he thought about their prospects, about the brief.

  ‘Crown’s on shaky ground with the doll.’

  ‘Well, the mother’s identified it very firmly, hasn’t she?’

  ‘I know. But it might be worth seeing if she can do so again.’

  Belinda looked at him, puzzled. ‘I’m sorry? I don’t get it.’

  Rylands showed no irritation. ‘I feel that the dolly may have to appear in an identity parade all of her own. Can you get me a few similar dolls?’

  Belinda nodded, smiling. ‘I’ll have a look in my toy cupboard.’

  ‘Taxi!’ shouted Rylands, jerking out his arm.

  They settled into the back seat of the taxi.

  ‘Wormwood Scrubs prison,’ called Rylands, snapping open his briefcase.

  ‘I have to say,’ he went on, after he had perused some of the statements. ‘I am a little concerned about the length of washing line in Dunn’s rubbish bin. Has he anything to say about it?’

  ‘Has he? When I saw him after committal, he got very exercised about that. Vehemently denied it had anything to do with him.’

  ‘All right – but the washing line used on the child was from this Miss Taylor’s garden – am I right?’

  Belinda nodded.

  ‘And also, we know that Dunn knew Miss Taylor. But more than that, he knew her intimately, he had been in her house, in short, he had slept with her.’

  ‘Well, actually, the way he tells it, it’s quite a sweet story . . .’

  Rylands looked out of the window – the Strand, Charing Cross, Trafalgar Square, the Mall – as she told him Dunn’s version of his relationship with Miss Taylor. The barrister wasn’t particularly impressed.

  ‘Fletcher won’t touch any of that, even if she’s admitted it. Just – did she know him? – had he been in her house? – did he know there was a washing line?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Belinda. ‘And that reminds me. There’s something else you should know about it.’

  ‘What? The washing line?’

  ‘Yes. He didn’t just know she had it, you see. He actually put it up for her.’

  Rylands rubbed his chin. ‘Hmm. Does he maintain they parted as friends?’

  ‘He says their relationship ended on good terms, yes.’

  ‘Did he? That’s at variance with what she says. We’d better clear one or two of these things up, hadn’t we?’

  *

  Dunn had been given a jam doughnut with his tea – a perk for the occasion of a QC’s visit. He hadn’t had anything like it for more than a month and he was putting off the moment when he would bite into it, tormenting himself a little. Meanwhile he listened to Mr Rylands, nodding. Nice guy, Mr Rylands, for a toff . . .