‘It’s still that kid you found, isn’t it? It’s bugging you something terrible.’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘It is, Colin, I know you. And you’re not sleeping. Well, if you won’t go and see the doctor, what about that man at work, that Awad? You should go back to him again. Have another try.’

  ‘Don’t want to.’

  ‘He might help, son. You got to do something. You can’t just mope around here.’

  Eventually he seemed to let himself be persuaded to go back to Awad. Privately he knew he would have to face him again anyway, and tell the truth. Today was the last possible day – the trial began this morning. Before it was too late he had to tell someone what he’d done – the thing they would call a perversion.

  *

  Fletcher opened for the Crown and from the first he showed his determination not to spare the jury.

  ‘There are a number of things, members of the jury, which will not be in dispute: that Julie Ann Harris was first strangled into unconsciousness by means of a rope ligated around her neck. That she was sexually assaulted and was then placed – alive – in one of the sewage pipes on a nearby building site. There are some photographs which I would like you to look at in the bundle.’

  The jury turned to their copies of the site where the child’s body had been found.

  ‘As you can see,’ said Fletcher, ‘this is a pipe of narrow diameter and the position in which Julie was placed forced her head down into her knees, restricting her breathing with the result that she died – some time later – of asphyxia or suffocation. There is no doubt, then, that Julie Ann Harris was murdered.’

  Walker had returned to his place before Fletcher got to his feet. Now he glanced at the public gallery – the grandmother was there and one or two of the Howarth Estate residents, dressed up as if for a charabanc trip to Southend. Then he saw the stepfather come in, looking angry and unkempt, his eyes staring. Walker saw him favour Helen with a look of vicious hatred as he found a place in the row behind her.

  ‘Now, members of the jury,’ continued Fletcher, ‘I would like you to view the evidence in this case as you would the pieces of a jigsaw. It may be that one or two of the pieces are missing – that there are some questions that will not be answered or details that will not be filled in. But enough of the overall picture will emerge for you to be certain that the person who murdered Julie Ann Harris in the way I have described is the defendant, Michael Dunn.’

  Now Fletcher’s glance met Dunn’s eyes, which were fixed steadily on him. In Fletcher’s experience, guilty men nearly always looked away first. Innocent men did too, sometimes. But it was a rule of thumb for Fletcher that guilty men never took him on in a courtroom staring duel. Dunn, it seemed, was going to be the exception.

  ‘Michael Dunn did not deny in interview that he liked children – and, on the face of it, of course, there’s nothing wrong with that. Children often visited Dunn’s flat and he says that he used to watch videotapes, of various kinds, with them. He also kept toys there for the children’s use. And he admitted in interview that he knew Julie Ann Harris.’

  Fletcher stopped and drank from his water glass, still maintaining eye contact with the jury over the rim of his glass.

  ‘You will hear evidence,’ he went on, replacing his glass on the desk in front of him, ‘from a neighbour who says she saw a man, whom she later identified as being Michael Dunn, approach Julie in the playground on the fifth of September, the day of her death. The Crown maintains that he took her from there to his flat. You will hear that genetic material of Julie’s, DNA contained in saliva, was recovered from a wrapper and stick of an ice cream bar which was found in Michael Dunn’s kitchen. The Crown says that this is no coincidence.’

  Fletcher remained still for a couple of seconds then brandished his index finger.

  ‘Nor, the Crown says, is it any coincidence that fibres recovered from Michael Dunn’s furniture are consistent with those taken from the clothes Julie was wearing on the fifth of September. You must also consider if it is a coincidence – or something more significant – that the same sample of dog faeces was found on the footwear of both Julie Ann Harris and Michael Dunn, as worn on that same day. You must consider what construction to put on these facts.

  ‘One construction, and the Crown says it is the correct one, is that, on the fifth of September, Julie Ann Harris went out wearing the clothing from which the fibres would later be recovered, and there she trod in some dog mess; that Michael Dunn approached Julie and, in so doing, trod on the same ground. He then took Julie by the hand and led her to his flat, where she was indeed in contact with the furniture and the carpets. It may well be that she was encouraged there with the offer of an ice cream, which she ate, leaving the wrapper and stick to be recovered later by police.

  ‘It is possible that hair from Julie Ann Harris’s head, found on Michael Dunn’s floor, was dislodged during the attack and sexual assault on her. We know that a rope was then used to strangle her until she lost consciousness – and it may not surprise you to learn that this rope, which was found around her neck by the police, was the same as one which Michael Dunn put up as a washing line for a neighbour – and which subsequently disappeared. Finally, on that day, Julie Ann Harris was placed in the sewage pipe in which she died. Her clothing was found discarded in a nearby cellar. Significantly, a length of washing line of an identical type was discovered by the police in Michael Dunn’s bin. The Crown cannot say how it got there, but if you come to the conclusion that Michael Dunn stole that washing line from his neighbour, you must ask yourself why? What did he want with it? What did he have in mind?’

  With a piece of gentle, low-intensity mime, Fletcher held his hands out in front of him, as if lightly grasping some object, and drew them slightly apart.

  ‘Was he experimenting in some way? The rope or line may well suggest to you, as it does to the Crown, that this was not an offence committed on impulse but that it was quite carefully pre-planned.’

  Rylands had listened to Fletcher with his eyes half-closed, his face expressionless. But Belinda was worried. This was a highly confident start by the prosecution. The jury were sitting up in their seats – marking every word, some of them nodding their heads or scribbling notes. By the time Fletcher was ready to call his first witness, Belinda found that her initial confidence was rapidly draining away.

  CHAPTER 23

  TUESDAY 19 NOVEMBER. 10.00 A.M.

  BARRIDGE WAS well aware that some of his colleagues were inclined to deride the Metropolitan Police’s Occupational Health Service, and to scoff equally at those who became its clients. It was known as the Funny Farm or, more succinctly, Barking.

  The idea behind the scheme is to offer counselling to officers traumatised in the course of their duties, either because of what they’ve seen or done in the line of duty or because they have been physically injured and need help in coming to terms with that.

  The staff are professional counsellors, specialists in post-traumatic stress, marriage breakdown, alcohol problems and other hazards of the job. Barridge had no idea where his own counsellor, Awad, was coming from, but he was highly reminiscent of a man who had taught chemistry at Barridge’s comprehensive school. Whenever he sat opposite him, watching him nodding his head, he couldn’t help thinking about potassium sulphide.

  The entrance to Area’s Occupational Health Unit is discreetly placed in a side street – a small anonymous office with total discretion assured. Barridge pushed his way in and approached the reception desk, behind which a young woman with brightly painted nails was talking on the phone.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ she was saying, ‘spent all that money at the hairdresser and all. Shame on him . . . That’s what I say, serve him right. He’ll never know what he missed . . .’

  Barridge was trying to control the shakes. He looked around. Various posters about stress were pinned up.

  *

  Stress avoidance – a checklist of dos and don’ts: DO take plenty of physical exercise such as aerobics. DO set aside a period of time each day for silent relaxation. DON’T rely on alcohol, sex or drugs for relaxation. DON’T privilege your work at the expense of family and friends.

  *

  There was nothing about going swimming with putrefying cats. There was nothing about finding what he’d found.

  ‘Well, look, I got to go now,’ the receptionist was saying into her phone. ‘Yeah, same here. OK. Bye.’

  She hung up.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  Barridge gripped the edge of her desk. There was a feeling of fatalism about him now.

  ‘I’d like to see Mr Awad, please.’

  ‘Oh! I’m afraid he’s not in today.’

  ‘Is there anyone else I can speak to? I’ve got to speak to someone.’

  He was hyperventilating as the receptionist flipped through the appointments book in front of her. He pulled at the collar of his shirt.

  ‘We-ell – there’s Mrs Cheshire. But I’ll have to ask her and she’s busy right now.’

  Barridge was sweating and his legs felt tingly, as if he were about to get an attack of pins and needles.

  ‘I have to speak to someone.’

  She gave him an odd, questioning look.

  ‘All right, why don’t you sit down in the waiting area and I’ll have a word with her when I can. What did you say your name was?’

  Barridge gave his name then wandered back to the door.

  ‘I’ll . . . I need some air. I’ll come back in . . . ten minutes.’

  The receptionist stared curiously at the swinging door then picked up her phone. ‘Mrs Cheshire? I’ve had an officer in here, a PC Barridge. Seems in a very bad way. You couldn’t see him, could you?’

  *

  Mrs Cheshire had a gap between appointments at ten thirty. She had planned to nip out to the chemist’s but agreed to see Barridge instead. She was fortyish and far more like a school nurse than a science teacher, which Barridge found a little encouraging.

  ‘So, how can I help you, PC Barridge – Colin?’

  ‘Well, it’s something I want to get off of my chest, see? It’s hard. I don’t know if I can come right out with it, like.’

  ‘Uh-huh. Let me have a bit of background first, why don’t you?’

  This was one disadvantage of Awad’s absence. He would have to go back over ground he’d already covered, otherwise Mrs Cheshire wouldn’t understand. And he desperately wanted her to understand. So he started to tell her about the Howarth Estate case, and the missing child and the search in the rain and him falling in the water in that cellar and then finding the body and the terrible sadness and sense of waste and emptiness he’d had inside him ever since the suspect had been arrested.

  ‘J-Julie . . . that’s the little girl I found, I kept on seeing her face and I couldn’t sleep.’

  He was almost crying. He could feel the raw mass growing in his throat and the tears welling up. His voice wobbled and he had to struggle to control it.

  ‘It was as if she was reaching out to me. They knew it was him . . . everybody knew. We knew it was him. I mean, we were certain, so certain. And the trial’s started today. He’s in the dock, and it’s got to be stopped . . .’

  The counsellor got up and went to where a water jug and some glasses stood on a shelf. She poured water, brought it back to her desk and placed it in front of Barridge. He was shivering, tipping over the edge into tears.

  ‘You say it’s got to be stopped? Do you mean you now think that this man might not have committed the murder?’

  Barridge shook his head. ‘I don’t know!’ he wailed. ‘Maybe. It looks like him. B-but . . . it might not be.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that the purpose of the trial? I mean, surely the police officers have done their work – including you, Colin – and now it’s up to the jury to decide—’

  ‘That’s it! Our work! That’s what I have to tell you. It was my work, it was me wanting to be sure he’d be found guilty.’

  The room felt very hot. Barridge’s face was a deep red.

  Mrs Cheshire spoke very quietly. ‘What did you do, Colin?’

  ‘Do? I-I . . . well, I tampered with the evidence! I cheated.’ He picked up the glass of water and drank.

  Mrs Cheshire’s eyes narrowed. ‘You mean, in order to make it more likely this man would be convicted?’

  He put down the glass and nodded his head. There, it was out. He’d admitted it.

  ‘I see,’ said Mrs Cheshire. ‘And you’ve told no one about this?’

  ‘No. No, I haven’t. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. That’s why I’m here!’

  ‘And what do you want me to do, Colin?’

  ‘Get it stopped.’

  Barridge felt the pins and needles again in his legs. He was sitting right on the edge of the chair. He reached for the water glass again.

  ‘He could end up with a life sentence for something he didn’t do, if you don’t believe what I’m saying.’

  Mrs Cheshire was frowning, chewing the end of her biro. She shook her head. ‘I’m still trying to assimilate what you’re saying.’

  Oh, for Christ’s sake!

  Barridge hurled the glass down on the desk, scattering water all over Mrs Cheshire’s papers. He was yelling openly now.

  ‘Look! I bought the rope. I cut it in two. And I put it in Michael Dunn’s BIN.’

  He was snivelling, his head down again. ‘I want the trial stopped because he might not have done it and, oh, Jesus . . .’

  Mrs Cheshire said, ‘Look, Colin, will you be all right? Just while I pop out for a few moments. But I’ll be back very shortly, all right?’

  She whisked out of her office and went straight to reception.

  ‘Denise – do you mind getting off the phone so I can use it, please? I think this is a bit of an emergency.’

  CHAPTER 24

  TUESDAY 19 NOVEMBER. 11.30 A.M.

  ‘ARE YOU Mrs Enid Marsh?’ asked Willis Fletcher, when the old lady had completed her tortuous journey from the court corridor and was safely berthed in the witness stand. ‘And do you live at number thirty-three, Howarth House?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Enid looked around. The stand was placed on the judge’s left, across the courtroom from the jury box. In all her long life she had never entered a court of law. But she had seen Charles Laughton in Witness for the Prosecution many years ago and, ever since, she’d had quite a taste for courtroom dramas on television. For a murder trial, this was a smaller room than she had anticipated and less intimidating.

  ‘And what floor is that on?’

  ‘The sixth floor.’

  ‘Please could you look at these photographs, Mrs Marsh?’ He passed the photographs to the associate to take to the witness while Fletcher addressed the judge. ‘If these could become exhibit one, My Lord?’

  Enid looked at the numbered prints then placed them on the edge of the witness box and started fumbling for her glasses.

  ‘Could you look at photograph number three, Mrs Marsh? Does it show what can be seen from your window?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Enid as the picture came into focus. ‘It does.’

  ‘Just describe to us what you can see.’

  ‘I can see the entrance to the flats and I can see the . . . the right-hand side of the playground.’

  ‘Is there any particular time of day when you are in the habit of looking out of your window, Mrs Marsh?’

  ‘Yes. I look out at lunchtimes because I wait for the meals on wheels every day.’

  ‘Every day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you able to remember the day when Julie Ann Harris went missing? That was the day the police first called at your flat.’

  ‘Yes, I remember it very well.’

  The witness seemed to have shrugged off the uncertainty of her first replies. She was sounding positive and eager now.

  ‘Tell the court about it, would you?’

  ‘Well, I looked out at a quarter to one – I looked at the clock because she’s usually brought my lunch by then. I mean, Mrs Wald, the lady who brings my lunch . . . and she . . . I . . .’

  Enid had seized up again, unsure where her train of thought had started from. Gently, Fletcher brought her back on track.

  ‘Yes, and what did you see when you looked out of the window?’

  ‘I saw the little Harris girl playing on her own. I often saw her playing with the other children.’

  There was a slight disturbance as the door of the court opened and Satchell came in. He slid along the bench to where Pat North was sitting and began whispering urgently in her ear.

  ‘Were you able to recognise that it was Julie Ann Harris at that distance?’ continued Fletcher.

  ‘Yes, I was. And you see, she was on her own. I thought she shouldn’t have been left.’

  ‘What did she do?’

  ‘Well, she was playing and then she started covering her face and peeping out – sort of through her fingers, like this.’

  Enid laced her twisted old fingers together and peeped girlishly through them at Fletcher.

  ‘It was as though there was someone else playing with her.’

  ‘Weren’t you able to see that person?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And did you see anything else unusual that lunchtime?’

  ‘Yes. Well, I was looking out again at five past one for the meals on wheels, because it still hadn’t come you know. And, anyway, I saw a man bend down and take the little girl’s hand.’

  ‘What did you see of that man, Mrs Marsh? Did you see his face?’

  ‘Yes, I did. It was sideways on. But yes, I did, I saw his face.’

  ‘Had you seen that man before?’

  Enid shook her head. ‘No. I didn’t know him at all.’

  ‘But did you see him again?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I saw him again in Kilburn.’

  Fletcher looked at her, questioningly. ‘Kilburn?’

  ‘You know, the parade thing – the identification parade. He was the one I picked.’

  She made it sound like judging the supreme champion at Crufts Dog Show.