Now, an hour later, Satchell was back. Hustling up the court steps he almost bumped into a nice-looking old bloke carrying a bag of golf clubs.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said the man politely.

  Satchell could have sworn he knew him. Three steps further on it clicked: Winfield! Going to the golf course!

  He spotted Walker and North standing at the top of the steps, deep in conversation. Satchell joined them, pointing after the retreating golfer.

  ‘That was the judge, wasn’t it? So he’s stopped the trial?’

  North shook her head. She looked mystified. ‘No.’

  ‘What? You’re kidding me?’

  ‘Wish we were, pal,’ said Walker, also shaking his head. The thought of what Rylands could do when proceedings recommenced didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘But what about Barridge and the rope? They can’t go on with it now, can they?’

  ‘Yes they can,’ said North simply.

  ‘But it means the evidence was contaminated.’

  Walker laughed grimly. ‘Our man tried. But that bastard Rylands is something else. The judge has adjourned until tomorrow and then it’s business as usual.’

  ‘I just don’t believe it,’ said Satchell.

  A mobile phone rang and Walker reacted, patting his pockets. ‘Where’s my mobile? I couldn’t take it into court so I put it down somewhere.’

  North pulled the trilling receiver from her briefcase. ‘You gave it to me, sir.’

  Walker moved to the other side of the steps, switched on the phone and listened.

  ‘Yes? Is this an emergency? . . . This is not an emergency and Daddy’s told you never to . . . No, just listen to me! This is not an emergency. Put your mother on . . . Look, you’ll have to talk to her. I’ve told her not to play near the conservatory. If she’s broken the glass she’ll have to pay for it out of her pocket money . . . No, all right – I’ll tell her myself, I’m coming home. We’ve got the afternoon off.’

  ‘So what happens next? Rylands is going to use this to get Dunn off,’ said Satchell.

  ‘We may not have a trial here this afternoon,’ said Walker grimly, thinking of the glass of his conservatory, ‘but I’ve got one at home.’

  ‘What exactly does Fletcher think he’s doing?’ asked Satchell.

  ‘He’s going to look a fool,’ observed North drily.

  ‘We are looking even bigger ones,’ Walker said, starting down the steps. ‘They’re calling Ann Taylor to give evidence tomorrow.’

  And he set off to hear the case against his daughter.

  CHAPTER 26

  WEDNESDAY 20 NOVEMBER. 11.45 A.M.

  IT WAS a late start in court. The judge had required Rylands and Fletcher in his chambers at ten thirty to go through the text of Fletcher’s admission on the planted length of washing line. He had OK’d it and, after an eleven thirty start, Fletcher was now nearly at the end of his scheduled grovel in front of the jury.

  ‘. . . I must therefore emphasise to you again,’ he was saying, ‘that there is no question of the defendant being responsible for this piece of washing line. Its presence in the defendant’s dustbin was entirely attributable to the actions of Constable Barridge. You must exclude it entirely from your minds.’

  The jury had sat through this without showing any apparent reaction. Murder trial juries don’t have much experience to draw on – everything is new and more or less unexpected to them. But what they would conclude about the strength of the Crown’s case once they’d started to think about Barridge’s rush of blood was anybody’s guess.

  Fletcher had finished. He turned to Rylands and fractionally lifted the sheet of A4 on which the admission had been printed. Rylands gave an almost imperceptible nod of the head and Fletcher placed the statement with his other papers.

  ‘Now, if I may continue with the case for the Crown, My Lord, I should like to call Ann Taylor, please.’

  Ann Taylor appeared. She walked very hesitantly into court, looking around like a bird at the ranks of people, lawyers, the court officials, judge. Her head turned nervously in every direction except towards the dock.

  She was sworn in and Fletcher began by establishing her address and knowledge of the defendant. Then he went on: ‘Did Michael Dunn come to do odd jobs for you in your house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What sort of things did he do?’

  ‘He did, well, different things. Six or seven times. Once he put up my washing line.’

  A ripple of conversation washed around the court at this information and then died, quelled by Winfield’s disapproving eye.

  ‘Could you describe that washing line for us, please?’

  ‘It was – it was blue and red. Plastic. I bought it in a local shop.’

  ‘And when was that?’

  But now the witness seemed to have frozen. So far Dunn had been looking at the rail of the dock throughout Ann Taylor’s evidence. Now he raised his head and looked straight at her.

  ‘When was that, Miss Taylor?’

  She was flustered. She knew Dunn was staring at her. Suddenly she looked across the room and met his glance.

  ‘Oh, um . . .’ she wavered, her mouth trembling. She looked down and took a deep breath. ‘It was quite a while ago. A few months. I didn’t see him again for . . . for quite a while. In fact, no, I mean, I didn’t see him at all.’

  Anyone looking at Pat North as she watched these exchanges with intense concentration might have been surprised to see her sudden grim smile. Ann Taylor was proving an awkward witness for Fletcher. Her embarrassment was palpable – she was blushing uncontrollably – but what was its cause? Not just the shyness of a middle-aged spinster thrust into the limelight, surely.

  Then suddenly she saw it. Of course! How could they have missed this when they’d interviewed her?

  She nudged Walker, leaned sideways and whispered. ‘Guv, you don’t suppose she and Dunn . . .?’

  But Walker had got there already. Without taking his eyes off the witness, he murmured. ‘’Course they bloody did.’

  ‘And what happened,’ asked Fletcher, ‘to this length of line subsequently?’

  ‘It was stolen. Um, towards the end of August, I think.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Taylor.’

  Rylands stood up slowly and regarded the witness steadily without speaking. He went on doing so for slightly longer than was polite, but not long enough for the judge to call him for intimidation. Then he said, ‘When did you move into your house, Miss Taylor?’

  ‘Two years ago in April.’

  ‘Have petty thefts of property from your garden been a problem ever since that time?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, I’ve had a lot of things taken.’

  ‘Did you ever find out who took any of them?’

  ‘Only once. The police caught some boys on the estate with – a sort of urn.’

  ‘Some boys. Thank you, Miss Taylor. No more questions.’

  ‘Mr Fletcher?’ asked the judge but Fletcher, with no further wish to expose his witness’s confusion, shook his head. Winfield glanced at his timepiece. Despite the interest of the evidence, he’d caught himself thinking over the last half-hour about the crackling on the loin of pork that was at this moment sizzling and spitting in the Crown court judges’ kitchen.

  ‘Perhaps this would be a suitable time . . . Five past two.’

  As the court started packing up for lunch, North watched Ann Taylor as she left the court, then stood up herself and pushed past Walker to get quickly to the exit.

  ‘I’m going to have a word with her.’

  *

  North caught up with Ann Taylor in the hall. The witness stand had left her shaken and she was glad to spot someone she recognised. When North suggested they sit down, she accepted North’s hand steering her towards a bench beside the wall.

  ‘There was more to your friendship with Michael Dunn than you told us, wasn’t there, Miss Taylor?’

  ‘Was it so obvious?’ She was calmer now – rueful rather than tearful.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid it was.’

  ‘I felt so sorry for him when he told me what a terrible life he’d had – what had been done to him. Just a little boy when it first started, six years old. But then you must know that. He said the only kindness he’d ever known was when this family fostered him – but then they sent him back.’

  She paused, biting her lip.

  ‘That’s why I never reported it. But I knew it was him that took the washing line. He took the sherry too.’

  ‘The sherry? How can you be sure?’

  ‘My mother didn’t approve of drinking and I kept some hidden outside. He was the only person who knew where it was.’

  Ann Taylor smiled and North caught a glimpse of the pretty woman who was normally masked by the bleak figure cut by this disappointed spinster.

  ‘A pointless little act of rebellion, I suppose. I hardly ever drink myself. Forgot it was there most of the time, but he persuaded me to have one with him when I was grieving for Mother. I think we must have had more than one, actually, because, well, you know, it went further than it should have . . .’

  North touched her on the forearm. ‘It’s been difficult, all this, hasn’t it? You should go home and rest now.’

  ‘Will it all come out, what I told you? Will I have to . . . tell the court?’

  North wished she could tell her no. ‘I don’t know. It may not be necessary. Let’s hope not, eh?’

  *

  In the Crown court holding cells, Michael Dunn was as unhappy as Ann Taylor.

  ‘I don’t like the way he treats people, that Rylands,’ he told Belinda while he waited for his lunch. ‘I told you I didn’t like the way he talked to the old lady. He got her all upset, and don’t give me all that “planks” crap either! He shouldn’t have asked Ann – Miss Taylor – all about—’

  ‘Michael, calm down, for goodness’ sake.’

  ‘No! You lied to me. You said he would just ask if I worked for Ann. Not that other stuff.’

  ‘It wasn’t Mr Rylands who asked those questions, it was Mr Fletcher, the prosecuting counsel. I can’t control his line of questioning.’

  ‘She was nice to me, she was . . . She was a friend to me. And I won’t have it! You tell him where he can stuff his planks. He shouldn’t have upset her. Tell him I don’t want any more of it – you hear me?’

  Belinda fought to beat down the rising panic she felt. Dunn was verging on the uncontrollable. He might do anything in this mood – try to sack Rylands, make a kamikaze admission, anything. She had to take control back. She spoke as firmly as she knew how.

  ‘Michael – Mr Rylands is conducting your defence in the way he thinks best to secure your acquittal. You must trust him.’

  ‘I did trust him – but he’s messing me around.’ Dunn thought for a moment, then upped the stakes a little more. ‘I’m not going in the witness box to be messed around by him, that’s for sure. No way. You tell him that, plank or no plank.’

  There was a knock on the door – the defendant’s lunch had arrived.

  *

  In the bar mess, Sinclair sought out Rylands and Waugh to tell them the bad news.

  ‘We might have a problem here,’ she told them. ‘Michael’s got upset about Ann Taylor. Now he doesn’t want to give evidence.’

  Rylands’s face brightened – it didn’t seem to be particularly bad news to him. ‘Fine – it’s just what I’ve been saying. We won’t call him.’

  Waugh frowned. He didn’t like this. ‘Robert, I think—’

  But Rylands hadn’t finished. He drew on his cigar and spoke through the gush of exhaled smoke. ‘We shouldn’t call any evidence for a defence. We don’t have to. Their ID’s worth virtually nothing. Their doll’s gone out the window. We can explain all the forensic as innocent contact. Plus, they’ve had to admit police shenanigans. No jury’s going to convict him on that!’

  Derek was shaking his head. He looked like an old horse plagued by flies. ‘We’ll incur the adverse inference if he doesn’t go on.’

  ‘They’ll do us just as much damage if he does. They’ll be dragging him over the two alibi witnesses he couldn’t find. Leave it alone.’

  ‘I don’t agree. Since they’re trying to show a false alibi, we can show a true one. I honestly think I’d rather carry on according to plan – belt and braces and all that.’

  Rylands released another stream of yellow Havana smoke into the atmosphere. Belinda looked at both men, wondering if they were going to ask her opinion. Not a chance.

  ‘Well, you’re instructing me, Derek,’ said Rylands. ‘But I think you’re courting a risk here. That’s my considered view.’

  ‘I can’t agree with you, Robert. I think they want to hear Michael Dunn deny it from his own lips.’

  ‘As you wish, Derek.’

  Waugh turned to Belinda. She could tell he was excited at having beaten Rylands into submission. She could almost hear him saying it, crowing about it back at the office: not many people could say they’d done that.

  ‘Warn our boy, Belinda. Try to get him settled down.’

  ‘Derek, I don’t know, he was very upset.’

  She looked at Rylands for support, but the silk had already mentally begun to work on how he would tackle Dunn on the stand.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Waugh said firmly, ‘he’ll be giving evidence tomorrow.’

  CHAPTER 27

  THURSDAY 21 NOVEMBER

  PETER HAD slept with Anita the previous night. They’d not made love, but at least they’d shared the bed. They began to feel again like a couple who loved one another.

  Peter said nothing about Anita’s evidence in court until the next morning. He’d come in from the newsagent with the papers and a carton of milk and found her out on the balcony, leaning against the rail, staring down at the playground.

  ‘You got the doll wrong,’ he said.

  It was just a statement of the fact.

  ‘Yes, I know, I’m sorry, Peter.’

  ‘So am I.’

  She flicked a glance at him, a fearful glance. She steeled herself. Was this going to be another shouting match, another rough house of bitterness and blame? But Peter’s voice was unexpectedly soft.

  ‘I’m sorry about the way I’ve been. Really. But losing Julie and then the baby, well . . .’

  Anita stared at him. She opened her mouth and thought about saying to him: you? How do you think I feel – me, their mother!

  She didn’t say it because, incredibly, Peter was crying and for the first time he was revealed to her as being as vulnerable as anyone else. She put her arms around him.

  ‘It’s going to be all right,’ she whispered, stroking his hair. ‘All, all right. That’s right. Better now.’

  Later, when he’d cried all his tears and he felt lighter than he had for weeks, he said, ‘Hey, Nita. Let’s not go to court today, eh? I just can’t face having to listen to them trying to get that filthy pervert off.’

  *

  The Thursday afternoon had not been quite sufficient for Fletcher to wrap his case, so the evidence of Arnold Mallory, his last witness, was heard first thing in the morning. As ever, the scientist put up an impressive performance, taking the jury through the evidence of the fibres and the ice cream wrappers, showing them DNA profiles and enlarged microscopic prints of various fibres, all of which proved beyond peradventure that Julie Ann Harris had been in Michael Dunn’s flat.

  There had been one moment of comedy, when Rylands cross-examined on the dogshit.

  ‘Would you say, Professor Mallory, that there is a lot of dog faeces lying about on the Howarth Estate?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. I haven’t studied that question.’

  ‘Well, would it surprise you to know that, when I visited the area last Friday, I myself came away with some on my shoe?’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I would say that stepping in faeces was a hazard of your profession, sir.’

  The press gallery had cracked up at this and even the jury seemed entertained. If Winfield, too, had rather enjoyed the jibe, he concealed it.

  Mallory’s evidence had concluded Fletcher’s case and now, without any interruption, Rylands rose to present his defence.

  ‘I call the defendant,’ he boomed. ‘Michael Dunn.’

  The element of serenity, evident in his appearance on the first day, had deserted Dunn. His face looked sullen as he was sworn in on the Bible and afterwards, awaiting Rylands’s questions, he glowered ill-temperedly down at the court. Rylands, whose ability to read a court’s atmosphere was legendary, felt the tension and expectation of the entire room feeding back at his client in a loop of anxiety and resentment. He decided to get straight to the meat of the thing.

  ‘Where were you during the day of the fifth of September last year? That’s the day before you were arrested by the police.’

  ‘I was drinking in the park with a friend of mine – Terry Smith.’

  ‘Which park was that?’

  ‘The Scrub— er, Princess Elizabeth Park. It’s near the estate.’

  ‘Were you alone there, the two of you, or was there anyone else with you?’

  ‘There was another man there, I . . . I can never remember his name.’

  ‘How long were you there, the three of you?’

  ‘All day, from eleven o’clock until early evening.’

  ‘What did you do there?’

  ‘Well, we were drinking, mainly, and talking. We were talking, er, politics like.’

  ‘How much did you have to drink?’

  Rylands was keeping it simple, his voice moderated if not exactly gentle or over-sympathetic. He wanted to present his man as a victim of prejudice and circumstance, a factual matter to which he hoped the jury would respond without emotion.

  ‘Oh, quite a lot. Lager and vodka mainly. I wasn’t drunk, though. I remember it quite well now.’

  ‘In a pig’s arse you do,’ thought Pat North when she heard this. But would the jury think that? Dunn was beginning to come around under Rylands’s businesslike approach. He was starting to look sympathetic again.

  ‘Did you leave the company of Terry Smith and this other man at any time between eleven and the evening?’