‘The lawyers wouldn’t be going ahead with it if they didn’t think they had a good chance of winning,’ Clough reminded him. ‘We’ve done our bit. All we can do now is leave it up to them,’ he added philosophically.
George snorted. ‘Is that supposed to make me feel better? Tommy, I hate this stage of a case. Everything’s out of my hands, I can’t influence what happens. I feel so powerless. And if Hawkin isn’t convicted…well, never mind the lawyers, I’m going to feel like I’ve failed.’ He leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. ‘I couldn’t bear that, for all sorts of reasons. Mostly because a killer would have walked free. But I’m human enough to take it personally. Can you imagine how happy it would make DCI Carver? Can you imagine the headlines that sewer rat Don Smart would get out of it?’
‘Come on, George, everybody knows the way you’ve sweated this one. If Carver had been in charge, we’d never even have got the evidence for the rape charge. And that’s rock solid. It’s not possible that he can wriggle out of that, whatever happens over the murder. And you can bet your bottom dollar that any judge who hears the evidence and then gets a jury stupid enough to return “not guilty” on the murder charge is going to use the rape conviction to hit Hawkin with the maximum possible sentence. He’s not going to be walking Scardale again in a hurry.’
George sighed. ‘You’re right. I just wish we could have tied Hawkin more closely to the gun. I mean, how much more unlucky can we get? There’s one man who could possibly identify the gun we’ve got as the Webley that was stolen from St Albans. The previous owner, Mrs Hawkin’s neighbour Mr Wells. And where is he? Spending a few months with his daughter who’s emigrated to Australia. And not a single one of his friends or neighbours has a forwarding address. They can’t even remember exactly when he’s due back. Of course, we suspect that Hawkin’s mother has all these details at her fingertips, being Mr and Mrs Wells’s best friend, but she’s certainly not going to tell those nasty policemen who are making those terrible allegations against her loving son,’ he added with withering sarcasm.
He got to his feet. ‘I’m going to have a wash and a shave. Do you want to make a fresh pot of tea? I’ll take Anne a cup when I get dressed. Then I’ll buy you a full English at the transport caff.’
‘Sounds good to me. We’ll need stoking up. It’s going to be a long day.’
The town hall clock struck ten, its bass note penetrating the courtroom across the road. Jonathan Pritchard raised his head from the pile of papers in front of him, his eyebrows raised in expectation. Next to him, still absorbed in his notes, was the burly figure of Desmond Stanley, QC. A former Oxford rugby blue, Stanley had avoided running to fat in his forties with a strict regime of exercise that he insisted on conducting wherever he worked. As well as the usual wig, gown and bands of the barrister, Stanley’s court bag always contained his dumbbells. In robing rooms up and down the country, he had bent and stretched, performed push-ups and squat thrusts before walking into court and prosecuting or defending the worst criminals the legal system could throw at him.
What was odd was that he never looked healthy. His skin had a naturally sallow cast, his lips were bloodlessly pale and his dark-brown eyes watered constantly. He always had a flamboyantly coloured silk handkerchief tucked into one sleeve so he could make regular dabs at his rheumy eyes. The first time George had met him, he had wondered if Stanley would live long enough to try the case. Afterwards, Pritchard had put him right. ‘He’ll outlive the lot of us,’ he confided. ‘Be glad he’s on our side and not against us because Desmond Stanley is a shark. Trust me on this.’
Pritchard felt even more grateful to have Stanley on his side when he saw who the opposing barrister was. Rupert Highsmith, QC, had earned his formidable reputation as a surgically precise and ruthless cross-examiner in a series of high-profile cases in the early 1950s, when he was still a young barrister. Another ten years at the bar had not blunted his skills; rather, they had taught him a series of new tricks that left his opponents smarting, so much so that lesser talents grew reluctant to draw shaky material from their witnesses because they feared what he might do to it on cross.
Now, Highsmith was leaning back confidently in his chair, scanning the crowded press benches and public gallery, his profile as sharply geometric as if it had been constructed from a child’s set of wooden shapes. Unkind colleagues at the bar whispered that he had had cosmetic surgery to keep his jawline so taut. He always liked to check out his audience, to assess the impact his case was likely to have. It was a good turn-out today, he thought. A good showcase for his talents. He was one of the few defence barristers who shone at committals. Because the committal hearing’s only purpose was to decide whether the prosecution had a prima facie case against the accused, usually only the prosecution would put their case before the magistrates. The sole opportunity Highsmith would have to demonstrate his skills was in cross-examining their witnesses. And that was what he did best.
A door at the side of the courtroom opened and Hawkin walked in, flanked by two police officers. On George’s instructions, he was handcuffed to neither. The detective was determined to do nothing that might elicit the slightest sympathy for Hawkin. Besides, he knew the defence barrister’s first action would be to demand the handcuffs be removed, and the magistrates would probably agree, not least because it would be hard for them not to see landowner Hawkin as one of themselves. And Pritchard had emphasized how important it was psychologically that first blood should not go to the defence.
Eighteen nights behind bars had made little impact on Philip Hawkin’s appearance. His dark hair was shorter than usual, since prisoners have no choice of barber but must take what they are given. But it was still glossy and smooth, slicked back from his broad, square forehead. His dark-brown eyes flicked around the courtroom before settling on his barrister. The smile that appeared to hover perpetually on his lips widened in acknowledgement of Highsmith’s curt nod. Hawkin took his time entering the dock, carefully adjusting the trousers of his sober dark suit as he settled himself on the bench seat.
The door behind the magistrates’ raised bench opened and the court clerk jumped to his feet, calling, ‘All rise.’ Chairs scraped back on the tiled floor as the three justices filed in. Hawkin was among the first to his feet, his bearing showing a deference that Pritchard noticed and filed away for further reference. Either Hawkin was a good actor, or else he really believed these magistrates had power over him that they would use to his advantage.
The three men who would sit in judgement over the case for the prosecution settled themselves, followed in shuffling disorder by everyone else except the court clerk. He reminded them that the court was in session to consider the proceedings to commit Philip Hawkin of Scardale Manor, Scardale in the county of Derbyshire for trial.
Desmond Stanley got to his feet. ‘Your Worships, I appear for the Director of Public Prosecutions in this matter. Philip Hawkin is accused of the rape of Alison Carter, aged thirteen. He is further accused that on a separate occasion, on or about the eleventh of December, nineteen sixty-three, he did murder the said Alison Carter.’
The only person smiling in the courtroom was Don Smart, bent over his shorthand notebook. The ringmaster was on his feet. The circus had begun.
After he’d given his evidence and suffered the whip of Highsmith’s incisive cross-examination, George walked out of the witness box and back through the crowded courtroom, his head high, two spots of colour burning in his cheeks. Tomorrow, he’d come back and sit in the body of the court to listen to the rest of the prosecution case. But now, he wanted a cigarette and an hour’s peace. He was about to run down the stairs when he heard Clough call his name. He half turned. ‘Not now, Tommy. Meet me in the Baker’s at opening time.’ Using the newel post as a pivot, he swung down the stairs and rushed out of the building.
Within forty minutes, he was panting on the rounded
