then said conversationally, ‘Is there anyone in this courtroom you have seen before?’
Wells nodded towards the dock. ‘Philip Hawkin.’
‘How do you know Mr Hawkin?’
‘His mother is a neighbour of ours.’
‘Was he familiar with your house?’
‘He used to accompany his mother to our house for bridge evenings before he moved away.’ Wells’s eyes kept flickering away from the QC to the prisoner. He was clearly uncomfortable with his role, in spite of Stanley’s easy manner.
‘You used to own a Webley .38 revolver, did you not?’
‘I did.’
‘Did you ever show that gun to Mr Hawkin?’
Clough followed Wells’s anguished stare up to the public gallery where it rested on Hawkin’s elderly mother. Wells took a deep breath and mumbled, ‘I may have done.’
‘Think carefully, Mr Wells.’ Stanley’s voice was gentle. ‘Did you or did you not show the Webley to Mr Hawkin?’
Wells swallowed hard. ‘I did.’
‘Where did you keep the gun?’
Wells relaxed visibly, his shoulders dropping a little from their defensive position. ‘In a locked drawer in the bureau in the lounge.’
‘And was that where you took it from when you showed it to Mr Hawkin?’
‘It would have been.’ Each word was dragged out slowly.
‘So Mr Hawkin knew where the gun was kept?’
Wells looked down. ‘I suppose so,’ he mumbled.
The judge leaned forward. ‘You must speak clearly, Mr Wells. The jury must be able to hear your answers.’
Stanley smiled. ‘I am obliged, my lord. Now, Mr Wells, would you tell us what happened to the gun?’
Wells pressed his lips hard together for a moment then answered in a small, tight voice. ‘It was stolen. In a burglary. Just over two years ago. We were on holiday.’
‘Not a pleasant homecoming for you and your wife. Did you lose much?’ Stanley asked, all sympathy.
Wells shook his head. ‘A silver carriage clock. A gold watch and the gun. They didn’t go any further than the lounge. The gold watch was in the drawer with the gun.’
‘You gave a very good description of the gun to the police. Can you remember what it was that made it distinctive, apart from the serial number?’
Wells cleared his throat and smoothed his moustache. His eyes slid round to Hawkin, whose frown had deepened. ‘There was a chip out of the bottom corner of the grip,’ he said, his words tumbling over each other.
Stanley turned to the assistant clerk of the court. ‘Would you be so kind as to show Mr Wells exhibit fourteen?’
The clerk picked up the Webley from the exhibits table and carried it across the courtroom to Wells. He turned the gun over so the witness had the opportunity to see both sides of the criss-crossed butt. ‘Take your time,’ Stanley said softly.
Wells looked up at the public gallery again. Clough saw Mrs Hawkin’s face crumple as the weight of realization struck. ‘It’s my gun,’ he said, his voice empty and flat.
‘You’re certain of that?’
Wells sighed. ‘Yes.’
Stanley smiled. ‘Thank you for coming here today, Mr Wells. Now, if you would stay where you are, my learned friend Mr Highsmith may have some questions for you.’
This would be interesting, Clough thought. There was almost nothing Highsmith could ask that wouldn’t dig a deeper hole for his client. Hawkin, who had been scribbling desperately during the last few exchanges, passed a note to his solicitor, who gave it a swift glance then thrust it at Highsmith’s junior, who placed it in front of Highsmith himself.
The barrister was on his feet now, the sharp lines of his face broken up in a smile. He looked briefly at the note then began to question Wells even more genially than Stanley had done. ‘When your house was burgled, you were on holiday, is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Wells said wearily.
‘Did you leave a key with any of your neighbours?’
Wells raised his head, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. ‘Mrs Hawkin always had a key. In case of emergencies.’
‘Mrs Hawkin always had a key,’ Highsmith repeated, his eyes scanning the jury to make sure they’d taken his point. ‘Did the police take fingerprints after your burglary?’
‘They tried, but whoever broke in wore gloves, they said.’
‘Did they ever indicate to you whether they had an idea who might be responsible?’
‘No.’
‘Did they ever say anything that might have suggested they suspected Mr Hawkin?’
Even as Wells said, ‘No,’ Stanley was on his feet.
‘My lord,’ he protested. ‘My learned friend is not only leading the witness, but he is leading him down the path of hearsay.’
Sampson nodded. ‘Members of the jury, you will disregard the last question and the answer to it. Mr Highsmith?’
‘Thank you, my lord. Mr Wells, did you ever suspect Mr Hawkin of having burgled your home?’
Wells shook his head. ‘Never. Why would Phil do a thing like that? We were his friends.’
‘Thank you, Mr Wells. I have no further questions.’
So that was the way the wind was blowing, Clough thought to himself as he edged out of the courtroom. He slipped into the witness room ahead of the usher. George jumped to his feet, his expression an eager question.
‘The defence didn’t question the ID – I think their line’s going to be that Hawkin bought the gun in a pub, not realizing it was the one stolen from Wells.’
George sighed. ‘And I found the gun and used it to frame him. So it doesn’t change anything.’
‘It does,’ Clough said earnestly. ‘It ties Hawkin to the gun. Ordinary people don’t have guns, George. Remember?’
Before George could reply, the door opened and the court usher said, ‘Detective Inspector Bennett? They’re ready for you now.’
It was one of the longest walks of his life. He could feel the eyes on him, making him conscious of every step he took. When he reached the witness box, he turned quite deliberately and stared at the impassive face of Philip Hawkin. He hoped Hawkin felt he was looking at his nemesis.
Stanley waited while the clerk
