was gone in a swirl of wig and gown before John Sparling could think of a suitable response.
Peter and Greta were waiting outside Court 9 with Peter’s lawyer, Patrick Sullivan, a handsome Irishman who bore more than a passing resemblance to Liam Neeson. Patrick and Peter had been at university together, and it had been a natural development for him to become Peter’s lawyer when Peter had started to need one. The work had taken up more and more of Patrick’s time since Peter had become a minister, and Greta’s trial had made it virtually a full-time occupation.
Patrick was no criminal lawyer, but he had given Peter and Greta vital support in those nightmare days after Greta was first arrested. He had conveyed a sense that he was truly on their side, that he believed in them, and that was what Peter had craved more than anything else.
Greta, unsurprisingly, had retreated into her shell as the police began investigating Thomas’s allegations against her, and Patrick seemed to restore some of her confidence. Later, after Greta was charged, Peter had asked Patrick to find a top criminal barrister to take on her case. He appeared to have succeeded admirably. Everyone that Peter spoke to agreed that Miles Lambert was one of the best in the business.
‘I’ve reminded Peter that he can’t be in court during the trial,’ said Patrick.
‘That’s right,’ said Miles. ‘Not until after you’ve given your evidence. But Patrick’s told me he’s going to be here most of the time and so Greta won’t be on her own. No need to worry about that.’
He smiled encouragingly. They’d been over this many times already, but it was better to be safe than sorry. He’d had witnesses before who had disbarred themselves from giving evidence by sitting in court during the trial.
‘How are you feeling, Greta?’ he asked solicitously. Trial for murder was a terrible experience for anyone to go through and Miles knew that waiting for it to begin was one of the worst parts of the process.
‘All right, I suppose. It’s not easy, though. I felt like I was in a zoo when we got out of the car.’ Greta’s normally even voice shook, and Peter took hold of her hand and squeezed it. Not being able to be with his wife in court and share her ordeal was almost more than he could bear.
‘I know,’ said Miles. ‘I’m sorry about that. But look, the important thing to remember is that you’re not going to need to say anything until the middle of next week at the earliest. It’ll probably be the end of next week, in fact. The prosecution has got a lot of evidence to get through, and they’re calling Thomas as their last witness. They say he needs time to get over whatever happened last Wednesday.’
‘Nothing happened,’ Peter interjected. ‘He’s made it up just like everything else. He just can’t stop. Ruining our lives and his.’
‘All right, Peter,’ said Greta. ‘Not now.’ She drew a great deal of support from Peter’s anger against his son, but this was not the time for any loss of control.
‘Is this a problem?’ she asked. ‘Thomas going last?’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ replied Miles. ‘It’ll make the jury see how little the prosecution has got without him.’
‘Yes. Yes, I see that.’
Greta smiled, but this only made the tension in her face more visible. She looked perfect, Miles thought. She’ll make the jurors that aren’t priapic come over all parental when she touches her eyes with that little white handkerchief she’s got in her bag.
‘That was the usher,’ said Patrick, returning to the group and breaking the momentary silence. ‘We’re wanted inside.’
‘I’ll be here at lunch, Greta,’ said Peter. ‘I love you.’
‘I love you too,’ replied Greta as she turned to follow the lawyers through the swinging doors of the courtroom.
‘It’ll be all right,’ he added. ‘Just you see.’ But she did not reply. The doors had closed behind her, and he could not follow.
CHAPTER 6
The first thing that Greta was aware of on entering the courtroom was the sound of many voices suddenly becoming still. The benches on the left of the court were thronged with the same reporters who had surrounded her outside. There was to be no escape from them, although the cameras and sound equipment were absent.
Before her arrival the court had been just another room, but now there was the beginning of drama, the certainty of action to come. Everything was lit by bright artificial light because this was a place removed from the outside world. There were no windows and the soundproofed walls were bare except for the extravagant lion-and-unicorn emblem behind the judge’s empty chair.
Miles Lambert came to a halt beside the dock. This was a dark wooden enclosure at the back of the court, which Greta had had to occupy once before when she came to court in the spring to plead not guilty. Now a security woman with cropped black hair and a sallow face bent to open the low wicket gate and stood aside for Greta to enter the enclosure. The latch of the gate clicked behind her.
‘Now, Patrick’ll be watching to see if you need anything,’ said Miles in a soothing tone. ‘Have you got plenty of paper and pens? You can pass me a note if you think of something important, although I doubt we’ll get much beyond the prosecution’s opening statement this morning, and you don’t need to worry about that. It’s not evidence.’
Greta nodded and bit her lip. As if paper would help her. With all these people looking at her and strangers deciding her fate.
‘We ought to get a jury fairly soon. Remember not to look at them directly. They don’t like that. But let them look at you. There’ll be a bad minute or two with the photographs of the body. I can’t stop Sparling showing them those but it won’t last long. The judge’ll see to that. Granger’s all right. We could have done a lot worse.’
Greta smiled wanly. She was grateful to Miles Lambert for trying to make things easier for her.
The security woman tapped Greta on the shoulder, interrupting the conversation.
‘You need to surrender to custody. It’s the rules.’
‘But haven’t I just done so?’
‘No, I’ve got to search you. Check your bag.’
‘Oh, all right,’ said Greta, offering her handbag up for inspection.
But this wasn’t enough.
‘It’s through here,’ said the woman, touching Greta’s arm this time as she guided her through a door in the side of the dock out into a small holding area. The once white walls were covered in obscene words and pictures drawn by rapists and murderers raging against their fate. Greta thought how strange it was that such a place should exist within a few metres of the judge, sitting in all his pomp and glory. But neither the graffiti nor the stale smell of urine emanating from a lavatory cubicle with a seatless toilet in the corner really bothered Greta. She’d seen worse.
It was the staircase in the far corner that sent a shiver down her spine. She couldn’t see more than the first three steps from where she stood near the door to the court, but it was enough to know that they went down and not up. Down to the cells below, from which there would be no escape.
