Guilty One

23

The prosecution were now clearly trying to depict Sebastian as an evil child. The witness list for the day included neighbours of the Crolls, children from Sebastian’s school and his teacher. Out of the presence of the jury, Irene objected to the line of questioning as an attempt to elicit irrelevant evidence of bad character, but the judge allowed some leeway, particularly to do with Sebastian’s reputation as a violent bully, seeing as it related to the offence.

Sebastian was alert today and focused on the trial. There had been no doodling, no swinging of his legs. His father was no longer in court. Daniel had spoken to Charlotte, who said that Kenneth had been called overseas but would return in a few days. Charlotte seemed overwrought: all tendon and sunken eyes and trembling fingertips. She was terrified to go outside for a cigarette, she told Daniel, in case she was set upon by the journalists. She couldn’t bear the lies that people were writing about her son. Daniel had squeezed her elbow and told her to stay calm. It’ll get worse before it’s our turn, he told her. You’d better prepare yourself.

*

‘The Crown calls Mrs Gillian Hodge.’

Daniel watched her make her way to the witness box. The journalists in the gallery all scribbled furiously as she raised her right hand and swore to tell the truth. She was neighbour to both the Crolls and the Stokeses and the mother of two young girls. Daniel had spoken to Irene about her at the chambers party. Her voice was clear and strong, her gestures confident and composed. She was professional yet maternal, with honest bright eyes and straight, prominent teeth. Daniel clasped his hands and waited, almost dreading her evidence. He felt Sebastian’s small hand on his thigh and leaned down so that his ear was nearer to the boy’s mouth.

‘She hates me,’ was all he said.

‘Just relax,’ said Daniel, almost to himself.

Gordon Jones swished his robe aside and assumed his stance by the lectern.

‘Mrs Hodge, could you tell us how you know the Crolls and their son, Sebastian?’

‘I’m their neighbour, also neighbour to Madeline and Paul Stokes. I’m right between the two.’

Daniel listened to her carefully. Her London-public-school voice was assertive and she almost didn’t need the microphone in front of her.

‘And their children,’ Jones prompted, ‘would you say you know them well?’

‘My children used to play with both Ben and Sebastian, so I know the parents and their children well.’

When she said, and their children, Madeline turned distinctly towards Sebastian. Daniel straightened his spine as he felt her stern stare.

‘You have two daughters, is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how old are they’

‘One is eight and the other twelve.’

‘Your younger daughter is the same age as Ben Stokes?’

‘Yes, they were in the same class at school.’ Gillian’s large bright eyes sought out Madeline Stokes, who hung her head. Gillian cleared her throat.

‘And your older daughter … a similar age to Sebastian?’

‘Yes, she’s older, but doesn’t play with the boys so much. My youngest is the tomboy. She liked playing with Ben …’

‘Did you encounter any problems when your daughter played with either of the boys who lived near you?’

‘Well, like I said, Poppy, my youngest, really did get on well with little Ben, but often Sebastian would try to join in, or else he would want to play with Poppy even when Ben wasn’t there.’

‘Was this in any way problematic?’

Irene jumped to her feet and Daniel held his breath.

‘With your lordship’s leave, I must object to this line of questioning. It really is hearsay.’

‘Yes, but I’m going to allow it.’ Philip Baron’s voice was deep and authoritative, although he sat slumped on the bench, lost in his robes and corpulent. ‘I am satisfied that it is admissible in the interests of justice.’

Irene sat down. She turned to glance at Daniel. He nodded in support of her frustration.

‘Sebastian could be very violent, very bullying …’

‘In what way?’

‘Once, when Poppy didn’t want to play a game he wanted, he threatened her with a piece of broken glass. He was holding her hair so she couldn’t get away and had the piece of glass right against her throat … I saw from the—’

Irene was on her feet again. ‘My lord, I must protest this prejudicial line in front of the jury. My client has no opportunity to defend himself.’

‘Well,’ said Judge Baron, his fingers fluttering upward like an exalting Christ, ‘I see he has a more than adequate defence in you, Miss Clarke.’

Irene opened her mouth to speak, but reluctantly sat down. Daniel scrawled a note and passed it to her junior, Mark. It read: Ask her about domestic violence in Croll house?

Irene turned when she read the note. Daniel met her gaze as she considered. The abuse brought context to Sebastian’s behaviour to the neighbours’ children but Daniel understood that it was also risky. It could hint that Sebastian had learned to be violent; that he was driven to act out the scenes that he had witnessed in his family home.

‘… Poppy was quite terrified of him. She had told me before that she didn’t like Sebastian, but I had encouraged her to try and get along. After seeing my daughter being threatened in that way, I forbade her to play with Sebastian again.’

‘Did you speak to Sebastian’s parents about this incident?’

‘I spoke to his mother, yes.’ Gillian stiffened, as if the memory was offensive to her. ‘She took no interest at all. She seemed utterly unconcerned. I just made sure that Poppy didn’t play with him any more.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Hodge.’ Gordon Jones tidied his notes and sat down.

*

‘Mrs Hodge.’ Irene was composed.

Daniel leaned forward on the table, one hand under his chin. A second later, Sebastian did the same, mirroring Daniel’s posture.

‘Tell me, how long have you lived next door to the Crolls and the Stokeses?’

‘I … don’t remember, about three or four years.’

‘That’s when you moved to Richmond Crescent?’

‘Yes.’

‘The children played together. Did you spend time socially with any of the other parents?’

‘Yes, of course, there was the odd glass of wine or cup of coffee – more with Madeline, I would say – although I have been to visit … Charlotte once or twice.’

‘You told Charlotte Croll about Sebastian’s behaviour towards your daughter and you say she took no interest? A neighbour with whom you had socialised? Do you expect us to believe this?’

Gillian seemed to flush a little. Her large eyes searched the courtroom and then looked upwards. ‘She was … understanding … but nothing changed. She didn’t seem to have any control … ’

‘Mrs Hodge, this incident to which you refer, where Sebastian purportedly threatened your daughter with a piece of glass, did you report this to anyone other than the boy’s mother?’

Mrs Hodge’s eyes were wide. She looked up at Irene and shook her head.

‘You’re shaking your head. Did you not report the incident to the police or even the school – a social worker?’

Mrs Hodge cleared her throat. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I saw it happen and I told him off, severely, and then stopped Poppy playing with him again. That was the end of it. No harm was done.’

‘I see, no harm was done. When you told Sebastian off – severely – as you say, what was his reaction?’

‘He was … apologetic. He is … very polite.’ Gillian cleared her throat. ‘He said sorry to Poppy when I asked him to.’

At his side, Sebastian beamed up at Daniel, as if pleased at the praise.

‘Mrs Hodge, we have heard you say that Sebastian could be a little aggressive. But did you ever have cause to report his behaviour to the authorities in the nearly four years that you lived next door?’

Gillian Hodge reddened. ‘Not to the authorities, no.’

‘And as a good mother, if you had ever felt that Sebastian was any kind of real threat to your child or your neighbours’ children, you would have done so immediately?’

‘Well, yes …’

‘You are the mother of two children, ages the same as the deceased and the defendant, is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me, have either of your children ever acted in an aggressive way?’

Mrs Hodge coloured again.

Jones stood up, a hand held high in exasperation. ‘My lord, I must query the relevance of this line of questioning.’

‘Yes, but I’ll allow it,’ said Baron. ‘I have already ruled on the admissibility of this.’

‘Mrs Hodge,’ Irene repeated, ‘have either of your children ever acted in an aggressive way?’

‘Well, yes. All children can be aggressive.’

‘So they can,’ Irene retorted. ‘No further questions.’

‘Very well, in view of the hour, I think this might be a convenient moment … ’ Baron twisted to face the jury. ‘Enjoy your lunch, but I’ll remind you once again not to discuss the case unless all together.’

There was a hush, a waterless wave, a rush of fabric and air in the stifled room, as the court rose with the judge and then sat again in his absence. The clerk asked for the public gallery to be cleared and Daniel looked up to watch the reluctant faces turn away from the spectacle.

Daniel stood behind Sebastian’s chair and squeezed his shoulders gently. ‘You OK, Sebastian?’ he asked, one eyebrow raised.

Sebastian started jumping up and down, nodding his head at Daniel as he did so; then he was touching his toes and spinning round. The sharp edges of his too-big suit rose up to his ears and down again as he jumped.

‘Are you dancing, Seb?’ the police officer asked. ‘It’s time to go back downstairs.’

‘In a minute, Charlie,’ said Sebastian. ‘I’ve been sitting down so long.’

‘You can dance your way downstairs then, Fred Astaire, OK?’

‘Bye for now, Danny,’ said Sebastian, turning, the police officer’s hand on his shoulder. ‘See you after lunch.’

‘See you later,’ said Daniel, shaking his head as he watched his young client go. Part of him wanted to laugh at the boy and his antics, but another part of him was deeply saddened.

*

Irene reached over and squeezed Daniel’s elbow. ‘I just didn’t feel it was right, Danny.’ Daniel smiled and looked her in the eye, thinking how pretty her eyes were. ‘It’s a double-edged sword.’

‘Hey, I know, it’s a value call,’ he said. ‘And honestly, it’s probably the last thing Sebastian or his family want to have revealed in open court.’

She smiled at him.

‘I trust your judgement,’ he said, as they made their way out of court.

Daniel went down to the cell to speak to Sebastian. Charlotte was there too. As the guard let Daniel in, Sebastian kicked his mother in the thigh. She made no sound, but moved away, flat palm against her leg.

‘Easy, Seb,’ said Daniel.

Sebastian was slumped against the wall, his lower lip pouting.

Charlotte seemed agitated after the evidence. ‘Why did they have to call her? She’s always putting her nose in where it doesn’t belong.’

‘She hates me,’ said Sebastian again.

‘Gillian hates us all,’ said Charlotte.

‘Can I talk to you outside, Charlotte?’ Daniel asked.

She nodded in assent and turned from him to pick up her bag. Daniel could see her shoulder blades through her suit.

When the door closed, Charlotte wanted a cigarette. Daniel begged permission from the security officer for her to go outside directly from the cells, without going upstairs. Daniel was surprised that the guard allowed it, but it seemed that Charlotte had asked to be let out there to smoke before. The back door of the cells was isolated and free of reporters.

Her hands shook as she tried to light her cigarette. There was a breeze and so Daniel cupped his hand around it. When it was lit, she sucked hard before turning to him, deep frown lines cutting into her brow.

‘I know it’s hard on you, Charlotte, but think how it is for Sebastian. Right now every single person that gives evidence is castigating him.’

‘He’s my son. They’re castigating me too.’

‘You have to be strong. This is just the beginning. It’s only going to get worse.’

‘They shouldn’t be allowed to say such things,’ she said. ‘That I can’t control him; that I didn’t care when he threatened other kids. I wasn’t there when he tried to cut another child with a piece of glass.’

Her voice was shrill, her face crumbling. She seemed so old suddenly.

‘Try to remind yourself that when they stoop to things like this – bad character, hearsay – it’s because they need to. Their evidence is mainly circumstantial. With his school reports showing a history of aggression this was bound to come up, but try to remember that it doesn’t prove—’

‘I’m to blame – that’s what they are trying to say. This is to be my trial. Find him guilty and say it’s all my fault?’

Daniel reached out and squeezed Charlotte’s shoulder. ‘Nobody’s saying that …’

She turned away and when she turned back to take another drag from her cigarette, Daniel saw that she was crying. Her tears were black and they washed fragile white veins through her foundation.

‘You’re his mum,’ said Daniel. ‘He’s eleven years old and on trial for murder. It will affect the rest of his life. He needs you to be strong for him.’

The prison vans were huddled dark and forbidding in the courtyard. It reminded Daniel of the farm at night: the sheds where the animals were kept. The emergency exit door they had slipped out of banged in the wind.

‘Strong like you, you mean?’ she said, knuckle to her lower lids, careful not to smudge. She placed her palm on Daniel’s chest. Under his shirt, he felt his skin tingle at her touch. ‘Feel how strong you are.’

‘Charlotte,’ he whispered, taking a step back and feeling the building behind him. He smelled her heady perfume and then her cigarette breath. Her lips were millimetres from his own. A column of ash trembled and fell on to the lapel of her jacket. Daniel stood up straight and let the back of his head touch the outside wall.

She let her hand fall slowly and he felt her long nails on his lower abdomen. He tightened his stomach muscles, and, under his shirt, the skin of his stomach withdrew from her.

There was something almost abhorrent about her, eye makeup smudged, foundation thick over her pores, but he felt a flush of empathy.

‘Enough,’ he whispered. ‘Your son needs you.’

Charlotte moved back, chastened. She seemed almost heartbroken, although Daniel knew that it was not just this rejection which had crushed her. Her eyes were smudges, her yellow fingers shaking the butt to her lips. ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed.

She let the cigarette fall to the ground. Daniel held the door.

*

‘The Crown calls Geoffrey Rankine.’

Daniel watched the man stand and walk to the witness box. He seemed too tall for the courtroom, trousers skirting the tops of his shoes. He had neatly trimmed, receding hair and eyebrows that were perpetually raised. When he swore to tell the truth before God he had a slight smile on his lips.

‘Mr Rankine, you reported to the police that you witnessed two boys fighting in Barnard Park on the afternoon of 8 August. Is that correct?’

‘That’s correct. I’ve been watching the news since, and thinking if only I’d done something … ’ Rankine’s voice was apathetic.

‘You mention two sightings of the boys fighting in your statement of 8 August. When did each of these occur?’

‘It was about two in the afternoon the first time I saw them. I always take the dog out about then, just for a quick walk after lunch, let him do his business.’

‘Can you describe the two boys you saw fighting?’

‘Well, it was like I said to the police: they both had short brown hair and there wasn’t much of a difference between them in height, but one was slightly smaller. One was in a long-sleeved white top and the other in a red T-shirt.’

‘My lord … if I may direct your lordship and the jury to page fifty-seven in your bundle, and the picture and description of Ben Stokes’s clothing on the day that he died, particularly the red T-shirt,’ said Gordon Jones, allowing his glasses to balance on the end of his nose as he viewed his own bundle. ‘And on page fifty-eight the clothing recovered by forensics and worn by the defendant on the date of the murder … Did you know either of the boys, Mr Rankine?’

‘No, not by name, but I had seen them both around. Their faces were familiar. We live not far from each other and I’m always out with the dog.’

‘Tell us about the first time you saw the boys that day.’

‘I was walking my dog, not in the park but along the pavement that runs down Barnsbury Road. He’s an old dog, you know, likes a good sniff around. I’m a keen walker and I get frustrated with him. That day was like all the others, he was possibly even slower than normal. It was sunny. The park was busy, I would say, and I knew some of the other dog walkers who I normally see, but then I became aware of two young boys fighting on the crest of the hill.’

‘How far away were you from the boys, would you say?’

‘Maybe twenty, thirty feet – no more.’

‘What did you see?’

‘Well, at first I wasn’t much concerned. It was just two young boys having a bit of a scrap, but one of the boys began to get the upper hand. I remember he grabbed the smaller boy by the hair and forced him down on to his knees. He was punching him in the kidneys and the stomach. I have two sons and boys will be boys, and normally I wouldn’t interfere, but this seemed rather excessive, somewhat dangerous or … violent.’

‘Which of the boys you described seemed to be “getting the upper hand”?’

‘The slightly taller boy, the one in white.’

‘You spoke to the boys – what did you say?’

‘Well, it just seemed they were getting a bit rough with each other, you know. I told them to cut it out.’

‘What happened?’

‘Well, they stopped and one of the boys turned to me and smiled, and said they were only playing.’

‘Which boy was this?’

‘The defendant. I wasn’t entirely reassured, but boys will be boys as I say – I left them to it.’ Rankine’s cheeks became suddenly grey. He hung his head. ‘I keep reliving it. I shouldn’t have walked away, you see. I should have done something … If I had only guessed what would happen.’

Rankine stood up straight suddenly. He looked up the centre of the court in the direction of the Stokeses. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

Gordon Jones nodded understandingly, then continued: ‘You say they were being rough with each other? Did you regard it as rough play which was just getting out of hand, or would you say that one of the children was the aggressor?’

‘Maybe, yes, I think so. It was a while ago, but I think the boy in the white top … He was the one the police asked me about, after they found the … body.’ Mr Rankine shook his head and put a hand over his eyes.

‘What did the boys do after you spoke to them?’

‘Well, they went their way and I went mine.’

‘Which way did they head?’

‘Down the park towards the adventure playground … that youth club place.’

‘You described one of the boys as being “in distress”?’

‘Well, the police asked me about that, and I think that, yes, I think that was the case.’

‘Which boy did you perceive to be in distress?’

‘Well, I think I said the one in the red top … ’

‘And you still remember that to be the case?’

‘I think so, yes. Best I can recall.’

‘What features or aspects of the boy’s behaviour led you to think that he was distressed?’

‘Well, I think the boy in the red top might have been crying.’

‘Might have been?’

‘Well, I was further away by this time, a few metres. It looked like it.’

‘By that do you mean wailing, a red face, tears?’

‘Tears maybe, yes, maybe tears and a red face. I seem to recall him rubbing at his eyes.’

Mr Rankine looked into the distance, his own watery eyes trying to see again what he had seen months before, and ignored.

‘The defendant in his interview confirmed that he did see you just after two that day, and that you called on him and the deceased to stop fighting. Did you see the boys fighting at another point that day?’

‘Yes, much later on, it must have been about three thirty, or maybe even four o’clock. I was just going to the shop. I looked over at the park and in the adventure playground I saw the same boys fighting again. I remember because I considered crossing the road and telling them off again … I wish I had … ’

‘Describe this second sighting.’

‘I looked over at the park as I walked to the shop. I saw them – the same white shirt and red T-shirt. I saw the boy in white swinging his fists at the boy in red.’

‘But this time you did nothing?’

‘No,’ said Rankine, seeming to crumple in the witness box. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ He put a hand to his mouth and pressed his eyes shut.

‘What brought you to report the two sightings to the police, at the incident van set up on Barnsbury Road, the morning after Ben went missing?’

‘Well, the next day there was the picture of Ben. He had been missing all night. I knew instantly when I saw it that he had been the little boy being beaten – the one in the red T-shirt.’

Sebastian had been following the evidence intently, watching Rankine with a thin frown between his brows. Sometimes he leaned into Daniel, peering over the crook in his arm at the notes he was making.

Rankine shifted restlessly in the witness box as Irene stood up and placed her notes on the lectern. Journalists craned from the gallery.

‘Listening to your evidence, Mr Rankine, and comparing it with your police statement, it would appear that you are not terribly sure of what you saw on the afternoon of 8 August. I refer you to page twenty-three in your bundle. This is your sworn statement which you gave to the police. Please could you read from the second paragraph.’

Rankine cleared his throat then began, ‘I saw two boys whom I recognised from the neighbourhood fighting on the crest of the hill in Barnard Park. Both boys were white. One of the boys was smaller, possibly younger, and dressed in a red T-shirt and jeans. He was being attacked violently by a larger boy, who was wearing a white or pale blue shirt.’

‘Thank you, Mr Rankine. The fight between the two boys you describe as “a violent attack” on one boy, and then again as “a bit of rough fighting”, and note yourself that “boys will be boys”. Which was it, Mr Rankine? Did you witness a violent assault, or was it a bit of rough and tumble play between two young schoolboys?’

‘It was quite violent. One of the boys definitely had the upper hand …’

‘Quite violent? Was there any blood? Did either of the boys seem to be in any way injured as a result of the blows?’

‘Well, like I said, there were a few hard punches. The younger boy did seem to be distressed …’

‘What exact words did you use to stop the fight?’

‘I think I said, “Boys, stop that … that’s enough of that.”’

‘I see. Did you enter the park and try to pull them apart?’

‘No, like I said, they stopped as soon as I called over.’

‘I see, and at this time neither boy was obviously injured.’

‘Well, no.’

‘And so you went on your way and they ran down the hill towards the adventure playground?’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t alert any authorities about the attack at this time?’

‘No.’

‘What in fact did you do?’

‘I went home.’

‘I see, and what did you do there?’

‘I … watched some television.’

‘So it is fair to say that after witnessing this initial “violent attack” you were unconcerned for the boy’s safety?’

‘Well, yes, but then, when I saw the boy was missing—’

‘To summarise your initial sighting of the boys, considering both your police statement and your evidence here today, it would be fair to say that the fight which you have described as somewhat violent was in fact a bit of normal rough and tumble, which did not merit reporting at the time, nor did it distract you from your other activities for the rest of the day, such as your afternoon television viewing. Would that be correct?’

‘Well, I … I suppose.’

‘As my learned colleague has reminded the court, my client stated on interview that he was play-fighting with the victim on the afternoon of his death and does remember an adult calling on them to stop. Let us now move to your supposed later sighting of the boys. You have testified that this second sighting was at about three thirty or four o’clock. Can you be more exact?’

‘No, but it was about that time.’

‘I refer to page thirty-six in the jury bundle, a map of Barnard Park and Barnsbury Road.’

Mr Rankine’s exact position was located, on the far side of the Barnsbury Road at the time of the sighting. The witness agreed that he was probably fifty metres from the boys at the time of the second sighting. Mr Rankine’s optician’s records were placed into evidence, showing that he was short-sighted with a prescription of –2.50. Rankine then testified that he wore glasses only to watch television or to drive. After this was established, Irene launched her attack.

‘The boy you saw in the white or pale blue top could have been any number of young people in the area. Is that not so?’

‘I recognise him now to be the … defendant.’

‘Now, I see … now. Earlier you told us that the boys you saw were not “noticeably different” in height, but your original statement to the police suggested a large and a small boy fighting. Which was it?’

‘Well, one was slightly larger. There wasn’t much in it, but one was discernibly larger – taller, as I said before.’

‘I see, and the clothing worn by the larger boy was “white or blue” but now you seem sure that it was white?’

‘I remember it being white now.’

‘Now you do, I see. Was that because the police specifically questioned you about a “boy in a white shirt” whom they had already arrested?’

‘I don’t think so. I can’t say for sure.’

‘Indeed, I don’t think you are sure of much, Mr Rankine, are you?’

Daniel tried not to smile. He felt a small swell of pride for her.

‘Well, I … ’

‘Let us go back to your original statement to the police. I refer you to page thirty-nine, paragraph two, in your bundle. Please could you read your statement, from some time later that afternoon …’

Rankine cleared this throat and then began to read. ‘… some time later that afternoon, I saw the boys again, this time fighting in the adventure playground. The smaller boy in red was being attacked by a larger person …’

‘Let me stop you there, Mr Rankine. A larger person … a larger person. Are you sure this was the defendant?’

‘Yes, I had seen him earlier that day.’

‘Mr Rankine, I remind you that you are under oath. You did see Sebastian earlier that day, but did you see him fighting in the adventure playground hours later? The Crown and the defence concur that there is no CCTV evidence of this sighting. We know that you were not wearing your glasses and that you were on the far side of the road, looking through the bushes and railings that surround the adventure playground. I suggest that you assumed the person you saw was my client, whom you had seen earlier that day.’

Judge Baron leaned forward. ‘Miss Clarke – will a question for the witness be coming any time soon?’

‘Yes, m’lord.’

‘I am so pleased,’ the judge replied, mouth turned down.

‘Mr Rankine, is it not true that you had no way of identifying my client from the distance stated, particularly considering your short-sightedness?’

‘I thought it was the boy from earlier.’

‘Really? What did you mean when you described the person you saw apparently attacking the deceased as a larger person? Can you tell us if you meant to indicate a person taller or heavier than the victim?’

‘I thought it was the boy from earlier,’ Rankine stammered. He seemed confused, pulling at his earlobe. ‘He was a good bit taller, a little heavier than the little boy …’

‘A good bit taller and heavier? We submit into evidence the height and weight of the victim, Benjamin Stokes, as four feet one inch and four and a half stone in weight. The defendant was just four feet three and four stone nine pounds when placed on remand. In fact the boys were of similar height and weight and one was not “a good bit taller and heavier”. I suggest, Mr Rankine, that the person you saw later that afternoon was not Sebastian Croll, whom you called out to earlier, but was in fact someone else entirely. Could that be so?’

‘Well, I was sure at the time …’

‘Mr Rankine, you are under oath. We know your eye prescription and we know the distance that you were away from the two people you claim to have witnessed at three thirty or four o’clock that day. Could you not have seen someone else, possibly even an adult, with the victim?’

‘Yes,’ Rankine said finally, seeming to slump in the witness box. ‘It’s possible.’

‘Thank you,’ said Irene. She was about to sit, but the witness stood, shaking his head.

‘I’d be glad to be wrong,’ said Rankine. ‘If I never saw him then I never could have stopped it happening. Glad to be wrong.’

‘Thank you, no further questions, m’lord.’ Irene swept her gown under her before she sat.

‘Irene’s quite a good barrister,’ Sebastian whispered to Daniel when the jury had been excused and he was about to be taken back down to the cells. ‘He never saw me at the playground. He saw someone else.’

Daniel felt a chill. He put a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder as the police officer approached. He felt sure that the boy fully comprehended everything that was going on.

Irene rolled her eyebrows at Daniel as she left the room.

Daniel worked late at the office and arrived home in Bow after eight. He closed the door of his flat and leaned his forehead against the frame. His home smelled unlived-in. He turned the heating on and made a cup of tea, changed out of his suit into jeans and a T-shirt and put a load of clothes into the washing machine.

He called Cunningham, Minnie’s lawyer, to check progress on the house, but his mobile was turned to answerphone. It was just then that there was a knock at the door. Daniel assumed it was a neighbour, as there was a buzzer-entry system from the street. He opened the door to find a small, corpulent man with an iPhone held up like a microphone.

‘Can I help you?’ said Daniel, frowning, two fingers hooked into the back pocket of his jeans.

‘You’re Daniel Hunter, the Angel Killer’s lawyer,’ the man said. ‘I wondered if you wanted to talk to me. I’m from the Mail.’

Daniel felt anger flood his muscles, hot and quick. He laughed in a single syllable, then stepped on to the doorstep. ‘How dare you. How did you find me … ?’

‘The electoral register,’ the man said blankly. Daniel noticed his crumpled shirt and nicotine-stained fingers.

‘Get off my property right now before I call the police.’

‘It’s a public stairwell …’

‘It’s my stairwell, get out,’ said Daniel, so loud that it echoed in the hall. He heard the northern lilt to his voice. His accent always thickened in anger.

‘We’re doing a story on you anyway. Might be better for you if you said something,’ said the man, again without expression, looking away to touch his phone and, Daniel presumed, record their conversation.

The action seemed to release something in Daniel. It had been years since he had hit anyone or been physical in that way. He took the man by the collar and slammed him against the wall of the stairwell. The phone fell to the ground with a crack.

‘Do I have to tell you again?’ said Daniel, his face leaning down close to the man’s. He could smell damp raincoat and menthol gum.

The man twisted from his grasp, bent in a hurry to pick up the phone and almost fell down the steps to the main door. Daniel waited on the landing until he heard the main door click shut.

Inside he paced in the hall, running his hand through his hair. He slammed the wall with his open palm.

He walked into the living room, cursing under his breath. He saw Minnie’s photograph on his mantelpiece and imagined what she would say to him now. What’s a bright boy like you needing to use your fists for anyway? He smiled despite himself.

He tried to imagine her coming to visit him: struggling up the stairs, asking why he couldn’t find something on the ground floor. She would cook for him and they would drink gin together and laugh about the fights they had had.

But she was dead and now he would never know what it would be like to be an adult with her. She had taken him in as a child and he had left her as a child – older but still a child – angry and embittered. He had missed the chance to share a gin and hear her story – hear it as an equal, not as someone who had saved him. It was that more than anything that he regretted now, the sense that he had missed out on knowing her properly.

Daniel got up and went into the kitchen in search of gin. He kept his spirits in a box in a cupboard. There were all sorts left over from parties: Madeira, advocaat, Malibu, and Daniel rarely touched them. He lifted the box down and searched until he found a half-full bottle of Bombay Sapphire. It was better than she would have allowed herself, yet Daniel took care to make it up the way that she would have liked: a tall glass, ice in first and then the lemon (when she had one) squeezed over the top. He was sure she added the ice first so as to fool herself that the measure was not as large as it seemed. Tonic fizzed over the ice and gin and lemon and Daniel stirred it with the handle of a fork. He sipped in the kitchen, remembering her pink fist gripping the glass and her twinkling eyes.

The football was on, but he muted the sound and picked up her address book, turning again to the page with Jane Flynn’s number and Hounslow address. He looked at his watch. It was just after nine – not too late for a call.

Daniel dialled the number which Minnie had written carefully in blue biro. He did not remember Minnie being in contact with Jane, but maybe this number had been recorded while Norman was still alive.

Daniel listened to the ring as he sipped his drink. The very smell of the drink reminded him of Minnie.

‘Hello?’ The voice sounded echoey, lonely, as if spoken in a dark hall.

‘Hello, I wanted to talk to … Jane Flynn?’

‘Speaking. Who is this?’

‘My name’s Daniel Hunter. I was … Minnie Flynn was my … If I’m right she was your brother’s wife?’

‘You know Minnie?’

‘Yes, can you talk right now?’

‘Yes, but … how can I help you? How is Minnie? I often think of her.’

‘Well, she … died this year.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. That’s awful. How did you say you knew her …?’

‘I’m her … son. She adopted me.’ The words took the breath from him and he leaned back against the sofa, winded.

‘How awful,’ she said again. ‘God … thank you so much for letting me know. What did you say your name was?’

‘Danny …’

‘Danny,’ Jane repeated. Daniel could hear children screaming with laughter in the background, above the sound of the television, and wondered if these were her grandchildren.

‘Did you know her well?’ he asked.

‘Well, we all used to go out together in London when we were young. She and Norman met down here. We would go dancing, have fish and chips. After she and Norman moved back to Cumbria – not so much.’

‘You and Norman were from up there originally?’

‘Yes, but I rarely went back. Norman missed it, missed the life, but I’ve always liked the city. When is the funeral?’

‘It was a few months ago. I’m late in calling round …’ Daniel coloured slightly: assuming the guise of the dutiful son. ‘She left me her address book and I saw your number in it. I thought I’d ring, just in case you were still there … in case you wanted to know.’

‘I appreciate it. Such sad news, but … God bless her, she didn’t have an easy life, did she?’

‘Do you know what happened to them – Delia and Norman?’ Daniel could still feel his cheeks burning.

‘It took me years to get over it. Part of me was always angry with Minnie … That must sound awful to you, I’m sorry, but of course now I realise that was wrong of me. It’s just how you feel when something like that happens. You want to blame someone, and you can’t blame your brother. I think that was why we didn’t keep in touch. I know you must think I’m awful …’

‘I understand,’ said Daniel, quietly. ‘What happened to Norman?’

‘Well, when Delia died, Norman took a shotgun into the garden and … put it into his mouth. Minnie wasn’t home. The neighbours found him. It was in all the papers. I understood him being … He loved that little one, but it wasn’t his fault … Their marriage was ruined, you see. I think they went through a really black period. He blamed Minnie for it, you see …’

‘I think Minnie blamed herself.’

‘She was driving after all … He made it to the hospital to see her one last time: he was with the little one when she died but he … he never recovered. It was just a few months after she died that he killed himself.

‘I hope you never have to go through that, Danny. I was up in Cumbria for my niece’s funeral, then back three months later for my brother’s. Is it any wonder I don’t care to go back there now?’

‘What was Minnie like, at Delia’s funeral, I mean?’

‘She did well. She had us all back to the house and she’d made a spread. She didn’t shed a tear. We were all in bits, but the pair of them had it together. I remember something though …’

‘What was that?’

‘We were done. The priest had said his bit. The gravediggers were filling in the hole, but then Minnie twisted away from Norman and ran back and threw herself down in the mud by the grave. She was wearing a pale grey flowery dress. She threw herself down on her knees by Delia’s grave and reached in over the edge. We had to pull her back. Norman had to pull her back. She would have gone into that grave with her. That was the only sign really, that she was, that she was … When we were back at the house she had made sponge cakes. Fresh sponge cakes, not bought, her own. She must have been up baking the night before. And I remember her passing them around with a smile on her face and her eyes dry … but with those two brown circles of mud on her dress.’

Daniel didn’t know what to say. There was silence as he imagined the scene that Jane had described.

‘When Norman died, she didn’t try to throw herself into his grave. She hadn’t even changed her clothes, from what I could see. She was in her housecoat. She wasn’t even wearing stockings. There were no sponges at Norman’s funeral. Minnie just waited until it was over and then left. At the time I didn’t think kindly of her, but now I don’t blame her. She had reached her limit. We all have our limits, you know. She was very angry with him. God, I was too, after I got over the shock.’

Silence again.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Daniel.

‘I know – it was a terrible business. Minnie and I didn’t keep in touch because I blamed her for causing Norman’s death, but the truth is … and I tell you, it’s only recently I’ve managed to admit this to myself … it was his choice, not hers, and it was a cowardly choice. We all die, after all. Nothing surer. He just couldn’t bear it. I knew Minnie, she would have hated that … cowardice … especially since she braved it out, and her loss must have been even harder to bear.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Why, because she was driving. She must’ve thought, what if the little one had been in the front with the seatbelt on … what if she’d swerved in a slightly different direction. It would send you mad. She did well to remain sane. I trust she did … ?’

‘Very sane,’ said Daniel, allowing himself a small smile. ‘Saner than most.’

He exhaled: half-sigh and half-laugh.

‘What do you do now, Danny? Where are you calling from?’

‘I’m a lawyer, I’m in London too. In the East End.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss, pet.’

‘Thanks for talking to me. I just …’

‘No, thanks for letting me know. I would’ve come to the funeral if I’d known. She was a good woman. All the best …’

Daniel hung up.

A good woman.

He finished his gin, thinking of the mud on her dress.