‘I’ll pass,’ Henry said, feeling his stomach grind over. ‘I’ll be back on at six.’ He ended the call and stood there thoughtfully, his nostrils flaring. Jane Roscoe, not really a name he wished to be associated with any more, particularly as it seemed she and Anger were gunning for him.
What worried him most, though, was that they had a smoking gun and lots of ammo for it.
The crossing on the Nordic Pride had been rough and unpleasant. Whitlock, the lorry driver, was surprised they had been allowed to sail — but perhaps it was more that he would rather not have sailed with his current cargo.
As the ferry docked at Hull, Whitlock dragged himself reluctantly back to his vehicle in the belly of the ship and clambered into the driver’s cab, aware that for the first time in his life he did not want to get in.
He loved driving. He loved his lorry. But not today.
He wondered how the people stuffed into the container were doing as he turned on the ignition and started the engine.
The massive doors which formed the bows of the ferry opened with painful slowness, revealing the Port of Hull, a place Whitlock had passed through on hundreds of occasions.
With trepidation he wondered if he would actually pass through it today.
Seven
The problem with a trial of such magnitude was that you never could tell when you were going to be ambushed.
It seemed to be going well, had been for six weeks now, but there was always the possibility that something unexpected could come up — or, even worse, something that had been buried could rise from its grave like a zombie and screw the whole thing up.
Detective Superintendent Carl Easton gazed around the magnificent Shire Hall courtroom at Lancaster Crown Court within Lancaster Castle, an absolutely splendid setting for such a major trial. It was rarely used as a court venue these days because of the new Crown Court built in Preston and there were good facilities in other locations, too. However, a logjam of cases coupled with a desire to hear these proceedings as far away from Manchester as possible — but yet remain within a reasonable distance for witnesses — had made the powers that be plump for Lancaster.
Easton folded his arms as he squinted at the huge, ornate room, taking in the unique display of heraldic shields adorning the walls, whilst his mind wondered if that ‘something’ he was dreading would pop up.
So far, so smooth and in a couple of days all the witnesses would have been through the mill, prosecution and defence, then it would be time for the final address, the summing up, the deliberation by the jury, then the verdict.
Guilty. He crossed his fingers.
‘All rise in court,’ an usher shouted as the spectacularly robed judge regally entered the court and sat down at the high bench. It was Her Honour Mrs Ellison, approaching eighty years old, but definitely still with it, ruling the proceedings before her with a rod of iron, allowing nothing to get past her. Behind the pince-nez, her little grey eyes sparkled with cunning and intellect.
She sat as the prisoner was led into the dock from the holding cell underneath the courtroom. He was book-ended by two towering security guards from one of the private companies now contracted to perform prisoner-escort duties. In terms of sheer presence, though, the guards were completely overshadowed by the man between them, even though he was much smaller in stature. His eyes flickered quickly around the courtroom, resting fleetingly, but obviously, on Easton. The prisoner allowed himself a knowing smirk, bowed graciously to the bench then sat on his seat in the dock, waiting for the jury to be wheeled in.
His name was Rufus Sweetman. He was thirty-three years old. He was dressed smartly and expensively, oozing wealth but restraint. As an individual he looked mild-mannered but at the same time exuded an aura of confidence that made him very special and a little scary. A lot scary, actually, especially to people who got on the wrong side of him.
He was in court charged with murder.
The usher announced that the Crown Court was now in session.
Detective Superintendent Easton settled himself down and waited for proceedings to commence.
He was feeling pretty confident in the way that things had gone. A life sentence for Sweetman would be just the ticket he needed career-wise, both inside and outside the job. Getting rid of Sweetman from under his feet would be very good all round.
Easton had expected the prosecuting council to rise to his feet and was puzzled slightly when the defence QC stood up instead. The judge looked slightly perplexed too. She pulled her glasses down her nose.
‘Your Honour, if I may. .?’ the QC said politely. His name was Sharp and his way of operating reflected this. He was good and costly. The judge nodded at him. ‘As of this morning we are in receipt of new information concerning these proceedings. Could I please approach the bench. . together with my learned colleague, that is?’ He nodded sourly in the general direction of the prosecution.
Both berobed, bewigged men made their way across no-man’s-land to the high bench.
Easton leaned forward, straining to catch any snippets of the hushed conversation. He glanced at Sweetman, who was sitting comfortably cross-legged, his fingers tightly intertwined, thumbs circling, looking extremely smug.
Easton’s attention returned to the conflab at the bench. Suddenly he had a very queasy feeling in his stomach.
The sweat and pounding in his heart made Whitlock think he was about to have a cardiac arrest. His breathing was shallow and stuttering, his vision swimming, unfocused.
There was some hold-up ahead. He had only reached the lip of the ferry’s ramp where he was now poised in the queue down to the quayside. A lot of activity was going on, lots of people in yellow jackets strutting about. More than usual, he thought.
‘Oh God,’ he murmured. ‘I am fucking dead.’
The thought of dropping out of his cab, doing a runner and leaving his lorry behind entered his head.
The two counsels backed respectfully away from the bench and retreated to their respective tables, a smug expression on the countenance of the defence QC, who also managed to catch Detective Superintendent Easton’s eye.
‘What’s happening here, boss?’ the detective sergeant sitting next to Easton in court whispered harshly.
‘Don’t know, but I don’t like it,’ Easton said through the corner of his mouth. His eyes twitched. He looked across at Rufus Sweetman in the dock, who deliberately remained firmly focused ahead, although there was a wicked glint in his eyes and the glimmer of a grin on his face.
The prosecuting counsel sat, grim, unhappy. Defence remained on his feet, rearranging and straightening his papers on the table in front of him. He cleared his throat in preparation for an address to the court. Easton thought, Bombshell coming.
‘If it may please your honour,’ he began formally, ‘I would like to recall a witness to the box.’ The judge nodded her assent. The lawyer turned slightly in Easton’s direction. ‘Detective Superintendent Easton please.’
An usher repeated the summons.
‘Fuck!’ Easton muttered under his breath as he stood up and crossed the courtroom. His legs felt as though lead weights were attached to them as he stepped into the witness box, all eyes on him, all curious and excited by this new development. The press box seemed particularly energized.
‘Officer,’ the defence QC smiled. He was a fantastically experienced defence QC, the one the wealthy villains always chose to represent them, his fees running into thousands even for short trials. But he was worth it. His track record was phenomenal. He went on, ‘May I remind you that you are still under oath?’
Easton spoke to the judge. ‘Yes, Your Honour, I understand that.’