The car pulls away. Photographers run alongside, shooting through the tinted windows. Natasha Ellis has covered her face. Gordon defiantly sticks out his jaw.
Ronnie Cray appears alongside me, lighting a cigarette and exhaling.
‘He acted like a rock star and they treated him like a scumbag. That’s how life balances itself out.’
‘You briefed the reporters.’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’
49
There are three unmarked cars and two motorcycles following Gordon Ellis. Neither too old nor too new, the vehicles blend in with the traffic and constantly change positions.
Safari Roy is two-up in the lead vehicle, dressed like a businessman on his way home from work. Car two is a Land Rover Discovery, half a block behind, driven by a woman officer who looks like a typical mother on a school run. There is also a tradesman’s van, a motorcycle courier and a minibus.
Gordon Ellis will expect the police to follow him, but this fact won’t ease his anxiety. He’ll still look over his shoulder and study the vehicles and faces of the drivers. Each time he’ll see a different car and a different face. Nobody familiar. Nothing out of place.
‘It’s costing a fortune,’ says Cray, as she watches coloured dots on a computer screen - each one representing a different surveillance team. I have to swap vehicles and personnel every twelve hours.’
‘How long have you been given?’
‘Forty-eight hours. He has to make a move by then.’
‘He will.’
We’re being driven down Newgate Street past Castle Park. The narrow harbour slides by, sluggish and brown. A handful of boats are tied up along a dock, most of them moored permanently and painted with advertising.
Sienna is next to me, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes. Leaning her head against the window, she watches joggers dressed in Lycra circling the paths and mothers pushing children on tricycles with handles. Most are wrapped in waterproof jackets and look tired of waiting for the warmer weather to arrive. That’s the way it is with Bristol. In winter it’s full of weary, pinch-faced urbanites, but come the summer they grow a smile.
The car pauses at a police checkpoint and we wait for the plastic barricade to be pulled aside. The Crown Court precinct is quiet. Most of the protesters have dispersed but a token few are sitting on the steps of the Guildhall, outnumbered by police officers.
We walk Sienna through the main entrance and the security screening. The clock in the foyer has just gone two. Court One is due back in session.
Taking Sienna upstairs, we push through the doors. She slides on to a bench seat in the public gallery. Her baseball cap is pulled even lower. Rita Brennan is two rows in front of us. Ruiz is off to the side. He glances at me and barely nods.
In the main body of the courtroom, Novak Brennan, Gary Dobson and Tony Scott are sitting in silence in the dock. Julianne waits at her microphone and Judge Spencer has his head down, tapping the keys of a laptop. His silver horsehair wig gleams under the hanging lights.
A door opens at the side of the court. The jury enters in single-file, moving to their usual seats. The foreman sits nearest the judge.
Cray whispers to Sienna. ‘Tell me if you recognise any of them.’
Sienna raises her eyes, looking from face to face. She shakes her head.
‘What about the guy in the front row, far left?’
She leans forward. Studies him. Shakes her head again.
‘Are you sure?’
A nod.
Cray looks at me.
Marco Kostin is being recalled to the witness box. He shuffles this time, less confident than I remember. Diminished. The light has washed out of his eyes and his skin is blotchy and damp.
Novak Brennan’s barrister, Mr Hurst, QC, has a narrow, choleric face with small busy eyes. Pacing back and forth in front of the jury box, he makes eye contact with individual jurors who seem to look down or away. He turns to the witness box.
‘Before the break, Mr Kostin, you were describing the house. You said you were sleeping when you heard the sound of glass breaking. Is that correct?’
Julianne translates the question.
Marco nods and answers in a hoarse voice.
‘If you were sleeping, how are you certain it was glass breaking that woke you?’
‘I heard it more than once.’
‘How many times did you hear it?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘You’re not sure. I see.’ Mr Hurst exchanges a look with the jury. ‘Are you sure you went to the window?’
‘Yes.’
‘From the second floor you claim to have seen my client sitting behind the wheel of a van. How far do you think that was?’
Marco looks from Julianne to Mr Hurst. He doesn’t understand the question.
‘What was the distance between you and the van? Fifty feet . . . a hundred feet . . . more?’
Marco blinks and his mouth flexes uncertainly.
Mr Hurst: ‘Perhaps you’d prefer to use metres?’
‘From the second floors,’ says Marco. ‘I don’t know how far this is - maybe ninety feets.’
‘Ninety. You don’t seem very sure.’
‘I did not measure it.’
There is a sprinkling of laughter in the courtroom. Mr Hurst allows himself a brief smile.
‘It was dark - after midnight, in fact. You must have remarkable eyesight.’
‘I see OK.’
‘You told the police that you couldn’t see the number plate on the van because it was too dark.’
Marco hesitates. ‘I don’t understand?’
‘Did you tell police it was too dark to see the number plate?’
‘It was in shadow.’
‘It was too dark - yes or no?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yet you could see my client through a dirty second-floor window from ninety feet away in the dead of night?’
‘There was a light inside the van when the door opened.’
‘You told police there were three men?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why couldn’t you identify the others?’
‘I did not see them clearly.’
‘Because it was dark?’
‘Yes.’
Mr Hurst exchanges another look with the jury.
‘Had you seen Mr Brennan anywhere before?’
‘I had seen his picture.’
‘Where was that?’
‘In the newspaper.’
‘During the council elections. You probably saw his campaign posters and his leaflets.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that why you picked him out of a police line-up?’
‘I recognised him, yes.’
‘You don’t agree with his politics or his policies, so you decided to punish him.’
‘No.’
‘Who told you to identify him?’
Marco looks at Julianne, not understanding. She explains the question. He shakes his head.
Mr Hurst braces both his hands on the bar table on either side of a legal pad. ‘You came to this country as an asylum seeker, is that correct?’
‘We applied for asylum.’
‘Yes, but when you first arrived you told immigration officers that you were tourists.’
‘Yes.’
‘And that was a lie.’
Marco looks at Julianne and then at the judge. Mr Hurst prompts him again.
‘You lied to immigration officers?’
‘I did as my father told me.’
‘Have you been promised anything for testifying at this trial?’
‘Promised?’
‘What is your immigration status now?’
‘I have been allowed to remain here for four years.’
‘So you can stay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t it also true that you’ve been approached by a newspaper and offered money for your story.’
‘Objection!’ says Miss Scriber, quick to her feet. ‘Mr Hurst has already suggested Mr Kostin’s immigration status has influenced his evidence. Now he’s suggesting that he’s seeking to profit from these circumstances.’