‘I agree,’ said Jupp, and instructed the jury to ignore it.
‘I have nothing further for this witness,’ Brown responded, and sat down.
You are good! Meg thought, privately. But then she worried, Or am I just clutching at straws in desperation?
Cork got to his feet. ‘I have only one more question, Your Honour. My learned friend suggests your conclusion is based solely on coincidence but how would you describe the evidence?’
Emily Denyer replied, ‘Strong circumstantial evidence.’
‘Thank you,’ said Cork. ‘I have no more questions.’
The prosecution case against Terence Gready had been due to finish around mid-morning and all the jurors had been eagerly anticipating the start of the defence, which would commence soon after Emily Denyer had finished giving her evidence. And there was anxiety among some of the jurors that although they’d been told the trial was expected to last a couple of weeks, there was now every indication it might run longer.
Their anxiety was compounded by Stephen Cork making a surprise announcement that he had a new prosecution witness — someone who had formerly been lined up as a defence witness. Primrose Brown had immediately requested an adjournment to give her team time to prepare their cross-examination. Richard Jupp had given her short shrift. ‘You are well aware there is no property in a witness,’ he said, sternly. ‘You know this person, you know what evidence he has. I’ll give you fifteen minutes — time to let the jurors have a quick coffee break.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Court is adjourned. We reconvene at 11.35.’
In the jury room, while everyone else discussed Emily Denyer’s financial evidence, Meg again read the WhatsApp message from her daughter, and stared at the attached photograph, the first one she had seen of the man that Laura said was following and photographing them.
She had been anticipating some swarthy slimeball with greased hair and slick sunglasses. But what she saw was a guy in his early thirties, with South American looks and close-cropped curly hair, casually dressed in a jogging top over jeans and trainers. He looked harmless, the kind of guy who could blend into any crowd. Which, presumably, was the intention.
Jorge.
Had the photographs which had been put on her kitchen table been taken by this man?
‘The financial evidence is utterly compelling,’ droned the voice of Harold Trout. ‘I don’t see how anyone could think otherwise.’
‘Well, I can,’ Toby DeWinter announced. ‘I am completely and utterly lost — and I didn’t like that woman anyway, she’s trying to bamboozle us with figures, IMHOP.’
‘Imhop?’ queried Maisy Waller.
DeWinter shook his head. ‘In my humble opinion,’ he translated.
‘Ah.’
‘Absolute nonsense,’ Trout retorted. ‘If you were concentrating, you’d have found it all very clear.’
DeWinter bristled. ‘There’s a big difference between following and understanding. That woman,’ he said, with contempt, ‘that Financial Investigator is nothing more than a prosecution puppet. She’s spent God knows how many hours trotting out links between shell companies, board members and bank accounts all around the world, but in all these bloody spreadsheets is there one mention of the defendant’s actual name on any board of directors or on any bank account?’
‘Well, of course not,’ Trout replied, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down frantically, his voice rising. ‘That was the whole point — total obfuscation.’
‘Hey!’ Meg interrupted. ‘Can we all keep our tempers, please? Getting angry with each other is not going to get us very far. We’re not a bunch of squabbling school children. Please remember, Harold, that everyone is entitled to their own opinion, whether you agree with them or not.’
In the moment of awkward silence that followed, Meg did wonder whether she should have let the argument continue. If it had broken into a fight, what would have happened? Two jurors who couldn’t be in the same room together — would that be enough for a retrial with a fresh jury — and a safe solution for her and Laura?
Then she heard the pompous voice of Hugo Pink. ‘I’m with Toby on this one,’ he said. ‘We’ve been shown very fancy financial shenanigans, I’ll grant you. But I’ve not yet seen any conclusive link to the defendant.’
There was a rap on the door and the jury bailiff entered, announcing they were required back in.
80
Wednesday 22 May
As they were getting ready to file into the court, Harold Trout, right in front of Meg, suddenly stopped, holding back for a second. He pointed at the back of DeWinter’s bleached blond head and leaned over to whisper in her ear. ‘If that man’s IQ was any lower, we’d have to water him every day.’
She smiled and rolled her eyes. They entered the court and took their seats. The judge, already seated, addressed the jurors. ‘As you heard, a new, last-minute witness for the prosecution has just come forward. It looks likely that this trial will now go into a third week and I realize this will be an inconvenience to some of you. But I’m sure you all appreciate the gravity of the allegations against the defendant and I’m asking you to please understand the need for this extra time in the interests of giving the defendant a fair trial.’
He nodded to Cork. ‘Please proceed.’
‘I now call my next witness,’ the prosecutor said.
Meg watched a pugilistic-looking man in his forties, escorted by a security officer, make his way through the well of the court and into the witness box. He had a misshapen nose, gold ear stud and wore a battered leather jacket over a denim shirt and jeans. He had an awkward swing of his right arm.
‘Please state your name,’ the clerk asked.
‘Michael Starr,’ he said, nervously but clearly, then took the oath on the Bible.
‘Is it correct, Mr Starr, that you have pleaded guilty to all the counts that the defendant is currently being tried for before this court?’ Cork asked.
‘Yes, at the first opportunity.’
‘Mr Starr,’ Cork asked him in a friendly, gentle tone, ‘is it true you have made a full statement admitting your guilt and giving details of your criminal activities over the last fifteen years to the police?’
‘Yes, the other day.’
‘Do you know a man called Terence Gready?’
‘Yes, I do. He is sitting over there,’ Starr said, pointing at the defendant in the dock.
Cork continued. ‘How long have you known him?’
‘About eighteen years.’
Meg watched Gready. He was staring ahead, impassively. Then suddenly he glanced fleetingly at the jury — at her. Making eye contact with her, holding it for a moment too long.
Meg’s mind was in turmoil. She was already convinced of his guilt, and that Harold Trout was right. How many thousands of lives had been ruined by the drugs Gready had supplied? Yet here she was fighting for him to walk out of this court a free man.
The more evidence she heard against him, the more her hopes were fading of an acquittal. Sure, they’d not yet heard any defence witnesses and maybe his legal team was going to pull a rabbit out of a hat. But on what she’d heard so far it wasn’t looking good for Gready. Which meant she was going to have her work cut out with the jury.
No question Harold Trout would be voting guilty. He was the only one she was absolutely certain would, at this stage. Hugo seemed to be genially disposed towards the defendant. She was increasingly convinced he was the one who was her friend, but she dared not approach him to ask.
Toby DeWinter was a wild card. Highly opinionated, so far he had not liked any of the prosecution witnesses, nor the prosecutor himself. But he did seem to like her. With him and Hugo on-side, she had enough to prevent a ‘guilty’ verdict. But a hung jury would simply mean a retrial.