‘Tomorrow’s the day, McCann,’ she thought aloud, draining the last of her gin-and-tonic as the bath foam dispersed, ‘and you’re in with a chance, you bastard. A slim one, but a chance.’
16
Summing up in the trial of Patrick McCann took only ninety minutes in total. The jury retired at 11.32 a.m.
The Court waited in readiness for a verdict, until 1.00 p.m., when the jury was given lunch.
Rachel ate in the Court restaurant with the Advocate Depute and with Sam Burns, the instructing solicitor.
The AD had looked sure of his success when the jury retired, but Rachel noticed him grow more and more edgy as time wore on. Anything longer than forty minutes normally meant disagreement. In a case like this, anything more than an hour could be ominous for the prosecution.
Rachel was nervous too. Suddenly, success looked like a real possibility. Soon, the evil McCann might walk free through the front door of the Court, instead of being hustled through the side exit, handcuffed to prison officers. She began to experience, truly, for the first time in her career, that terrible divide between elation and guilt. This was not the same as the Chinese trial. Her client then, Shun Lee, had been a simpleton, who, she still believed, had played no part in the girl’s murder.
Lunch over, the jury remained closeted in its room.
Finally, at 3.52 p.m., a bell rang, summoning participants and public to the Court. The jury was on its way back.
McCann was brought up from the cells. And the eleven men and four women, unanimously, declared him guilty of both charges.
Lord Orlach wasted no time. After McCann’s previous convictions had been read out by the Clerk, the old judge told the prisoner that it was clear that he had to be removed from society once again, and for a long time. He sentenced him to life imprisonment for rape, with the recommendation ‘to those whose task it will be to consider your eventual release’ that he should serve at least fourteen years. He also sentenced him to six years’ imprisonment on the wounding charge, to be served concurrently.
Rachel Jameson’s last duty after the trial was to visit McCann in the cells, as he awaited transfer back to Barlinnie, this time as a convicted prisoner, a sex offender, a prison pariah.
The man who had sat so calmly through trial and sentence was now in a rage. He sat at a plain table, a burly prison officer at his side, and swore savagely at Rachel. ‘So you were clever, eh. You said ah’d get life and you were fuckin’ right. If you hadna held back on that hoor in the witness box, ah’d be out now! Ah tell you somethin’, hen. Fourteen years won’t be long enough for you. As soon as ah’m oot, you’re finished. In fact you’re fuckin’ finished now!’
Rachel screamed as McCann lunged across the table. The big prison officer thumped him on the side of the head. McCann swayed to the side, then suddenly swung back toward the guard, who had been thrown off balance by his own blow, and butted him savagely between the eyes.
The man went down poleaxed, just as his colleague threw the door open. The newcomer had no time to react as he was seized and shoved backwards. His head cracked loudly against the wall.
Smiling now, McCann released the unconscious man, and turned towards Rachel. She had backed into a corner of the white-tiled room, cowering and mute with fear, unable to scream or even speak. Her handbag lay open on the table. McCann saw the wallet inside. He snatched it up, clawed £55 from the notes section, and emptied the change pocket, then threw it into the far corner of the room. He looked back towards her. His face was calm, the eyes shining, the familiar arrogance back. He smiled. ‘I’ll see you again, Miss Jameson.’ He looked out of the room, left and right, and then he was gone.
Rachel stood frozen in her corner. She heard, but she could not react to the sudden commotion as McCann crashed through the exit door. She did not move for almost two minutes, until the prison officer nearer to her on the floor began to come round. She crossed the room towards the man. His nose was pouring blood and there was a deep vertical cut between his eyes.
A young police constable appeared in the doorway. ‘Oh Christ,’ he gasped, then turned and ran. Seconds later an alarm blared. Rachel looked along the corridor. The exit door lay ajar. The feet and legs of a third uniformed man were visible, sprawled like his colleagues. McCann was free and clear.
17
Policemen filled the corridor, and the room. A man in plain clothes led Rachel back into the interview room, where first aid was being administered to the two stricken prison officers. The big guard was on his feet, but the other showed no response. He was grey-faced.
‘Get an ambulance, quick.’The plain-clothes man snapped out the order ‘What happened Miss Jameson?’ At last Rachel recognised Detective Inspector Strang, the arresting officer in the McCann case. She told him the whole story of the escape. The first prison officer, still bleeding, added his account.
‘He made a dive for the lady, sir. I was sure he was going to do her in. I whacked him, then next thing I knew my lights were out.’
‘Sounds like he put on a show for you, you big clown. What the f…, sorry miss; what were you thinking about, staying in here alone with that man?’
Strang turned back to Rachel. ‘McCann’s a clever bastard. Don’t read too much into that threat, Miss Jameson. He’ll be heading away from you as fast as he can. How much money did he take?’
Rachel looked at her wallet. ‘I’m not sure exactly; around sixty pounds, I think. No more, certainly. At least he’s left me my rail ticket.’
‘Better use it, then. Formal statements can wait; for now, just you get straight home. As I said, I’m sure you’ll be okay, but I won’t take any risks. I’ll have two of our lads run you to Queen Street and put you on the train. Then, just to be sure, I’ll get on to Edinburgh and make sure that they keep a watch on your house. They’ll love me for that, with all the bother they’ve got, but let’s just play safe.’
Two young, courteous, uniformed policemen drove Rachel to Queen Street rail station, off George Square. They parked the police car at the taxi rank and made to get out, but she stopped them.
‘Thanks, boys, but I’d rather not be escorted on to the platform. The train should be in by now anyway.’
The policemen looked doubtful, but after a few seconds’ discussion the driver smiled at her.
‘Okay, miss. But don’t tell anyone. We were given strict orders, see.
It was 5.20 p.m. The Queen Street to Waverley service runs on the half-hour at peak times. On occasion it falls behind time. There was no train waiting on platform six.
Rachel crossed the forecourt to the newsstand, and bought an Evening Times.
‘JURY OUT IN RAPE TRIAL,’ the front page banner headline blared at her She saw her own face staring out from the page. Scottish law forbids the publication, until after the verdict, of a photograph of any accused person. The Times picture editor had obviously chosen the stock shot of the attractive little advocate as an alternative.
In the distance, Rachel could see the lights of an approaching train, gliding in slowly and quietly. She walked towards platform six.
She stopped after only a few yards, just past the big hydraulic buffers. As she glanced again at her Times and at the stop press, which, badly out of date, proclaimed, ‘McCann jury still out’, most of her fellow passengers rushed past her. No one noticed the little lady in the dark overcoat, from which a high, white-ruffled collar peeked.
It was the flash of that white collar, as much as anything, that caught the driver’s eye. As he said later, it was winter, it was after dark and the station lighting was patchy. People were rushing, and he was concentrating on applying the final touch to the brakes, to stop the train just short of the buffers.