He nodded and unfolded a sheet of paper which he produced from his jacket pocket. Alison took it from him and handed it to Jenny. Printed on office stationery, it was a computer-generated list of transactions conducted with Tathum, C. Mr. The first was for the hire of an Audi saloon in December 2001. Running her eyes down the list, Jenny saw that Tathum had rented the same vehicle half a dozen times over the next two years, usually for week-long periods. There was only one hire of the Toyota listed: in March 2003.
Jenny said, 'Are you friendly with Mr Tathum?'
'Not particularly.'
'You wouldn't do him any special favours - a cash deal, for example?' 'No.'
Jenny fixed him with a look as she asked her next question. 'Has he or anyone else spoken to you or your staff about this vehicle?'
Avoiding her gaze he muttered, 'No, ma'am.'
It was little to go on, just a hint that he was lying, but it stoked her anger. She couldn't resist making a point for the jury. 'Are you quite sure you've told this court the whole truth, Mr Powell?'
'Quite sure.'
After Khan had probed with a few speculative questions, all of which met with denials, Jenny asked Powell to join Madog in the empty public gallery. It was a piece of theatre - lining up the links in the chain to keep the story vivid in the jurors' minds - but one Jenny felt justified in using. Since Donovan had given his implausible evidence, she'd been fighting a growing suspicion that events were being managed. She had been scrupulous in keeping Elizabeth Murray, Madog, Tathum and Maitland's identities secret until they had reached the witness box, but none of them had raised Alun Rhys to even a moment of visible concern. She needed to push harder. Her chest tightened at the prospect. She had to fight panic with determination.
Tathum took his time walking from the committee room to the witness box. Dressed in a suit and tie, he could have been a business executive. All that gave him away as a former military man was the solid squareness of his shoulders and a certain predatory quality to his narrow gaze. Jenny glanced over at Madog, hoping to detect signs of anxiety: he touched his cheek, scratched his neck. Tiny clues, but not sufficient to reassure her.
Tathum took the Bible and read the oath with the relaxed demeanour she imagined he might have adopted while leaning through Madog's car window. She felt an instinctive and visceral dislike for him, an irrational loathing which she knew would only weaken her if she let it show.
'Mr Tathum,' she said, having confirmed his name and address, 'can you tell the court who you were working for in late June 2002?'
'As far as I can remember, ma'am, no one.'
'Then how were you supporting yourself?'
'I'd left the army the year before. I had a military pension and I did occasional contract work. I still do.'
'What kind of contract work?'
'Close protection is the technical term.' He aimed his explanation at the jury. 'A bodyguard in layman's language.'
He was effortlessly confident, not in the least frightened of the jury knowing who and what he was.
'Who was your main employer during that year?'
'I had several contracts with a company called Maitland Ltd. I was looking after British oil execs in Nigeria and Azerbaijan.'
'Were you armed while carrying out these duties?'
'I wouldn't have been much use if I wasn't.'
Despite her blanket of medication, Jenny's heartbeat picked up and her diaphragm drew tighter. She kicked herself on.
'You had a different hairstyle at that time, didn't you, Mr Tathum? You wore it in a ponytail.'
'I did,' he said without hesitation.
Jenny stalled, his directness had thrown her. 'Let's talk about 28 June of that year. Are you able to say where you were on that day?'
'I was probably at home, what there was of it. I bought a broken-down old farmhouse when I came out of the army and was rebuilding it.' He smiled at the jury. 'It's turned into my life's work.'
They didn't react. There were neither smiles nor frowns, just a vague sense of wariness at Tathum's practised charm.
Jenny steeled herself. 'Two men were seen in the front of a black Toyota people carrier that evening in Marlowes Road, Bristol. The same or a similar vehicle was seen crossing the Severn Bridge at about eleven p.m. The driver was a white man, thickset, with close-cropped hair; the passenger, also white, had a ponytail. There were two young Asian men in the back seat. Were you in that vehicle, Mr Tathum?'
Tathum smiled and shook his head. 'No, I wasn't.'
'On several occasions you have rented cars from Mr Powell's company in Hereford. Were you travelling in one of his vehicles that day?'
'No. I have my own car which I use when I'm not working.'
His denials weren't surprising, but Jenny was rattled by the depth of his confidence. She didn't believe anything she could throw at him would shake it. The jury's questioning expressions told her that they were slowly putting two and two together, but still there was no solid evidence on which they could hang their suspicions.
'On the following Saturday, Mr Madog, the toll collector on the Severn Bridge who noticed the Toyota, says that he was accosted by a man with a ponytail whom he recognized as the driver of that vehicle. This man told Mr Madog that he "hadn't seen him", then proceeded to spray paint into the hair of his six-year-old granddaughter who was sitting in the back seat.' Jenny met Tathum's gaze and felt herself weakening. 'Was that man you?'
He responded with a look of genuine astonishment. 'No, ma'am.'
'Are you able to say where you were on that day?'
'Still at home, I expect.'
All she needed was one thing to implicate him beyond a flimsy chain of circumstantial evidence, one tiny patch of solid ground. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mr Jamal, his face filled with pent-up anger, willing her on. Now was the moment. She had nothing more to lose. She looked over the heads of the lawyers to Madog.
'Mr Madog,' she said, 'I'm not asking you to perform a formal identification, but can you say if you recognize this witness?'
Startled, Madog flinched, then gave a nervous shake of his head.
'It's very important that you give this proper thought and don't feel at all intimidated, Mr Madog. I'll spell it out: do you recognize this witness as the man whom you allege accosted you and your granddaughter?'
Rising timidly to a hunched, semi-standing position, Madog said, 'No, ma'am . . . That's not him.'
A dreadful familiar numbness crept over her. She continued mechanically, a dispassionate observer. She scarcely absorbed a word of the cross-examinations offered by Havilland then Khan, except to register that Tathum had survived without a blow being landed. Tathum brushed aside every accusation and hectoring question Khan threw at him, and stepped down from the witness box as confidently as he had entered it.
Maitland's evidence took less than ten minutes. A brisk, polite, ex-SAS colonel, he confirmed that he ran a company specializing in the provision of highly trained ex-servicemen as bodyguards and security advisers to wealthy businessmen and foreign governments. Tathum was one such, who had completed three contracts in the year 2002. None of them, he explained with the reassuringly nonchalant tone of a high- ranking officer, involved the escorting of two young Asian university students over the Severn Bridge from Bristol.
It was nearing four o'clock when Maitland strolled out of the hall with Tathum. It was a natural moment to call a halt and take stock of the ruins of the day, but Jenny couldn't bear to send the jury home having made up their minds. It was a gamble, but maybe it was the right time to introduce them to McAvoy. He would be wild, full of extravagant speculation and conjecture, but at least he'd make the jury take notice.
'We'll have Mr McAvoy next, please,' she said to Alison.