Three uniformed men were by the double doors. He did not acknowledge them, strode past them and heaved on the doors' handles. They were locked and he couldn't shift them. He heard a titter — like it was good to see a pompous sod, without the time of day for colleagues, put down.
Banks barked first the statement, then his question. 'I'm with the protection outfit. Where are they?'
An usher was called. He was told he would be taken to the room where the rest of his people were gathered.
The usher, disabled and dragging his foot, led him, and chattered: 'Grand place, isn't it? I suppose it's your first time down here, you not knowing where to go…Biggest Crown Court in the country, does more than two thousand five hundred cases a year in twenty court rooms, a proper mass-production line. Wonderful building. Started off as an orphanage and was completed — money no object — in 1843. The main supply of stone was from Yorkshire, but the facings were from Bath and France. Fell into disrepair and was turned into a court in the middle 1970s, but they had a heck of a problem with the foundations and had to put three thousand tons of concrete under the main building so it didn't collapse. We see it all here…What's going on in court eighteen, anyway?'
'Haven't any idea,' Banks said. 'As you reckoned, it's my first time here.'
He hesitated at the door, listened for a moment to the rumble of voices inside. The rest of Delta, and the guys from Golf and Kilo, would be preening themselves as they made concentric circles of protection round the best and the brightest on the high ladders of achievement. Each last one would be imagining the plaudits — coming in wheelbarrow loads — if they managed a double tap on a suicide-bomber, a foreign suicide-bomber, a foreign fighter. His career was on the floor. Banks was assigned to a sodding jury out in the back end of nowhere. He opened the door and went inside. The talk stopped. Eyes were on him. He saw that a coffee mug, lifted towards a mouth, was held in mid-air. The hush closed on him.
Then, a voice boomed cheerily, 'Is that David Banks? Yes? Brilliant. You're the last bit of our jigsaw. You're very welcome.'
A hand was thrust towards his. He took it and his fingers were crushed with enthusiasm. 'Thank you,' he said limply.
'Hey, let's have a smile. I'm DO Brian Walton, Wally to you. The way I run a ship we don't stand on ceremony. I'm the case officer, but also the threat-assessment bloke. I tell you, we've all fallen on our feet. This is a real fridge-freezer job, and could get even better — could get to be a conservatory job, know what I mean?'
He did, and a smile slipped on to his face. It was an overtime payer: unsocial hours at time and a half, and extra days at double time. Big overtime paid for fridges, freezers and cookers in the kitchen, new carpets in the living room and hall, concert-standard sound on home-cinema systems — and the biggest overtime dollops could mean funding for a conservatory at the back of the house. He hadn't expected to be welcomed, greeted as a new friend.
Almost shyly, 'Good to meet you all. I'm Banksy.'
The voice progressed, boom to bellow: 'You treat this man with respect, hear me, guys? He's the proper thing, not one of you yokels rounded up in the backwoods of Thames Valley, Essex and Norfolk. He does the Prime Minister, royalty, all the toffs, but he's been given to us, and he'll show us how to do the job. When Banksy speaks, you lot listen — me too.'
Banks had to grin, then grimace, and probably he blushed, but he felt the warmth of those around him. Perhaps his jacket, weighted by the notebook, the pebbles and coins, had ridden back, but all eyes were now on his waist, his belt. He looked down and saw the smear of gun oil on his shirt, the edge of the dark leather holster. He understood. It was a team, perhaps twenty in all, put together in a spasm of panic. Not specialists, not high-flyers, but the men and women whose absence from their normal day-in and day-out duties would go unnoticed. They were what was available. He moved fast among them, took each hand and shook it, then cursed himself for not initially giving them what they offered him, warmth.
Wally clapped his hands. 'Right, your attention, please. This is my case and I'm not willingly going to lose it. I've bitched to the judge, Mr Justice Herbert, about the cost of it all and been given a flea in my ear, but at the end of the day I'm not arguing with him. To do this job properly would have taken three times as many of you as I've been given, but you're what I have and we'll cut our cloth accordingly. We're down to the essentials and we'll make it work. The case before our judge is the Queen versus Ozzie and Ollie Curtis and they are two old, unreconstructed blaggers. They do armed robbery successfully — that is, up to the time they knocked over a jewellery shop in the south-east. We found a witness, put her under the protection scheme, and she was a star in the firmament when she came to court. They're going down, the Curtis brothers are, and it's about as far down as fifteen years minimum. For them it's desperate, so they pushed for a nobble. A juror was approached and given big money. This jury, with another week or so to do, is reduced to ten, so if one more had pulled out or voted not guilty, then we have a mistrial. With a mistrial, we get another hearing in — if I'm lucky — a year's time, and I don't reckon I'll hold my witness for all those months. I need a guilty verdict next week…One juror had the guts to report the approach and the cash payment to the court. A very brave man, as courageous as it gets where the Curtis thugs are concerned. He deserves our protection and full support, and I aim to give them to him. Have other jurors been approached and caught in the web? I don't know. Are other jurors more vulnerable to corruption? Don't know. But I'm going to throw a net round them that puts them in a bubble: no mobiles, no contact with the outside. The court is adjourned for the day. You're going home with them. You'll watch them like bloody hawks. They'll each pack a bag and make what arrangements they have to, and you will escort them here in the morning. Tomorrow evening they'll be bussed to secure accommodation. That's where we are, and I'll take questions at the end. By the by, this is going to be a good little earner, and it won't end with the verdict. Health and Safety legislation requires duty of care, and that can run for a fair few weeks. Finally, I emphasize to you all, these jurors are not going to become your long-lost friends. You treat them with politeness and firmness. Their safety must be ensured, and the chance of a nobbler getting near them is removed, but my priority is the conviction of those low-life brothers. That's it.'
Barks thought he'd done well, couldn't fault it. Wally had a list, names and addresses, moved among them and allocated them.
Banks thought, passing, that he might have been blessed, that — at last — he was drummed into some police work that was valuable, worthwhile.
He went to pour himself a coffee from the dispenser, sipped it and watched the detective chief inspector meander across the room He realized that he had been kept for last.
He wondered, if time was available, where he would next find Cecil Darke, and what misery he would meet.
'You gone somewhere else, Banksy? I'm relying on you for the big one.'
'That's not a problem.'
'You're going to do the prime target — that OK? The juror who coughed up and did the decent, he's for you.'
'When we do threat assessment, we have a scale. E5 is the bottom level, and Al is at the top. Where on the scale are you putting him?'
'His name is Julian Wright. What I've seen of him, he's a dreamy blighter, beard and sandals, a teacher. Last nine weeks I've watched him in court, and I never rated him as being anything other than a guy who'll go with the flow. But I was wrong…Now he's shoved a stick into a wasps' nest and twisted it. It's the Curtis brothers' nest and they'll be powerfully angry. Not only has he taken their money but he's also grassed on them. Given the chance, they'll kill him and all those dear to him. It's why I'm grateful to have a man of your pedigree alongside him. On the threat-assessment scale, Julian Wright is at Al. Is that enough?'