WITNESS: I may have done. David had several knives similar to this in his room in Oxford. I can’t say if it’s the same one.
COUNSEL: Thank you, Miss Osman. If you wait there, my learned friend will have some questions.
Trave got up from the table and made himself some more coffee. He glanced around the room, grimacing at the dust and disorder: unwashed dishes stacked up by the sink, piles of unanswered correspondence balanced precariously on his desk in the corner. He didn’t need to be told that the mess was a symptom of the way his life was spinning out of control, as recorded in jottings on the Oxfordshire Police Force calendar hanging on the opposite wall — disciplinary hearing; Vanessa; give evidence — he might as well add lost job under today’s date.
Calendars, records — Katya had kept a record, a diary — it was how she’d been able to remember the date when David Swain had come stalking her and Ethan at the boathouse. And it wasn’t just an engagement diary; it was a fully fledged journal that she used ‘to get things out of my system’. That was what she’d said. The reference to the diary was what Trave had been trying to remember in the courtroom the day before — he was certain of it. But where was the diary now? Trave wondered. Had Osman found it? Probably — Trave remembered the cleaned- up feel of Katya’s room on the night of her murder. But then again, not necessarily — perhaps Osman didn’t know about the diary. He’d hardly have looked for it if he didn’t know it existed, and Katya was a girl who loved secrets — her meetings with David Swain behind her uncle’s back and her attachment to the boathouse itself were part of the same pattern. ‘I liked that it was our place, our secret.’ That was what she’d said.
And yet she’d also been prepared to tell the world about the diary when she gave evidence, unless of course she’d answered Arne’s question about the date without thinking, regretting the immediacy of her response later as she rode home in the back of her uncle’s car, hoping no one had noticed what she’d accidentally revealed. Trave paced backwards and forwards across his living room as his mind turned the scraps of evidence this way and that. He knew perfectly well that it was all speculation and that he was clutching at straws, just like he’d accused Jacob of doing two days earlier. But if straws were all he had, then he also knew he had no choice but to clutch at them, however pointless the exercise. Doing nothing was the alternative, and that was intolerable.
But if Katya had kept a secret diary that survived her death, then who was to say where it was now? Trave knew he couldn’t follow in Jacob’s footsteps and break into Blackwater Hall in the hope of finding something. Apart from the fact that Claes and Osman were now on high alert for intruders, he wouldn’t have the first idea of where to look. Katya’s bedroom had been cleaned up before her death, and the forensics team had gone through it with a fine-tooth comb on his orders afterwards and found nothing. If the diary was in there, it was concealed in some ingenious fashion that had eluded both her uncle and the police. To find it Trave needed to talk to someone who knew about the hiding place, someone in whom Katya had confided. Because Trave knew from his years of criminal investigation that that was the way of secrets: they existed to be revealed, to be disclosed in hushed whispers to those we love or think we love. And who had Katya loved? Ethan — but he was dead — and before Ethan, David. Trave remembered the transcript:
‘My uncle didn’t approve of David, and so I couldn’t see him in the house.’
‘Never?’
‘I took him there once when my uncle was away.’
What had happened when Katya had taken her first lover up to the house that one time? Trave wondered. It was an act of defiance on Katya’s part, a way of telling David that she valued their relationship more than her uncle’s wishes. And once inside, once they were upstairs in her bedroom, would she have wanted to do more — to show David things, to share her secrets with him so that he would know she cared? Perhaps. It was a long shot, but worth asking David about, if he could just find a way to talk to him. Except that that wasn’t going to be easy. Prosecution witnesses were not supposed to talk to the defendant during the trial, and even if he could find a way past the court gaolers, David might not be prepared to see him. They hadn’t parted on good terms in the cricket pavilion the previous October, and Trave didn’t know whether David still blamed him for his arrest. He remembered how David had stared at him so intently while he was giving his evidence the day before — now he couldn’t make up his mind whether the stare was benevolent or hostile. But whichever it was, Trave knew he had to try.
He looked at his watch. It was already twelve o’clock, but he didn’t trust himself to drive after all the alcohol he’d drunk the night before. He rang up the police station, hoping to find Clayton, but was told that Clayton was out with PC Wale. And so without further delay Trave called a taxi to take him to the railway station. If Clayton couldn’t drive him to London, he’d have to take the train.
It was mid-afternoon when he got to the Old Bailey, and some of the spectators had already gone home, making it possible for Trave to find a seat at the back of the public gallery above Court Number 1. Down below, Eddie Earle was in the witness box. The prosecution’s star witness was still a serving prisoner, but someone, Macrae perhaps, had equipped him with a suit and tie, making him look almost respectable.
To Trave’s surprise, Eddie seemed to enjoy giving evidence — he clearly had no shame about selling his old cellmate down the river. He was Easy Eddie again, wallowing in the attention of the courtroom, reliving the glory of his escape from Oxford Prison, and the prosecutor had to cut him off several times — or he would have been on the stand for the rest of the week describing his exploits.
Trave watched as David’s barrister did everything he could to shake Eddie’s credibility when his turn came to cross-examine: he made the obvious point that Eddie was lying to obtain leniency for his escape offence; he read Eddie’s long list of previous convictions to the jury; and he questioned Eddie about his connection to Claes’s friend, John Bircher. But Eddie was somehow able to deflect the attacks with ease. And looking down, Trave could see that what really held the jury’s interest was Eddie’s tale of his late-night conversations with David in their prison cell. Try as he might, David’s barrister couldn’t change the ring of truth with which Eddie described David’s gathering rage against Katya, whom he blamed for all his misfortunes. There was no denying it: Eddie’s evidence showed beyond doubt that the defendant was highly motivated to commit the crime with which he was charged.
Trave gazed down at Eddie and wished he could turn back the clock to the interview room in Oxford Police Station, to that moment when he’d been so convinced that Eddie had been on the verge of telling him the truth. About Bircher and Claes; about driving David out to Blackwater Hall and giving him the gun loaded with blanks. Before Creswell came in and took him off the case. Trave remembered Macrae smiling at him from behind Creswell’s shoulder in the corridor, just like he was smiling now, watching the noose tightening around David Swain’s neck. Trave knew what was happening in the trial — the evidence that mattered was all one way. It was like the defendant was falling down a deep stone well and the points that his barrister made were no more than the scratches of his flailing hands on the walls as he fell.
At half past four Eddie finished his evidence and the judge adjourned the case for the day. Trave knew that it was now or never. He watched as the gaolers led David Swain down the stairs from the dock, and then he slipped out the back of the public gallery, ran down five flights of stairs until he got to the basement of the courthouse, and rang the bell beside the big iron door marked Cells. It was a busy time of day with the prisoners being got ready for the vans that would return them to their different prisons for the night, and Trave had to wait nearly five minutes for the door to open, but he knew better than to keep ringing to be let in. He needed the gaolers to be accommodating if he was to have any chance of an interview before David was taken back to Pentonville.
He was lucky. The young gaoler who answered the door seemed entirely satisfied when Trave waved his warrant card and said that he was a police officer come to see Swain — the prisoner on trial in Court Number 1. Trave signed his name in the book and took a seat in a small glass-fronted interview room. Opposite, across the corridor, a man with a scar across his face was gesticulating wildly at a barrister still dressed in his horsehair wig and gown, and through the open door Trave could hear a cacophony of shouts and footsteps and jangling keys. Finally, just as he had been about to give up, David Swain appeared in the doorway.
‘You again,’ he said, sitting down heavily in the chair across the table from Trave without shaking his hand. ‘I thought you weren’t allowed to see me, you being a prosecution witness and all. That’s what my mother told me.’
‘She’s right. I lied to get in here.’
‘What did you say?’
‘That I was a police officer.’
‘Well, you are that.’
‘Not any more. I got fired this morning.’
‘I’m sorry. Katya hasn’t done either of us much good, has she?’ said David, looking Trave in the eye for the first time. Trave was relieved to see that there wasn’t hostility in the young man’s expression, just a fathomless
