waxed paper bag.
‘How far off the ground is that intercom panel?’ I ask.
‘Standard height.’
‘How tall does that make him?’
‘It depends on the focal length of the lens and how far they’re standing from the wall. A photographer could tell us.’
Pressing fast-forward, the DCI advances to the second lot of footage, taken by a different CCTV camera.
‘This was taken two blocks away on Warminster Road.’
A silver Ford Focus is on screen, heading away from the camera.
‘We can’t get a number - the plates are obscured.’
She presses eject and glances at her watch. It’s one o’clock.
‘How’s Sienna?’
‘Holding up.’
Cray turns back to the window. An unlit cigarette dangles from her fingers.
‘I want to take Sienna out of here. We’ll sneak her into the Crown Court. Quietly. Let her see the jury foreman.’
‘And then what?’
The detective doesn’t answer. Maybe she doesn’t know. Shifting slowly, she grabs her coat and opens her office door.
‘First we have to cut Gordon Ellis loose. See where the rabbit runs.’
The hospital receptionist has a voice like an automated message.
‘Are you family?’
‘No, I’m a friend.’
‘Details are only available to family.’
‘I just want to know if she’s OK.’
‘What is the patient’s name?’
‘Annie Robinson. She was brought in last night.’
‘Her condition is listed as stable.’
I stop her before she hangs up. ‘Does she have any family?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Is there anyone with her?’
The receptionist makes a decision and her tone softens. ‘Her mother and father arrived a while back. They’re with her now.’
‘Thank you.’
Hanging up, I feel a mixture of relief and guilt. Everything I do nowadays seems to have untoward consequences. I expect my bad decisions to have downsides but even my good calls are starting to look shaky. Small things, details I pick up almost instinctively, are beginning to elude me. I should have recognised Sienna’s vulnerability. I should have warned Annie about Gordon Ellis.
Next I call Julianne.
‘Is everything OK?’ she asks.
‘Fine.’
‘Charlie said Vincent had to bring her home.’
‘I got held up. Annie Robinson is in hospital . . . it’s a long story.’
There is a pause. I want her to say something, to tell me what she’s thinking. Instead she says, ‘I have to go. I’m due in court.’
I have time to make one more call. Ruiz rattles off twenty questions, talking in a kind of police shorthand.
‘Is the dyke looking after you?’
‘She’s on our side. I need another favour.’
‘How many you got left?’
‘Keep an eye on Julianne. She’s in court today.’
‘What about the Crying Man?’
‘His name is Carl Guilfoyle. They’ve just issued a warrant for his arrest.’
The footpath outside Trinity Road has become a makeshift media centre for dozens of photographers, reporters and TV crews. There are outside broadcast vans parked in the street and takeaway coffee cups lying crumpled in the gutter.
I’m halfway across the foyer when Natasha Ellis appears in front of me. Dressed in black, her lips bloodless and thin, she looks like a legal secretary with her hair pulled back severely and her eyebrows arching in complaint.
‘Why are you doing this to us?’ she demands, hatred filling her tiny frame.
I try to step around her. She moves with me.
‘That little bitch is lying. Gordon never touched her.’
‘Don’t make things worse, Natasha. I know what Gordon did to you.’
‘You know nothing about me.’
Twisted in anger, her face no longer pretty or pleasant.
‘I know that he groomed you as a schoolgirl. I know that he got rid of his first wife so he could marry you. I think you know it too.’
‘How dare you patronise me!’
‘I apologise if I gave that impression.’
‘It’s not an impression.’
‘I’m sorry just the same.’
‘Fuck you!’
She turns, stumbling on her high heels, before correcting herself. I have no antidote for her distress. Her life is crumbling around her and she can’t do anything except watch.
Moments later, Gordon appears, flanked by his lawyer. Natasha throws her arms around her husband’s neck and he peels them away. They have reached the main doors. The lawyer tries to cover Gordon with a coat, but the schoolteacher brushes it aside.
‘I’ve got nothing to hide,’ he mutters.
More than thirty reporters, photographers and television crews are waiting outside. Clicking shutters and camera flashes greet Gordon’s every footstep, gesture and facial expression. When he brushes his fringe from his eyes, when he tries to smile, when he puts his arm around Natasha.
Beyond the media scrum, I see a separate crowd of bystanders who have come to watch, having heard the news on TV or radio or Twitter. Among them are girls in school uniforms. Gordon takes a piece of paper from his pocket, smoothing it between his fingers. Clearing his throat, he smiles with a boyish shyness. The cameras respond with a fuselage of clicks and whirs.
‘Firstly I want to say that I have devoted nearly fifteen years of my life to teaching and I cherish every child that I have taught. I am being victimised here. I am being hounded. I am being punished for caring too much.’ He pauses, composing himself. ‘I have a lovely wife and a son. I would never do anything to embarrass them or hurt them.’
The quake in his voice, his sense of disbelief, the hurt in his eyes, all seem genuine.
A reporter yells a question: ‘Did you sexually assault a student?’
‘No.’
‘Why has she made a complaint?’
‘I think she has been coerced and coached by a psychologist who recently assaulted me and has been charged by the police. Professor Joseph O’Loughlin has launched a vendetta against me. He has threatened and harassed my wife.’
‘Why would he do that?’ asks a reporter.
‘You should ask him that.’
Another journalist shouts louder than the rest. ‘Are you standing by your husband, Mrs Ellis?’
