“A judge will sometimes let a defendant out of prison just until the trial if he or she promises not to run away or approach any of the witnesses. As a way of guaranteeing this, the judge will ask for a large amount of money, which the defendant won’t get back if he breaks the law or doesn’t show up for the trial.”
She looks astonished. “He will pay the judge money?”
“The money is like a security deposit.”
“A bribe.”
“No, not a bribe.”
“So you are saying Brother could pay money and get out of jail.”
“Well, yes, but it’s not what you think.”
The conversation keeps going round in circles. I’m not explaining it very well.
“I’m sure it won’t happen,” I reassure her. “He won’t be able to hurt anyone again.”
It has been three weeks since Claudia left hospital. I still worry about her—she seems so small compared to her brother—but the infection has gone and she’s putting on weight.
The twins have become tabloid celebrities, Baby X and Baby Y, without first names or surnames. The judge deciding custody has ordered DNA tests on the twins and medical reports from Amsterdam. Samira will have to prove she is their mother and then decide what she wants to do.
Despite being under investigation, Barnaby has maintained his campaign for custody, hiring and sacking lawyers on a weekly basis. During the first custody hearing, Judge Freyne threatened to jail him for contempt for continually interjecting and making accusations of bias.
I have had my own hearing to deal with—a disciplinary tribunal in front of three senior officers. I tendered my resignation on the first day. The chairman refused to accept it.
“I thought I was making it easier for them,” I told Ruiz.
“They can’t sack you and they don’t want to let you go,” he explained. “Imagine the headlines.”
“So what do they want?”
“To lock you away in an office somewhere—where you can’t cause any trouble.”
Samira adjusts her breast pads and buttons her blouse. Four times a day she expresses milk for the twins, which is couriered to the foster family. She gets to see them every afternoon for three hours under supervision. I have watched her carefully, looking for some sign that she is drawing closer to them. She feeds, bathes and nurses them, giving the impression that she is far more accomplished and comfortable with motherhood than I could ever imagine myself being. At the same time her movements are almost mechanical, as though she is doing what’s expected of her rather than what she wants.
She has developed a strange affectation around the twins. Whether expressing milk, changing nappies or dressing them, she uses only her right hand. When she picks one of them up, she slides the hand between their legs, along their spine and scoops them in a single motion, supporting the head with the palm of her hand. And when she feeds them, she tucks a bottle under her chin or lays the baby along her thighs.
I thought for a while that it might be a Muslim thing, like only eating with the right hand. When I asked her, she raised her eyes dismissively. “One hand is enough to sin. One hand is enough to save.”
“What does that mean?”
“What it says.”
Hari is downstairs. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
“I’m sure.”
“I could hold up an umbrella.”
“It’s not raining.”
“They do it for the film stars who don’t want to be photographed—hold up umbrellas. Their bodyguards do it.”
“You’re not a bodyguard.”
He’s a lovesick puppy. University has broken up for Christmas and he’s supposed to be helping his brothers at the garage but he keeps finding excuses to spend time with Samira. She’ll even be alone with him, but only in the garden shed when they’re working on some pyrotechnic project. The fireworks on Guy Fawkes Night were supposed to be a one-off but Hari has kept that particular fuse burning, for obvious reasons.
“New Boy” Dave is waiting outside for us.
“You’re not wearing black?”
“Strange, isn’t it?”
“You look good in red.”
I whisper, “You should see my underwear.”
Samira pulls on her overcoat, which has toggles instead of buttons. It used to belong to Hari and the cuffs have to be folded twice because the sleeves are so long. Her hands find the pockets and hibernate there.
The day is growing brighter, climbing toward noon. Dave negotiates the traffic and parks a block away from Southwark Crown Court, ready to run the gauntlet. Ahead of us, on the pavement, TV cameras and photographers are waiting.
The charges against Julian Shawcroft are merely a sideshow to the main event—the custody battle for the twins—which has everything the tabloids crave: sex, a beautiful “virgin” and stolen babies.
Flashguns fire around us. Samira lowers her head and keeps her hands in her pockets. Dave pushes a path through the scrum, not afraid to drop his shoulder into someone who won’t move out of the way. These are tactics from the rugby field, not a sailing school.
Southwark Crown Court is a soulless modern precinct with less charm than the Old Bailey. We pass through the metal detectors and make our way upstairs. I recognize some of the people holding meetings in the corridors, discussing last-minute tactics with counsel. Dr. Sohan Banerjee has hired his own Queen’s Counsel in expectation of being charged. He and Shawcroft still haven’t turned on each other but the finger-pointing is only a matter of time according to Forbes.
Shawcroft’s barrister is a woman, five foot ten in two-inch dagger heels, with white-blond hair and drop pearl earrings that swing back and forth as she talks.
The prosecutor, Francis Hague, QC, is older and grayer, with glasses perched on top of his head. He is talking to Forbes, making notes on a long pad. DS Softell has also turned up, perhaps hoping for some clue in the search for Brendan Pearl, who seems to have vanished completely. I wonder how many different identities he’s stolen.
Samira is nervous. She knows that people are looking at her, court staff and reporters. I have tried to reassure her that the publicity will stop once the twins are home. Nobody will be allowed to identify them.
We take a seat in the public gallery at the rear of the courtroom with Samira sitting in between us. She shrinks inside her overcoat, keeping her hands in the pockets. I spy Donavon slipping into the row behind us. His eyes scan the courtroom and rest on mine for a moment before moving on.
Soon the press box is full and there are no seats in the public gallery. The court clerk, an Asian woman of indeterminate age, enters and takes a seat, tapping at a keyboard.
Feet shuffle and everyone stands for the judge, who is surprisingly young and quite handsome in a stuffy sort of way. Within minutes, Shawcroft emerges via a stairway leading directly into the dock. Dressed in a neat suit, speckled tie and polished shoes, he turns and smiles at the gallery, soaking up the atmosphere as though this were a performance being laid on for his benefit.
“You wish to make an application for bail?” asks the judge.
Shawcroft’s QC, Margaret Curillo, is already on her feet, introducing herself in plummy obsequious tones. Francis Hague, QC, plants his hands on the table and raises his buttocks several inches from his chair, mumbling an introduction. Perhaps he feels that everyone knows him already or at least should.
The door of the court opens quietly and a man enters. Tall and thin, with an effeminate air, he nods distractedly at the bench and barely raises his polished shoes from the carpet as he glides toward the bar table. Bending, he whispers something to Hague, who cocks his head.
Mrs. Curillo has begun her submission, outlining the many “outstanding achievements” of her client in a “lifetime of service to the community.”
The prosecutor rises fully to his feet this time.
“Your Honor, I must apologize for interrupting my learned friend but I wish to request a short adjournment.”
“We’ve only just started.”
