Miles smiled broadly, but behind his cup of coffee he was registering a slight surprise. It was unlike John Sparling to be so cynical about the legal process. Something must be bothering him. Miles needed to find out what it was.
“You’re exhibiting an unhealthy preoccupation with sex, if you don’t mind me saying so, John,” said Miles in a bantering tone. “Not what you need on a Thursday morning.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Miles. Have you got those further statements?”
Miles’s smile gave way to a grin. It was the return of the killers to the murder scene the previous week that had gotten under his opponent’s skin. It was too much of a good thing.
“Yes. I got them on Friday evening through the fax. The policeman at the scene, follow-up investigation by the omnipresent Sergeant Hearns. And the boy, of course. Your star witness.”
“My star witness.”
“Uncorroborated to the last.”
“All right, Miles. We’ll let the jury form their own opinion about that.”
“Oh, yes. The priapic jurors.”
Sparling gave another of his smile imitations. He looked determinedly tolerant.
“Yes, the priapic jurors,” he said. “But it wasn’t them I was asking you about.”
“No,” Miles acknowledged. “You want to talk about the statements, don’t you, although I can’t imagine why. I’ve got them. You’ve got them. You’re calling these witnesses. What else is there to discuss?”
“I want to call the boy last. Hearns says he needs time to get over what happened last Wednesday.”
“If it happened.”
“All right, Miles. I’ve read the police statements too, you know.”
“No trace of any intruders whatsoever. No one saw the car come. No one saw the car go.”
“It happened in the evening. The place was deserted.”
Sparling sounded defiant, but this only encouraged Miles to goad his opponent more.
“You’ve got no forensic evidence at all. Admit it, John.”
“I do admit it. But the prosecution still says that Thomas Robinson is a witness of truth, and there’s no reason to change that.”
“Maybe not. But I reckon you could have done without his latest contribution. Lonny and Rosie. I wonder where he dreamed them up from. He’s been watching too much television.”
“Not when they drove up, he wasn’t.”
“No. Very convenient.”
Miles finished his coffee and put on his wig. He’d enjoyed his precourt skirmish with John Sparling even more than usual. The wily old prosecutor would never admit to being unhappy with his case, but Miles would have bet good money that the new statements had not been welcome arrivals in Sparling’s chambers at the end of the previous week. The Crown’s case depended too much on the unsupported evidence of young Thomas already. This latest development made the case positively top-heavy, thought Miles, patting his own bulk contentedly.
Certainly the defense had more to gain than to lose from the new statements. He’d seen Lady Greta in conference on Saturday morning and obtained her assurance that she knew nobody called either Lonny or Rosie and that she had not told anyone about that hiding place in the House of the Four Winds.
“I’m going to find my client,” said Miles, getting up. “I’ll take her instructions, but I can’t see us objecting to you calling the boy last. Better make sure he turns up, though. Statements are one thing, evidence is another.”
Miles was gone in a swirl of wig and gown before John Sparling could think of a suitable response.
Peter and Greta were waiting outside court 9 with Peter’s lawyer, Patrick Sullivan, a handsome Irishman who bore more than a passing resemblance to Liam Neeson. Patrick and Peter had been at university together, and it had been a natural development for him to become Peter’s lawyer when Peter had started to need one. The work had taken up more and more of Patrick’s time since Peter had become a minister, and Greta’s trial had made it virtually a full-time occupation.
Patrick was no criminal lawyer, but he had given Peter and Greta vital support in those nightmare days after Greta was first arrested. He had conveyed a sense that he was truly on their side, that he believed in them, and that was what Peter had craved more than anything else.
Greta, unsurprisingly, had retreated into her shell as the police began investigating Thomas’s allegations against her, and Patrick seemed to restore some of her confidence. Later, after Greta was charged, Peter had asked Patrick to find a top criminal barrister to take on her case. He appeared to have succeeded admirably. Everyone that Peter spoke to agreed that Miles Lambert was one of the best in the business.
“I’ve reminded Peter that he can’t be in court during the trial,” said Patrick.
“That’s right,” said Miles. “Not until after you’ve given your evidence. But Patrick’s told me he’s going to be here most of the time and so Greta won’t be on her own. No need to worry about that.”
He smiled encouragingly. They’d been over this many times already, but it was better to be safe than sorry. He’d had witnesses before who had disbarred themselves from giving evidence by sitting in court during the trial.
“How are you feeling, Greta?” he asked solicitously. Trial for murder was a terrible experience for anyone to go through, and Miles knew that waiting for it to begin was one of the worst parts of the process.
“All right, I suppose. It’s not easy, though. I felt like I was in a zoo when we got out of the car.” Greta’s normally even voice shook, and Peter took hold of her hand and squeezed it. Not being able to be with his wife in court and share her ordeal was almost more than he could bear.
“I know,” said Miles. “I’m sorry about that. But look, the important thing to remember is that you’re not going to need to say anything until the middle of next week at the earliest. It’ll probably be the end of next week, in fact. The prosecution has got a lot of evidence to get through, and they’re calling Thomas as their last witness. They say he needs time to get over whatever happened last Wednesday.”
“Nothing happened,” Peter interjected. “He’s made it up just like everything else. He just can’t stop. Ruining our lives and his.”
“All right, Peter,” said Greta. “Not now.” She drew a great deal of support from Peter’s anger against his son, but this was not the time for any loss of control.
“Is this a problem?” she asked. “Thomas going last?”
“No, I don’t think so,” replied Miles. “It’ll make the jury see how little the prosecution has got without him.”
“Yes. Yes, I see that.”
Greta smiled, but this only made the tension in her face more visible. She looked perfect, Miles thought. She’ll make the jurors who aren’t priapic come over all parental when she touches her eyes with that little white handkerchief she’s got in her bag.
“That was the usher,” said Patrick, returning to the group and breaking the momentary silence. “We’re wanted inside.”
“I’ll be here at lunch, Greta,” said Peter. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” replied Greta as she turned to follow the lawyers through the swinging doors of the courtroom.
“It’ll be all right,” he added. “Just you see.” But she did not reply. The doors had closed behind her, and he could not follow.
Chapter 6
The first thing that Greta was aware of on entering the courtroom was the sound of many voices suddenly becoming still. The benches on the left of the court were thronged with the same reporters who had surrounded her outside. There was to be no escape from them, although the cameras and sound equipment were absent.
Before her arrival the court had been just another room, but now there was the beginning of drama, the certainty of action to come. Everything was lit by bright artificial light because this was a place removed from the outside world. There were no windows, and the soundproofed walls were bare except for the extravagant lion-and- unicorn emblem behind the judge’s empty chair.
