Directly overhead was the public gallery. He could hear the muffled shuffling of feet. It had always worried Rebus that those in the public gallery had a clear view of the jury. Here, the court had been designed in such a way that they stared directly down and onto the jurors, making intimidation and identification that much easier. He'd dealt with several cases of jurors being approached at day's end by some relative of the accused, ready with a wad of notes or a clenched fist.
The judge looked- imperious as he pored over some papers in front of him, while just below him the Clerk of Court spoke in hushed tones into a telephone receiver. From the time it was taking to begin proceedings, Rebus realised two things. One was that the case was continuing, not beginning; the other was that some Point of Law had been placed before the judge, which the judge was now considering.
'Here, seen this?' Lamb was offering a tabloid to Flight. The newspaper had been folded to quarter of its size and Lamb tapped one column as he passed it to his superior.
Flight: read quickly, glancing up at Rebus once or twice, then handed the paper to Rebus with a hint of a smile.
'Here you go, expert.'
Rebus read through the unattributed piece. Basically, it concerned itself with the progress or lack of it on the Jean Cooper murder inquiry. But the closing paragraph was the killer: 'The team investigating what have come to be known as the 'Wolfman Murders' are being assisted by an expert on serial killers, drafted in from another police force.'
Rebus stared at the newsprint without really seeing it. Surely Cath Farraday wouldn't have? But then how else had the newspaper got to know? He kept his eyes on the page, aware' that both Flight and Lamb were looking, at him. He couldn't believe it: him, an expert! Whether it was true or not and it wasn't didn't really matter now. What mattered was that results would be expected from him, results above the norm. Yet he knew he couldn't deliver and in not delivering he would be made to look a laughing stock No wonder those two pairs of eyes burned into his head. No hard-working policeman liked to be usurped by 'experts'. Rebus didn't like it himself. He didn't like any of it!
Flight saw the pained expression on Rebus's face and felt sorry for the man. Lamb, however, was smirking, enjoying Rebus's agony. He accepted his newspaper from Rebus and stuffed it into his jacket pocket.
'Thought you'd be interested,' he said.
The judge finally looked up, his attention fixed on the jury. 'Members of the jury,' he began, 'it has been brought to my attention in the case of Crown versus Thomas Watkiss that the evidence of Police Constable Mills contained a passage which may have lodged in your minds, influencing your objectivity.'
So, the man in the dock was Tommy Watkiss, Maria's husband. Rebus studied him again, shaking his mind clear of the news story. Watkiss's face was a curious shape, the top half much wider than the cheekbones and jaw, which fell almost to a point. He had the look of an old boxer who had suffered one dislocated jaw too many. The judge was going, on about some cock-up in the police case. The arresting constable had given evidence stating, that his first words on reaching the accused had been 'Hello, Tommy, what's going on here?' By giving this in evidence, he had let the jury know that Watkiss was well known to the local constabulary, something which might well influence their judgment. The judge was therefore ordering the jury to be dismissed.
'Good on ya, Tommy!' came a cry from the public gallery, quickly silenced by a glare from the judge. Rebus wondered where he had heard the voice before.
As the court rose, Rebus stepped forward a few paces and turned to look up at, the balcony. The spectators had risen, too, and in the front row Rebus could see a young man dressed in bike leathers and carrying a crash- helmet, grinning towards Watkiss. He raised his fist in a gesture of triumph, then turned and began to climb the steps to the gallery's exit. It was Kenny, Samantha's boyfriend. Rebus walked back to where Flight and Lamb were standing, watching him, curiously, but Rebus directed his attention towards the dock. The look on Watkiss's face was one of pure relief. DC Lamb, on the other hand, seemed ready to kill.
'Luck of the fucking Irish,' he spat.
'Tommy's no more Irish than you are, Lamb,' Flight said phlegmatically.
'What was the charge?' Rebus asked, his mind still confused by the newspaper story, by Kenny's presence in this place and by his actions. The judge was leaving by a green padded-leather door to the side of the jury box.
'The usual,' said Lamb, calming quickly. 'Rape. When his old woman snuffed it, he needed somebody else on the game. So he tried to “persuade' a girl on his street that she could make a few bob: When that didn't work, he lost his rag and had a go at her. Bastard. We'll get him at the retrial. I still think he did for his old woman.'
'Then find the evidence,' said Flight. 'Meantime, I can think of a. certain Police Constable who needs a good kick up the arse.'
'Yeah,' said Lamb. He was — grinning evilly at the thought, then took the hint and 'left the courtroom in search of the unfortunate PC Mills.
'Inspector Flight.' It, was the prosecuting counsel, striding briskly towards them with documents and books cradled in his left arm, his right arm outstretched. Flight took the well-groomed hand and shook it.
'Hello, Mr Chambers. This is Inspector Rebus. He's come down from Scotland to help us on the Wolfman investigation.
Chambers looked interested. 'Ah, yes, the Wolfman. I look forward to prosecuting that particular case.'
'I just hope we can give you the opportunity,' said Rebus.
'Well,' said Chambers, 'meanwhile it's tricky enough landing the little fish like our friend.' He glanced back in the direction of the dock; which now stood empty. 'But we try,' he said with a sigh, 'we try.' Then, he paused, and added in an undertone, directed' at Flight: 'Get this, George, I don't like being royally shafted by my own team. Okay?'
Flight blushed. Chambers had dressed him down in a way no Superintendent or Chief Constable could ever have done, — and he knew — it. 'Good day, gentlemen,' he said, moving away, 'and good luck, Inspector Rebus.'
'Thanks,'' Rebus called to the retreating figure. Flight watched as Chambers pushed open the doors of the court, the tail of his wig flicking from side to side, robes flapping behind him When the doors were closed, Flight chuckled.
'Arrogant prick. But he's' the best there is.'
Rebus was beginning to wonder if anyone in London was second-rate. He'd been introduced to the 'top' pathologist, the 'best' prosecuting counsel, the 'crack' forensic team, the 'finest' police divers. Was it part of the city's own arrogance?
'I thought the best lawyers all went in for commercial work these days,' Rebus said.
'Not necessarily. It's only the really greedy bastards who go in for City work. Besides, this sort of stuff is like a drug to Chambers and his ilk. They're actors, bloody good ones at that.'
Yes, Rebus had known a few Oscar-winning advocates in his, time, and had lost a few cases more to their technique than to the strength of their defence. They might earn a quarter of the riches earned by their brothers in the commercial sector,' might take home a scant?50,000 each year, but they endured for the sake of their public.
Flight was moving towards the doors. 'What's more,' he said, 'Chambers studied for a time in the USA. They train them to be actors over there. They also train them to be hard-nosed bastards. I'm told he came out top of his class. That's why we like having him on our side:' Flight paused, 'Do you still want a word with Tommy?'
Rebus shrugged. 'Why not?'
Out in the concourse, Watkiss was standing by one of the large windows, relishing a cigarette and listening to his solicitor'. Then the two men started to walk away.
'Tell* you what,' said Rebus, 'I've changed my mind. Let's skip Watkiss for the moment.'
'Okay,' said Flight. 'You're the expert after all.' He saw the sour look on Rebus's face and laughed. 'Don't worry about it,' he said. 'I know you're no expert.'
'That's very reassuring, George,' Rebus said without conviction. He stared after Watkiss, thinking: And I'm not the only one leaving court without conviction.
Flight laughed again, but behind his smile he was still more than a little curious about Rebus's action in the courtroom, walking out into the court like that to peer up at the public gallery. But if Rebus didn't want to talk about it, then that was his privilege. Flight could bide his time. 'So what now?' he asked. -
