"Oh yes, Enid, we've found some lovely things," said Karen encouragingly.
"Near enough Paris fashions, some of it."
As she watched the two neighbours, younger than her by decades, pulling skirts and blouses out of the bin bag, Enid Marsh started to get used to the idea. It was true she hadn't had on any of her really good clothes for a long time not since the Silver Jubilee, probably.
Spent most of her time in her old cardigan and jumper never had the occasion to dress up. Moths yes, it was very likely the good stuff was full of holes. She brightened. New clothes to try on. Come to think of it, that did sound nice.
Half an hour later she was sitting on her sofa with clothing strewn around her. She was wearing a powder blue sunray pleated skirt which looked like something Dame Vera Lynn might have worn. It was a tiny bit too big for her, but Ivy and Karen thought they could tuck it in at the waist and make it look very smart. The effect was topped off by the white nylon blouse with a frilled jabot, found at the bottom of the bin bag by Karen.
"Everybody's been so kind," Enid was saying, looking at a portion of herself in the small portable mirror propped up on the table.
"Before all this happened, I never saw a soul."
She twitched the skirt to arrange the pleats closer to the vertical.
"You don't think it's a bit bright?"
Ivy came over and considered for a moment. She had her hand to her mouth and was pinching her lower lip between finger and thumb.
"Looks lovely, Enid, dear. But Mrs. Kingsley says she's got a Jaeger suit if you want it."
Karen, standing by the window, was pulling Enid's net curtains aside.
"Here, that man's still down there. I reckon he's staring up at this window. Bit of a toff."
Enid shuffled across to join her, peering down. He was a well-dressed, well-preserved man in his mid-fifties, wearing a dark-grey woollen overcoat. The three women watched as, seeing their heads looking down, he turned away and bent to pick up his briefcase.
"I think I'll try the jacket now," said Enid without further comment.
"And that mauve skirt I haven't had that on yet. And what was you saying about a suit. Ivy, love?"
That afternoon Anita was also trying on clothes. Ten days after the miscarriage and she still had a fat stomach. She had even thought of going to court wearing the black maternity dress she'd bought for the funeral, but Helen told her no: it wouldn't look right.
"But nothing fits me," Anita complained.
"I still look as if I'm pregnant."
I still feel pregnant too, she thought. Three times before in her life she'd given birth and each time, once the baby was out and feeding, Anita had felt feather-light. Never had a day of post-natal depression either. This was her fourth, except it wasn't. Birth is all about life, that's why it's called giving birth. So she went on feeling heavy and burdened because she had given nothing, nothing had happened. The baby was dead.
In hospital she couldn't cry. Until they'd found her a
private room the second night she'd been stuck in a postnatal ward, full of other mums sitting up in bed nursing their little bundles, a cot next to every bed except hers. Anita was simply withdrawn. She hardly responded when anyone spoke to her. She stared straight ahead and talked silently to herself. The baby was dead; giving birth's about giving life ..
"You should go out and buy something, love," said Helen now, flicking through the dresses and jackets that hung in the wardrobe on their wire coat hangers. Truth be told, there was little enough here.
"You've got all those donations and I don't suppose anybody'd begrudge you."
"It's too late now. I haven't got time. I can't go out and buy something, just like that."
"Well, be warned. Peter's dipping into them all the time. Taking himself off to I don't know where." She sniffed.
"I've hardly seen him sober, that is."
Anita touched her mother on the arm.
"Hey! Don't, Mum. Just don't get into that. Anyway I'm better off without him around."
Helen took down a dark-blue jacket that looked OK, though it needed taking to the cleaners.
"A white blouse under that'll look nice in court, eh, my girl."
Anita pushed her arms out behind to let Helen slip the jacket on for her. Turning this way and that in front of the mirror, she was trying to remember when she'd last worn it.
Darkness had fallen but the figure of a man in white shirtsleeves could be seen crossing the road and making for the sewage pipes. He carried a bundle in his arms.
It had been wet the last few days and the trench dug for the pipes was flooded. He stood on the edge of the trench, watching the reflections from the site security lighting wobble as the water was troubled by the wind. He was thinking of another flooded area not many yards away, where a dead cat had floated and he had fallen in. Put off doing a proper search because he swallowed some water. Stupid and unprofessional.
Barridge felt a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach. It was the weight of responsibility, the weight of guilt. For a long time during the investigation he had believed that finger was on him like that lottery advert, it could be you. It was a pleasant feeling, a light feeling. He had trodden on air for a while, a man specially chosen who could do no wrong.
But doing that well, he shouldn't have. That was wrong and Colin Barridge knew it. He'd have to come clean, he'd have to tell. And then they'd kick him out.
With a groaning sigh he raised the bundle in his arms and tossed it into the water of the trench. His uniform tunic gradually soaked up the water, then opened out, arms spreading, the chrome buttons catching the light.
chapter 22
TUESDAY 19 NOVEMBER. MORNING
Robert Rylands was studying the list to see which judge had been allotted to the case. Barristers solicitors, witnesses, police and officers of the court bustled through the lobby behind him as the Crown Court's working day began to unroll.
"Good morning, Robert. Alone and palely loitering?" He turned. It was the solid figure of Willis Fletcher who, like him, had yet to robe.
Behind Fletcher, in a little knot, were the Crown team Griffith, Jennifer Abantu and Rylands's junior, Tom Jolowicz. They all hefted large tagged bundles, deep ring-files and thick law books.
"It's Winfield," said Rylands, ripping his head back towards the list on the board behind him.
"Did you know?"
"Yes, I've seen the list.
He's decent enough. "
"Babbles like the bloody brook, though. I'd have thought--' He broke off as the figure of Derek Waugh pushed eagerly through the crowd.
"Robert it's delightful to see you again." Fletcher winked at his chambers room-mate and, stepping back, rejoined his team. Rylands looked down on the shorter man as if inspecting a dead fish.
"Very nice to see you, too, Derek. Show of solidarity by the firm?"
"Yes ah, I thought I might just pop down. Belinda's with our friend downstairs."
Rylands was only half listening he was scanning over Waugh's head at the crowd. At last he saw Noah Sampara, his junior, struggling towards him laden with papers and carrying a plastic bag, out of which straggled several locks of beautifully permed nylon hair.
"Ah, Noah!" said Rylands heartily. He nodded at the carrier bag.
"Brought your friends with you? Good!" He glanced at his watch.
"Look, I'd better go and get clobbered up. See you both shortly."
He turned to leave, then checked and tapped Sampara on the arm, "It's Winfield, by the way. Neutral choice, I would think."
Then he left them and walked smartly to the Queen's Counsel's robing rooms where he dressed carefully in his silk jacket and gown.
In the holding cells below the court, Belinda was doing a rapid repair job on her client's face.
"Dear God, Michael. How did this happen?"
"I just, bumped into something."
"Oh. yeah?"
He had a large bump near his right eye, to the right,
and another on the cheek, where it had also bled. She had a pot of pancake make-up and was smearing it over the damaged tissue.
"It's all right," he said, wincing.
"No, it isn't. I told you to keep out of trouble."
"Sorry."
She screwed the lid back on the pot.
"Now, don't be frightened to look at the judge and the jury. But don't,
whatever you do, stare at them. Just don't look as if you are avoiding their eyes. You're innocent, remember? "
"That's right. I got nothing to hide."
"And don't smile, Michael. I want you to look serious all right?"
He nodded. There was a rap on the door. It was time.
"Right," she said.
"We're on. Ready?"
In the hierarchical and clearly mapped space of the courtroom, everyone has an allotted position. In some ways it is like an old-fashioned church, with the Judge sitting at his massive desk, as if planted in a great High Altar. Above him, suspended from the wall, is a resplendent royal coat of arms; below him is the Clerk of the Court at his desk with the stenographer and then the bar of the court like a communion rail, separating the officers of justice from those who have come in search of it.
The wood-panelled court is an easygoing place full of quiet conversation until the judge takes his seat. Like wedding guests, divided according to their allegiance and waiting for the arrival of the bride, the prosecution sits on one side and the defence on the other. They occupy ranks, the barristers to the fore and solicitors behind. Here, awaiting the arrival of Mr. Justice Winfield, were Rylands, Fletcher and the other briefs in their gowns, bands and wigs.
Rylands signalled with his finger to Fletcher and shifted a few seats towards the Prosecution side.
"You up for a game of tennis? Thursday night?"
"What time?"
"Court's booked for seven-thirty. I've got Roly and Bill on-side.
Think you can make it? "
Fletcher flipped open a pocket diary and jotted a note.
"Certainly.
Already looking forward to it, Robert. "
"Good. Should be a good game."
He slid back to his place, next to which Sampara was checking the post-it notes he'd placed in their deposition bundle. Waugh was glancing at the crossword. Behind the lawyers were benches for the police and any other interested officials connected to the case. Even further back, and to the side, was a cramped area reserved for the press and media. And along the side wall, bridging the fore-and-aft division of the court, was the enclosure for the jury of twelve ordinary men and women, chosen at random from the electoral roll. At this stage of Regina vs. Michael Dunn the jury box was empty.
The public, too, were set apart, confined on a gallery perched above the court, as if in a kind of purdah and policed in officious style by ushers. They were present strictly on sufferance. And at the very back of the court, slightly raised, stood the dock, which would soon be offering up its prisoner for judgement.
At ten o'clock, before the clock on the tower had finished striking, the elaborate formality of the murder trial began.
"Be upstanding in court."
Having arrived just ahead of the judge, Belinda hardly had time to take stock of Winfield before he started speaking. She had asked around about him and been told he was dry but decent. With judges it is always difficult at first sight to see the man under the wig, but he seemed a shrewd individual of about sixty, hurrying into his seat as if wanting to have the trial done and dusted with efficiency and speed. He nodded to the Clerk whose job it was to dock the prisoner.
"Put up Michael Dunn," called the Clerk.
Dunn appeared at the back of the court flanked by two security guards.
There was a palpable hush as the court registered his presence, followed by a rustle of whispered comment. Belinda turned to look at him, trying to catch his eye. Leaving him a few minutes earlier, she had felt sick with anxiety, but Dunn was calm and seemed almost at ease. So did he now. In suit, shirt and tie bought by arrangement with social services he looked nothing like the dirty, drink-ravaged social misfit that the police had arrested back in September.
Searching the array effaces that had turned towards him, he found Belinda's. She smiled encouragingly and his mouth gave the merest twitch.
"Are you Michael Frederick Dunn?" asked the Clerk severely once the accused was standing in the dock.
"Yes."
His voice came over as quiet, unassuming. It would lilt pleasantly when he gave evidence. Quite illogically, given that proceedings had not even begun yet, Belinda felt a surge of optimism. He was innocent and they would beat this.
"Please be seated," said the Clerk.
"Jury panel, please."
There was a renewal of the murmuring in the well of the court as fifteen men and women filed in, shuffling self-consciously until they all stood in a knot at the back of the court. Winfield, who had been writing and paying little heed to events so far, suddenly looked up, quelling all conversation. He turned without further ado to the jurors and cleared his throat.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this case involves events which took place on the Howarth Estate in East London. Without wishing to impugn the ability of any of you to apply your minds objectively to the evidence in the case, rather than toer any extraneous consideration, out of excess of caution I am sure you will agree that if there is anyone here who has a close connection with the Howarth Estate, it would be better if you did not serve. Is there in fact anyone who falls into that category?"
The jurors looked sidelong at each other but no one spoke. Winfield nodded to the Clerk who turned to the accused and began to intone.
"The names you are about to hear are the names of the jurors who are to try you. If you have an objection to any of them you must say so before they come to book to be sworn, and your objection shall be heard."
The Clerk turned to the panel of jurors.
"As your name is called," said the Clerk, 'would you please answer and go and sit in the jury box. "
He had in his hand a pack offilecards. He shuffled the pack and picked up the top card.
"Sheree Granger?"
One of the jurors, a young woman, started slightly and said, "Er present!"
As the jury were being em panelled and sworn. Walker fidgeted. It wasn't the physical space of the courtroom that bothered him on these occasions, it was the way these trials inhabited the dimension of time -so leisurely, as if ritualized tedium was the essence of it all. It was like cricket another of those English rituals that he, as a Scot, was baffled by. Five days to play a game that could be settled just as easily in an afternoon!
He looked at his watch then leaned towards Pat North's ear.
"Just going out for a smoke."
Then he tiptoed out of the court.
Barridge had been anticipating the trial in a state of mounting distress. It was as if he was waiting for his own trial.
His uniform had been returned to him eventually. A building worker fished it out of the trench and they'd phoned Southampton Street from the site hut. The Super had called him in for a bollocking. Not a rap on the wrist:
a right what's-got-into-you, it's-bloody-irresponsible, are you-trying-to-make-a-laughing-stock-out-of-me type of bollocking.
Having been told, if he did it again, his size twelves wouldn't touch, he was fired into Mr. Awad at Occupational Health. Awad meant well but Barridge had struggled from the off to communicate with him. The man had a habit of nodding and saying 'yes, yes, yes', as if hurrying him, when Barridge spoke about the flashbacks and the guilt and feelings about being chosen. It was so irritating that Barridge had never confided the most important and most secret details of all the thing he had done. The unforgivable thing. After three appointments he had not felt like making a fourth.
At home, his dad never noticed a bloody thing, but his mum knew there was something very wrong.
"It's still that kid you found, isn't it? It's bugging you so
mething terrible."
"Don't know."
"It is, Colin, I know you. And you're not sleeping. Well, if you won't go and see the doctor, what about that man at work, that Awad? You should go back to him again. Have another try."
"Don't want to."
"He might help, son. You got to do something. You can't just mope around here."
Eventually he seemed to let himself be persuaded to go back to Awad, Privately he knew he would have to face him again anyway, and tell the truth. Today was the last possible day the trial began this morning.
Before it was too late he had to tell someone what he'd done the thing they would call a perversion.
Fletcher opened for the Crown and from the first he showed his determination not to spare the jury.
"There are a number of things, members of the jury, which will not be in dispute: that Julie Anne was first strangled into unconsciousness by means of a rope ligated around her neck. That she was sexually assaulted and was then placed alive in one of the sewage pipes on a nearby building site. There are some photographs which I would like you to look at in the bundle."
The jury turned to their copies of the site where the child's body had been found.
"As you can see," said Fletcher, 'this is a pipe of narrow diameter and the position in which Julie Anne was placed forced her head down into her knees, restricting her breathing with the result that she died some time later of asphyxia or suffocation. There is no doubt, then, that Julie Anne was murdered. "
Walker had returned to his place before Fletcher got to his feet. Now he glanced at the public gallery the grandmother was there and one or two of the Howarth Estate residents, dressed up as if for a charabanc-ride to Southend. Then he saw the stepfather come in, looking angry and unkempt, his eyes staring. Walker saw him favour Helen with a look of vicious hatred as he found a place in the row behind her.
"Now, members of the jury," continued Fletcher, "I would like you to view the evidence in this case as you would the pieces of a jigsaw. It may be that one or two of the pieces are missing that there are some questions that will not be answered or details that will not be filled in. But enough of the overall picture will emerge for you to be certain that the person who murdered Julie Anne Harris in the way I have described is the defendant, Michael Dunn."
TR01 - Trial And Retribution Page 20