‘Let me stop you there, Mr Rankine. A larger person … a larger person. Are you sure this was the defendant?’
‘Yes, I had seen him earlier that day.’
‘Mr Rankine, I remind you that you are under oath. You did see Sebastian earlier that day, but did you see him fighting in the adventure playground hours later? The Crown and the defence concur that there is no CCTV evidence of this sighting. We know that you were not wearing your glasses and that you were on the far side of the road, looking through the bushes and railings that surround the adventure playground. I suggest that you assumed the person you saw was my client, whom you had seen earlier that day.’
Judge Baron leaned forward. ‘Miss Clarke – will a question for the witness be coming any time soon?’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
‘I am so pleased,’ the judge replied, mouth turned down.
‘Mr Rankine, is it not true that you had no way of identifying my client from the distance stated, particularly considering your short-sightedness?’
‘I thought it was the boy from earlier.’
‘Really? What did you mean when you described the person you saw apparently attacking the deceased as a larger person? Can you tell us if you meant to indicate a person taller or heavier than the victim?’
‘I thought it was the boy from earlier,’ Rankine stammered. He seemed confused, pulling at his earlobe. ‘He was a good bit taller, a little heavier than the little boy …’
‘A good bit taller and heavier? We submit into evidence the height and weight of the victim, Benjamin Stokes, as four feet one inch and four and a half stone in weight. The defendant was just four feet three and four stone nine pounds when placed on remand. In fact the boys were of similar height and weight and one was not “a good bit taller and heavier”. I suggest, Mr Rankine, that the person you saw later that afternoon was not Sebastian Croll, whom you called out to earlier, but was in fact someone else entirely. Could that be so?’
‘Well, I was sure at the time …’
‘Mr Rankine, you are under oath. We know your eye prescription and we know the distance that you were away from the two people you claim to have witnessed at three thirty or four o’clock that day. Could you not have seen someone else, possibly even an adult, with the victim?’
‘Yes,’ Rankine said finally, seeming to slump in the witness box. ‘It’s possible.’
‘Thank you,’ said Irene. She was about to sit, but the witness stood, shaking his head.
‘I’d be glad to be wrong,’ said Rankine. ‘If I never saw him then I never could have stopped it happening. Glad to be wrong.’
‘Thank you, no further questions, m’lord.’ Irene swept her gown under her before she sat.
‘Irene’s quite a good barrister,’ Sebastian whispered to Daniel when the jury had been excused and he was about to be taken back down to the cells. ‘He never saw me at the playground. He saw someone else.’
Daniel felt a chill. He put a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder as the police officer approached. He felt sure that the boy fully comprehended everything that was going on.
Irene rolled her eyebrows at Daniel as she left the room.
Daniel worked late at the office and arrived home in Bow after eight. He closed the door of his flat and leaned his forehead against the frame. His home smelled unlived-in. He turned the heating on and made a cup of tea, changed out of his suit into jeans and a T-shirt and put a load of clothes into the washing machine.
He called Cunningham, Minnie’s lawyer, to check progress on the house, but his mobile was turned to answerphone. It was just then that there was a knock at the door. Daniel assumed it was a neighbour, as there was a buzzer-entry system from the street. He opened the door to find a small, corpulent man with an iPhone held up like a microphone.
‘Can I help you?’ said Daniel, frowning, two fingers hooked into the back pocket of his jeans.
‘You’re Daniel Hunter, the Angel Killer’s lawyer,’ the man said. ‘I wondered if you wanted to talk to me. I’m from the Mail.’
Daniel felt anger flood his muscles, hot and quick. He laughed in a single syllable, then stepped on to the doorstep. ‘How dare you. How did you find me … ?’
‘The electoral register,’ the man said blankly. Daniel noticed his crumpled shirt and nicotine-stained fingers.
‘Get off my property right now before I call the police.’
‘It’s a public stairwell …’
‘It’s my stairwell, get out,’ said Daniel, so loud that it echoed in the hall. He heard the northern lilt to his voice. His accent always thickened in anger.
‘We’re doing a story on you anyway. Might be better for you if you said something,’ said the man, again without expression, looking away to touch his phone and, Daniel presumed, record their conversation.
The action seemed to release something in Daniel. It had been years since he had hit anyone or been physical in that way. He took the man by the collar and slammed him against the wall of the stairwell. The phone fell to the ground with a crack.
‘Do I have to tell you again?’ said Daniel, his face leaning down close to the man’s. He could smell damp raincoat and menthol gum.
The man twisted from his grasp, bent in a hurry to pick up the phone and almost fell down the steps to the main door. Daniel waited on the landing until he heard the main door click shut.
Inside he paced in the hall, running his hand through his hair. He slammed the wall with his open palm.
He walked into the living room, cursing under his breath. He saw Minnie’s photograph on his mantelpiece and imagined what she would say to him now. What’s a bright boy like you needing to use your fists for anyway? He smiled despite himself.
He tried to imagine her coming to visit him: struggling up the stairs, asking why he couldn’t find something on the ground floor. She would cook for him and they would drink gin together and laugh about the fights they had had.
But she was dead and now he would never know what it would be like to be an adult with her. She had taken him in as a child and he had left her as a child – older but still a child – angry and embittered. He had missed the chance to share a gin and hear her story – hear it as an equal, not as someone who had saved him. It was that more than anything that he regretted now, the sense that he had missed out on knowing her properly.
Daniel got up and went into the kitchen in search of gin. He kept his spirits in a box in a cupboard. There were all sorts left over from parties: Madeira, advocaat, Malibu, and Daniel rarely touched them. He lifted the box down and searched until he found a half-full bottle of Bombay Sapphire. It was better than she would have allowed herself, yet Daniel took care to make it up the way that she would have liked: a tall glass, ice in first and then the lemon (when she had one) squeezed over the top. He was sure she added the ice first so as to fool herself that the measure was not as large as it seemed. Tonic fizzed over the ice and gin and lemon and Daniel stirred it with the handle of a fork. He sipped in the kitchen, remembering her pink fist gripping the glass and her twinkling eyes.
The football was on, but he muted the sound and picked up her address book, turning again to the page with Jane Flynn’s number and Hounslow address. He looked at his watch. It was just after nine – not too late for a call.
Daniel dialled the number which Minnie had written carefully in blue biro. He did not remember Minnie being in contact with Jane, but maybe this number had been recorded while Norman was still alive.