‘But you can’t be one hundred per cent sure of that?’
‘I don’t recall meeting him, seeing him ever.’ Fiona fought to hide her irritation.
‘You see, I think you may well have come across Sam Millins. My client is not denying he has a reputation in the neighbourhood and you may well have had him pointed out to you over the last few years and then in the heat and confusion of the tragic and violent incident in June 2009 imagined that he was the man driving the car.’
‘I didn’t imagine anything,’ Fiona said hotly.
‘You were aware that there were gangs operating in the area?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you never heard who was involved?’
‘It’s not something people talk about.’ She remembered the new mother turning her away, the day of her panic attack. I just don’t want any trouble. That’s how it is. Closing the door.
‘No?’ He acted sceptical. ‘So you had no idea that Derek Carlton, a black man, and his friend Sam Millins, a white man, had a reputation as gang leaders in the area?’
‘No.’
He gave a little smile and shook his head, implying she was not being honest with her answers. Fiona felt annoyed.
‘You didn’t see the car until it was almost upon you?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You couldn’t see it when you heard gunfire and looked out of the house?’
‘No, I don’t remember seeing it,’ she stuttered, flustered.
‘You don’t know where it came from? Only the general direction?’
‘That’s right.’
‘You don’t know who shot Danny Macateer?’
‘No.’ She made an effort to calm herself, not show how wound up she really was.
‘How did you get here today?’
‘On the tram.’
‘How long did that journey take?’
‘Half an hour.’
‘Where did you sit?’
‘In the front behind the driver.’ She was puzzled by the turn of questions.
‘There is a window between the driver’s cab and the compartment?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, the driver would be visible to someone sitting where you were?’
‘Yes.’ What was he on about?
Mr Merchant nodded his head slowly, solemnly. ‘Can you describe the driver of the tram?’
‘No.’
‘Even though you would have seen him pass you as the tram slowed to stop at the station platform, then had half an hour in close proximity? Considerably longer than the fleeting glimpse of my client.’
‘I know what I saw.’ Doubt was nibbling at her stomach but she could not buckle now. He was trying to undermine her. She had seen Sam Millins. She closed her eyes. She remembered the huge rush of horror as she ran from the house, the sick feeling, the blur of motion and the snarl of brakes. Sam Millins’ face. The jaw, the chiselled cheekbones, his eyes flashing with rage. The wild beating of her heart, the roar of adrenalin. That man had murdered Danny Macateer, along with his accomplice. He sat just yards away now.
Fiona began to shiver, numbness gripped her mouth, dizziness swirled, clouding her vision. Blink, the skitter of fear in his gaze and the bloom of love, blink, her shoes full of blood. She gripped the wood that framed the stand, trying to fight the tide of terror rising inside. Sweat broke cold across her back and on her scalp and the pressure built, a fist crushing her heart. Her heart jerking, jolting. There was no air, a vacuum. Fiona gasped, gulped. Sensed movement beside her as Francine leant forward. The judge asked if she would like to stop and have a break. Fiona shook her head. She couldn’t be sick, oh, please not here. People were talking, buzzing sounds in her head. The sky in Danny’s eyes, pupils rimmed with gold, copper in her throat, the loss of his breath, the loss of his life. She struggled to breathe, won a sip, fought her way through the acid panic, through the screaming in her nerves and the white hot fear. When her words came she forced them out, stammering through clenched teeth, stones of truth hard in her mouth. ‘I saw Sam Millins in that car. I saw him. I swear. He drove that car.’
She made it downstairs with Francine’s help. ‘Take your time,’ said Francine. ‘It’s done now.’
Fiona nodded, her teeth chattering, her arms and legs rigid with tension, a din in her head. She didn’t feel triumphant or relieved, just angry. Angry at the way he’d tried to trip her up and ridicule her story. Angry that the truth about Danny’s death was reduced to jousting and cheap comments about film stars. Angry that she had been overwhelmed again by another attack. She was so angry she wanted to scream or break something.
‘I need to go home.’
‘Take a minute,’ Francine suggested, ‘then we’ll go and get your bags.’
‘How was it?’ Joe was waiting for them.
‘Bit rough,’ she admitted, and allowing to weakness made her eyes fill up. She sniffed and blinked. She would not weep now.
‘Well done,’ he said. ‘And thank you. Really, it is so important, having a witness like you.’ He smiled, glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Now, I’m sorry, I’m going to have to go.’
Oh yes, she thought, game over. She’d done her bit and he was moving on. Why did she ever imagine there might be anything more than that? ‘Okay,’ she said.
‘I’ll be in touch.’ He nodded, he didn’t even shake her hand, just walked away.
Or not, she thought. And gathered up her belongings.
PART FOUR I Can See Clearly Now
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The Verdict
There was no quick result: Mike knew that was a bad sign. It was a Tuesday when the lawyers did their summing-up speeches and the judge asked the jury to retire to consider their verdict. They didn’t return one by the end of the day and they were sent to a hotel for the night.
Mike could feel it all turning to dust. The thought of the murderers getting away with a not guilty verdict or of the jurors failing to agree was like a fist in his guts. They had to convict, even if some of the witnesses had been a bit ropey, even if the forensic evidence was no great shakes.
Mike wondered if the jury had been got at. That happened. And unlike the witnesses, the jurors were there on display, in full view of the public. The defendants’ cronies could eyeball them across the court; follow them home if it came to it. And if you were being intimidated and they knew what you looked like, where you lived, where your family lived, then it would be hard to report it. Risk bringing trouble on yourself, on your family.
All day Wednesday at work Mike waited, listening to the hourly local radio news bulletins, on an old Walkman radio cassette he’d dug out. Jan laughed at the sight of it. Mike pretended he was keeping up with the cricket scores.
Mike didn’t know the exact rules about how the votes had to go for a murder trial but he knew most of them had to agree. The jury were sent to the hotel again for a second night.
Thursday, and in the lunchtime bulletin came news that the jury had failed to agree unanimously and had sought direction from the judge. He had instructed them to see if they could reach a majority verdict, of ten or more in agreement. Mike wondered how big the gap was, how many wanted a not guilty.
When he got home he was wound up. Vicky told him Kieran had hidden the landline again and Mike snapped at him which didn’t do any of them any good.
Mike knew what he’d seen. He’d seen the guy shoot and kill the boy, the other independent witness, the nurse who’d done CPR, had seen the man driving the car, picked him out and everything. What more did they need? What was taking so long?
Fiona was coming back from her break when her phone rang. The unit was busy; she’d two first-timers to look after: one a breech presentation and the other an elderly primigravida, a woman in her forties who was pregnant after three rounds of IVF. Fiona was worried about the breech but wanted to give the mother a little longer before raising the issue of a Caesarean. No foetal distress yet and the woman was strong and fit.