58

Ahmad stood quietly in the dock. Judith had told Constance, as succinctly as she could, what had transpired in the judge’s room and what they needed to do next. Judith stood up and thought, fleetingly, of her own technique of lectern leaning. Sometimes she adopted the ‘praying mantis’; she found that lent her an air of piety and false reverence.

But that was unacceptable for this next witness. She needed something foreign to her every breath, she needed to appear empathetic. And so she alighted upon a stance with her fingers splayed on the top of the lectern, elbows bent, chest slightly forward and her head gently inclined to one side. ‘The budgerigar,’ she whispered to herself triumphantly. That would do.

‘Your honour. As agreed with my learned friend, Mr Chambers, and with your permission, I now call Mrs Aisha Qabbani.’

Gasps of surprise filled the courtroom and heads turned in anticipation of viewing the reclusive, down-trodden wife. But Ahmad leaped up, his eyes blazing.

‘No!’ he shouted. ‘No, please, no! I forbid this.’

The two police officers on either side were quick off their feet and restrained him, or he might have jumped from the dock. Even so, they wrestled with him until he was knocked to the floor. A third officer joined them to hold him down. The judge banged his gavel to restore order and Ahmad was raised to his knees, with his arms twisted behind his back.

‘Oh God, Connie. What a mess,’ Judith muttered. ‘We should have taken the deal.’

‘No,’ Constance replied. ‘This is good. Keep going.’

Mr Justice Seymour glowered at Judith before turning his icy stare on Ahmad.

‘Mr Qabbani, I can see this is difficult for you but this is not a public house or a Syrian bazaar. This is a court of law, my court, and you will sit quietly and listen to the evidence, whether you like it or not. Do you understand?’

Ahmad pouted, desperation etched across his face as the officers lifted him up slowly and pushed him back down in his seat.

‘I don’t like doing this but I am going to ask the police officers to replace your handcuffs just to ensure we won’t have any more disturbances,’ he continued.

‘Your honour, I am sure that won’t be necessary,’ Judith pleaded for Ahmad.

‘This is my courtroom and I am sure it will be. This is the second time Mr Qabbani has interrupted inappropriately and it will allow us all to be more relaxed for the next few minutes. If it happens again, he will be removed. Go ahead, please.’

Ahmad closed his eyes tightly as the handcuffs were placed on his wrists and snapped shut. How could his wife see him like this?

‘I understand that your next witness is the defendant’s wife, is it, Ms Burton?’

‘Yes, your honour.’

‘Let’s get on with it then.’

Aisha Qabbani entered from a door at the back of the court, with Constance at her side. She was dressed in navy trousers and a turquoise blouse and she wore a brightly coloured head scarf.

‘Mrs Qabbani,’ Judge Seymour began. ‘Ms Burton will ask you some questions which you must answer truthfully and fully. Usher, please give Mrs Qabbani some water.’

‘Mrs Qabbani, tell us about your husband’s daily routine – when he goes to work, what time he comes home,’ Judith began.

Aisha gazed around the room, allowing everyone to see her from every angle before she spoke.

‘My husband, Ahmad…’

Ahmad let out a gasp at hearing his name come from his wife’s lips after so long, but then lowered his head and clasped his hands together. Despite Judith’s treachery, he had promised he would try to stay calm. Judith wondered if he were praying.

‘My husband, Ahmad, works six days a week at St Mark’s Hospital in Hampstead. Sometimes he begins at eight in the morning and finishes at five or six. Other times he begins at five and works until very late, four or five in the morning, sometimes he finishes at eight o’clock.’

‘And his job?’

‘Cleaning; that’s all.’

‘On the night Mrs Hennessy died, Thursday the 11th of May, what time did your husband arrive home?’

‘It was about 9:30.’

‘Do you live close to the station?’

‘Yes. It is just a few minutes to walk.’

‘Did he go out again that evening?’

‘No. He stayed at home.’

‘Did you notice anything unusual about how he looked or his behaviour?’

‘No. All was like usual. He ate dinner. Sometimes he reads to Shaza, our daughter, but she was already asleep.’

‘Does your husband like his job?’

‘Before we came to England, we had lots of plans. Ahmad thought he would be a doctor here, too.’

‘And what happened?’

‘They didn’t accept his qualification. They said he would have to do more studying. We had no money for studying.’

‘So he took the cleaning job?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he talk to you about his work?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘What did he tell you?’

‘That he liked talking to the patients. I think it made the job easier for him.’

‘Does your husband ever take anyone to work with him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who is that?’

‘Our daughter, Shaza.’

‘How old is Shaza?’

‘She is nine, will be ten years old soon.’

‘Why does your husband take Shaza to work with him sometimes?’

‘He worries.’

‘What does he worry about?’

‘That I can’t look after her.’

‘Why does he worry about that? Take your time.’

Aisha’s lip trembled. She took a sip of water, peered forlornly over at Ahmad and then faced the court. Finally, she turned towards the judge.

‘We had a beautiful house in Damascus, Barza neighbourhood.’ She spoke softly, as if she were recounting a dream. ‘And a villa in Al-hama. It had four bedrooms, a big courtyard and we had a pomegranate tree. Sometimes, in the summer I would reach my hand out of the window and pick pomegranates. Ahmad worked at the hospital in Damascus and I taught English at the University.

‘Then things got bad. Even before 2011. It was my fault. We had friends in the USA. That is why Ahmad was able to study there. But they would send me things and I posted them online. It was stupid. The police took Ahmad in for questioning. He was away for three days and nights without any messages. When he returned he was very quiet. I don’t know what they did to him or what he saw there; he never said. One other of our friends was taken away and he never came back.

‘But then they bombed near our house and two of his doctors were killed. I told him. If we stay we will die. All of us. You are a doctor. We will go somewhere else, somewhere safe. You can be a doctor again there and help people. That must be better, I said, better than a pointless death. And this time he agreed.’

‘What happened on your journey here?’

‘Objection, your honour.’ Mr Chambers spoke this time with only a fraction of his usual volume and fervour. ‘This is not relevant to the defence’s case.’

‘Your honour, this is a trumped-up case in any event. It is based on hypotheticals and conjecture. There isn’t even any evidence that Mrs Hennessy was murdered. Yet my client and his family have endured trial by media. The evidence Mrs Qabbani will give is relevant to understanding the trauma my client experienced in the past, which will, in turn, help explain his “curious behaviour” in the railway station, evidence of which Mr Chambers has led. In my submission, your honour, not only is this testimony highly relevant so that the jury can assess the credibility of the accused, the criminal justice system owes my client the opportunity to have this evidence heard.’

‘Continue, Ms Burton, with less fuss. I would have let you continue anyway. Mr Chambers, sit down.’

‘Mrs Qabbani. Take your time. What happened on your journey here?’

Aisha took a deep breath and closed her eyes and she was there, standing on the shore, gawking at the vast expanse of water.

The dinghy in front of them was bobbing up and down. It seemed tiny and insignificant against the massive spread of the sea. Ahmad was staring too and he held his hand out to her.

‘Is it safe?’ she had asked him, knowing the answer herself but wanting some reassurance from him. His grip on her hand had tightened. They had stood together on the shore, agonising over what to do next. What was for the best.

But they both knew the moment they saw the boat that they had been duped. How could a dinghy, twenty-foot long, transport their busload of men, women and children (and let’s not forget old Abdul’s wheelchair) across miles of unforgiving ocean?

Yet not one of them spoke up. How could they? There was no alternative, no way back, homes abandoned, goods sold or given away and money handed over. At least the man who had taken their money had the good sense not to wave them off; Ahmad might have given him a piece of his mind. Some of the other men might have given him something more. There seemed no point rising up against the simpleton he had sent in his place; a man who could only gesture and point at the boat before limping back to the bus and driving off, leaving them all standing there on the shore.

Aisha had clung to Ahmad briefly, touching her hand to his neck, before striding out; she wouldn’t make this his decision. After all, she had been the one who had insisted they leave.

‘We took a boat,’ she said in a small voice to the attentive court, ‘from near Bodrum in Turkey. We wanted to reach Sicily but we thought Greece if not. But our boat was too small and too old.’

It was only thirty minutes into their journey that the engine had cut out. Khalil, an engineer from Basra had tried to re-start it without success. Abdul had muttered under his breath. His son asked Ahmad what was going wrong. What could he do to help. They had two paddles and took it in turns to drive the vessel forward; thankfully the waters were calm and the children settled down to sleep with the lapping of the water.

‘How far is it?’ Aisha had asked quietly, out of earshot of the children.

‘One or two hours,’ Ahmad had replied, his voice cracking, and Aisha had allowed her eyes to hover over his face for a second longer than usual to test his reply for weight, before turning her attention to the horizon.

After another hour, one of the men had called out excitedly that he could see land. And he was right. A great land mass appeared to their right, but the wind was now starting to blow and no matter how hard they paddled, they began to travel left, to the west and away from their longed-for destination. And then the water began to seep in; Ahmad felt it first as a chill around his toes and those seated on the bottom of the boat began to moan and shuffle uncomfortably. It was that chill, the rising water, which returned to him over and over in times of stress. At first, he was reassured; they bailed out with teacups (Abdul’s wife had brought a tea service with her which had been part of her dowry) but within a few minutes the water was back with more friends, and he knew then that they were going to sink.

‘We used the paddles for a bit, then the water started to come in,’ Aisha told the silent court. Ahmad sobbed audibly into his hands.

As the little craft bobbed and weaved, they began to distribute the life vests and, finding them short – there were only twenty – they gave them to the women and children. Abdul refused his over and over again, until his wife screamed that she would drop hers in the sea if he rejected it one more time.

The boat sank lower and Shaza’s eyes grew wide. She, alone of the children, was awake. She trailed her arm in the water and Aisha reprimanded her, calling out that she would get her new coat wet. They tossed and turned and lurched their way onward, Aisha fearing at every bump that they would capsize. She could hardly draw breath for fear of unbalancing the boat. And then Ahmad had spied a faraway dot and nudged Aisha to look too. She had tried to appear encouraged but her face wouldn’t obey.

Ahmad had shouted to Khalil to search for flares and one was located. The men were arguing now. They wanted to throw the wheelchair overboard to lighten the load. Abdul’s wife was weeping, they had saved for two years to buy it. Two years of living on bread and milk. How would her husband get around in the new world without it? ‘If we don’t throw it overboard there won’t be any new world, don’t you see?’ Khalil had remonstrated with them.

‘We started to throw things over that we didn’t need. We had hardly anything anyway,’ Aisha explained.

Ahmad had manoeuvred his way between the bodies on the boat, had spoken to Abdul’s tearful wife calmly and, after a fashion, detached her from the wheelchair, which the younger men flung overboard with drama and passion. The dot on the horizon was now clearly a ship.

Shaza was trailing her hand in the sea again, defiantly, staring down into the depths. ‘Are there sharks, Mama?’ she had asked.

‘Ahmad had the gun, the flare gun,’ Aisha told the court. ‘There was a ship. But then the water came so fast.’

A colossal wave had washed over them and thrown them into the freezing, icy water, the boat upended and bobbing like a cotton reel. Shaza, close to her mother, was flung towards her.

Aisha, in the courtroom, drank her water down.

‘Take your time. Who from your family was in the boat with you?’

‘In the boat was Ahmad, Shaza and…’ – she turned her sad eyes from the judge to the jury – ‘Shadya.’

‘Shadya was who?’

‘Our other daughter. Shaza’s twin sister.’

‘And what happened to Shadya?’

‘The boat turned over. One minute she was in my hand, then she was gone.’

‘Your daughter went into the sea?’

‘Yes. And then the ship arrived. A big ship. British. And they picked us up. But not Shadya. Ahmad tried to find her. He tried for so long, but we didn’t succeed. After, the captain told us that some of the life vests were full of cardboard, it made her sink not float. And I put it on her.’

Ahmad had shrieked and yelled and dived under the water, searching desperately for his daughter. Even when he had been pulled aboard the rescue ship he had wrestled with the men and dived back into the sea. The man in the boat had asked, ‘What the hell does he think he’s doing? Doesn’t he want to be saved?’

‘Our daughter,’ Aisha had mumbled to him, her eyes entreating him to understand. ‘Ah jeez,’ he had exclaimed. ‘He won’t find her.’ But they had waited patiently while Ahmad had plunged below the waves and screamed and shouted till, exhausted, he had been dragged onto the rowing boat and the medic had stuck a needle in his side to sedate him.

‘What happened then?’

‘We came to England. We were lucky. Some of the others had to go back to Turkey. Ahmad got the job at the hospital.’

‘Why does Ahmad worry about leaving Shaza with you, Mrs Qabbani?’

‘Shadya couldn’t swim. She was a quiet girl, well-behaved. Not so physical. Shaza could. She was always more…active. When the boat tipped I reached for Shadya but Shaza grabbed me instead and Shadya was gone. I told Ahmad that night what had happened. He thought I blamed Shaza for Shadya’s death. I couldn’t believe he would think that of me. I stopped speaking or going out. Most of the time I am OK. I can care for Shaza. Some days the blackness comes and I need to be alone.’

‘You say the blackness comes. Does your husband also suffer from what happened?’

‘Yes. When we arrived in London, the captain on the ship was very nice. He wanted to help us. My husband had such terrible nightmares and shaking; he couldn’t control it. The captain paid for my husband to see a psychiatrist. He gave Ahmad some breathing exercises and he carries a photo with him, a photo of me and Shaza. It is supposed to help him, to bring him back to the present. There are pills but he won’t take them. It never goes away.’

‘Why did your husband hide from people here the fact that he was a doctor in Syria?’

‘He is a proud man, even after all that has happened to us. And he didn’t want pity from people, I think. Much better to just be doing the job he has and doing it properly.’

‘What do you say to the people in this country who have accused you and your husband of being parasites, of biting the hand that feeds you?’

‘My country Syria was a beautiful country. It is a beautiful country; it’s just that the beauty is covered up with a big, grey blanket and I’m not sure when we will see it again. We had a beautiful life there. We didn’t want to leave. We had to leave. We will never forget that England has given us a home. Ahmad and I, we can’t contribute so much; it’s always this way for refugees. Everything is so different from our way. But our daughter and the sons and daughters of all who came with us, they will always remember the kindness of the people, their humanity. I hope my daughter will be a doctor like her father. Then she can help people here too.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Qabbani. No more questions.’

‘Mr Chambers?’

Andy Chambers shook his head to indicate he would not question Aisha, all the time staring hard at Ahmad.

Aisha rose slowly and descended from the witness box. She had only taken three steps across the floor of the court when the back doors opened and Shaza came barrelling towards her with a police officer in pursuit. She raced towards her mother but then, on seeing the judge and all the other people, she skidded to a halt. The police officer stopped too, and Aisha put out her hand to rein her daughter in.

The public gallery erupted and Judge Seymour was forced to bang his gavel, but to little effect.

‘Your honour, can my learned friend and I approach the bench?’ Judith fought to be heard over the noise.

‘Yes. Good idea,’ Judge Seymour replied.

‘Your honour. There is now no evidence against my client other than a single hair from his head and he has explained how it might have found its way onto Mrs Hennessy’s clothing. And this has been endorsed by none other than the expert for the prosecution. There is nothing else to link my client to the murders any more than any other person working in the hospital. The rings, the “curious behaviour”, as my learned friend liked to call it, we now know its tragic origin; the misogynistic literature, all found to be nonsense or easily explained. There is only one course open to your honour.’

‘Mr Chambers?’

‘I will have to take instructions but I suspect the prosecution will withdraw the case.’

‘You suspect?’

‘I will need to take instructions overnight.’

‘Oh no!’ Judith’s hackles were raised. ‘You can’t possibly let this family go through one more night of hell because of your desire to control the fallout from this ridiculous circus.’ She allowed her voice to rise loud enough for the microphones to pick it up. A hush fell over the courtroom.

Mr Justice Seymour chewed the end of his pen. Judith had drawn herself up to her full height, nostrils flaring wildly before him. In contrast, Mr Chambers was red-faced and shrunken. But Judith had rejected the deal he had offered first thing this morning, and now everything would be so much more public.

He mused things over again. He wasn’t stupid. This is what Judith had wanted for her client. A very public acquittal – and before her client was cross-examined by Andy Chambers. And he didn’t like that; he didn’t like being manipulated. But he also disliked the very public humiliation he himself had endured after his last murder trial, and it was clear where the public’s sympathies would lie once the court journalists had had their say.

He turned his attention to Ahmad, who was standing in the dock, tears pouring down his cheeks, Shaza calling to him from the floor of the court, unable to extract herself from the vice-like grip of her mother and the police officer.

‘Dr Qabbani.’ The judge was firm but not unkind.

‘Officers, please take the handcuffs off Dr Qabbani. I am sure he is quieter now.

‘Dr Qabbani, I rule that there is insufficient evidence against you for this trial to continue. In fact, the evidence was so flimsy in the first place that I venture to suggest it should never have been brought. Members of the jury, thank you for your patience but you will not need to rule on this case today or, indeed, at all. You are discharged. Dr Qabbani, you are free to go.’

And he banged his gavel once, stood up and left the court.

The police officers uncuffed Ahmad slowly and Aisha and Shaza ran to him and embraced, Shaza repeatedly kissing his cheek.

‘We could walk out the front if you like,’ Constance was at Ahmad’s side asking him what he wanted to do next, ‘give a formal statement to the press?’ Ahmad stroked Shaza’s hair, hugged Aisha close, then he shook his head.

‘We go quietly,’ he said, ‘please, Constance. We just want to go home.’