Even as Emily was speaking – upset by Anselm’s interest in the marginal – Anselm realised he’d uncovered potentially significant evidence. Evidence that might yet harden into a defence. First, however, he’d picked at the lining of Grainger’s case.
After taking the stand, Emily had confirmed her husband’s account of Harry’s behaviour; she’d stressed, under Grainger’s careful direction, that the defendant had suggested after the first meeting that he see Harry alone and that Emily had not been present in the building thereafter, and that Harry had come out of the third encounter so distressed he couldn’t relate what had happened to him; she’d then explained how she called the police and how, during the subsequent video interview, Harry was unable to open his mouth. Cross-examined by Anselm, she admitted that Harry hadn’t in fact accused Littlemore … that she had suggested Littlemore’s name … after Harry had thrown the ship-in-a-bottle against the wall. Harry had simply agreed to his mother’s inferences, nodding, but still not speaking. While this was an important concession, it wasn’t out of the ordinary: victims often need such promptings. Thanks to Fraser’s disclosure, Anselm had also brought to light another potentially telling detail: Martin Brandwell had spoken in private to his grandson immediately before the recording. Questioned about the relationship between her father-in-law and Harry, she’d agreed that Martin Brandwell could be intimidating, that Harry had sometimes been frightened of him.
‘You can’t be suggesting that Harry’s grandfather persuaded him not to speak?’ Emily said, astonished.
Anselm then flipped the argument upside down, scoring a small point in Littlemore’s favour. ‘Perhaps he told him to tell the truth … and that’s why Harry couldn’t open his mouth.’
These were small victories, something for a floundering defence advocate to hang onto when it came to making a speech. However, it was only after returning to territory already tentatively explored with Dominic that Anselm made a significant discovery.
Potentially significant.
When reading Harry’s school reports, Anselm had underlined an interesting entry from the pen of Mr Whitefield. Apart from a history of ‘prevarication’ – a nice word for lying when it suited him – Harry had fought with Neil Harding. Twice. They might have learned to talk together in nursery but they weren’t on speaking terms by the time they got to secondary school. And while the young boy’s death was unquestionably shocking, Emily confirmed that Harry wasn’t a witness; he didn’t see the body; he didn’t see the stains on the tarmac; he didn’t meet hysterical classmates running from the accident site. In a vital sense, he’d been cushioned from all that was traumatising for a bystander. He was told about it by a friend who hadn’t seen anything either. Anselm was edging towards the proposition that Harry’s disturbing behaviour might have another explanation – antecedent to Neil Harding’s death. Which is why he’d asked Dominic about the holiday that ended the night before term began. Anselm now returned to the subject with Emily:
‘Does it strike you as odd that Harry didn’t eat on the way home? That he didn’t want any breakfast the next day? That he wanted to stay at home?’
‘Not especially. We’d had a wonderful holiday.’
‘Did Harry say it was wonderful?’
‘He didn’t need to … we’d done wonderful things.’
‘Did you ask Harry why he wasn’t eating?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I asked him if he was sad to be going back to school and he said, “Yes”.’
‘So it was you that mentioned school as the reason? It didn’t come from him?’
‘Father, if you had children you wouldn’t ask questions like that. You know what’s bothering your child.’
‘Like you knew it was Father Littlemore who assaulted Harry?’
Emily sighed and looked to the jury. There had to be parents in the box who’d understand what she was trying to say. You have to help children along, and you do that by showing them you understand what they’re feeling. You don’t wait for them to tell you.
‘Who went on this holiday to Ireland?’ asked Anselm. His intuition was stirring.
‘My husband, Harry, my in-laws – Martin and Maisie – and myself.’
‘A cycling venture around the Ring of Kerry?’
‘That’s right.’
Anselm thought for a moment. ‘The trip home to London. By car, that’s twelve or thirteen hours, isn’t it? If you take the ferry from Rosslare to Fishguard in South Wales?’
‘Yes, but we took a longer route, crossing from Dun Laoghaire to Holyhead.’
‘That’s way to the north.’
‘Yes, but we were staying the night in Harlech. Splitting the journey into two days. You see Justin has a cottage just outside the town, overlooking Tremadog Bay. He’d been climbing in Snowdonia and we’d arranged to meet up for the evening.’
While Emily was upset by this excursion into irrelevance, Anselm teased out the detail, his pulse beginning to run. They booked a hotel in the town. They arrived at about two in the afternoon. At six, Harry went to fetch Justin. On his own. A ten-minute stroll. Along the beach. He was back, with his uncle, by eight.
‘Two hours later?’
‘Harry adores his uncle, Father. They spent some time together while the grown-ups had a lie-down.’
‘Did you discuss what they did to pass the time?’
‘Of course not … or if we did I can’t remember.’
‘How did your brother-in-law appear that evening?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘What was his manner? Was he stressed or flustered in any way?’
‘No. He’d been climbing … got lost … fallen and cut his hands and face … but that’s all normal for Justin.’
‘Did Harry eat that evening?’
‘No. He went straight to bed. The poor thing was exhausted. So we had some adult time.’
Anselm slowed with the cold impulse of a hunter. ‘Are you aware that loss of appetite is itself a symptom of some significance?’
‘It can be, but there was nothing wrong with Harry. We’d spent two weeks pedalling up and down hills and he’d left us all behind.’
‘Could you confirm the following for me, please? Harry didn’t eat that night?’
‘No.’
‘Nor the next day on the way home?’
‘No.’
‘Nor that night when you got there?’
‘No.’
‘And not the next morning when he got up?’
‘That’s right. And I don’t know why you keep going on about eating, it’s—’
‘Thirty-six hours without any kind of nourishment … and all because he didn’t want to go back to school?’
Emily was upset and confused. She felt criticised by Anselm, and the humiliation was intense. She thought he was implying that she hadn’t looked after her son properly; that it was her fault terrible things had happened to him. She wasn’t able to imagine what Anselm was pointing towards. But Mr Justice Keating, after years of being ambushed by the unexpected, was more than capable. He put his pen down with a forbidding glance at Grainger. He’d glimpsed part of that foreign land that may or may not be real. Unable to reply, Emily pulled out a tissue and Anselm sat down. He had to control his emotions and his mind. But it wasn’t easy. There was a chance that Littlemore was innocent, because Anselm didn’t credit a trauma in Harlech followed by another in London, with Justin Brandwell and Edmund Littlemore as assailants standing in line. And that meant Harry had lied to Fraser with one story (blaming his grandfather) and lied to the court with another (blaming Father Eddie). It meant that Martin had wanted to avoid this trial to protect Maisie from learning that their son, the survivor who’d come back from the brink to save others, had destroyed Harry’s childhood, that Harry was the living sacrifice to that end, and that Littlemore was just driftwood for the pyre … though why Harry had thrown that ship-in-a-bottle against the wall remained a deeply troubling question.
But there was much more on the line. If Littlemore was innocent, then the Silent Ones were real, and his and Carrington’s scheme to reach them became critically important. Anselm had to find them. By the same token, if there were no Silent Ones, Littlemore was guilty. He’d brought Anselm on side to conjure a defence out of nothing: to kick up enough dust to cause a doubt in the jury’s mind. The outstanding questions were vital, urgent and decisive: who were the Silent Ones? Why had they chosen obscurity? And how were they connected to Justin Brandwell?
Mr Justice Keating closed his red notebook. ‘We’ll adjourn for lunch. Who is your next witness, Mr Grainger?’
‘Father George Carrington, my lord.’