TOO MANY COOKS

Monday morning

As I hand over my change to Jeanie this morning in payment for my ham and cheese bap, I find my mind more than usually focused on food. Like most people, I find thoughts of eating something nice flitting through my mind during the day, even when I’m supposed to be concentrating on other things, and even when I’m not particularly hungry. But having occupied myself during a few idle moments on Friday afternoon by reading the file in the case I’m due to try today, I’ve prepared myself for the fact that it may be difficult to avoid stirring up the gastric juices a bit. It’s likely to be a warm day, apparently, and the false promise of delicious, cooling dishes seems unusually seductive.

It’s strange how often cases take you into establishments devoted to food and drink. Usually, the restaurant or bar is just part of the scenery, the backdrop to a case that has nothing to do with eating or drinking as such. Logically, the type or location of the venue shouldn’t matter very much. But despite the number of restaurants, pubs and clubs to be found in London, it’s interesting how often the same names crop up time and time again in proceedings in front of any of our Crown Courts. Bermondsey is no exception. In any given prosecution for offences involving the supply of drugs, drunken Saturday night fisticuffs, drunken Saturday night sexual escapades, the dishonest handling of high-end stolen goods, or even the odd instance of counterfeit currency, two names spring instantly to mind – and very often on to the pages of police reports and witness statements: the George and Dragon, and the Blue Lagoon. Both seem to play host to a statistically improbable number of transactions that eventually end up in court. As a result two things tend to happen: the police keep a close eye on them, which serves to increase the number of arrests and turn the whole thing into a self-fulfilling prophecy; and the judges and staff at the Crown Court avoid both places like a forensic plague.

But you also have the occasional case in which the establishment is not just part of the scenery, but is more intimately involved with the events in question. In cases like that, the judges and staff, having no reason to fear any adverse consequences, may well have some personal knowledge of the premises acquired during an agreeable night out. The most notorious example at Bermondsey was the case of Jordan’s, an up-and-coming restaurant rapidly turning into one of London’s leading gastronomic destinations, but which also turned out to be the site of a brothel frequented by a number of men in public life who didn’t want that fact to become public knowledge. There were, of course, other men – such as Legless – who just happened to have been there for dinner, but were nervous that their presence at Jordan’s might be misconstrued. I tried the resulting case against the proprietor, Robert Jordan, his girlfriend Lucy Trask, and his Russian bar manager, Dimitri Valkov, who ran the brothel. When Valkov, in a futile attempt to save himself, produced a ‘black book’ containing a number of names, panic broke out in certain quarters that took some time to dispel.

Mercifully, the case of Luigi Ricci, featuring Bermondsey’s equally up-and-coming Primavera Toscana, has nothing to do with brothel keeping, as Roderick Lofthouse is about to explain. In fact, it hasn’t attracted any suspicion at all in the two years during which it has graced Queen Elizabeth Street, SE1. On the contrary, while it doesn’t pretend to be a Jordan’s, it has quietly established its reputation for ‘excellent affordable Italian food in a family-style setting’. All four judges of the Bermondsey Crown Court have been seen there on several occasions, once or twice together on a Friday evening; and, I suppose, on one or more of those occasions we probably encountered Luigi Ricci and his brother Alessandro, though if so, I don’t remember. To err on the safe side, when we had our plea and case management hearing I did suggest to Roderick and to Julian Blanquette, who’s defending Luigi, that it might be prudent to move the case to a Crown Court north of the River, or at least import a judge from some such distant clime to try the case. But apparently the Brothers Ricci have no more memory of us than we have of them; counsel saw no need to worry about it, and so on we go.

‘May it please the court, members of the jury, my name is Roderick Lofthouse and I appear to prosecute in this case. My learned friend Mr Julian Blanquette represents the defendant, Mr Luigi Ricci, the gentleman in the dock. Members of the jury, with the usher’s assistance I’m going to provide you with copies of the indictment, which the clerk of court read to you just a few moments ago. One between two, please.’

Dawn scurries over to Roderick and the jury box in turn, handing out copies while repeating that there is only one between two, just in case they missed it when Roderick told them. Although Roderick and Julian weren’t concerned about the judicial familiarity with Primavera Toscana, we all agreed that it wouldn’t be a good idea to have a jury of frequentatores. So this morning, while I was dealing with my usual hour and a quarter’s worth of bail applications and other assorted reasons to delay the start of a trial, we could at least offer the new jury panel something to occupy them during their tedious waiting around time. They were given a short questionnaire asking whether any of them were patrons of Primavera Toscana, or intimates of the Brothers Ricci or any of their employees. It was just as well we did. We received five positive replies from satisfied customers, who had apparently interpreted the questionnaire as the court asking for suggestions of decent places the staff might enjoy going to for lunch. Three supplied particularly effusive recommendations, and one expressed the view that the Riccis should be awarded a Michelin star in recognition of the grilled sea bass. Happily, the jurors concerned were shipped off to panels in the other courts before any damage could be done.

‘You will see that the indictment contains a single count of unlawful wounding with intent to cause grievous bodily harm,’ Roderick continues, ‘contrary to section 18 of the Offences against the Person Act 1861. The particulars of the offence are that Mr Ricci wounded a woman by the name of Linda Galloway by stabbing her with a meat cleaver. Members of the jury, later in the trial the learned judge will direct you about the law, and you must take the law from him, not from me. But I think I can safely tell you this much. A wounding is simply any breaking of the skin, and grievous bodily harm – in the rather archaic language of this old Act of Parliament dating back to 1861 – simply means really serious physical injury. The Crown say, members of the jury, that when you have heard the evidence in this case, you will be driven to conclude that Mr Ricci clearly wounded Miss Galloway, and clearly did so with the intention of causing her really serious physical injury.’

Roderick glances at his notes, and takes a deep breath. The doyen of the Bermondsey Bar is at his deadliest in apparently clear-cut cases of violence. He uses his undoubted gravitas to wonderful effect, and as he increases in seniority the relative lack of detail typical of such cases suits his style more and more. On the other side, Julian Blanquette has a gravitas of his own, but it owes nothing to seniority. Julian owes such gravitas as he has to an infectious energy and a keen wit, which he often employs to good effect against opposing counsel, to the amusement of the jury. I’m wondering with interest what his approach will be to this case. On the face of it, there’s not much to raise a chuckle in the papers I’ve read.

‘Members of the jury, it all started at about eight o’clock on a Thursday evening about four months ago. You will hear that the defendant Luigi Ricci and his brother Alessandro, who are both in their fifties, own and operate an Italian restaurant called Primavera Toscana, in Queen Elizabeth Street, SE1, not very far from this court. You will hear that Linda Galloway went to Primavera Toscana for dinner on that evening with a male companion. She arrived at about seven fifteen. It was a quiet evening. Only one other table was occupied, by a Mr and Mrs Snape, and they were several tables away from where Miss Galloway and her companion were seated.

‘After two pre-dinner drinks Miss Galloway and her companion placed their orders for dinner. The orders were taken by a young woman called Valentina Ricci, who is the daughter of Alessandro Ricci, and who works part-time at Primavera Toscana while studying for her degree. Members of the jury, you may be surprised by what I’m about to tell you, because generally what the victim of an offence had to eat just before the offence was committed is not of great importance. But in this case you may hear it referred to by the witnesses, and so I will tell you. As it was a warm night, both Miss Galloway and her companion ordered a chilled garlic soup and a Caesar salad with chicken. They also asked for a bottle of sparkling water and a bottle of Vermentino di Gallura – a light, crisp white from Sardegna, which I must say I’ve rather taken to myself…’

Seeing me looking at him curiously, Roderick holds up a hand.

‘I’m sorry, your Honour,’ he says quickly, ‘I seem to have got rather carried away. I’ll move on.’

‘The mid-1990 vintages aren’t bad,’ Julian muses drily, with a sly glance in the direction of the jury box, ‘but I must say I’ve always found the Vernaccia di San Gimignano more reliable myself, certainly in more recent years.’

The jury are having a good snigger.

‘I’m sure your Honour would like us to get on with it,’ Roderick says.

‘I would,’ I confirm.

‘Yes, of course, your Honour.’

Even given Roderick’s seniority, it did sound a bit odd to have him diverge from his theme like that, almost as if he’d momentarily lost the plot. But I have to admit that my own attention wasn’t focused one hundred per cent on subject matter either. I must admit, I was somewhat diverted by the image of a nice fresh chilled garlic soup and Caesar salad. I usually look forward to Elsie and Jeanie’s ham and cheese bap, but today it’s feeling rather pedestrian. I force myself to concentrate.

‘The chilled garlic soup,’ Roderick continues, ‘was served uncontroversially at about eight o’clock. At about eight fifteen Valentina Ricci arrived with the Caesar salad and retreated in the direction of the kitchen, apparently with the intention of leaving Miss Galloway and her companion to enjoy it. On the face of it, all was well. But Miss Galloway will tell you that as Miss Ricci opened the kitchen door, she heard raised voices. The voices were male. The kitchen door closed again, but the voices were still audible. For one or two minutes she did her best to ignore them. But the voices became louder and angrier. Mrs Jennifer Snape will tell you that she also heard the voices, even though she was seated farther away from the kitchen. Eventually, Valentina Ricci emerged from the kitchen again – this time in tears. And it was just after that, members of the jury, that Miss Galloway’s evening went terribly wrong.

‘Valentina was followed in a matter of moments by her uncle, the defendant Luigi Ricci. Linda Galloway immediately noticed three things about the defendant: he appeared to be very angry; he was speaking rapidly and loudly in Italian; and he was carrying a large meat cleaver. Miss Galloway initially thought that there must have been some argument between the defendant and Valentina, but she soon realised that she herself was somehow involved. She will tell you that the defendant approached her table, meat cleaver in hand and, still speaking loudly in Italian, stood over her, pointing the meat cleaver at her Caesar salad. It seemed to Miss Galloway that he was remonstrating with her; but as she speaks no Italian she couldn’t tell what he was saying. Members of the jury, Alessandro Ricci then emerged from the kitchen, also speaking loudly in Italian, though thankfully, not carrying a weapon. Alessandro also approached Miss Galloway’s table, so that she now had both brothers towering over her, one on each side of her and slightly behind her. Miss Galloway then realised that the argument was between the two brothers. Although she doesn’t speak the language, Miss Galloway will tell you that she thought she heard several references to the phrase “Insalata Caesar”, which she recognised.

‘Members of the jury, the next thing that happened was that the defendant Luigi Ricci swung the meat cleaver violently in Miss Galloway’s direction. It connected with the right side of her chest, causing serious wounds. There is no dispute about the medical evidence in this case, and it will be read to you. That evidence will leave you in no doubt that the injury Miss Galloway suffered was very serious. She sustained damage to her collarbone, and to two very important muscles in her neck and chest. But, members of the jury, serious as the injury was, it could have been far worse. She lost a considerable amount of blood, but mercifully the meat cleaver, swung with considerable force by the defendant, narrowly missed Miss Galloway’s subclavian artery and her anterior jugular vein. Had either the artery or the vein been severed, she might well have bled to death before the ambulance arrived. Fortunately, the meat cleaver stayed away from those areas; Valentina Ricci had the presence of mind to call 999; and medical help arrived promptly. Miss Galloway was taken to Guy’s Hospital, where she underwent surgery to repair the damage to her bone and muscles, and where she stayed for almost two weeks. Fortunately, members of the jury, she has made a more or less full recovery.

‘The police were called, and took statements from everyone present. Mr Snape saw nothing of the incident because he was sitting with his back to it. Mrs Snape had a partial view, and she will tell you that she saw Luigi Ricci swing the meat cleaver in Miss Galloway’s direction. Alessandro and Valentina Ricci saw the incident in its entirety, and they will both give evidence to you: though it’s probably best if I warn you now that both of them showed considerable reluctance to cooperate with the police, and they will be at court because they’ve been served with a court order to attend, called a subpoena. If they failed to attend, the learned judge could hold them in contempt of court. The police also took a statement from Linda Galloway in hospital as soon as her doctors allowed them to do so, and of course, she will give evidence to you today.

‘Members of the jury, the defendant was arrested and interviewed under caution at the police station. You will hear that interview read to you. In essence, the defendant told the police that the wounding of Miss Galloway was an accident. Because of an argument with his brother Alessandro about the dish that had been served to Miss Galloway, he intended, he said, to cause a scene and to knock her plate off the table and on to the floor with the meat cleaver; but he lost his grip on the cleaver and it hit Miss Galloway’s chest accidentally. In the defence statement provided by Mr Ricci’s solicitors, he repeats this account of the events, and suggests that because it was all an accident, he has not committed any offence. He adds that even if he is guilty of an offence, he had no intent to cause her any harm, and so if he is convicted of anything at all he should be convicted only of the lesser offence of unlawful wounding, without any intent, under section 20 of the Act. Members of the jury, the learned judge will explain to you that, as a matter of law, both of those alternatives are open to you. But we anticipate that, once you have heard the evidence, you will have no doubt that what occurred at Primavera Toscana that night was a very serious wounding, carried out deliberately by the defendant with intent to cause Linda Galloway really serious physical injury.’

After a few closing remarks about the burden and standard of proof Roderick concludes his opening, and we’re ready for Linda Galloway. The lure of a nice chilled soup or fresh Caesar salad has receded somewhat in my mind, because one or two things are bothering me. For one, it seems strange that Roderick and Julian haven’t had a chat about this case and talked about whether a plea to the lesser offence under section 20 might not be a realistic solution. The idea that this was all pure accident, with no element of recklessness – which would be enough for a conviction in this kind of case – seems far-fetched. But equally, in the absence of evidence that Luigi Ricci had a sudden brush with madness, so does the idea that he would take a meat cleaver to a customer in his restaurant just because she ordered the Insalata Caesar. The difference in the maximum sentence as between section 18 and section 20 is life imprisonment versus five years; and given the severity of the injuries, my first reaction as a sentencer is that I’m going to be reaching for the higher end of the scale in either case. Julian is far too experienced not to have made all this clear to his client, but I haven’t heard even a whisper of a possible compromise. Perhaps they did explore it, but for some reason Julian couldn’t talk his client into offering a plea.

The second thing bothering me is the absence from Roderick’s opening of any information about Miss Galloway’s ‘male companion’. Whatever became of him, one wonders?

Linda Galloway is thin and slightly built. She’s wearing a light blue long-sleeved dress with a white scarf around her neck – to hide the scars she’s still carrying, I suspect. Understandably, she doesn’t look comfortable. I recall from the file that she’s twenty-six, but she looks younger. Roderick will treat her gently, I’m sure, and she looks as though she needs some gentle treatment. After taking the oath she gives him her name and describes herself as currently unemployed.

‘Miss Galloway, on the occasion the jury are concerned with, did you go for dinner at the Primavera Toscana restaurant in Queen Elizabeth Street?’

‘Yes.’

‘As a matter of interest, had you been to Primavera Toscana before?’

‘No. It was my first time. And my last.’

‘Yes, quite. At about what time did you arrive at the restaurant?’

‘We arrived just after seven o’clock, some time between seven and ten past.’

‘Were you seated immediately?’

‘Yes. The place was empty, apart from one other couple who arrived almost the same time as us.’

‘Do you now know that the other couple were a Mr and Mrs Snape?’

‘Yes. They sat nearer to the door. We were right at the other end of the restaurant, closer to the toilets and the door to the kitchen.’

‘Yes. Thank you. Now, Miss Galloway, you’ve been using the word “we”. Were you with someone else on that evening?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who were you with?’

‘I don’t know.’

I glance in Julian’s direction just in time to see him give the jury the knowing smile and the raised eyebrows. He shouldn’t, really, but I can’t say I blame him. It would be hard to resist. From the defence point of view, this is about to get interesting.

‘Your Honour, I wonder whether the jury might retire for a few moments?’ Roderick asks.

It’s a sensible suggestion. We’re obviously about to enter uncharted waters. Julian doesn’t seem in the least surprised, and it seems that both counsel know something I don’t. Clearly, I need to find out what it is. I suggest to the jury that a cup of coffee might be welcome, adding – in the hope of deflecting the disappointment they must feel about being excluded from court at such an intriguing moment – a silly quip about a cappuccino or espresso being in order. It’s silly because Bermondsey Crown Court isn’t Primavera Toscana, and the jury won’t find a cappuccino or espresso they would consider drinking anywhere in the building.

‘Your Honour,’ Roderick resumes once they’ve reluctantly left court, ‘Miss Galloway genuinely doesn’t know the identity of the man she was with. She knew him by the name of Arthur… I don’t know whether your Honour sees where I’m going with this?’

‘I’m afraid I haven’t got the faintest idea, Mr Lofthouse,’ I admit.

‘At that time, your Honour, Miss Galloway was employed by an escort agency.’

‘Ah, I see.’ I think about it for a moment or two. ‘But even escort agencies must keep some records,’ I protest. ‘Surely the police have checked. And why didn’t they speak to him on the night?’

‘In reply to your Honour’s second question, the police weren’t able to question the man Arthur on the night, because he left the restaurant as soon as Miss Galloway was wounded.’

‘What? He just walked out?’

‘Yes, your Honour: he walked out and never returned. And in response to your Honour’s first question, he paid the agency, such as it is – it’s no more than one woman and a dog, really – in cash. They probably don’t hold much in the way of records about any of their clients, but they had absolutely nothing on this man.’

I shake my head. ‘I didn’t see a word about this in the file.’

‘It’s in the unused material, your Honour. My learned friend has it, but there would have been no need for your Honour to trouble himself with it before trial. The officer in the case, DS McGeorge, who sits behind me, noted the matter in the record of the investigation, of course, and the CPS disclosed the record to the defence.’

By ‘unused material’ Roderick means material the prosecution doesn’t intend to rely on as part of its own case, but is obliged to alert the defence to in case it may help them. Sadly, it’s not unknown for the prosecution to bury information it doesn’t much care for somewhere in the unused material, in the hope that the defence won’t dig too deep. Julian, however, is one of those who is not adverse to a spot of digging.

‘That’s quite correct, your Honour,’ he acknowledges at once. ‘They did disclose it. Nonetheless, it is a matter of some concern that it’s not mentioned in any of the witness statements.’

‘It is,’ I agree. ‘What are you asking me to do, Mr Lofthouse?’

‘Your Honour, as there is no immediate prospect of finding this man Arthur, I submit that it is unnecessary to bring up Miss Galloway’s previous sexual history in front of the jury. She no longer works for the agency. If my learned friend has no objection, Miss Galloway should be allowed to tell the jury simply that her companion left the restaurant, without any reference to her work or his identity.’

‘I can’t agree to that,’ Julian replies, surely to no one’s surprise. ‘Whoever this man is, he may have valuable evidence to give, and in his absence I would submit that the defendant can’t have a fair trial. Depending on what Miss Galloway has to say, I may even have to submit that your Honour should withdraw this case from the jury.’

‘Your Honour…’

‘And in any case, your Honour,’ Julian adds, ‘there’s no point, is there? The jury are bound to work it out for themselves. There aren’t all that many reasons why a young woman would go out to dinner with a man she doesn’t know from Adam – or from Arthur, in this case.’

‘That makes no difference,’ Roderick objects. But I’ve already heard enough.

‘This has nothing to do with Miss Galloway’s sexual history,’ I rule. ‘But the jury must be given a truthful explanation for this man Arthur not being called to give evidence. They must be told why Miss Galloway was with Arthur, and that the police have been unable to trace Arthur, whoever he may be. No one is going to go into her sexual history. I’m sure the jury won’t be bothered about it one way or the other, but of course I will direct them about it, just to make sure.’

No one seems unduly distressed by this, and I call for the jury to be brought back to court.

‘Miss Galloway,’ Roderick resumes, ‘you told the jury that you didn’t know the identity of the man you were with. Would you please explain to them why?’

‘I was working for an escort agency,’ she explains in a matter-of-fact way. ‘The clients never use their real names, and in his case he paid cash, so we would have no idea. He told me his name was Arthur, so that’s the name I used. If he’d told me his name was Merlin, I would have called him Merlin. That’s all I know about him.’ She looks up at me. ‘I don’t work for the agency any more, your Honour.’

I turn to the jury. ‘Members of the jury, Miss Galloway’s previous occupation has nothing to do with the case you’re trying. You’ve only heard about it to explain something that otherwise might seem strange to you, that she was having dinner with a man whose name she didn’t know. You mustn’t be prejudiced against Miss Galloway in any way because she worked for an escort agency in the past. I’m sure you understand.’

Of course they do. They’re all nodding. They’re a young London jury, and they aren’t turning a hair over Linda Galloway’s work history.

‘Once you were seated, I take it that you and Arthur looked at the menu and placed your orders?’

‘Yes. Well, we had a couple of Proseccos first while we were reading the menu, and then we ordered.’

‘All right. What did you order?’

‘We both ordered the same thing. Arthur suggested it. He obviously knew his way around an Italian menu better than I did, and he spoke some Italian.’

I see Julian look up and make a note to himself.

‘What makes you think that?’ Roderick enquires.

‘He spoke Italian to the waitress, and she gave him an Italian menu. She gave me the English one.’

‘What did Arthur suggest you should have?’

‘The chilled garlic soup and a chicken Caesar salad. It was a warm evening, and it sounded very nice. He also ordered some white wine and water.’

‘It may be that my learned friend will ask you about the vintage,’ Roderick says, with a grin towards the jury, ‘but I’m not going to.’ Julian is smiling sportingly. ‘Did the first course arrive as ordered?’

‘Yes, and it was very nice. They gave us some good bread to go with it, too.’

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ Roderick says. ‘What about the second course?’

‘The salad was very nice too,’ she replies, ‘but I never got the chance to taste more than a few mouthfuls.’

‘That’s a shame,’ Roderick says. ‘What happened?’

‘Well, just as we were getting started, the waitress had opened the kitchen door, and I could hear two men arguing in Italian. They were getting very loud.’

‘You don’t speak Italian, I gather, so did you have any idea what they were talking about?’

‘I didn’t’ she replies, ‘but Arthur did, and he was having a right old laugh about it. He told me…’

‘Just pause there, Miss Galloway,’ Roderick interrupts, ‘in case there’s an objection.’

There certainly could be – any answer she gives would be blatant hearsay, and Julian isn’t going to miss that – but apparently it doesn’t concern him; he shakes his head quickly.

‘I’m obliged to my learned friend. What did Arthur tell you?’

‘He told me they were arguing about the recipe for the Caesar salad dressing.’

The jury have another good snigger. Julian joins in discreetly.

‘The recipe?’ Roderick asks, trying to join in the humour himself, but he’s a couple of beats off the pace.

‘That’s what he said. He didn’t get the details of it, but one of the men thought the other one had done it all wrong.’

‘I see. What happened next?’

‘We tried to ignore it and continue with our own conversation, but it was getting louder and louder, even after the kitchen door was closed. And then, a minute or two later, the waitress ran back out of the kitchen. She was crying. She seemed very upset.’

‘The waitress being the young woman you now know to be Valentina Ricci?’

‘Yes. She was lovely. She came to see me in hospital after my operation. God only knows what they’d said to her, but she was crying her eyes out.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘Then I heard the kitchen door open again. I turned round in my chair and I saw this man coming out of the kitchen.’

‘Yes. So you were sitting with your back towards the kitchen, and Arthur was sitting facing the kitchen, is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘You turned and saw a man leaving the kitchen: is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Miss Galloway, I don’t think there’s any dispute…?’

‘None at all, your Honour,’ Julian says quickly.

‘I’m obliged. Miss Galloway, do you see the man who came out of the kitchen in court today?’

She looks across to the dock. ‘Yes. He’s the man over there with the officer.’

‘The defendant Luigi Ricci?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you. What, if anything, did you notice about Mr Ricci as he came out of the kitchen?’

‘He was shouting in Italian. I didn’t know who he was shouting at, but he was very loud. He was obviously very angry. And he was holding what looked to me like a meat cleaver, or a very large knife, at least.’

‘Yes. With the usher’s assistance…’

Dawn picks up an exhibit wrapped in seriously thick plastic, and after showing it to Roderick and Julian in turn, takes it to the witness box. Miss Galloway takes it from her briefly, nods, and quickly returns it.

‘Yes,’ she replies briefly.

‘Thank you,’ Roderick replies. ‘Exhibit one, please, your Honour. If you would, please, usher…’

Dawn makes her way to the jury box. She stands in front of the box holding Exhibit one in front of her for long enough to allow them all to take a good look. I see some tight lips in the jury box by the time she leaves them to make her way over to the clerk’s table, where Carol takes the exhibit from her and hands it up to me. It’s difficult to see anything very clearly through the plastic covering, but it’s obvious that the blade has several large patches of reddish-brown staining. Linda Galloway is not an expert, so she’s not allowed to tell us what the stains are, even though she has a close association with them; but there’s no one in court who doesn’t know that it’s her blood on the blade.

‘What happened next?’

‘Mr Ricci walked over to where I was sitting and stood behind my right shoulder. He just stood there.’

‘Was he doing anything else apart from standing there?’

‘He was continuing to shout in Italian, and he was still holding the meat cleaver.’

‘Do you happen to remember which hand he used to hold the cleaver?’

‘His right hand.’

‘What, if anything, did you do?’

‘I didn’t do anything. I froze, with my fork in my hand. I was absolutely petrified.’

‘What, if anything, was Arthur doing?’

‘Nothing. He was obviously just as much in shock as I was. His mouth was wide open and he was holding his fork halfway to his mouth. At least, he was the last time I saw him.’

‘Did anyone else appear?’

‘Yes. A few seconds after Mr Ricci started standing behind me, I heard another man’s voice, also shouting in Italian, coming from behind me. I didn’t dare turn around, but this man came and stood behind my left shoulder, still shouting.’

‘Were you able to see this man?’

‘Very briefly. I was so scared, I didn’t want to move. But…’

‘There’s no dispute, your Honour,’ Julian says again.

‘I’m obliged to my learned friend. Miss Galloway, do you now know that this second man was the defendant’s brother, Alessandro Ricci?’

‘Yes.’

‘What were the two men doing when they were both standing behind you?’

‘Well, they were arguing with each other. I realised then that they weren’t shouting at the waitress, or me. They were shouting at each other.’

‘Again, do you have any sense of what the argument was about?’

‘I think it was something to do with the Caesar salad.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Well, it was partly what Arthur had said. But also, Mr Luigi Ricci kept pointing at my salad with the meat cleaver, and I heard both of them say “Insalata Caesar” several times.’

‘What happened then?’

‘I was about to ask Arthur if we could leave, but just as I was opening my mouth to speak, out of the corner of my eye I saw Mr Luigi Ricci pull his arm back – his right arm – and swing it my direction. I remember screaming, and then…’

‘Take your time,’ Roderick says.

Dawn walks over to the witness box with a glass of water and a box of tissues. Linda has been composed up to now, but understandably, the experience of her close brush with death is not an easy one to re-live. Gratefully she takes a long draught of water, and blows her nose.

‘And then it all went black,’ she adds quietly. ‘All I remember after that is lying on the floor, bleeding, feeling the warmth of the blood, going in and out of consciousness, people screaming all around me, and then the ambulance coming.’

‘When the ambulance came to take you to hospital, where was Arthur?’

‘I don’t know. He must have left some time after I was stabbed, but I didn’t see him leave, and I haven’t seen him since.’

Roderick consults his notes. ‘Miss Galloway, the jury will hear the medical evidence, so I don’t need to take you through it all. Taking it shortly, were you taken to Guy’s Hospital, did you undergo surgery to repair serious damage to your collarbone and to the muscles in your chest, and were you in hospital for almost two weeks?’

‘Yes.’

‘With the usher’s assistance, would you kindly look at this bundle of photographs, seven in all…?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell the jury what they are, please?’

‘These are photographs of the scarring on my shoulder and chest. The first three were taken when I was first admitted to hospital, the second three after my surgery, and then there’s one taken by my sister yesterday.’

‘Thank you. Exhibit two, please, your Honour. There are copies for your Honour and the jury…’

Roderick waits patiently for us all to look at the photographs.

‘Miss Galloway, what have you been told by your doctors about your scars?’

‘I’ve been told that they will fade to some extent over time, but not entirely. I will have some reminder there for the rest of my life. I could try plastic surgery when I’ve recovered more, but there’s no guarantee of how much difference it would make.’

Roderick pauses for effect. ‘Were you also told of what consequences you might have suffered if the meat cleaver had landed, or penetrated, a millimetre or two in any direction from where it did?’

She needs the water and another tissue before answering that one.

‘I was told that it could easily have destroyed my breast; or it could have severed a major artery or vein in my neck or chest, in which case I would probably have bled to death before the ambulance got to me.’

‘I have nothing further, Miss Galloway,’ Roderick concludes. ‘Thank you.’

I glance up at the clock: almost one o’clock. I announce that we are adjourned. And so to lunch, an oasis of calm in a desert of chaos.

Despite my earlier concerns, the evidence about the stabbing has taken the edge off my craving for a Caesar salad, and Jeanie and Elsie’s ham and cheese bap has regained its attraction.

‘Are you doing the wounding at that nice Italian place?’ Marjorie asks.

‘I am indeed.’

‘How is it going? It’s such a shame. I really liked that place, what’s it called, Primavera something?’

‘Primavera Toscana. Yes, we’ve made a start. We’ve done the complainant in chief. Julian Blanquette is defending, so I’m sure we’ve got something interesting to look forward to this afternoon. But, to be honest, I wouldn’t give much for Signor Ricci’s chances.’

‘So we’re looking for another Italian place for our nights out, are we?’ Legless suggests regretfully.

‘It would probably be wise,’ I agree.

‘Couldn’t you get Ricci up from the cells to rustle up a spot of lunch for us?’ Hubert asks. ‘At least we could have something edible for a couple of days.’ His dish of the day is billed as a chicken and mushroom risotto, and judging by its appearance I’m sure anything from the Ricci kitchen would be a distinct improvement.

‘Sorry, Hubert, I’d love to, but Julian might have something to say about it.’

‘Offer him three months off his sentence for every day he cooks for us,’ Hubert suggests. ‘Julian wouldn’t have anything to say then, would he?’

‘Roderick Lofthouse might,’ I reply. ‘By the way, Hubert, I haven’t had the chance to say this, but well done on that case you threw out on Friday.’

‘Yes,’ Legless joins in, ‘absolutely right.’

‘It’s something we all need to start doing more,’ Marjorie adds.

Hubert holds up his hands as if to protest, but he’s not fooling anyone – he’s obviously pleased with the accolade. ‘They didn’t leave me much choice, Charlie,’ he replies modestly. ‘Two thousand pages of technical data, and not a word of it disclosed to the defence, not a single word. It was all to do with the movement of mobile phones, signals bouncing off towers, that kind of thing. All Greek to me, needless to say, but counsel seemed to agree that it was important. What else could I do?’

‘And the prosecution told you that they decided not to disclose it because defence counsel would have been paid too much for reading so many pages?’ Marjorie asks. ‘Is that really true?’

‘It is, Marjorie. I couldn’t believe my ears. What’s it got to do with the CPS how much defence counsel get paid for reading the evidence?’

‘Unbelievable,’ Legless says. ‘I hope you gave them a bloody good bollocking.’

‘I certainly did. I gave a proper judgment, the kind of judgment you give in those civil cases of yours, Marjorie – even cited a couple of cases I found in Archbold – and I ordered a copy to be sent to the Director of Public Prosecutions personally.’

‘Absolutely right, Hubert,’ Legless says. ‘Very well done. This non-disclosure business is turning into an epidemic.’

‘You just can’t trust them any more, can you?’ Hubert replies. ‘Absolute bloody disgrace. Whole bloody system’s going down the drain, if you ask me. We have a former Director who’s a member of the Garrick. You should hear what he has to say about it after a couple of stiff gins.’

Suddenly, for no reason I can account for, I’m getting this nagging feeling that there’s something amiss; and after some reflection I realise it’s got something to do with the mysterious Arthur, and Julian’s suggestion that I may have to follow Hubert’s example by withdrawing the case from the jury. I awake from the reverie to find my three colleagues looking at me curiously. Apparently, my reflection has taken me away from lunch for a few seconds.

‘Everything all right, Charlie?’ Marjorie asks.

‘Oh yes, I’m fine,’ I reply quickly. ‘Hubert, do you think you could find those cases in Archbold again for me, the ones you used in your judgment?’

‘Of course, Charlie, be glad to. I’ll write you a note and get my usher to drop it off in your chambers. What have you got?’

‘A man called Arthur who disappears a bit too easily for my liking,’ I reply.

* * *

Monday afternoon

‘Miss Galloway,’ Julian begins, ‘you’d never been to Primavera Toscana before that evening: is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’d never met my client, Luigi Ricci, before?’

‘No.’

‘You hadn’t met his brother, Alessandro Ricci, before either, had you?’

‘No.’

‘Had you met Alessandro’s daughter Valentina?’

‘No, not before that night.’

‘For that matter, had you met any member of the Ricci family?’

‘Not as far as I know, no.’

‘You came into the restaurant on that evening, you had a couple of drinks, and you ordered dinner, is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘You didn’t misbehave in any way, cause a disturbance, anything like that, did you?’

‘No, certainly not.’

‘No. Miss Galloway, can you think of any reason why Luigi Ricci would want to attack you with a meat cleaver?’

‘No. I couldn’t think of any reason then, and I can’t now.’

‘It doesn’t make any sense, does it?’

‘No.’

‘You were sitting with your back to the kitchen, weren’t you?’

‘That’s right, yes.’

‘Thank you. Let me move on to the time when both brothers had emerged from the kitchen. You told the jury that Luigi was standing to your right, and slightly behind you, and Alessandro was to your left and slightly behind you: is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you weren’t able to see Luigi directly, full on?’

‘No.’

‘You had more of a peripheral view of him, would that be fair?’

‘Yes, it would.’

‘Is it also fair to say that this all happened very quickly?

‘Very quickly.’

‘You had these two men shouting at each other in Italian; you couldn’t understand what they were saying, except for “Insalata Caesar”: is that right?’

‘Yes,’

‘And then, all of a sudden, using your peripheral vision, you see the meat cleaver moving towards you: yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the next thing you know, you’re on the ground, bleeding heavily: is that a fair summary of what happened?’

‘That’s exactly what happened.’

‘Is it fair to say, Miss Galloway, that you can’t say what may have been going through Luigi’s mind at the moment when the meat cleaver moved towards you and struck you?’

‘Well…’

‘You’re not a mind reader, are you, Miss Galloway? I don’t mean to be disrespectful. I’m just suggesting that you have no way of knowing what he was thinking at the time.’

She nods, a little reluctantly. ‘No. That’s true.’

‘You can’t help the jury to decide whether what Luigi did was intentional, or whether it may have been an accident: can you?’

‘I suppose not, if you put it like that.’

Julian pauses for a moment to consult his notes, and resumes unhurriedly.

‘Arthur, on the other hand, was facing you, just a few feet away, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘So he had a perfect view of what happened, didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘But unfortunately, as you’ve told us, he left the restaurant when you suffered your injury, or just afterwards?’

‘As I said before, I didn’t see him leave, but he wasn’t there when the ambulance arrived.’

‘And you haven’t seen him since?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Miss Galloway, as His Honour has said, we’re not concerned with what you did for a living at that time: it’s no one’s business but yours, and it’s got nothing to do with the case.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But I do want to explore with you whether you have any information about Arthur. First of all, what was the procedure when the office had a client for you?’

‘They would text me the details, the name he was using, where and when we were supposed to meet, and so on.’

‘Well, you say “and so on”. Would “and so on” include a phone number for the client, in case you needed to contact him – to cancel, to suggest a different time or place, to say you were running late: things like that?’

‘No. If I had any problem, I was to call into the office. If there was a change of plan on his end they would call or text me. But no, I wouldn’t have the client’s number.’

‘But the office would?’

‘As far as I know they would, yes.’

‘That would make sense, wouldn’t it? You have to be careful, don’t you? You never know who you might be dealing with.’

‘You can say that again.’

‘Yes. And one reason for having a phone number for the client is to make sure you have some idea of who you’re dealing with, for safety reasons, if nothing else?’

‘That’s what I always assumed, yes.’

‘You don’t need to say the name of the lady at the office, Miss Galloway. But I’m going to ask the usher to provide you with a pen and a piece of paper, and I’m going to ask you to write down her name and the office phone number.’

Dawn takes these items from the clerk’s desk and makes her way to the jury box.

‘I don’t mind saying their names,’ Miss Galloway replies as she takes them from Dawn. ‘It was Maisie from Monday to Thursday, and Daphne over the weekend. But I would prefer to write the number down, in the circumstances.’

‘Thank you,’ Julian says, examining the number the witness has given him. ‘Miss Galloway, after the incident, after you’d recovered and been released from hospital, did you ever talk to Maisie or Daphne, to ask her whether she had any information about Arthur?’

‘I didn’t ask her myself, no. I left the agency after what happened with Arthur, and I never went back. It got too dangerous for me. This wasn’t the first time I’d had a dodgy one, if you know what I mean. Enough was enough. I was finished with them. But I gave the number to the police when they interviewed me in the hospital and took my statement.’

‘Do you remember the name of the officer you gave it to?’

She points across the courtroom. ‘It was the officer sitting behind the prosecution barrister.’

‘I see,’ Julian says, ‘the officer in the case, DS McGeorge?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you,’ Julian says. He pauses for some seconds. ‘Miss Galloway, could you describe Arthur for us?’

‘Describe him?’

‘Yes. What did he look like? How was he dressed? Let’s start with his physical appearance, shall we?’

She thinks for a moment and shrugs. ‘His build was tall and thin. He was over six feet tall – I’m sure of that, because my brother’s over six feet and Arthur looked taller than my brother.’

‘What sort of age?’

‘Late forties, early fifties, I would say.’

‘Colour of hair?’

‘Black, but turning to grey, cut short, what in the old days they called a short back and sides, with a parting on the left side.’

Julian smiles. ‘You’re very observant, Miss Galloway.’

She returns the smile. ‘I trained as a hairdresser,’ she replies. ‘Hair is something I can’t help noticing.’ She pauses. ‘I’d really like to go back to it. I’m looking for a job as a stylist now.’

‘I hope you get one very soon,’ Julian says.

‘Thank you.’

‘Any facial hair?’

‘No. He was clean shaven.’

‘Colour of eyes?’

She closes hers for a moment, visualising. ‘Blue.’

‘Any scars, tattoos, other distinguishing marks?’

Miss Galloway suddenly blushes. She looks up at me.

‘Do I have to answer that, sir?’ she asks confidentially.

‘Is there a reason you don’t want to?’ I ask.

She clasps her hands together. ‘It’s just that it’s a bit embarrassing,’ she replies.

‘There’s no need to be embarrassed,’ I encourage her. ‘We hear all kinds of things in court every day of the week.’

She nods. ‘’He has a dark red birthmark on the inside of his right thigh,’ she replies.

‘Ah, I see,’ Julian says. ‘So, your assignment with Arthur was…’

‘During the afternoon, yes. But then he kindly asked me out to dinner, and that’s how we ended up at the restaurant.’

‘Yes. How was Arthur dressed – while you were at Primavera Toscana, I mean, of course?’

‘He had a very smart suit, a white shirt, red tie, black shoes. He dressed very nicely, like someone who had a very good job.’

‘Did you give any details to DS McGeorge about Arthur’s appearance? I ask because there’s nothing in your witness statement about it. Was that something he asked you about when he came to see you at Guy’s Hospital, or at any time, for that matter?’

‘Yes. I told him everything – well, everything except the birthmark. I was worried that…’

‘Of course. I understand. Did Arthur say anything, at any time while you were with him, to give you any clue about who he was: where he lived; what he did for a living; what his hobbies or interests were? Anything at all?’

She shook her head. ‘He’s married,’ she replies.

‘How do you know that?’

‘He had a mark on the ring finger of his left hand, where his wedding ring would go. He’d taken it off for me, obviously. They all do.’

‘Let me ask you this, Miss Galloway: did the police ever ask you to work with a sketch artist?’

‘Like they do on TV?’

‘Yes: like they do on TV.’

She shakes her head. ‘No. Never.’ She sounds a bit disappointed.

‘Is there anything else you can tell us about Arthur?’

She thinks for some time. ‘Well, the only other thing was: he was a chatty soul. Not like some of them, who just get dressed as soon as we’ve… you know… and disappear without so much as a thank you. Arthur wanted to talk.’

‘What sort of things did he talk about?’ Julian asks gently.

‘All sorts. He was asking me what I thought about this, that and the other – the trains, the NHS, all the things people complain about – and he was explaining to me who was responsible for it all, government ministers, and civil servants and what have you. And it was the way he talked about them – John this and Jane that – he knew everybody’s first name, didn’t he? He was talking about them all as if he’d just had lunch with them. Do you know what I mean?’

‘I do, Miss Galloway. Thank you.’

Julian turns to me.

‘Your Honour, I have no more questions for Miss Galloway, but I would be grateful if she would remain at court for the time being, in case further questions arise. And I would ask that the jury retire for a few moments, so that I can mention a matter of law.’

The jury duly troop off for a tea break. There’s no mystery about the matter of law Julian wants to raise. I’ve been expecting it, and judging by the several whispered conversations between Roderick and DS McGeorge during the latter part of Julian’s cross-examination, they’ve been expecting it too.

‘Your Honour, I’m very concerned about the effort – or perhaps I should say, lack of effort – that seems to have gone into trying to track down this man Arthur,’ Julian begins. ‘He had the best seat in the house; he must have seen exactly what happened. Potentially, he’s the best witness we could have. But he’s not here, and I can’t cross-examine him.’

‘The police haven’t been able to find him,’ Roderick replies urbanely, but I detect the suggestion of unease in his voice.

‘As far as I can see, they haven’t really tried to find him,’ Julian says. ‘DS McGeorge’s entry in the investigative record says only that he couldn’t be traced. It gives no details of what efforts, if any, were made. Miss Galloway says she gave the police quite a lot to go on. Did they talk to Maisie or Daphne, or whoever was in charge of the office? Did the agency have a phone number for Arthur? How did he pay them? In cash or by card? These were all obvious lines of inquiry, and we don’t know whether the police pursued any of them.’

‘Your Honour…’ Roderick begins. But I cut him off. For some reason, whether it’s the recent conversation about Hubert’s case or just the growing feeling that something’s not quite right, I think Julian deserves at least some further inquiry into what went on.

‘No, Mr Lofthouse. I agree with Mr Blanquette. The court needs to know more. I’m going to direct that a more senior officer take a witness statement from DS McGeorge, and that both officers give evidence tomorrow morning, and bring with them any materials the police have that might throw some light on who this man Arthur is. We will see what further steps we need to take when we’re more fully informed. But there’s no need to waste the rest of the afternoon. I’m sure you have other witnesses available.’

‘As your Honour pleases,’ Roderick replies, rather dispiritedly.

I bring the jury back, and Roderick calls Ethel Snape. She doesn’t take very long. As it turns out, she has only one fact of significance to contribute. Although she was facing in the right direction to see the action, she was sitting some distance away and her view was partially blocked by Arthur. She saw the meat cleaver in the air, but can’t help about whether Luigi Ricci’s handling of it appeared to be deliberate or accidental. Once she realised what had happened she was mainly concerned with trying to help Linda Galloway, by holding towels from the kitchen against her wounds to try to slow down the bleeding until the ambulance arrived. But she did see Arthur leave the restaurant. She told us that Arthur stood up as soon as Linda Galloway collapsed to the floor. He didn’t exactly run, she said, but he was walking very quickly and almost bumped into her as she was leaving her seat to make her way to help Linda. She didn’t remember Arthur saying anything, and couldn’t remember much about his appearance, though such description as she could give was consistent with Linda Galloway’s.

Next, Roderick calls Alessandro Ricci. I’m sure he’s not exactly overjoyed at the prospect. Alessandro isn’t here voluntarily, a fact amply confirmed by his show of reluctance and sullen manner when Dawn invites him to enter the witness box and take the oath. But Roderick really has no choice. He could leave Julian to call him as part of the defence case, of course, but then Julian would be at a disadvantage: he wouldn’t be allowed to cross-examine him using leading questions, which, one feels, may be necessary if he’s going to get anything worthwhile out of him. It’s an issue of fairness, and Roderick is an old-school prosecutor who keeps up the tradition of being scrupulously fair to the defence even at some risk to his own case. Based on what I hear from other RJs, this tradition is on the endangered list in many courts today, and it’s always reassuring to find it alive and well at Bermondsey.

‘Mr Ricci, are you the brother of the defendant, Luigi Ricci?’

The witness nods.

‘You have to answer audibly, Mr Ricci, so that your evidence is recorded.’

‘Sì, è mio fratello.’

A glance at his expression tells me that Roderick has already had enough of Alessandro Ricci. It would have been made abundantly clear to Alessandro that he could have an interpreter if he wanted one, so there is no excuse for not understanding what is said to him – or for pretending not to. Roderick’s patience, you can tell, is already wearing thin.

‘Mr Ricci, I’m aware that you speak excellent English, so please reply in English rather than Italian.’

Alessandro answers this without recourse to language at all, with a casual shrug. I decide on a gentle intervention before things get out of hand.

‘Mr Ricci, please remember that you are in a court of law, and you have taken an oath to tell the truth,’ I remind him. ‘If you fail to do so, I have power to hold you in contempt of court, which may mean that you end up in prison.’

‘Non capsico. Is not so good, my English.’

‘You haven’t asked for an interpreter, Mr Ricci, and I see that you managed to make a witness statement in English. Do your best, please.’

He looks up at me with a suggestion of defiance. ‘What I can say?’

‘You can answer the questions Mr Lofthouse puts to you,’ I reply. He maintains his stare for a few moments, but the defiance gradually begins to ebb away.

‘He is my brother. What else you want to know?’ he asks. I gesture to Roderick to continue.

‘I’m much obliged, your Honour. Mr Ricci, do you and your brother Luigi jointly own and operate the Primavera Toscana restaurant in Queen Elizabeth Street?’

‘Yes.’

‘For how long has your restaurant been open?’

The shrug again. ‘Two, two and a half years.’

‘Before that, did you have a restaurant together in Siena, in Italy?’

‘Yes, it’s true.’

‘Thank you. Now, on the evening the jury are concerned with, were you and your brother Luigi both working at Primavera Toscana?’

‘Yes, we were working.’

‘How do you work together? Do you both cook?’

‘We are both the chefs. Luigi has his – come se dice? – his dishes of signature and I have mine; but we are both the chefs, and we can both prepare any dish on our menu.’

‘Yes. And was your daughter Valentina working that evening as a waitress?’

‘Yes. She is student, but she helps us in restaurant. She is good girl.’

‘Yes, I’m sure she is. We’ve heard that at about seven o’clock that evening, the restaurant was quiet, but that in the next few minutes two couples arrived: is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘The two couples were Mr and Mrs Snape, who were seated near the door; and Linda Galloway and the man we’re calling Arthur, who were seated nearer to the kitchen: is that correct?’

‘Yes, it’s true.’

‘After Miss Galloway and Arthur had had one or two pre-dinner drinks, did they place an order for food?’

‘Yes. Valentina take their order.’

‘What dishes did they order?’

‘They both order the chilled garlic soup and the chicken Insalata Caesar. It is from our special summer menu – is very good for the warm weather, and, for London, very reasonable. Is very expensive city.’ The jury have a quick chuckle.

‘Yes, I’m sure. Mr Ricci, who prepared these dishes for Miss Galloway and Arthur? You or your brother?’

‘I prepare these dishes. Luigi, he prepare Ossobuco for the other table…’

‘I see.’

‘For which he need meat cleaver. Is not possible prepare Ossobuco without meat cleaver.’

‘Yes, well we’ll come to the meat cleaver in a moment, Mr Ricci. But in the course of your preparing the dishes for Miss Galloway and Arthur, did you have any discussion with your brother?’

Silence for some time.

‘Mr Ricci…?’

‘We have difference of opinion, professional difference of opinion,’ he replies eventually, with obvious reluctance. ‘Is nothing new. We have this difference many times before.’

‘Would you explain to the jury, please, what this difference of opinion was about?’

‘Mio fratello… my brother, he does not like the way I prepare the Insalata Caesar.’

‘For what reason?’ I’m sure there’s a part of Roderick – his always reliable professional judgment – that is regretting asking this question as soon as the words have left his mouth: with this witness, it’s an open invitation to give the jury a lecture on the Italian culinary arts. But it’s a lecture we’re apparently destined to hear at some point in this trial, and we might as well get it over with. The witness throws both arms high in the air in apparent exasperation.

‘Luigi, he think there is only one way to prepare the Insalata Caesar. It must be prepared at the tableside. The oil and garlic you must mix before: this must be ready. Also the croutons. But everything else must be made on trolley at tableside. To the oil and garlic you must add the anchovies, the yokes of two eggs. You must stir to make it – come se dice? – more creamy. Then you must stir in the Parmesan cheese, the lemon juice. You must add the salt and Worcester sauce to season. The customer must see all this at tableside. And never, never, the mayonnaise. Never: capisce?’

‘Sì, capisco,’ retorts a loud voice from the dock. ‘At last you learn. In my restaurant, never the mayonnaise. Never.’

‘That will do, Mr Ricci,’ I say. ‘Don’t interrupt, please. You will have your chance later.’

‘We may well hear from your brother about this later in the trial,’ Roderick continues, no doubt presciently, ‘but tell the jury, please: in what way do you use the mayonnaise? How does it differ from your brother’s method?’

‘I use instead of the eggs,’ Alessandro explains.

‘Sacrilegio!’ I hear from the dock.

‘Mr Ricci, why do you think your brother is so opposed to that?’ Roderick asks quickly before I can warn the defendant again.

Another shrug. ‘Because he make Insalata Caesar with eggs, and our father before us make Insalata Caesar with eggs, and his father before him, and his father before him make Insalata Caesar with eggs, and so on until you come to Romulus and Remus who are making Insalata Caesar with eggs for lunch while they are building Rome. With Luigi, there is no change, no – how to say? – innovazione. Even, he does not allow me to make my insalata at tableside. I must make in kitchen. Never must the customer see the mayonnaise in Primavera Toscana.’

‘Yes. In a few words if you can, Mr Ricci, why do you think your recipe is better? Why do you use mayonnaise instead of eggs?’

‘Please to understand,’ the witness replies quietly, ‘that I am not the first to do this. Many chefs follow this recipe. Why? Is simple: it is more creamy, better to taste for the customers in this country, because they like the sweet things. Perhaps in Italia, the eggs are better. But in this country, not so much. It is for the customers: that is all. So, tell me: why I cannot use my own recipe?’

‘Non! Mai!’ the defendant thunders again.

‘I won’t warn you again, Mr Ricci,’ I say, trying to sound more threatening this time. ‘If you interrupt again, I will have you removed from court.’ Julian turns towards the dock, and adds his own warning with a vigorous shake of the head.

‘It might help if we could move on to the events of the evening, Mr Lofthouse,’ I suggest.

‘Certainly, your Honour. Mr Ricci, do I take it that, despite your brother’s views, you used mayonnaise, and not eggs, in the salad you prepared for Miss Galloway and Arthur?’

‘Yes, of course. Why I should not?’

‘We’ve moved past that, Mr Ricci,’ Roderick replies hurriedly. ‘Please concentrate on my questions. Is that what you did?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And was it served to them?’

‘Yes, Valentina serve them.’

‘What happened next?’

‘Luigi see that I am using the mayonnaise, and he is angry. But you understand, is not first time this happen – we have this argument many times. He start to shout at me, and I shout back to him.’

‘Were you both shouting in Italian?’

‘Yes, of course. It is our language. In what language we should shout?’

‘Was Valentina present when this argument took place?’

He nods. ‘She comes back to kitchen while we are shouting. But this upsets her – she is sensitive girl, nice girl, not like us. She doesn’t like when her father and her uncle are shouting. She starts to cry and she goes out of kitchen, back into restaurant.’

‘What happened then?’

He hesitates. ‘Luigi, he make the Ossobuco. He has the meat cleaver in his hand. But then, he runs suddenly from kitchen out into restaurant, and still, all the time, he is shouting.’

‘Did you follow him?’

‘Yes, I follow.’

‘What did you see when you got out into the restaurant?’

‘I see my brother standing by Miss Galloway, still with the meat cleaver, and still shouting. Everyone in restaurant is looking at him. He is like crazy man. I don’t know what he is doing. He is out of control.’

‘What, if anything, did you do?’

‘I went also to stand by her, because I hope then she would be not so much afraid. But she is very afraid. I can see this.’

‘Was your brother standing to Miss Galloway’s right, and were you to her left, and were you both slightly behind her?’

‘Yes, that is true.’

‘What was he shouting about?’

‘Still, he is shouting about the Insalata Caesar. I am telling him: for God’s sake, Luigi, shut up about the Insalata Caesar, who cares, and can’t you see you’re upsetting the customers? But he isn’t listening to me.’

‘Then what happened?’

He hesitates. ‘His hand slips, and the meat cleaver hits Miss Galloway. It is accident. We call ambulance, she go to hospital. That’s all I see.’

Roderick ponders for some time whether to try to fix this. I’m sure he’s been expecting it. You can’t hope for much help with your case from a hostile witness, especially when the witness is the defendant’s brother. Blood, one supposes, is thicker than mayonnaise. But having already come this far, Roderick decides to give it a spin.

‘Well, Mr Ricci, what you saw was the meat cleaver strike Miss Galloway in the shoulder and chest. You don’t know what was in your brother’s mind at the time, do you?’

‘It is accident,’ Alessandro insists stubbornly.

‘What did Luigi do immediately after striking Miss Galloway with the meat cleaver?’

‘The witness didn’t say he struck her with anything, your Honour,’ Julian objects, not unreasonably.

Roderick grits his teeth. ‘What did Luigi do after Miss Galloway had fallen to the floor, bleeding extensively from her wounds?’ he asks.

The witness shakes his head. ‘He sit down in chair. He is in shock. We are all in shock. Valentina call ambulance. She bring towels from kitchen and holds them to stop the blood. Mrs Snape also help her.’

‘Thank you, Mr Ricci,’ Roderick concludes insincerely. ‘I have nothing further, your Honour.’

‘Just one matter,’ Julian says, leaping to his feet. ‘Mr Ricci, did you see what happened to the man we’re calling Arthur after the accident?’

‘He leave restaurant,’ Alessandro replies. ‘He does not return. Where he go, who knows?’

‘Had you ever seen Arthur before that evening?’

‘No.’

‘Or since?’

‘No.

‘Nothing further, your Honour. Thank you, Mr Ricci.’

Roderick seems to have little enthusiasm for taking matters any further this afternoon. By common consent we adjourn until tomorrow, to see whether any further information will come to light about the elusive Arthur.

* * *

Monday evening

Finding myself in something of an Italian frame of mind this evening, I suggest to the Reverend Mrs Walden that we take ourselves off to La Bella Napoli for dinner, a suggestion to which she offers no resistance. I dutifully peruse the menu, but I’m aware that I’m simply going through the motions. I think I could recite the Bella Napoli menu from memory if called upon to do so, but this evening my mind was made up before I ever left home. The temptation to sample the Insalata Caesar is overwhelming, and as I’ve been regaling the Reverend with the saga of the Ricci family salad wars on the way to the restaurant, she is also keen to know whether or not we can tell eggs from mayonnaise. There’s no chilled garlic soup on the menu, so we start with a tasty antipastiera, a basket of bread, and a bottle of the house Chianti, a vintage I doubt Julian Blanquette would approve of, but more than adequate to the occasion.

We are slightly disappointed when the salads arrive from the kitchen. I’d hoped that Tony, La Bella Napoli’s owner and head chef, might fancy giving us a demonstration of the classic tableside procedure, which would not only add a piece of culinary theatre but would also tell us on which side of the egg–mayonnaise divide the Bella Napoli kitchen stands. Instead, the salad is presented to us fully formed on the plate. Nonetheless it is delicious, and although I’d been fairly sure that I would know one way or the other more or less instantly, by the time I’ve eaten the final mouthful I’ve changed my mind three times, finally opting without any real conviction for the mayonnaise. The Reverend Mrs Walden, after similar vacillations, comes down on the side of the eggs. There’s nothing for it but to ask.

After dessert, as is his wont, Tony approaches with the offer of a Sambuca or Limoncello on the house to go with our coffee. I invite him to stay and have one with us, and as it’s getting late and his sous-chefs can manage the remaining sprinkling of diners easily enough, he cheerfully agrees, pulls up a chair, and pours us all a stiff Limoncello.

‘The eggs,’ Tony informs us without hesitation after I’ve explained the reason for my inquiry. ‘That’s the way I was taught. I know there are some chefs who use mayonnaise, but to be honest, if you’re going to do that, you may as well serve some commercial Caesar dressing out of a bottle and have done with it.’

‘Told you,’ the Reverend beams, sticking her tongue out at me. I reciprocate.

‘So, there’s definitely a right way and a wrong way?’ I ask.

‘In my opinion, yes. But all chefs have strong opinions about the food they prepare. And yes, it’s true that British tastes are different: you know, there are people who want salad cream on everything, and there are people who want ketchup or brown sauce on everything. But I don’t think we should change our cuisine just for that reason. If you make it properly with the eggs, an Insalata Caesar should be plenty sweet enough, in addition to the other tastes, the anchovies and the cheese and so on. The only question is whether it’s a well-made salad.’

‘Do you ever make it tableside?’ the Reverend asks.

‘In the old days, in Napoli, always,’ Tony replies, wistfully. ‘But in Italy people have more time. It takes up a lot of time to prepare the salad tableside all evening. Service takes longer throughout the restaurant. The problem is, people are always in such a hurry here. They have some place to be after dinner, or they have to go back to work after dinner – you know what I’m saying. We’re losing the art of the leisurely dinner, when everything may take a bit longer but the whole evening is devoted to dinner, so it doesn’t matter; when everyone is talking and enjoying the wine, and no one minds if it’s all a little slower. Then, we can practise the old skills. But as things are in this country…’ he sees her looking disappointed. ‘But I tell you what, Mrs Walden, next time you’re here, ask for me, and I will make it for you tableside – if I can still remember how to do it.’

She laughs. ‘Grazie, Signor Antonio.’

‘Prego, Signora.’

‘Tony,’ I ask, ‘do you know these Ricci characters by any chance?’

He smiles. ‘Primavera Toscana? Oh, yes. They’re what you might call a bit of a local legend.’

‘In what way?’

He nods, and refills our glasses. Then he raises the first finger of his right hand, and taps the right side of his nose several times.

‘I probably shouldn’t say too much, Mr Walden. But I’ll guarantee you one thing: whatever the problem was with those guys when this incident happened, it’s not about the right way to make Insalata Caesar. I’ll guarantee you that.’

* * *

Tuesday morning

The Standard having done full justice to the Insalata Caesar controversy overnight, with several of its regular columnists thoughtfully contributing their own recipes, Elsie and Jeanie are left questioning whether it’s even safe to go out to dinner any more. It’s not a question of whether the Caesar salad is prepared tableside or in the kitchen: it’s a question of whether anyone’s even safe in restaurants any more, what with mad cooks stomping around everywhere waving meat cleavers.

‘I mean, what had that poor girl ever done to him, sir?’ Elsie asks. ‘All she did was go for an evening out, and the next thing you know, she ends up being stabbed because the chef doesn’t like the way his own kitchen made her dinner.’

‘It’s like a postcode lottery, innit?’ Jeanie replies. ‘Except, it’s not the postcodes, it’s what’s on the menu. If you choose the wrong thing from the menu, the chef comes after you with a big knife. How are people supposed to know what to choose with all that going on?’

‘I blame those chefs on TV,’ Elsie says, ‘the famous ones, the so-called chefs to the stars. I mean, just look at them. They’re always swearing and carrying on, aren’t they? Some of them even throw things at the people working with them while they’re abusing them. And then they blame them for making a mess of the salad. Their nerves must be in shreds, poor things. I’m surprised they can even find the lettuce, let alone make a salad. And these people are on TV. What are young people supposed to think when they see that kind of thing going on? They’re paid enough, aren’t they, these chefs? They should set a better example.’

Jeanie smiles. ‘Here you are, sir. One latte, and one ham and cheese bap with mayonnaise. Or I can do you one with raw eggs, sir, if you prefer.’

‘No, thank you, Jeanie, this one will be fine,’ I reply.

I hear them giggling as I make my way over to George’s newspaper stand.

‘Got a nice salad for lunch, have we, guv?’ he chuckles.

‘Don’t you start, George,’ I reply.

‘No, but it’s shocking, guv, innit? And it’s only because it’s foreign food, innit? I mean, you don’t see people knifing each other over the best way to make fish and chips or bangers and mash, do you?’

‘My mother had her own way of making Yorkshire pudding,’ I reply. ‘She and my aunt argued about it for years.’ I’m not quite sure why I’ve volunteered this information.

‘I don’t suppose they took a knife to each other though, guv, did they?’ George persists.

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘No, well, that’s it, innit? It’s just your foreigners, innit? Anyway, guv, I’ve got a little something you might want to take a look at this morning.’

‘Oh, yes?’

George has an uncanny knack of finding news items affecting his customers. It’s almost like having your own personal archivist, and over the years he’s unearthed any number of stories affecting the court, or yours truly, stories which otherwise would have passed me by until it was too late. How he does it, I have no idea. This morning he’s brandishing a copy of the Daily Telegraph in addition to The Times. I don’t usually buy anything other than The Times, but I’ve learned to take George at his word when he says there’s something worth reading elsewhere.

‘Page eighteen,’ he says with a grin, handing me my change.

I take my seat behind my desk, take my first sip of my latte, and turn to page eighteen. Once again, George is right. Page eighteen contains today’s letters to the Editor and one letter, in a prominent position at the top of the page, catches my eye immediately.

Failures to Disclose Evidence

From His Honour Judge Hubert Drake

Sir,

I am writing in the hope that you will allow me to bring to the attention of your readers the disgraceful and increasingly common practice of the prosecution in the Crown Court of withholding relevant and sometimes exculpatory evidence from the defence. I need hardly point out the potential of this practice to cause miscarriages of justice.

Recently I had occasion to stay proceedings as an abuse of the process of the Court when the prosecution failed to disclose a large quantity of relevant evidence to the defence, which put the defendant at a hopeless disadvantage and might well have resulted in an incorrect verdict of guilty. When I confronted prosecution counsel with this conduct on the prosecution’s part, he was unaware of the reason for it. I asked him to take instructions, which he did. I was then told that if the evidence had been disclosed, defence counsel would have been paid too much of the taxpayer’s money in fees for reading it. I was scarcely able to believe my ears. Leaving aside the fact that the amount of fees payable to defence counsel is no business of the prosecution, it is a piece of extraordinary arrogance for the prosecution to think that they are somehow the guardians of the public purse, and as such are entitled to dispense or withhold evidence in accordance with their own view of the country’s economic situation. I make clear that counsel was not to blame for this situation. He had not known of the reason for the decision and was visibly appalled by it.

I understand from colleagues that this practice is becoming widespread. Whether it is the result of deliberate malpractice, or of prosecutors being overworked, lack of experience or training, or simply administrative chaos caused by having too many cooks in the kitchen, I have no way of knowing. But it must be stopped before fair trials in this country become a thing of the past. We judges can’t do it all. The lead must come from our politicians. But so far, they seem to be burying their heads in the sand, as usual.

Yours sincerely,

Hubert Drake

Bermondsey Crown Court

Stella knocks and enters my chambers, Daily Telegraph in hand.

‘Good morning, Judge,’ she says in the doom-laden tone of impending disaster for which she is renowned at court. She sees the copy already open on my desk. ‘I didn’t know whether you’d seen it, so I thought I’d better bring my copy, just in case.’

‘Good morning, Stella. Have you seen Judge Drake?’

‘Yes. But I didn’t say anything. I know you’ll want to speak to him yourself. He’s in chambers, if you want to catch him before he goes into court.’

I shake my head. ‘No. I’ll talk to him later. I need some time to work out what to say.’

‘Well, I’m afraid you won’t have as much time as you might like for that, Judge.’

‘Oh? Why might that be?’

‘Because the Grey Smoothies are coming for lunch, and they want to speak to you and Judge Drake together. They called a few minutes ago.’

Roderick has asked for the jury to be kept out of court so that he can bring me up to date about the hunt for Arthur.

‘We haven’t found him yet, your Honour,’ he explains. ‘But we have had what may be a piece of luck. DS McGeorge checked the emergency call records again, and it appears that there were two 999 calls made that evening about the events at Primavera Toscana, not just one. The jury have been told about the call made from the restaurant by Valentina Ricci. But there was also a call made about five minutes later by a man who refused to give his name. That call was made from a telephone box in Tower Bridge Road, a short walk from Queen Elizabeth Street and Primavera Toscana. The piece of luck we’ve had is that there is CCTV footage showing a man answering Arthur’s description entering the phone box at the time the call was made. It’s surprising to find footage that hasn’t been erased after such a long time, but it seems that the local authority held on to a number of tapes from that period because there had been an upsurge in vandalism in the area, and when DS McGeorge checked they were able to provide it to him.’

‘Does that mean we may be able to identify Arthur?’ I ask.

‘DS McGeorge is working on it with other officers as we speak, your Honour. The question is going to be whether the CCTV image corresponds with any pictures the police may have, or with any in the public domain. The quality of the image is quite good, so DS McGeorge thinks it will be possible to match it. The question is whether there’s anything to match it with.’

‘I see. All right. What do you want to do while that search is going on?’

‘I see no reason not to press on with the evidence, your Honour,’ Roderick replies. ‘I can read the medical evidence, and then take the next witness.’

‘Mr Blanquette?’

‘I have no problem with any of that, your Honour,’ Julian replies, ‘as long as it’s understood that if Arthur is found, and depending on what he has to say, I may ask for certain witnesses to be recalled; and I wouldn’t want to be called on to start my case until we know one way or the other.’

‘I quite understand that, your Honour,’ Roderick says, ‘and of course, I’ll give my learned friend every assistance.’

‘Yes, all right,’ I agree. ‘Let’s have the jury back.’

As foretold in Roderick’s opening, the undisputed medical evidence leaves no doubt that Linda Galloway had a near brush with death. The meat cleaver hit her shoulder and the right side of her chest, causing serious wounds. She sustained damage to her collarbone, and to the muscles in her neck and chest. She also lost a lot of blood: but not as much as she might have – the cleaver missed Miss Galloway’s subclavian artery and her anterior jugular vein by a matter of millimetres. Had either been severed, she might well have bled to death before the ambulance arrived, in which case Luigi Ricci would now be at the Old Bailey facing a more serious charge. As Roderick reads the evidence to the jury in his usual dry measured tones, you can see their lips tightening. To help that process along, Roderick also produces her heavily bloodstained dress and shoes in plastic exhibit bags, which Dawn happily holds up for the jury to peruse to their heart’s content.

Next, Roderick calls Valentina Ricci. She’s a strikingly pretty young woman with dark eyes and long black hair, dressed in a sharp red shirt and designer jeans, with moderately high-heeled black shoes. She doesn’t want to be here any more than her father, you can tell, but she’s not going to be sullen about it. For her, it’s more of a sad occasion. She will go through the motions of protest, but at the end of the day she knows that there is nowhere to hide. After giving Roderick her name and age, and the fact that she is Alessandro Ricci’s daughter and Luigi’s niece, she quietly tells me that she doesn’t want to give evidence that might hurt a member of her family.

‘What would happen if I don’t answer any questions?’ she asks me.

‘I would give you every chance,’ I reply, ‘but if you persist I would have to find you in contempt of court and keep you in custody until you change your mind.’

She looks down at her shoes.

‘If I may ask, Miss Ricci,’ I add. ‘What are you studying at college?’

‘Political science, your Honour. But then I want to study law and become a solicitor.’

‘Well, it’s not going to help if you have a conviction for contempt of court on your record, is it?’ I say.

‘No,’ she replies. She turns back towards Roderick. ‘All right.’

‘Thank you, your Honour. Miss Ricci, there’s been no dispute about the sequence of events, so let me come straight to the argument between your father and your uncle. We’ve heard that it started in the kitchen and then moved out to the restaurant where Miss Galloway was sitting. Is that your memory of it also?’

‘Yes.’

‘And we’ve heard that they were arguing over the finer points of making a Caesar salad.’

She is silent almost long enough for Roderick to ask if she has understood the question.

‘Yes, that’s what you’ve heard,’ she replies, just as he’s about to.

Roderick looks at her. ‘I’m not sure I understand, Miss Ricci. Are you saying that’s not what the argument was about?’

‘Were they shouting at each other about the Insalata Caesar? Yes: but they shout at each other about that all the time. My whole life I’ve listened to them arguing: yes, about Insalata Caesar, but if not Insalata Caesar, then about Ossobuco; or if it’s not about Ossobuco it’s about Pasta alle Vongole; or if it’s not about Pasta alla Vongole, it’s about the right sauce for grilled sea bass. These men can argue their way through the whole menu in a week. Trust me: if there are two ways to prepare any dish in the world my father and my uncle will argue about it.’ She has become animated. She pauses for breath, and ends up almost shouting. ‘But nobody is waving meat cleavers around, for God’s sake.’

There is a silence for some time, and suddenly I’m remembering Tony’s enigmatic comment about the Caesar salad last night.

‘Are you saying, then,’ Roderick resumes cautiously, ‘that there was something else going on, that it wasn’t just about the salad?’

‘It’s never just about the salad,’ she replies.

‘Well, what was it about?’ Roderick asks.

There is a loud burst of Italian from the dock, to which the witness replies in kind. Before I can call for a translation, Luigi holds his head in his hands, and shouts ‘No!’ several times.

‘I’m sorry, Uncle Luigi,’ Valentina replies, and translation becomes unnecessary. ‘I must tell the truth. I have no choice.’

After one last protest the defendant subsides.

‘My father Alessandro gambles,’ she says simply. ‘Cards, horses, football: whatever there is to bet on, he will bet on it. The trouble is, he isn’t very good at it. He has lost a lot of money over the years. But recently, it’s got worse…’

‘How much worse?’ Roderick inquires gently.

‘I can’t give you an exact amount. But listening to them arguing, I know it’s a large sum. And unfortunately, at some point my father used his interest in Primavera Toscana as collateral to borrow money to fund his gambling. He and my uncle own the restaurant jointly, you see.’

Roderick is nodding. ‘And now the bank is calling in his loans, and the business may have to be sold?’ he asks.

‘I wish,’ she replies.

‘You’re going to have to explain that, Miss Ricci…’

‘There’s no bank involved,’ she says quietly. ‘There’s a man who lends money to my father, and every so often he comes calling to collect whatever my father owes him.’

‘You mean, your father has been borrowing from a loan shark?’ Roderick asks, glancing up at me.

She nods. ‘We hoped, maybe he would let them sell the restaurant, but he doesn’t want to wait that long for his money. He would rather have the cash, and I have the impression that if he doesn’t get it, he would be quite happy to torch the place with us in it. My uncle had just found this out a day or two before.’ And then, suddenly, she adds, ‘I think, the night Miss Galloway was hurt, the man was going to give my father a final warning.’

I react before Roderick can even ask.

‘Members of the jury,’ I say, ‘there’s a matter of law I need to discuss with counsel. Take a break for a few minutes, if you would, please.’

Everyone is so stunned that even the usually nimble Dawn is slow getting to her feet to escort the jury out of court. Their eyes are wide open. They know exactly what Valentina Ricci has just said, and I’m sure they’re wondering why they can’t remain in court to hear it confirmed. But there are a number of implications involved, and each of them represents a potential Pandora’s box. They need to be out of court long enough for us to sort it out.

‘Miss Ricci,’ I say, after the jury are safely out of earshot and things have calmed down a bit, ‘are you saying that this same man was in the restaurant when Miss Galloway was stabbed?’

‘Yes. He’s the man – Arthur. But that’s just the name he was using that night. It’s not his real name, obviously.’

‘Just answer “yes” or “no”, for the moment. Do you know his real name?’

‘I only know what I’ve been told.’

‘Told by whom, your uncle?’

‘Yes: and by my father.’

I gesture to Dawn. ‘Miss Ricci, don’t say the name out loud, please. The usher will give you a pen and paper. Please write it down for us.’

She does. Dawn hands the paper to me, and then to both counsel in turn.

‘Your Honour,’ Roderick says, ‘I do have some further questions for Miss Ricci, but I wonder whether your Honour would be good enough to rise for some time. I should get this information to DS McGeorge and his team with as little delay as possible, and there are matters I should discuss with my learned friend about where we go from here.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I agree at once. ‘Let’s tell the jury they have time for coffee, and I’m going to order that for the time being, the evidence given by Miss Ricci is not to be reported or disseminated outside this courtroom. Miss Ricci, please don’t discuss your evidence with anyone during this adjournment, and if anyone tries to approach you, don’t talk to them, and tell the usher straight away. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’

‘I’m withdrawing the defendant’s bail until further notice,’ I add. ‘He must remain in custody for now.’

I leave court before anyone can protest. He can probably have bail again later in the day, but I can’t have him running around talking to people and making phone calls at this particular moment. Fortunately, his brother hasn’t attended court this morning, so with any luck we can control the situation until DS McGeorge tracks Arthur down. But it’s a situation everyone needs to consider carefully, and I’m not in the least surprised when, shortly after arriving back in chambers, I receive a note from counsel indicating that they will need until after lunch. I release everyone, wishing that lunch today would be an oasis of calm in a desert of chaos, and knowing that it won’t.

Carol has brought us some dreadful canteen sandwiches, a few bags of crisps, and some sparkling water which seems to have lost most of its sparkle. The Grey Smoothies are out in force, led by Sir Jeremy Bagnall of the Grey Smoothie High Command, attired in a solemn dark grey suit and a red tie. Our cluster manager and note-taker-in-chief, Meredith, is with him, decked out in a white blouse and grey slacks, with the usual assortment of bracelets dangling from her right wrist and jangling whenever her wrist comes into contact with the table. Meredith has brought her sidekick, Jack, who still looks about fourteen and still wears the same light grey suit, a little too small for him, with a violent pink tie scrunched up against his collar. They are all looking grim, and I don’t think it’s just because of the sandwiches. I’ve insisted that Stella sit in with us, with her hand-held recorder, just to make it clear to Meredith that she doesn’t have a monopoly of recording today’s meeting.

Hubert is looking defiant, though knowing him as I do, I sense that he’s also anxious about this meeting. He should be. Hubert is perpetually worried about any inquiry that might focus attention on his age or raise any suggestion that retirement may be on the cards. That’s the one thing that puzzles me about this affair. Hubert is certainly outspoken enough at lunch at court and, so I gather, at the Garrick Club; but with anything that might attract the notice of the Grey Smoothies he’s usually desperate to keep his head down. So his letter strikes me as markedly out of character. To make matters worse, I’ve only had a few minutes to talk to him in advance, when we had both risen for lunch, and he wasn’t very forthcoming. So I’ve got absolutely no idea what to expect from him.

Sir Jeremy has placed a copy of the offending letter in the middle of the table between the two sides. He sits back and eyes it with distaste for some time.

‘Hubert,’ he begins, ‘I’m sure, with your experience, you know perfectly well that it’s not acceptable for sitting judges to write letters to the newspapers – certainly not about any subject that has to do with the law. What’s this all about?’

‘There’s no need to talk to me like a prefect dressing down a naughty schoolboy, Jeremy,’ Hubert replies brusquely.

‘I’m not. I’m speaking to you quite reasonably.’

‘It didn’t sound at all reasonable.’

‘I’m asking you, perfectly politely, to account for your writing a letter to a newspaper as a sitting judge. It’s something the Minister, perfectly reasonably, needs to know. I don’t see why you should be so upset about it. I’m simply asking why you did what you did.’

‘I should have thought that was perfectly obvious.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t find it obvious at all,’ Jeremy replies with a sniff.

It’s already getting a bit tense. I decide to intervene.

‘Hubert, I think Jeremy’s simply pointing out that it’s unusual for judges to write letters to the press for publication. It’s generally discouraged, as you know. He’s just asking what drove you to write to the Telegraph about this particular subject.’

‘Once again, I should have thought it was quite obvious.’

‘Perhaps so,’ I reply before Jeremy can jump in again, ‘but so that we’re all sure we understand, why don’t you explain it to us?’

‘The case I wrote to the editor about was an outrage,’ Hubert explodes. ‘Telling a judge that you won’t disclose evidence you’re legally obliged to disclose because you don’t want defence counsel to be paid properly for reading it. I’ve never heard of such a thing. Something has to be done about it.’

‘I agree with you, Hubert,’ Jeremy concedes, spreading his arms out wide. ‘But there are proper channels for communicating concerns such as that.’

‘Are there?’ Hubert asks. ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind enlightening me.’

Meredith looks up from her busy note taking. ‘We encourage judges to send a copy of any ruling of that kind to the Director of Public Prosecutions,’ she says, ‘as you did; and you’re always welcome to copy them to Sir Jeremy.’

‘And what good would that do?’ Hubert asks, not unreasonably. ‘It’s not an isolated case. This kind of thing is happening all the time, but no one ever does anything.’

‘The more information we have, the more we can put pressure on those responsible to make changes,’ Meredith replies.

‘I’m not seeing any evidence of that,’ Hubert grumbles.

‘Hubert does have a point, Meredith,’ I say. ‘This kind of non-disclosure is cropping up far too often. It used to be rare, but recently it seems to have become almost routine, and from what I hear from other RJs it’s not just Bermondsey – it’s everywhere.’

‘The Minister is aware of the problem, Charles,’ Jeremy replies. ‘But I will talk to him, I will pass on your concerns, and I’m sure he will look into them.’

I like the sound of that, and I have the momentary illusion that perhaps the meeting will end amicably and constructively. But it’s not to be.

‘If history is anything to go by, Jeremy,’ Hubert replies, ‘I doubt that will help. Our impression is that the Minister prefers to keep his head below the parapet until he has MPs sniping at him in the House. As far as I can see, that’s the only thing that gets his attention,’

‘That’s quite unjustified,’ Jeremy protests. ‘The Minister is always busy behind the scenes…’ he pauses long enough to replace his conciliatory tone with a rather more insistent one. ‘In any case, that’s not the point. We can’t have judges writing to the newspapers, and that’s all there is to it.’

‘Somebody has to let the public know what’s going on in their courts,’ Hubert says.

‘That’s for the Minister or the Lord Chief Justice to do – when it’s necessary to do it at all. We don’t make policy in the press, Hubert. We make policy very carefully, behind the scenes, and we calculate our statements to the press very precisely.’

‘What statements?’ Hubert asks. ‘As far as I know, there’s been a deafening silence about these non-disclosure cases.’

‘You’re entitled to your opinion, Hubert,’ Jeremy replies. ‘But I say again, we are aware of the problem and we’re working on it behind the scenes. It doesn’t help to have circuit judges shooting from the hip and giving newspapers like the Telegraph the wrong impression.’

‘What wrong impression?’ Hubert demands.

‘The impression that there’s some great conspiracy going on to deprive defendants of their right to a fair trial.’

‘I didn’t say that,’ Hubert insists.

‘He’s right, Jeremy,’ I add. ‘The letter clearly says that Hubert doesn’t know whether this kind of thing is deliberate malpractice, or what does he call it…?’ I glance over to the paper. ‘Or simply a case of administrative chaos, too many cooks in the kitchen, and so on.’

Jeremy shakes his head. ‘That’s not what the papers are likely to read into it. In any case, that’s not the point. It’s not proper for a sitting judge to write to a newspaper in this way, and that’s the end of it.’

‘Excuse me, but where does it say that exactly?’ Hubert asks, more quietly, after a silence.

‘Where does it say what?’ Jeremy asks.

‘That a judge can’t write to a newspaper to express his views. You see, Jeremy, as a lawyer, my impression is that judges have the same freedom of speech as everybody else. Has there been some change in the law that I’ve missed?’

Jeremy and Meredith exchange glances. She reaches into her briefcase and produces a copy of the Judicial Code of Conduct and hands it to Jeremy. Of course: Meredith is always prepared. I’m sure she doesn’t leave home without a copy of the Code ready to hand. I bet she was a girl scout in her younger days. Jeremy starts flicking through the pages.

‘Let me save you the trouble, Jeremy,’ Hubert says. ‘I have read the Code very carefully, I assure you. There are a lot of platitudes in it about the role of a judge. But you’re not going to find a prohibition on writing to the press.’

‘It’s strongly discouraged,’ Meredith points out.

‘But not prohibited,’ Hubert insists.

‘Well,’ Jeremy says, ‘you may dismiss what the Code says as platitudes if you wish, Hubert, but I’m afraid the Minister takes a different view – as do I. I’m afraid the bottom line, if I may be permitted to use that expression, is this: unless within the next twenty-four hours you assure the Minister in writing that this will not happen again, you will receive an invitation to meet the Minister personally, and if that happens, I would be very surprised if he doesn’t suggest that the time may have come for you to retire.’

I see Hubert take a deep breath. ‘And if I may be permitted to use an expression of my own, Jeremy – do bugger off, there’s a good fellow.’

Alarmed, I place a restraining hand on Hubert’s arm. ‘I’m sure all Hubert means to say is that he would like some time to think about it, Jeremy. He’s a little overwrought, that’s all.’

‘I am not in the least bloody overwrought,’ Hubert replies loudly.

Jeremy nods and starts to get to his feet.

‘Well I’ve said all I have to say.’

‘In any case,’ Hubert adds, ‘the Minister’s not going to do anything to me, is he?’

‘Why not?’ Meredith asks.

‘I’m a whistle-blower, aren’t I?’ Hubert replies. ‘I’m a protected species.’

I see both Jeremy and Meredith form up as if to respond to this, but neither does. Jeremy quietly resumes his seat.

‘That’s preposterous,’ he mutters eventually.

I gaze at Hubert, and can’t resist a smile. They didn’t see that one coming, and I suspect that someone will be making a call to the Government Legal Department during the course of the afternoon.

‘It’s illegal to retaliate against whistle-blowers,’ Hubert continues blandly. ‘They tried it in the NHS, didn’t they, with all those doctors and nurses? They may have got away with it for a while, but the chickens eventually came home to roost, didn’t they?’

‘That only applies if the whistle-blower couldn’t get anything done through internal channels,’ Meredith protests.

‘I rest my case,’ Hubert replies.

Jeremy shakes his head and gets to his feet once more.

‘Twenty-four hours, Hubert,’ he says. ‘I shall be back tomorrow afternoon after court, and I sincerely hope you have your written assurance ready for me to take to the Minister.’

‘Well, that didn’t go too badly,’ Hubert says, after they’ve gone.

‘Didn’t it?’ I reply. ‘I don’t think Jeremy’s bluffing, Hubert. If I were you, I would give serious consideration to giving him what he’s asked for. Whatever came over you to write to the Telegraph, anyway?’

He sighs ‘Oh, I don’t know, Charlie. I think it was just how bloody casual the prosecution were about it. It was like they were saying to me, “We’re going to get this defendant by fair means or foul, and save money at the same time, and there’s nothing a superannuated old git like you can do to stop us.” Well, I’d finally had enough. I just wasn’t going to have it. And you know as well as I do how much the Minister is going to do about it – bugger all, as usual. So I thought I’d fire a warning shot across their bow.’

‘Well, you certainly did that,’ I say. ‘But you are going to promise us all that you won’t do it again, aren’t you?’

He gets up to leave. ‘I’m a whistle-blower, Charlie. They mess around with me at their peril. You’ll see.’

Watching Hubert as he departs, I can’t honestly say I share his confidence on that score. Looking around, I see that for the most part the sandwiches are lying almost untouched on their plates. I should be hungry, but I seem to have lost my appetite. I’m not even sure an Insalata Caesar would help. Besides, I’m due back in court in five minutes.

* * *

Tuesday afternoon

Roderick has asked for the jury to remain out of court again.

‘Good news, your Honour,’ he begins brightly. ‘Arthur has been found and is currently being interviewed by DS McGeorge. I’m not sure yet exactly what he has to say, but at least we are moving in the right direction.’

‘Are we satisfied that we have his real name?’ I ask.

Roderick hesitates. ‘I’m not ready to go into that in open court yet, your Honour. There may be, shall we say, complications about it. In any case, DS McGeorge is fairly sure that he won’t be ready to produce Arthur until tomorrow morning. May I suggest that we continue with Valentina Ricci’s evidence? It may be that she is as far as we’re able to go today, but once Arthur has given evidence I’ll be able to close my case, so we are making good progress overall.’

We bring the jury back and Valentina makes her way to the witness box without so much as a glance towards the dock. Luigi Ricci stares at her impassively.

‘Miss Ricci,’ Roderick says, ‘when we interrupted your evidence you had told us about the argument you heard between your father and your uncle. I now want to ask you about what happened after that. I think we agreed that your uncle Luigi, the defendant, was standing to Miss Galloway’s right and slightly behind her, and your father to her left?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your uncle was still holding the meat cleaver in his right hand?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what happened?’

‘My uncle hit out with the meat cleaver and accidentally struck Miss Galloway on her shoulder. She fell to the floor. She was bleeding heavily. I called the ambulance.’

Roderick looks down for a moment or two, and exhales audibly: two reluctant witnesses, and two suggestions that the whole thing was no more than an accident. Once more, Roderick has to consider whether to try to salvage the situation. But left unattended, so to speak, Valentina seizes the opportunity to ram her point home before he can try.

‘He didn’t intend to hit her. Why should he? He had no quarrel with her. It was Arthur he was trying to impress.’

It’s too late now. The cat is out of the bag. In fairness, this was a determined cat and there was never any way to keep it in. Besides, this is coming as no surprise to the jury, I’m sure. They’ve had plenty of time to work it out for themselves.

‘What do you mean, “impress” him?’ Roderick asks.

‘Arthur was there to warn my father what would happen if he and his friends didn’t get their money. My uncle actually thought that he could put the frighteners on Arthur. He wanted to let him know that there were two big men for them to worry about, not just one, and they were armed with meat cleavers. It was a really stupid idea, obviously. But then, even more stupidly, he thought he’d demonstrate on Miss Galloway. He didn’t know she was an escort, did he? He thought she was Arthur’s girlfriend.’

‘Demonstrate on her?’

‘He was going to bury the meat cleaver in the table right in front of her. They were using the argument about the salad as cover, because they knew that Arthur spoke a bit of Italian. My uncle realised she would be scared, but he hoped Arthur would think twice about whatever he had in mind if he thought they were ready to come after his girlfriend. But his hand slipped, and he hit Miss Galloway instead of the table.’

‘È vero,’ I hear, coming quietly from the dock.

‘So that the jury will understand,’ Roderick adds, ‘the money Arthur wanted was money he or others had loaned your father so that he could finance his gambling: is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did Arthur do after Miss Galloway had been stabbed?’ Roderick asks.

‘He left, very quickly.’

‘Did you see him again that evening?’

‘No: and I haven’t seen him since.’ She smiles thinly. ‘And no one has torched the restaurant. Stupid as it all was, maybe my uncle’s plan actually worked.’

I turn towards the dock, and see the defendant smile in return. And suddenly, the mood of the trial has changed. Roderick may have to downgrade his expectations to a reckless wounding without intent. True, the story that has emerged isn’t the same story the defendant gave the police when he was interviewed under caution; but Julian’s not going to have any problem explaining to the jury why Luigi Ricci wasn’t entirely forthcoming with the carabinieri at that stage, against the backdrop of what looks like a brush with organised crime. Ruefully, Roderick passes Valentina to Julian for cross-examination. But Julian is far too experienced to pick away at something he couldn’t really improve on, and he cheerfully declines.

‘Miss Ricci,’ I say, ‘I’m sure everyone would agree with me that it was very nice of you to visit Miss Galloway in hospital.’

‘I had to apologise to her,’ she replies. ‘The poor girl hadn’t done anything to deserve that, had she? She was an innocent bystander. Unfortunately, she got mixed up in our family business without knowing it. It was the least I could do,’

We adjourn for the day to allow DS McGeorge to complete whatever inquiries he’s making.

* * *

Tuesday evening

Arriving home I find the Reverend Mrs Walden in the kitchen, standing proudly beside two bowls of salad.

‘My curiosity was aroused,’ she says.

‘Oh? Curiosity about what?’

‘The big eggs versus mayonnaise controversy, of course,’ she replies. ‘I thought it was really odd that we weren’t sure of the difference last night, and I wondered what would happen if I tried to make it myself. So this afternoon I went online and found a couple of recipes for Insalata Caesar, and then I paid a visit to that Italian Deli on London Bridge Road and got a few supplies in. This is a taste test. I used eggs in one bowl and mayonnaise in the other; otherwise they’re identical. I would have done it tableside during dinner, as one should, but that would give the game away, wouldn’t it? So we have a surprise starter, and the lucky winner gets a glass of this.’

She reaches across her work surface to where she has a bottle of Amaretto cunningly concealed behind her blender.

‘That’s not fair,’ I protest. ‘You already know which is which.’

She shakes her head. ‘I’ve forgotten,’ she replies unconvincingly. ‘They look exactly alike.’

We take the taste test, and this time, there’s no doubt about it: we both identify the eggs and mayonnaise immediately and without hesitation.

‘Perhaps there’s something about the way they do it in restaurant kitchens,’ she suggests, pouring us both a glass of Amaretto, ‘some hidden secret.’

‘Perhaps there is,’ I reply. ‘Apparently there are a lot of secrets hidden away in restaurant kitchens – Italian ones, particularly.’

* * *

Wednesday morning

It’s becoming a regular ritual. Once again Roderick wants to address me without the jury, and this morning he has sitting behind him, not only DS McGeorge, but an obviously senior uniformed officer I don’t remember seeing before, but who somehow looks familiar. Roderick seems troubled, and Julian, who usually has a cheerful smile to bestow on everyone, is also wearing a grave expression.

‘Your Honour, I have two applications to make this morning,’ Roderick begins slowly, ‘both of which my learned friend opposes. By way of introduction, I can tell your Honour that DS McGeorge has completed his interview of the man we’re calling Arthur, and he has taken a statement from him. Arthur is at court, and the prosecution intend to call him as a witness. But before we do, I am instructed to make these applications dealing with the manner in which he should give evidence. If I may elaborate, your Honour?’

‘Yes, I think you should,’ I reply.

‘Your Honour, my first application is that Arthur should give evidence as an anonymous witness, without revealing his true name to the court, except privately to your Honour, of course. My second application is for special measures, to enable Arthur to give evidence behind a screen, so that your Honour, counsel and the jury can see him, but he is not visible to the public or the press.’

All manner of speculative thoughts flit through my mind. The first is that Arthur must be an undercover police officer, or even an officer of the security services. That seems just possible, given the threats made against the Ricci family, but it doesn’t seem awfully convincing. More likely, perhaps, he’s a villain acting as a police informant. Either way, they wouldn’t want to compromise Arthur by revealing his identity, and the court would normally do whatever it could to protect him. But if that’s the case, why is Julian opposing it? I ask him.

‘Your Honour,’ Julian replies, ‘first, I haven’t been given any notice of these applications until just now and I haven’t been given any reason why they are necessary. I’m entirely in the dark, as is your Honour. A witness may only give evidence anonymously if it’s necessary, if it is consistent with a fair trial, and if it is in the interests of justice for him to give evidence because his evidence is important and he wouldn’t give evidence otherwise. I’ve heard nothing to suggest that any of those conditions is present. As for the screen, I’m not necessarily opposed to that, but your Honour is bound to inquire why the quality of Arthur’s evidence might be affected if a screen is not allowed. Again, I’ve been told nothing about why that is a concern.’

I nod. ‘I think you will have to give the court some explanation, Mr Lofthouse,’ I say. ‘Mr Blanquette is quite right. I can’t make the kind of orders you’re asking for without some basis for them.’

Roderick sighs. ‘In that case, your Honour, I will have to ask your Honour to close the court to the public and press for the time being. In due course, much of what I’m about to say may have to be repeated in open court, but I’m instructed to do my best to keep certain matters confidential.’

‘Very well,’ I agree. ‘I will ask members of the public and the press to leave court for the time being. I will reopen the court as soon as possible.’

Dawn cheerfully ushers out the few members of the public who have been observing the proceedings, though they include one or two representatives of the press, whose presence, needless to say, is now guaranteed as soon as the court is open again.

‘I’m all ears, Mr Lofthouse,’ I say. ‘What on earth is this all about, some matter of national security?’

Roderick closes his eyes and shakes his head. He looks tired.

‘Something far less exalted, your Honour, I’m afraid. I regret to say that important information relevant to this case has until now been withheld, from the court and from the defence. It was withheld from me too, until I was provided with Arthur’s real name yesterday. I have brought my learned friend Mr Blanquette up to date this morning, and I must now do the same for your Honour.’

Visions of Hubert, Sir Jeremy Bagnall, and the Daily Telegraph flash through my mind.

‘Are you saying that there has been a failure of disclosure, Mr Lofthouse?’

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying, your Honour, and for the record, I wish to state that I told those instructing me this morning that I could not allow myself to be associated with it, and unless disclosure was properly made, I would be professionally obliged to withdraw from the case.’

He pauses for effect, but it’s a dramatic enough statement in its own right, not to mention exactly what I would expect of Roderick.

‘They have persuaded me that I can properly ask the court for anonymity and special measures, but I have made it clear that I must put the court fully in the picture. Frankly, your Honour, I have told them that if they fail to do so, I will not resist my learned friend’s application that your Honour should withdraw the case from the jury. They have agreed that we should proceed on that basis. Your Honour, I have with me Assistant Commissioner of Police Leonard Smith, who can deal with the matters in question. May I call him?’

Now I recognise him. He’s on television all the time, answering for the Metropolitan Police on a whole range of topics.

‘Mr Blanquette,’ I say, ‘do you have any observations before I decide what to do?’

‘Your Honour,’ he replies. He seems to have recovered his good humour now. ‘I accept what my learned friend says without reservation, of course, and I’m waiting agog to hear all these fascinating secrets, as I’m sure your Honour is.’

I nod. ‘Come forward, please, Mr Smith,’ I say.

He’s a tall, grey-haired man, his pristine uniform sporting several police medals, and he takes the oath in a quiet, precise voice.

‘Assistant Commissioner,’ Roderick says, ‘please tell his Honour what you know about this man Arthur, and about the way in which the evidence has been dealt with.’

‘Yes, sir. Your Honour, police were aware of Arthur’s true identity on the day following the incident at Primavera Toscana. They became aware as a result of the 999 call he made from the phone box in Tower Bridge Road. Because Arthur had refused to give his name, and given the seriousness of the offence, an officer seized the CCTV footage later the same day. But once Arthur’s identity became known, the word came down from on high that no information about the 999 call or his identity was to become public.’

‘From on high?’ I ask. ‘What on earth do you mean by that?’

‘I don’t know, your Honour,’ he replies. ‘I myself was only made aware of these events yesterday afternoon. But I can tell your Honour this: that decision was taken at a higher level, a level above the police, and in particular DS McGeorge knew nothing about it. As far as he was concerned, the CCTV footage and the second 999 call were new information, and he certainly wasn’t involved in any decision not to disclose them.’

‘A level above the police?’ I ask.

‘Yes, your Honour.’

‘Continue, please,’ Roderick says.

‘Arthur’s name,’ the Assistant Commissioner continues, ‘is Sidney Rockwell.’

I put my pen down, close my eyes and nod silently for some time. The witness has given us the same name as Valentina Ricci. When she gave it, I dismissed it as a coincidence, but now that it’s been confirmed I finally understand what is going on, as, I’m sure, does Roderick.

‘Mr Rockwell is known to police,’ Mr Smith is saying. ‘I have copies of his antecedents. He has three previous convictions, one for robbery, and two for assault occasioning actual bodily harm. We have reason to believe, your Honour, that he was involved in making threats to Mr Alessandro Ricci and his family in order to recover monies his associates had loaned to Mr Ricci to enable to him to cover his gambling debts. We further have reason to believe that his presence at the Primavera Toscana restaurant on the evening in question was directly related to those threats.’

‘Did DS McGeorge interview Mr Rockwell,’ Roderick asks, ‘and did he make a witness statement dealing with the matters relevant to this case?’

‘He did, sir: although with respect to any possible criminal conduct on his part, on the advice of his solicitor he refused to answer the questions put to him.’

‘I take it that, at some point, he will be further interviewed – under caution – about his possible involvement in such offences?’

‘Yes, sir. I understand that DS McGeorge intends to do so as soon as this court has finished with him.’

I can’t let it rest there.

‘Is it your understanding, Assistant Commissioner,’ I ask, ‘that the reason why someone on a higher level was anxious to keep all this a secret has less to do with Mr Rockwell’s rather mundane criminal record than with his family tree?’

‘That is my understanding, your Honour, yes.’

‘I see,’ I say. ‘Thank you, Mr Smith. Mr Lofthouse, I am against you on the two applications you have made. Mr Rockwell will give evidence under his own name, and in full view of the public.’

‘Yes, your Honour,’ Roderick replies quietly. ‘May I have a few moments to take instructions?’

‘Certainly, Mr Lofthouse.’

I adjourn for half an hour, at the end of which Roderick advises me that he is not obliged to withdraw from the case, and that he proposes to call Sidney Rockwell to give evidence. I’m glad to hear it. If it had been otherwise, I would have withdrawn the case from the jury, which would have been the only way to guarantee no miscarriage of justice for Luigi Ricci, but would also have guaranteed a distressing failure of justice for Linda Galloway.

Sidney Rockwell bears little resemblance to the image of the suave man-about-town described by Linda Galloway. He is wearing a cheap grey jacket and blue jeans, and looks as though he hasn’t shaved for several days. Predictably, he refuses to answer any questions about any criminal conduct on his part. There’s nothing I can do about that – he has the right not to incriminate himself, and his solicitor has apparently done a very thorough job of explaining that right to him. So Roderick glosses over all that and asks him how Linda Galloway came to be wounded.

‘Luigi was trying to put on a show for me,’ he explains, ‘Mr Big Guy with a meat cleaver. It was rather funny, if you want to know the truth. Of course, I had to keep a straight face. But I’ve picked up the odd word or two of Italian over the years, and I knew exactly what was going on.’

‘And what happened?’ Roderick asks.

‘Well, he swings the meat cleaver, and he’s trying to make it look like he’s going for her, but he’s probably going for her food, or the table next to her. That’s how it looked to me. I mean, he’s got no reason to harm Linda, has he? He’s never seen her before. But it goes wrong, doesn’t it? He’s so busy jabbering away that he’s not concentrating. He hits her instead of the plate or the table. It was pathetic. It was a real shame, too. She’s a nice girl.’

‘Yet when this nice girl was severely wounded,’ Roderick continues, ‘you left the restaurant as quickly as you could, didn’t you? Why was that? Why didn’t you stay and help?’

The witness looks at me for some time, as if asking for guidance about how to answer the question. Eventually, having realised that he’s looking in vain, he replies, ‘I think I’d better decline to answer that on the advice of my solicitor. But I did call 999.’ He smiles. ‘They’ve got me on CCTV doing it.’

Roderick calls DS McGeorge to take us through the defendant’s police interview, in which he offered the explanation about knocking Linda Galloway’s salad on to the floor as a dramatic contribution to the great eggs versus mayonnaise debate. As the officer in the case, he must also answer any questions about the investigation generally. I’ve been expecting Julian to have a go at him and try to unearth further damaging evidence of non-disclosure and cover-up, but wisely he’s very low key about it. It’s clear that DS McGeorge had nothing to do with the failure to disclose evidence. All that went on at a far higher level, but as far as Julian is concerned it doesn’t matter. As soon as Roderick has closed the prosecution case he asks me to withdraw the case from the jury. I send everyone away for the rest of the day, to think about it overnight – and to allow the parties to regroup and come to terms with the evidence that’s been given, and the verdict that’s now looking more and more likely.

And so to lunch, an oasis of calm in a desert of chaos.

By now, of course, everyone knows that Hubert is in hot water. Copies of the Telegraph have been circulating clandestinely throughout the court, and interestingly, as far as I can gather from Stella and Carol, the staff are solidly behind Hubert, seeing him as a whistle-blower who’s courageously broken the rules to protect the court from abuse. The opinion in the judicial mess is more nuanced.

‘I’m not sure that was the right thing to do, Hubert,’ Marjorie says gently. ‘You’d made your point in your judgment, and you’d got some press coverage for that. Why stick your neck out with a letter?’

Hubert looks up from his ham and cheese bake, a particularly unappealing variant of the dish of the day.

‘I did what I thought was right, Marjorie,’ he insists. ‘And it doesn’t say anywhere that I’m not allowed to write a letter to the Telegraph.’

‘About trout fishing, perhaps,’ Marjorie replies, ‘but not about the law.’

‘I don’t know anything about trout fishing,’ Hubert says. ‘Why would I write them a letter about that?’

‘Well, I for one admire you, Hubert,’ Legless chimes in, ‘and I’ve had several emails from judges elsewhere who wish they’d done it themselves. Finally, someone is standing up to be counted. Well done, that’s what I say.’

‘That’s all very well, Legless,’ I say ‘but the Grey Smoothies want Hubert’s head on a silver platter. Unless he gives them a written assurance this afternoon not to do it again, he may have to go before the Minister – and we all know what that means.’

There is a silence.

‘You’re not ready to retire, Hubert,’ I say. ‘What would you do with yourself? You can’t spend all day at the Garrick. Surely you want to go on as long as you can?’

‘Of course I do,’ he concedes. ‘But I can’t back down. I’m a whistle-blower.’

‘Actually, Hubert,’ Marjorie says, ‘that’s a bit dodgy legally, unless you can show that you tried to get a result through internal channels and failed. Sorry.’

‘Hubert,’ I suggest, ‘what if you didn’t have to give them a written assurance? What if you gave me your word that you wouldn’t do it again, and they accepted it, and the whole thing went away?’

‘I’m not sure I wouldn’t do it again,’ Hubert objects, ‘if I had to.’

‘I think you’ve fought as much of a battle as anyone could expect you to fight,’ I reply. He doesn’t disagree: in fact, I think I see a look of relief cross his face. ‘Let me see if I can sort it.’

‘Charlie’s right, Hubert,’ Marjorie adds.

‘Do you think they would agree to just let it go?’ Legless asks.

‘I have a hunch that I might be able to arrange it,’ I reply. ‘And you know, Hubert, you’ve achieved what you set out to achieve. You’ve drawn attention to the abuse of disclosure. It’s a matter the Minister can hardly ignore now. The Telegraph has made an issue of it, and they’ve even had a few retired judges writing and taking it up. So don’t throw what’s left of your career away unnecessarily. Let me try to resolve this.’

‘What do you want me to do, exactly?’ he asks after some time.

‘Nothing. Let me deal with the Grey Smoothies on my own. Stay in chambers in case I need you. Don’t push off to the Garrick until I tell you the coast is clear.’

He sighs. ‘All right, Charlie, whatever you say. You are my RJ after all.’

And there are days when you don’t make it easy, I think, but don’t say.

* * *

Wednesday afternoon

‘Where’s Hubert?’ Sir Jeremy asks. ‘Is he still in court?’

We’re in my chambers with cups of tea and biscuits supplied by Carol, and the mood is tense.

‘No,’ I reply. ‘Hubert is in his chambers. He will join us if we need him. But before we come to Hubert, there’s another matter I need to talk to you about – something that’s just come up today, as a matter of fact.’

Jeremy looks at me. ‘But Charles, this meeting is specifically about Hubert. Is it something serious enough to take precedence?’

‘It’s connected to Hubert’s situation, in a sense, and it may possibly have some influence on the view you take of Hubert’s situation.’

‘All right,’ he concedes with a show of reluctance. ‘What’s all this about?’

Meredith grasps her pen expectantly. I’m letting her make the record today on her own: I don’t want a taped record of what might be said in the next few minutes.

‘Well, actually, Jeremy, it may concern the Minister too.’

He and Meredith exchange glances. I can’t help wondering whether word has already reached them of this morning’s goings on.

‘The Minister?’

‘Yes: Sir Edward Rockwell MP.’

‘I’m well aware of the Minister’s name, Charles,’ he says, a little too quickly. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

‘Well, it’s just that a man by the name of Sidney Rockwell gave evidence in my court earlier today.’

‘He’s the Minister’s younger brother,’ Jeremy acknowledges, again just a fraction too quickly.

‘So I gather. They see quite a lot of each other too, don’t they? One hears that the Minister has Sidney to lunch at the House, and so on.’

‘Why shouldn’t he? Again, Charles, I can’t see…’

‘Sidney Rockwell has previous convictions for robbery and assault.’

‘The Minister knows all about that,’ Jeremy insists. ‘So does the rest of the world, for that matter. There’s nothing new in it. He’s been in the papers often enough. Sidney is the black sheep of the Rockwell family, always has been.’

‘Yes, but it would seem that he’s turning a shade or two blacker than he used to be.’

‘What on earth do you mean by that?’

‘Well, Jeremy, street muggings and fights as a younger man are one thing: but blackmail, involving threats of violence and arson and links to organised crime – well, that’s moving up in the world, isn’t it, playing in a different league?’

No reply.

‘In fact,’ I continue, ‘I believe the police are interviewing Sidney under caution at the police station about matters of that very kind as we speak.’

‘What matters, exactly?’ Meredith asks. She sounds somewhat alarmed, which is exactly what I intend.

‘It’s alleged that he was acting as an enforcer for an underworld consortium bent on doing violence to an Italian chef and burning the poor fellow’s restaurant to the ground because he hadn’t paid his gambling debts. Very nasty. He’ll do some serious time if he goes down for that.’

Jeremy recovers. ‘I don’t know why you’re telling us all this, Charles,’ he protests. ‘If what you say is true it will be all over the papers tomorrow, I’m sure, and the Minister will say what he always says: he’s not his brother’s keeper, he’s not responsible for Sidney’s conduct, and he acknowledges that the law must take its course. It’s not his fault that his brother has gone off the rails.’

‘I agree entirely,’ I reply. ‘I’m telling you this, not because of what Sidney did, but because what he did very nearly didn’t see the light of day. You see, Jeremy, someone took a deliberate decision to withhold disclosure from the court and the defence – not only about what Sidney had been doing in the restaurant on the evening in question, but also about his identity. He was using the name Arthur at the time – a kind of stage name, one supposes.’

This time, there’s an even longer silence.

‘The failure to disclose threatened to make it impossible for the defendant to receive a fair trial,’ I continue. ‘In fact, there’s still a defence application pending to withdraw the case from the jury. Now that Sidney has given evidence, I’m probably not going to grant it, but I might have had no choice if he hadn’t. It’s a serious matter, Jeremy. If it hadn’t been for prosecuting counsel who is not only very good, but also highly ethical and conscientious, it might never have come to light, and there might have been a miscarriage of justice. I find it all very disturbing. In fact, to be frank, it even occurred to me to write to the Daily Telegraph about it.’

‘Well, it’s unfortunate that the police tried to cover it up, Judge, obviously,’ Meredith jumps in. ‘But all’s well that ends well, surely.’

‘Except that it wasn’t the police,’ I reply. ‘An Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police took the trouble to come to court this morning to explain that to me under oath. He said that the decision was made “at a higher level”. He didn’t know what level, exactly. But all of us in this room know, don’t we?’

Jeremy springs back to life. ‘Are you saying the Civil Service had something to do with this?’ he asks indignantly. ‘Because if you are…’

‘What I’m saying, Jeremy,’ I interrupt, ‘is that I don’t know whether there was any deliberate malpractice, or whether it was just a case of administrative chaos, too many cooks in the kitchen, that kind of thing. But when the case comes to an end in a day or two, depending on the outcome, I may have to refer the matter to the police for a criminal investigation.’

‘That’s ridiculous. Even if what you say is true, it’s the sort of thing that can be handled internally, by disciplining those responsible.’

‘In normal circumstances, perhaps. But where there’s been an attempt to conceal evidence that has the potential to embarrass a Minister of the Crown, I’m not so sure. There might be allegations of a cover-up further down the line, and if I let it go people may even say that the Court was involved in it. No, in a case like this a police investigation is fully warranted, and I expect that the officer in the case, DS McGeorge, will be more than happy to take the lead, given that he almost took the blame for something that wasn’t his fault.’ I pause for effect. ‘As I say, Jeremy, it all depends on how the case ends, and whether anything else comes to light.’

‘Does it also depend on what happens in Judge Drake’s case?’ Meredith asks. I can’t help smiling. Say what you like about Meredith, and I often do, she doesn’t miss much and she’s quick on the uptake.

‘Well, obviously, the two matters are closely related,’ I reply.

Her jaw drops. ‘But that’s… that sounds like… with respect, Judge, almost like… blackmail.’

‘Not at all,’ I say. ‘I leave that kind of thing to Sidney Rockwell. No, all I’m saying is that if I have to order an investigation, it might not be the wisest thing for the Minister to force a judge into retirement for blowing the whistle on the same kind of failure of disclosure. It’s the kind of thing certain newspapers would have a field day with, isn’t it? I’m not trying to pressure anyone, Meredith. I have the Minister’s interests at heart, I assure you.’

Meredith is about to reply, when Jeremy cuts her off.

‘What are you suggesting, Charles?’

‘Jeremy, I don’t condone what Hubert did. We all know that sitting judges shouldn’t be writing to the newspapers. But I’ve had a word with Hubert, and he’s got the point. He won’t be doing it again. I’d like to suggest that you accept that assurance from me, as his RJ, and that we all move on.’

Jeremy drains his teacup and appears to meditate for some time, with Meredith seething silently alongside him.

‘If I were to agree to that proposal,’ he asks eventually, ‘can the Minister expect that you would take a responsible view of how to deal with the failure of disclosure?’

‘I hope the Minister understands that I always try to act responsibly,’ I reply. ‘It’s just that being an RJ isn’t always an easy job. One has any number of responsibilities at any given time, and sometimes they can appear to conflict.’

We shake hands. Meredith slams her notebook shut, furiously grinding her teeth against the pen in her mouth.

‘Would he have to resign?’ Jack suddenly asks, ‘the Minister, if there was a scandal about his brother?’

A Meredith, Jack is not. Jeremy and Meredith are on their feet, ready to leave, and looking down at the floor.

‘I’m no expert on that kind of thing,’ I reply. ‘But at the very least he might have to ask himself a question or two in the House.’

I call into Hubert’s chambers and tell him he’s free to take himself off to the Garrick for a drink. I wend my way homeward. The Reverend Mrs Walden and I are dining at the Delights of the Raj this evening. We’re taking a break from Italian cuisine for a night or two.

* * *

Thursday morning

It doesn’t take a crystal ball to predict what’s likely to happen this morning. I foresee that Roderick will ask to address me in the absence of the jury, and that he will say –

‘Your Honour, my learned friend Mr Blanquette and I have spent some considerable time discussing the case, yesterday and this morning, and my learned friend has taken further instructions from his client. I understand that Mr Ricci will ask for the indictment to be put again and will offer a plea of guilty to unlawful wounding without intent, on the basis of recklessness.’

‘That is correct, your Honour,’ Julian chimes in.

‘Your Honour, I have also taken instructions, and in the circumstances that plea is acceptable to the Crown.’

I smile benignly.

‘Yes, very well, Mr Lofthouse,’ I say. ‘Let’s have the jury back, and the indictment will be put again.’

I’ve adjourned the case of Luigi Ricci for a pre-sentence report. His plea was well advised. If he’d gone down for the charge on the indictment, wounding with intent, he would be looking at ten to twelve years, but with the lesser charge and the way the evidence has developed it’s going to be closer to three or four. I tell the defendant that it’s going to depend partly on the impression he makes on the probation officer, as reflected in the report, which it will. I don’t expect to see Luigi Ricci back in court, ever; and there’s a part of me that feels sorry for him. One way of looking at this case is that he reacted stupidly to events not of his making, and had some really bad luck. But Linda Galloway was stabbed within an inch – actually, within a few millimetres – of her life, and despite the probably terminal damage it will do to the family and to Primavera Toscana, I have no choice but to send him inside for a good while. We can’t have people brandishing dangerous items like meat cleavers in public places when people might get hurt.

Not even if they order Insalata Caesar made with mayonnaise.