5.45am. John Anderson was already up, thinking about the case. Tredwell was going in the box today, turning Queen’s evidence in the case of the Crown versus Waqar Ahmed. Tredwell had been a subordinate and latest victim of local gangster Waqar Ahmed. His evidence could seal victory for the prosecution. The success of Ahmed’s various illicit activities had catapulted him from small-time pimp to undisputed king of Manchester’s Curry Mile in only a few short years. Those that knew him believed Ahmed to be untouchable.
Anderson had other ideas. Studying himself in the bathroom mirror, he thought of Tredwell’s face – grotesquely disfigured. Anderson had no sympathy or compassion for the man, but considered the effect the sight would undoubtedly have on the jury. It could only help the prosecution. John Anderson was a cold-blooded prosecutor, almost a machine. He knew how to get a conviction better than any barrister in the north. His determination and uncompromising approach to his cases had earned him a great deal of respect over the years. He had plenty of acquaintances, but few real friends. Some of his contemporaries mistook his shyness for arrogance.
‘John?’ Mia was awake.
A conversation would be required, taking his mind off the day’s work.
‘You’re up early, John. Are you staying for breakfast?’
She must want something.
Anderson left the en suite for the bedroom and started the excuses. ‘I can’t, Mia, I need to be in chambers before court. It’s a big day.’
‘Isn’t it always?’
‘You know I’m against that dodgy bastard, Hussain. I’m going to have my hands full.’ He took his day collar out of a drawer and put it on the stud.
She watched him slip a link expertly through the cuff of his tunic shirt. A handsome man, especially in a suit. He never seemed to look quite right in anything else. ‘Will has got his first match tonight. You will be there, won’t you?’
Anderson took too long to reply: ‘What time?’
‘Six, on the school field.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
She waited for the usual caveat.
It came: ‘But I can’t control the judge. He decides when we rise.’
‘Shut up, John. I know it’s always by around 4.30.’
‘Look, Mia, you know how important this case is for me – for all of us.’
‘How could I not, John. It’s the only thing you ever talk about. You need to do a good job… you’ve put in for silk… if you’re going to get it before your fortieth birthday… blah, blah, blah.’
‘We might run over. Like I said, I’ll do what I can.’ He took the opportunity to exit the bedroom. Paradoxically, a master at dealing with confrontations in the courtroom, he would do anything to avoid them at home.
‘I need some money, John. There’s nothing in the joint.’
‘What for?’ he replied, stopping at the door.
‘Clothes. You want me to look like a silk’s wife, don’t you?’
He couldn’t face another argument. ‘Use the Visa.’
‘Hi, Dad!’ His boys had trapped him on the landing. Still in pyjamas, the argument had woken them. His eldest, Will, gazed adoringly up at him. ‘Dad. It’s my first game tonight. You will come, won’t you?’
‘I’ll certainly do my best, Will.’
Will’s head dropped slightly. He knew what do my best meant.
Angus, four years younger than his twelve-year-old brother, held up a red toy car – his best attempt at communication with his father at such short notice.
‘Wow! I bet that’s fast,’ said Anderson, crouching down. Something made him pull the boys into an embrace. Motionless; for a brief, delicious moment, time stood still. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been so busy at work lately, boys. Just a few more weeks, OK?’
‘Yes, Dad,’ replied Will, hugging tighter.
‘Have a great day at school. I’ll see you tonight.’
If only they understood. A month from now and he would be in silk, then things would be easier. More time with them. And Mia could buy whatever she wanted. That would take the pressure off; change everything.
Anderson shut the front door then cursed as he saw the smattering of snow that covered the path. Pulling up the bottoms of his pinstripe, he trudged towards his car and started scraping the frost off the windscreen. An old Volvo, he couldn’t afford anything newer or more exciting. Not after the latest slashing of legal aid rates for criminal barristers. Mortgaged to the hilt, he’d be lucky if they could hold on to the house. Silk would change everything. His only way out.
Despite only just making ends meet, the boys were at private school. His father – His Honour Judge Anderson QC – who had enjoyed a career at the Bar in more affluent times, paid the fees. It had given him an unspoken control over them. Anderson had wanted them to go to the local primary, but their grandfather, with Mia’s support, had got his way. No Anderson had ever been to a state school. It was unthinkable.
John had learnt from an early age that it was much easier to adopt the opinions of those around him. That’s why he was so good in court. Putting forward someone else’s point of view. He didn’t need an opinion of his own.
Oxford at eighteen had been his first taste of freedom. He joined the student union and began to think for himself about politics. One Saturday, his parents made a surprise visit, only to find him selling copies of Socialist Worker on campus. His father cut off his allowance, refusing to support a communist. Only a promise to join the Young Conservatives restored the equilibrium. That’s the way it had always been; following a well-trodden path and living up to expectations. A career at the criminal Bar and, as the years rolled by, all energies became focused on winning trials. That made a difference, gave him meaning.
Anderson set off through Wilmslow on the road that snaked down the hill past open fields towards the M56 and Manchester. Driving on autopilot, his mind wandered. Thoughts of Mia. Was he happy, had he ever really been happy? Had she? He’d met her at university. From good stock, as his father would say; they got on well, had lots in common. They seemed the perfect match. His parents encouraged it. Mia happily swapped a History of Art degree for nappies, coffee mornings and hair appointments.
Uncomfortable with these reflections Anderson addressed his mind to safer things: the trial, his examination-in-chief.
Adrenalin was building, just how he liked it.
Out of nowhere, something on the road − a figure − crossed Anderson’s path. A school boy.
No time to think, he braked hard. The rear end of his car sat up and lurched from side to side, skidding over the wet surface towards the youngster. Anderson’s hands gripped the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. Consequences flashed before his eyes: career, jail, to have killed someone.
Eventually he came to a stop with only inches to spare, collision avoided.
An embarrassed wave from the pedestrian as he reached the other side.
Cursing, then a deep breath from Anderson.
Hoots from the vehicles behind.
Anderson checked his mirrors, then, after a moment, went back on his way. It was over in the blink of an eye.
Already forgotten.