The Bradford train rattled over the Pennines. Anderson distracted himself with the view of undulating hills and snow-capped, stony crags. How he longed to walk these mountains without a care in the world. All the old ambitions that had consumed him seemed so unimportant now. He craved simple pleasures.
Adey hadn’t said a word since they left the flat. She wasn’t quite sure why she had come along − Hussain & Co. were no longer representing Anderson. It seemed like the right thing to do, but her head was in turmoil as a result of Safa’s revelations.
The photographers were waiting for Anderson outside the courthouse. He’d become immune to such humiliations. Once they were past the metal detectors Anderson suggested to Adey that they go up to court and wait for the prosecutor. His eyes scanned the landing for a friendly face, for his supporters. He expected his parents to show up or at least his brother. Would Mia be here, he wondered, and a representative from chambers?
There was no one.
Adey sensed his disappointment but said nothing.
‘John Anderson?’ The voice came from behind him.
‘Yes, that’s me.’
A small, unremarkable woman in her late forties. ‘You don’t know me. You killed my daughter.’
Sandra Granger.
Anderson reeled back. ‘Mrs Granger?’ He saw the loss etched into her face. ‘I’m so sorry about what happened to Molly.’ Anderson felt the blood rushing to his head. Dizzy.
‘Sorry? Sorry?’ she hissed. ‘When they told me you weren’t man enough to admit you’d done wrong, I knew you weren’t just a liar. You’re a coward ’n’ all.’ She spat in his face.
Stunned, Anderson didn’t know what to say. Nothing he could say or do but watch her walk off towards the witness waiting room. A woman eaten up by anger and bitterness towards one person – him. And for good reason. He turned to Adey, who wiped away the spittle with a tissue.
She wanted to say something reassuring, but there was no point. Neither of them knew what lay ahead.
With only a minute to spare before the trial was due to start, Hannah Stapleton came up the stairs followed by an entourage of CPS lawyers. Her silk gown marked her out as someone special, and she knew it.
Anderson approached her and was about to explain his lack of representation but she raised a hand to stop him. ‘I know you were a barrister, Mr Anderson, but I’m sure you understand that I can’t speak to you. That’s what your advocate is for.’
‘Yes I know, that’s what I wanted to discuss. It looks like I’m now a litigant in person – my advocate has withdrawn.’
Her face dropped. No barrister wanted the additional work and complications of prosecuting a litigant in person. ‘Why?’
They were interrupted by the usher calling the case on.
Anderson took one last look around the landing for a friendly face, then, feeling sick to his stomach, made the long walk into the dock of Court One.
His Honour Judge Cranston was already on the bench. ‘Good morning, Miss Stapleton. No defence counsel this morning?’
Stapleton got to her feet as instructions were being whispered in her ear. ‘No, Your Honour, I am being told Mr Hussain, the instructed advocate, has been…’ She paused, unsure she’d heard correctly. ‘Arrested?’
The judge raised his eyebrows and said with a leer, ‘Well, that is a surprise. Such a nice fellow.’ He turned his attention towards the dock. ‘Going to represent yourself, Mr Anderson?’
Anderson stood up. It felt strange addressing the judge, not from counsels’ row but the dock. ‘As much as I would like to get on with matters, Your Honour, I must apply for an adjournment so that I can secure new representation.’
‘Secure new representation?’ Cranston scoffed. ‘And how long is that going to take?’ Without waiting for an answer: ‘Justice delayed is justice denied, Mr Anderson. We will continue. Jury panel please, madam usher.’
‘But, Your Honour,’ Anderson persisted. ‘I’m not ready to—’
‘Mr Anderson, I’ve ruled, and anyway, as I understand it, you are a qualified barrister. So, as I said, jury panel.’
Still on his feet: ‘Your Honour.’
‘If you do not sit down, Mr Anderson, I will hold you in contempt. Do I make myself clear?’
Anderson slumped back into his seat, head in hands. How could this get any worse?