The Royal Courts of Justice, a magnificent nineteenth-century gothic building on the Strand – home of the Court of Appeal.
Hussain sat in the café opposite, eyes fixed on the imposing archway, waiting for the doors to open. Butterflies in his stomach. This was his first appearance as an advocate in the appellate court. These judges were the brains of England. As an instructing solicitor he’d been a few times to sit behind a barrister and had witnessed them cut down where they stood by the superior intellects of those on the bench. This court did not suffer fools gladly. Hussain reminded himself that John Anderson had reason to be far more anxious about today’s proceedings than him.
At last, the front gate was unlocked. Hussain hurried across the road, keen to spend as much time as possible with his client before the hearing. On receiving Adey’s phone call the night before, Hussain had been in a state of panic. MI5? Was it really possible? Surely they needed more time to investigate this new lead?
Hussain stopped in the Great Hall and stared up at the ceiling. A visitor could be in no doubt this was the heart of the criminal justice system of England and Wales. Gothic archways leading off or up to the courtrooms. It took years to really know one’s way around the countless passageways of these law courts. He scurried off to the only robing room he knew, on the right of the entrance, and began to put on his collar and bands.
Once robed, he headed back across the Great Hall towards the cells.
‘Hey, Hussain?’ Hannah Stapleton was marching towards him. ‘What do you call this?’ she demanded, waving a printout of the email he’d sent her the night before. ‘MI5? Are you having a laugh?’
‘Do I look like I’m laughing?’
She read from the email: ‘“Does MI5 hold any intelligence on Michael Doran, aka Mohammed Mohammed, that is relevant to this case?” How the hell am I supposed to action that? We’re on at 10.30.’
Hussain took solace from Stapleton’s tirade. All counsel, however senior, found an appearance at the Court of Appeal a stressful experience. ‘Please just do what you can? Thanks.’
Hussain caught sight of Adey coming through security and took his cue to leave Stapleton, standing open-mouthed in the middle of the Great Hall. ‘Have you seen West or Connor yet?’ he barked at Adey.
‘No, I haven’t. Calm down, Taz.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He took a few deep breaths.
‘You look knackered, are you OK?’
‘I need to know if West and Connor are here. Please find them, then meet me in the cells.’
They set off in different directions.
The door to the cells was as old as the building itself.
‘Yes, sir,’ came the chirpy greeting from the cockney prison officer on opening up.
‘John Anderson, please?’
The officer studied his clipboard. ‘Not here, sir. He waived.’
Hussain began to panic. ‘Waived? That’s not possible. I know he would have exercised his right to attend.’
‘Leave him alone. Can’t you see he’s nervous enough?’ said the officer’s colleague appearing at the door. He turned to Hussain: ‘Thinks he’s funny, bloody pillock. Come this way.’
Hussain followed the second man down to the cells, whilst the joker chuckled to himself.
Anderson was soon brought limping into the conference room. He slumped onto a chair. ‘Another marathon in the sweatbox,’ he explained. ‘Had to stop at all the prisons in England on the way down, then a dreadful time in Pentonville last night.’
Hussain could see Anderson was really suffering.
‘Anyway, enough of all that. Any developments?’
Hussain updated Anderson with Taylor’s leak about MI5.
Like Hussain and Adey, Anderson couldn’t believe it. ‘I just can’t see where MI5 could possibly fit into this?’
‘John, let me apply to adjourn? Buy us some time.’
‘No, we need to keep the pressure on. Ask Stapleton to get someone from MI5 here today.’
‘John, this is suicidal.’
But Anderson was in no mood to back off now.