The crowd was more substantial and boisterous than the day before and its size so obviously outstripped the capacity of the gallery inside that Cynthia instinctively hung back. However, George quietly led her and Gladys round the baying throng and their police passes were good to get them bundled in. There was no escaping the further security inside and by the time they took their seats, which were nearer the back this time, the first witness of the day was already in place. Cynthia took a quick glance at the jurors seated next to her. The faces were already becoming familiar, the golf club lady in a different smart outfit, the jeans brigade and the man in the T-shirt who had changed to a different version with “EQUALITY” posted across the front of it. Cynthia wondered if he had a stock to pick from for each day. Her attention soon turned to the witness box where the middle-aged woman with blonde curly hair standing there had already confirmed her name as Carolyn Baxendale.
“Ms Baxendale,” intoned Hook, “could you please tell the court where you were on the twenty-eighth of March 1980.”
“Yes,” she replied instantly, “I was a member of the prosecution team acting in the Enver Kelmert case.”
“Can you see any of your colleagues in that team in court today?”
“I can—one of my colleagues that day was Helena Ahmed, the defendant.”
“How is it you remember that day so precisely?”
“It was the day when the jury was stuck in a lift, the one and only time that’s happened during my legal career. It was also the day before two important documents in the case were lost and the accused walked free as a result.”
“And these documents were in the care of the defendant?”
“They were.”
“Right—now can you please tell us what happened at lunch time that day?”
“Certainly—the defendant, that is Helena Ahmed, used to go out jogging during her lunch breaks but usually during that case, which was quite complex, we would have a chat over a sandwich first. That day she changed into her tracksuit and took off very fast at the first possible moment. It stuck in my mind because it was so different from how she’d behaved before.”
“Did she give you any hint as to where she might be going, or did you have any idea yourself?”
“Objection,” shouted Narwaz, clambering to his feet. “Counsel is leading the witness, and her views on where Ms Ahmed might have been going are irrelevant.”
“I’ll withdraw the question,” Hook broke in. “Ms Baxendale, did you see Ms Ahmed when she returned?”
“Yes, I did. She arrived ten minutes after the end of the lunch break looking very flushed and perspiring. She told me she’d had a near miss with a taxi at some traffic lights and an altercation had ensued. I asked her if the police had been called but she said that the two of them had settled it amicably. As it happened, because of the problem with the lift, the message had already come in from the judge that proceedings would be delayed for an hour so she had plenty of time to get changed.”
“Thank you—no more questions.”
Narwaz refused the invitation to quiz the witness and Hook replaced her with a man about sixty called Eric Byrne. “Mr Byrne, you were a member of the court security detail during the Kelmert case?”
“I was, including the twenty-eighth of March.” Byrne had a thin, reedy voice and Cynthia noticed some of the jury members leaning forward to catch what he was saying.
“Do you recall seeing the defendant, Ms Ahmed, that day?”
“I don’t specifically remember her coming in the morning but I do remember seeing her at lunchtime.”
“Why was that?”
“Well, she came tearing past the security box where I was standing in her tracksuit like she was training for the Olympics. Her fists were pumping and her eyes were staring. She almost knocked me over. I mentioned it to another of the security officers at the time. ‘What’s got into her?’ or something like that was what I said. I mean, you don’t rush around in a court like that, do you, with no respect for other people who might be in your way. We had quite a conversation about it, I can tell you…”
“Mr Hook,” broke in the judge, “get this back on track, please.”
“Yes, my Lord. Mr Byrne, did you see Ms Ahmed return later on?”
Byrne’s mouth was still open as he’d been in mid-sentence when he was interrupted. There was a titter around the court, quelled by a malevolent stare from McCracken.
“I did,” Byrne answered finally. “She came back in after the lunch break had ended, all perspiring she was. I mean, the sweat was running down her face right down her neck and into her chest, like, I mean…” He was interrupted again by titters, which turned into outright laughter stilled by a smart smash with the judge’s gavel.
“And why do you remember the date so well?” Hook asked.
“Well, it was the day the lift stuck, wasn’t it, and all them jurors were inside. We had to go and lever the doors open to get them out. They were all in a right state, I can tell you...”
“Right, thank you, Mr Byrne.” Narwaz gave a dismissive wave and Byrne was replaced by an elderly lady who gripped hard on to the sides of the witness stand. Hook waited until the judge had called the court to order before he asked her to confirm her name and address.
“I’m Dorothy Bent and my address is 130 Brayfield Road in Clapham.”
“Right, Mrs Bent, I want you to cast your mind back to the twenty-eighth of March 1980.”
“That’s easy, you see my boy Charlie was at home for three days then with the measles. That was the second and the worst day when he was nearly delirious. The doctor had told me he needed constant care with water all the time and in a dark room. I took time off work to nurse him. The curtains were closed all day.”
“And whereabouts in your house is his bedroom?”
“It’s a three-storey house and his room is on the top floor.”
“So there’s a wide-ranging view of the street from there?”
“Oh yes, a long way, when the curtains aren’t closed, like.”
“And you had the curtains closed all the time that day?”
“Yes, apart from a few minutes around the middle of the day.”
“Could you tell the court what happened.”
“Well, I heard a big crash outside and people shouting, so I opened the curtains a crack to take a look. A big lorry had hit a car and there was a lot of argy-bargy going on—right outside our house it was. The traffic was all at a standstill. Then I saw a jogger in a tracksuit going between the cars and round the lorry to the house opposite.”
“What is the address of that house?”
“125 Brayfield Road.” The answer brought a burst of murmuring which persisted until another stare was forthcoming from McCracken.
“And did you recognise the jogger?”
“Why yes, I saw her jogging most mornings when I went to work. It was the Asian lady who lived there then. She caught my eye because I’d never seen her out at lunchtime before. I assume she would normally be at work. It was around one-thirty when I saw her. I know that because I went down to fetch my lunch just before and it was one-fifteen by our kitchen clock then. I was checking the time for when I had to give Charlie his medicine.”
“Did you know this lady personally?”
“I did—I went over to see her soon after she moved in as there was a lot of rubbish outside her house blocking the pavement. It was unsightly and we didn’t like it. She said she was sorry and would get it moved. She introduced herself as Helena.”
“Thank you.” Hook looked at Narwaz, who was already on his feet.
“Mrs Bent,” Narwaz began, “have you lived in your house for a long time?”
“Nearly forty years. The stairs are getting a bit much for me now with my leg.”
“You take a great pride in where you live?”
Dorothy Bent bridled. “Yes, I do—nothing wrong with that I don’t think.”
“So when Ms Ahmed moved in and started to create a nuisance, as you saw it, you decided to take some action.”
“Well, it wasn’t just me who was complaining—a great mountain of stuff it was. I still remember it. It smelled as well.”
“You’ve lived in your house a long time—you don’t care for change much?”
Hook waved at the judge. “My Lord, my learned colleague seems to be meandering again. What is the relevance of this?”
“I’ll allow it, Mr Hook,” McCracken cut him off. “The witness can answer the question.”
“No, I don’t,” replied Dorothy Bent shortly.
“Now, to return to the day in question and you saw the jogger, how long did you see him or her for?”
“Not long—I had to close the curtains to keep the light out.”
“Thirty seconds, five minutes?”
She considered. “Not more than a minute.”
“And did you see the jogger from the back or the front?”
“From the back. As I said, she was weaving between the traffic and then went into the house.”
“So you didn’t see the face at all. Do you see many joggers going down your street?”
“Yes, we do,” she conceded, “but I know her shape. I’ve seen it so often before.”
“What colour tracksuit was she wearing?”
“What colour? I don’t remember. This was thirty years ago. It was a cloudy day too so it was hard to see. Black, I think.”
“So you were on the top floor of your house looking down. You saw the jogger weaving between the traffic in the street and then on the pavement on the other side, before your view was presumably blocked by the lorry and the conditions were such that you couldn’t distinguish the colour of the tracksuit. And this all lasted for a total of one minute altogether. Is that right?”
“My Lord,” Hook protested. “Counsel is trying to confuse the witness.”
“Sit down, Mr Hook,” commanded McCracken. “I want to see where this is leading.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” muttered Mrs Bent. She gathered herself. “But it had to be her.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because she went into the house, number 125.”
“I thought you said the lorry had stopped right in front of your house.”
“That’s right.”
“Then how could you possibly have seen her go into the house? Wouldn’t the lorry have blocked your view?”
“Well, yes, that wasn’t what I meant. What I meant to say…”
“Thank you, Mrs Bent,” Narwaz cut her off. “No more questions.”
**
“That was a tough morning for the defence,” George observed as they made their way to the gardens he and Cynthia had discovered the day before. It was an altogether more pleasant day and she had made sandwiches for all of them rather than having to make another visit to McDonald’s. “Did you watch Helena Ahmed at all? Her head was going down as though someone was pecking at it.”
“I thought the defence lawyer did pretty well,” said Gladys as they installed themselves on two neighbouring benches. “He certainly tied that Bent woman up.”
“Not enough. She came across as a solid British citizen. I was studying the jury while she was on the stand and the older men plus that woman in the centre…”
“You mean the one that looks like the captain of the golf club,” Cynthia chimed in.
“That’s the one—they all empathised with our Mrs Bent.” George bit into his sandwich. “Mm, egg mayonnaise. I like these.” He polished off the sandwich quickly and reached for another. Cynthia smiled. She’d been friends with Gladys long enough to have a good idea of her food likes and dislikes. George she was still finding out about but she’d wanted him to approve. She wanted that very much. Come on, she said to herself. She’d been married to David for a long time. One of the reasons she’d moved to the Village was so that his memorial would be easy to visit and she could renew the flowers all the time. With a sudden shock she realised that she had no idea how George remembered Miriam. His children visited him regularly—perhaps that was the trick. There was a status quo there perhaps better not disturbed. And yet, and yet, she thought back to their lunches together, how she’d held his arm and how it felt natural to do that.
These thoughts were still occupying her mind when she re-occupied her seat for the afternoon session. A rather statuesque woman with tightly bunched silver-grey hair in black drooping trousers and a black jacket was taking the stand. Cynthia estimated her at around seventy. My kind of vintage, she thought, I hope I don’t look as forbidding as that! The woman was rapidly identified as Beatrice Chester. “Ms Chester…” William Hook started out.
“Miss.”
“I beg your pardon.” It was the first occasion when Cynthia had seen Hook really startled.
“Miss—I don’t like being addressed as Ms.”
“Very well—Miss Chester. You were office manager to Crispin Nightingale I believe at the time of the Kelmert trial in March 1980.”
“I was.”
“Two vital documents were lost which caused the trial to collapse. Could you explain the nature of those documents to the court?”
“Certainly—they were handwritten notes from Mr Kelmert to his bankers instructing them how to deal with funds they were administering for him.”
“And on the twenty-eighth of March what did you do with these documents?”
“I entrusted them to the care of Helena Ahmed to study them and to lock them in the office safe overnight.”
“Why was that?”
“Because, as a member of Mr Nightingale’s team, she would be expected to be well-versed on every aspect of the case.”
“When you were about to go home that evening, had Ms Ahmed complied with your instructions to lock the documents away?”
“No, she had not.” The words rang out round the room like pistons and Chester stared full-square at Helena Ahmed in the dock. Looking down, which had been her posture for virtually the entire day, Helena didn’t meet her eyes. “The documents were still lying around on her desk.”
“Did you ask her why she hadn’t done what you asked her to do—to study them and lock them away?”
“Of course—she told me she was still working on them. I reminded her that they must go away in the safe.”
“And then you left?”
“I did.”
“What happened the next morning?”
“I was the first to arrive as I normally was. I opened the safe to take the documents out but they weren’t there.”
“Did you ask Ms Ahmed about them?”
“I would have done but she didn’t arrive, nor did she answer her phone. She eventually did ring in to say she would go directly to the court. She said she wasn’t feeling well with period pains.”
“Did you ask her about the documents during that call?”
“I did. She swore she had put them in the safe and she repeated that when I saw her later in the day.”
“Was a search conducted in the office?”
“Of course, but nothing was found.”
“So you held Ms Ahmed responsible for the loss?”
Chester gave Hook a withering look, which carried the message that he might well consider going back to school. “Naturally. Poor Mr Nightingale never took another case. He was a sad loss.” The emphasis was on the “he”.
“Thank you.” Hook sat down and Narwaz was already on his feet.
“Miss Chester,” he began very deliberately, “could you describe those documents?”
“I’ve already done that.” The withering look was repeated.
“They were both one-pagers, weren’t they, of A4 paper?”
“They were.”
“And on one of them Kelmert referred to following a Fibonacci retracement process?”
The judge leaned over towards Narwaz. “Mr Narwaz, I can imagine some collective head-scratching amongst the jury. Could you elucidate please?”
“With pleasure, my Lord. A Fibonacci retracement occurs when analysts following a stock fix high and low points for its movement over a period and watch for retracement from the low point wishing to sell at the optimum level. Now, Miss Chester, this was referred to by Kelmert?”
“Yes, it was.”
“And you would accept that a young lawyer who was not a financial expert would need time to brief herself on complicated concepts such as these?”
“I suppose so.”
“Was that a ‘yes’, Miss Chester?”
“Yes.”
“So it wouldn’t be unreasonable for her to be working late so that she could brief her boss to the best of her ability?”
“No, I suppose it wouldn’t.”
“Now, on your watch, Miss Chester, while you were office manager, was this the only time important documents went missing?”
Miss Chester held her head high in defiance. “There were two other occasions. With the first another lawyer removed a file and the missing documents were found misfiled in it. In the other case the missing documents were never found, despite an exhaustive search, but some papers from another file in the safe were shredded and it was assumed the missing documents had been destroyed in error.”
Narwaz nodded. “In the Kelmert case, was an exhaustive search, as you put it, also carried out?”
“A search was made but subject to time constraints as the documents were required for the court.”
“And the search wasn’t resumed afterwards?”
“Not to my knowledge, no.”
“Why was that?”
“The documents went missing while in the hands of the defendant, Helena Ahmed. It was obvious she’d failed to secure them.”
“You testified you were the first to open the safe. In the other two cases you mentioned, other lawyers had removed material. Are you sure that didn’t happen in this case?”
“Checks were made at the time but the evidence was clear.”
“In your mind certainly. And when you confronted Ms Ahmed she continued to claim she had put the documents in the safe before she left the office.”
“She did, yes.”
“My understanding is that you gave her the choice of resigning or being sacked. Can you confirm that?”
“She chose to resign. That was her decision.”
“Right, Miss Chester. Before you took up a legal career I believe you were the matron at a boys’ boarding school. Is that correct?”
Miss Chester’s eyes, which up until them had been wide open and confident, narrowed slightly as if she wondered what was coming. “Yes, I was.”
“While you were at the school there was an incident when you claimed some personal items of yours had gone missing and you accused one of the boys of taking them. He was punished as a result but the items later turned up at a relative’s home. Is that right?”
“Yes, I- I jumped to conclusions. I was sorry.”
“I’m sure you were. The boy’s parents, who are from Nigeria, complained of racist treatment over that incident and you were suspended as the instigator of that treatment.”
“That’s true but…”
“You resigned as a result, didn’t you?”
“My position became untenable.”
“Rather like the position in which you put Ms Ahmed.” Narwaz paused to allow the impact of his words to sink in. “You were also involved in an incident with one of the lawyers at the practice, weren’t you? We have spoken to Terrence Taylor, who is prepared to come and give evidence to this court if necessary, that you made a highly inappropriate remark about Mr Taylor being Black.”
Miss Chester’s face resembled an overripe beetroot. “That was a complete misunderstanding. It was intended as a jo…”
“Are you a racist, Miss Chester?”
“Objection,” screamed Hook, banging on the desk in front of him.
“Did your racist attitudes influence your treatment of Helena Ahmed?”
“Objection, objection.”
“I have no further questions.”