Cath Staincliffe - Witness

‘I went to try and help.’

‘What did you find?’

The boy lay on his back, one leg buckled to the side, his arms outflung . ‘The boy, Danny, there was a wound in his chest; he was losing a lot of blood.’ Pooled in a slick beneath his shoulders, soaking into the grass, into the hard earth among the daisies and dandelions .

‘What did you do?’

‘I took my cardigan off, tried to use it to stop the bleeding.’ His eyes locked on hers .

‘What happened then?’

‘He stopped breathing. I couldn’t find his pulse. I began CPR, tried to start the heart.’ Her voice cracked a little; she cleared her throat. The smell of soap on his skin, the fine down on his cheek. The sun on her neck, his blood warm on her hands . The memory clawed at her. She blinked and tried to relax her shoulders.

‘And then?’

‘The ambulance came and the people from church – his family.’ They were here, Fiona thought, listening to her, drowning in their own memories. How could they bear it? To wake every day with that loss in their hearts, the absence, the child missing from their world. At work she had dealt with women who miscarried, whose babies were stillborn limp and blue, or whose babies were sick and couldn’t be saved. Fiona had witnessed their grief, offered what comfort she could, but to lose a child after fifteen years – to lose him to violence, the bite of a bullet tearing his future away. She thought of life without Owen, squashed the thought.

The barrister representing Sam Millins was a podgy man with a beard. He thanked her for coming but he was a little concerned with some points of her evidence and he’d like to examine these.

Fiona swallowed and felt her ears pop.

‘How would you describe your state of mind when you left the house to attend to the victim that day?’

‘Well, I was worried, frightened and shocked, I think.’

‘Yes. Thank you. And when the car almost ran you over, is it fair to say that added to your shock?’

‘Yes.’ She had been shaking, her nerves electric, senses sharp as glass.

‘You say the car used its brakes. Did it come to a halt?’

‘Not completely, it slowed then went faster again.’

‘So you only saw the driver momentarily?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she agreed.

‘When the victim sadly died you were eager to help the police?’

‘Of course,’ Fiona said.

‘You wanted to do anything you could to bring those responsible to justice?’

‘Yes,’ she answered.

‘And you were asked to see if you could identify the driver of the car from video records held by the police?’

‘Yes.’ Remembering the smooth way Joe had organized it so she wouldn’t get a chance to freak out.

‘So you were determined to find the culprit among the records you were shown?’

‘No,’ Fiona objected with an eddy of dislike at the implication she was on some sort of vendetta, ‘only if he was there.’

‘You glimpsed the driver for one fraction of a second, in a state of deep shock, yet you expect us to accept that you could identify his face many days later?’

‘Yes,’ she insisted.

‘And you had absolutely no doubt?’ He almost sneered, implying her certainty was preposterous.

‘No. He was just like I remembered.’

‘Witness identification is notoriously unreliable, you could have been mistaken, after all.’

‘I don’t think so. In my experience shock heightens the senses, it was like seeing a snapshot of him and he was distinctive enough for me to spot him immediately when I saw him on the video.’

‘Distinctive?’ The man frowned.

‘He looks like Johnny Depp,’ said Fiona, slightly embarrassed, ‘but different hair.’

There was whooping and cheering in the court and the judge got irritated. The clerk called for quiet.

‘So your identification was based on the notion that the man driving the car looks like a film actor?’

‘One particular film actor.’ She would not be made a fool of, she’d not back down. ‘That makes him memorable.’

Someone wolf-whistled and the judge put his hand to his head and then said gravely, ‘If there are any more interruptions from the public gallery I will clear the court. That is not a threat, that is a promise.’

‘You work in the area for the NHS. That is correct?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed.

‘For how long?’

‘Twenty-one years.’ Where had the time gone?

‘You must know the community well.’

‘Yes, the families.’

‘And we all have families,’ he said. ‘You would know my client then?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You can’t be sure?’ He seized on any inference he could.

She had to be alert, not lose a jot of concentration. ‘I’m sure.’

‘You hadn’t ever seen him in the neighbourhood before that day in June last year?’

Each question was chipping away at her certainty. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Had the man proof that she’d met Sam Millins before? Could she have forgotten? Had she visited his mother, his sister, in the course of work? The ringing started in her ears.

‘But you can’t be one hundred per cent sure of that?’

‘I don’t recall meeting him, seeing him ever.’ Fiona fought to hide her irritation.

‘You see, I think you may well have come across Sam Millins. My client is not denying he has a reputation in the neighbourhood and you may well have had him pointed out to you over the last few years and then in the heat and confusion of the tragic and violent incident in June 2009 imagined that he was the man driving the car.’

‘I didn’t imagine anything,’ Fiona said hotly.

‘You were aware that there were gangs operating in the area?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you never heard who was involved?’

‘It’s not something people talk about.’ She remembered the new mother turning her away, the day of her panic attack. I just don’t want any trouble. That’s how it is . Closing the door.

‘No?’ He acted sceptical. ‘So you had no idea that Derek Carlton, a black man, and his friend Sam Millins, a white man, had a reputation as gang leaders in the area?’

‘No.’

He gave a little smile and shook his head, implying she was not being honest with her answers. Fiona felt annoyed.

‘You didn’t see the car until it was almost upon you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You couldn’t see it when you heard gunfire and looked out of the house?’

‘No, I don’t remember seeing it,’ she stuttered, flustered.

‘You don’t know where it came from? Only the general direction?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You don’t know who shot Danny Macateer?’

‘No.’ She made an effort to calm herself, not show how wound up she really was.

‘How did you get here today?’

‘On the tram.’

‘How long did that journey take?’

‘Half an hour.’

‘Where did you sit?’

‘In the front behind the driver.’ She was puzzled by the turn of questions.

‘There is a window between the driver’s cab and the compartment?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, the driver would be visible to someone sitting where you were?’

‘Yes.’ What was he on about?

Mr Merchant nodded his head slowly, solemnly. ‘Can you describe the driver of the tram?’

‘No.’

‘Even though you would have seen him pass you as the tram slowed to stop at the station platform, then had half an hour in close proximity? Considerably longer than the fleeting glimpse of my client.’

‘I know what I saw.’ Doubt was nibbling at her stomach but she could not buckle now. He was trying to undermine her. She had seen Sam Millins. She closed her eyes. She remembered the huge rush of horror as she ran from the house, the sick feeling, the blur of motion and the snarl of brakes. Sam Millins’ face. The jaw, the chiselled cheekbones, his eyes flashing with rage. The wild beating of her heart, the roar of adrenalin . That man had murdered Danny Macateer, along with his accomplice. He sat just yards away now.