Michael Robotham - Bleed For Me

Marco looks from Julianne to Mr Hurst. He doesn’t understand the question.

‘What was the distance between you and the van? Fifty feet . . . a hundred feet . . . more?’

Marco blinks and his mouth flexes uncertainly.

Mr Hurst: ‘Perhaps you’d prefer to use metres?’

‘From the second floors,’ says Marco. ‘I don’t know how far this is - maybe ninety feets.’

‘Ninety. You don’t seem very sure.’

‘I did not measure it.’

There is a sprinkling of laughter in the courtroom. Mr Hurst allows himself a brief smile.

‘It was dark - after midnight, in fact. You must have remarkable eyesight.’

‘I see OK.’

‘You told the police that you couldn’t see the number plate on the van because it was too dark.’

Marco hesitates. ‘I don’t understand?’

‘Did you tell police it was too dark to see the number plate?’

‘It was in shadow.’

‘It was too dark - yes or no?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yet you could see my client through a dirty second-floor window from ninety feet away in the dead of night?’

‘There was a light inside the van when the door opened.’

‘You told police there were three men?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why couldn’t you identify the others?’

‘I did not see them clearly.’

‘Because it was dark?’

‘Yes.’

Mr Hurst exchanges another look with the jury.

‘Had you seen Mr Brennan anywhere before?’

‘I had seen his picture.’

‘Where was that?’

‘In the newspaper.’

‘During the council elections. You probably saw his campaign posters and his leaflets.’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that why you picked him out of a police line-up?’

‘I recognised him, yes.’

‘You don’t agree with his politics or his policies, so you decided to punish him.’

‘No.’

‘Who told you to identify him?’

Marco looks at Julianne, not understanding. She explains the question. He shakes his head.

Mr Hurst braces both his hands on the bar table on either side of a legal pad. ‘You came to this country as an asylum seeker, is that correct?’

‘We applied for asylum.’

‘Yes, but when you first arrived you told immigration officers that you were tourists.’

‘Yes.’

‘And that was a lie.’

Marco looks at Julianne and then at the judge. Mr Hurst prompts him again.

‘You lied to immigration officers?’

‘I did as my father told me.’

‘Have you been promised anything for testifying at this trial?’

‘Promised?’

‘What is your immigration status now?’

‘I have been allowed to remain here for four years.’

‘So you can stay?’

‘Yes.’

‘Isn’t it also true that you’ve been approached by a newspaper and offered money for your story.’

‘Objection!’ says Miss Scriber, quick to her feet. ‘Mr Hurst has already suggested Mr Kostin’s immigration status has influenced his evidence. Now he’s suggesting that he’s seeking to profit from these circumstances.’

Mr Hurst looks affronted. ‘I’m simply trying to establish whether this witness has any ulterior motives that may influence his testimony.’

Marco’s eyes move back and forth, trying to follow their arguments.

Judge Spencer intervenes. ‘Unless you intend to introduce evidence of a conspiracy, Mr Hurst, you’re on very shaky ground. Perhaps you should choose another line of questioning.’

Sitting next to me, I feel Sienna suddenly stiffen. Her fists are clenched and the muscles in her jaw, shoulders and her arms have seized up, locking her into a statue-like pose. She’s not even blinking. Nothing moves except for the fingers of her right hand, which flutter up and down on her thigh. It’s our signal.

Slowly her head turns and her eyes meet mine. Wide. Scared. She turns back to the courtroom and I follow her gaze across the bar table to the lone bewigged figure sitting above everyone else, tapping at his laptop.

Ronnie Cray pulls Sienna outside and into a consulting room, almost kicking the door open and leaning hard against it, making sure it’s closed.

‘You’re sure?’

Sienna nods.

Cray’s lips peel back. ‘Shit!’

Sienna flinches.

‘It’s not you,’ I tell her. ‘You’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’

The DCI wants to pace but the room isn’t big enough. She wants to smoke. She wants to dump this box of vipers on someone else.

Pulling me aside, she whispers angrily. ‘What in glory’s name do I do? Who do I tell? He’s a Crown Court judge!’

‘You have to stop the trial.’

‘Only he can do that!’ Cursing, she spins away and tries to pace again. ‘I need to think. I need to talk to some people. Take advice. A judge! A fucking judge!’

She looks at Sienna. ‘You have to be sure, one hundred per cent, do you understand?’

Sienna nods.

Cray opens her mobile and shuts it again. ‘Come on - I’ve got to get out of here.’

Too agitated to wait for the lift, she walks down the curving staircase. Ruiz intercepts me on the landing.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I can’t talk. Wait for me.’

Minutes later we’re outside. Monk is behind the wheel. Cray doesn’t say a word to him. She’s trying to work out what to do . . . where to go . . . what happens next.

Opening her mobile, she stares at the screen. It can’t be in a phone call. It’s not secure enough. She flips it closed.

‘I’m going to Portishead,’ she says. ‘I need to see the Chief Constable.’

She looks at Sienna. ‘You need to tell him everything.’ Then she addresses me. ‘Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. Not a word.’

‘What about Ellis?’

‘He’s our problem now.’

Ruiz is sitting quietly, letting me talk. We’re sharing a wooden bench in Castle Park, overlooking the upper reaches of the floating harbour. Ducks and gulls dot the water, waiting to be fed by toddlers in strollers and older siblings who wobble on training wheels.

The Old Brewery rises abruptly from the opposite bank. The weathered brick walls are stained with bird shit and soot, yet are still preferable to modern glass and concrete. Somewhere nearer the cathedral a busker plucks the strings of a banjo and a flower seller with a brightly coloured cabin is setting out buckets of blooms, tulips and daffodils.

Ruiz hasn’t said a word. The sun radiates through a thin mesh of clouds, highlighting the grey in his hair and making him squint when he raises his eyes. His hands are big and square, no longer calloused. A boiled sweet rattles against his teeth.

‘What would you do?’ I ask.

‘Nothing.’

‘Why?’

‘You have a suicidal schoolgirl who has been sexually abused claiming that she slept with a County Court judge. She doesn’t know his name. She can’t remember the address. She’s also facing a murder charge. You have no forensic evidence or corroboration.’

‘She recognised him.’

‘You can’t stop a trial and destroy a man’s career on that sort of evidence.’

‘So what’s Cray going to do?’

‘She’s going to commit professional suicide.’

A gust of wind ripples the water and topples the tulips and daffodils in their buckets.

Ruiz continues: ‘My guess is she’ll go to the Director of Public Prosecutions, who’ll shit himself and call the Attorney General. There’ll be a full judicial inquiry, which is rare, and unless the investigation finds corroboration, Ronnie Cray can kiss her career goodbye.’

‘And the trial?’

‘They’re not going to stop an expensive, high-profile murder trial on the word of a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl.’