‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s—’
We were all but barged to one side by a knot of people in suits, walking in formation like bodyguards flanking the president. In the middle of this squad was Jamie Balcombe. A suit, a haircut, a shave; brown hair shiny, eyelashes glossy around wet blue pupils, he looked like a little boy in his dad’s clothes. The swagger we’d seen before was gone; now he walked with measured precision, as though it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other. He looked unnaturally directly ahead, making me think he must have recognised us, even though I’d deliberately dressed down in black, with my hair wound in a low bun so as not to draw attention. With my hair hidden I was insignificant, a lanky, slouching teenager.
At the door, the cluster of people thinned to a queue and then, as they passed through the arched metal detector, they became individuals. A racehorse of a woman with slicked-back grey hair bore no resemblance to anyone, but that man with a double chin and a signet ring could only be Jamie’s father. Colouring gave away his brother and sister. The woman with the certain-age blow-dry, rubies in her ears and an elegant hand on Jamie’s shoulder must have been his mother, and the wan redhead clutching his left hand must be another sister, or girlfriend. When the redhead took off her coat to pass it through the metal detector, I saw a diamond flash on her third finger. Not a girlfriend but a fiancée. She took the ring off and offered it to the security guard.
‘No need, love, keep it on,’ he said, but her fingers were clumsy and the ring slipped from her grip, landing on the floor with a little chink and rolling through the arch.
‘Oh, Antonia,’ said Jamie. The brother rushed off to fetch the ring; Antonia’s fingers were shaking so badly that Jamie’s mother had to help her replace it.
Kit and I hung back until the Balcombes had been processed. Then, as it was the only door we could see, we went after them.
‘Hi,’ I said to the security guard. ‘I was just looking for the witnesses’ entrance?’
‘You’ve found it,’ he said. ‘Everyone has to come through here.’
It took a few seconds to sink in. We had just brushed shoulders with the man we were going to testify against. What about grudges, intimidations, revenge attack and threats?
‘What if it’s the mafia?’ I blurted. Kit did a double take and the security guard laughed kindly.
‘It’s not exactly The Godfather round here, love. There in’t nothing gonna happen with all these barristers crawling all over you all. You got a camera or a recording device in there?’ I opened my bag to show him nothing but some Tampax and a notebook.
The interior of the court did little to put me at my ease. The architect must have been a sadist; surely the brief was to instil an air of solemnity without being too intimidating. This was an Escher-drawing of a place, with a layout of columns, colonnades and walkways that seemed to double back on themselves without warning.
Something awful occurred to me. ‘What about the victims?’ I asked Kit. ‘Surely Beth won’t have to come through that door?’
Kit looked aghast. ‘I think they must, if that’s the only security clearance. It doesn’t seem right, does it?’
‘It’s a fucking travesty.’
We walked across a bustling atrium. The Greco-Roman theme continued here, columns supporting a ceiling the height of the building. One wall was obscured by tangled foliage in a massive planter that must have climbed 20 feet high, giving it a conservatorial air, or, as Kit said, ‘It’ll be like being on trial in bloody Center Parcs.’ I appreciated the attempt to cheer me up, but could muster only the weakest of smiles.
It was half past nine and Court One had yet to open. Kit got us both coffees and for a while we watched everyone file in. Some looked up at the ceiling in wonder while others greeted the security guards by name. Most of the ceiling-gazers were instantly spirited away, enough in number that they must be the jurors. Carol Kent, the detective who’d taken my original statement, nodded at us from across the room, a little smile of encouragement momentarily softening the severe make-up.
‘Let’s go and see what we have to do,’ said Kit.
Kent’s greeting was curt. She’s edgy too, I thought.
‘I’ll tell the prosecution you’re here,’ she said. ‘You need to stay out of the public gallery until you’ve testified. There’s a witness room but the complainant’s already in there, so it’s not ideal.’
Privately I thought that it would do Beth good to see a friendly face, and was about to say so when Kit said to Kent, ‘What if I gave you my mobile number and we promised to stay close?’
The vertical line between Kent’s eyebrows deepened. ‘That should be fine, but let me check with counsel.’
She followed a sign pointing to the witness room.
‘I feel like I should go and say good luck or at least hello,’ I said.
‘Did you not just hear what she said?’ hissed Kit. ‘There’s all sorts of rules against that. You’d look like you were conferring with her. It’s only going to jeopardise her case. What if it got thrown out, because of that?’
He was right, again.
Next to us, a glossy blonde was talking on a flip phone.
‘Yeah, it’s a rape this morning,’ she said, with all the detachment of someone describing a routine dental appointment. A journalist; of course. ‘Potentially quite juicy. Our defendant’s public school, lovely-looking boy. His dad’s a big cheese, CEO of a FTSE 100, was in the same year as Prince Charles at Gordonstoun although they haven’t kept in touch, more’s the pity because a link like that would be gold. Look, I’ll call you back at end of play, give you a good idea of whether it’s got legs. It better had, to be honest. I’ve turned down a double murder in Liverpool for this.’