There was a tense moment in which everybody waited with bated breath for Wolf’s reaction. Anticlimactically, he simply laughed bitterly, pulled his arm out of Simmons’ grip and shoulder-barged Edmunds on his way out.
Only Simmons and Vanita were in attendance for the scheduled progress meeting at 10 a.m. The twelve names were listed on the flipchart, which stood proudly in the centre of the room like a completed jigsaw puzzle. Unfortunately, identifying the final victim, Ronald Everett, had not been the revelation that Simmons had hoped. They were still missing something.
‘Just us then,’ smiled Simmons.
‘Where is DS Shaw?’ she asked.
‘No idea. Finlay’s not picking up his phone. Edmunds has been taken down to A & E for stitches, and you just suspended Fawkes.’
‘Just come out and say it if you think I made a bad call, Terrence.’
‘Not bad,’ said Simmons, ‘just brave.’
‘He’s a liability. You can’t blame him, all things considered, but we’ve finally reached the stage where he’s doing more harm than good.’
‘I wholeheartedly agree, but I can’t coordinate this thing by myself,’ he said. ‘Let me have Baxter back.’
‘I can’t. Not after the Garland fiasco. I’ll assign you someone.’
‘We don’t have time for that. Ashley Lochlan dies in two days, Fawkes two days after that. Baxter knows the case. Keeping her away would be a bad call.’
Vanita shook her head and muttered something.
‘OK, but I’m documenting my objections to this. She’s your responsibility now.’
‘The Beautiful Blood-spattered Juror,’ said Samantha Boyd as she stared at the infamous photograph of her standing outside the Old Bailey. ‘Their name for me. It’s not like I’ve got that printed on my business cards or anything.’
Finlay could barely recognise the person sitting across the table from him as the same woman from the picture. There was no doubt that she was still attractive, but her long platinum-blonde hair was now dark brown and styled in a boyish fashion. She was wearing heavy make-up that distracted from her sky-blue eyes that pierced through even the black-and-white versions of the photograph, and her clearly expensive clothing was flattering but in no way attention-grabbing.
The third most famous person from the most famous court case in living memory had agreed to meet him in a fashionable Kensington coffee shop. He had thought it closed for refurbishment when he first arrived, but none of the shopping-bag-toting clientele or tattooed staff appeared the least bit concerned about the exposed piping, dangling bulbs or un-plastered walls.
Finlay’s expedition out of the office had not been prompted by his argument with Wolf. He had made the arrangement the evening before. As good as money-tracking, footprint-testing and blood-spatter analysis were, he firmly believed that the most effective way of gathering evidence was simply to ask the right people the right questions. He knew his colleagues thought him old-fashioned, a dinosaur. He would happily admit that he was stuck in his ways and had no intention of changing now, less than two years from retirement.
‘I’ve tried very hard to get away from this,’ Samantha told him.
‘Can’t have been all bad. Good for business, I’d expect.’
He took a sip of his coffee and almost choked on it. It tasted like something Wolf would have asked for.
‘Absolutely. We couldn’t keep up with the orders, especially for that white dress. We ended up turning people away.’
‘And yet?’ asked Finlay.
She considered her answer carefully before continuing.
‘I wasn’t posing for a photo that day. I was looking for help. I never wanted to be famous, especially not because of something so … horrible. But suddenly I was “The Beautiful Blood-spattered Juror” and that’s all I was to people after that.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘With respect, I don’t think you can. The truth is that I am ashamed of the part I played that day. By then we were so influenced by the indiscretions of Detective Fawkes and the accusations being made against the police that I think we let it overshadow our decision. Most of us did anyway. Ten out of twelve of us made an irreparable mistake, and I think about the repercussions of that every single day.’
There was no trace of self-pity in her voice, merely an acceptance of responsibility. Finlay took out a recent photograph of Ronald Everett and placed it down on the table between them.
‘You recognise this man?’
‘How could I not? I had to sit next to the horrible old pervert for forty-six days. I wouldn’t call myself a fan.’
‘Can you think of any reason someone would want to harm Mr Everett?’
‘You obviously haven’t met the man. My first guess: he probably pawed over the wrong man’s wife. Why? Has something happened to him?’
‘That’s confidential.’
‘I won’t tell.’
‘Neither will I,’ said Finlay, putting an end to the topic. He thought hard before asking his next question. ‘When you think back to Mr Everett, was there anything that makes him stand out from you and the rest of the jurors?’
‘Stand out?’ she asked. She looked blank and Finlay wondered whether it had been a wasted journey. ‘Oh, only … we never proved it.’
‘Never proved what?’
‘Me and a few other jurors were approached by journalists offering to buy information off us for silly sums of money. They wanted to know what we were discussing behind closed doors, who was going to vote which way.’
‘And you think Everett took them up on the offer?’
‘No. I’m positive he did. Some of the stuff they were printing had come directly out of our jury bundle and then poor Stanley, who had fought for a guilty verdict right from the very beginning, woke up one morning to find his face plastered across the papers, who claimed to have exposed his strong anti-Muslim views and family ties to Nazi scientists or something similarly absurd.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to avoid the news during these things?’
‘You remember that trial? It would have been easier to avoid air.’
Finlay suddenly had a thought. He dug around in his file for something and then placed another photograph on the table.
‘By any chance, was this one of the journalists who approached you?’
She stared down at the photograph intently.
‘Yes!’ she gasped. Finlay sat up attentively. ‘This is the man that died on the news, isn’t it? Jarred Garland. My God. I didn’t recognise him before. He had long greasy hair and a beard when I met him.’
‘You’re positive it’s the same man?’ asked Finlay. ‘Look again.’
‘Without question. I’d know that sly smile anywhere. You should be able to check it easily enough though if you don’t believe me. I had to call the police to come and escort him off my property when he followed me home one night and refused to leave.’