C:\Users\John\Downloads\J\James Follett - Crown Court.pdb

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James Follett - Crown Court

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Crown Court - Granada TV
This novelization by James Follett 1977

Published in Great Britain by Arthur Barker Limited,

Part One BRIEFING

Sven Richards was within five minutes of death when the ambulance
doors were thrown open and his body was rushed into
the casualty unit. Even as a nurse frantically cut away his
rubber
diving suit while two doctors desperately applied oxygen and
cardiac massage, his poisoned brain was dying at an irreversible
rate of a million cells each second.

Two minutes after admission and Sven Richards' intellect had
slipped back through fifteen years to that of a ten year old boy.
After three minutes, had the doctors and nurse managed to revive
him, Sven Richards would have been unable to read and
write his own name.

His heart and lungs continued to function - pumping oxygen
enriched blood through a near-lifeless body that no longer needed
it but precious reason, like a gutting flame vanishing down a
tunnel, was plunging backwards across the awesome gulf of ten
million years of evolution.

After four minutes, Sven Richards' brain began the closedown
of those organs not essential to maintain a brief, minimum form
of life. The kidneys stopped functioning, then the liver,
followed by a slowing of intestinal contractions.

As the last yellow shreds of his wet suit slithered to the floor
Sven Richards' tortured lungs painfully inhaled for the last time
then slowly expelled their final breath. His heart, still
clinging to its twenty-five year habit, continued to beat. Then, as the
seconds ticked by, the heartbeats - measured out as sharp bleeps
on a cardiac monitor - became erratic, then slowed ... And
finally stopped.

Electrical rhythms would continue to surge through Sven
I Richards' brain for many hours; his stomach acids would
continue to break down his food; his nails and hair would
continue to grow but as far as the Casualty Unit team of
the Fulchester General Hospital were concerned, Sven

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Richards was dead and their work lay with the living.

Their next patient was a vociferous woman who had managed
to drive a garden fork through her foot while exchanging gossip
with a neighbour.

Chief Superintendent Harold Walker of Fulchester CID had
seriously underestimated just how much pornographic material
there was in Charlie Dawson's seedy warehouse and office -- the
four uniformed constables were still loading the van 30 minutes
after Walker had called on Charlie with the search warrant.

Walker moved away from the window and helped himself to
another cup of coffee that Charlie's secretary, Jane Milton, kept
simmering all day on a hotplate.

"Looks like I'll need another van, Charlie." Walker grinned
amiably at the couple as he sipped the poisonous brew.

Charlie Dawson was an obese 40 year old with heavy jowls,
several chins, and large, sensual lips. His suit must've set him
back something in the region of 200 pounds pence. Jane was
well-known to Walker. Before learning up with Charlie, she had
operated in Fulchester as a top saleswoman. Her merchandise had
been her body. No one had been interested in her soul -- least of
all Jane herself.

"I don't understand it, Mr. Walker," Charlie said sorrowfully.
"We both said that I was operating within the law."

"I never said anything of the sort, Charlie," Walker said
sharply. "I said that you might be within the law until someone
decided to have a go at you. Well... Now they've decided."

"Who?" demanded Jane.

Walker looked at her admiringly. She was an extremely beautiful
woman. "Not me, sweetheart."

"I thought the House of Lords were re-examining the Obscene
Publications Act," Charlie said despondently.

"That doesn't stop arrests and prosecutions, Charlie -- not
under the section you're going to be done on."

"What section?" asked Jane.

"For gain."

Jane laughed. "Who decided to push that one at us? The chief
constable?"

Walker shook his head. "You know Mr. Allan's views as well
as I do." He picked one of the addressed packages on Charlie's
desk. He opened and flipped through a magazine called Candid.
Judging by the flattening of perspective, all the pictures had
Been taken with a long-focus lens. There were pictures of couples
on beaches, in clearings, in cars, and even in pedal boats. They

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weren't pictures showing explicit sexual activity, but because
the couples were real people and not paid models, Walker found
the photographs surprisingly erotic - far more so than the
remainder of magazines in the packet which were straightforward
hardcore pornography.

Walker returned the package to Charlie's desk and indicated
the others.

"All the same, Charlie?"

Charlie nodded. The heavy jowls quivered. He looked as if
he was about to burst into tears. Unlike Jane, who was
smouldering with hate, there was no fight in him.

"So who then?" Jane planted herself firmly in front of
Walker. The police officer guessed that she was the real brains
behind the operation. He sighed and reached in his pocket for
Charlie's list of subscribers -- the first thing he had
Confiscated at the beginning of the raid.

"Hard to read this sort of printing," said Walker, glancing
down the columns of names and addresses.

"It's been done on a computer," said Jane. "like we said the
whole operation would be - computerized."

Walker grinned broadly at her.

"You do hand out some frightful crap, my precious. This list
has been printed on an IBM tabulating machine - a data processing
machine, not a computer."

Walker turned the pages slowly. Without raising his eyes he
said: "Are the contents of all those packets the same, Charlie?"

"Yes, Mr. Walker." His voice was nearly a croak.

"Mm. Looks like... what? Twenty? Handy, Charlie. One for
each member of the jury and a few over as exhibits."

"You can't touch us, Walker," Jane spat. "And you know
bloody well you can't."

Walker turned the list towards Jane and Charlie. He held his
forefinger under a name and address. "This gentleman thinks
we can, not only touch you, Charlie, but fall upon you with great
violence from a great height."

Charlie leaned forward, peering at the entry Walker was
indicating.
The name looked familiar but the Roehampton address
was unknown.

Walker's grin was threatening to become an outright laugh.

"Look at the name, Charlie, and think who your biggest
enemy might be ... Think ... It was his secretary who filled in
your application form, acting on his instructions ... Think,

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Charlie."

Charlie thought. Then his flabby jaw dropped and the colour
drained from his pudgy cheeks. He turned slowly towards Jane,
who for the first time, was showing alarm.

"You stupid cowl" screamed Charlie. "You stupid stupid
bloody cow!"

Jane looked thoroughly bewildered.

"What have I done?" she screamed back at Charlie.

"Ignorant bitch!" Charlie snatched the list out of Walker's
hand and thrust it under Jane's nose. He jabbed at it with a
plump forefinger. "Did you send him a committee pack?"

Jane and Charlie seemed to have forgotten Walker's presence
as they squared up to each other.

"Well if his name's on the bleedin' list," Jane snarled, "and
his cheque didn't bounce, then course I bleedin' well sent 'im
one!
And don't you go calling me a bitch, you impotent fat slob!"

Walker began to laugh.

"I'll tell you your trouble, you over-developed little whore,"
Charlie retaliated. "You spent so much time on your back before
you were sixteen that what little brains you were born with ran
out your ears."

Jane was about to fly at Charlie when Walker, wiping the
tears from his eyes, grabbed hold of her. He put an arm round
each of them in a gesture of affection.

"Now, now," he said consolingly.

"Bastard," Jane hissed at Charlie.

"Whore I Stupid little brainless slut I You know what you've
done?"

"Built this business up from nothing while you were sitting
on your fat arse jetting first class round Europe!" Jane
screamed.

"And you've ruined it in five minutes because you're as thick
as a NAAFI sandwich! I should've guessed right at the beginning;
tarts with brains are as rare as rocking-horse shit."

Walker started to laugh again.

"Listen," he said.

"So what have I done?" Jane shouted, her lovely face livid
with anger. "Just tell me that, you great slobbering toad!"

Walker stopped laughing. "Listen I Both of you --"

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"Just tell me what I've done!"

Walker grinned hugely. "You must be the first porn pushers
who've ever sent a sample of their supplies to the Director of
Public Prosecutions -- even if you have sent it to his private address."

This time Walker broke into gales of laughter that he couldn't
stop.

Martin had reached the point where he was amused by the ever
increasing numbers of local firms and individuals who were trying
to get him into court.

He picked the morning mail off the threadbare doormat and
arranged the various letters on the wire rack. The three letters
for him addressed to Martin Janssen, Esq were typewritten. He
pushed them into his dressing gown pocket and sighed. He and
Carrie had sunk on the social scale to the point where
typewritten
letters invariably meant trouble.

He stroked the cat belonging to the old woman who lived on the
ground floor then climbed the three flights of rickerty stairs
back to flat 6.

Carrie was lying on her back when Martin took a cup of coffee
into her from the tiny kitchenette. She pushed the bedclothes
down and sat up. Darling, beautiful Carrie whose love and
incomprehensible tolerance had stopped him from becoming an
alcoholic and was now stopping him from sinking right to the
bottom. Her eyes opened wide with horror as he approached the
bed. She snatched a blanket to her chin and watched him in mock
terror.

"My God, girls! It's a man! Lock the doors before he escapes!"

Martin gave her the cup and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Anything in the post?" she asked.

"Three letters. The usual. All three will open with the immortal
phrase, 'we note from our accounts that ...' and they'll
close, 'naturally, we are anxious to avoid having to take such
steps and feel confident that we can look forward to settlement
by
return'."

Carrie sipped her coffee. "Nothing from those firms?"

"Didn't look like it."

"I think it's wrong to type letters when you're applying for a
job." She rolled on to one elbow and brushed her hair from her
eyes. "People want to see what your handwriting looks like."

"Rubbish. A handwritten letter on Woolies stationery is a
bloody nuisance in any office. It's impossible to file and
there's never a margin to note down a reply. I always used to read the
typewritten ones first and ignore the others."

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Carrie grinned. "Can't see you worrying about filing. In the
kitchen bin is your idea." She placed her cup on the jumble sale
chair that served as a bedside table and pulled the letters out
of Martin's pocket. She went through them without opening them.

"Electricity?"

"Thirty-one quid," said Martin sourly.

"Fulchester TV Rentals. What are they after? They've got
their box back."

"Nine quid back-rental."

The last letter was official buff. She opened it, read it and
started to laugh.

"Your presence is required at Fulchester Crown Court."

"What's so funny about that, kid?" said Martin in his Bogart
voice. "You wanna see me in Death Row?" He twitched his lip.
It was a good imitation.

Carrie giggled and gave him the letter. "They want you to
chuck others in the state pen. As a juror for a period not
exceeding
five days commencing at ten o'clock in the forenoon of
Monday the sixth day of June in the year one thousand nine hundred
and seventy --" She didn't finish the sentence but fell back on the bed
laughing.

Martin snatched the letter and read frantically. "Bloody hell!"

"Maybe," said Carrie, cramming the corner of a blanket into
her mouth, "maybe they'll let you find yourself not guilty I"

Martin watched Carrie's breasts heave as she tried to stifle her
mirth. He pulled the blankets back and slid his hand up her
thigh,
over the dark, wiry cloud and onto her stomach. He made circles
round her navel.

Carrie pulled a pillow over her head like a giant wig and said
in the deepest and most solemn voice she could muster:

"Martin Roland Janssen, for the dastardly, heinous crime of
serving as a juror at your own trial and not letting on, I hereby
have no hesitation in protecting society from you by sentencing
you to be taken hence to a suitable place - namely a cubicle in
the municipal bogs, and there be hanged by your neck until you
stop kicking the system. I also order that the one penny cost of
ending your wanton life be deducted from your ill-gotten estate."

Carrie hit Martin with the pillow. "And stop that. Either get
in and get on or leave me alone."

Martin curled his fingers into her pubic hair and tugged gently.
"Isn't the beginning of June about the time junior will be
putting in his first appearance down here?" he inquired.

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Carrie's face became suddenly serious. She stared at Martin and
uttered one coarse but succinct word:

"Bugger."

Captain Roger Hine of British Airways began to sweat as he pulled the aircraft
round in a gentle circle. It needed a delicate hand on the control. The rudder
was far too sensitive. His more experienced first officer was at his side,
ready to take over it things got out of hand.

"You're too near the road, Skipper. Bring her up a bit."

Hine increased power. The shrill whine of the engine became
a scream.

"Going to have to land now, Skipper," said the first officer.
"That last climb must've cost a lot of fuel."

Hine nodded. "You'd better bring her down, Mike. I'm still
shit-scared of that rudder." He handed over control to the first
officer.

The model Spitfire lost speed as the first officer lined it up
For the approach. He kept the long telescopic antenna pointing at the
aircraft. The two men standing in the middle of the field watched
it anxiously. Captain Roger Hine had put 200 hours work into
the Spitfire; a false move by the first officer could turn his
efforts into expensive splinters of balsa wood and wrecked radio control
servos scattered across the field.

A Princess limousine on its way to Manchester Airport was
speeding along the nearby road but the two men were too
preoccupied
to notice it.

The Spitfire was levelling out at a height of thirty feet above
the grass.

"Main gear down," said the first officer, pressing the button on
the radio control box that lowered the model's undercarriage.

The limousine exploded with such force that its half ton mass
of engine and gearbox was thrown high into the air. The Spitfire
flew into a tree and caught fire but the two men didn't see it
they were too busy running towards the smoking crater in the
road where a car had once been travelling.

As far as Chief Superintendent Harry Walker was concerned,
picking up the three members of the International Marxists who
had planted the bomb intended for the Ugandan trade minister
had been a sadly belated police operation. The Fulchester
collator, the police officer at every police station whose job it is to
keep files on all known local subversive elements, had turned up a cutting
from the local paper. A month earlier, in a letter to the editor,
a group whose names and addresses had been withheld, had protested
at the forthcoming visit. As is customary with all such
letters, the collator had requested the names and addresses from
the editor as a matter of routine. They had been false but the
typewriter used for the letter was the same one that the police

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had found in Neil Tysack's flat 12 hours after the explosion. The
fake signatures on the letter were in the same handwriting as the
other two occupants: Angela Mace -- Tysack's girlfriend and her brother
Russell. All three had admitted that Leon Polder, a leading
French activist, had been staying with them but denied
Implication in the planting of the bomb. They said that Polder had
purchased some model aeroplane control equipment but claimed
that they didn't know what it was for. Nevertheless, the roll of
masking tape, a pound of ammonium nitrate and half a gallon
of diesel fuel - the principal ingredients of ANFO, the Peoples'
explosive, plus a soldering iron, an AVO test meter and operating
instructions for a Futaba model aircraft control transmitter, all
found in the flat, were enough for the three to be charged with
possessing bomb-making equipment and conspiring to cause
explosions.

It was a pity that they hadn't been able to find Leon Polder,
Walker reflected. A thorough search and a check on all airports
and ports had failed to nab him. The police were hampered by
their lack of photographs or description. The French police
weren't much help. They knew about Polder but had no concrete
information to offer. He was an enigma. An enigma with several
passports, thought Walker, who has exploited his shrouded
identity to flee the country.

But Walker was wrong. Polder was not five miles away from
Fulchester beginning the preliminary planning of a coup that
would focus world attention on the Cause.

The girl in the jury selection office was sympathetic but
unhelpful.
"I'm extremely sorry, Mr. Janssen, but with so many people
booking early holidays these days, it's very difficult for us to
make too many exceptions although we do try to be flexible. As you
haven't got a holiday booked and there's a J against your name
in the voters register --"

Martin nearly slammed the phone down. "I don't care if
there's a blackbird or a bloody blue tit against my name!" he
shouted. "It's her first baby. She wants me with her!"

"Please don't swear, Mr. Janssen. Which hospital will she be
in?"

"Fulchester General. Does it matter?"

"They don't allow fathers to be present. Haven't they told
you?"

"No they haven't," said Martin sourly. "Bloody officialdom. I
suppose if they could find a way of not allowing mothers to be
present they'd be in clover."

"Swearing doesn't help, Mr. Janssen. You're down for the week
commencing the sixth of June?"

"Yes!"

"That's alright then," said the girl with maddening cheerfulness.
"Mr. Justice Vice is sitting that week. He usually prefers

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late lunchtime adjournments. You'd be able to nip across to the
hospital for the after-lunch visiting period and be back in court
before two-fifteen."

Martin was about to say something insulting but was distracted
by Carrie pressing her face into a hideous shape at him on the
outside of the phone booth glass.

"Supposing I don't turn up?" snarled Martin.

"Then his Lordship will chuck you in the jug," the girl replied
sweetly.

"He won't be able to if I'm there already," snapped Martin
and banged the receiver down so hard that a coin was frightened
out of the box. He pocketed it -- compensation for being
prevented from slamming the phone booth door by a powerful damper.

"I could hear you swearing at them," Carrie said accusingly.
"You promised you wouldn't."

Martin took her hand. "Come on. You're due at the clinic."

"I've cancelled it," said Carrie defiantly. "It's a horrible
place. I refuse to go there. Women have been having babies for
millions of years - and they've all managed without clinics."

Chief Superintendent Harold Walker tipped his executive swivel
chair back on its torsion spring and changed the phone to his
right ear. His request had upset Donald Rudkin, Clerk to the
Justices.

"It's not that much to ask, Don. Just a rearrangement for an
old friend."

He listened patiently to the indignant voice.

"Look, Don. I want all my witness appearances cleared up
before the Blackpool conference. Now you fix up those cases for
the two weeks starting June the sixth and I'll see that those
court man-power figures are reviewed.

The squawking voice made accusations. Walker grinned
broadly. "It's not bloody mindedness, old son - it's blackmail.
Who are you going to report me to?"

Walker listened politely to Rudkin's troubles for some minutes.

"Thanks, Don. Oh by the way - is it Mitchenor or Poynter
that week?"

The police officer's good humour evaporated when he heard
the answer.

"Vice! Oh, Christ!"

He dropped the receiver onto the cradle and stared at the
Lowry on the far wall.

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"Mr. Justice Sinclair Vice. Hell's bells."

The Chief Superintendent was not in the habit of talking to
himself unless under severe strain. A year previously, in a
memorable
fight, Mr. Justice 'Crusher' Vice had wiped the floor with
him. Walker touched his chin. One of the judge's left hooks had
nearly broken his jaw.

Leon Polder obtained a job as a progress chaser at Fulchester
Instruments without difficulty. He had excellent references from
Rolls Royce at Derby and Marconi Space Defence Systems at
Portsmouth. These were obtained by writing to those firms asking
for employment and cutting the letter headings off their polite
refusals. These were pasted onto a clean sheet of paper, the
reference typed in and the fake letters photocopied on one of the
coin-operated photocopying machines provided at Waterloo Station.

Fulchester Instruments could hardly help being interested in
the mild-mannered well-spoken clerk who was prepared to work
for them for 6op an hour. The only reason Polder was interested
in Fulchester Instruments was because he had noticed from
tournament results published in the local Fulchester newspaper
that the factory had a flourishing small-arms club.

Because Mr. Justice Sinclair Vice weighed eighteen stone, was
constructed on the lines of a hewn battleship and spent an hour
each morning beating hell out of a punch bag, he did not fit the
popular conception of what a high court judge should look like
or how one should behave. With his iron-grey crew-cut, granite
features ending in a mighty, permanently blue crag of a jaw and
ox-broad chest, he gave the impression of a person one would
normally expect to encounter in a court dock rather than on a
court bench.

He had been married to his present and third wife for ten years.
She was thirty -- twenty-eight years younger than her husband and
had spent the ten years of her married life in a seemingly
permanent state of pregnancy. The combined offspring from his
three marriages amounted to fifteen children, ten of whom had
provided him, to his delight -- with grandchildren. Sinclair was,
in his own words: a one man population explosion.

His acid sense of humour masked a shrewd, clear-thinking
intellect and he had an uncanny insight into character -- whether
it was a pretentious counsel trying to be, as he would put it:
too clever by half, or a witness whose evidence was beginning to
stray into the realms of fantasy. He had an eager, inquiring mind
and derived great pleasure from listening to experts in fields
about which he knew little, and thought nothing of firing questions at
a witness to satisfy his boundless curiosity.

Among his alarming courtroom habits which he used against
counsels and witnesses with devastating effect was his careful
selection of a coloured pencil from his collection of twenty when
he wished to record something in his notebook. If a counsel
showed even the faintest trace of insolence towards the court,
Vice would fix the unfortunate lawyer with a terrible stare,
Carefully choose a coloured pencil, and make a long, deliberate entry.

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For years counsels had poured over their notes of previous cases
in desperate attempts to crack the code of the coloured pencils.
None had succeeded although it was generally known that if a
counsel made a particularly facetious comment and Sinclair had
made a note at the back of his book with a black pencil, then
that counsel might as well give up law and retire to grow onions or
raise chickens or something.

A defence counsel addressing the jury on behalf of a client who
was plainly guilty would have to talk against the background of
Sinclair sharpening a pencil with a penknife and examining the
point like an Inca high priest assessing the sharpness of a
dagger for plunging into the heart of an intended victim. Lying
witnesses not only needed the courage to perjure themselves but would have
to give their false evidence with Sinclair's dreadful eyes fixed
on them in an expression of angry disbelief. Either that or Sinclair
would slouch in his chair and allow his bored gaze to travel
round the courtroom, occasionally catching the eye of jurors and
prejudicing them.

After his wife, his children and grandchildren, Sinclair's great
love was his white Rolls Royce which he had purchased the day
he was appointed a high court judge after ten years as a circuit
judge. He found buying and selling a car every five years a
wearisome business which brought him into personal contact
with the more suspect elements of society. The Rolls, he had
assured his wife, would keep him out of the clutches of car
salesmen for the rest of his life.

His hobby, sea fishing, accounted for his Rolls being spotted
in Fulchester a week before he was due to preside in court. A
detective followed the car to make certain it was who he thought
it was, then radioed the glad news to Chief Superintendent
Harold Walker. His message was terse, free of jargon and to the
point:

"Crusher's here."

"Crusher's here," groaned Walker. "A week early. What the
hell's he up to?"

"Maybe he thinks you'd like a chance of a return fight," a
colleague unkindly suggested.

"He booked in at the Centre Hotel for three weeks, then drove
down to Rockley Hard, changed into running shorts and ran
along the beach while shadow boxing," reported a Bramshill
House police college whizz kid who had no idea who Sinclair
was apart from the fact that he looked the most dangerous thug
he had ever clapped eyes on.

Walker nodded. "You sure he didn't see you?"

"Yes, sir. Positive. I used Golf Three."

Golf Three was an unmarked car. It gave Walker hope. "Did
he-?"

"No, sir," said the whizz kid anticipating the question. "He
did twenty-nine miles an hour in the thirty zone, thirty-nine in

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the forty and forty-nine in the fifty.

Walker looked disappointed.

"If I may make a suggestion, sir ..."

Walker raised his eyebrows.

"That you employ at least six men when we move in on him.
He looks extremely dangerous."

"You're right," said Walker with feeling. "He is dangerous --
bloody dangerous, but I'm afraid he's moved in on us."

The telephone rang.

"Walker."
Walker listened and gazed at the college product with mounting
contempt.

"Yes, Judge ... No of course not, Judge. I'm sure if it was one
of our lads, he was on other business ... I assure you, Judge
..."

The line went dead. Walker carefully replaced the phone.

"I think," he said slowly, "that it might be a good idea if you
went back to Bramshill House and asked them to teach you how
to follow someone without being seen."

Carrie was taken into the maternity unit of Fulchester General
on Sunday evening - the day before Martin was due to start his
week of jury service. There was no great urgency: the baby
wasn't due until Wednesday but the consultant who had examined
Carrie had stated that he would prefer she was in hospital
at least two days early.

"I'm not going to do this bloody jury stint," Martin muttered
angrily in the ambulance. "They can't make me. It's a bloody
disgrace they won't let me off just because the hospital's near
the court."

Carrie looked up at him in concern. "Don't be silly, Martin.
You've got to."
Martin looked down at the pale, anxious face.

"Promise me you'll go, Martin. Please promise me. I don't
want to have to be worrying about you all the time. We're in
enough trouble as it is ... Please.'" Carrie's eyes were
pleading.
Since Martin had lost his job as the general manager of Fulchester's
main Leyland dealer a year previously, she had watched
the cancer of being unemployed undo much of her patient work
easing him out of his fits of depression. He had become a
reasonably even-tempered householder but was now inexorably reverting
to a truculent bed-sit bully who was covering his eroded
self-respect by getting embroiled in slanging-matches with
virtually everyone they came into contact with. Sticking by Martin,
putting up with his low flashpoint temper and being the butt of

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aggressive arguments, though he had never once been violent
towards her, had strained Carrie's courage and patience until she
was constantly surprising herself with her unsuspected reserves
of endurance. Her reason for sticking by Martin when any sane
woman would have left him long ago was quite simply that she
loved him very much.

"Promise me you'll go, Martin," she repeated. "Promise."

Martin looked round the interior of the ambulance. He felt
trapped. Eventually he nodded.

"I promise."

Carrie smiled. "It'll do you the world of good. Wasn't it Plato
who said the measure of man was his ability to forget his own
problems to grapple with the problems of others? "

Martin grinned suddenly. "You're in no condition to go chucking
your education about." For once he managed to comment on
a sensitive subject between them without malice.

"I've sponged and pressed your blue suit," said Carrie. "You
will hang it up properly each night, won't you?"

"Sure, kid." Martin leaned over and kissed her just as the
ambulance
turned into the hospital entrance.

Coincidently, it was the same ambulance that had been used to
take Sven Richards to the hospital after the diving disaster six
months previously.

Leon Polder feigned interest as the small-arms club instructor
explained
the rudiments of handling a single-shot BSA target
pistol.

"It's very heavy," said Polder, testing the weight of the gun
in his hand. "I saw members out there firing a different sort of

weapon just now." Polder nodded to the door leading to the
indoor firing range.

"S and W thirty-eights," said the instructor. "They're revolvers
which we've had sleeved-down to two-two. It's cheaper on rounds
and two-two is the maximum calibre permitted under the club
rules."

"May I see one please?"

"Sure." The instructor unlocked a free-standing wooden cabinet
and opened the door. Inside were several air rifles, four
target pistols and nine Smith and Wesson 388. Boxes of .22
ammunition were stacked on a lower shelf. The instructor took
out one of the revolvers and checked the chambers before handing
it to Polder.

"Club rules," said the instructor. "All weapons must be checked
to ensure they're not loaded before they're put away and when

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they're taken out. You'll find that we're very strict about
rules."

Polder examined the gun critically while maintaining an outward
awe of someone who had never handled one before. He
gestured to the door.

"May I try it please?'*

The instructor hesitated. "Well we usually train novices on
target pistols first. You'll find them easier."

"I like overcoming difficulties," Polder replied truthfully.

"You should use both hands, like this," demonstrated the
instructor.
"Try it with one hand if you like -- it'll give you an idea
of the kick."

Polder aimed at the corner of the target and squeezed off two
shots. The sleeved-down revolver felt and sounded puny but the
neat holes which appeared in the target were in the right place.

"Not bad for a beginner," commented the instructor peering
through a target telescope.

"Terrible noise," said Polder nervously.

The instructor smiled. "Another rule is to wear ear defenders
when more than two lanes are in use."

Polder nodded thoughtfully. The plywood back on the cabinet
wouldn't be a problem but he wondered about the efficacy of the
.22 toys. Still, the results on the 25 yards range were
reasonable -- and 25 yards was more than the distance across the
courtroom.

Part Two

PERSONAL CALLERS WELCOME

Martin slept badly that night without Carrie's soft warmth beside
him. It was the first time they had been separated in four
years. He and Carrie had drifted together again to renew their
childhood partnership after each had experienced an unhappy
marriage. Carrie had left her husband because of his preference
for sexual indulgence in a manner which she found distasteful
and Martin's wife had found herself unable to cope with her
husband's drinking and protracted spells of depression punctuated
by outbursts of aggressive bad temper.

Carrie had made a good job of pressing the blue suit. Wearing
it after an early morning wash and shave and leaving home at a
respectable hour instead of lying in bed amid rumpled bedclothes
and the smell of love, brought home with sickening force memories
of the times when there had been a job. Now there was nothing.
No hope, no money, precious little dignity and self-respect
(whatever that had been) and above all now -- no Carrie.

Nor was there any sign of the furtive bus that sometimes

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flitted along Crimea Road between the rows of crumbling tenements
that lined each side of the dismal street like decaying teeth.

Martin stood in the vandalised bus shelter watching the old
man who owned the corner junkshop piling his depressing wares
on the grimy, dog pee stained pavement: a roll of tattered Cyril
Lord stair carpet. How had the TV jingle gone? This is carpet
you can afford by Cyril Lord! Then a chipped, dented Rolls
Razor washing machine. Buy one of my washing machines
before May the first and you can have a free, yes a free, holiday
in Bulgaria!

Shattered dreams. Shattered empires. Sad, shabby souvenirs of
the glittering, full-employed, swinging Sixties.

The old man was struggling with the washing machine.

Martin glanced down the street for a sign of the bus and
sauntered
across to help him lift the castor clear of the shop's doorstep.

"Thanks," said the old man, straightening up. He looked at
Martin's freshly pressed suit in surprise.

"Got a job then?"

"Sort of. A week's jury duty."

"Saw the ambulance last night. Going to be trouble with the
kid?"

Martin looked anxiously for the bus. "Doctor thinks there
might be. She's got a narrow pelvic girdle."

The old man nodded. "Stupid things women wear these days."
He paused. "You'll be in trouble with the beak."

It was a word Martin hadn't heard for some years.

"I suppose so."

The old man beckoned Martin into the shop and pointed to
an ancient window cleaner's bicycle that was complete with a
wooden sidecar.

"You'd be at the court in twenty minutes on that."

"Maybe," said Martin. "But it's years since I rode a bike. And
anyway ..." He hesitated - the bitter months had made the
phrase no easier to say. "I can't afford it."

The old man chuckled. "I'm lending it you. Bring it back when
you've finished with it."

Martin arrived at the court five minutes late.

"It doesn't matter," said the security officer. "Mr. Rudkin
hasn't arrived yet."

He checked Martin's jury summons against a list and pointed

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down the corridor. "Third door on the right - jury waiting room.
It's marked."

The room was crowded with twenty to thirty people sitting
around reading newspapers and talking in hushed tones. A black
gowned figure pounced on Martin.

"I'm the jury bailiff. You're Mr . . .?"

"Janssen."

The jury bailiff consulted his clipboard. "You're late, Mr.
Janssen."

Martin shrugged. "I didn't think it mattered," he said breezily.
"After all, Rudkin hasn't shown up yet, has he?"

"Take a seat please until you hear your name called."

Martin sat down and looked at his fellow prospective jurors.
He wondered why there were so many of them.

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen," said a loud voice.

All conversation in the room ceased. A crisp little man wearing
a flower in his buttonhole was standing on one of the low coffee
tables.

"My name is Rudkin and I'm the Clerk to the Justices here at
Fulchester Crown Court which I would like to welcome you to on
behalf of the Lord Chancellor. You will have noticed from that
somewhat frightening letter sent out to each of you from the jury
selection officer that you are being asked to serve as jurors for
a period of five days. It may be that many of you will not be
required for each day but I would stress that if your name is not
called today, please do come back tomorrow. Now you may be
wondering why there are so many of you when only twelve
people are required to serve on a jury."

Rudkin smiled benignly at everyone like a headmaster at a
prize-giving.

"The reason's quite simple; each defendant has the right to
challenge up to seven jurors without giving a reason. So if
you're challenged by a counsel when you go into the box and you think
it's because the counsel doesn't like the look of your face --
well, you're probably right."

Someone laughed politely. Rudkin looked gratified.

"A word about the jury foreman. The custom here at Fulchester
is for the first juror's name to be called to be the foreman.
If you don't like the foreman or if you don't wish to be one,
Then you're perfectly at liberty to elect a new foreman when you go
into the retiring room to consider your verdict. We have this
arrangement because it comes in useful if, as sometimes happens,
that you arrive at a verdict without leaving the courtroom or
when the judge directs you to return a specific verdict. Mr.
Justice Vice, who will be hearing the first case on the register, is a
High court judge and is addressed as your lordship or my lord.

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"A word about the lunchtime adjournment. I'm afraid it's
most unlikely that his lordship will require you to be locked-up
in a separate room. There's a self-service restaurant downstairs
which isn't subsidised or you can use your favourite pub in the
town. All we ask is that if you do use the restaurant, please sit
at the tables which are roped off and marked jurors only. The
reason for this is quite simple; the restaurant is used by
witnesses, counsels, solicitors and defendants, so for obvious reasons,
it's best that you don't overhear their conversations. And please
remember that although they can discuss the case -- you can't.

"Expenses claim forms are available from Mr. Henderson,
your jury bailiff whom you've already met, and should be
filled-in and taken to the jury office across the corridor on Friday
afternoon.
And finally, ladies and gentlemen, I'm sure many of you
find this call to serve on a jury extremely irksome, but I'd like
to remind you all that your presence here this week is helping to
maintain a system of justice which is the envy of the world. I
hope that you find your week in the Crown Court informative and
rewarding. Thank you."

Rudkin stepped down from the table and hurried from the
room.

Martin half-expected someone to applaud.

The jury bailiff began calling out names from a set of cards
selected at random.

"Mr. Martin R. Janssen," was the sixth name called.

Martin stood up.

Martin was shown into the jury box at the side of the courtroom
on the judge's left. He hardly had time to take in details of the
modern, windowless room with its 16 foot high glass ceiling
before the jury bailiff asked him his religion, thrust the bible
into his hand, and told him to read the words on the card:

"I swear by Almighty God that I will well and truly try the
several issues joined between our Sovereign Lady the Queen and
the defendants, and give a true verdict according to the
evidence."

Martin looked around with interest as the rest of the jurors,
who, like himself, had all been elected by chance, were
sworn in. There were four rows of panelled benches facing
the judge. A bored looking man and woman were sitting on the
front row - probably solicitors; two wigged and gowned counsels
were holding a whispered conference in the second row and their
juniors were sitting in the third row. A policeman was sitting
beside a mountainously obese man in the last row. Martin guessed
that he was the prisoner.

When the last juror was sworn in, the clerk of the court, sitting
at a desk in front of the judge, addressed the jury:

"Members of the Jury. The defendant, Charles Gordon Dawson, stands

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indicted that on the twenty-third of February last he did publish
thirty obscene magazines. To this indictment he has pleaded not guilty
and it is your duty to say, having heard the evidence, whether he is
guilty or not guilty."

Martin gazed at Mr. Justice Sinclair Vice in fascination. He
found it impossible to believe that such a gorilla of a man could
be a judge.

The counsel sitting furthest from the jury rose to his feet. He
was a tall, cadaverous man in his early fifties who reminded
Martin of a starved vulture. The skin drawn taut over his cheek
bones had the texture of old parchment. He stood rigidly to
attention, his shapeless black gown hanging from his shoulders without
touching any part of his body. Count Dracula, thought Martin.

"If your Lordship pleases. Members of the Jury," said the
apparition. "I appear with my learned friend, Miss Ball, to
prosecute in this case."

Martin realised that one of the juniors hiding under a wig and
gown was a woman.

"And the defendant is represented by my learned friends, Mr.
Marcus Golding and Mr. Pearson."

Martin presumed that Marcus Golding was the counsel sitting
nearest the jury box. He seemed aware that Martin was looking
at him for a pair of compelling, luminous brown eyes turned
towards
the jury box. Golding looked at Martin for only a second
but it was long enough for Martin to realise that he would have
been unable to tear himself away from the hypnotic stare had
Golding looked at him for much longer. The little lawyer's
wide-set, piercing eyes had, for a fleeting moment, settled on
Martin, had sucked his soul dry and had absorbed everything
there was to know. All Martin's thoughts and innermost secrets,
all his hates, lusts, fantasies had been drained by Golding from
the depths of his sub-conscious and were now being sifted, analysed,
graded into truth and lies, and catalogued for future reference.
Despite the bright June sun filtering down into the air
conditioned courtroom; despite the drone of the prosecuting
counsel's voice outlining the case against the accused; despite
the presence of eleven fellow jurors sitting in the same box --
Martin felt a ghastly, nightmare icicle of fear slide snake-like down
His spine.

Sinclair was enjoying himself. His old adversary, Chief
Superintendent Harold Walker, standing calmly in the witness box,
was getting what Sinclair called 'a right, royal roasting' from
Golding. It served Harry right for not checking all his facts --
just as a year earlier he hadn't been certain of his facts when
he had commented after a long trial that judges were getting soft.
The remark had been overheard by Sinclair's clerk. Two days
later Sinclair issued a challenge to Harry Walker which resulted
in the now famous boxing match being held in the civic hall - a
match which ended with Harry Walker being counted-out in the
tenth round. Proceeds from the charity match had been paid into
the memorial fund for Mr. Justice Campbell and had been enough
to re-equip Fulchester's Under 25 youth club. Fleet Street had

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picked the story up from a stringer, and sports page headlines
such as: JUDGE SLAYS POLICE CHIEF had caused a stir
that reached the Lord Chancellor. Sinclair had received a note
from Lord Dearborn which read "Delighted with your magnificent
victory but please, no more".

Sinclair gazed at the grossly overweight shape of Charles
Dawson and wondered how any man could allow himself to get
into such a state.

"So," said Marcus Golding to Walker. "At no time did you
bother to investigate the legal status of the institute of which
my client is the director?"

"Legal status is a woolly term, Mr. Golding," said Sinclair.
"Try to be a little more specific please."

Golding reserved his terrifying, wide-eyed stare for witnesses
he was cross-examining. He always closed his eyes slightly when
addressing the judge. "Quite so, my Lord." He swung his long,
ferret-like nose back to Chief Superintendent Walker, restoring
his glare to maximum power as he did so.

"Were you aware, Superintendent Walker, that Her Majesty's
VAT Customs and Excise officers had agreed that the Fulchester
Human Relations Research Institute, directed by my client, was
an educational establishment?"

Walker smiled faintly. "No."

"No. So you hadn't bothered to find out?"

Prosecuting counsel Ralph Anders rose, black, gaunt and
forbidding.

"My Lord, a police officer is not normally required to interest
himself in the Value Added Tax status of suspects. All that
concerns
him is whether or not the law is being broken -- in this case
the Obscene Publications Acts."

Sinclair raised his bushy eyebrows at Golding. "Mr. Golding?" ...

Golding smiled self-effacingly. "I'm anxious to establish, my
Lord, that my client's premises were not, as the witness said in
answer to my learned friend's questions, a warehouse full of
dirty books."

Sinclair nodded. "Very well, Mr. Golding. Press on."

The high-power stare swung back to Walker. "You said in
your opinion that it was disgraceful that such an establishment
should open in Fulchester?"

"Yes. And I still think that."

"I see. There were lurid displays of magazines outside my
client's premises?"

"No."

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"No flashing neon signs?"

"No."

"No one standing in the doorway inviting passers-by to sample
the delights within?"

"No."

"Just a small plate screwed to the wall which gave the name
of the institute and said that personal callers were welcome?"

"Yes."

Golding held his gaze steady on the witness but Walker was
cannily addressing his replies to the jury. He had met Golding
before.

"So it would seem," said Golding, "that you misled the court
when you described my client's premises as, and I quote, "A piece
of Soho in Fulchester?" And now you admit that my client's
premises had none of the features which characterise a Soho
bookshop.

Anders rose. "My Lord, I was unaware that these bookshops my
learned friend is referring to conformed to a set specification."

"Oh, but they most certainly do, my Lord," said Golding
quickly.

"All right," said Sinclair. He turned his chiselled face to the
witness box. "Why did you make that reference to Soho in your
evidence-in-chief ?"

"I was referring to the contents of the defendant's warehouse
rather than its physical appearance, my Lord," Walker replied.

"Good," said Sinclair. "Does that clear up that point, Mr.
Golding?"

Golding bowed. "I'm most grateful, my Lord." The hard stare
fastened on the witness again. "Did my client outline the nature
of his intended research project to you last year?"

"He did."

"He wanted your advice?"

"Yes."

"Legal advice?"

"Yes."

"Did you oblige?"

"No."

"Why not?"

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Walker kept his eyes on the jury. "I told him that it was not
the job of the police to give such advice and that he would be
better off consulting a solicitor."

"You often get members of the public coming to you for legal
guidance?"

Walker nodded. "Quite often."

"But not the criminal classes?"

"No. But we always tell them when they're not obliged to say
anything."

There was laughter from the public boxes at the back of the
courtroom.

Golding hooked a thumb under his waistcoat. "In your
experience, Chief Superintendent Walker, would it be £air to say
that the people who come to you seeking your expert guidance
are honest, upstanding citizens anxious to avoid breaking the
law?"

"They're all honest, upstanding citizens until people such as
yourself prove otherwise," Walker answered dryly.

More laughter from the public boxes. Sinclair scribbled briefly
with his red pencil. Anders caught Walker's eye and grinned
his approval.

Golding's stare never flickered for a moment. He gestured to
a stack of bulging deed wallets on the clerk's desk.

"You say you removed an estimated half a ton of . ... contentious
material. Why didn't you "

"No!" said Walker sharply. "Those are your words. I called
them obscene magazines."

"It's for the jury to decide whether or not they're obscene,
Mr. Walker," Golding observed mildly. "Why didn't y"ou also
remove the contents of the green filing cabinet in my client's
office?"

"I didn't consider them relevant."

"So you did examine the contents?"

"Yes."

"Isn't it your duty, having obtained a search warrant:, to remove
all the evidence and not merely the evidence, which taken
out of context, would tend to prove the guilt of your suspect?"

Anders shot to his feet. "That is a grossly improper question,
my Lord. A police officer carrying out a search will only remove
material evidence, otherwise courtrooms would be filled with
household effects."

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"The contents of the green filing cabinet are material evidence,
my Lord," Golding countered. ''''And I will be producing them
as such."

"In that case, Mr. Golding, you should be glad Chief
Superintendent Walker didn't remove them," Sinclair observed .

Golding turned the stare off and bowed slightly to the bench.
"I have no more questions, my Lord." He sat. Charlie Dawson's
solicitor turned round to whisper in Golding's ear. Golding
nodded
and glanced at Charlie sitting nervously in the dock. Sweat
was beginning to stand out on his pudgy features.

"Does your Lordship have any questions?" Anders asked.

Sinclair shook his granite head. His grey wig heightened the
effect his head gave of a boulder perched on the edge of a cliff.

"If your Lordship pleases," said Anders smoothly. "This might
be an appropriate time for the members of the jury to examine
the ..." He paused and smiled at Golding. "The contentious
exhibits."

"Good," said Sinclair, shutting his notebook and turning his
quarried face to Martin. "Members of the jury, as you have been
warned, you may find that the material you are to examine, is
not to your personal taste or you may find it offensive. Well
that can't be helped. What I want you to do, is retire to the jury
room, look at the material, and retain a clear impression of your
immediate reactions for when you are later called upon to consider
your verdict. There's no point in discussing the material among
yourselves just yet -- not until you've heard all the evidence.
Court is adjourned for ten minutes." Sinclair stood and vanished
through the door into his chamber before the clerk had time to
yell: "All stand!"

Martin collected his manila wallet along with his fellow jurors
and followed the jury bailiff down the corridor to the jury room.
A coin box telephone sheltering under a perspex blister reminded
him of Carrie and he wondered if he would get the chance to use
it. He felt guilty about forgetting her, but the business of
becoming
a juror - the briefing, the swearing-in; the overall alienness
of the whole highly formalized process, had pushed her out of
his mind.

The bailiff held the door open as the twelve citizens trooped
in. Martin was disappointed not to hear a key turn in the lock.
He dropped into a fireside chair while the others -- bank clerks,
A garage mechanic, a stern looking matron and a girl who had
Carrie's hair, sat at the long conference table. The room was
decorated in pastel-shaded wallpaper. Like the courtroom, there
were no windows, only north-facing frosted glass ceiling panels
which allowed diffused daylight to filter into the room. There
was an incessant hum of air-conditioning.

"Shouldn't we all sit at the table?" asked the jury foreman,
a bespectacled instrument maker.

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"I'm quite comfortable here," Martin replied, opening his
wallet.

The foreman didn't press the matter. He seemed as ill-at-ease
as the other ten sitting round the table.

The first magazine Martin looked at was filled with photographs
of girls making love to girls. The paper was cheap and the
printing over-inked. It was much the same with the next two
magazines. The fourth was a revelation: pin-sharp colour
photographs on glossy art paper. The careful close-ups revealed the
delicate blue lacework of the Negro's engorged veins and the
white girl's sweat-crowned pores. Martin began to wish he had
sat opposite the girl with Carrie's hair; it would be interesting
to observe her reactions.

Carrie had once told him that photographs of naked men had
no affect on her although she admitted to being turned on, for
no accountable reason, by pictures of men wearing wide leather
straps around their wrists.

The last magazine had the most impact on Martin. It was
called Candid. There was something strangely sensual about the
pictures of young couples, oblivious of the camera, caressing
each other. All the pictures were taken out of doors: in parks, woods,
bus shelters, on beaches. There was one picture that moved him
deeply. It showed a boy and girl aged between ten and twelve
alone under a bright sun on a swimming raft. The girl was
lying on her back, an arm across her eyes to ward off the glare
while the boy knelt beside her, a look of wonder on his young
face as he gently held the girl's left nipple between his thumb
and forefinger. It was a picture of half-fearful tentative
adolescent awakening. The boy, from his expression, had never seen a
girl's breast before let alone actually touched one. There was
none of the nauseating groping, sweating, grasping, thrusting of
the professional models in the other magazines - those
photographs evoked a gut, primitive response whereas the two children
on the swimming raft about to embark on a hazardous voyage
of mutual discovery, for Martin, had peeled back the hard shell
of cynicism formed over the years to the time when he was
thirteen -- that glorious summer of 'fifty-nine -- when his
parents and Carrie's parents had booked two caravans side by side on a
site in Cornwall. There had been that magic summer evening
when he and Carrie had been sole owners of the beach and the
great rollers celebrating the end of their journey from Brazil
amid a mad welter of swirling, sand-laden water and white foam.
One had bowled Carrie off her feet, her fingers slipping away
from Martin's. She had stood up, laughing, water streaming off
her body and streaks of sand running over her breasts, now
exposed because her bikini top had been torn off. Martin had held
her steady as she rubbed the sand from her eyes. Both of them
suddenly became aware of what had happened as Carrie's breasts
touched Martin's chest. To cover his embarrassment, Martin
went running off into the surf shouting:

"I'll find it, Carrie! You stay there."

Carrie stood there, her back to the shore, arms folded across
her chest as she watched Martin's skinny white body diving
about in the foam, searching for the fragment of blue terry

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cloth. He found the top and rinsed the sand from it. The picture
of Carrie standing in the knee-deep water as he waded towards
her was one that could never be taken from him -- she had
lowered her arms and was washing the streaks of sand from her
stomach.

As Martin stared down at the picture on his knee, he wondered
if the innocent beginnings of those two children was to end as
it had for Carrie - sweating in a hospital bed, hands grasping the
bed head rails, legs splayed wide apart, a voice yelling: "Push!
Push!" ... Or worse -- a scalpel slicing through her soft skin
and down into the wall of her distended womb.

He wanted to be with her - to hear her voice. There was the
phone in the corridor. Not knowing what he was doing, Martin
pushed the magazines back into the wallet. He stood just as the
door opened and the jury bailiff said:

"Will you all please now return to the courtroom."

Jane Milton, demure and virginal in a long, pleated skirt and
high-neck blouse, held the bible in her right hand and recited
the
words on the card:

"I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give, shall
be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth."

She returned the bible and card to the usher. Martin wondered
for .the second time that morning, what had happened to the
words: "So help me God". Perhaps the additional sentence was
something the Americans went in for.

"You are Jane Milton of 33, Fulchester Arcade, Fulchester?"
asked Ralph Anders.

"Yes, sir." Her voice was soft. She kept her eyes downcast.
Harry Walker admitted to himself that Melton, the instructing
solicitor for the prosecution, had done a good job briefing her
for her appearance in the witness box. It was hard to realise
that this sweet young thing was the same hard-bitten whore that used
to work for Charlie. Walker glanced across at Charlie and almost
laughed out loud at his expression. His mouth was gaping open
in astonishment, causing his surplus chins to spill over his
expensive collar.

"And were you the accused's private secretary between May
the twentieth last year and March the third this year?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you enjoy your work?'

"No, sir."

"Why not?"

Jane hesitated. "I was dealing with nasty magazines. Making
up selections and sending them out to people who had sent in
cheques."

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Marcus Golding gazed thoughtfully at Jane. It really was an
infernal cheek dressing her up like that. The sheet of paper
before him listed twenty convictions for soliciting. Twenty I And
the final report by the private detective who had followed Jane
said:

"Last Saturday subject went into Dorothy Perkins and purchased
an underslip, a long skirt, a white blouse and a
living bra. She emerged wearing them. In the month I
have been keeping her under intermittent observation, I
have never known her to wear a bra."

Golding pushed the reports into the back of his notebook.

Anders smiled warmly at Jane. "Would you be so kind, Miss
Milton, to tell the court in your own words exactly what your job
entailed."

Golding watched Jane carefully, wondering if her armour of
respectability was any more substantial than her Dorothy Perkins
outfit.

"Well," began Jane. "I used to do the normal office typing and
filing for Mr. Dawson and see that cheques sent in for books were
entered in the order book then sent to the bank. Once cheques
had been cleared, I used to make up the parcels from stock, and
send them off to the customer."

"By post?" inquired Anders.

"No, sir. We - I mean, Mr. Dawson, used the Fulchester
Courier Service."

Mr. Justice Sinclair Vice made a note with his green pencil and
spoke to Jane:

"Was there a reason for that? Using the private parcel delivery
service instead of the post office?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Dawson said the post office might not like the
stuff we were sending out."

Golding leaned forward and whispered to his instructing
solicitor.

"You also looked after the accounts, Miss Milton?" said Anders.

Jane nodded and looked up for the first time. "I used to do the
monthly renewals of Mr. Dawson's running adverts in the
various monthly and quarterly contact magazines."

"Can the witness be shown Exhibit 20 please," said Anders.

The usher collected a small, glossy magazine from the clerk's
desk and gave it to Jane. Anders had a copy of the same journal.

"Would you turn to page forty please, Miss Milton."

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Jane did so.

"Is that the advertisement and is that a typical magazine
used?"

"Yes, sir."

Anders nodded. "With your Lordship's permission, I would
like to read the text of the advertisement to the court."

Sinclair leaned his massive bulk forward. "Nothing too salacious
if it can be avoided please, Mr. Anders."

"Certainly, my Lord." Anders opened the magazine at a
marked page and started to read aloud : "Wanted: ten thousand
members to join my committee researching into pornography.
For a £5 enrolment fee to pay for the results to be published,
you can help in this valuable social research project by
examining a free selection of the most explicit pornography ever published
anywhere in the world and filling in a questionnaire which does
not require you to give your name and address." Anders paused
and looked up at the jury. "There follows a list of the sexual
activities depicted in the magazines, including the term
"AC/DC" the meaning of which, I am not ashamed to admit,
I don't know." Anders returned to the magazine. "And then the
advertisement gives details of how to join this so-called
Committee of Ten Thousand, and closes with the words: 'Please do
not apply for membership if you are likely to be offended or
depraved or corrupted by pictures which show sexual behaviour
as it's never been shown before'."

Anders paused. There was complete silence as he held the
magazine at arm's length between finger and thumb and allowed
it to fall to the floor.

"How many people applied to join this committee during your
term of employment with the accused, Miss Milton?"

"About seventeen thousand."

There was a slight stir in the courtroom at Jane Milton's reply.

"Seventeen thousand!" Anders echoed. "And they all paid 5 pounds
each?"

"Yes."

"Eighty-five thousand pounds!" said Anders, stressing each
syllable. "And that was during the term of your employment?"

"Yes."

"A huge sum. In fact I would go further and say, a staggering
sum. Naturally, the accused stopped advertising when the number
of members of this ... this Committee of Ten Thousand
reached the requisite ten thousand?"

"No."

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Anders feigned surprise.

My God, we're getting some play-acting this morning, thought
Sinclair.

"No?" said Anders. "You mean the advertisement was allowed
to continue? . . . Well. That is most interesting, and I'm sure
the jury think so too."

Martin thought nothing of the sort, but he was fascinated by
Jane. But for her prim appearance, she reminded him of a girl
who had once come into his Leyland showroom clinging to the
arm of an elderly Fulchester businessman who was considering
changing his car. He remembered her stretching back in an open
'E' Type Jag and laughingly telling the businessman that it was
the only car ever built that she could imagine making love to
her.

"Now, Miss Milton. Did you look after your own wages at
the time?"

"Yes. I worked out my income tax and other deductions and
wrote out a monthly cheque for Mr. Dawson to sign. I also did
the same for Mr. Dawson's salary as the director of the
institute."

"Really? How much did he pay himself?"

"Six hundred a month plus about another six hundred for
expenses."

Anders couldn't resist the temptation to show his rapport
with Jane's generation. "Quite a screw," he commented.

"Pardon?"

"Excuse my slang, Miss Milton. I meant, a good salary."

"Oh, that meaning."

Blast, thought Anders.

Marvellous, thought Golding. He was prepared to stake his
fee that Sinclair was smiling behind the hand he was holding
to his mouth.

Anders pressed on quickly. "What accounted for a major proportion
of his expenses?"

"His trips to Denmark," Jane replied. "To buy stock."

"Did he bring the magazines back with him?"

"No. We -- I mean -- he, had an arrangement whereby the
stock was brought into Harwich as ships' ballast in the form of
bales of waste paper. He used to sell the genuine bales to the
paper mill and keep the one bale which had our - his new stock in it."

Two slip-ups there, thought Walker. Anders will now give
the girl a breather by asking a whole string of questions that

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Golding will object to.

Walker was partly right but unfortunately for Anders, he and
Golding had conferred before the trial and Golding had agreed
that Anders could ask leading questions concerning the source
of Charlie Dawson's material. Normally, a counsel cannot put
leading questions to his own witness. These are questions in the
form of propositions which suggest their answers. "Did you go
out on the Saturday night?" is a leading question; "What did you
do on the Saturday night?" is not. The exception to this rule is
where counsel is extracting information from his own witness
relating to undisputed matters.

"So far from being a selection of the most explicit pornography
ever published anywhere in the world, the material came
from only one source - namely Denmark?"

Golding did not stir at the leading question.

"Yes," said Jane.

"Would you say the accused enjoyed a high standard of
living?"

Golding stared up at the skylights. Anders was getting close.

"Yes."

"An exceptionally high standard of living?"

This was too much for Golding. He rose. "My Lord --"

"Yes. Yes," said Sinclair, nodding his mighty head. "You've
already established, Mr. Anders, that the defendant's income is
over fourteen thousand a year. So we can presume his standard
of living unless he's supporting half a dozen ex-wives."

"Quite so, my Lord," Anders replied, giving the judge a slight
bow. "But as I said in my address, I will be proving that the
publication of obscene material -- and the accused has admitted
in
his advertisements that the material's obscene -- was done for
gain. Very considerable gain."

"Well you'd better get on with it then, hadn't you?"

"Yes indeed, my Lord. Thank you."

Golding pressed his lips together. The interlude had given
Jane Milton time to collect her thoughts and remember the
prosecution
solicitor's briefing. He noticed that not once had she
directed even a cursory glance at the hapless, mountain of
Charlie
Dawson in the dock.

"You used to book the accused's overseas trips? " asked Anders.

"Yes."

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"How did he travel?"

"By air."

"Tourist class? First class?"

"First class. Always. And the best hotels and a car to meet him
at the airport." Jane gave a little toss of her head.

Very good, thought Walker.

"Everything had to be the best," Jane continued. "He'd give
me hell when he got back if it wasn't."

"Yes, quite," said Anders hastily.

Sinclair gazed hard at Jane and made a note with his green
pencil.

Golding wondered if anyone on the jury had noticed the
unconscious
expletive that clashed with her image.

It's her, thought Martin. I'm bloody certain it's her.

"I also used to write out his personal cheques," said Jane, now
over-stepping the mark. "He had a five-hundred pound credit
ceiling on a Barclaycard which he was always near, and his
American Express statement always went though the roof after
he'd been abroad."

Anders winced inwardly. He hadn't wanted the information
just yet. Still, it seemed to have had a good affect on the jury.
The witness was getting self-confident and there was a danger
of her going too far. He had obtained all the relevant
information so he decided to cut short his examination-in-chief. Just
one more question and pray that she remembered the answer:

"How would you describe your former employer's lifestyle,
Miss Milton?"

"That of a very rich man," Jane answered. "Which is what
his dirty business made him."

Sinclair rapped his pencil and glared at Jane. "Miss Milton,
will you please confine what you say to straightforward answers
to counsel's questions and not add your own observations."

"Thank you, my Lord. But I have no more questions." Anders
gathered up his Dracula cloak and sat.

Golding rose. The wily little lawyer did not hold his counsel's
notebook but hooked both thumbs under his waistcoat and
gave Jane Milton a three second stare at fifty per cent power
before relaxing into a warm smile calculated to confuse her.

It did.

"Miss Milton. You worked for the accused for nine months --
from the end of May last year to the beginning of March this

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year?"

"Yes." Jane avoided looking at the eyes.

"And you found the work distasteful?"

"Yes." Jane felt uneasy. She had been warned that a cross
examining counsel has great freedom in the style of his
questioning and has the right to use any manner of approach from leading
questions to outright accusations provided they are relevant to
the issue. "Your past has nothing to do with the case," the
solicitor had assured her. "And Counsel for the Prosecution has been
instructed to prevent it being raised in court". It was part of
the deal.

"Did you provide references when you first applied to my
client for employment?"

Anders smelt a rat and was on his feet. "My Lord. I object.
The question is irrelevant."

"That's what I thought," agreed Sinclair.

*Tm naturally anxious to avoid treading in a sensitive area,"
said Golding mischievously, "so I'll withdraw the question."

Anders' instructing solicitor had a few things to whisper to
him. Golding was pleased; he had sowed seeds in the jury's mind
and had avoided a ruling from Sinclair.

"When you started working for my client," said Golding, "can
you remember how many members of the Committee of Ten
Thousand had been recruited?"

"No."

"A rough idea."

"I don't know."

"Think."

"I said-I don't know!"

Anders rose again. "My Lord --"

"Yes," said Sinclair. "Leave it, Mr. Golding."

Golding didn't take his eyes off Jane for a second.

"May I have one of those wallets, please," he asked the usher.

The usher collected a wallet from the clerk's desk and gave it
to Golding. He weighed it in his hand. "Do you know how much
it would cost to send one of these through the post?"

"About one pound seventy pence."

"One pound ninety," said Golding. "Didn't you visit the
Fulchester

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Courier Service to obtain an estimate for delivering
them?"

Yes."

'What was their figure?"

"I forget."

"Let me help you. One pound twenty pence?"

"Yes."

"Significantly less than the Post Office charge," Golding
observed.
"And yet, in answer to his Lordship's question just now,
you said that the accused's reason for using the courier service
was
because he said that the Post Office might not like the contents
of the packages. Were you lying to his Lordship?"

"No!" said Jane defiantly. "The lower price was just one of
the reasons for using the courier service."

"I suggest it was the only reason," snapped Golding. He
changed tack without waiting for an answer. "Seventeen thousand
applicants answered the advert during your employment.
How many returned the questionnaire duly completed to enroll
on the committee?"

"I don't know."

"Oh come now, Mrs. Milton. You were the accused's private
secretary. You handled all the mail for nine months. You enclosed
a questionnaire and pre-addressed envelope with every
package sent out. Surely you know how many of those envelopes
came back?"

"Not many."

"Approximately."

Jane was finding it difficult to avoid the eyes. They seemed to
be drawing nearer -- swelling with each beat of her heart.

"Approximately," repeated Golding.

"About two hundred."

Golding looked surprised. "So far from achieving his target of
ten thousand committee members, my client had in fact enrolled
only two hundred?"

"Yes."

"You left his employ on the third of March? The same day
he was charged with offences under the Obscene Publications
Acts?"

"Yes."

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"Interesting. You used to work out the defendant's pay. Did
you also calculate his income tax?"

"Yes."

"And write out the cheques to the Inland Revenue?"

"Yes."

"What percentage of my client's income went in tax?"

"About forty-five percent."

"Which left him with about three-hundred pounds a month?"

"Yes. Plus expenses."

"Now tell me, Mrs. Milton "

"Miss."

"Miss. Of course. I'm so sorry. You're not married."

Golding said it as a statement. Anders and Walker looked up
- simultaneous warning bells jangling.

"No," said Jane.

Golding paused, looking worried. The pause dragged on.

Damn, thought Anders.

Sinclair looked expectantly at Golding. "What's the matter,
Mr. Golding?"

Golding looked uncomfortable, but less uncomfortable than
Jane.

"Well, my Lord. The marital status of the witness is quite
irrelevant of course, but --"

"Are you married?" Sinclair barked at Jane.

"No ... Well -- yes. In a way." For a fleeting moment the
demure mask had slipped.

"There's no 'in a way' about it," Sinclair said sharply. "Either
one is married or one isn't married. Which is it?"

"I'm sorry, sir," Jane said in a small voice. "But it's not what
you could call marriage. Not now."

She made it sound if some terrible wrong had been done to
her.

Sinclair adopted a more kindly tone. "You must remember
that you're under oath, Miss Milton."

"Yes, sir."

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"Do you have any children?" Sinclair asked.

Anders closed his eyes and silently cursed Mr. Justice Vice's
obsession with children. What the hell was it to do with him or
the case?

"No, sir."

Anders shot Golding a quick look.

Walker smelt trouble looming. Big trouble.

"Not now," Jane finished.

Walker relaxed.

Sinclair sensed Anders' justified hostility, and remembering
the words of a Pope who, after his accession said: "Now we have
the Papacy, let us enjoy it", pressed on.

"What happened?"

Golding could hardly believe his luck.

"He's in care," said Jane.

Sinclair nodded to Golding. The little lawyer decided that
now was the moment to attack.

"Miss Milton. Isn't it so that the first advertisement for this
committee was inserted in a contact magazine after you had
started work for my client?"

A hesitation, then: "Yes."

"A month afterwards?"

"About that, yes."

"Why didn't you leave if the work became 'distasteful'?"

"I needed the work."

"You have no qualifications for secretarial work?"

"No."

"What did you do before you went to work for my client?"

Anders shot to his feet. Hitherto all his movements had been
languid.

"My Lord. The witness's previous employment has no bearing
on the matter under examination."

"Quite right," agreed Sinclair.

"I withdraw the question, my Lord." Golding turned back to
the witness box, opening his eyes wide and training his stare on

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Jane Milton at full strength. She shrank visibly before the
onslaught.
It seemed to her that Golding's eyes were lancing deep
into her soul -- probing her secrets. His eyes became the hard
stare of all the men who had gazed down at her as she writhed
in mock ecstasy beneath them. Then they were moving towards
her. The courtroom was receding. She could hear the blood
pounding in her ears. And all the time the eyes kept swelling
until she could see her fear mirrored in the impenetrable,
all knowing
black pupils.

"You said that the business had made my client a rich man,"
said the eyes. "Isn't it so that you were sharing in those
riches?"

"No!"

"Isn't it so that the idea of a Committee of Ten Thousand was
your idea?"

"No!"

"Isn't it so that it was you who wrote the advertisement because
it was you who dealt with wording queries raised by the editor
of the contact magazine In The Swing when the ad appeared
for the first time!"

"No!"

"Can you account for the six month old 'E' Type Jaguar which
Fulchester Motors have been holding in store for you since the
end of last February!"

"No!"

"Would you like to tell the court about the circumstances in
which you first met the accused?"

The answer was screamed out: "No! No! No!"

Jane pointed at Walker in fury, her eyes blazing unbridled
hate. "You bastard!" she spat. "You said he wouldn't be able
to bring it up! You promised!" Then Jane was crying. "I
should've known. Never trust the bleedin' pigs!"

Outside the courtroom building Martin inhaled deeply. There
was a moment's disorientation like the shock of emerging from a
darkened cinema after having been a million miles away to
discover
that there was still a normal outside world going about its
business.

He looked at his watch. Ten minutes to visiting time. There
was time to buy Carrie some grapes with the money he'd saved
on the bus fare. Black grapes -- her favourite. They were
ruinously
expensive and made an inroad into the money he had
allowed himself for the week. The girl in the jury office had
told him that the expenses wouldn't be paid until the end of the

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week "except in cases of hardship".

He made another purchase after the visit to the greengrocer's
- one which he could ill-afford. He left the shop, pushing the
purchase well down into his inside jacket pocket where he hoped
neither Carrie or the security officer at the court would see it.

Carrie sat up and smiled as he approached the bed. Martin was
pleased to see how well she looked.

"So they let you out?" she said, disentangling herself from
Martin's surprisingly passionate embrace.

"Sure they did, sweetheart," Martin hissed through his teeth
in his Bogart voice.

"What happened? Was it terribly exciting?"

"Can't talk about it, babe. Big Louey says anyone shooting
their mouth off gets themself a cement footbath at the bottom of
the East River."

Carrie laughed. "You didn't get into squabbles with the
judge, did you?"

Martin looked at her through hooded lids. He twitched his
upper lip and said: "Say, what's a kid like you doing in a nice
place like this?"

Carrie punched him playfully. "Trying to have your brat, you
idiot. What shall we call him? Mike Yarwood Janssen?"

Martin put the grapes on the bed. "Thought a file might
come in useful for the breakout."

Carrie lifted the grapes out of the bag. "Mm black. Thank you,
Martin. I'll think I'll stay in for good."

"I missed you last night."

"Like hell. You probably filled the place with hookers."

"I did. But I still missed you. You're cheaper."

Carrie laughed as Martin took her hand. "How are you
feeling?"

She frowned. "A bit fed-up. I had an army of medical students
poking at me this morning. I just lay back and pretended I was
back home with you. God knows how the silly little bastard
got into that stupid position." Carrie smiled. "Takes after his
dad I suppose." She paused. "Except he'll be dragged into the world
the same way I was and the same way Julius Caesar was."

Martin saw the scalpel flash down. He closed his eyes and
tightened his grip on Carrie's hand. "Don't."

There was a silence for some moments which Martin broke:
"Have they said . . ."

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Carrie shook her head. "They don't know yet. The doctor
wants someone else to look at me."

"You should've kept those clinic appointments."

Carrie groaned. "Don't you start on me. It's their favourite
tune "

Martin couldn't think of anything else to say. The hospital
had created a gulf between them. He felt overwhelmingly guilty
about his desire to escape. He glanced at his watch. "Oh well.
Back to the unpaid grindstone, I suppose. If this case is
Finished today, I'll see if I can be excused the rest of the week."

"No, don't do that, Martin. It takes your mind off... well off
things doesn't it?"

"Oh it does that all right." He leaned forward and kissed her.
"See you this evening then."

Carrie suddenly flung an arm round Martin's neck and pulled
him close. She held him tightly for several seconds.

"What's that?" she said.

Martin pulled himself away and closed his jacket. "What's
what?"

"There's something in your inside pocket."

"It's nothing."

"Liar!"

Martin smiled down at her. "This evening then. Take care."

And he left.

As Martin hoped, the security officer and his female assistant
were only interested in checking the contents of bags just as they had
been in the morning.

Leon Polder who followed Martin into the building had
noticed the same thing and a lot more besides. From his vantage
point in the public box as he scribbled in phoney shorthand, he
had noted the exact distances between the dock and the various
doors, the angle needed to cover the corridor from the green
door, the likely resistance to bullets of the various benches,
and most important of all: the fact that there were no windows in
the courtroom.

The first defence witness was Audrey Howell, a lecturer in
sociology at Fulchester Polytechnic. A tall, self-possessed woman
who managed to make her jeans and leather jerkin look
fashionable.
Golding decided it must be her open-neck blouse and
chiffon neck scarf. She seemed to radiate cool efficiency as she
read the oath in a clear voice then gave her name and listed her
job and qualifications without being prompted. She was

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undoubtedly familiar with court procedure. Golding noticed that
Mr. Justice Sinclair Vice was most impressed with her.

"Thank you, Miss Ho well," said Golding, his stare now
totally absent. "Would you tell the court if you have ever seen
the accused before?"

Without requiring the dock to be pointed out to her. Audrey
Howell looked straight at Charlie Dawson and said that she had.

"What were the circumstances under which you first met
my client?"

"He came to me for advice. It must be all of four years ago
now."

Golding smiled the smile of a counsel who has absolute confidence
in his witness.

"Would you be so kind as to tell the court what the advice
was?"

"Yes. He was planning a sex education film at the time and
needed guidance on the common misunderstandings about sex
among young people. By young people I mean children approaching
puberty. I helped by writing the difficult parts of the
script and acting as an adviser during the shooting."

"What was the film called, Miss Howell?"

"Adjusting to Adulthood. It was filmed on sixteen mill using
Polytechnic equipment which Mr. Dawson hired, and subsequently
an enlarged thirty-five mill print was shown at Edinburgh
and Cannes which won wide acclaim."

"Did either you or the accused make money out of the film?"

Audrey Howell looked amused. "Just about. Do you want me
to be more specific?"

Cool, thought Martin.

Good child-bearing hips, thought Sinclair.

"I've received about seventy-five pounds. You can work out
how much Mr. Dawson has had because we had a twenty percent
/eighty percent agreement. I got the twenty."

"Do you know how much the film cost to make?"

"I can tell you exactly," said Audrey Howell. "I did the
budgeting: ten thousand pounds to the penny. That was the
sum Mr. Dawson put in. It would have been less had I been paid
for my help but I refused to accept payment -- preferring to
see as much money as possible going into the film. Mr. Dawson
insisted on me getting the twenty percent."

Golding was delighted with his witness. She was much better
than the instructing solicitor thought. A good witness, although
the crunch would come when Anders cross-examined her.

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"So the film didn't make a profit?" said Golding.

"No. That wasn't the idea. Wide adolescent audiences was
the goal."

Anders rose like a black crow disturbed at its feeding but not
unduly alarmed. Martin thought he had been asleep.

"My Lord. Interesting though Miss Howell's evidence is, it
seems that it deals with events of four years ago, and I'm
wondering"

"Mr. Golding?' inquired Sinclair.

"Absolutely relevant, my Lord."

Sinclair nodded. "Yes. I think so too. Carry on."

Golding bowed. "Thank you, my Lord ... Miss Howell. How
much money did you hope to make out of the film?"

"None at all. It wasn't a commercial film. If it had been, local
authorities and parent teacher associations wouldn't have
accepted it as they have."

"My Lord, I would now like to introduce Exhibit Sixteen.
These are copies of the printed questionnaires which my client
enclosed with the material sent to every member of the public
who applied to join my client's Committee of Ten Thousand."

The jury bailiff gave each member of the jury a copy of a
form printed in green ink. Martin had seen similar forms before,
sent out by various market research organizations forever trying
to find out Joe Public's idea of the perfect car. There were
questions
followed by a list of possible answers. Beside each answer
was a box for the recipient's tick. There the similarity ended:
the questions were like no questions Martin had ever seen
before:

"Do you ever have fantasies in which someone else is making
love to your partner?

"Please tick those activities which your partner dislikes you
doing. (Ladies please answer question 12)

"Which of the publications in the research pack interested you

the most?

"Do you think the existing UK obscenity laws should be --

Left as they are.

Tightened.

Abolished altogether.

(To help you answer this question, magazines numbered

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i to 6 would most likely be considered obscene by a
British court, and magazines numbered 7 to 20 would
not. Magazines 21 to 30 are on the borderline)"

There were other questions which Martin doubted he would
have the courage to answer, even though the questionnaire did
not call for a name and an address.

The usher gave a copy of the form to Audrey Howell.

"Do you recognise that questionnaire, Miss Howell?" inquired
Golding.

"I ought to - I designed it."

Martin looked at the witness with renewed interest. So did the
bank clerk beside him.

"Please tell the court the purpose of the form."

"We wanted to sample public attitudes on pornography. Of
course, we could send out a team to stop passers-by but that
wouldn't produce reliable results. It would be rather like asking
people what they think of a product without showing them what
it is. Everyone has a lot to say these days on pornography, but
we wondered how many people actually knew what it really
was. Even now there's still no satisfactory definition. We don't
really know if it depraves or corrupts. The people who say it
does, never mean themselves of course - they're taking it upon
themselves to speak for other people. Our research project is
aimed at getting those other people to say what they feel -- why
they buy pornography. So far, to the best of my knowledge, no
one has ever bothered to conduct such research. I'm not saying
that at the end of the three year project, we'll have all the
answers.
But we will have some of them. At least we'll give our
legislators
and social workers something more concrete than a lot of highly
charged emotional outbursts from church leaders representing
minority interest who refuse to accept the fact, that if the
circulation figures of magazines like Playboy, Penthouse, Whitehouse
and countless others are anything to go by, more people are
buying soft-porn than going to church."

"Do you approve of pornography?" asked Golding.

Audrey Howell cocked her head on one side and thought for a
moment. "I neither approve or disapprove. Researchers should
never engage on a project with preconceived ideas. It's not
always
easy, but it's something they should always be on guard
against. What I do disapprove of is legislation which hinders
research. Pornography is as old as civilisation. It's time we
learned
something about it and the people who like it."

"Do you like pornography?"

"Not particularly. But then I don't like science-fiction, or
romances,

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or westerns. But I'm not repelled by it if that's what you
mean."

"Are you satisfied with my client's qualifications as a fellow
researcher?"

Someone sniggered. Sinclair looked sternly at the public bench.

"He has the best qualification of all - a genuine interest to
learn. He also has a degree in sociology but that doesn't mean
much to me."

Golding smiled. "Thank you, Miss Howell. I have no more
questions. Will you wait there, please."

Anders had been in half a mind to say that he had no questions
but that would have sounded like capitulation. In truth, he was
always ill-at-ease with witnesses like Audrey Howell, although
he would never show it. His generation had not produced the huge
numbers of well-educated, self-assured young women that this
generation had. That he found Audrey Howell extremely attractive
did not help. Oh well...

He rose to his feet, confident that his gaunt, forbidding
Appearance effectively cloaked his nervousness.

"Miss Howell. You seem to be a young lady who is extremely
interested in sex. Is that a fair generalisation?"

With a straight face, Audrey Howell replied: "It depends on
the man I'm in bed with. Some are more successful at arousing
my interest than others."

The explosion of laughter in the courtroom was a tonic to
Charlie and Golding, and a personal disaster for Anders. His
eyes flickered sideways. Golding was wiping his eyes, the clerk
seemed to be suffering from a sudden cold and was blowing his
nose, and every member of the jury except the matron was in
hysterics.

The laughter reverberated into the corridor and carried into
Number Two courtroom where a public inquiry was in progress.

Only the judge and Anders did not join in the mirth. The
reason Sinclair wasn't smiling was because he was employing
his trick of biting down on his tongue. He found that he had to
bite very hard, with the result that his mighty, hewn jaw jutted
forward in a hard frown.

The clerk recovered from his cold and called for silence. The
tumult of laughter died away to the odd titter that was
extinguished by Sinclair's glare.

Anders decided that somehow, he would crush Audrey Howell.

"Miss Howell. Would you like to be photographed in an
obscene position?"

Golding had the right to object, but was curious to know how
his delightful witness would handle the question. Sinclair had

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similar thoughts and decided not to sharpen his black pencil.

"What's an obscene position?" countered Audrey Howell.

Nice one, Audrey, thought Golding.

"You're the expert on sociology," replied Anders evenly.

"Yes, but not on your tastes. You tell me what you think of
as an obscene position and I'll tell you whether or not I would
mind being photographed in it." Audrey Howell turned to the
judge. "Isn't that fair, my Lord?"

Sinclair was at a slight loss. "Well ... Perfectly fair, Miss
Howell."

"I have no more questions of this witness!" Anders snapped
and sat down.

Golding rose. "Does your lordship have any questions for the
witness?"

Sinclair had hundreds but none had any bearing on the case.
"No. You may stand down, Miss Howell."

The usher guided Audrey Howell from the witness box.

Such hips, thought Sinclair as she sat beside Jane Milton on
the witnesses bench.

"How many more witnesses have you got lined-up, Mr. Golding?'

"Just one, my Lord."

"I'm dying for a cup of tea and I expect everyone else is.
We'll adjourn for fifteen minutes."

Karl Planck was 33 but he spoke at 45; his sentences streamed out
at an amazingly high-speed in a falsetto voice. His verbal
velocity left the court's shorthand writer floundering ten sentences
behind.

Sinclair stopped the articulate flood by repeatedly banging his
pencil on the desk. "Slow down. Slow down. It's not a race and
there are no prizes. I got your name and that you're the manager
of Fulcomtech, whatever that means."

"An abbreviation of Fulchester Computer Technology, sir,"
Planck replied, making an effort to talk slowly.

"Very trendy," observed Sinclair. "You said something about
the supply of software services --"

"Software services, payroll preparation, eighty-column punch
card tabulating, punchcard breeding, collating ..." Then the
high-pitched voice began accelerating at an astonishing rate.
"Verifying, interpreting, line-printing, data storage on paper
tape, magnetic tape, discs -"

Sinclair cut him short by angrily banging his pencil again.

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"Look, Mr. Planck, you're not talking to one of your wretched
machines now. We're a collection of stupid, inefficient human
beings who would be most grateful if you would kindly adjust
your data output to a speed we can cope with."

Planck looked hurt.

"I'm very sorry, my Lord," muttered Golding.

"Sorry, my Lord," mumbled the unfortunate Planck.

"Try breathing between each word," Sinclair suggested. "Now,
let's get on. But not too quickly mind."

"Now, Mr. Planck," said Golding in a conciliatory tone.
"Would you please tell the court, in your own measured words,
about the time the accused visited your office."

Planck swallowed. "He came to see me about a software
programme he wanted to handle information from --"

"When was this?" asked Golding quickly, spotting Sinclair's
lower jaw moving forward.

"About a year ago."

"Tell the court about the services the accused required."

"And slowly," added Sinclair.

"Well," said Planck, almost too frightened to speak. "He
wanted an estimate to have an anticipated ten thousand completed
questionnaires encoded as part of a computer programme
to produce a series of statistical printouts." He spoke each word
slowly and clearly.

"Can the witness be shown Exhibit Sixteen, please," Golding
requested.

The usher handed Planck the same questionnaire that had
been shown to Audrey Howell.

"Is that the form you were asked to base your estimate on?"

"Yes. We were intrigued by the questions."

"I'm sure," said Golding. "Did the accused place a firm order for
your services?"

"No. We did receive a batch of a hundred and fifty-two completed
forms five months ago so that we could design a pilot
programme. I told Mr. Dawson that it wasn't enough -- that
there would be too wide a data credibility gap, but he said that
was all he had."

"Too wide a what?" asked Sinclair incredulously.

"Data credibility gap," said Planck, puzzled.

Sinclair sighed. "What's that when it's at home for heaven's

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sake?"

Planck considered. "It means that public opinion forecasts
based on only so few questionnaires wouldn't be accurate, my
Lord."

"And how many would you need to achieve an accurate forecast?"

"At least ten thousand, my Lord."

"That was a figure you gave the accused or was it one he
suggested to you?"

"I suggested it, my Lord."

Sinclair made a note with his black pencil.

Anders busily prepared some questions for his cross
examination. Planck was an unexpected witness. It meant that
somewhere along the line, either the police or the prosecuting
solicitors had not done their homework. Planck's evidence was
an aspect of court procedure which favours the defence; the
prosecution has to present its evidence at the summary hearing
in the magistrate's court and list all the witnesses it intends
to call whereas the accused can reserve his defence in the lower
court and produce rabbits out of the hat during the Crown Court trial.
Only in the case of an alibi defence is the prosecution entitled
to advance warning.

Golding made certain Sinclair had no more questions and
said: "How much was the estimate you gave the accused for
this comprehensive programme?"

"Twenty thousand pounds," Planck replied. "That included
printing over six hundred copies of the final report - one copy
for each Member of Parliament."

"Thank you, Mr. Planck. No more questions. Will you wait
please."

Anders rose to cross-examine. Golding was establishing a good
defence for Charles Dawson. The Obscene Publications Acts
allowed such publications if it could be proved that the article
was in the interest of science, literature, art, or learning or
of other objects of general concern - that is - in the public
interest.
The Law Lords had ruled on defences citing the public interest
but it looked as if Golding was going for a science and learning
defence.

"Mr. Planck," said Anders. "I gather that you did not carryout
this computer exercise for the defendant?"
"No."

"Did you expect to?"

Golding was on his feet immediately. "The question calls
for a surmise by the witness, my Lord."

"I disagree, my Lord," said Anders. "The witness is a manager

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of a thriving computer services firm and must have the ability
to judge whether or not an inquiry is frivolous."

Sinclair thought for a moment. He turned to the witness. "You
prepared an estimate for the accused, Mr. Planck. Did that
involve
much work?"

"Seventy-nine point two man hours," Planck replied promptly.
"I thought Mr. Dawson was genuine."

"I didn't ask you that," said Sinclair testily. "Carry on, Mr.
Anders."

Anders decided an another approach. "How many inquiries
do you receive in the course of a year for your company's
services?"

Planck thought. "Over the past five years -- an average of
five-hundred and twenty-one ..."

"Thank you."

".. . point one."

Anders smiled. "Quite so. And how many such inquiries
actually materialize into firm orders?"

"An average year ... One hundred and four ..."

"Thank you."

". .. point two."

"So in fact Mr. Planck, an annual rate of something like
eighty per cent of frivolous inquiries is a normal part of your
routine?"

Golding bobbed up indignantly. "Oh really, my Lord. My
learned friend is constantly implying that my client's
application to the witness was frivolous --"

"Indeed I was implying no such thing, my Lord," said Anders.
He smiled. "But if my learned friend feels I'm treading on a
sensitive area ..."

"Yes. All right. All right," Sinclair interrupted testily - he
disliked counsels brawling. "Perhaps "fruitless" is a better
word,
Mr. Anders?"

"As your lordship pleases," Anders replied, bowing stiffly,
"but I have no more questions."

"Does your lordship have any questions?" asked Golding.

"No."

"Then that concludes the case for the defence, my Lord."

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Anders rose to address the jury. He took comfort from the
fact that although he could not comment on the non-appearance
of the defendant in the witness box, the judge could. Anders had
no doubt that Mr. Justice Sinclair Vice would have plenty to say
on the matter in his summing-up.

The speed of the trial surprised Leon Polder; the possibility
had now arisen that if the counsel's submission to the jury, the
judge's summing-up and jury's deliberations were got through
that day, that the trial of Neil Tysack and the Mace twins might
start that week.

He would have to move fast.

"Not guilty," said the girl who reminded Martin of Carrie.

The matron snorted in disgust. The jury foreman put a tick
in the right-hand column on his sheet of paper and looked up
expectantly
at the matron.

"Guilty," she said. "No doubt about it."

The foreman ticked the left-hand column. His eyes rested on
Martin.

"What's the score so far?" asked Martin.

The foreman looked reproving. "Does it matter?"

"It does to that poor sod out there."

"A loathsome creature," said the matron with a shudder. "Sitting
there like a fat slug."

"I hope you didn't base your verdict on his appearance," said
the foreman.

"Of course not." She didn't sound convincing.

"Not guilty," announced Martin, meeting the matron's disappointed
glance.

"I think the same," said the foreman, entering two ticks on
the right. He looked round at the company. "Six say guilty and
six say not guilty." He tossed his pen on the table and sat back.

There was a silence. Martin could hear the soft click click of
the wall clock. The air-conditioning had been switched off. The
high, oppressive, windowless walls seemed to be leaning in. He
thought of the fat man waiting ... sweating. He thought of
Carrie .. . Carrie ...

The silence was broken by the girl dropping a coin in the
coffee vending machine. The sudden whine of the machine's
motor roused Martin. He pushed Carrie out of his thoughts.

"Look," he said. "The judge said in his summing up that we
had to be certain first that Dawson's research programme was
not a cleverly contrived cover. Beyond all reasonable doubt --

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that's what he said. And that we had to decide on that first
irrespective
of whether or not we thought the material was obscene."

"He didn't quite say that," said the bank clerk. "He said we
first had to decide whether the research programme was genuine
or whether it was a cleverly contrived cover which Dawson
thought would legally enable him to publish obscene material for
gain."

"Eighty-five thousand pounds," said the matron. "If that's not
gain, then I don't know what is."

"Yes," said Martin. "But seventeen thousand pounds went on
distributing the stuff. Another twenty thousand on computer
work. That's nearly half the money gone for a start."

"He hadn't spent the money on the computer!" snapped the
matron.

"Because not enough people had sent back the questionnaires,"
Martin pointed out. "That's not his fault."

"There's the possibility that it didn't worry him that people
didn't return them," said a small man who was sitting at the end
of the table."

"There is that possibility," agreed Martin. "But we can't be
a hundred per cent certain ... Can we? There's an element of
doubt."

"There's no doubt that the filthy stuff we had to look at was
obscene," the matron retorted.

The foreman interrupted: "The judge pointed out that the
defence were not disputing that it was obscene - that's not what
we have to decide."

"We have to make a stand," said the matron. "Imagine that
woman being a lecturer - teaching our children. She as good as
admitted to going to bed with several men."

"Not all at the same time," said Martin with a broad grin.

The girl spluttered into her coffee and looked up with a red
face, trying not to laugh.

The matron turned angrily on Martin. "There's no call to go
ridiculing other peoples' standards just because you've got none
of your own! It's women who are trying to maintain moral values
today and men who are constantly undermining them. All the
pressures put on young girls today to join in the permissive
society come from men. I work with young people and I know.

Not every young girl today has joined the permissive society or
wants to. It's men who make them feel outcasts if they haven't."

"Haven't what?" asked Martin innocently.

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"You know what I mean."

"No I don't. Tell me."

The matron turned to the girl. "Are you married?"

"No."

"Have you joined?"

The girl blushed.

"That's got nothing to do with this case," said the foreman
angrily. "And nothing to do with you."

The matron kept her eyes fixed on the girl.

"You don't have to answer," Martin said to the girl.

"It so happens that I haven't," she stammered out while avoiding
everyone's eyes.

The matron looked triumphant. "Thank you, my dear. I didn't
mean to be personal but at least you've shown that it's not too
late to take a firm stand. If we don't now, then it's only a matter
of time before this filth is on open sale in our High Street."

Martin reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out the
glossy magazine. He flipped through it until he found the page
he wanted, folded the magazine open and slid it across the table
to the matron.

"You mean stuff like that?" he inquired politely.

The woman looked down at the magazine. Her scalp went
back and she blenched. "How dare you 1" she spluttered in fury.
"How dare you!"

Martin felt sorry for her. She was a decent enough woman
who had been badly shocked that day by all she had seen and
heard. In her own circle she was probably well-liked and
respected.
It needed all Martin's self-control not to look away when
she raised her angered eyes to his.

"You were supposed to put all those magazines back in the
wallet," said the foreman anxiously, as if he thought that he
was responsible for Martin's misdeeds.

Without taking his eyes off the matron, Martin shook his head
and said: "I bought this at lunchtime in the High Street. 5op
which I can't afford."

The matron recovered herself. "They always show women!"
she snapped. "Never men."

Martin turned a few pages and showed her another photograph
-- one which had surprised him when he first saw it in the
bookshop.
He held it up so that everyone sitting at the table could see

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it, then dropped it onto the table.

"How many of you think that photograph is obscene?" Martin
inquired.

The foreman looked faintly irritated at the usurping of his
tenuous authority. "What's that magazine got to do with --"

"Quite a lot," Martin interrupted. "Do you think it's obscene?"
He held the picture up again.

The foreman hesitated. By now, like most of the jurors, he had
passed the embarrassment point that morning.

"If it was a photograph of a normal man, I'd say 'no'. But
clearly that isn't a normal man, therefore I think it's obscene."

His view was shared by most of the others including the
matron who said that no normal man would agree to posing in
the outdoors with no clothes on.

"The magazine is called Health and Efficiency" said Martin.
"And it's on open sale just across the road."

"Opposite this courtroom?" cut in the matron in surprise.

"Yes. On the top row of their magazine section, along with
Playboy, Penthouse and Club International -- so they're out of
reach of children I suppose. This one was the only one I had
enough money on me for. The point is, that they're a respected
nationwide chain who must have a large legal department to vet
what they put on sale, but it boils down to guesswork because
there's no sensible definition of what is obscene and what
isn't."

"But at least they're not doing anything in this magazine,"
said the bank clerk while pretending to glance disinterestedly
through the glossy pages.

"That's right," Martin agreed. "I picked that magazine because
most sensible people regard it as inoffensive and because
it's been going for a long time. I remember it when I was a kid
and I don't think it did me any harm. But there was a continental
film review magazine on the shelf that left little to the
imagination."
He smiled at the bank clerk. "It's next to Stern and Paris Match
if you're interested."

"Got nothing to do with this case," the foreman muttered.

Martin sat back. "Except if we did find Dawson guilty and he
goes down for two years or whatever, then we've got a personal
duty - everyone of us, to complain to the police about every
newsagent in this town."

There was a long silence. The foreman turned his sheet of
paper over and drew a line down the middle.

"Shall I go round again?" he asked.

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Martin dropped the magazine in the car park litterbin. The bank
clerk, who was just getting into his car, called out to Martin
and pointed to Charlie Dawson cramming himself into a white
Lamborghini.
Martin straightened from tucking his trousers into his
socks and watched the sleek car glide out of the car park.

The bank clerk left his car and walked over to Martin. "Doesn't
make sense,' he commented, watching expensive sports car
blend with the evening traffic. "Me with a mortgage that's
crippling
me. You with your window cleaning ..."

Martin exchanged "goodnights" and rode towards the car park
exit - the little wooden sidecar bumping along at his side. While
waiting for a break in the traffic, he glanced back at the rows
of cars in time to see the bank clerk rescue the magazine from the
litterbin and slip it into his briefcase.

"I'm afraid she's sleeping," said the ward sister. "We've given
her a heavy sedative because she's to be kept as still as
possible before tomorrow's examination."

"But it's only six-thirty," Martin protested.

"It was a heavy sedative," stressed the nurse. "Now please
don't worry, Mr. Janssen. We know you're in court tomorrow
and will be able to get a message to you if necessary."

Martin felt panic closing in. "What do you mean, if necessary?"

"Please don't worry. We're doing all we can."

"Let me see her, please," Martin begged. "Just for a minute.
I won't want to wake her."

The nurse hesitated. There were screens round his wife's bed
that might alarm him. "All right," she said at length.

She remained at Martin's side as he stared down at Carrie.
She was lying on her back sound asleep. Her hair gleamed in the
evening sun streaming through the high, old-fashioned windows
of the former workhouse. He ached to be able to slip his arms
under her still form, to feel her warmth against him as he
carried her home.

The nurse touched his elbow.

"You can see her tomorrow, Mr. Janssen."

Martin nodded and allowed the nurse to gently steer him back
to the ward entrance.

Martin cycled slowly home. There was no hurry. It was seven
o'clock on a fine June evening. Still another two and a half
hours of daylight. There was nothing else to do but cycle slowly. There
was no Carrie waiting in the shabby little flatlet; no meal -
nothing.
Not even enough for a pint if the money was to last the week.

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Just as well -- the pint would become two pints -- then a third
...
Just as it used to at lunchtimes a million years ago which had
led to a director overhearing him telling an awkward customer
who was demanding too much on a Maxi trade-in to get stuffed.

Martin took a long detour through the Pine Hill estate. Solid,
respectable Pine Hill with its well-spaced phoney Georgian
houses, double garages and lollipop bay trees standing in
sawn-off beer barrels on each side of the fake, mass-produced porticos.

"I say! Young man!" A woman's voice. Martin looked round.
An elderly lady was waving to him as she walked quickly across
her well-kept lawn. Martin stopped pedalling.

"Oh," said the woman as she neared Martin. "I'm so sorry. I
thought you were Mr. Baker's son."

Martin had no idea what she was talking about. "I'm sorry,
but "

"Silly of me," she said, smiling. "I should've noticed. You
haven't got your buckets or ladder."

Martin realised that he had been mistaken for the window
cleaner. Before he could explain, the woman was telling him
what a nuisance it had been not seeing Mr. Baker for so long.

"We have to pay a hundred pounds a year service charges
into the estate management fund," said the woman, not giving
Martin a chance to speak. "And that's supposed to include having
our windows cleaned once a month."

"I think Mr. Baker's dead," said Martin quickly when she
paused for breath.

"Are you taking over?" she asked hopefully. "Only I've got
this arthritis in my hands and I do so hate dirty windows."

I should have your problems, thought Martin. Then he had an
idea. At least it would solve the problem of the lonely evening.
"I'll tell you what I'll do, madam. I'll nip home to get changed
and get my stuff and I'll be back to clean your windows in forty
five minutes. Okay?"

The woman looked at him gratefully. "That is so kind of you,"
she said. "We haven't seen Mr. Baker for weeks."

"It's all here," said the old man from the depths of his
junkshop.
He emerged with a galvanized bucket and a small chest containing
cleaning tools and materials. "Old Jim Baker's widder sold
it to me six month back. Can't manage the ladder."

Martin extracted a new looking aluminium folding ladder
from the midst of mangles and fire dogs.

"You sure it's all right?" inquired Martin as the old man
helped him strap the ladder onto the wooden sidecar.

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"Borrow it as long as you like. Ain't doing no good stuck in
my shop."

"It's really very nice of you," said Martin, swinging his leg
over the saddle.

"I'm always cleaning up glass things," said the old man.
"Take my tip and polish afterwards with dry newspapers. Works
a treat it does."

"I'll remember it," Martin promised.

The woman was delighted to see him. "I didn't really think you'd
come back," she said. "So many people make promises these days
and never keep them."

Martin looked up at the outside of the house. "What would
you like me to do?"

"Could you do just the outsides? My husband can manage
inside."

"I'll need water and old newspapers," said Martin. Why
should he say "please" if he was doing the old dear a favour?

He made a good job of the woman's windows. It was an hour's
hard work which had taken his mind off Carrie.

The woman saw him folding the ladder and brought him a
cup of tea. Martin tried to remember the last time he'd seen
sugar tongs. She was delighted when she looked up at the front
of the house.

"You've done a marvellous job. I've never seen them shine
like that before. Never."

Martin sipped the tea, savouring the taste and the feeling of
satisfaction of having done a task well.

"How much do I owe you?"

He hadn't thought about money and had assumed that the
woman realised he was doing a good turn. Money? Well why
not? It had been an hour's graft. A pound would buy Carrie a
few flowers.

"A pound, madam."

"That's very reasonable," said the woman as she opened her
purse. She gave Martin a pound note and a fifty pence piece.
"The extra's for doing such a nice job. Don't worry, I'll tell
Noel to deduct it from the next service charge cheque."

Martin thanked her and finished the tea.

"Will you be working in this district in future?" the woman
asked as Martin strapped the ladder onto the sidecar. "Because
if you are, I know the Latimers next door would love to have their
windows done. Mr. Latimer's been threatening action against the

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management committee. I'll go and ask them for you." She
disappeared before Martin could reply.

He was wringing out his leather under her outside tap when
she reappeared.

"Silly of me," she said. "I forgot they're in Germany. But
their daughter's in if you'd like to call round." She pointed.
"It's the house next door."

Martin thanked her again and said goodbye. He wheeled the
bicycle down her drive and glanced back at his handiwork.
1 pound 50 pence for an hour's work. Not much by the standards of
the day but it was the first money he had earnt in a year.

He pushed the machine along the road and gazed at the Larimers'
house. They were keen gardeners -- the front lawn looked
like a bowling green. The windows were filthy. Martin hesitated
... Oh well, nothing ventured, as his father used to say.

He pressed the doorbell. Westminster chimes of course.

The girl on the jury opened the door and was the first to recover
from their mutual surprise. "I didn't know you were a
window cleaner."

Martin grinned. "To be honest, neither did I."

Her resemblance to Carrie was uncanny. The same long hair
and finely chiselled features. There was even the same wide-set
eyes and deep-pored skin which Carrie had always attributed to
her French grandparents. But he had never seen Carrie wearing
a tennis skirt. What was the name the jury bailiff had called
out?

"Do you think you could do our windows?" the girl asked. "I
know mummy and daddy would be awfully pleased to find them
done when they get back."

"The same number of windows as next door?"

She looked doubtfully. "Well, no. We've got a sun-lounge,
simply acres of glass. You'd better come and see."

Martin followed her through the tastefully furnished living
room and into a hot, south facing conservatory.

"What do you think? " she asked anxiously.

"It's a lot of glass."

"Can you do it?"

"Two pounds fifty," said Martin shortly. "There's an hour of
daylight left. I could start now and finish tomorrow evening."

"Oh good."

She sat in the flower-choked back garden near a granite gnome
supporting a birdbath and watched Martin sweating with leather

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and squeegee as he laboured on the endless glass. It was
exhausting work. At the end of sixty minutes, he peeled off his T-shirt
and flopped out on the lawn. A shadow crossed his face. She was
standing over him looking down. Not such nice legs as Carrie's
he thought, but it was Carrie's face and very nearly her smile.

"Would you like a drink?"

"Yes, please."

"Tea or coffee?"

"Beer."

"There's only lager."

"That'll do fine."

She returned with two brimming pewter mugs and sat on the
grass opposite Martin with her knees drawn up to her chin: an
innocently immodest pose although she kept her eyes fixed on
Martin's eyes.

"Do you think we did the right thing?" she asked.

"We haven't done anything yet."

She giggled. "I mean letting that man off."

"That implies he was guilty," Martin pointed out. "We said
that he wasn't."

"Most people would say 'infer'," said the girl.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She pushed a blade of grass between her teeth. "It means that
you don't sound like a window cleaner."

"What should a window cleaner sound like?" Martin knew
that his question sounded like a line from a bad radio play but
the girl's cool arrogance had angered him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude."

"Would you like me to touch my forelock?"

"I said I was sorry."

Martin drained his mug. "I'd better be going."

"Can I ask you something?" It was Carrie's eyes upon him.
"Those awful magazines. Did they . .." She hesitated.

"Did they what?"

"Did they have any affect on you? I know girl's aren't supposed
to be affected by such things but I was curious to know what
sort of affect they had on you."

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It was a good opportunity to hurt her - to pay her out for the
double garage, the Westminster chimes and the accent which
had probably cost her parents half as much as the house.

"If you mean, did they give me an erection, the answer's 'no'
but the way you're sitting is."

She went pale and stood up. "I think you'd better go now,
please."

"What's your first name?" Martin asked at the front door.
"Virginia!" the girl snapped, and slammed the door in his
face.

Only when he was nearly home and realised that he hadn't
been paid did Martin stop chuckling.

A little encouragement from Leon Polder's cold chisel and the
flimsy plywood back to the firearms cabinet sprang easily out of
its groove. Typical, he thought as he lowered the board silently
to the floor; they buy a robust looking storage unit for their
weapons and don't bother about the back. It amazed him just
how stupid the British could be. No wonder their country was
virtually bankrupt. It hadn't even been necessary for him to
break into the social club building. All that had been required
was for him to hide in one of the toilet cubicles during the
evening and wait until all was quiet. The club steward was too lazy to
make sure the building was empty before he locked-up. Typical.

Polder shone his penlight into the cabinet and helped himself
to four sleeved-down .38 Smith and Wessons and four boxes of
ammunition. Fifty rounds in each box. Plenty. He noticed the
"Made in Spain" labels. Typical. One of the largest arms
manufacturing countries in the world and they let a club undermine
their balance of payments by importing ammunition.

It took Polder less than two minutes to spring the plywood
panel back into place and ease the cabinet back against the wall.

He hadn't liked leaving the raid until so soon before he expected
the trial to take place but there had been no choice. The
club met twice a month; timing the robbery for tonight meant
that the theft wouldn't be discovered for another two weeks. By
which time he and the three conspirators against the life of the
Ugandan trade minister would be many thousands of miles away
in Cuba.

Part Three

SURFACE TENSION

"Murder, Members of the Jury," said Ralph Anders in his opening
address on the Tuesday morning, "is when a person or persons,
with malice aforethought kills another person -- that person
dying within a year and a day of the offence being committed."
He turned his cadaverous head towards the dock and gestured to
the two prisoners. "You will hear how the accused: Rosemary
Richards and her lover -- Colin Reginald Freeman, devised and

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executed an ingenious method of killing Sven Richards -- the
husband of Rosemary Richards ..."

Anders' monotonous voice droned on, detailing the circumstances
of the alleged crime. It was only 10:45 but Martin had to
suppress a yawn. He had lain awake all night worrying about
Carrie. An early phone call to the hospital had not been helpful.
Carrie was still under sedation, they said and could say no more.

"Please don't worry, Mr. Janssen. You'll be able to see her
between one-thirty and two."

Anders' soporific voice rolled on: "Cunningly sought to conceal
their evil intention . .. Confident that the time he spent shut
in the steel coffin would ensure his death . . ."

Virginia was sitting beside Martin. She had completely ignored
him. Martin cursed his spiteful tongue. How many times
had he used it to deliberately hurt Carrie?

He searched in his pocket for a piece of paper and a pencil.
Taking great care not to be noticed, he wrote on the back of a
final demand and passed it to Virginia: "Sorry I was such an
oaf. Can I finish doing you this evening?"

Virginia glanced down at the message and gave a barely perceptible
smile and nod. Martin relaxed to concentrate on the proceedings.

Rosemary Richards sat tensely in the dock with her eyes
fixed on Anders, following every word. Every now and then she
mouthed the words: "It's not true." Martin couldn't lip read, but
it was clear from her whole demeanour what she was saying.
The woman police constable whispered something to her -- probably
telling her to be quiet. Her fellow prisoner and alleged
lover, Colin Freeman, lounged in the dock and stared at the
back of Golding's wig.

Martin didn't consider Rosemary Richards particularly attractive.
If he was Colin Freeman, he would've looked round for
something better. Were they lovers? Had they plotted the murder
of her husband? As Martin was now learning, opening addresses
are overwhelmingly prejudicial. By the time Anders had
finished speaking, Martin was certain that every member of the
jury, himself included, was convinced of their guilt. The case
for the prosecution was devastating.

"I call Andrew Donaldson," announced Anders.

Donaldson was a powerfully built, rotund man with a red
goatee beard and quick, darting eyes that rapidly absorbed their
surroundings; the judge who looked like a boxing veteran, the
nondescript collection of faces in the jury box and Anders -- a
vertical streak in black oil. He recited the oath, agreed he was
Andrew Donaldson, gave his occupation as freelance artist and
was chairman of the Fulchester branch of the British Sub Aqua
Club. His active eyes stayed clear of the dock.

"You went on the club dive to Warmsley Quarry on Saturday
the eighth of January last, Mr. Donaldson?"

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"Yes."

"How many of you?"

"Seven of us including Sven and his wife -- Rosemary." His
eyes strayed briefly to the dock.

"What equipment did you take?"

"The usual stuff. Wet suits because the water temperature
was just above freezing, our own aqualungs, weights, facemasks
and flippers and the club equipment which consisted of the air
compressor and the portable recompression chamber. Both are
mounted on the back of the club's lorry."

Anders turned to Mr. Justice Vice. "My Lord, I now wish to
introduce Exhibit One - a set of photographs of the lorry mentioned
by the witness. The vehicle is parked outside as Exhibit Two if your
Lordship thinks the jury should inspect it at first hand."

Sinclair nodded. "Let's see how we get on, Mr. Anders."
The bailiff gave each member of the jury a glossy photograph
of the vehicle parked outside the front entrance. Martin had
assumed it was intended for cleaning drains. A Bedford chassis, he
noticed. On the back of the truck was a steel recompression
chamber about 8 feet long by 3 feet diameter. One end, presumably
the hatch, was furnished with a large handwheel. The
aqualung charging compressor consisted of a Coventry Climax
fire pump petrol engine coupled to a four-stage compressor.

"Perhaps you would be so kind as to explain to the court the
purpose of that equipment please, Mr. Donaldson," suggested
Anders.

Andrew Donaldson cleared his throat. "The thing that looks
like a boiler is the recompression chamber -- something we always
take with us for safety on deep dives. It enables divers who've
working at considerable depths for long periods, to clear excess
nitrogen from their blood in reasonable comfort rather than have
to come to the surface in stages, thus prolonging their exposure
to cold. The other piece of equipment is our air-compressor for
charging the aqualung bottles."

"Charging them what?" asked Sinclair, seeing blank expressions
in the jury box.

Donaldson looked confused for a moment then his round face
cleared. He grinned. "I mean - to fill the aqualungs with
compressed
air."

"To what pressure?" pursued Sinclair who had an idea that
the answer would be around three quarters of a ton to the square
inch.

"Hundred and forty bar. That's about two thousand psi.
Pounds per square inch." Donaldson's initial nervousness was
beginning to wear of?. He turned his beard back to Anders as if
eager for questions.

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"Now then, Mr. Donaldson," obliged Anders. "I want you to
tell the court the purpose of this dive and I want you to
describe in your own words, the events as you saw them, that lead to the
death of Sven Richards."

Golding rose. "My Lord. It has not been established that the
events at Warmsley Quarry led to the death of Sven Richards."

Anders smiled icily. "Shall we say then : the events that led
to Sven Richards being rushed into hospital?"

"Let's," said Sinclair boredly.

Donaldson glanced at each counsel in turn then placed a hand
on each side of the witness box. "Sven needed deep water and
calm conditions to test a new underwater camera he had developed
in his factory, so it was decided to combine his tests with an
official club dive in Warmsley Quarry. It has a maximum depth
of three hundred feet. We all got there at ten. Colin Freeman,
as the club's equipment officer, started up the compressor to fill
my aqualung and Sven's as we were to dive first."

Anders nodded at the dock. "The accused was also the diving
marshal?"

"Yes."

"Please continue."

Donaldson paused. "Sven and I entered the water at noon and
spent a few minutes adjusting our lead weights to compensate
for the extra underclothes we had on under our wet suits. It's
best to be slightly negatively buoyant so that you don't waste
too much effort when swimming down." He paused again. "We
both swam out into the middle of the quarry with Rosemary
following us in the Gemini - a small, inflatable rubber dinghy.
Her job was to stay above our bubbles with the spare aqualung in
case an emergency cropped up."

Anders asked a leading question. "And did that happen?"

Donaldson looked down at the floor and nodded. "Yes. Sven
and I vented our suits and swam down to fifty feet. He took five
flash photographs of the definition board which I held up for
him, then we went down to a hundred feet. It was very dark we
had to link our snorkel tubes together so we wouldn't lose
each other. He took another five pictures. It was really cold.
Although we'd been down only a few minutes, I'd already had
enough. Then Sven started down without hooking his snorkel
with mine and I had to chase after him, following his bubbles.
Before I'd got down to a hundred and fifty feet, he fired-off a
flash even though there wasn't anything for him to photograph
without the board. Then he didn't give me time to get the board
straight before he took another picture. The arrangement was for
him to take five pictures every fifty feet down to two hundred
feet -- twenty altogether and he only had a twenty exposure
cassette in the camera. Before I could signal to him, he was of! again,
down to two hundred feet and I had to kick really hard not to
lose him. Visibility couldn't've been any more than two feet and
it was getting worse as we went down. I remember crashing into

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him at around the hundred and eighty foot mark when he fired
off a flash right into my mask. I was blinded for about a minute.
I thought he'd realise what he'd done and stick with me, but by
the time I could see properly, he had gone. I knew he wasn't
directly beneath me because there were no exhaust bubbles rising
around me but I could hear the hiss from his demand valve as he
inhaled. I knew then that something was wrong because he was
breathing so fast..." Donaldson stopped, his hands were clenching
the sides of the box. "One thing all divers are taught is to
breath slowly in an easy rhythm. Sven was doing what we call
'beating his lung'. Anyway I swam down towards the sound and
just caught a glimpse of his flipper passing within a foot of my
mask. I tried to grab it. Then there was another flash and for
a few seconds I didn't know which way was up or down. I remember
looking at my wrist depth gauge and was horrified to
see that I was at two hundred and thirty feet."

"You'd never dived to such a depth before?"

"Once in the Med. But never to below two hundred under
those conditions. And anyway, Sven and I didn't have the air for
messing about for long at those sort of depths. Our plan was to
go down, take the pictures, and come up. We didn't intend to stay
longer than a couple of minutes at two hundred feet and here was
he going even deeper."

"And you continued down after him?" asked Anders.

"Yes. As best I could. Then I lost his bubbles completely. I
looked at my pressure gauge and saw that I was virtually out of
air. Even so, I continued spiralling down, hoping to pick up the
sound of his demand valve again but there was nothing. Then my
aqualung started to get a bit sluggish because the air was
running low so I had to return to the surface. It should've taken me
at least twelve minutes to come up from that depth but I did it
in less than two. Rosemary in the dinghy was about fifty yards away.

She should've stayed over our exhaust bubbles. She had her back
to me. I yelled out to her asking if Sven had surfaced but she
ignored me. I swam over to the dinghy calling out to her and it
was only when I was a few yards away that she took any notice.
I told her Sven was still down and that I needed the spare lung.
I undid the harness on my own lung and hooked it onto the
dinghy. I grabbed the spare but she'd got it tangled up with some
weight belts. I told her to get help and went down by myself to
look for Sven ..." Donaldson looked slowly up at Anders. "I
couldn't find him. When I surfaced, Colin' Freeman and Len
Stacy were swimming out to me. I stayed where I was because I
was certain I was roughly over the spot where Sven had
disappeared.
They went down with a couple of underwater lamps.
Ten minutes later they came up with Sven and brought him
ashore. He was unconscious. We took it in turns to give him
artificial respiration - the kiss-of-life. He was still
breathing. Rosemary begged us to put him in the recompression chamber which
we did, then pumped the internal pressure up to eighty pounds
per square inch. That simulates a depth of about a hundred and
sixty feet. We gave him ten minutes at that depth, ten minutes
at a hundred feet and ten minutes at fifty feet. By the time
decompression was complete, the ambulance had arrived. Everyone

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went off by car to follow the ambulance while Len Stacy and me
packed everything up. We both had a look at Sven's aqualung
to see if it was faulty in anyway, not that I've ever known
something to go wrong with one because they're so simple. Pressure
in the bottles was down to six bar - about ninety pounds per
square inch. I checked the by-pass "

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Donaldson," said Anders. He
turned to the judge. "My Lord, I now wish to introduce Exhibit
Three: the aqualung used by Sven Richards at the time of the
tragedy."

The usher crossed to the clerk's desk.

"It's underneath," said the clerk, pushing his chair back and
pointing under his desk. "Only it was in the way."

The usher reached down and dragged the aqualung from its
hiding place. The twin cylinder breathing set needed all his
strength to lift.

"Help him I" Sinclair snapped at the jury bailiff.

The two men carried the aqualung across to the witness box
and stood holding it.

"Is that the aqualung used by Sven Richards?" asked Anders.
"Yes."

"Put it on the table," said Sinclair. "There's no need to break
your backs."

The usher and the bailiff lifted the equipment onto the shorthand
writer's desk who was forced to snatch up her notes.

"Not there - Oh never mind," Sinclair barked. He smiled at
the shorthand writer. "Can you cope with that for a few minutes?"

She nodded and smiled. "Certainly, my Lord."

"If you please, my Lord. I would like the witness to demonstrate
certain points on this piece of equipment."

"You may leave the witness box, Mr. Donaldson," said Sinclair.

Donaldson stepped out from the security of the witness box
and stood in front of the desk. Anders joined him.

"Now then, Mr. Donaldson. You said that you examined the
aqualung. Would you show the court exactly what you did
please."

Donaldson pointed to the corrugated breathing hose. It was 3
feet long. Each end was connected to the demand valve by
chromium coupling nuts. In the middle of the hose was a
mouthpiece.
"Firstly, I checked the hose couplings to make sure they
were tight. They were. Len Stacy did the same. Then I made sure
both cylinder taps were full-on, which they were. I put the

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mouthpiece
near my mouth and took a couple of breaths. There was
nothing wrong with the demand valve. Lastly, I pulled the bypass
lanyard." Donaldson indicated a cord at the base of the
aqualung. "Pulling that blows air straight into the breathing
tubes to flush out water if they become flooded."

"Would you demonstrate please."

Donaldson grasped the toggle on the end of the lanyard and
gave it a sharp tug. There was a brief, explosive hiss of
escaping compressed air.

"And the test was satisfactory?"

"Well the aqualung was okay, but there was something wrong
with the air that came out. It had a strong smell."

"What of?"

Donaldson hesitated. "Well I thought I was mistaken, so Len
had a sniff."

"What was the smell?" Anders pressed.

Donaldson looked uncomfortable and gave a quick glance at
the two prisoners. "Well ... It was like car exhaust fumes."

Anders nodded with satisfaction. "Thank you, Mr. Donaldson.
Would you return to the witness box please."

Donaldson complied and composed himself for Anders next
question - one which he clearly didn't like:

"How would you describe the relationship between the two
accused?"

"Well... It was common knowledge in the club that they had
an understanding between them, if that's what you mean."

"I'm not concerned with what other members perceived," said
Anders sharply before Golding had time to object.

Golding relaxed. The damage had been done. There was no
point in rising.

"Did they go on many club diving outings together?"

"Yes. They didn't miss one during the last season."

"Did Rosemary Richards' husband always accompany his wife
on these trips?"

"No. Sven was often very busy with his factory."

"You said that the relationship between the accused was common
knowledge. What behaviour had you seen between the accused
which lead you to believe that they had a relationship?"
Anders' pronunciation of the last word gave it a sordid ring.

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Donaldson swallowed. "We went on a dive last September
off Rockley Hard. That evening we all had drinks in the Seven
Bells. I saw Colin and Rosemary kissing in a corner."

"Thank you, Mr. Donaldson. Would you say Sven Richards
was a novice at diving or was he experienced?"

"Very experienced. He's dived over thirty times with me.
That's why at the time of the dive, I was so baffled by his
extraordinary
behaviour. I mean, to swim down like that was so "

"Thank you, Mr. Donaldson," said Anders, cutting him off
in mid-sentence. "I have no more questions. Will you wait there
please."

Anders sat, his bleak expression barely concealing his
satisfaction.

"And naturally, when you came to the surface, you were exhausted,
Mr. Donaldson?" Golding's voice was smooth and reassuring.
There was no sign of his stare.

"Yes."

"Extremely exhausted? After all, you had swam to the surface
much faster than you should've done?"

"Yes."

"So, in this exhausted state on the surface, you had to spit
out your aqualung mouthpiece, call out to Rosemary Richards in
the dinghy and tread water all at the same time?"

"Yes."

"And you were still wearing your aqualung and twenty-five
pounds of lead weights?"

"Yes."

"And Rosemary Richards was wearing a rubber diving suit?"

"Yes," Donaldson looked puzzled.

"Which completely covered her from head to toe?"

"Except for her face."

"Her diving suit is a Normalair pattern which includes a hood
and built-in ear muffs? Yes?"

"Yes."

"Built in ear muffs, Mr. Donaldson?"

"Yes."

Golding smiled faintly. "You were on the surface -- exhausted;
treading water; wearing a hundredweight of equipment. You

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managed to croak out a call for help to Rosemary Richards who
was fifty yards away with her back to you and her ears completely
covered up; and you say she ignored you?"

"Perhaps those were the wrong words," said Donaldson lamely.

"What were the right words then, Mr. Donaldson? That she
genuinely didn't hear you possibly?"

"I suppose that might be the case."

Golding gazed at the witness with an expression approaching
contempt. He picked up his notebook, then suddenly snapped out:

"Why were you so baffled by Sven Richards behaviour when he
swam away from you?"

"Because divers have it drilled into them to always stick
together in poor visibility. Sven swam away from me because his
brain had been poisoned I" Donaldson's beard twitched in anger.

"By the contents of his aqualung bottles?"

"Yes!" Donaldson saw the trap he had walked into, but it
was too late. Golding pounced:

"Isn't it so that compressed air can be a deadly poison to a
skin diver?"

"It depends." Donaldson was beginning to flounder.

"I'll repeat the question," said Golding. "Isn't it so that
ordinary, pure air when it's compressed, can be a deadly poison
to a skin diver?"

"Yes. But not at the depth we were at. It's not until you get
down to three hundred feet or more that the diver gets oxygen
poisoning."

"And what about nitrogen poisoning?" demanded Golding,
gradually turning on his stare. "What about nitrogen narcosis?
Surely you've heard of that? Also known as Rapture of the
Deep?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Just a minute, Mr. Golding," said Sinclair. "One thing I
can remember from my schooldays is that the air we breathe is
eighty per cent nitrogen and twenty per cent oxygen. Are we to
understand that both these ingredients can be poisonous to
humans?"

"Yes indeed, my Lord," said Golding shutting off his stare as
he turned to the judge. "I'm sure the witness will correct me if
I'm wrong, but a skin diver breathes air from his aqualung at
the same pressure as the surrounding water. If he's at a hundred
feet say, then the diver has a pressure on his body which is
four times the air pressure we are all experiencing at the
moment.
Under such conditions excessive nitrogen is absorbed into the

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blood causing the diver to suffer from hallucinations,
disorientation and perhaps a misplaced sense of well-being -- in
much the
same way as one is affected by taking certain drugs or indulging
in too much alcohol."

"I wouldn't know," Sinclair observed impishly. "But I'll take
your word for it." He turned to Donaldson. "Is what learned
counsel says correct? "

"Yes, sir."

"That air can make you drunk?"

"Yes, sir."

"Mm. In that case I suppose we should make the best of it
before it's taxed or made illegal. Carry on, Mr. Golding."

Anders secretly admired the amount of preparation the astute
little counsel had put into his case, and conclude that even
Golding must have been surprised by the witness's willingness to
modify his answers when under pressure.

Golding hooked a thumb under his waistcoat and restored the
stare at half-power.

"Have you ever suffered from nitrogen narcosis, Mr. Donaldson?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"The same way I know when I'm drunk!"

Someone in the public gallery laughed.

"And besides," added Donaldson. "I've never dived deep
enough to experience it. And I'm certain Sven hadn't."

"What's depth got to do with it?"

"I'm sorry?"

Golding sighed. "What's depth got to do with it?"

"Well, everything. Rapture of the Deep, you called it."

The intensity of Golding's stare steadily increased. "Depth is
only a contributory cause, isn't it, Mr. Donaldson? The real
cause
is too much nitrogen in the blood which affects the brain and
consequently -- coordination."

"In a way - yes."

"Too much nitrogen which is absorbed by diving too deep or
breathing too fast, or both? Yes?"

"Yes."

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"Do you breathe faster than normal in cold water?"

"Yes. Although one tries not to."

"Sven Richards was breathing faster than he should have on
his last dive?"

'Yes."

Golding referred to his notes. What he was really doing was
carefully phrasing his next question to avoid an objection by
Anders on the grounds that the witness was being called upon to
conjecture. He looked up at Donaldson. "In the light of your
considerable
experience and training, and the requirement that divers
must be able to recognise when a fellow diver is in difficulties,
did you consider at the time, that Sven Richards' irrational
behaviour
might be due to his suffering from nitrogen narcosis?"

There was a long silence. Anders debated with himself whether
or not to object.

Donaldson nodded. "It did cross my mind."

"So you did think it possible?"

Anders uncoiled himself.

"I'll allow the question, Mr. Anders," said Sinclair before
Anders could open his mouth.

"Yes," said Donaldson.

"How did the accused, Rosemary Richards behave when her
husband's body was brought ashore?"

"She was nearly hysterical."

"Did she insist that Sven Richards was put in the recompression
chamber?"

"Yes. Although I pointed out to her that Sven hadn't been
down long enough to need recompression. I thought it more
important
to get him to hospital."

"So why was he recompressed?"

"It was a compromise - to keep Sven under a controlled rate
of decompression until the ambulance arrived."

"So there was no question of Sven Richards being denied
medical treatment while he was in the chamber?"

"No. Except that we wouldn't be able to keep him warm while
he was in it, but Rosemary insisted."

Golding changed his line of questioning. "Warmsley Quarry

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is not completely full of water?"

"No."

"The water level is some fifty feet below the quarry's upper lip.
Yes?"

"Yes."

"And you operated from a piece of flat ground below the edge
of the quarry and near the water's edge?"

"Yes."

"You said when you sniffed the air from that aqualung, that
it smelt strongly of petrol engine fumes?"

"Yes."

"Your aqualung compressor is driven by a petrol engine?"

"Yes."

"And it had been running all the time filling up other members'
aqualung bottles?"

"I could hear it all the time I wasn't underwater."

"Was it a windy day?"

"No. Just the odd eddy."

"Because the quarry is sheltered?"

"Yes."

"So reasonably, there would be a good deal of exhaust fumes
from the compressor hanging about in this still air stirred only
by the odd eddy'?"

"I suppose it's possible."

"I would've said that it was most likely, wouldn't you, Mr.
Donaldson? A powerful engine running at high-speed in a sheltered
place like Warmsley Quarry?"

"Yes. I suppose so."

"I don't like this vagueness," said Sinclair to the witness.
"Were there, or were there not petrol engine fumes in the air,
or
don't you know?"

"Yes, sir. There were fumes. But the air wasn't thick with
them."

Sinclair nodded to Golding.

The hard stare focused on Donaldson. "So when you sniffed
the air from that aqualung, how do you know that you weren't

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also sniffing petrol engine fumes that were already in the
atmosphere?"

Donaldson flushed angrily. His beard trembled. "Now look.
You've twisted everything else I've said, at least give me credit
for being able to recognise a smell that's squirted out right
under
my nose!"

"But the air we breathe is under our noses all the time, Mr.
Donaldson. Is that a fact I've twisted?"

Donaldson said nothing. He avoided looking at the stare.

"And there were petrol engine fumes in the air all round you?"

The witness remained silent.

"So how do you know that what you were sniffing was wholly
air from the aqualung and not air contaminated with petrol
engine fumes borne on one of these 'odd eddies' you mentioned ?''

Donaldson looked round the court in desperation. "This is
crazy! If I say I sniffed the air and said it smelt of petrol
engine fumes then why shouldn't I be believed? I'm not lying!"

"No one is suggesting you are, Mr. Donaldson," said Sinclair.
"Counsel is merely trying to establish whether or not you
are mistaken."

"Mr. Donaldson," said Golding in a reasoning tone. "If I asked
you to breathe the contents of that aqualung, and nothing but the
contents of that aqualung, you would have to put on a facemask
to cover your nose and eyes, and put the mouthpiece properly
in your mouth and inhale as if you were using the aqualung.
Correct?"

"I suppose so."

"Answer the question properly," Sinclair reprimanded sternly.

"Yes!"

"You didn't do that, did you?" said Golding. "You merely
placed your nose near the mouthpiece, operated the by-pass and
sniffed."

"Yes."

"So you can't be certain, one hundred percent certain, that the
air you sampled was air wholly from the aqualung?"

Donaldson's reply was a sulky: "No."

Ander's wasn't unduly worried. He could see from the expression
on some of the jurors' faces that they believed that if a
man said that he could smell engine fumes, then he could smell
engine fumes. Any doubt Golding may have raised about fumes
from the compressor not being deliberately introduced into Sven
Richards' aqualung would be reinstated by his next witnesses.

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"You said in your evidence that Rosemary Richards and Colin
Freeman had a relationship. Would you clarify that please?"

"They were lovers," said Donaldson crisply.

"Ah yes. Of course. You'd seen them kissing in the Seven
Bells one evening. How many of these kisses were exchanged
between the couple?"

"I'm not sure."

"Twenty? Forty? Eighty?"

"I saw them kissing once."

"One kiss? That's what kissing means is it?"

"It think it was one kiss -- yes."

"I understand the Seven Bells is what one would call an Olde
Worlde Inn with dark corners and low beams -- soft lighting?"

"Yes."

"Were the two accused sitting in a dark corner?"

"They were sitting in a corner. I can't remember the lighting."

"Well let's see what else we can find out that you didn't
remember."

Anders stood. "My Lord. My learned friend is including
Unnecessary comment in his cross-examination."

Golding smile graciously. "I withdraw the remark, my Lord."
Donaldson had relaxed during the exchange between the counsels
and the judge. Before he had time to brace himself, Golding
snapped out another question:

"Did you see their lips touch?"

Donaldson was off-guard. "Er ... Well, no. Rosemary had
her back to me, but it was the gesture of a kiss."

"They were in a dark corner --"

"I didn't say that!"

"I understand that all the corners in the Seven Bells are dark.
Perhaps I've been misinformed. Is there a light one?"

"I don't know. I don't think so." Donaldson's voice was sulky
again.

"So. They were in a dark corner. Rosemary Richards had her
back to you. You didn't see her lips and you didn't see Colin
Freeman's lips, and you didn't see their lips touch, yet by some
amazing miracle of perception, you saw them kiss."

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Donaldson said nothing and Golding didn't press for a reply.

"Was it noisy in the bar?"

"Yes."

"It didn't occur to you that Rosemary Richards was leaning
towards Colin Freeman or he was leaning towards her so that
they could hear what they were saying to each other?"

"It looked like a kiss."

Golding's eyes were hard. "So now it looked like a kiss. Well
I can think of a thousand gestures that might look like a kiss."

"Can you really, Mr. Golding?" Sinclair asked in a mildly
reproving tone.

"Quite a lot, my Lord."

"Look," said Donaldson. "It was common knowledge in the
club that those two were having it away"

"I don't think we want to hear about that," said Sinclair
sharply. "Please confine what you say to answers to counsel's
questions."

Donaldson pressed his lips together.

"I have no more questions, my Lord." Golding sat and started
a whispered consultation with his instructing solicitor.

Donaldson looked immensely relieved.

"Just a few more questions," said Anders, hitching his gown
higher onto his shoulders as he rose. "Mr. Donaldson, had you
ever known the deceased to behave in such an irrational way on
previous dives under similar conditions?"

"No. Never. Sven was a registered first class diver even though
he didn't attend all the club dives."

"Thank you for bearing with us, Mr. Donaldson."

Chief Superintendent Harold Walker of the Fulchester CID was
in the witness box for less than ten minutes outlining his
preliminary investigation with members of the Fulchester branch of
the British Sub Aqua Club which resulted in him sending Sven
Richards' aqualung away under police escort to have its contents
subjected to special analysis.

"The results of that test and other information received led
to the arrest of the defendants and their subsequent charging
with the murder of Sven Richards," concluded Walker.

"Thank you, Chief Superintendent Walker. I have no more
questions."

"No questions," said Golding.

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"Does your lordship have any questions?" inquired Anders.

"No. You may stand down, Chief Superintendent."
"Then I call Frederic Racine," said Anders.

"And are you the senior analytical chemist at the British Drugs
Research Institute near Fulchester, Doctor Racine?" asked
Anders.

"Yes."

Racine was so short that he gave the appearance of sitting in
the witness box. He had to strain up to speak into the
microphone.

"You can relax, Dr. Racine," said Sinclair sympathetically.
"You'll find that the microphone is quite sensitive."

Racine came down off his toes and bobbed his head at the
judge. He had a hunted look about him, as if he spent his waking
hours on the run from the law or the Mafia. Every minute spent
outside his laboratory was a minute spent with his life in peril.
He took pills for it - at least ten a day, and more pills to stop
Him worrying about all the pills he took. Racine's trouble was that
he knew far too much about the germs and viruses that were being
allowed to run loose in the courtroom. In his laboratory they
were all safely behind glass in test tubes and flasks.

"On Monday the tenth of January last, were you asked by the
Fulchester CID to analysis the contents of eight aqualungs?"
asked Anders.

"Yes." God knows what was living in all those wigs.

"Would you tell the court the results of the tests you carried
out please."

Racine tried not to think about the wigs, or the bible they had
asked him to hold. "Six of the aqualungs were empty -- the valves
had been opened so that the interior of the cylinders was exposed
to the atmosphere so there was no point in testing them,
but one aqualung - that one there with my label on it," Racine
pointed to Sven Richards' breathing set, "did have air in it at
a pressure of eighty-six pounds per square inch."

"Enough for analysis purposes?"

"Oh yes."

"And what did you find?"

Racine warily watched a fly advancing towards him along the
top of the witness box. "In addition to the normal gases which
make up air, there were significant traces of carbon-dioxide,
carbon-monoxide, sulphur-dioxide, lead, and a small quantity of
trace elements normally associated with the combustion of
petrol."

"What affect on a diver would these 'significant traces' have?"

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Racine nodded at the aqualung. "In that sort of aqualung at a
depth of, say, a hundred feet - three to four times surface
pressure
- then it would be lethal. The diver breathing it most certainly
would not remain conscious for longer than five minutes."

"Why do you say 'that sort of aqualung'?"

"Because the diver breathes through his mouth and therefore
would not be able to smell the gas he's breathing as he can with
a full facemask type aqualung."

"So the gas in the aqualung did have a noticeable smell?"

"Oh yes. In fact it was a terrible stink. I had to open the
laboratory
windows when I emptied the test chamber." He made it sound as if
opening windows was a foolhardy action."

"Thank you, Dr. Racine. Will you wait please." Anders sat.

"Now, Dr. Racine," said Golding as he rose. "I'm interested
to hear about this analysis. Perhaps you'd be good enough to
briefly describe it without going too much into technicalities."

"It's quite simple really," said Racine. "I bled the gas into a
vacuum chamber and then tested it with an instrument called a
spectrophotometer which indicates the presence of various gases
on a visual display. Our particular instrument is very advanced
because it has a separate read-out to show the quantities of the
various gases present." Racine found he was unable to meet
Golding's unblinking gaze.

"Presumably," said Golding, "this vacuum chamber has all
gas or air pumped from it before you start the test?"

"Well of course."

"A remarkable instrument. Are you going to make it available
to the rest of the world?"

Racine forgot his germs and stared back at Golding. "I don't
understand you. We bought the chamber from Germany."

"Simply this; I was under the impression that the absolutely
perfect vacuum has yet to be achieved in any laboratory."

"Yes. That's correct."

Golding looked round the courtroom in disbelief before returning
his gaze to the witness. "But just now, in answer to my
question, had this vacuum chamber all the air pumped out of it,
you said, yes."

"I mean that it was as near a perfect vacuum as it is possible
to achieve with our equipment. It was within a hundred pascal."

"So it wasn't a vacuum?" Golding's stare was relentless.

"Of course a hundred pascal vacuum is a vacuum!" Racine

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burst out. "It's a better vacuum than you get in vacuum flasks!"

"We're not talking about vacuum flasks," said Golding.
"We're talking about this so-called vacuum chamber of yours
which, it seems, was unable to achieve a vacuum. In other words,
it was already contaminated with gases before you used it?"

Anders climbed to his feet. "My Lord. The witness has stated
that the chamber contained a hundred pascal vacuum. A value
which the witness has not been allowed to quantify in terms
understandable to laymen."

Golding looked indignant. "My Lord. A vacuum is absolute.
One cannot have degrees of a vacuum otherwise it's not a vacuum.
I can, if your lordship so wishes, produce a number of
Dictionaries which all define a vacuum as a void. One even goes so far
as to say it is a space containing no atoms or molecules."

Sinclair considered the problem for a moment then turned to
the witness. "Dr. Racine. Would you explain what you mean by a
hundred pascal vacuum?"

Racine nervously licked his lips. The streptococci that were
lurking in every corner waiting to get him were forgotten.
"Ordinary
atmospheric pressure is rated at a hundred-thousand pascal,
my Lord. Therefore a hundred pascal vacuum is a thousandth of
atmospheric pressure. Which, to all intents and purposes, is an
adequate vacuum for laboratory purposes."

"And are you satisfied that this vacuum, imperfect though it
was, would not in any way affect the accuracy of your results
when you tested the contents of that aqualung?"

"Absolutely satisfied, my Lord." The little doctor looked at
the judge in gratitude.

"Does that answer your question, Mr. Golding?" Sinclair
challenged, turning his huge, rough-hewn face to the counsels'
bench.

Golding smiled bleakly. "I am most grateful, my Lord ..."

Damn liar, thought Sinclair.

"... But I do have one more question on the subject with your
Lordship's permission."

"Very well," said Sinclair wearily.

"What were the gases contaminating the vacuum chamber
before you started the test?" Golding fired at the witness.

Anders was on his feet immediately. "My Lord --"

"I agree," said Sinclair quickly before Anders voiced his
objection.
"I think I'd better put the question, if you don't mind,
Mr. Golding." Sinclair glared at the witness as if he was the
cause of all the trouble. "What were the gases present in the

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chamber before you started your test?"

The little doctor blinked. It was beginning to dawn on him
that these be-wigged and be-gowned characters, if they weren't
as numerous, were as dangerous as all the germs running amuck in
the court.

"I don't know," he said sadly.

"Well you should know!" snapped Sinclair.

"I'm very sorry, my Lord," mumbled Racine, wishing a sudden
and vicious army of influenza hybrids would strike him down
there and then.

"So you can't say positively if these unknown gases would
have or would not have had an affect on your results? I'm not
trying to lead you in any way, so please consider your answer
most carefully."

Racine considered. "It would be such a small amount but
without looking at the lab records to see what the chamber was
last used for, I can't give an answer to your question."

Sinclair nodded. "Well if you don't know, you don't know."
He made a note with his red pencil.

"I have no more questions, my Lord," said Golding sitting.

"Just two questions, my Lord." Anders stood and turned to
the witness.

"Did you or did you not allow the contents of the aqualung
bottle to escape in your laboratory?"

"I did."

"Never mind your instruments. What did your nose tell you
was in the aqualung?"
'Petrol engine fumes."
'And were the windows open or closed?"

"Closed. But I opened them afterwards because of the smell."

"Thank you, Mr. Racine ... Does your Lordship have any
questions?"

Sinclair shook his head. "No thank you, Mr. Anders. I think
it time we adjourned for lunch. You may stand down Dr Racine."

Martin looked at his watch and his heart sank -- it was too late
to visit Carrie.

"All right," Virginia said impatiently. "You've apologised three
times, I've accepted three times, so let's forget it."

Martin made a pattern with the sugar grains spilt on the
cafeteria table. They were sitting in the area reserved for
jurors.

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"Yesterday, after I was rude to you, I made a resolution not to
be rude to anyone for a week. And to make the same resolution
again next week, and so on."

Virginia sipped her coffee. "And how resolved are you?"

"I broke it just now on the phone to the hospital."

"Why?"

"Because they won't let me see Carrie out of hours."

"You are crazy."

Martin stared down at his cup. "Being out of work for so long
makes you vicious. It's the only defence you've got."

"Rubbish."

"Kicking at officials who've decided that you're a second class
citizen. Even the girl in the jury office looked down her nose
when I said I was unemployed."

Virginia shook her head in the same quizzical way that Carrie
did. "You're imagining it."

"No. It's the first thing they want to know about you when
you come up against any form of bureaucracy -- what's your job,
they ask. They want to know where they stand with you; whether
you're one they can kick or one who can kick them. Look at
that bearded chap this morning. As soon as he was in the witness
box they wanted to know what his job was so they knew where
they stood."

"We're not to discuss the case, the judge told us," Virginia
said firmly. "And anyway - you are employed -- you've got those
windows to finish this evening."

"What does your father do?" Martin asked suddenly.

"He's managing director of a bookbinding business."

Martin nodded. "I thought it was something like that. You
have a ruling class air about you."

Virginia didn't react but looked Martin straight in the eye
and said softly, "You must be a bastard to live with."

Leon Polder sat alone at a corner table in the cafeteria and
watched the counsels and solicitors laughing and drinking at the
licensed bar. He was well-pleased with his morning's work in
the court building. He had paid three visits to the toilets
during the trial. Each time he had gone into a different cubicle, untied
a Smith and Wesson from the laces sewn on the inside of his
heavy anorak, unscrewed the cistern lid and placed the gun inside
the bag of pebbles the British had put in the cisterns in a
feeble attempt to save water during a bygone drought. The water
shortage had been over a long time but Polder had no doubt that
the British, with their typical bungling forgetfulness, would

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leave the bags in place until the building fell down or was
demolished. Inside each waterproof bag protecting the guns was
one of the boxes of ammunition.

One more visit to the toilets in the afternoon and each of the
four cubicles would be looking after a Smith and Wesson and
fifty rounds.

The weapons wouldn't be needed until Friday or even the
following Monday. Polder wasn't absolutely sure when the trial
of his fellow revolutionaries, Neil Tysack and the Mace twins
would start, but getting the guns into place early was insurance
against the police taking it into their heads to search everyone
thoroughly, not only on the day of the trial, but one or two days
before it opened.

One advantage of sitting in the public box, tucked away at the
back of the courtroom in a corner, was that it had given him a
first class opportunity to study all the court personnel and
gauge how they might react when he made his move. Walker he
could deal with but what about Vice, assuming he was the
presiding judge? How thick was the panelling to the front of his
desk? Vice looked as if he could move fast. He could be a
dangerous man.

But not as dangerous as me, thought Polder grimly.

He was looking forward to the trial.

Leonard Stacy was a rugged man in his middle 305. His broken
nose caused Sinclair to wonder if he was a boxing man. Stacy
recited the oath without looking at the card and gave his
occupation
as a police sergeant. Definitely a boxer, Sinclair decided.

Stacy planted his feet slightly apart and clasped both hands
behind his back. He looked ready for anything.

"Are you a member of the Fulchester branch of the British
Sub Aqua Club, Sergeant Stacy?" asked Anders, putting a permitted
leading question.

"Yes, sir." The words were clipped out with the precision of
two letters struck on an electric typewriter.

Anders regarded his witness with confidence. He had questioned
Stacy once before on a police case and was certain that
Golding wouldn't be able to turn him inside-out as he had with
the other witnesses.

Golding was thinking along similar lines. He knew the type -- a
tough, assured, well-disciplined police officer who would answer
every question politely, would stick to answering the questions
without volunteering additional information, and would
ignore jibes and insults implied in a cross-examining counsel's
tone of voice.

Stacy stared at a space halfway between Anders and the two
prisoners. Never look directly at a counsel, he had been trained.
On his last promotion course they had used a dummy witness box

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with TV cameras and recording gear so that an instructor could
go over his performance afterwards. Stacy had thought that before
the course he was good. Afterwards he was even better - just as
he would have to be now if his evidence was to get those two
fornicating murderers the life-sentence they deserved. Stacy didn't
consider that this appearance in the witness box was different
because he was personally involved.

It was an omission that was to destroy him utterly.

"What office do you hold on the club's committee?" asked
Anders.

"Training officer, sir."

"Were you present on the club's visit to Warmsley Quarry on
the eighth of January last? "

"Yes, sir."

"Please describe the events that took place."

"I arrived at the quarry in my own car, driving behind the
equipment lorry -- that's the vehicle parked outside with the
compressor on the back. The male and female accused ...

A curious expression, thought Golding.

"... unloaded the club equipment and started up the compressor's
engine and proceeded to charge the aqualung belonging
to Mr Sven Richards -- the deceased. It was while I was getting
ready with the others -- about fifty yards from the compressor
because it makes so much noise -- that I noticed the defendants
place the air intake hose dangerously near the compressor
engine's exhaust pipe."

"Can the witness be shown Exhibit One please," said Anders.

The usher handed Stacy a photograph of the truck.

"Which is the air intake hose, Sergeant Stacy?"

Stacy held the photograph up with his finger pointing to a coil
of hose similar to the type used on vacuum cleaners.

"Why is it so long?"

"So it can be unwound and the intake placed a safe distance
upwind of the engine's exhaust -- to be certain poisonous fumes
aren't sucked into the aqualung cylinders."

Anders turned to the judge. "If the members of the jury are
shown Exhibit One again, my Lord. They will see that the picture
clearly shows the instruction plate on the compressor which
warns against this hazard."

The set of photographs were again distributed to the jury.

"Please continue, Sergeant Stacy."

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Stacy's eyes remained fixed on the wall at the back of the
courtroom above the dock. "I approached both the male accused
and the female accused and warned them that the air intake was
dangerously sited and they gave an undertaking to move it. I
was on the second dive so I went behind some rocks to change

into my wet suit. The hose intake was still in the same place
when I emerged. I again mentioned this to both the male accused
and the female accused."

Anders did not like the manner in which Stacy referred to
the defendants. "What could you hear while you were getting
changed?"

"The compressor. It was running all the time. They told me
that wind eddies made safe siting difficult. I suggested that to
be on the safe side, Sven Richards' aqualung should be emptied and
refilled. I then went to instruct a novice diver who was to be
my companion on the second dive. It was while I was testing the
novice on his knowledge of free-ascent that I heard the female
accused out in the Gemini in the middle of the lake calling for
help. I followed the male accused into the water with two
underwater lamps. We spent about ten minutes snorkelling down to
depths of thirty feet. The third time I went down, I found Sven
Richards' body drifting slowly towards the surface."

"What do you mean by snorkelling?"

"Diving without aqualungs -- by holding our breath."

"Why didn't you use aqualungs?"

"They hadn't been filled, sir."

"What happened after you brought the deceased ashore?"

"He was still breathing - just, so we all took a turn at giving
him artificial respiration. His wife, the female accused,
insisted
that we put him in the recompression chamber even though he
hadn't been down long enough to need it."

"Did you agree to this?"

"No, sir. I strongly objected. I thought it more important to
keep the deceased warm but his wife was behaving with such
contrived hysteria that everyone decided to put him in the
chamber while I went off to find a phone box to call an
ambulance."

Anders wished that Stacy hadn't said 'contrived hysteria'. It
amounted to an attack on Rosemary Richards which gave Golding
the right to retaliate. It was one of the dangers of asking a
witness to relate events rather than answer specific questions.
Out of the corner of his eye, Anders saw Golding making a note.
Damn Stacy. Surely he knew enough about giving evidence not
to say such a thing?

Without prompting from Anders, Stacy pressed on with the
story:

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"After the ambulance had taken the deceased to hospital,
Andrew Donaldson and I stayed behind to clear up. All the
aqualungs were there including the one used by the deceased.
Prior to that I had prevented the male accused from emptying
the aqualung as he had with the other two he and the female
accused had partly filled."

"Why did you take that action?"

"Because I thought he was trying to destroy evidence."

"What evidence?"

"The contents of Sven Richards' aqualung cylinder."

Anders half-expected Golding to object to the line the
questioning
was taking but the shrewd little counsel remained seated,
staring at the witness and making the occasional note.

Anders risked a leading question: "Did you test the contents
of the aqualung?"

"Yes, sir. I released some air via the by-pass valve and sniffed
it. It smelt very strongly of petrol engine exhaust fumes."

Anders glanced at the jury. Stacy's evidence was making a good
impression. Now for a question that would have Golding on his
feet if Stacy came out with the right answer:

"What was your reaction when you smelt the poisonous contents
of Sven Richards' aqualung?"

"I had no doubt that there had been an attempted murder."

Golding rose immediately. "My Lord. What the witness
thought is immaterial."

"I asked for his reaction, my Lord," Anders explained.

"What's the difference?" Golding demanded.

"Please let's not start bickering, gentlemen," sighed Sinclair.
He looked severely at Anders. "I think you should treat all this
rope Mr. Golding is giving you with great care, Mr. Anders."

Anders bowed. "Indeed, my Lord."

Golding sat, smiling broadly.

"When did you hear that Sven Richards had died?" Anders
asked the witness.

"While I was reporting my suspicions to Chief Superintendent
Walker of the Fulchester CID."

Golding said nothing. He had been neatly outmanoeuvred.

'Returning to the scene at the quarry when the aqualung was

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being filled -- were the defendants operating the compressor all
the time?"

"Yes."

"Is that normal? Does it require two operators?'

"No. But those two were always together when Sven wasn't
around."

"There were only seven of you on this outing. Isn't it natural
that all of you were together?"

Stacy hesitated. The first time he had done so since entering
the box. "They were together, together."

"What does that mean?"

Another hesitation. Anders realised that he was moving into
a sensitive area.

Golding noticed the hesitation too. It might have a bearing on
some information that his instructing solicitor had, by sheer
coincidence, unearthed about Police Sergeant Leonard Stacy.

"It means they were lovers," Stacy said curtly. His eyes moved
to a fresh spot on the wall.

"Have you evidence of that?"

"The evidence of my own eyes."

"Please tell the court."

Stacy's eyes left the wall and glanced briefly at the two in
the dock. Rosemary Richards was sitting tensely on the edge of
the bench paying close attention to everything said. Colin
Freeman
was gazing at Stacy with an expression of loathing and contempt.
The prisoners looked at each other and smiled. The
atmosphere between the dock and the witness box was electric.
Anders felt his hackles, finely tuned after twenty years at the
Bar, beginning to rise. Something was wrong. Desperately
wrong. But evidence that the two in the dock were lovers was
crucial to his case. He had to push on - ignoring his nerves that
were screaming at him not to.

"Please tell the court," Anders prompted.

Stacy licked his lips. "Last year, after a dive which the
deceased
didn't attend, I saw the two accused sitting in a car outside
a pub. They were in a compromising position." Stacy stopped.

No doubt the collective mind of the jury is boggling, thought
Anders. But what worried him was the almost imperceptible
giggle he heard from Rosemary Richards behind him.

"Will you describe this position please."

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There was another hesitation before Stacy answered. "The
male accused had his hand on the female accused's thigh. Both
of them were giggling and laughing. She had her arms round
his neck."

Anders saw Golding give a faint nod of approval. What the
devil was up? Anders turned round on the pretext of obtaining
a paper from a junior counsel. He glanced quickly at the dock.
Both of them were smiling at Stacy. Gamesmanship? Anders
wondered. Maybe, but he had to press on.

"Now this isolated incident --"

"It wasn't isolated. There were others. One evening, when the
deceased was out of the country, I called on the female accused
in her capacity as club secretary to ask her to photocopy the new
training schedule. The house was in darkness but a light went
on upstairs when I rang the bell. The female accused answered
the door. The male accused was in the house with her."

Anders worried about the affect all this 'male accused' and
'female accused' was having on the jury. It was only a matter of
time before Sinclair commented on it. What was worse was
Stacy's uneasy behaviour as he recollected these events. His
hands
were now grasping the sides of the box instead of being clasped
behind his back. Like most experienced counsels, Anders knew
that witnesses rarely lied when holding their hands behind their
back. Lying required a support - something to hold on to. There
was no doubt that Stacy was jealous of Colin Freeman. It
would be better to cut his examination of the witness short. Just
as Anders took this decision, Stacy volunteered even more
information

"Of course, there were other incidents -- lots of them. They
were always carrying on."

"Thank you, Sergeant Stacy," said Anders curtly. "But I have
no more questions." He looked at the dock again as he sat.
Rosemary Richards and Colin Freeman were now grinning broadly
at Stacy.

Golding rose. Stacy met his hard stare for a moment then
switched his attention back to the wall.

"Sergeant Stacy. What direction was the wind blowing in at
the time of the accident?"

"Strong southwest."

Look at me, willed Golding.

"Really? despite the fact that the water surface is well below
the upper edge of the quarry?"

"The compressor lorry was parked on an upper slope," said
Stacy, still gazing at the wall. Nothing was going to make him
look at those dangerous eyes. Nothing.

"What was the wind strength on the Beaufort scale?"

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"Oh really, my Lord," Anders protested. "It's unreasonable
to expect a witness to go to such extremes of observation."

"Normally I would agree, my Lord," said Golding smoothly.
"But we have here an extremely competent witness; the club's
training officer, accustomed to diving in varying conditions and
used to taking the weather into account when pursuing his hobby
in exactly the same way that a yachtsman does."

"I think it's a fair question," said Sinclair.

Anders bowed, twitched his gown and sat down.

"I don't know what the wind strength was," said Stacy. "I
wouldn't even like to guess under those circumstances."

"Because the wind was eddying?"

"I suppose it was a bit -- yes."

"Really?" said Golding archly. "Yet eddies can hardly be
described
as a strong south-westerly wind, can they?"

Stacy was nettled; not much, but enough to give Golding
confidence.
There was a sharpness about Stacy's reply that was gratifying:

"There was a strong south-westerly wind that caused the
eddies in the quarry!"

Look at me I willed Golding
Stacy's hard blue eyes were trapped for a fleeting second in
Golding's unwavering stare.

"Do you know what eddy means?"

"Yes."

"Light air currents possessing an unpredictable circular motion.
Would you agree with that definition?"

"I suppose so -- yes."

"You agree?'

"Yes."

"Circular air currents would make it extremely difficult for
Colin Freeman and Rosemary Richards to safely position the
compressor's air-intake hose so that exhaust fumes wouldn't be
sucked into the aqualung. Yes?"

"Not if they had uncoiled the entire length of intake hose."

"You weren't at the compressor lorry all the time, were you?
so how do you know what the wind conditions were like?"

"I knew what direction the wind was blowing in I"

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"But you didn't. You've already said that the wind was eddying,
so how could you know how the wind was behaving at the
compressor when you were somewhere else?"

"I could see what the wind was doing by the way the exhaust
smoke was blowing!" said Stacy triumphantly.

"All the time the defendants were charging the deceased's
aqualung?"

"Yes!"

"A pack of lies!" barked Golding. "Just now you told my
learned friend that you went away to change and that you gave
instruction to a novice diver!"

"I was in the area all the time!"

Look at me.

"How could you get changed, teach a diver and watch the
compressor all at the same time?"

Stacy deflated. "Well I didn't have the compressor in sight
for every second."

"Which isn't all the time," said Golding, deliberately making
the comment sound more like a remark than a question.

There was a silence that Golding allowed to drag on so that
the jury would think the witness was lost for words when in
fact, he was waiting for the next question.

"So you don't know if the defendants had been having difficulty
in placing the air-intake hose in a suitable position?"

"They didn't seem to be having difficulty placing it in an
unsuitable position when I spoke to them about it," Stacy replied
caustically.

Golding was unmoved by the slick answer. "But we're talking
about unpredictable air currents, Sergeant Stacy. The position
of
the intake may have been suitable one second and unsuitable the
next?"

"It's possible, but I doubt it."

Look at me.

"But they moved it when you spoke to them?"

"Yes. But I saw later that they had moved it back again."

"What was Sven Richards doing all this time?"

"Checking his new underwater camera case I suppose."

"So he saw nothing amiss in the two defendants being together?"

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"No, Mr. Golding," said Sinclair. "I can't have that."

"Of course, my Lord," said Golding. He knew perfectly well
that either Anders or Sinclair would object to the question; its
purpose was to create doubt in the jury's mind that would be
needed later. His next question was asked with the same purpose
in mind:

"Do you really think the defendants would behave in a manner
that would endanger life after you had already mentioned it to
them?"

This time it was Anders who objected. Golding dropped the
question and returned to the attack.

"You saw Colin Freeman try to empty what compressed air
there was left in Sven Richards aqualung?"

"Yes."

Golding considered his next question carefully. If he asked,
*to destroy evidence?' Anders might smell a rat and object on
the grounds that Stacy was being asked to guess Colin Freeman's
motives. But there was more than one way of skinning a cat...

"Were your suspicions aroused by this attempt?"

"Yes."

Look at me!

"Why?"

"Because I thought he wanted to destroy the evidence I"

Good.

Anders' hackles were making him uncomfortable again. Why
the devil should Golding ask the same question that he had, and
why ask a question that undermined the case for the defence?

"My Lord," said Golding. "I now wish to introduce Exhibit
Four." Golding's instructing solicitor handed him a sheaf of
printed papers. "I've several copies here."

Sinclair took one of the papers from the clerk and studied it.

"It's a public notice issued by the Home Office," said Sinclair.
"I suppose you want it brought in under the '67 Criminal
Justice Act?"

"If your Lordship pleases."

Sinclair grunted. "Mr. Anders?"

"No objection, my Lord. And I've no more exhibits."

"Very well then," said Sinclair. "Mark them as Exhibit Four."

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Copies of the document were distributed to Anders, the jury
and the witness.

"As you can see, my Lord," said Golding. "It's a Home Office
notice which deals with proposed additions to the Gas Cylinders'
Conveyance Regulations of 1931, 1941 and 1959. To avoid a
repetition of an accident which took place recently on the Mi,
the
Home Office stress that charged gas cylinders should not be
carried on public roads if it can be avoided." Golding turned to
Stacy. "Have you seen that notice before?"

"No."

Golding studied the witness. The break had given Stacy a
chance to recover his composure. His eyes were rivetted on the
wall.

"No, I don't suppose you have, Sergeant Stacy. It was sent to
all branches of the British Sub Aqua Club last November. And
because you hadn't seen it, an innocent gesture by my client in
obeying a government directive, became in your suspicious mind,
part of some evil, non-existent plot!"

Stacy was in complete control. He didn't react to Golding's
barbed words but continued staring impassively across the
courtroom.

"I'm interested in these so-called 'compromising incidents'
which your sharp, ever-watching eyes, never failed to miss
between
the 'male accused' and the 'female accused' as you choose
to call them."

Anders objected to Golding's insulting tone.

"To say a policeman has sharp, ever-watching eyes, is surely
a compliment, my Lord?" said Golding.

"Not the way you said it, Mr. Golding," Sinclair observed,
making a note with his black pencil and thinking that things
were beginning to get warm. Sinclair could smell trouble looming.
Golding had something up his sleeve.

Golding could well-understand that the subject of the alleged
affair between Rosemary Richards and Colin Freeman was a
sensitive issue with the witness. It was a major weapon he could
use to shatter the credibility of Stacy's evidence. Best to
circle round the issue. Dart in and out a little. Get him off balance.
Rattle him. It could be done. Weave in and out. Make Stacy's
brain spin until he was forced to look at his adversary in the
hope of seeing a clue that would warn him where the next attack
was coming from. And when that happened - destroy his evidence
piece by piece ... But if that technique failed .. . Golding
preferred not to think about the ultimate weapon he could use
against Stacy if he was forced to. His purpose was to demolish
Stacy's testimony -- not wreck his career in the police force.
No doubt Stacy was a good copper, but if it came to a choice between
him and two possibly innocent people going to jail, then there

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would be no hesitation.

As Golding faced-up to his showdown with Stacy, he had the
dubious comfort of knowing that he didn't invent the rules of the
deadly game he was about to play.

"Sergeant Stacy, said Golding softly. "In answer to a question
by my learned friend, you said that when Sven Richards was
brought ashore, Rosemary Richards behaved with contrived
hysteria."

"Yes."

"Did you ask her if her hysteria was contrived?"

"No."

"Have you ever seen her in a hysterical state before?"

"No."

"Or angry?"

A slight pause, then: "No."

"Not even on a diving trip to Lulworth Cove last summer?"

Edgy now. Tiny fear-induced speckles glinted on his forehead.
"No."

"Or angry when trying to change into a two-piece swimsuit?"

Stacy's eyes strayed briefly from their target on the wall. "No."

Sinclair frowned.

"Or in a Torquay hotel?"

A louder, more emphatic, "No."

Golding paused. Even the jury had sensed something. Twelve
pairs of eyes were trained on Stacy, monitoring the swelling
beads of sweat on his forehead and the white hands gripping the
sides of the box -- assessing every involuntary movement.

"No," said Stacy again.

"I haven't asked a question yet. Why did you say her hysteria
was contrived?"

"Because it was."

"Because you thought so?"

Stubborn repetition of, "No."

"What then?"

Silence.

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Golding, louder: "What then?"

Silence.

Judge: "Answer the question."

"I don't understand the question!"

Golding: "Was it the same sort of hysteria she showed in the
bedroom?"

"What hysteria? What bed -"

"You're familiar with her in a hysterical state to know when
it's contrived!"

"It was a figure of speech."

"It was an invention. Admit it!"

"I admit it was an exaggeration!"

"Just as those incidents you claim to have seen between the
defendants is an exaggeration?" Look at me.

"No! It was common knowledge that she was putting it
about!"

You're on your own, thought Anders.

"Putting what about!" Look at me, damn you.

"You know."

"No I don't know. I don't know how your mind works. I
don't know how much you're exaggerating again. Putting what
about?"

"Herself."

"You saw it being put?"

"Yes!"

"But not your way?"

"I don't know what you're talking about!"

"The Torquay hotel bedroom."

"That was an exaggeration I tell you!"

Stacy froze. He realised he had made a mistake. Don't make
another one - don't look at his eyes. In avoiding them he
encountered Rosemary Richards hard, unforgiving eyes. The same
expression as the time she had backed away from him clutching
the hotel bath towel in front of her. Stacy was now badly
frightened.
His fear affected his judgment for he decided to attack.

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"No matter how you try to twist everything I say, nothing
can change the fact that those two were committing adultery
together. Nothing! I've seen them together - seen the way
they've carried on, and then there were the times that they were
alone together in the house when Sven was abroad I"

Golding decided to ease the pressure. It wasn't needed now --
Stacy was providing his own.

"Rosemary Richards is the club secretary?" Golding asked
mildly.

"Yes."

"And Colin Freeman edits the club magazine Fathom Five?"

"Yes."

Golding picked up a small magazine and skimmed through the
pages. "Quite a lively little journal. Well-written and well
printed."

"Yes."

"A lot of work's gone into it."

"I suppose."

"Virtually every article written by the editor - Colin Freeman,
and the typing and artwork done by Rosemary Richards."

"They always made a good job of it. I'm not exaggerating that."

Golding smiled faintly at the witness box. Stacy was recovering
his composure. Let him.

"Which means they have to spend a great deal of time together?
Is that an exaggeration?"

"No."

"But what you think they get up to when they're busy preparing
this monthly magazine is?"

"No."

Golding struck. "So you admit that your accusations are based
on what you thought^"

Stacy was confused.

"I didn't say that."

"You agreed with me when I suggested that --"

"All right!" snapped Stacy. "I admit that I may have been
putting two and two together to some extent. But that doesn't
change "

"Sergeant Stacy," Golding interrupted. "All this court is asking

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you to do is to try and put the whole truth together without
delving into your fantasy world of half-truths, quarter-truths
and
downright exaggerations I Can you do that?"

"She's nothing more than a common whore," Stacy snarled.
"Sven Richards didn't deserve to have that sort of wife. And
that's
not a half-truth or an exaggeration. Ask any member of the
club."

"What other organizations do you belong to, Sergeant Stacy?"

The question surprised Stacy. "None."

"No other clubs?"

Nervously. "No."

"Boxing activities?"

"No." What the hell was he driving at?

"No local committees?" Come on. Look at me. Lie once more
and you're on a perjury charge.

Stacy's white face turned slowly towards the counsel's bench.
His eyes met Golding's unwavering gaze. A hideous black serpent
of writhing, gnawing terror twisted savagely in his guts
as he stared into the hypnotic, fathomless pupils.

He knew then that he was irrevocably doomed.

The final witnesses for the Prosecution, the other two divers,
threw no additional light on the matter. Neither had seen or
heard anything amiss until Donaldson had started yelling for
help.

One thought the wind had been strong and the other was
convinced it had been a light, variable breeze.

Golding's submission of no case to answer because the prosecution
had failed to produce substantial medical evidence as to
the cause of Sven Richards death other than by drowning, was
rejected by Mr. Justice Sinclair Vice. He ruled that the
deposition taken in the magistrates' court from a pathologist who was now
too ill to appear in the Crown Court contained sufficient grounds
to continue the case.

Golding's first witness, after an involved tussle for leave to
Call the defendants last, caused a minor sensation: Jane Milton
marched into the witness box as Jane Milton. The Dorothy Perkins
outfit had gone; in its place was a long skirt, unbuttoned
nearly all the way up at the front, and a tight, semitransparent
sweater. She recited the oath, glanced round the courtroom,
spotted Sergeant Stacy sitting on the witnesses bench and smiled at
him.

Stacy looked away, his face white and hands clasped tightly

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together to prevent them shaking.

Martin and every male member of the jury gaped at the witness
in fascination. They had finally heard the real Jane Milton at
the end of her evidence during the previous day's case, and now
they were seeing the real Jane Milton. Martin admired her
nerve -- to appear in court looking like that...

Despite the warning by his instructing solicitor, Golding was
shocked. He thought that the girl would've had more sense.

"Just a minute, Mr. Golding," said Sinclair turning to the
witness box. "Young lady. Do you know where you are?"

Jane brushed her hair back from her eyes.

"In a court." There was no 'my Lord' despite the card taped
to the inside of the witness box that said the judge was
addressed
as 'my Lord'.

"And do you think you're properly dressed for a courtroom?"

Without a trace of embarrassment Jane said: "I didn't think
it mattered these days." She drew her long hair over each
shoulder so that it covered her chest.

"Better," said Sinclair. "Now some of those buttons please."

Jane fastened the buttons on her skirt.

Sinclair nodded. "Thank you. I've no wish to seem old
fashioned but I'm anxious that this predominately male court
should be free to concentrate on your oral evidence rather than
evidence of your femininity."

Martin joined in with the laughter.

Jane smiled at Sinclair. She rather liked the old bugger.

In answer to Golding's questions she gave her name and said
that she was the former secretary to the director of the
Fulchester Human Relations Research Institute.

"Would you describe the work of this institute please."

"It was carrying out research into public attitudes to porn by
advertising for people to serve on a special committee."

"How many members was it hoping to enrol?"

"Ten thousand."

"A Committee of Ten Thousand?"

"That's right. That was its proper name."

"How did you do your recruiting?"

"By ads in the soft porn press. People would send in a fiver

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enrolment fee and we'd send them a load of dirty mags and a
questionnaire on what they thought of them."

"What do you mean by dirty mags?"

"Most of them were real hard Danish glossies."

"Do you mean explicit?"

"Oh yes. They were that all right. It said so in the ad."

"Did you enrol members from this area?"

"Only one." Jane spread her hair carefully so that the points
which had arisen on her inadmissible evidence were more
adequately covered. "Gave us quite a shock when we saw a local
address. And I knew whose address it was too. He didn't use his
real name of course. I took the mags round personally just to see
his expression when he saw me."

"Who was it?"

Jane pointed to the witnesses bench. "Him. Sergeant Leonard
Stacy."

The bitter dispute over what Anders called, "a deliberate and
unscrupulous character assassination by my learned friend,"
dragged on for ten minutes. It ended with Sinclair ruling that

Stacy's largely unsubstantiated attacks on the characters of the
defendants had laid himself open to a justified counter-attack
by the defence.

It was 3:00pm when Rosemary Richards entered the witness
box and took the oath. She answered Golding's preliminary
questions in a nervous, hesitant voice. After a day spent watching
her reactions, Martin had revised his opinion of her; he had
imagined that women who went in for skindiving would be
horsey, masculine types. He began to understand how Colin
Freeman could easily be attracted to her if they were thrown
together a great deal.

"How long had you been married to your late husband, Mrs.
Richards?"

"Three years."

"I'm very sorry if these questions cause you pain, but were you
fond of one another? "

Why didn't he say "did you love one another?" Martin wondered.

"Yes. Very much so."

"Would you tell the court what happened on the day after
your husband's death."

Rosemary looked down at the floor. Her voice was a whisper
as she said: "I tried to kill myself."

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"Why didn't you succeed?"

"My mother arrived from Manchester. She found me and
called a doctor. I woke up in hospital." Her voice was still a
whisper.

"Would you speak up a bit please, Mrs. Richards," Sinclair
requested.

Rosemary looked looked up at Sinclair. "I'm sorry."

"Did your husband have to leave you alone a great deal?"

Rosemary nodded. "He didn't want to but his father had
died the year before. Sven had to take over the running of the
factory."

"But you saw a great deal of Colin Freeman?"

"Not really. Colin would come over once a week -- usually on
a Sunday when Sven was at home. Colin and I are on the management
committee of the sub aqua club. There was always a lot
of club paperwork to be got through. Sometimes Colin would
come over when Sven was away on business, but it wasn't often."

Martin sensed his fellow jurors warming to Rosemary Richards.

"How would you describe your relationship with Colin Freeman?"

"He was a good friend of ours. He often visited us and was
always welcome. Sven was pleased that I had an active role in
the running of the club. He was one of its founder members.
That's how we met."

She's beginning to carry the jury, thought Golding -- the first
witness in this trial to do so. It was vital now that she won
their wholehearted sympathy.

Golding decided to employ his little-used technique of giving
his own witness a tough time. Anders, unless he saw what was
afoot, was hardly likely to come to the aid of a defendant he was
prosecuting. Golding knew it was a dangerous game: pushing
a witness could force them to say something incriminating that
would ruin the case. On the other hand, if Rosemary Richards
was innocent, then there wouldn't be anything incriminating she
could say. If she was innocent ...

Start softly : "You were manning the Gemini rubber dinghy
at the time of the dive?"

"Yes."

A little sharper now. Not too much: "Were you or were you
not supposed to stay above the two divers' exhaust bubbles?"

"I was supposed to stay above them." Rosemary looked at
Golding in surprise. She had come to regard him as a friend but
there was nothing friendly about his tone or his relentless
stare.

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She began to feel alone and very frightened.

"Mr. Donaldson said you were fifty yards from him when he
surfaced to raise the alarm. How do you account for that?"

"The bubbles split up. I didn't know which track to follow."

"Did you give any alarm when the bubbles split up?"

"No."

Very hard now: "Why not?"

"I know what Sven's like - I mean, was like. He would often
separate from his diving companion. He used to when he dived
with me."

Poor kid, thought Martin. Even her own counsel's putting
her through it. If he was tough, what would Anders be like?

"Why did you ignore Mr. Donaldson when he shouted for
help?"

Anders frowned. That was a question he was planning to ask.

"I didn't ignore him! I didn't!" Rosemary was gripping the
front of the witness box, begging with her expression for Golding to
believe her. "I turned round when I heard him shout. My
ears were covered by the hood on my wet suit."

Golding's eyes were terrifying. For a wild moment, Rosemary,
in her fear, considered admitting to anything to be spared the
dreadful torture of having to look into those burning black
pupils probing deep into the darkest recesses of her soul.

She's scared, thought Martin, but she's not looking at Colin
Freeman for support. Now what did that mean?

Golding gazed at his witness in icy contempt. "When your
husband's body was brought ashore, it must have been obvious,
even to you, that he needed immediate medical attention. You
refused him that attention -- you wouldn't let the others try to
keep him warm. Why?"

Rosemary looked thunderstruck.

Come on, Rosemary, Golding willed. Get angry with me.
Really angry with me.

"That's a terrible lie!" Rosemary shouted, her eyes wide with
fury. "You don't know what you're saying I"

Anders rose. "My Lord, it appears that my learned friend is
cross-examining his own witness."

"I'm not answering any more questions," said Rosemary.

Sinclair looked at her reprovingly. "I'm afraid that you must,
Mrs. Richards."

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"No. I was told that I didn't have to."

"You were told that you didn't have to go into the witness
box, but now you have and have taken the oath, then you must
answer learned counsel's questions."

"No," said Rosemary stubbornly.

Sinclair sighed. "You run the risk of being held in contempt of
court."

Rosemary laughed bitterly. "What's that compared to the
trouble I'm in now?"

Sinclair checked his temper. "You stand accused - not convicted.
But if you don't agree to answer counsel's questions, then
you will find yourself accused and convicted of being in contempt
of court very quickly indeed. I'll give you ten seconds to make
up your mind."

Rosemary remained silent.

"Five seconds," said Sinclair.

Silence.

"Seven seconds."

Rosemary said nothing.

"Nine seconds. Very well. You leave me no alternative but
to-"

"I'll answer his questions." Rosemary pointed at Anders.

"That won't do."

"Then I'll say nothing."

"In that case "

"My Lord," interrupted Golding. "Would your lordship consider
ruling that the defendant be treated as an adverse witness?"

Sinclair nodded. "I might. What does learned counsel for the
prosecution think?"

Anders thought the whole thing might be a prearranged piece
of devilment by Golding. Although a counsel only deals with
witnesses through a solicitor, he does have direct dealings with
his clients. Anders didn't voice these opinions but said:

"I'll abide by whatever the court feels necessary for the smooth
running of the trial, my Lord."

Sinclair swung his massive head to the witness box. "Mrs.
Richards. I'm giving learned counsel for the defence leave to
treat you as a hostile witness. That gives him the right to ask
you leading questions to which you must answer yes or no. Do you
understand?"

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Rosemary said nothing.

Sinclair glared at Golding. "I don't like this arrangement,
Mr. Golding. If things get out of hand, I'll suspend consent
Immediately and try the witness for contempt here and now. Carry
on."

Golding bowed. "Indeed, my Lord." He turned to Rosemary.
"Mrs. Richards. After your husband's unconscious body was
brought ashore, you refused to allow an attempt to be made to
keep him warm and insisted that he was put into the recompression chamber.
Surely you knew that it was essential to keep him warm? Did you want him to
die?"

Silence.

Sinclair looked at Rosemary in anger and drummed his fingers.

"For your sake, answer the question," said Golding.

"Why should I answer such a filthy slander?"

"Good grief, woman -- deny it then 1" Sinclair ordered testily.

"I deny it."

"Excellent."

"Surely you realise that shutting him up in a steel coffin was
bound to lead to his death if he was already unconscious? A man
in need of help to be ruthlessly sealed away from human aid?"

"No I screamed Rosemary, leaning half out of the witness box,
her eyes blazing hate at Golding. "No! No! No I That's a filthy,
disgusting lie -- ask anyone who knows anything about diving --
if a diver's ill after a deep dive then the immediate reaction
is to recompress him as quickly as possible I There was no question of
Sven being denied medical attention. I begged Andy Donaldson
to put Sven in the recompression chamber while we were waiting
for the ambulance." Rosemary shuddered as if trying hard not to
cry. "Sven and I loved each other very much."

Golding looked round the courtroom in surprise as if Rosemary
had said something that astonished him.

"Having an affair with Colin Freeman? It that a way of showing
love?"

Rosemary remained silent.

Come on, Rosemary, Golding willed. Refusing to answer that
question will make the jury think you were having an affair ...
Come on ...

"Well?"

Rosemary slowly pointed at Stacy. "I didn't want to say anything
because I had given him my word, but it looks as if I'll
have to. That lecherous creep --"

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"Sergeant Stacy?"

"Yes! That high and mighty, self-righteous pervert used to
spend half his time on club outings watching me getting changed,
and when I was changed - trying to look down the front of my
swim-suit. His horrible eyes were always on me - watching every
move. I even told Sven about it. He told me to ignore him. Then
I told Colin and he suggested that he and I pay Stacy out by
pretending to make up to each when he was around. It was a
joke - that was all - a joke. I know it sounds childish but I was
desperate to try anything that might result in him leaving me
alone."

Golding looked cynical. "And did this childish ploy work?"

"No. It seemed to make him worse."

"What happened?"

Rosemary looked at Stacy. "There's been enough trouble. I
don't want to make any more. Not even for him."

"Tell the court what happened."

"No."

Sinclair intervened: "This is your last warning, Mrs. Richards.
Either answer the questions or you'll be held in contempt."

Rosemary pressed her lips together. "Last October there was
a weekend club trip to Torquay for the last meeting of the
season. Sven had some urgent business crop up at the last minute
so I went without him." She paused and looked appealing at
Golding but found no encouragement in the dark, hypnotic eyes.
She felt the loneliest person in the world. "Well... I had a bath
at the hotel about midnight. Sergeant Stacy was standing in the
bedroom when I came out. He said he had come in to see if there
was anything I wanted as the hotel night porter was making
sandwiches for late guests. I said no and said I was going to bed. He
just stood there, watching me. I tried to be polite but he
wouldn't go. He said he wanted to talk ..." Rosemary broke off in
embarrassment.
"Look. This has got nothing to do with the case "

"I was thinking along the same lines, my Lord," said Anders.

"It has everything to do with the case," Golding replied.

"Let us hope so, Mr. Golding," Sinclair observed dryly.

"It hasn't," said Rosemary sulkily.

"I should let Mr. Golding be the judge of that."

"What did he want to talk about?" pressed Golding.

Rosemary hesitated for some seconds then burst out: "He wanted
to stay with me all night."

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Golding raised his eyebrows. "You expect us to believe that?"

Rosemary coloured then flared up: "It's true I He had a really
nasty book with him that he showed me. He said we'd have a
good time, like the people in the photographs. I lost my temper
and said I'd report him. Then he started crying --"

Anders was on his feet again. "My Lord. I will be requesting
the opportunity of recalling Sergeant Stacy to rebut --"

"Yes. Yes," said Sinclair impatiently. "Carry on, Mr. Golding."

"He started crying," prompted Golding.

Rosemary nodded. "He begged me to forgive him and promised
not to worry me again. Eventually I agreed to forget the
whole thing and promised not to tell anyone -- ever."

Golding was now undecided. The bedroom incident was one
which the solicitor acting for Rosemary Richards and Colin
Freeman had suspected since he first questioned Rosemary. The solicitor
had reported that Rosemary had mentioned that Stacy had
visited her room and that she refused to say more. Was there
more to the story which Anders might drag out of her? Golding
didn't know. Nor did he know the true answer to his final
question. He leaned forward, both hands resting on the back of
the solicitors' bench. "Mrs. Richards. Did you and Colin Freeman
plan and carry out the murder of your husband?"

"No," said Rosemary firmly, meeting Golding's stare. Her
expression was filled with raw hate for the counsel who had
worked so hard to defend her.

"No more questions."

Anders quickly scanned the jury as he rose. It was plain
that Rosemary had won their wholehearted sympathy. Attacking
her after her ordeal at Golding's hands would only win her more
sympathy. And besides, Golding had pre-empted most of his
questions. "I have no questions, my Lord."

Golding's last witness was Colin Freeman. He corroborated
everything
Rosemary had said. His evidence didn't carry so much
weight with the jury because unlike other witnesses -- as a
defendant, he had been present in the courtroom throughout.
But he did impress the jury with his sincerity.

"That concludes the case for the Defence, my Lord," said
Golding as Colin Freeman was escorted back to the dock.

"Do you wish to recall Sergeant Stacy?" Sinclair asked Anders.

"No, my Lord."

"And finally, Members of the Jury," said Sinclair, "we come to
the question of a possible love affair between the two
defendants,
and it is upon this point that the prosecution have claimed a
motive for the alleged murder of Sven Richards. The defence

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have sought to prove that incidents between the couple observed
by witnesses were nothing more than a put up job -- a childishly
innocent conspiracy by the defendants to stop Leonard Stacy
annoying Rosemary Richards with his unwelcome attentions."

Sinclair paused to sip from a glass of water. He had been
summing up for 30 minutes.

"If you decide that the love affair was contrived, then you
must give serious consideration to a verdict of not guilty for
both defendants. For the love affair, if it existed, is the
cornerstone of the prosecution's case. If you decide that the love
affair did or does exist, then, and only then, should you consider
whether or not the actions of the two defendants at the compressor
on that fateful morning were, beyond all reasonable doubt, the final
actions in a carefully evolved plan to murder Sven Richards.

Although he knew the words by heart, Sinclair turned to the
practice direction concerning majority verdicts issued by the
Lord Chief Justice in 1967.

"As you know, the law permits me in certain circumstances
to accept a verdict which is not the verdict of you all. Those
circumstances have not yet arisen, so that when you retire I must
ask you to return a verdict upon which each of you is agreed.
Should the time come when it is possible for me to accept a
majority verdict, I will give you further direction. Will you now
please retire to consider your verdict."

The jury bailiff stood beside the jury box and delivered his
oath:

"I shall keep this jury together in some private and convenient
place; I shall suffer none to speak to them, neither shall I
speak
to them myself, touching on the trial held here this day without
leave of the court unless it is to ask them if they are agreed
on their verdict."

Sinclair rose and left the courtroom like a Dutch sailing barge
under a full spread of canvas.

Sinclair's phone started to ring before his wig landed on the
window seat. It was Rudkin, Clerk to the Justices.

"I'm sorry to trouble you, Judge. But I was wondering if you
have the time to deal with an application for an adoption order
please? It was supposed to have been dealt with today by the
juvenile court but it doesn't look as if they're going to be able
to."

"Can't it wait?"

"I've got the adoptive mother's doctor with me. There's been
so many delays that he's concerned about her health."

Sinclair understood. A child had to be in care with its new
parents for a minimum of three months before the courts could
grant an adoption order. During that time the child's real mother
had the right to change her mind and demand the child's return.

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If the local authority's child welfare department investigating
The suitability of the prospective parents were slow or inefficient,
The period could easily extend to as much as six months, during which
time the circumstances of the real mother could change.

"All right, Rudkin. Wheel 'em in."

Sinclair insisted on having twelve month old Patricia Anne on
his knee as he listened to the children's officer's report.

"In our view, Mr. and Mrs. Dyke will make excellent parents,"
the official concluded.

Sinclair grinned down at the child who was watching him
fixedly with large blue eyes. He looked up at the prospective
parents sitting nervously on the window seat holding a cup of
coffee each. The woman's eyes had never left the child since he
had taken it on his knee.

"I'm sure Mr. Fox has already explained this to you, Mr. and
Mrs. Dyke," said Sinclair. "But an adopted child has exactly the
same rights as a natural child."

The husband nodded. "Yes, Judge." Rudkin had primed him
on the correct mode of address of a judge outside the courtroom.

"And that those rights are in no way diminished should you
subsequently have a natural child. Do you understand that?"

The husband nodded again.

Sinclair glanced quickly through the papers: the adoption
society's report, a doctor's report, child welfare department
report and natural mother's consent - all were in order.

Sinclair smiled suddenly. "I will grant the order."

Even the child sensed the wave of relief from its new parents
for she reached up to grab Sinclair's sash and laughed happily.

"You'd better have her back, Mrs. Dyke," said Sinclair lifting
Patricia Anne across his desk to her new mother, "before she hits
on her own method of celebrating. She looks a bonny baby. Is she
good?"

The mother smiled. She had never spoken to a judge before.
"She's the best baby in the world, sir."

"Of course she is," boomed Sinclair.

"Thank you so much for seeing us."

"It was a great pleasure," said Sinclair sincerely. "And I wish
you all the happiness in the world."

He wished that his job gave him such moments everyday.

"Guilty," Martin said for the fourth time since the jury had
retired.

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The jury foreman put a tick on a fresh sheet of paper. He
looked uncomfortable in his tight grey suit.

The matron smiled at Martin. "For once we see eye to eye."

"Do you want to give your reasons?" asked the foreman.

"Yes," Martin replied. "I watched those two carefully all the
time. They hardly looked at each other."

"What does that prove?" inquired the bank clerk.

"If they were friends as they claimed and not lovers, then why
not look at each other now and then for encouragement? It's a
hell of a thing to be shoved into a dock together on a murder
charge. It seems obvious to me that they are lovers and were
anxious to give the impression that they're not."

"Maybe that's how they were told to behave," Virginia suggested.

"Freeman didn't look at Rosemary Richards once when she
was in the witness box," Martin answered. "Not once. It's natural
to look at someone who's answering questions."

"That's hardly being fair on them," said an accountant who
was a new juror that day. "If they looked at one another now
and then you would say that they were lovers anyway. Heads
you lose, tails I win. You can't call that justice."

"Maybe," said Martin. "But I don't see why their behaviour
in court shouldn't be taken into account."

The foreman looked at his watch. They had been in the retiring
room for two hours. He pressed the buzzer to summon the
jury bailiff.

The court reassembled at 6:35pm for the verdict.

"The prisoners will stand," announced the clerk.

The woman police constable beside Rosemary had to give her
a nudge. Colin Freeman smiled encouragingly at Rosemary as he
climbed to his feet. He watched the clerk leave his desk in front
of the judge and approach the jury. Rosemary stared at Sinclair
with lustreless eyes; his grizzled wig and dynamite-wrought
features would be etched on her memory for the rest of her life.

The clerk glanced down at the indictment to make sure he was
holding the right one then looked up at the jury. He didn't have
a high opinion of most juries -- this particular gathering was
the usual gathering of moth-balled wedding and funeral suits, and
daft hats. One was unemployed. He cleared his throat.

"Members of the Jury. Will your foreman please stand."

The foreman stood. He had the expression of a man facing a
firing-squad.

"Please answer this question yes or no. Have you reached a

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verdict on which you are all agreed?"

"No," said the foreman. "Seven of us say guilty and five say
not guilty."

Sinclair brought his fist down angrily on his desk. "The clerk
asked you to answer yes or no!" he barked. "I'm not interested
in any verdict but a unanimous one I"

The terrified foreman managed to stammer out, "But you
said --" before Sinclair cut him short.

"I said I would give you directions on a majority verdict when
circumstances arose I" Sinclair thundered, his mighty jaw jutting
forward like a dreadnought's main gun turret. "How long have
they been out? " He roared at the clerk.

The court official scuttled back to his desk and consulted the
jury time-sheet. "Two hours five minutes, my Lord."

Sinclair had every right to be annoyed; the questions put to the
jury by the clerk regarding their verdict are carefully worded
to
avoid ambiguous answers being given by the foreman. It was
not unknown for the use of incorrect terminology by a foreman
to lead to a conviction being quashed or a retrial being ordered.

"Thank you," said Sinclair. He turned to the jury box and
glared at the unfortunate foreman. "I want you to go back into
your room and stay there for at least another fifteen minutes to
see if you can agree on a unanimous verdict. If you can't, come
back into court and I'll give you directions on the form a
majority
verdict can take."

Sinclair watched the twelve uneasy men and women file out of
the courtroom. Insisting that they retire for at least another
quarter of an hour was playing safe: practice directions required
that the jury should have been considering their verdict for two
hours and ten minutes before the judge could accept a majority
verdict.

Sinclair waited fifteen minutes then ordered the jury to be
recalled.

"Members of the Jury -" began the clerk.

"Just a minute," Sinclair interrupted. He glared at the foreman.
"When the clerk asks you to answer yes or no, I want you to
do just that. Do you understand?"

"Yes, my Lord," said the foreman in real terror.

Sinclair nodded. "Fire away."

"Members of the Jury," the clerk repeated. "Have you reached
a verdict upon which you are all agreed?"

"No," said the foreman.

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"Very well," said Sinclair. "I will accept an eleven to one
verdict or a ten to two verdict. Do you need to retire again?"

The foreman hesitated. "I'm not sure."

Sinclair resisted an impulse to fire a salvo of blistering scorn
into the jury box. Instead he said : "Perhaps it would be better
if you did. Remember what I've said -- you can return an eleven
to one verdict or a ten to two."

The jury trooped back into court three minutes later.

Martin gazed across at the defendants and wondered if the
nine who agreed with him were doing the right thing. Rosemary
hardly seemed to be aware of what was happening so badly
affected were her nerves.

The clerk rose to address Sinclair. He was holding the jury
time sheet.

"My Lord, the jury retired at 4:30pm and returned at 6:35.
They then retired for another fifteen minutes from 6:37 until
6:52 and for a further three minutes from 6:55, and have
therefore been deliberating for a total of two hours and twenty-
three minutes."

Sinclair nodded. When a judge had directed the jury on the
method in which a majority verdict could be returned it was
mandatory for the clerk to read out to the court how long the
jury had been in retirement.

"Prisoners at the Bar," said the clerk. "You will please stand."

Again the policewoman had to nudge Rosemary. She climbed
wearily to her feet and stood holding the front of the dock.

The clerk approached the jury for the third time.

"Members of the Jury, will your foreman please stand." All it
needs now, thought the clerk, is for two of them to stand and
Crusher will burst a blood-vessel.

The foreman stood.

"Please answer this question yes or no. Have at least ten of
you agreed upon your verdict?"

"Yes."

"Do you find the defendants guilty or not guilty of the murder
of Sven Richards?"

"Not guilty."

The foreman's last word was drowned in the sudden uproar as
two reporters jammed themselves in the doorway in their haste
to reach the one telephone and two solicitor's clerks started
pounding each other on the back. Rosemary sat down abruptly and had
to be told to stand again.

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"I've a good mind," said Sinclair glaring at the jury, "to make
a major contribution to the smooth-running of justice in this
country by discharging all of you from jury service for the rest
of your lives."

There was a transformed atmosphere in the courtroom as
Golding's application for costs was granted and the judge
Formally discharged the prisoners.

Everyone rose as Sinclair swept out of the courtroom.

Martin remained in the box as the rest of his fellow jurors
filed out. He watched the gathering round the dock. Anders and
Golding were in animated conversation with Colin Freeman and
the solicitors on both sides. Rosemary and Freeman did not fall
into each others arms as Martin had predicted they would when
he had been persuaded to change his mind in the jurors retiring
room. Instead, a curious thing happened: Golding offered his
hand to Rosemary which she ignored by walking out of the
courtroom without speaking to anyone.

"Well you can't blame her, Marcus," said Anders grinning at
his colleague's surprised expression. "She probably thought you
had changed sides."

Golding nodded. "I rather wish I had."

Carrie smiled weakly up at Martin. "Hallo, stranger. I thought
they were going to keep you in for good." Her voice was a
whisper.

Martin gathered up Carrie's hands and pressed them to his
cheeks. Her palms felt damp. "Aint no gaol built that kin hold
me, Miss Carrie," Martin drawled. Carrie's face frightened him.
The nurse had said that she had been asleep for most of the day
and yet there were dark shadows under her eyes and her skin
was drawn pale and shiny over her cheekbones.

Carrie forced another smile. "How did the shoot-out go?"

"Critters got clean away." Martin released Carrie's hands and
sat down. He couldn't think of anything to say for the moment
so he rummaged in his carrier-bag and produced a nightdress. "I
thought you might need another one."

Carrie took it. "Thanks. But they're now making me wear this
ghastly thing." She touched the front of the lace-up
institutional
smock. "It makes me easier to get at."

A woman was watching Martin from the next bed. She caught
Martin's glance and grinned toothily. "Tell her not to worry,
love. Had two myself. Nothing to it."

"Mrs. Wade," whispered Carrie. "She tries hard to make me
cheerful. It's awfully depressing."

"Have they said when?" asked Martin, finally getting round to
the question that had been uppermost in his mind all the time.

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Carrie turned her head away but her hand slid into Martin's.
"Tomorrow morning. A Mr. Cassidy's going to do it. He's some
sort of consultant." Then she giggled and turned her face back
to Martin. "Butcher Cassidy and his hole in the turn gang."

Martin gripped her hand tightly. "Don't joke about it. Please."

"He's stopped kicking me about an hour ago."

"Maybe he's asleep."

Carrie looked at him seriously. "Do they sleep? Unborn
babies?"

Martin shrugged. "I don't know. Does anyone?"

"We don't know much about them, do we?"

"We haven't thought about it."

"I have, Martin. I've been lying here thinking about nothing
else. Poor little bastard. He's not going to have much of a start
is he?"

She fell silent for a minute, then: "How much have we got in
the post office?"

"One pound sixty-five pence."

"Christ."

"Why?"

"Why? Because I'll need some things for him, that's why.
They said they'd be able to let me have some stuff from here,
but we'll need a cot."

"I'll look at the ads in the paper," Martin promised.

"Have you been to the Social Security?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Martin felt anger prickling under his collar. "Because I've
been stuck in a bloody courtroom all day I"

'Shhh!"

Visitors and prospective mothers looked up disapprovingly.
For their benefit Martin said in a loud voice: "The judge said
I can expect the next fine to be much harsher than fifty pee if I
don't stop raping and robbing old ladies!"

Carrie turned sharply away from Martin. She buried her face
in her pillow. Martin put a hand on her heaving shoulder and
roundly cursed himself.

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"Carrie, I'm sorry."

Muffled from the depths of the pillow: "Go away."

He shook her gently.

"I'm sorry. Really I am."

"Just go away."

"Carrie "

She sat up suddenly, tears streaming down her face. "Just piss
off and leave me alone!" Carrie threw her face back into the
pillow.

Twenty pairs of eyes watched Martin back away from the bed.
They followed him as he walked between the beds towards the
ward entrance.

He turned at the door and faced them. He made an obscene
gesture at the whole ward and blew an extremely violent and
vulgar raspberry which flushed the ward sister from her
cubbyhole.

"Are you all right?"

"No," snapped Martin striding off down the corridor.

"I thought you sounded ill," she called after him.

Martin stopped and turned. "I am sick. Sick of everything
and everyone. And if it wasn't for the fact that you'd end up as
a customer in that dump of a ward, I'd tell you to get screwed."

He was trembling as he mounted the bicycle and pedalled out
of the hospital entrance. It was all so stupid; his childish,
immature
tantrum hadn't made him feel any better. All he had
achieved was to upset Carrie ... For the millionth time.

"My God," said Virginia as she opened the front door. "What on
earth have you been up to?"

"I've come to finish the windows," said Martin shortly. "If
you don't want them finished I'll clear off." He made a move to
leave.

"No. No. Come in."

Virginia closed the door and followed Martin into the kitchen.
She watched him struggling to fill a bucket under the low mixer
tap.

"Have you been to see your wife?"

"What kind of stupid tap is this, for Christ's sake?"

Virginia sighed. "Have you broken your resolution again?"

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"Why the hell can't you afford a decent tap?"

"Come on. What did you say to her?"

"At home we've got a tap sticking out of the wall over a stone
sink that you can stand a milk churn under." He was trying to
fill the bucket by holding it at an angle under the stream of
water.

"We usually fill buckets in the laundry room." She pointed.
"Through there." She followed him.

"So what happened?"

Martin banged the bucket down in the sink and turned to the
girl . .. "Listen. I'm gradually learning how to clean windows
but I've still to learn how to control my temper." He savagely
spun the tap full-on so that water showered over him. "Oh,
shit."

Virginia leaned against the wall and laughed. She tossed him
a towel. "You're funny when you're mad."

Martin shut the tap off and dried himself. "Well I wasn't
funny this evening."

"What did you say?"

Martin stared down at the bubbles swirling round in the bucket.
"I showed her up in front of about a hundred pregnant
women."

Virginia nodded. "I thought it would be something like that.
When's she going to have the baby? Do they know or will she
have this induction?"

"It'll be a Caesarean. She's got narrow hips and the baby's in
the wrong position."

"And you've upset her," said Virginia, shaking her head
sadly.

"My stupid temper."

"What are you going to do?"

"Finish cleaning your windows," Martin replied lifting the
bucket out of the sink, "then sod off for a beer."

It was getting dark by the time Martin started cleaning the last
window. It was obviously the girl's bedroom. Every square inch
of wall was papered with one inch ordnance survey maps which
had been carefully cut out and pasted together to form a series
of giant maps of the British Isles. Her furniture consisted of
tall columns of perspex drawers. Martin wondered what the point
was of drawers in which you had to keep the contents tidy. The
skirt she had worn in court that day was lying on the bed.

Virginia entered the room and crossed to the window. She
leaned out beside Martin.

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"Nearly done?"

"Just this one." At least she'd had the sense to leave him
alone until his temper had cooled.

"I'm cooking myself something to eat. Would you like some?"

Martin realised that he was very hungry. He had hardly eaten
for two days. He nodded.

"Yes, please."

"Fine." She pulled the windows shut.

He called after her. "Virginia." What a name to give a girl.

She opened the window again. "Yes?"

"Sorry I was so rude just now."

"I'll accept your apology if you promise to call me Ginny.
All my friends do."

Virginia watched Martin finishing up a second large helping of
steak and chips. He wiped the plate clean with a piece of bread.

"You certainly can put it away," she commented.

"First I've had to eat for a couple of days," Martin replied
with his mouth full. He pushed the plate away and sat back. It
was amazing how much she looked like Carrie. "And I can't
remember the last time I had steak."

Virginia filled his wine glass. They were on their second
bottle.

"Won't your father mind?" Martin asked.

"It's some cheap plonk he's sent every year and never touches."

"S'not bad," said Martin, draining the glass.

"We're going to have to do something about Carrie," said
Virginia.

"I'll say sorry at lunchtime." Martin filled his own glass and
Virginia's.

"She'd appreciate something more positive. A gesture."

Martin remembered his obscene gesture to the maternity ward.
He giggled.

"S'what started all the trouble. Harvey Smith."

Virginia frowned. "What was he doing there?"

Martin opened a third bottle. "Taste gets better."

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"Smith," said Virginia abruptly. "Reminds me." She stood
up and immediately sat down again. Her second attempt succeeded.
Martin watched her walk unsteadily into the kitchen.
She emerged holding a piece of paper. "Mrs. Smith at forty-one,
Mr. Stevas at forty-three," she stumbled over the words, "and
Miss something at forty-five all want you to clean their
windows."

She sat down, folded the piece of paper crookedly and pushed
it into Martin's top pocket. "So you don't forget."

"Forget what?"

"To clean their windows."

Martin focused his eyes on a window. "S'dark," he said
indignantly.
"I'd fall of! me ladder."

"After dinner," said Virginia. She refilled both glasses.

They both drank in silence.

"Flowers," said Virginia suddenly.

Martin was out of his depth. The wretched girl had a grasshopper
mind.

"Flowers?"

"Have you given her any?"

"Who?"

"Carrie!"

Martin wrestled with the problem. "Thought about it but
didn't have the money. "Sides - she doesn't like flowers."

"All women like flowers. I like flowers."

"Carrie's tough."

"Has to be to live with you. We'd better finish this bottle now
you've opened it."

They both drained their glasses.

"That's it!" shouted Virginia. "The back garden's full of
them!"

Martin looked at her in alarm then at the sliding patio windows.
"Full of what?" he said in a panic. He had a sudden and
hideously vivid image of monstrous hairy fingers belonging to
some terrifying creature slowly sliding the window open.

"Flowers," said Virginia. "All shorts of showers."

"Nice," said Martin greatly relieved. He poured more wine

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into both glasses.

"We could pick her heaps of flowers and make them up into
bouquets and things."

Martin nodded then wished he hadn't. He grabbed at the sides
of the table to keep it on the floor. "When?"

"Now," Virginia answered. She climbed to her feet and stood
clutching the back of her chair for support. "Hash to be now.
Won't be time in the morning. Court at ten. Daddy keeps his
secawhatsits in the laundry room. Come." She swayed out of the
room.

Martin had similar difficulties in standing and even greater
problems following Virginia into the laundry room. The ceilings
in the house suddenly seemed to be thirty feet high but he
managed it. He remained on the threshold watching Virginia pulling
drawers open and limply stirring their contents. "Here
somewhere,"
she mumbled.

"S'right," agreed Martin. "Christ - you've grown."

Virginia looked round the room. "Where are you?"

"Right here."

"I can hear your voice."

Martin carefully considered the wording of his next sentence;
he felt that the occasion called for an element of harmonious
eloquence. "You're standing on my fucking fingers you stupid
cow."

Virginia giggled and struggled to help Martin to his feet.

They both tottered into the dark garden - Virginia holding a
pair of secateurs and Martin grimly clutching garden shears in
readiness to do battle with anything that might leap on him
from the shrubs. There was something menacing in the middle
of the lawn.

"Wassat!" he yelped in terror.

Virginia laughed. "That's Cedric. He's a genuine stone
gnome." She took Martin's arm and nearly fell over. "Come on.
We'll start with the irises."

They staggered into the depths of Virginia's father's floral
Disneyland of a garden.

"Mind the sweet whatsits."

Martin cursed. "Can't see a bloody thing."

"Hold my hand. That's not my hand. Stop it!"

They both started giggling.

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"Shh I" Virginia put a cautionary finger to her lips. "Mushn't
wake neighbours."

They came to a part of the garden that consisted of fussy
individual
flowerbeds surrounded by gravel paths. Martin peered
into the gloom at the vague shapes of fruit trees and rose
bushes.

"You follow this path to the carnations," Virginia slurred,
"and I'll pick some roses." She pushed Martin into the darkness.

He stumbled across a flowerbed and fell flat on his face.

"Stop messing about."

"There's bloody trip wires everywhere!"

"Stay on the path."

"I can't see the bloody path. How can I stay on the bloody
path when I can't see it?"

"Shh!"

Martin picked himself up and spent some minutes falling about
in the dark wrecking things. A bush he fell into resented being
fallen into and fought back with a villainous armoury of
aggressive
thorns.

"Hey, Ginny!"

An answering "Shh I" came back from the darkness.

"I've found some gooseberries."

At the back of his befuddled mind was an idea that the
Combination of a pregnant woman and gooseberries might lead to
medical complications. He climbed out of the bush and stumbled
off in search of carnations then wasted another five minutes
in a bitter dispute with the fine nylon netting of a possessed
fruit cage.

He found some yellow blooms which looked as if they might
be quite attractive when they opened in the daytime. He picked
a handful.

"Marrow flowers," said Virginia when he had tracked her
down.

"What's wrong with them?" He was beginning to lose his
temper. The plant he had taken the blooms from had sharp spines
on the underside of its leaves.

"She won't appreciate them. Go and find the carnations."

Muttering to himself, Martin reeled off into the foliage infested
dark. He returned with two sweet-smelling flowers.

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"That's better," approved Virginia. "But they're no good."

Martin snatched the flowers back. "What's wrong with them
then?" He looked at them critically. "Look okay to me."

"Yes, but you should pick them with their stems. I can't
arrange just flower heads can I? Look, you take these indoors and
I'll cut some roses." She thrust an armful of irises at Martin.

"Where the hell shall I put them?"

She thought for a moment. "On my bed. It doesn't matter
about making a mess in my room."

Keeping a wary eye on Cedric, the stoned gnome, Martin made
his way back to the house. He found a modern four-poster bed
dumped the flowers down. There was a no sign of Virginia when
he returned to the garden.

"Ginny?"

"Shh! I'm over here!"

She was some yards away in the middle of a cluster of shrubs.
She seemed to be bending over.

"Martin, I'm stuck. I'm all caught up in these rose thorns."
She tried to move and swore. "Ouch I God damn it!"

Martin plunged to her aid and was immediately set upon by a
vigorous hybrid tea in full thorn.

"Bloody hell!"

"Be careful. They're really vicious," Virginia warned.

"Now she tells me." He disentangled himself from the rose
bush and fought his way up behind Virginia. Her T-shirt was
snagged on thorns in about a dozen places.

"Christ, you've got yourself in a mess."

"Trying to save your bloody marriage!" she snapped. "Now
do something!"

"What happened?"

"I bloody well fell over!"

"Shh!" said Martin. "The neighbours."

"Sod the bloody neighbours."

"That doesn't sound like my sweet little Virginia," said Martin,
unpicking her T-shirt from a thorn and snaring it on two
more. "Ouch!" He sucked his ringer.

"Stop messing about! It's hurting."

"All right, only keep still."

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"I will if you stop pushing I"

Martin reached round in front of her, feeling gingerly for
thorns before they found him. His hands brushed against her
breasts but his mind was too disorientated for him to appreciate
the event.

"Stop that."

"For Christ's sake, I wasn't doing anything!"

"You were groping."

"Do you want me to help you?"

"I don't want you to go helping yourself."

"Maybe if I pull..." He pulled. Virginia yelled. He stopped
pulling.

"You'll have to stay here till morning."

"Don't be so mean." She was getting hysterical.

Martin moved away.

"Don't leave me, Martin," she pleaded.

"I'm not. I'm looking for something. Dropped them here somewhere
... Ah. Got them."

"What?"

"Look."

"How can I turn round like this, you stupid idiot!"

"Garden shears."

She sounded relieved. "That's an idea. Cut away the brambles
I'm caught on."

Martin hacked ineffectually at the thorn encrusted laterals but
they sprang out of the closing blades of the shears and darted
into the darkness only to whip back suddenly and find new
targets. Their success was punctuated by Virginia's yelps.

"Please, Martin. I can't stay like this all night!"

Martin stopped and looked at Virginia's back. Several inches
were exposed where the brambles had dragged her T-shirt nearly
up to her armpits.

"Now what are you doing," demanded Virginia's voice from
the depths of the bush her face was buried in.

"Thinking. Try walking backwards. Maybe you can pull your
T-shirt inside-out."

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Virginia tried to take a step back towards Martin.

"It's no good. It hurts like hell."

"Hold on a minute." Martin slipped one of the blades under
thin material.

"What the hell do you think you're doing 1" Virginia shrieked
as the cold steel touched her back.

"Cutting your T-shirt off. I won't hurt you."

She wriggled furiously! "Don't you dare!"

"Can you think of a better idea? Just keep still and you'll be
all right!"

Virginia relaxed. "Well I suppose it's ruined anyway." She
gritted her teeth as the icy blade slid up her spine. The fibres
of the material parted with a soft cutting sound. Then she thought
of something but too .. . snip ... late.

"Martin." She kept her voice calm. The alternative was hysterics.

"Nearly done," said the voice behind her.

"Martin. There's something you should know."

"There."

Virginia felt the chilly night air on the whole of her back.

"Easy to unhook from the thorns now," said Martin.

"Martin. You've cut through my bra strap."

"Sorry. Didn't know you were wearing one."

She felt material flop over each ear.

"Well I was. But I'm not now."

"You're free," said Martin. "You can stand up and turn
round."

"I have no wish to stand up and turn round," Virginia said
firmly. "I'm quite happy to remain here until you've gone
indoors."
She felt Martin's hands sliding slowly round her waist
until his fingertips met on her midriff. She straightened and
tried to hold his hands in place with her own. Her back pressed against
his chest. Slowly, with gentle strength, the hands pushed upwards
over skin that had never known a man's touch.

"No, Martin. Please."

Despite her efforts to hold them down, the fingertips were now
remorselessly edging up the lower slopes of her breasts. She

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could feel his breath on her back and a rising pressure bearing
against her buttocks. The questing fingertips were possessed of
their own life -- moving in slow, skillfully decreasing circles.
They conveyed their independence to her hands which dropped to
her side of their own accord then moved behind her to stroke the
firm, muscular thighs while his gently circling fingertips awoke
surges of ecstasy as they closed on the puckering centres they
had created.

She spun round, threw her arms round his neck and clung to
him in a kiss that lasted forever.

Part Four

CHALLENGE!

It was a ghastly parody of a 19305 Busby Berkeley musical he had
once seen on television; a 1000 troupes of dwarfs were
tap-dancing
on a 1000 stacked grand pianos to the music of a 1000 out-of-tune
orchestras. It was a moment that called for great care; the
slightest
movement of his head on the pillow - if it was a pillow -
would send the entire cacophonous column crashing down into
the dank puddle of brain-substitute wet porridge lying at the
bottom of his skull.

He concentrated hard for some seconds in a rash attempt to
co-ordinate the various nerves and muscles required to open an
eye. The eyelid grated noisily up over his eyeball.

Daylight.

The gaunt uprights of the modern four-poster bed stood like
the blackened timbers of a gutted Tudor cottage. It was too
much. The eyelid dropped. Best to rely on touch -- the mauled
shreds of reason could cope with the more orderly flow of images
from his fingertips.

He worked out which muscles were necessary to move his left
hand and tried to set it in motion. Something was stopping it
from moving.

Skin, said the porridge.

He moved his hand sideways ...

Human skin, informed the porridge.
... and spread his fingers.

Human female skin, advised the porridge.

He jerked his hand away and opened both eyes. Carrie was
lying beside him. But it couldn't be Carrie! Carrie had much
darker hair.

Then he remembered everything. Bloody hell. His watch said

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8:15. Presumably it was morning. He shook Virginia gently by
the shoulder.

"Ginny."

She stirred and tried to pull him closer.

"Ginny. Wake up."

She opened one eye an immediately closed it again. Martin
understood exactly how she felt.

"Come on, love. Wakie, wakie. There's a good girl."

Then she was awake. Wide awake. Two eyes staring at him.
Slowly, she pulled the sheet up to her chin and slid her hand
under the bedclothes. Her hand moved while her eyes remained
fixed on him all the time.

"I've got nothing on," she said in a flat, matter-of-fact tone.

Martin rolled off the bed and stood unsteadily.

"Neither have I. Look."

Virginia gave a little cry and jerked the sheet over her head.
One eye watched Martin from under a fold as he groped for his
socks. She slowly lowered the sheet. "What happened?" she
asked.

"We slept together. That's all."

"That's all!" Virginia shrieked indignantly, sitting up suddenly.
The sheet slipped. She grabbed at it and hauled it up to
her chin. "You get me drunk, drag me into my parents bed and
have the nerve to say, that's all!"

Martin trod on a thorn-armed rose cutting as he pushed a leg
into his underpants. He gave a loud yell of agony, danced on one
foot, and hopped onto another cutting. The room was full of cut
flowers. They were everywhere - on the dressing-table, strewn
across a chest-of-drawers and even hanging over the side of the
wardrobe.

Virginia watched angrily as Martin danced around the bed like
a naked Red Indian laying siege to a wagon train. He swore
loudly, fell backwards onto the bed, doubled his foot towards
him and tried to pick at a thorn. Virginia smiled, then chuckled,
then started laughing. Still clutching the sheet to her chin,
she walked on her knees down the bed and put her arm round
Martin.

"Martin, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have shouted at you."

"Forget it."

"That's what I want you to do," Virginia said seriously.

Martin stopped poking at the thorn and looked at her. "What
do you mean?"

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"I know it must be awful for you -- thinking about what
you've done while your wife is lying in hospital, but I don't
want
you to have any guilt feelings about what happened. It wasn't
your fault any more than it was mine."

"But ..."

Virginia put a finger to his lips. "Don't let's say any more
about
it. You haven't really been unfaithful because there's nothing
between us. We were silly, that's all. So let's continue to be
friends and nothing more."

"Yes. But listen ..."

"No, you listen, Martin. What happened to me last night has
never happened to me before. I've often wondered what it would
be like and I'm glad it happened with you and not some callow
youth who didn't know what he was doing." She kissed him on
his ear. His hurt expression troubled her. "There is one thing,"
she said slowly.

"What?"

She hesitated. "I'm not sure how to say it. I suppose it sounds
silly."

"Try me."

She sat back and regarded him. "It's annoying in a way. Having
it happen and not being able to remember a thing about it."

Martin nodded. "There's a good reason for that."

"What?"

"Nothing did happen."

Her eyes opened wide. "What do you mean?"

"Simply that - nothing did happen. We both staggered up
here, undressed each other and fell into bed. We kissed then fell
asleep."

She stared at him in astonishment. "You mean you didn't --"

"That's right."

"Why not?" she demanded. There was an angry note in her
voice.

"Because we were both stoned out of our tiny minds, that's
why."

"I don't believe you!"

Martin sighed. "It's true."

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"That's a terrible thing to say. You're just saying that thinking
you're sparing my feelings -- well you're not. You've insulted
me, you know that? Insulted me!" She started to cry.

"I'm not saying anything to spare your feelings!" shouted
Martin. "Jesus Christ, I shall never understand women as long
as I live!"

"Just trying to spare my feelings," Virginia sobbed. "I can tell
by your expression."

"My expression is caused by a rose thorn which is struck in
my big toe and is giving me hell!"

She stopped crying and looked down at his foot in concern.
"Let me see," she said. "Lie back properly."

Martin stretched out on the bed while Virginia wriggled
down and knelt over his foot with her back to his face. The sheet
rode up the back of her thighs.

"I think I can see it," said Virginia.

"So can I," said Martin. He slipped his hand between her legs
and stroked the soft skin on the inside of her thighs. He felt
her
suddenly stiffen with the shock of his touch.

"Martin. Do you think you should?"

"No," said Martin, pushing the sheet over her hips. 'But I sure
as hell am going to."

But Virginia escaped to the bathroom.

"Challenge!" Marcus Golding called out as Martin took his
place in the jury box. Martin looked at the Queen's Counsel in
surprise. The jury bailiff touched Martin's arm and indicated the
door.

Virginia was still in the jury waiting room. Martin steered
her into a corner.

"I've been challenged. By that lawyer with the eyes."

"Why?"

Martin shrugged. "He didn't say. He doesn't have to. The
bailiff thinks it's because I look like death."

"Miss Virginia Latimer!" a voice called out.

"Oh well," said Virginia. "Back to it I suppose." She opened
her handbag and gave Martin her car keys. "You'd better have
these so you can get the flowers out."

"Miss Virginia Latimer!" said the voice impatiently.

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"You can go home, Mr. Janssen," said the girl in the jury office.
"Number Two court has changed his plea to guilty so there are
plenty of jurors. But you must come back tomorrow. They've
brought the Radio Bombers case forward and hope to start it
tomorrow."

"Will it be finished by Friday afternoon?"

"Two days? I doubt it."

Martin began to get angry. "You mean I might have to come
next week as well ?"

"If the case drags on."

"It's stupid -- you always call far too many."
The girl smiled brightly at him. "And we'll need even more
tomorrow -- three defendants. That means we have to have at
least thirty-three jurors standing by. Counsels for the defence
can challenge up to seven jurors without cause for each
defendant.
Sorry."

"You don't look it," Martin snarled as he stalked away.

The hospital staff refused to let him see Carrie because it was
too early for visitors but they allowed him to leave the flowers
and a note. It was while he was searching in his pockets for
something to write the note on that he discovered the list
Virginia had given him of people on the Pine Hill estate who
wanted their windows cleaned.

"Yes, I do want them cleaned," said the woman looking Mar
suspiciously up and down through the gap in the chained door.
"Did the estate management committee send you?"

"No, madam."

"So if you clean my windows, I'd have to pay you?"

"That's right, madam. One pound fifty, which you could
stop out of the next service charge cheque."

The woman considered. "Can you do them now?"

"That's why I'm here."

She slipped the chain and opened the door. "All right then."

Martin did the outsides of all her windows in forty-five minutes.
They sparkled in the sun.

"Not bad," the woman grudgingly admitted as she stood on
her front lawn and scrutinised Martin's handiwork. She paid
him the exact amount. "Can you come next month?"

Martin hesitated. The whole business of cleaning windows
was beginning to get out of hand. "I'm not sure."

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The woman sniffed. "Typical. You would think that with
so much unemployment that it would be easy to get good, regular
service. We pay two pounds a week service charges and
nothing gets done. Look at the state the verges are in.'

Martin pretended to agree with her.

"I don't suppose you know of anyone who would be interested
in doing three to four hours gardening a week until
October do you?" the woman asked.

"Yes. Me."

"What do you know about gardening?"

"Not much but I can mow lawns, trim edges -- that sort of
thing."

"How much?"

"One-fifty an hour."

"I suppose you think we're made of money?"

"Yes."

Instead of being annoyed, the woman laughed. "Not with our
mortgage, young man. One twenty-five."

"One thirty."

"Done. Can you start Monday?"

"Yes."

"Noon to four?"

"Fine."

"See you then," said the woman. She opened her purse and
gave Martin another twenty pence. "That's for making such a
good job of the windows. With so many nationalised scroungers
around, I like to reward hard work."

Martin thanked her and cycled to the next address on the list.

He was strapping the ladder onto the sidecar after having
cleaned the windows for two more householders when an XJi2
Jaguar drew up beside him. A large man with a florid complexion
leaned out of the driver's door.

"I say."

"One pound fifty," said Martin promptly. "Two pounds if
you've got a sun lounge."

The man laughed and pointed down the road. "My name's
Matthews. I live six houses down at number eighty-eight. Can
you spare me a few minutes?"

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"What about?"

"Let's discuss it over a drink," said Matthews pulling the car
door shut. "Number eighty-eight."

"Pine Hill consists of three-hundred up-market houses on a
hundred acres," said Matthews, handing Martin a generous dry
sherry. "It's managed jointly by the developers and elected
residents serving on a committee."

"The estate management committee?" inquired Martin.

Matthews looked surprised. "That's right. I'm its secretary."

"I gather that you're not very popular at the moment," said
Martin.

Matthews gaped at Martin. "You know, you don't sound like
a window cleaner."

Ginny had said the same thing. To cover his anger Martin
said: "This is excellent sherry."

Matthews wasn't certain how to take Martin. He was an advertising
executive who liked people to fit into preconceived
categories of the consumer market. If Martin was an example of
a typical window cleaner, then those categories were in need
of revision. "The committee has a number of problems -' he
began.

"But not liquidity problems," Martin interrupted. "Not with
an income of six hundred pounds a week?"

Now Matthews was very surprised. "How do you know the
committee's income?"

"Because several of my customers on this estate have complained
to me about the two pound a week service charge they
have to fork out. As a matter of fact, you'll find they've
deducted
the cost of my services from their next cheque."

Matthews frowned. "They'd be in breach of contract."

"What about your failure to provide services? said Martin
mischievously. "Isn't that in breach of contract too?"

"What I'd like to know," said Matthews stiffly, "is if you'd
be interested in a contract to take over the regular window
cleaning of every Pine Hill house."

Martin decided a little cunning was required. "I'm always
interested in new contracts."

"You mean you have other work?"

"Of course. A number of firms on the factory estate.'

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"So you're not free to become an employee of the Pine Hill
estate?"

"I'm self-employed," said Martin. "If you like me to enter
into a contract to clean all the houses once a month, then I'm
prepared to submit a tender."

"How much?"

"Five thousand a year."

Matthews laughed. "We used to pay the last firm threethousand
a year."

"And they hardly ever showed up. And when they did, it was
usually a gang of yobbos who wrecked shrubs." Martin sat back
and twiddled the stem of his glass. The last housewife whose
windows he had cleaned had been loud in her complaints about
a firm of contract cleaners the committee had once employed.

"Five thousand is a lot of money," said Matthews.

"It works out at a hundred pounds a week for seventy-five
houses," Martin pointed out. "Which isn't bad considering that
virtually every house has those fake Georgian panes." Martin
gestured to Matthews' living-room window. "Difficult work
which I would feel it necessary to do myself. That will mean I'll
have to take on another assistant to look after the factory
estate.
Train him; pay special insurance - which isn't cheap for window
cleaners, and look after his wages."

Matthews reflected for a moment. "Well," he conceded. "You
did make a good job of Mrs. Floyd's windows. She spoke to me
an hour ago."

"All work done will be guaranteed," said Martin, "and I'm
insured for breakages."

Matthews thought for a long time. "All right," he said
finally. "You're on. It will have to be formally approved at the
next committee meeting of course but you can safely consider
yourself under contract." He opened a pocket diary. "I need
your full name and address."

"She was absolutely over the moon with the flowers," said the
ward sister's voice over the phone. "But she was disappointed
that you didn't see her after lunch."

"Tell her I've got a job," said Martin. "Better still, can I
speak to her now?"

"I'm afraid the ward extension is in use. Do you want to hold?"

"No. I've got some things to see to. But please tell her that
there's nothing to worry about now."

"Yes of course," said the ward sister. "I'm sure it'll cheer her

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up no end."

"How is she?"

"She's fine. There's nothing to worry about, Mr. Jansson.
We'll see you this evening will we?"

"Yes."

"I'll wear earplugs."

"I reckon the lot's worth three tenners," said the junkshop
owner.

"Twenty," said Martin.

"That aluminium ladder's worth more than that," the old man
protested. "Twenty-eight."

"Twenty-two," offered Martin. "And two pounds interest if
you let me pay you a fiver now and the rest over the next four
weeks."

The old man scratched his nose and looked at the window
cleaner's bicycle. "I reckon you'd make more out of that bike
than I make out of this shop. No heating. No rates."

"And I'd have to work harder. Twelve houses a day to make
a decent living."

The old man nodded. "All right then. But you make the first
payment a fiver. Okay?"
"Agreed," said Martin.
"Like now," the old man said firmly.

"Tomorrow. After all, you said I could borrow it as long as
Hiked. Right?"

"You could make three times that in an afternoon," protested
the old man, holding his hand out.

Martin sighed, dug into his pocket and counted the money into
the grimy palm.

Virginia was already waiting outside the court building when
Martin arrived with her car.

"A quick case then," commented Martin as he slid across
into the passenger seat.

"You didn't miss anything," said Virginia, starting the engine.
"The judge ordered a retrial because the prisoner said during
his evidence that the police were picking on him because of his
record. It seems that juries are not allowed to know about
previous
convictions until after the verdict. A stupid rule. What do
you want to do?"

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"I'm seeing Carrie in an hour."

Virginia threaded the car into the traffic. "Which gives us
enough time to go over to my sister's. I called her lunchtime and
she said you can have all her baby things. They've kept meaning
to advertise them but have never got round to it."

"I've got a job," said Martin. "Five thousand a year." He
laughed at Virginia's expression.

Part Five

A BULLET FOR THE JUDGE

Martin was woken at 6:00am on the Thursday morning by the
music of the district's marauding torn cats. He rose, washed
and shaved, and used one of the freshly laundered nappies as a
face towel. The tiny flatlet was filled with baby things that he
and Virginia had collected the evening before from her sister's.

His thoughts were with Carrie as he ate his breakfast. She had
been too ill to see him during the evening session. Martin had
demanded to know why nothing was being done and was told
that everything was being done. He had insisted on seeing her.
They had refused.

Martin left the flat at 6:30 and crossed the road to the public
telephone. The handset had been vandalized.

Leon Polder arrived outside the Fulchester Crown Court at 6:45
to be first in the queue for the two public boxes. By 8:45 there
were fifty people behind him hoping for seats in the two cramped
boxes that were designed to hold less than a dozen between
them.

Polder watched the antics of the police with amusement and
contempt. Groups of crash-helmeted cops were standing about
idly talking. VHP radios were blaring. Lights flashing. All for
nothing thought Polder with satisfaction.

Chief Superintendent Walker arrived at 8:45 and was greeted
by Rudkin. The two men entered the building. A final check,
thought Polder. He passed the time studying the police to pick
out those that were armed. An unmarked van pulled up. Two
metal detectors were carried into the building.

Polder missed the codeword or instruction that was broadcast
over the police network. Cars started. Motorcycles were kicked.
Off to hold up sideroads so that the armoured prison van has an
unimpeded passage, Polder guessed as the vehicles accelerated
away.

Martin arrived at the court at 9:45. The security officer made
him turn out all his pockets and passed a metal detector probe
slowly up his body and down his back.

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The jury waiting room filled as Martin talked on the phone to
the hospital. Carrie was already in the theatre for an emergency
operation, they said, and told him to call back in two hours.

"Look," said Martin in desperation. "I can't call you. Can
you get a message through to the court as soon as you've news?"

They promised to do their best, and hung up.

Virginia was standing behind. She took the telephone from
Martin's lifeless fingers and replaced it on the cradle.

"How is she?"

"They're operating now."

She took his arm. "Let's see if we can get you off jury service
for today."

"I'm awfully sorry," said the girl. "Really I am. Normally we'd
be able to excuse you. But we're short of jurors - if twenty-one
are challenged today, I don't know what we'll do." She smiled.
"Still, there's thirty names in the hat. Chances are yours won't
be called."

Virginia's presence prevented Martin from losing his temper.

The jury bailiff took a tenth card from his box. "Mr. Edward
French!" he called.

Virginia squeezed Martin's hand. "Looks like both of us are
getting off."

"Miss Virginia Latimer!"

Virginia stood. "I hope everything will be okay, Martin."
She didn't wait for a reply.

"Mrs. Alice Hunt!"

Martin sighed with relief.

There was a challenge.

"Mr. Martin R Janssen!"

Martin swore. He followed the black swirl of bailiff's gown
into the courtroom and sat behind Virginia in the jury box. The
bailiff touched him on the arm and gave him the bible and card.
Martin stood and reluctantly took the oath.

The jury bailiff completed the swearing in of the jury, counted
them to make sure there were twelve, and disappeared on one of
those mysterious errands that seem to be a normal part of court
procedure.

There were two men and a woman in the dock guarded by

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four uniformed policemen and two WPCs. Sinclair was involved
in heated whispered exchanges with the clerk. Golding and
Anders were in huddles with their respective juniors. They had
changed places -- Anders was now nearest the jury box.

Sinclair and the clerk settled their dispute. Golding and
Anders waved their juniors into place and turned to face the
judge. The solicitors tidied their notes and loose documents.

"Members of the Jury," said the clerk. "The three defendants,
from left to right - Neil Ronald Tysack, Russell Thomas Mace
and his sister Angela Sarah Mace, are jointly charged with, on
the first count, with the murder of John Rodney Clarke on the
2pth of February last. On the second count, with the attempted
murder on the same day of Joshua Nymanga - the Ugandan trade
minister. On the third count, with conspiring to cause
explosions.
And on the fourth count, with possessing bomb-making materials.
To all four counts the three defendants have pleaded not
guilty and it is your duty to say, having heard all the evidence,
whether they are guilty or not guilty."

Martin studied the prisoners. Angela Mace looked about 23.
She sat bolt upright staring straight ahead. Her twin brother,
Russell appeared to be asleep. Neil Tysack was fidgeting
nervously.
All three were dressed uniformly in faded jeans and
T-shirts. Martin was unaware that they were taking great care
not to look at the public box where Polder was sitting.

Golding rose. So that's why he's changed ends, thought
Martin. Because he's prosecuting.

"If your lordship pleases, Members of the Jury," Golding began
in the time-honoured manner. "I appear with my learned
friends Mr. Pearson and Mr. Swale to prosecute in this case, and
the defendants are represented by my able learned friends Mr.
Anders, Mr. Robertson and Miss Ball. It is fortunate, Members
of the Jury, that in view of the long list of counts, the facts
in this case are relatively straightforward.

"On the 29th of February, Mr. John Rodney Clarke, a chauffeur,
drove to Manchester Airport to meet Mr. Joshua Nymanga
and his retinue who were making a brief visit to this country
to inspect a chemical plant Uganda is considering purchasing.
But Mr Clarke never reached the airport. As he was driving
past a field in which two men, whom I shall be calling as
witnesses, were flying a radio-controlled model aircraft, his car
blew-up. The explosion was caused by a bomb planted in the
car which was prematurely triggered by pulses from the model
aircraft enthusiasts' radio control transmitter."

Polder slipped quietly from the public box. No one paid any
attention to him. Neil, Russell and Angela had the good sense
not to look at him.

There were several policemen in the corridor. Polder felt their
eyes on him as he went into the toilets. The place was deserted
-- the four cubicles were empty. He entered the first one, locked
the door and unscrewed the low-flush cistern lid with a coin. The

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water-saving bag of pebbles hadn't been disturbed. He removed
the revolver and box of ammunition, dropped the bag back into
the cistern and flushed the wrappings down the toilet. The box
went into an anorak pocket and the gun was tied by its trigger
guard to one of the laces sewn inside the garment. He quickly
repeated the performance with the second and third cubicles and
was emerging from the fourth as a police sergeant entered and
walked across to the urinal, unzipping his fly. Polder casually
washed his hands at one of the hand basins.

He realized his mistake.

The policeman realized it at the same time. He cocked his
head on one side, listening to water noisily filling all four
cisterns,
and said suspiciously:

"What did you want to flush all of them for?"

Polder slammed his foot into the sergeant's groin with all
weight behind the crippling kick. The policeman gave a low
groan and doubled-up in agony. Polder clenched both fists
together
and swung a savage blow on the back of the neck which
crashed his victim's head against the urinal's porcelain surround
with sickening force. A long streak of blood appeared on the
white ceramic surface as the sergeant's unconscious body slipped
to the disinfected floor.

Polder wished his old Algerian instructor could have seen the
lightning attack. He dragged the heavy body into the first
cubicle and sat in on the seat. He locked the door on the inside and
quickly climbed over the partition. Fearful that someone would
enter, he wiped the blood from the urinal with a piece of toilet
paper and flushed it away.

Two minutes later he was back at his seat in the public box
listening to Chief Superintendent Walker giving his evidence.
Polder could feel the cold from the four now loaded revolvers
gradually seeping through his shirt. He waited five minutes,
sitting
very still while his heart slowed to its normal rhythm.

He slipped a hand inside his anorak. His fingers worried
blindly at the knotted lace until he felt the revolver slip down
onto his lap on the inside of the garment.

"I ordered the road to be closed," Walker was saying, "until
army experts could examine the wreckage of the car ..."
Polder's thumb pulled back the hammer.
"... and when I arrived on the scene the diversion signs were
already in operation . .."

Polder's fingers closed round the gun's stock.
"... Statements had been taken by the local police from Captain
Roger Hine and First Officer Michael Crosby of British
Airways ..."

Polder withdrew the revolver and stood. He pointed it at
Sinclair.

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"Nobody is to move please," he announced in a loud voice.
There was a loud gasp from the entire courtroom. A woman
in the same public box as Polder gave a sudden scream. Polder's
nerves were under tight control. He ignored the sound and kept
the gun trained steadily on the judge.

"Everyone is to please place their hands on their head. I will
kill anyone who tries to do anything else."
Sinclair looked at the four policemen who were watching
Polder like cats sizing up a mouse. "Do as he says." As he
spoke, he pressed his knee against the button that would sound
the warning buzzer in Rudkin's office.

Rudkin was in his outer office talking to his secretary when the
alarm went off. He dived into his office, kicked the door shut,
and
flipped the green, unmarked key on his intercom -- the key that
was only touched once a month when the system was tested. He
heard Chief Superintendent Walker's voice say:

"Everyone was carefully searched and checked with metal
detectors, my Lord. That gun must be plastic - a replica."

Rudkin snatched up his phone.

In the courtroom, Walker repeated his assertion that Polder's
gun was a dummy.

Polder smiled easily. "Think whatever you like. But if you
move, I will pull this dummy trigger, there will be a dummy
bang and you will die a dummy death. Think about it."

Polder knew he couldn't hold an entire courtroom for long. It
was essential to get the other guns into the hands of the three
in the dock. "Neil. Come here I"

The policemen guarding the prisoners made no attempt to
prevent Neil Tysack leaving the dock. There was absolute silence
in the courtroom as the prisoner approached Polder.

"Keep out of my line I" shouted Polder.

Tysack moved to one side.

"Get behind me!"

Tysack did so.

"There's three more guns tied to the inside of my anorak. Get
them out."

The gun remained pointing unwavering at Sinclair as Tysack
reached under Polder's anorak and felt for the guns.

"Wait a minute," said Walker calmly.

Sinclair looked at the senior police officer. "What's the matter?

Walker stepped out of the witness box. Polder swung the

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weapon through several degrees until it was pointing at Walker.
He was holding it arm outstretched. Rock steady.

"Get back." Polder's voice was soft. Deadly.

Walker stepped round to the front of the witness box.

"I said, get back!"

"For God's sake do as he says," said Sinclair.

"I'm sorry, my Lord, but I can't accept that that is a real
firearm."

Tysack pushed one of the guns into his pocket and covered
the hushed courtroom with the other two. "They feel real enough
to me, Walker."

The police officer moved two paces towards Polder. His arms
dropped to his side. Polder's finger tensed on the trigger. There
was a noise outside the corridor from the door on the judge's
right. Voices. Tysack aimed his gun at the door.

Walker held his hand out. "Come on you two. You can't hope
to get away. The courtroom is surrounded. Give me those."

Polder's face was white. "Get back, I said!"

Walker stepped nearer the two men. There were more voices
outside the door.

Polder's hand began trembling, but not enough to upset his
aim. The gun barrel wavered at Walker's chest.

Walker was now four paces from the terrorists -- his hand still
outstretched. "Come on sonny. Let me have it." His tone was
reassuring. Fatherly.

The three shots that rang out exploded painfully against the
ears of everyone in the courtroom. Two were fired by Tysack.
They slammed through the plywood door leading to the corridor.
The third, from Polder's gun, tore into Walker's sleeve just
Above the elbow. The impact caused him to stagger. There were
screams. Polder yelling for silence. A policeman's hand went to
his tunic. Polder saw the movement through the clouds of cordite
fumes and fired two shots into the wall above the policeman's
head. The clouds of smoke made people cough. More involuntary
movements. More shots fired -- one crashed into the wall behind
Martin sending down a shower of plaster dust. Sinclair's voice
roared for quiet and told everyone to keep absolutely still. Then
there was silence apart from someone crying in the other public
box. The cordite fumes were gradually sucked into the
air-conditioning
ducts.

"Thank you, Judge," said Polder.

Sinclair ignored Polder. He stood.

"Sit down!" Polder yelled.

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Sinclair continued to ignore Polder. He walked round into the
well of the court and assisted Walker to a chair. Blood was
soaking
into the police officer's jacket around the tear in his sleeve.

"This man needs immediate medical attention," said Sinclair.

Tysack beckoned to Angela and Russell Mace. The twins left
the dock and edged cautiously past Sinclair and Walker. Tysack
gave them a gun each.

"What are you going to do about this man?" Sinclair demanded.

Polder instructed the twins and Tysack to cover the courtroom
from each corner.

"Well?"

Polder kept his gun trained on Sinclair and Walker, and moved
behind the judge's desk. He sat down and tore a sheet out of
Sinclair's notebook. He snapped his fingers at the shorthand
writer.

"A pen and envelope."

The frightened girl passed him a pen and envelope.

Polder wrote for two minutes, folded the note and sealed it in
the envelope. He gave the letter to the girl.

"Give it to the man I shot."

The shorthand writer left her desk. Walker took the letter
from her.

"Now get out," Polder told Walker.

Sinclair helped the policeman to his feet.

"He can manage by himself!"

Again, Sinclair ignored Polder. He supported Walker with
a huge arm and steered him to the door.

"You stay, Judge I" Polder shouted.

Sinclair pulled the door open for Walker and helped him into
the corridor. Out of earshot of the courtroom, Sinclair said:
"You're a brave bastard, Harry. But a born loser."

"Maybe," said Walker. "But I'm not going to lose those four."

Sinclair saw the trail of blood on the floor as Walker made his
way unsteadily along the corridor. Sinclair shut the door and
turned to face Polder. His scarlet robe flared out as he
purposefully advanced on the terrorist. He looked like a man-of-war with
all sails set. Despite the security of the revolver, Polder felt
a shiver of apprehension; Sinclair's terrible face looked as if it
had been carved by a sculptor who had used explosives instead of

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a hammer and chisel.

"I am going to issue instructions to the police in this
courtroom, and to anyone who cares to join in, to divide into four
separate groups to rush each of you. You might shoot some of
us, but in the end, you will be overwhelmed'!" The last word
was shouted.

Polder gazed into the enraged eyes. He shook his head slowly
and placed the four boxes of ammunition one by one on Sinclair's
desk. "I don't think so, my Lord. My friends and I are going to
start reducing your numbers right now."

Walker hardly knew what he was doing or where he was going
as he dragged his feet down the corridor; the numbing pain in
his arm made rational thought impossible. He was dimly aware of
a strange emptiness throughout the court building. He reached
the front entrance lobby and rested - leaning against the
reception
counter. There was no sign of the security officer. The lobby
started to spin in harmony with the flashing blue lights that
flickered through the glass doors from outside. Walker was fifty
nine -- his nervous system was no match for the vicious tissue
quake that had surged through his body when Polder's shot had
ripped into his arm.

He staggered forward towards the lights, pushed the door open
and walked blindly into the sunshine. He could hear feet running
towards him. Blue uniforms. A voice: "Christ, it's Walker!"

The chief constable caught Walker as he lost consciousness,
and gently lowered him to the ground.

"All of you I Into the middle I" Polder waved his gun at the rows
of solicitors and counsels benches in the centre of the
courtroom.
Everyone understood what he wanted them to do; they crowded
together on and around the benches -- members of the public,
the counsels, solicitors, court personnel including Sinclair, and
the twelve members of the jury. Martin felt Virginia's trembling
hand slip into his. Russell Mace searched each of the four
policemen
and recovered two revolvers -- the police had abandoned
automatics after one issued to a police bodyguard had
embarrassingly
jammed during a kidnap attempt on Princess Anne.

The four terrorists took-up positions in each corner of the
courtroom and covered the group. Polder stood on the public bench
where he had been sitting all week.

"What are they going to do?" Virginia whispered fearfully.

"No talking!" It was the first time Angela Mace had spoken.

Polder pointed. "You, you and you. Out!"

The three men Polder had jabbed his finger at looked puzzled.
Polder gestured impatiently to the door at his side.

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"I said, out!"

The three men -- the jury bailiff and two members of the
public - quickly left the courtroom.

Polder's finger stabbed at the group again. "You four. Out!"

The four uniformed policemen left without argument.

"You five at the front. That's right, you. Out!"

Five more men filed through the door.

Martin suddenly realised that Polder was getting rid of all the
men. He stood his ground when the finger jabbed in his direction
and put his arm round Virginia.

"If she stays, then I stay."

Tysack grinned. "Let me deal with him, Leon."

"What is she to you?" Polder demanded. "Just good friends?"

"You must go, Martin," Virginia whispered.

Polder's sensitive ears picked-up the use of the Christian name.
It might be useful to hold them both so that one could be used
to run errands.

"Okay. You can stay. But you, you and you - out!"

Anders opened his mouth - he didn't want to leave his junior.
Golding took hold of his arm before he could speak and guided
him out of the courtroom.

At the end of five minutes there were six women left in the
group and two men -- Sinclair and Martin. Polder had released
the two women police constables.

Polder grinned at them. "That's much more comfortable. Now
then, any suggestions on how to pass the time?"

The private ward window on the third floor of Fulchester General
Hospital afforded a good view of the court building 400 yards
away.

The chief constable watched the police cordon for a few minutes
then turned back to Walker who was sitting up in bed with
his arm in a sling. It was three hours since Walker had been
shot.

"The South African Bureau of State Security don't know much
about him but they know more than us. He's forty-three, the
son of a former French-Algerian colonialist farmer. Young Leon
it seems, rebelled against the French colons and joined the
Mouvement pour le Triomphe des Libertes Democratiques, and took
part in the Aures mountain raids against military posts in
January 1955 - the start of the Algerian Civil War.

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"He disappeared until 1961 when he turned up in Angola as
a company commander and educational officer of Bakongo
insurgents, and later joined the Cuban Army. It's fairly certain
that he was the officer decorated by Castro for saving the life
of General Juan Oliveria when his plane was ambushed at Luanda."
The chief constable turned back to the window and raised a pair
of binoculars to his eyes. "He's seen a lot of excitement,
Harry."

Walker's arm was throbbing. "He'll see a bloody sight more
when I get my hands on him. I'm not staying here."

"Speaks fluent Portuguese and English." The chief constable
lowered his binoculars. "You're staying here, Harry. Doctor's
orders."

"With all that going on out there? Do you think you can keep
me in?"

"No." The chief constable smiled faintly. "But the SAS can."

Walker stared at his superior. "They're just a bunch of four
young thugs. We don't need army help."

"You don't think I asked for it do you? The whole matter's
out of my hands. Standing orders; once a terrorist group demand
an aircraft or transport to get them out of the country, and
they're in a strong position to enforce that demand, then it
automatically
becomes an SAS matter. They're on their way."

Walker threw back the blankets. "So am I."

Four beige, civilian registered Range Rovers rolled into the
Police headquarters car park at 2: i5pm. The last vehicle in the convoy
was towing a covered camping trailer. 18 of 20 men that piled out
were wearing track suits. On the command of one of their number,
they immediately started a series of limbering-up exercises
round the empty car park - most of the available police vehicles
were outside the Crown Court. The two men wearing dark grey
business suits entered the headquarters. The tall man with the
permanent smile went first. His name was Captain Paul Kirk; he
was a tough veteran of Aden, Indonesia and Northern Ireland;
he had probably killed more terrorists than any other man in the
country. And he never stopped smiling. His NCO - Sergeant
Alex Christie -- never smiled at all. All his friends called him
Agatha. Both of them. One was his brother, the other his father.

The two soldiers were greeted by the chief constable, his
assistant
and Chief Superintendent Walker who had insisted on being
present.

Captain Paul Kirk smilingly declined refreshments.

"Our mess will be along soon," said Kirk, sitting at the long
mahogany conference table and opening his briefcase.

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"Your mess?" inquired the chief constable.

Kirk nodded and smiled. "A trailer. Our mobile office. It has
everything we need. Shall we begin?"

Sergeant Christie opened a shorthand notebook and produced
a cassette tape-recorder while the policemen sat on the opposite
side of the table. The NCO started writing fast shorthand before
anyone had spoken.

Kirk leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers above his
chest and began firing questions.

"How many terrorists?"

"Four," said Walker. "Three men and a girl."

"Photographs?"

The chief constable slid an envelope across the table. Kirk
pulled
out three prints - full-face and profiles of Angela and Russell
Mace, and Neil Tysack. The fourth picture was an accurate
photofit
reconstruction of Leon Polder.

"Built-up from my description of him," Walker explained,
"and the descriptions from the hostages that have been released."

Kirk smiled. "You've already tangled with them, I see."

"I stopped a 22."

Kirk raised his eyebrows. "You told me they had 385, chief
constable."

"Sleeved-down 385," said the chief constable. He was beginning
to take a dislike to the smiling officer in the civilian suit.
"At
least, the weapon that was used against Mr. Walker was sleeved
down. A 22 slug was removed from his arm. They've one firearm
each."

"Four cap guns," Kirk said to Sergeant Christie.

"They're still lethal," the chief constable said with undisguised
annoyance. Kirk's smile was getting on his nerves.

"Four lethal cap guns," Kirk amended.

Christie altered his notes.

"You have plans of the Crown Court?" asked Kirk.

"Wait a minute," said the chief constable. "Exactly what are
you planning?"

Kirk looked surprised. "Nothing yet. I need much more gen."

"A siege is the only way. Our consultant psychologist is of the

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opinion that the terrorists will not harm the hostages after a
prolonged
period in their company."

Kirk's smile broadened. "The philosophy of the Spaghetti
House siege. It's very sound - the well-publicized police method
of dealing with such problems."

The chief constable bridled. "Aren't you going to consider
it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's the well-publicized police method of dealing with
such problems."

The chief constable decided that he disliked Kirk.

"Our methods," Kirk continued, "are not publicized."

"What methods?"

"I'd like to see the plans of the Crown Court."

The assistant chief constable picked up the phone. A girl
brought in a roll of plans and a large envelope. The fresh
dyeline
prints released a strong smell of ammonia as they were spread
out on the table and anchored with ashtrays. Walker indicated
the central block while Sergeant Christie quickly flipped through
the building specifications and photographs, examining each
document in turn with an experienced eye.

Walker pointed to the central block on the plan. "That's the
main courtroom."

The chief constable indicated the front and side elevation
views on the plans. "As you can see, the chief disadvantage of
the main courtroom is that it has no windows -- apart from the
roof that is."

Kirk nodded and kept smiling. "One should always turn
disadvantages into advantages, chief constable. No windows means
that our friends won't be able to see what we're up to on the
outside. I'd be most grateful if you would kindly arrange with
the press and newsmedia not to report on activities round the
court building or film, take pictures, or use TV cameras."

"And what will we be up to?" the chief constable inquired
coldly.

"Forty centimetre thick reinforced concrete walls," Sergeant
Christie announced without warning. "Monolithic construction
and the central roof panels consist of two skins of nine mill
frosted glass in non-opening aluminium frames." It was the first
time the poker-faced sergeant had spoken.

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There was a brief silence in the room apart from the faint
sounds of the soldiers exercising in the carpark.

"It's crazy to even consider tackling them in there," said
Walker.

Kirk tapped the plans. "Much easier to shoot them in there --
twelve people spread over sixteen hundred square feet. They'd
all be squeezed into less than sixty square feet as they move to
and occupy the minibus." Kirk held up the list of demands Polder
had written. "And a siege is out of the question -- he's
threatened to start shooting the hostages unless the airport
minibus is provided by oh-three hours tomorrow morning."

"Look," said the chief constable. "Surely you've got marksmen
who could pick them off when they leave the court building
for the minibus? If you haven't -- we have."

Kirk smiled. "But what would be the point, Mr. Allan? The
four terrorists will be dead long before then. Anyway, there's
plenty of time yet. Does this town have a decent football club
and
a reasonably spacious dance hall?"

The warm afternoon sunlight filtered down on the huddle of six
women and two men hostages crowded together on the counsels
and solicitors benches in the centre of the Crown Court.

Sinclair had hardly taken his eyes off Polder since the
Revolutionary had first produced his gun that morning. Angela Mace
and her brother were in opposite corners with their revolvers
pointing steadily at the central group. Neil Tysack was stretched
out in the jury box, taking his turn to sleep.

"My Lord." The shorthand writer offered Sinclair a peppermint
which he accepted.

"What are you thinking?" Virginia asked Martin.

"Wondering if I'm a father."

Sinclair turned. "Is your wife expecting?"

Martin nodded.

"What do you want?" asked a woman who had been in the
public box.

"To be with my wife."

The corridor telephone started ringing.

Polder gestured to Angela Mace. "Answer it, Angela."

The girl went into the corridor and picked up the phone. She
kept her gun pointing into the courtroom at the hostages.

She listened for a moment and replaced the receiver. She came
back into the courtroom. "The food and the portable radio are
at the front entrance."

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Polder nodded to the shorthand writer. "You. Take your dress
off."

Sinclair looked up at Polder then at the girl. "Why should
she?"

"You stay out of this." His gun moved to the girl. "Do as I
say."

The shorthand writer stared at Polder with wide, frightened
eyes.

"You won't come to any harm if you do as you're told I"

The girl hesitated for a second then reached behind and pulled
down the zip of her dress. The garment fell to the floor.

"Now your tights."

The terrified shorthand writer rolled them down. She stood in
the middle of the courtroom clad only in a bra and panties with
her arms crossed protectively in front of her breasts.

"Now go and get the radio and the food. I'll kill the judge if
you're not back in two minutes."

She was back in less than a minute carrying a bulging plastic
carrier bag and a portable radio. Polder ordered her to switch the
radio on. She did so.

"Now open the battery compartment."

The girl slid back the plastic cover and removed the batteries
in accordance with Polder's instructions.

"Give it to me. And the batteries."

Polder suspiciously examined the radio and the batteries.

"Okay. Put them back." He nodded at the carrierbag. "I want
you to lay all the food out on the bench and put the wrappings
in a separate pile."

Martin watched the girl spreading the food out. There was a
mark round her waist caused by the top of her tights. Polder even
made her open each sandwich. He was taking no chances.

Polder nodded his approval when the last sandwich had been
offered for his inspection. "Okay. Fine ... Angela, make sure
there's nothing hidden on or in her."

Angela Mace ran her fingers round the inside of the frightened
girl's bra cups and was about to grasp the waistband of the
girl's panties when the white-faced shorthand writer cried out: "No,
please. There's nothing. I swear there's nothing!"

"I've never taken anyone's word in my life," said Polder,

The girl looked beseechingly at Polder. "Not here. Please not

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here."

"Take her into the corridor. If you find anything, kill her."
Polder regarded the group of hostages with amusement. "Let's
eat. After that I'll give a lecture on the role of Marxism in a
united Black Africa."

Every word spoken in the courtroom was picked up by the
witness box microphone. A VHP radio transmitter in Rudkin's
office beamed a strong signal to the radio receiver in Captain
Kirk's mobile headquarters. A tape-recorder was rolling. The 18
soldiers listened to the loudspeaker, memorising the voices.
Every
time someone spoke, Golding, Anders or Rudkin would identify
the voice. Sergeant Christie made a shorthand transcript which
would be useful later when the tape was edited.

When the girl had collected the food and the radio, she had
been given an instruction:

"Get the terrorists to talk. It doesn't matter what about - but
get them to talk."

The manager of Fulchester FC was proud of his club. Under his
guidance it was fighting its way up through the fourth division
and attendance figures were steadily climbing. The 100,000 pounds
loan he had committed the club to for a new stand and equipment
looked as if it would be paid off comfortably inside five years.

But now he was a worried man. The request made by the
smiling SAS captain had staggered him.

"All of them?"

Captain Kirk didn't stop smiling. "All of them. You can have
them back tomorrow. Look upon it as a short-term transfer."

"I look upon it as the craziest request I've ever heard."

"Eight lives are in grave danger," said the chief constable.

"So's my job if I grant your request."

"You refuse?" Kirk nearly stopped smiling.

The manager shook his head and picked up his phone. "I'd
better tell the ground staff."

Kirk's smile broadened. "You can always join the professionals
if they kick you out."

The street lighting maintenance platform extended slowly upwards,
lifting Captain Kirk and Sergeant Christie until they
were level with the courtroom roof. Kirk waved his arms to
the soldier operating the hydraulic controls. The platform
stopped.
Kirk opened the bar in the safety rail and the two men
stepped onto the flat roof. Both soldiers were wearing soft

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shoes.
Christie was holding an architect's 100 metre tape. Captain Kirk
wasn't smiling; not while Polder's lecture was being relayed to
him through a pocket radio receiver and an earphone.

The two men walked silently round the raised aluminium
framed sections of frosted glass that occupied a rectangle in the
centre of the roof area. The cleverly designed skylight resembled
a low greenhouse, except that no greenhouse employed
translucent double-glazing.

As Sergeant Christie measured the roof, Captain Kirk could
hear a girl's voice say in his ear:

"I'm bored with this stupid lecture. Why don't all of you tell
us about your lives? That would be much more interesting."

A man's voice, not Polder's, said : "Why?"

"Because I'm stuck in this stupid court day after day, week
in and week out, and always want to ask my own questions.
I'm sure how all four of you came to be interested in Marxism
would be much more interesting than a lot of boring old
evidence."

It was 5:20pm by the time the two men had finished on the
roof.

While Captain Kirk and Sergeant Christie were carrying out
their inspection, Chief Superintendent Walker was paying a
visit that he found embarrassing: he was talking to Rosemary
Richards in her husband's former office at the engineering
works she now controlled.

Walker pointed to the drawing. "Those dimensions for the
distances between the four legs will be confirmed in about an
hour, but there's no reason why you can't make a start on
building the main structure."

Rosemary had said little since Walker had entered her office.
She looked up from the drawing. "Look Mr. Walker, you've
held me on remand for several weeks which amounts to serving
time for something I didn't do. I've not had the chance to get
to know the staff here - the general manager's on holiday and I
don't even know the name of the welding shop foreman. All I
know is that Sven was well-liked and that yesterday's verdict
hasn't changed attitudes towards me. I don't think I'm in any
position just yet to ask ten men to work flat out on a crash
project at the drop of a hat."

Walker nodded. "I can understand how it must be for you.
But right now I don't think our personal feeling matter. There
are eight people in that courtroom whose lives are in the hands
of four dangerous maniacs. I can't make you co-operate but I
can promise you that this factory will find trading in this town
bloody well impossible in the future if you don't. You tell that
to your welding shop."

Rosemary picked up the drawing. It was little more than a rough
sketch but it contained all the information and measurements

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that an experienced gang of welders would need.

"All right then," she said. "I'll offer treble time. When do
you want it by?"

"Midnight at the latest."

"How will you collect it? It'll be far too big to move by road."

"By skycrane -- a helicopter."

Rather than waste time going back for more keys, the two
policemen broke the lock on the door to Martin and Carrie's
flatlet. They found a suitable photograph of Martin and drove
back to headquarters; their wailing siren cleared a passage
through the home-going traffic.

At the same time, another two policemen called at the home
of the shorthand writer and asked the girl's desperately worried
mother for a portrait photograph of her daughter.

In that hour similar scenes were repeated at the homes of all
the hostages.

"Come on," the shorthand writer urged Russell Mace. "Now
it's your turn."

The four terrorists regarded the girl with hostility. She had
given a first impression of being shy and retiring. Now she was
relentlessly badgering them to talk when they didn't want to
talk.

"I've got nothing to say," Russell Mace muttered moodily. "What
the hell has my life got to do with you anyway? Why all
these questions?"

"Please be quiet, Miss Symons," said Sinclair.

The girl turned on Sinclair. "Why should I? I've had to listen
day in and day out to judges and counsels asking lots of boring
old questions in this court - now it's my turn."

Sinclair glared at the defiant girl.

Polder laughed. "The revolutionary spirit is spreading. Answer
her questions, Russell."

The tape-recorder in Captain Kirk's mobile headquarters was
on its third reel. Two soldiers were busy editing the first two.
One was working on Leon Polder's voice and the other was
responsible for Neil Tysack's voice. In an hour they hoped to
have four reels of tape -- each containing the voice of one
terrorist.
The editing process meant that their sentences would be
disjointed and meaningless but that didn't matter.

The two soldiers assigned the task of killing Leon Polder waited
patiently in the darkened dance hall. They were lying prone on

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the floor, their fingers resting lightly on the triggers of their
rifles.

They waited while the flash-trainer projector was aimed at a
fresh part of the wall. The countdown started in their headphones

"Five ... Four ... Three ... Two ... One ..."

The image that flashed forty feet in front of them lasted less
than a second, but it was long enough for the two superbly
disciplined marksmen to identify their target from the sea of
faces, to bring their rifles to bear, to aim, and to fire. Two
shots
crashed out as one simultaneous report.

"Lights," called Kirk.

Two dim lights illuminated the dance hall interior. The projector
restored the picture that had appeared on the wall for a
fleeting second.

Walker was impressed - very impressed. The picture thrown
on the wall was from a slide made up as a-^composite from
photographs of the 12 people in the courtroom. They were all
there: Sinclair, some women he didn't know -- members of
the public, the shorthand writer, the male juror - Martin
Janssen, and the two woman jurors. The distortion of Leon Polder's
face was caused by two pieces of plaster that had been
chewed out of the wall by the soldiers' bullets.

"Very good," said Kirk. "Let's try one more."

The lights went out. Again, a picture flashed for less than a
second. Again, two shots roared out.

"Lights."

The projected picture shone out from a different part of wall.
Leon Polder's face was in different position in the group
photograph,
but it was still distorted by miniature craters in the
plaster.

Kirk was pleased. The training session was going well.

"Bennett and Hopkins," he called out.

Two soldiers who had been studying a picture of Angela
Mace took their positions on the floor. Bennett managed to
shoot Virginia Latimer between the eyes, but Kirk wasn't worried.
He was confident that after another hour's work, all eight
men selected for the hit team would be perfect.

The telephone in the corridor outside the courtroom started
ringing at the prearranged time of 8:00pm. Polder answered it.
He made Virginia stand in front of him as a shield in case anyone
appeared at the end of the corridor.

The caller was the chief constable. "A Lockheed Ten-Eleven
will be ready by four this morning at Manchester Airport.

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We'll leave the minibus outside the main entrance at three.
There's one condition that we must insist on -- that you release
your hostages once you're aboard the aircraft --"

"Wait a minute," Polder interrupted sharply. "I specified a
DC Ten or a Seven-Four-Seven."

"We couldn't get one in the time you've given us."

Polder didn't believe the chief constable. He had a pretty
good idea of what aircraft were available at Manchester at any
given time.

"What about your independents? Laker's operate DC Tens."

"Hold on," said the chief constable.

Polder could hear a muffled conversation at the other end.

"Hallo?" said the chief constable's voice. "The only Laker
DC Ten in the country is the Eastern Belle. And she's at Gat
wick being serviced."

Polder thought hard. He had instinctive dislike of the TriStar.
From the hi-jacker's point of view it was an undesirable air
translucent double-glazing.

As Sergeant Christie measured the roof, Captain Kirk could
hear a girl's voice say in his ear:

"I'm bored with this stupid lecture. Why don't all of you tell
us about your lives? That would be much more interesting."

A man's voice, not Polder's, said : "Why?"

"Because I'm stuck in this stupid court day after day, week
in and week out, and always want to ask my own questions.
I'm sure how all four of you came to be interested in Marxism
would be much more interesting than a lot of boring old
evidence."

It was 5:00pm by the time the two men had finished on the
roof.

While Captain Kirk and Sergeant Christie were carrying out
their inspection, Chief Superintendent Walker was paying a
visit that he found embarrassing: he was talking to Rosemary
Richards in her husband's former office at the engineering
works she now controlled.

Walker pointed to the drawing. "Those dimensions for the
distances between the four legs will be confirmed in about an
hour, but there's no reason why you can't make a start on
building the main structure."

Rosemary had said little since Walker had entered her office.
She looked up from the drawing. "Look Mr. Walker, you've
held me on remand for several weeks which amounts to serving
time for something I didn't do. I've not had the chance to get
to know the staff here -- the general manager's on holiday and I

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don't even know the name of the welding shop foreman. All I
know is that Sven was well-liked and that yesterday's verdict
hasn't changed attitudes towards me. I don't think I'm in any
position just yet to ask ten men to work flat out on a crash
project at the drop of a hat."

Walker nodded. "I can understand how it must be for you.
But right now I don't think our personal feeling matter. There
are eight people in that courtroom whose lives are in the hands
of four dangerous maniacs. I can't make you co-operate but I
can promise you that this factory will find trading in this town
bloody well impossible in the future if you don't. You tell that
to your welding shop."

Rosemary picked up the drawing. It was little more than a
rough sketch but it contained all the information and
measurements that an experienced gang of welders would need.

"All right then," she said. "I'll offer treble time. When do
you want it by?"

"Midnight at the latest."

"How will you collect it? It'll be far too big to move by road.'

"By skycrane - a helicopter."

Rather than waste time going back for more keys, the two
policemen broke the lock on the door to Martin and Carrie's
flatlet. They found a suitable photograph of Martin and drove
back to headquarters; their wailing siren cleared a passage
through the home-going traffic.

At the same time, another two policemen called at the home
of the shorthand writer and asked the girl's desperately worried
mother for a portrait photograph of her daughter.

In that hour similar scenes were repeated at the homes of all
the hostages.

"Come on," the shorthand writer urged Russell Mace. "Now
it's your turn."

The four terrorists regarded the girl with hostility. She had
given a first impression of being shy and retiring. Now she was
relentlessly badgering them to talk when they didn't want to
talk.

"I've got nothing to say," Russell Mace muttered moodily.
"What the hell has my life got to do with you anyway? Why all
these questions?"

"Please be quiet, Miss Symons," said Sinclair.

The girl turned on Sinclair. "Why should I? I've had to listen
day in and day out to judges and counsels asking lots of boring
old questions in this court -- now it's my turn."

Sinclair glared at the defiant girl.

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Polder laughed. "The revolutionary spirit is spreading- Answer
her questions, Russell."

"Okay," he said at length. "But the hostages stay with us."
The chief constable replaced his receiver. No aircraft had
been arranged. Not agreeing to Polder's request concerning the
specific type of aircraft was deliberate; one hundred per cent
co-operation might arouse his suspicions. At least Polder was
now convinced an aircraft would be at Manchester, even if it
wasn't the right one.

Polder had no such convictions. He walked back into the courtroom
and thoughtfully surveyed the group of hostages. They
were playing Scrabble with letter tiles made out of paper from
Sinclair's notebook. Polder looked round the courtroom -- there
were too many of those little green doors for his liking. He
turned his attention to the 400 square feet of frosted glass
skylight panels in the centre of the ceiling. None of them could be
opened. Polder felt certain that if the police did move, it would
come during the transfer to the minibus.

Captain Kirk and Sergeant Christie visited the factory at 9:00pm
and were delighted with the progress that was being made.

The curious steel structure taking shape in the factory's car park
resembled a miniature oil-drilling platform. It consisted
of a rectangular lattice of steel tubing that measured twenty
five feet along each side. The corners were supported fifteen
feet off the ground by four legs which, like the main framework,
were fabricated from steel tubing. A continuous display of
vivid blue flashes illuminated the watching soldiers' faces. The
air was filled with the hiss and crackle of arc-welding flux.

As the two men were talking to Rosemary Richards, a lorry
rolled into the car park. Corporal Macintyre and his team of
four soldiers jumped down from the truck and saluted Kirk.

"You've got them, Macintyre?"

"Yes, sir," said the corporal crisply. "Come and see. The
ground staff helped. In fact we couldn't've managed without
them."

On the back of the lorry were ten staring football stadium
floodlights. Each one of the steel-cased cyclopian monsters was
over four feet in diameter and was capable of unleashing fifteen
thousand watts of searing white light from its tungsten halogen
filaments; a murderous intensity which, at five feet, could
scorch a man's retinas to vapour and boil his brains in his
skull.
Before he could blink.

Polder looked at Sinclair speculatively. "Have you ever sentenced
anyone to death, Judge?"

Sinclair concentrated on the homemade Scrabble board; pointedly
ignoring the remark.

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"Well?"

"No."

"Do you wish you had?"

Sinclair slowly raised his great head and gazed across the
courtroom at Polder sitting arrogantly in the judge's high-backed
chair.

"I was a circuit judge at the time, and favoured the abolition
of capital punishment for murder. An attitude which I now
regret."

Polder grinned. "Someone could be passing a sentence of
death on you at this very moment."

Sinclair didn't respond.

Polder's expression hardened. "If the police do try anything
silly, you will be the first one I will kill - even if it's the
last thing
I do." Polder opened his revolver, turned it towards the hostages
and pointed it to the top chamber. "That's your bullet,
Judge. It's worth one penny of your lousey currency. How does
it feel to have your life measured against --"

The telephone rang three times and stopped.

"That's the supper," said Neil Tysack.

Virginia stood up and began unbuttoning her dress.

"My turn," she said to the shorthand writer.

Polder snapped the gun shut and pointed it at Martin.

"Contemplate your boyfriend's fate if you don't return."

"I'll be back," said Virginia, folding her dress. She gave it to
Martin and approached the high desk. She looked up at Polder
without showing any sign of the fear she felt.

"I want to be present when the police kill you."

Lance-Corporal Bennett and Corporal Hopkins, lying on thin
mattresses on the dance hall, were a hundred per cent efficient
when it came to shooting at Angela Mace's face. Now they were
at the end of their thirty minute session training to aim at her
voice.

Attached to the side of their respective rifles was the long,
super-sensitive, pick-up tube of a dynamic 'gun' microphone --
a device which picks up only those sounds originating from the
source it is pointing at; all other extraneous noises are
discarded.
Captain Kirk had once succinctly described the "gun" mike
as, 'a gadget which can pick up a gnat's burp at a hundred
yards'.

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Bennett and Hopkins had spent an hour listening to repeated
play-backs of the recording of Angela Mace's voice until
they were more familiar with the mannerisms of her speech
than they were with the voices of their own wives. Every
characteristic of her pronunciation, intonation and inflexion
was indelibly etched o their memory. Such was the quality of the
computer-enhancer recording that both men claimed they could
even recognise her breathing.

Sergeant Christie, sitting at the sound mixing panel, could
well believe them; no matter how much he juggled with the
different speakers at the opposite end of the dance floor by
feeding in additional voices over the top, switching speakers or
fading, Bennet and Hopkins unerringly moved their rifles to
keep Angela Mace's voice concentrated in their headphones.

He flipped the switch that channelled his voice into the same
speaker the girl was on.

"You two gentlemen are wonderful, you know that?"

Catcalls and whistles greeted his announcement.

"Come and give us a kiss then, Serge."

"Business first. I'm sending Straker and Harris in. You can
kiss them."

"We're not in love with them, are we, Claud?"

Virginia broke all the rules of Scrabble when she arranged her
letter tiles and the other hostages' letter tiles to read:

WEVE GOT TO GET THEM ALL TALKING BY TWO
It was the first of two instructions she had been given when
she had gone to collect the food.

At 11:15pm, Corporal Keith Macintyre of the SAS, and maintenance
foreman David Ryan entered the court building's basement.

The two men approached the complex array of fuse boxes and
switches mounted on the main supply panel. Macintyre opened
his toolbox while Ryan unfolded a wiring diagram of the
building's electrical circuits, and studied it carefully. His finger
traced the courtroom's lighting cables. He looked up and pointed
to a fuse box.

"It's that one, corporal."

"Sure?"

"Positive."

Corporal Macintyre unscrewed the cover and exposed a row
of ceramic fuse carriers.

"Which one?"

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"Third on the left," Ryan replied.

"Double check."

Ryan retraced the cable route on the diagram.

"Still third on the left," he confirmed.

Corporal Macintyre pulled on a pair of insulating gloves and
lifted a large coil out of his toolbox. He grinned at Ryan.

"Last time I tried a stunt like this, the fairy lights set fire
to the Christmas tree."

The device was outside Ryan's experience. "What is it?"

"A rheostat, old son. We're going to use it as a lighting dimmer
-- like they do in cinema's. Once I've wired it in, I'll be
sitting down here gradually reducing the lighting voltage by
fifteen per cent over the next three hours. I'm going to miss all
the bleeding fun."

The message Virginia had spelt out on the improvised Scrabble
board gave the eight hostages hope. Something was going to
happen at 2:ooam. But what?

As Martin gazed across at Neil Tysack, he wondered what on
earth could happen in less time than it took to pull a trigger.
He also wondered about Carrie. Why hadn't he been given a
message? Did she know about his predicament? Would she be
provided for if he was killed?

Virginia read his thoughts. "She'll be okay."
She didn't tell Martin that she had asked for news of Carrie
to be phoned through and was told that it was not possible.

Shortly after midnight, the Sea King helicopter arrived to
Collect the weird structure that had been built in the factory car
park. The welding gang who had made the 'Bedstead', as it
was now called were exhausted.

Captain Kirk and Sergeant Christie walked underneath it
and looked up at the ten stadium floodlights that were trained
down at the ground. The concrete underfoot was still warm
from the test burn. The two 100 kilowatt mobile generators that
powered the lights were already on their way to the Crown
Court.

Sergeant Christie pointed to one of the four legs. "How about
some padding around them, sir?"
"No point, Sergeant. If one of those legs as much as nudges
the skylight, then we've wasted our time."

Two soldiers attached a beacon light to each leg.

Christie and Kirk walked clear. The signal to start the operation
was given.

The helicopter's motor churned the night air as it lifted the

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machine to five hundred feet. Its power winch paid out an equal
amount of heavy, non-twist Dacron rope attached to a heavy
snap-hook. A soldier armed with a walkie-talkie scrambled onto
the 'Bedstead's' latticework that supported the floodlights. He
grabbed the snap-hook and secured it to the lifting point.

"Up five," he signalled to the winch man on the helicopter.

The 'Bedstead's' feet lifted five feet off the ground. The
strange, unwieldy structure dipped alarmingly. Soldiers steadied
it as workmen tack-welded counterbalancing pieces of scrap
steel onto the appropriate legs until the contraption was hanging
reasonably level.

"Okay. Take her away."

The Dacron fibre non-twist rope was as good as its makers
claimed; the four lights that marked the 'Bedstead's' legs did
not describe a circle as they lifted into the sky. But the
crucial
test would come above the Crown Court roof when the 'Bedstead'
was hanging beneath the helicopter at the end of 2000 feet
of the rope.

Captain Kirk and his men piled into their Range Rovers.

"Follow dem lights!" someone shouted.

There was laughter as the four vehicles swept out of the
car park.

Virginia waited until it was safe to spell out the second
instruction
on the Scrabble board:

THROW YOURSELF FLAT FACE DOWN WHEN YOU
HEAR THE BANG

"That earns me a bonus of fifty points," Virginia said smugly.
She looked at each of the hostages in turn. "Which puts me a
hundred and twenty ahead. You all understand the score?"

The hostages agreed that they understood perfectly.

While Polder was thinking that the English were slightly mad,
the group of eight soldiers specially trained that day for the
final phase of the operation were only sixteen feet above his
head preparing the roof for the arrival of the 'Bedstead'.

Thick foam rubber mattresses were laid like carpet tiles so
that the soldiers could move freely about without making a
sound. A string was lowered to the ground and the heavy supply
cable from the mobile generators parked 400 yards away was
hauled onto the roof. Mattresses left over were stacked at each
corner of the expanse of skylight glass to receive the legs of
the 'Bedstead'.

Their final task was spreading the explosive netting over the
skylight glass and carefully ensuring close contact with adhesive
tape. The film of condensation forming made the job doubly

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difficult but it was essential that the tiny beads of explosive
on the anti-personnel netting were firm against the glass if the
Shockwave was to simultaneously pulverize every panel to dust.

Once the netting was in place, a soldier tested the detonation
circuit with a meter before making the connection to the mobile
headquarters now standing in the Crown Court carpark. There
was a series of whispered exchanges by lip microphone and
headphones confirming that the connection was sound.

At a few minutes past one o'clock, the distant beat of helicopter
rotors was heard. Three miles away and a long way
beneath the sound of the motor, a cluster of four lights could
be seen advancing over the rooftops of Fulchester towards the
Crown Court.

IS IT MY IMAGINATION OR ARE THE LIGHTS
SLIGHTLY DIMMER was the question Sinclair had composed
on the Scrabble board.

Martin didn't look directly at the wall lights. The judge was
right; it was less bright in the room than it had been.

Polder became tense and called for silence. The four terrorists
gazed up at the skylight. The far-off throb of a helicopter
engine could be faintly heard.

For the lone soldier, wedged between the cold, swollen flanks
of the monstrous floodlights, it was the strangest journey of
his life. The 'Bedstead' seemed to be floating in time and space as
it drifted slowly across the town. He found it hard to believe
that the taut, synthetic fibre rope soaring up into blackness
could be associated with the invisible flying machine whose distant
sound was occasionally muffled by wisps of low cloud.

"Beacons off," said a voice in his ear. "We're within four
hundred yards of the court building."

The soldier threw the master switch that extinguished the
lights on the 'Bedstead's' legs.

As far as the helicopter pilot was concerned, the nightmare
journey was nowhere near over. If disaster were to strike, it
would be now. With infinite care, he gradually reduced speed
from the steady four knots to a hover. As with all large
helicopters,
his position above the bulbous airframe restricted his
ground vision -- he depended wholly on the guiding voices in his
headphones to assist him with delicate manoeuvres. Positioning
the 'Bedstead' above the Crown Court roof was extremely difficult
owing to the long line being employed; it took some minutes
for the swaying 'Bedstead' to steady after a position change
before the soldiers could determine if the change had been
correct.

"She's swinging through a ten degree arc," muttered the
pilot's headphones. "Hold still."

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The pilot did his best to maintain a motionless hover.

"Okay. Down a bit."

The eight soldiers on the rooftop strained their eyes up,
anxiously watching the swaying 'Bedstead' as it started on the
final and most hazardous leg of its journey -- the fifty foot
descent to the roof of the Crown Court.

"Something's happening," said Polder.

Neil Tysack shook his head. "It's only a helicopter, Leon.
Newsmen. They've been buzzing about all day."

Polder wasn't convinced. "What can they hope to see at
night?"

"Maybe they hope to see something when we go out to the
minibus."

"Down a foot! No more, for Christ's sake!"

The steel framework edged down. Two soldiers were at each
corner of the roof, ready to grab the legs when they were within
reach.

"Okay. Down another five!"

The legs were now poised twenty feet above the roof.

"Looking good .... Looking good. Down ten I"

The soldier riding on the 'Bedstead' kept perfectly still. He
even held his breath.

"Down two!"

Eight pairs of hands grabbed the legs and hung onto them.

"Down eight!"

The 'Bedstead's' four pads touched foam rubber. The strange
structure was astride the skylights like a giant, unimaginable
beast straddling its slaughtered prey.

"Tranquillity Base," said a voice in the pilot's headphones.
"The Eagle has landed."

It was 1:30am.

Sergeant Christie was the Operation Controller. Captain Kirk
sat beside him in the mobile headquarters while Walker and the
chief constable sat at the back, keeping out of the way. A
loudspeaker
relayed the sounds from the courtroom. It was i: 45am.
Nothing much was being said.

The speaker went dead when Christie pressed a key to talk
to the men on the roof.

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"Ventham and Taylor?"

"In position. Not locked onto target yet," the loudspeaker
replied.

Kirk yawned as Christie obtained reports from the other six
soldiers waiting on the roof. "About time they started getting
vociferous in there," he muttered*

Christie glanced at the digital wall clock and nodded.

Virginia stood up. "I'm bored with this game. Let's do something
else." She walked across to Russell Mace who was sitting
in the jury box. "You haven't had much to say for yourself.
Haven't you got any suggestions on how to pass the time?"

"No."

"I thought you had imagination?" Virginia teased.

"Well I haven't."

"She's moved off mike," said Christie.

"I know," Virginia's voice said from the loudspeaker. "Let's
hold a mock trial. After all, we've got a real judge and a real
courtroom -- it would be a pity to waste them. Let's accuse
Russell here of murder. You won't be able to stay in the jury
box, Russell."

"Ventham!" said Christie sharply. "Position Ten-East! The
jury box!"

On the roof, Ventham and Taylor quickly changed their
positions and re-aimed their rifles. All eight soldiers were
distributed
around the skylight panels, all of them were wearing
headphones and all were pointing their rifles at the frosted
glass
panes into the courtroom they couldn't see.

"I'm staying here," said the loudspeaker.

"Ventham and Taylor - we're locked onto our target," came
the report from the roof.

"All right then. You can be on the jury," said Virginia.

Footsteps could be heard over the loudspeaker. Then Virginia's
voice was slightly louder:

"It would be much more realistic if you let our real judge sit
there."

"Sit down and be quiet."

"Evans and Mason,' said a Welsh accent from the loudspeaker.

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"We're still locked onto Polder. He hasn't moved."

Kirk examined the plan of the courtroom. Angela Mace was
the only terrorist whose position had not been established with
certainty. "Get Bennett and Hopkins to try Eight-West - the
witnesses bench."

Christie passed the instruction to the two men on the roof
assigned to Angela Mace. They confirmed that they were now
locked-in.

"And Neil Tysack can be the accused," said Virginia's voice.
"What would you like to be accused of, Neil?"

"Don't involve me in your stupid games."

"No point in delaying if they're ready," said Kirk. He turned
in his chair and smiled at the two police officers. "The big
moment,
gentlemen."

"Final calls," said Christie. "Ventham and Taylor?"

"Ready."

"Milne and Robertson?"

"Ready, sweetheart."

"Straker and Harris?"

"Ready, serge."

Christie rested his hand near the control that switched the
floodlights on and detonated the netting.

"Bennett and Hopkins?"

"Ready."

Tysack's voice: "Because I don't wish to play. Isn't that
sufficient reason?"

Virginia's voice? "Why not?"

"Generators," said Christie. "Full load required in twenty
seconds."

"Opening up now," the loudspeaker replied.

The idling diesels on the distant generators became a roar.

Polder stood up suddenly. "What the hell's that?"

"Engines," said Tysack. "A long way off."

Polder left his chair and moved into the well of the court. He
listened, but kept his gun trained on the hostages.

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"Hold it," crackled the loudspeaker. "Evans and Mason. We've
lost Polder."

Kirk drummed his fingers.

Polder's voice: "Those bastards out there are up to something."

"Okay, we got him back."

"Ten second countdown starting now," said Christie. "Good
luck everyone ... Ten ... Nine ...

Polder swung his revolver to Virginia. His face was white and
twisted with fury. "Bitch!" he snarled. "You were the last
one out there. What's going on?"

"Leon!" Angela Mace was standing and pointing at the wall
lights. "They're dimming them! It's much darker in here than it
was!"

"Eight ... Seven ..."

The soldiers pulled their nuclear flash goggles over their
eyes. "Six ... Five ... Four ..."

Polder pulled back the hammer on his revolver. The weapon was
pointing at Virginia's face at a range of seven feet. "Talk!"
screamed Polder. "You've got three seconds, you cow!"

Christie's finger was poised above the button.
"Three ... Two ... One ..."
His ringer jabbed down.

At the same time, Martin launched himself at Virginia to pull
her down. Then there was a sequence of events that happened
in less than one second: everything went white - blindingly
white as if a thousand flashbulbs had been fired in front of his
eyes. He felt Virginia collapsing under his weight. Sheets of
white-hot flame blazed on his retinas. The courtroom was
wiped out of existence - engulfed by a super nova and plunged
into the hellish nuclear inferno of a million colliding suns. The
nightmare ended with two cataclysmic explosions.

Sinclair was the first to stand. Fragments of glass fell to the
floor. He couldn't see. He knew terror for the first time in his
life -- he was blinded.

"Don't move!" said a voice from above.

Sinclair couldn't move. Standing up had been a reaction -- now
his nerves and muscles were paralysed with fear. He could
taste blood.

"I can't see!"

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"You'll be okay in a few minutes," said the voice from above.
"Just keep still."

Another voice said : "Grand slam, Serge ... A grand slam."

Martin heard the voice. He too stood. He clung to the side of a
bench as his senses gradually returned to normal. Vague
shapes covered in tiny fragments of glass were stirring all
around him. Acrid fumes assailed his nostrils.

"Ginny?"

"What happened?"

He helped her to her feet.

A soldier with a rifle at the ready entered the courtroom.
He was followed by two men in white coats and four nurses.
Martin allowed hands to steer him to a seat. He sat there in a
trance, hardly aware of the headless corpse that was being lifted
onto a stretcher not six feet away.

A doctor straightened up and stepped out of the jury box. He
was wearing a stethoscope.

"That one's dead as well."

"Mostly glass cuts," said a nurse close by.

Martin realised that she was looking at his forehead.

"Look up please."

Martin looked up. There was not one pane left in the central
skylight section -- just a bare aluminium framework against
the stars, and the heads and shoulders of eight grinning
soldiers.
All of them had black goggles pushed up on their foreheads.

The nurse dabbed his head. "You'll need a stitch in that cut
but you're okay. You all are."

People were pouring into the courtroom. There was the constant
sound of glass being crunched underfoot.

The eight badly shaken hostages were ushered into the jury
waiting room to have their cuts attended to. The police allowed
newsmen into the room but insisted they kept their distance.
The "no flashguns" ruling raised howls of protest.

"I want to see my wife," Martin said to a nurse.

"In a minute, Mr. Janssen. You must let me stitch that cut."

Martin stood. "I want to go now. Please."

"I must clean you up a bit."

Martin walked out of the room.

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Walker ordered two police constables to accompany him. He
turned to the nurse and gestured to his wounded arm. "Now
you've lost your patient, maybe you could take a look at my
dressing?"

The ward sister looked at Martin in alarm. "Didn't you get our
message, Mr. Janssen?"

Martin fought down the panic. "No. What message!" He
didn't wait for a reply but rushed passed the nurse and blundered
into the maternity ward.

"Mr. Janssen! Please!"

Martin stumbled passed the desk with the dim night light.
Sixth bed on the right.

"Carrie! It's me!"

He froze. It wasn't Carrie. The ward sister was beside Martin.

"Please come back, Mr. Janssen."

"Where is she!"

The ward was wakening up again. The nurse began to get
angry. The sound of explosions and vehicles coming and going,
and the constant stream of reporters had ruined her comfortable
routine.

"I'll tell you outside."

Martin allowed himself to be ushered into the corridor.

"We had to move her. There were reporters trying to see her
before the operation."

Martin nearly lost his temper. "Is she all right!"

The nurse avoided looking at him. "She should've kept those
clinic appointments. We would've known exactly what to expect."

"Look, for Christ's sake just tell me if she's all right!
Please!"

"She's fine. Very weak. We haven't told her about what's
been happening over at the courts."

"Can I see her?"

"She's had twins. A boy and a girl. The boy's fine. The girl
has a very weak heart but it's getting stronger all the time."

Martin stared at the nurse in disbelief. "Twins?" he echoed
hoarsely. "You mean two?"

"That's what the word usually means. You'd better sit down
before you fall down." She gave Martin a chair.

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"Why can't I see her?"

The nurse went into her office and reappeared with a hand
mirror which she held in front of Martin's face.

"When you've been cleaned up, Mr. Janssen. If you appeared
like that, the shock would kill her."

Martin looked at himself in astonishment. There was an
ugly gash on. his forehead; blood was trickling down his face
and had drenched his shirt.

"She needs sleep," the nurse said kindly. "You need sleep.
You can see her if you really want to, but don't you think it
would be kinder to leave it until the morning?"

Martin nodded.

The nurse smiled. "Come and see your son and daughter."

The Range Rovers and the mobile SAS headquarters were ready
to leave at dawn. Despite the hour, there was a large crowd
outside the court building. Golding was there, shaking hands
with everyone; Sinclair's wife was assuring reporters that they
had the wrong woman; Anders was cross-examining the shorthand
writer; flashbulbs were popping and cameras were rolling.
Martin pushed his way to the front of the crowd around the
Range Rovers and managed to shake hands with Kirk as the
officer was about to leave.

"Heard your wife had a baby," Kirk shouted above the din.

"Two. One of each."

"Two!" said Sinclair, his ears hyper-sensitive to the mention
of babies. "You'll be needing a couple of godfathers then. Always
pleased to oblige."

Martin grabbed Virginia. "A boy and a girl I"

"Congratulations." She was laughing.

"We're going to call the girl Virginia."

"Has Carrie agreed?"

"Not yet, but I'm sure she will."

Sinclair tapped Martin on the shoulder. "What about the
boy's name?" he demanded. "My Christian name's Sinclair if
you need ideas."

The Range Rover doors slammed. Engines started. Kirk
wound down his window to say a final goodbye to Walker and
the chief constable."

"MoD will be sending you the bill in about a month," Kirk
called out as his vehicle pulled away. "About twenty thousand,

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I expect!"

"Bill?" muttered Walker, gazing at the receding taillights.
"They're going to charge us?"

The chief constable nodded. "They always do, Harry. When
Glasgow used troops during the dustmen's strike, the council
got landed with a bill for a hundred thousand. Anyway, what
does twenty thousand matter? The trial would've cost that. It's
a cruel world."

On the floor of the courtroom, the blood of Leon Polder, Neil
Tysack and the Mace twins mingled with broken glass and little
squares of white paper - each bearing a letter of the alphabet.

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