‘To my shame, I am,’ Ruth replied. ‘But I choose not to be reminded of the fact and I’d thank you to show me the courtesy of calling me Mrs Carter.’
Highsmith nodded. ‘Thank you for making it so clear precisely where you stand, Mrs Carter,’ he said. ‘Now perhaps you would be so good as to answer my question? You have been married before you vowed to love, honour and obey Mr Hawkin?’
‘I was widowed when Alison was six.’
‘So you’ll know what I mean when I speak of a full married life?’
Ruth gave him a mutinous glare. ‘I’m not stupid. And I did grow up on a farm.’
‘Answer the question, please.’ His voice was like a blade.
‘Yes, I know what you mean.’
‘And did you enjoy a full married life with your first husband?’
‘I did.’
‘Then you married Philip Hawkin. And you enjoyed a full married life with Mr Hawkin?’
Ruth looked him straight in the face, a dark flush on her cheeks. ‘He was up to it, but not as often as I was used to,’ she said, then gave a tiny shudder of distaste.
‘So you noticed nothing abnormal in your husband’s appetites?’
‘Like I said, he wasn’t that interested, not compared to my first husband.’
‘Who was of course much younger than Mr Hawkin. Now, did you ever see your husband in a compromising position with Alison?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
He was impressed. She was holding her own far better than he’d expected. Most women of her class were so intimidated by his handsome, forbidding presence that they crumbled and gave him what he wanted to hear almost immediately. He shook his head and gave her a patronizing smile. ‘Of course you do, Mrs Carter. Did he visit her alone in her bedroom late at night?’
‘Not that I ever knew about.’
‘Did he enter the bathroom when she was in there?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Did he even sit with her on his knee?’
‘No, she was too big for that.’
‘In short, Mrs Carter, you never saw or heard anything that made you in the least suspicious of your husband’s relationship with your daughter.’ It was so definitely a statement rather than a question that Ruth didn’t even appear to consider answering its implications. Highsmith glanced down at his papers. He looked up and cocked his head to one side.
‘Now, the gun. You told the court your husband had a gun which he kept in a box in his study. Did you tell anyone else about this gun? Any of your family, your friends?’
‘He said I was to keep my mouth shut about it. So I did.’
‘So we only have your word for it that the gun was ever there in the first place.’ Ruth opened her mouth to speak, but he steamrollered on. ‘And of course, it was you who handed the gun over to the police, so you had plenty of opportunity to memorize any distinctive features on this otherwise unidentifiable gun. So we only have your word for it that there is any connection between your husband and the gun, don’t we?’
‘I didn’t rape my daughter, mister. And I didn’t shoot her either,’ Ruth ground out. ‘So I’ve no call to lie.’
Highsmith paused. He allowed his face to slip from grimness to open sympathy. ‘But you want someone to blame, don’t you, Mrs Carter? More than anything, you want to believe you know what happened to your daughter, and you want someone to blame. That’s why you’re so willing to go along with the case the police have concocted. You want your heart put at rest. You want someone to blame.’
Stanley was on his feet, objecting. But it was too late. Highsmith had muttered, ‘No further questions,’ and sat down. The damage was done.
Sampson frowned down at Highsmith. ‘Mr Highsmith, I will not have counsel using the examination of witnesses as an excuse for making speeches. You will have your chance to express your views to the jury. Kindly confine yourself to that. Now, Mr Stanley, am I correct in thinking that your next witness is the chief police witness, Detective Inspector Bennett?’
‘Yes, Your Lordship.’
‘I think it would be as well to begin with his evidence tomorrow morning. This court has civil matters before it and I am minded to deal with those today.’
‘As Your Lordship pleases,’ Stanley said, ducking his head in a bow.
On the press benches, Don Smart drew a line across the page with a flourish. Plenty of good stuff for the headlines there. And tomorrow, he could watch George Bennett put the noose round Hawkin’s disgusting neck. The door had barely closed behind the judge when he was on his feet and heading for the nearest phone.
Clough still hadn’t appeared by the end of the afternoon, though a court usher had brought a phone message from Sergeant Lucas. ‘Clough has been held up,’ it read. ‘He says he will see you tomorrow in Derby before the court convenes.’ George wondered fleetingly what the detective sergeant was up to. Probably something to do with another case, he thought. In the weeks since the arrest of Philip Hawkin, both men had had plenty of work to occupy them during any time they had to spare from the construction of the Alison Carter case.
George emerged from the anteroom when he heard the murmuring of noise on the landing outside that told him the court had risen for the day. He caught a glimpse of Ruth Carter surrounded by friends and relatives, but made a point of not catching anyone’s eye. Now the case had started, it was important that none of the witnesses conferred before they actually appeared to give their evidence. Instead, George moved against the flow of bodies and made his way into the courtroom. Highsmith and his junior had already left, but Stanley and Pritchard were still sitting at their table, heads together, deep in discussion.
‘How was it?’ George asked, helping himself to the chair next to Pritchard.
‘Desmond was marvellous,’ Pritchard said enthusiastically. ‘Tremendous opening speech. The jury were transfixed. Highsmith wouldn’t even speak to us at lunchtime. You’d have been so impressed, George.’
‘Well done,’ George said. ‘How was Mrs Carter?’
The two barristers exchanged glances. ‘A bit emotional,’ Pritchard said. ‘She broke down a couple of times in the box.’ He gathered together the rest of his papers and tucked them into a folder.
‘It works to our advantage, of course,’ Stanley interjected. ‘Nevertheless, I take no pleasure in making a lady cry.’
‘She’s been through the mill,’ George said. ‘I can’t begin to imagine how it feels to know you’ve married a man who’s raped and killed your child.’
Pritchard nodded. ‘She’s bearing up well in the circumstances. She’s a good witness. She doesn’t back down, and her very stubbornness makes Highsmith look like a bully, which the jury don’t like at all.’
‘What defence is he going to run? Do you know?’ George asked, standing up to let Pritchard and Stanley pick up their briefs and leave the courtroom for the robing room.
‘Hard to imagine what he could credibly run, unless he tries to convince the jury that the police have framed his client.’
Stanley nodded. ‘And that would be a bad mistake, I think. The British jury, like the British public, resents attacks on the police.’ He smiled. ‘They think of policemen as they do of Labradors – noble, loyal, good with children, man’s protector and friend. In spite of evidence to the contrary, they refuse to admit policemen can be corrupt, sly or untruthful because to do so would be to admit we are on the