George shook his head. ‘No, sir. I was referring to attempts at faking that I have seen, not that I have produced.’
‘But you do know how photographs can be faked?’
George took a deep breath. ‘As I said earlier, my knowledge of photography is well out of date. Anything I know about any aspect of photography has probably been overtaken by changes in technique and technology.’
‘Inspector, please answer the question. Do you or do you not know how photographs can be faked?’ Highsmith sounded exasperated. George knew it was assumed to make him look shifty, but there was nothing he could do to alter that impression, short of admitting to being a skilled forger of photographs.
‘I have some theoretical knowledge, yes, but I have never –’
‘Thank you,’ Highsmith said loudly, cutting him off. ‘A simple answer will always suffice. Now, these negatives which the prosecution has entered into evidence. What kind of camera would you need to take them?’
Beneath the level of the witness box, where the jury could not see them, George clenched his fists till his nails left weals on his palms. ‘You’d need a portrait camera. A Leica or a Rolleiflex, something like that.’
‘Do you possess such a camera?’
‘I have not used my Rolleiflex for at least five years,’ he said, knowing he sounded devious even as he spoke.
Highsmith sighed. ‘The question was whether you possess such a camera, not when you last used it, Inspector. Do you possess such a camera? Yes or no will serve.’
‘Yes.’
Highsmith paused and flicked through his papers. Then he looked up. ‘You believe my client is guilty, don’t you?’
George turned his head towards the jury. ‘What I believe doesn’t matter.’
‘But you do believe in my client’s guilt?’ Highsmith persisted.
‘I believe what the evidence tells me, and so yes, I do believe Philip Hawkin raped and murdered his thirteen-year-old stepdaughter,’ George said, emotion creeping into his voice in spite of his intention to keep it battened down.
‘Both of which are terrible crimes,’ Highsmith said. ‘Any reasonable man would be appalled by them and would want to bring to justice the person who had committed them. The problem is, Inspector, that there is no solid evidence that either of these crimes was ever committed, is there?’
‘If there was no evidence, the magistrates would never have committed your client for trial and we would not be here today.’
‘But there is an alternative explanation for every piece of circumstantial evidence before us today. And many of those explanations lead us firmly to your door. It is your obsession with Alison Carter that has brought us here today, isn’t it, Inspector?’
Stanley was on his feet again. ‘My lord, I must protest. My learned friend seems determined to make speeches rather than ask questions, to cast aspersions rather than to make direct accusations. If he has something to ask Detective Inspector Bennett, well and good. But if his sole intent is to deliver slurs and innuendo to the jury, then he should be stopped.’
Sampson glowered down from the bench. ‘He’s not the only one making pretty speeches out of turn, Mr Stanley.’ He looked over his glasses at the jury like a short-sighted mole. ‘You should bear in mind that what you are here to listen to is the evidence, so you must disregard any comments that counsel make in passing. Mr Highsmith, please continue, but to the point.’
‘Very well, my lord. Inspector, bearing in mind you should answer yes or no, are you an ambitious man?’
Stanley intervened again. ‘My lord,’ he exclaimed indignantly. ‘This has nothing to do with the matter before the court.’
‘It speaks to his motivation,’ Highsmith said briskly. ‘The defence contends that much of the evidence against my client has been concocted. Inspector Bennett’s motivation therefore becomes an issue for the defence.’
Sampson thought for a moment then said, ‘I am minded to allow the question.’
George took a deep breath. ‘My only ambition is to contribute to justice being done. I believe that somewhere out there is the body of a girl who was monstrously abused before she was killed and I believe the man who did it is sitting in the dock.’ Highsmith was trying to stop him, but he kept on to the end regardless. ‘I’m here to try and make sure he pays for what he’s done, not to further my career.’ He came to an abrupt halt.
Highsmith shook his head in apparent disgust. ‘Yes or no, that was what I asked for.’ He sighed. ‘I have no further questions of this witness,’ he said, his face – turned towards the jury and away from the judge – showing a contempt that was absent from his voice.
George stepped down from the witness box. He could no longer escape from the sight he’d been deliberately trying to avoid all the time he’d been in the witness box. Hawkin stared at him with a look that bordered on the triumphant. The smile that often appeared to hover on his lips was back and he sat as casually in the dock as if he were in his own kitchen. With murder in his heart, George strode past the dock and straight out of the courtroom. Behind him, he heard the judge announcing the close of business for the day. He hurried on, down the corridor to the Gents. He dived into the cubicle, slammed the bolt home and bent over the bowl. He barely made it in time. The hot vomit splattered against the porcelain, the thin acrid smell rising to make him gag again.
He jerked the chain then leaned against the wall of the toilet, cold sweat on his face. For a terrible moment in the courtroom, he had felt the horror of what Highsmith’s insinuations and accusations might do to him. All it would take would be a couple of gullible jurors with a grudge against the police, and not only would Hawkin walk free, but he’d take George’s career and reputation with him. It was an unbearable notion, the stuff of three a.m. nightmares and bowel-churning panics. He had stuck his neck out for this prosecution. Now, for the first time, he was allowing himself to understand how easily he could become the agent of his own destruction. No wonder Carver had been so magnanimous in his insistence George see the case through himself. He hadn’t so much been handed the poisoned chalice as wrestled it out of everyone else’s hands.
But what else could he have done? Even as he stood there with the throat-rasping smell of bleach making his watering eyes sting, George knew there had never been any real choice for him.
When he emerged, Clough was waiting, the familiar cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth. ‘I know a good pub on the Ashbourne road,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a jar on the way home.’
He was, George thought, a remarkable lieutenant.
For the rest of the week, George sat at the back of the court, always contriving to arrive a few minutes after each session began and slipping away as soon as the court rose. He knew he was being ridiculous, but he couldn’t escape the idea that everyone was looking at him because they were wondering whether he was corrupt, or, even worse, because they’d already decided he was. He hated the thought of being taken for one of those coppers who made up their minds to have somebody for a crime, regardless of the evidence. But he couldn’t stay away.
The third day of the trial saw the Scardale witnesses appear. Charlie Lomas managed to repeat his unflustered performance at the committal, impressing the jury with his open manner and his obvious unhappiness about the disappearance of his cousin.
Next was Ma Lomas, dressed for the occasion in a rusty black coat with a spray of white heather pinned to the collar. She admitted her name was Hester Euphemia Lomas. It was clear she held the court in neither awe nor deference, responding to the two QCs precisely