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trousers. One arm was bandaged and in a sling. His face was stitched down one cheek. He had no belt so the trousers were falling from his bony hips. An air of defeat made his pale face sag. A wretch and a ruffian if ever you saw one. Guilty of something, surely.
    Advocate Samantha Campbell was already in place next to the Procurator Fiscal’s man. She stood up, looking distant and untouchable in her robes and wig. She nodded at Johnson, who tried a half-smile. Then the usher was calling order and the Sheriff was entering, in all his majesty. The whole court got to its feet, and the trial began.
    The prosecutor had it easy and laid it on thick. Jobless ruffian . . . no fixed abode . . . raiding an honest citizen’s house . . . brave dog killed defending its master . . . could have been its owner. The jury were loving this. It pandered to every one of their darkest prejudices and fears. There was nodding when he talked about sending a message . . . teaching this man a lesson . . . telling others that this is what they’d get. I swear he was looking for applause at the end of his attack.
    Johnson made it simple for him. Though Sam had entered a plea of not guilty, Johnson was easily led into confessions, any one of which would get him sent on to the High Court for proper remedy. Mrs Baird, nee McCulloch, played her part as the honest and injured householder. She might as well have worn a veil and dressed in black. She dabbed a pure white hankie at her delicate wee nose to choke back the tears of remembered horror and terror. Mention was made of her relationship with the Chief Constable and a clear and sympathetic tsk tsk scampered round the court.
    By the time she’d finished, the judge had already written his verdict and was reaching for the black cap. It was all over bar the jury vote. Then Sam had her go.
    ‘Mr Johnson? In fact it was Sergeant Alan Johnson of the Black Watch, wasn’t it?’
    Johnson’s back straightened. His head came up. ‘It was, ma’am.’
    ‘You were part of the valiant British Expeditionary Force that was captured in 1940 at Saint-Valery-en-Caux? The rest of the BEF got out at Dunkirk, but you and ten thousand other brave Scottish soldiers were taken into German prisoner-of-war camps for the duration?’
    ‘Yes, ma’am. It wisnae oor fau’t, ye ken. It was the French. They surrendered.’
    I saw a rustle among the jury. Faces took on frowns. Bloody Frogs.
    The prosecutor popped up. ‘My lord, I’m sure we don’t need a history lesson?’
    Sam countered. ‘This is pertinent, my lord, as to motivation.’
    The Sheriff looked sceptical. ‘See that it is, Miss Campbell.’
    ‘Sergeant Johnson, you were liberated and flown home a year ago. What has happened to you since?’
    Johnson looked distressed. ‘Nothin’.’
    ‘Nothing? Did you try to get a job?’
    He snorted. ‘Of course Ah did. Ah’m no’ a sponger. But there was nothin’. The yards are no’ up and running yet. Ah’ve been down to the brew a hunner times, so Ah have, looking for work.’
    ‘Where do you live?’
    ‘Here and there.’
    ‘No home to come back to?’
    He squared his shoulders. ‘No, ma’am.’
    ‘Why? You had a home before you joined up?’
    ‘Aye, and a wife.’
    ‘What happened, Sergeant Johnson?’
    The prosecutor was back on his feet. ‘With due respect, my lord, the defendant is no longer a sergeant.’
    ‘I think we can extend the man some respect for his war service.’
    Sam gave a little smile to the jury. ‘Thank you, my lord. Sergeant Johnson . . .?’
    ‘Ah came hame. She had a fancy man in ma place. And a wean.’
    This time I heard intakes of breath and the word ‘shame’.
    ‘So you’re living rough? Why did you break into this house?’
    ‘Ah was hungry.’
    ‘What were you trying to steal?’
    ‘Food. Or if I couldnae find food, maybe something to flog for food.’
    ‘Sergeant Johnson, why did the dog attack you?
    His face screwed up. ‘Ah suppose it was angry.’
    ‘Why