The jury were hardly listening: though they were trying to be discreet they were all aware that a message was being passed around the court. They watched as the noter put a slip of paper on the desk in front of the judge.
Atholl’s performance wasn’t for the jury, it was for Brown. He was putting on a show of a struggle. He was part of the fireworks display for the prison population. He opened his mouth to speak—
‘Well,’ the judge interrupted, fitting the note into his file, ‘I think we’ll stop there for a moment.’
It was bizarrely abrupt. Suddenly the macer was at the foot of the stairs, gesturing to Morrow to come down quickly. Morrow’s first thought was a bomb threat.
She hurried down in her noisy shoes and the macer pushed her elbow, turning her to the steep stairs for the witness room. She was barely up and through the door when the court were ordered to rise. As the witness-room door shut on a slow spring Morrow saw the judge exit swiftly, the jury being chased out by an usher and Brown being bundled downstairs to the cells.
The door shut softly on the scene.
Morrow found herself alone in the windowless room, the noise of the court muffled by the door. If it was a bomb threat then she should get out of the building. Normally they’d warn her but maybe they were assuming she’d know because she was a police officer. It was then that she realised she had left her briefcase in the witness box.
She had files in there, her laptop, a USB with other files about ongoing investigations. She had to get it. She lingered behind the court door like an eavesdropper, tried knocking softly but no one came. She could hear people shuffling about in the room, Atholl’s rich voice sounded calm and light.
It couldn’t be a bomb threat. They would have cleared the building.
She knocked again, louder, and heard someone approaching on the stairs. The macer opened the door and looked in.
‘Sorry, I’ve left my briefcase in there,’ said Morrow.
‘Oh, sure.’ The macer stepped back to let her in. Morrow tiptoed in her noisy shoes, down the stairs and across to the box.
The court staff were relaxed among themselves, Atholl’s solicitor was chatting to the noter, the macer grinned at Atholl as he finished telling a story.
‘“Get him OUT!”’ said Atholl waving an arm, playing a part. ‘“Out of my hair!”’
The macer laughed at the punchline and shook her head sadly. ‘Auch, a great man,’ she said. ‘A funny man.’
‘Yes.’ Atholl had spotted Morrow climbing back into the box, bending over and reaching for the handle of the briefcase cowering in the dark corner. ‘Sad. And sixty-four seems young.’
‘Lungs collapsed, didn’t they?’
‘After a fall. He smoked so heavily, if it happened spontaneously I wouldn’t have been surprised,’ said Atholl and called over to Morrow, ‘Did you forget your messages, young lady?’
Morrow stood straight in the box and glared at him. His accent had slipped down several social rungs.
‘Well, that was condescending ...’
A hush fell in the room. She shouldn’t have said that. The convention was that lawyers and cops pretended to get on, they pretended they weren’t on opposite sides or drawn from different social groups. The fiction was that they were all part of the same process.
She held the bag up. ‘My briefcase ...’ No one wanted to look at her. ‘Wasn’t a bomb threat, then?’
They all glanced at one another, unsure whose jurisdiction covered the business of answering.
The noter took responsibility: ‘Someone has been taken ill,’ he said carefully, ‘and we may adjourn if they’re not fit to continue.’
Brown was sick. She’d seen him looking grey and passing notes. They didn’t want to tell her, or let the jury see him vomit or pass out in case it made them sympathetic. It might still be a trick.
‘If he’s leaving the building,’ said Morrow, sorry now for her faux pas, ‘you need to notify the cops on