Witness - [74]

‘One particular film actor.’ She would not be made a fool of, she’d not back down. ‘That makes him memorable.’

Someone wolf-whistled and the judge put his hand to his head and then said gravely, ‘If there are any more interruptions from the public gallery I will clear the court. That is not a threat, that is a promise.’

‘You work in the area for the NHS. That is correct?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed.

‘For how long?’

‘Twenty-one years.’ Where had the time gone?

‘You must know the community well.’

‘Yes, the families.’

‘And we all have families,’ he said. ‘You would know my client then?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You can’t be sure?’ He seized on any inference he could.

She had to be alert, not lose a jot of concentration. ‘I’m sure.’

‘You hadn’t ever seen him in the neighbourhood before that day in June last year?’

Each question was chipping away at her certainty. ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Had the man proof that she’d met Sam Millins before? Could she have forgotten? Had she visited his mother, his sister, in the course of work? The ringing started in her ears.

‘But you can’t be one hundred per cent sure of that?’

‘I don’t recall meeting him, seeing him ever.’ Fiona fought to hide her irritation.

‘You see, I think you may well have come across Sam Millins. My client is not denying he has a reputation in the neighbourhood and you may well have had him pointed out to you over the last few years and then in the heat and confusion of the tragic and violent incident in June 2009 imagined that he was the man driving the car.’

‘I didn’t imagine anything,’ Fiona said hotly.

‘You were aware that there were gangs operating in the area?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you never heard who was involved?’

‘It’s not something people talk about.’ She remembered the new mother turning her away, the day of her panic attack. I just don’t want any trouble. That’show it is. Closing the door.

‘No?’ He acted sceptical. ‘So you had no idea that Derek Carlton, a black man, and his friend Sam Millins, a white man, had a reputation as gang leaders in the area?’

‘No.’

He gave a little smile and shook his head, implying she was not being honest with her answers. Fiona felt annoyed.

‘You didn’t see the car until it was almost upon you?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You couldn’t see it when you heard gunfire and looked out of the house?’

‘No, I don’t remember seeing it,’ she stuttered, flustered.

‘You don’t know where it came from? Only the general direction?’

‘That’s right.’

‘You don’t know who shot Danny Macateer?’

‘No.’ She made an effort to calm herself, not show how wound up she really was.

‘How did you get here today?’

‘On the tram.’

‘How long did that journey take?’

‘Half an hour.’

‘Where did you sit?’

‘In the front behind the driver.’ She was puzzled by the turn of questions.

‘There is a window between the driver’s cab and the compartment?’

‘Yes.’

‘So, the driver would be visible to someone sitting where you were?’

‘Yes.’ What was he on about?

Mr Merchant nodded his head slowly, solemnly. ‘Can you describe the driver of the tram?’

‘No.’

‘Even though you would have seen him pass you as the tram slowed to stop at the station platform, then had half an hour in close proximity? Considerably longer than the fleeting glimpse of my client.’

‘I know what I saw.’ Doubt was nibbling at her stomach but she could not buckle now. He was trying to undermine her. She had seen Sam Millins. She closed her eyes. She remembered the huge rush of horror as she ran from the house, the sick feeling, the blur of motion and the snarl of brakes. Sam Millins’ face. The jaw, the chiselled cheekbones, his eyes flashing with rage. The wild beating of her heart,the roar of adrenalin. That man had murdered Danny Macateer, along with his accomplice. He sat just yards away now.

Fiona began to shiver, numbness gripped her mouth, dizziness swirled, clouding her vision. Blink, the skitter of fear in his gaze and the bloom of love, blink, her shoes full of blood. She gripped the wood that framed the stand, trying to fight the tide of terror rising inside. Sweat broke cold across her back and on her scalp and the pressure built, a fist crushing her heart. Her heart jerking, jolting. There was no air, a vacuum. Fiona gasped, gulped. Sensed movement beside her as Francine leant forward. The judge asked if she would like to stop and have a break. Fiona shook her head. She couldn’t be sick, oh, please not here. People were talking, buzzing sounds in her head. The sky in Danny’s eyes, pupilsrimmed with gold, copper in her throat, the loss of hisbreath, the loss of his life. She struggled to breathe, won a sip, fought her way through the acid panic, through the screaming in her nerves and the white hot fear. When her words came she forced them out, stammering through clenched teeth, stones of truth hard in her mouth. ‘I saw Sam Millins in that car. I saw him. I swear. He drove that car.’

She made it downstairs with Francine’s help. ‘Take your time,’ said Francine. ‘It’s done now.’

Fiona nodded, her teeth chattering, her arms and legs rigid with tension, a din in her head. She didn’t feel triumphant or relieved, just angry. Angry at the way he’d tried to trip her up and ridicule her story. Angry that the truth about Danny’s death was reduced to jousting and cheap comments about film stars. Angry that she had been overwhelmed again by another attack. She was so angry she wanted to scream or break something.