Three Verdicts by Donald Findlay

Author:Donald Findlay
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781906000370
Publisher: Neil Wilson Publishing
Published: 2012-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

‘Advocate Depute.’

‘My Lord, the next witness is number seventy-six, Arnold Warwick.’

Monday morning and the scene was set for one of the most crucial stages of the trial.

As he awaited the arrival of the prosecution’s star witness, Muirhead reflected on the events of the previous night.

McAllister had come to his home about 10.30. Business-like and formal, he had refused a drink or even tea or coffee. He had sat silently, taking no notes, and listened as Muirhead recounted the history of recent happenings. He had asked only two or three questions about matters of detail. He showed no surprise at anything he was told. Indeed, his face had displayed little reaction of any kind.

At the end of the meeting, which lasted no more than twenty minutes, he stood up, shook hands, indicated he would be in touch and left.

Then, and now, Muirhead could have convinced himself without difficulty that McAllister was completely uninterested in the information he had received. Yet the more he thought about it, the more he realised that McAllister was a man with many things on his mind. He appeared preoccupied – but with what? He had absorbed the information given to him and had no doubt filed it away to be dealt with in due course.

To his right at the table, Donald Anderson was busy arranging the papers needed for the cross-examination to come. Jack Morton was standing beside the dock conversing with his client. Both were glancing towards the door of the court.

Arnold Warwick entered, accompanied by two prison officers. As he entered the witness box his escorts took up positions on either side of it. If he intended to seek a means of escape or retreat he would find he was going nowhere. A small man with short dark hair, he was dressed in an open-necked shirt and a dark blue suit, not in its first bloom of youth.

Warwick’s eyes darted nervously round the court, but Muirhead noted he pointedly avoided looking towards the dock. When he raised his hand to take the oath from Lord Cowden, his hand, like the rest of him, trembled.

‘Your full name is Arnold Joseph Warwick, is that correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘Your age?’

‘Thirty-eight.’

‘You are presently a prisoner in Perth awaiting trial on a charge of assault and robbery?’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘Just answer my question, please.’

‘You know I am – yes.’

‘Are you married?’

‘No.’

‘In August of this year were you a remand prisoner in Barlinnie prison in Glasgow?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you held in what is known as the segregation unit?’

‘I don’t know what they call it. It was a dump. They call it the Wendy House.’

The accent was clearly English, probably London, but not Cockney. The voice displayed distinct traces of nervousness but was gaining in confidence. He stood upright in the witness box but his hands firmly grasped the ledge in front of him. He was fighting to keep control of himself.

‘This is going to be interesting,’ whispered Muirhead to his junior. ‘Looks an aggressive little bastard,’ came the reply.

Mike Matthews cleared his throat.

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