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‘More speculation,’ says Welbeck. ‘The New Victory is not a pirate ship. It is a fishing trawler. My clients are devastated by the loss of any life at sea. If there is evidence of a collision, it was accidental.’
‘Not according to the eyewitness,’ says Holder. ‘And we have text messages from someone else on board the sinking boat.’
‘Is this witness available?’ asks Welbeck. ‘Can he or she be cross-examined in a future trial?’ asks Welbeck next. He doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘These text messages came from a phone that hasn’t been located and may or may not have been on the vessel that sank.’
‘Two life-vests were found on board the trawler,’ says the prosecutor.
‘Picked up floating in the sea,’ replies Welbeck.
‘And the plastic ties found in the cabin?’
‘Used for securing equipment during rough weather.’
Judge Prior intervenes. ‘Gentlemen, we’re not deciding this case today. This is a bail hearing.’
Welbeck continues, ‘Your Honour, my clients are both family men. They have mortgages to pay. Loans to service. Mouths to feed. Keeping them in custody on the available evidence is unfair and unjustifiable. I ask that you free them on minimal bail, with reporting restrictions, and whatever else you deem appropriate. Let them get back to their families.’
Judge Prior takes a moment and begins to jot down notes. The whispering begins around us, rising in volume.
‘What’s happening?’ asks Evie.
‘She’s deciding whether to release them on bail.’
‘But they killed those people.’
‘They’re innocent until proven guilty.’
Evie lets out an odd sharp cough of a laugh. Angus Radford glances towards the public gallery and his eyes settle on her. I look for some flash of recognition or sign of curiosity, but his face is blank.
Judge Prior clears her throat. The courtroom falls silent.
‘Gross negligence manslaughter carries a maximum penalty of life imprisonment. Given the seriousness of the charges, I am going to deny bail and remand both defendants in custody.’
‘We will appeal,’ says Welbeck.
‘That is your right,’ says the judge. ‘I will list the matter for mention on October the eleventh when a date will be set for trial. The court is in recess.’
Everybody stands except for Radford and Downing, who are deep in conversation. Arguing. Radford shoves Downing in the chest with his cuffed hands and the guards have to step forward to separate the men.
‘Not a fucking word,’ says Radford, as he is being led away.
The courtroom empties and reporters hurry to file stories and film reports from the steps of the court. I look for DI Carlson in the foyer but can’t see him. Evie holds on to my sleeve. She doesn’t like crowded places because everybody is taller than she is and they ‘steal her air’.
‘Can we go?’ she pleads.
I want to ask her about Radford and if she remembers where she’s seen him before, but now isn’t the time.
33
Evie
I have spent the past three years trying to fit in and become one of the crowd. Ordinary, in every way. Invisible. I have passed my driving test, learned how to cook and studied for two A levels (neither of which I passed). I have a bank account, a debit card, an NHS number and a mobile phone plan. I own a car, I pay taxes, I microchipped my dog and I voted in the last council elections because Cyrus said it was my ‘civic duty’.
This should make me feel like I belong, but when I look in the mirror, I see an imposter or a crisis actor. My life feels like a performance without a script, where I am expected to improvise. I don’t even know if I’m the hero or villain of my own story, or when it might be over.
This is how I feel as Cyrus leads me through the crowded foyer, out of the automatic doors and across the forecourt, past the TV cameras and makeshift barricades. A line of police officers prevents us going further. The officers are standing side by side, separating two groups of protesters, who are trading insults. One side is chanting, ‘Our streets, not your streets! Our streets, not your streets!’ While the other group yells, ‘Refugees are welcome here. Refugees are welcome here.’ A scuffle breaks out on the periphery. Someone shouts, ‘Nazi scum off our streets.’
Cyrus puts his arm around my waist, pulling me closer. We squeeze past a barricade and ignore a woman wearing a Union Jack hat and a jacket decorated with buttons. She thrusts a pamphlet towards me, saying, ‘If you love this country, you should fight for it.’
