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A week into the trial, Grace Keenan, the sister of the eight-year-old Matty had supposedly killed in Brownstone, took the stand. Eyes lowered, she told the court how Matty had stopped her and her sister for directions, claiming to be looking for his lost beagle.
‘He had a lead and a map, like. There was no reason to think he was lying.’
Niamh was apparently reluctant to help, anxious to get to their grandmother’s birthday tea.
‘Just think how terrified the wee dog must be all out there by hisself, I told her. And in the end she said, “Aye, okay then,” and off we went. I—’
Grace broke off, lip quivering. The prosecutor said it was okay, just take your time.
‘Niamh and the man were nattering away. I was a little ways ahead, calling after the dog. Niamh tripped, twisted her ankle. Made a holy show of herself, crying and screaming. “I can’t move,” she said. “I think it’s broken.” I didn’t know how I was ever going to get her home.
‘“You run on,” the man said. “I’ll carry her back. No point you both being late for your granny’s party.”
‘I thought he was being nice. I thought I was doing the right thing. . .’
The judge cleared his throat.
‘I realise this is painful, young lady, but could you try and look up when answering questions?’
Grace went very pink.
‘I find it difficult to look at people. I’m shy, like.’
And yet, when the prosecutor asked if the man was in the courtroom, she nodded and said in a loud, clear voice that yes, that was him in the dock. ‘I’ll never forget his face.’
That turned out not to be quite true.
Matty’s barrister, Bob Hart, stood up, adjusted his robes.
‘Let’s talk about what you told the police, shall we?’
His cross examination resembled target practice, each question a bullseye by all accounts.
Despite what she’d told the prosecutor, Mr Hart forced Grace to admit she’d been a little hazy on the details.
He read out an extract from a transcript:
‘He was wearing brown pants,’ Grace told detectives interviewing her.
‘Not camouflage?’
‘Aye. That’s right, camouflage.’
‘Any facial hair?’
‘Um, a moustache.’
‘A moustache? Not just stubble?’
‘I meant stubble. It made his upper lip area dark, like. That’s what I meant to say.’
Years later, it came out in a magazine interview that it wasn’t just the police she wanted to help. She felt so guilty, she said. If she hadn’t left her sister, she might still be alive. Identifying that man meant everything to our family. I felt very strongly that it was down to me to get Niamh justice.
We weren’t so different in that regard.
Matty phoned again that evening. I picked up the receiver and listened in.
‘This was a good day for us, Ams. My barrister tore that girl to shreds. The police don’t have a case. They’ve clearly been fabricating evidence right left and centre.’
