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“The night Niall Thornber was killed, Bren was in here. Late on. Well past the time he claims he was out at Summer Hill with Leah. And it’s just like those witnesses said. He was in a weird mood. Barely talking to anyone, then making random threats when he did.”
I go cold and have to grip the little round bar table for support. I’m still convinced the witnesses are some combination of bewitched, blackmailed, or mistaken. But Becca is self-evidently too strong a practitioner to be mesmerised, and from what Jack said—not to mention the fact she’s sitting cheerily in this Sadler stronghold—she’s too loyal a supporter of the family to give in to Thornber threats, and too close to Bren to be confused about his identity or to lie about this.
“How many people saw him?”
Becca gestures around the bar room. “Everyone. But don’t worry, no one will say a word. We all love your brother in here. Love your whole family. I don’t know if Bren killed him—he certainly didn’t inform me of any plans to do so, and he’s usually pretty open—but if he did, I’m glad. I just wish he’d killed his son, too.”
I shiver at her tone. Could Bren have killed Niall Thornber? On some level, I don’t care that much if he did, which amply demonstrates the way that being back home is skewing my judgement. But I damn well care if he’s lying to me about it.
I take a few calming breaths then touch Becca’s shoulder as reassuringly as I can manage. “Thanks, Becca. It might just be confusion about timings, but I can only present a good case if I have the whole picture.”
“Please don’t tell him I told you.”
“Of course not.”
“By the way… maybe we could get a drink some time, catch up?”
I nod. “That’d be nice. I need to stay focused on the case for now, but once it’s done, I’d love to.”
It’s coming back to me now. Becca was more than a random acquaintance. We hung out loads, in small groups or even one to one. It’s like I’ve blocked out half my teen years for self-preservation. She was that bit quieter and more thoughtful than a lot of people in Mannith. Less obsessed with making herself look like a cut-price version of Chrissie or chasing after Bren—indeed, even now, though she’s wearing a nice summer dress, she looks a bit dowdy by Mannith standards, with her mid-brown hair and her un-made-up face.
Even in the unlikely event she would be willing to lie to the Sadlers in general, I really don’t think she’d lie to me. But what does that mean as far as Bren’s concerned?
“See you soon,” I say, dashing for the door.
Jack and I drive to the court in silence.
My quiet is partly because Jack and I have nothing much to say to each other. I miss Connor, and I still can’t quite believe I’ve blown it. Partly, it’s because Becca’s claims are churning through my mind, difficult to explain away convincingly. But it’s predominantly because I’m all too aware of what’s coming today.
On arrival, just like on the first day, I barricade myself in the bathroom to get changed. It seems to take forever to change into my court uniform. I fiddle endlessly with my wig and retie my ribbon three times. When I’m finally more or less satisfied, I stay there and perform a core meditation. It’s not the greatest place in the world to sink my mind into the earth, but we’re close enough to Mannith that I do it with ease. Then I stride into the courtroom, head held high.
I zone out while I wait for proceedings to start, deliberately avoiding eye contact with anyone, be they friend, foe or casual observer.
After what feels like an age, Imran stands up and calls the final witness for the prosecution. I clench every muscle in my body as Gabriel takes the stand.
He’s dressed rather more conservatively than usual today, wearing a plain black two-piece suit with a dark blue tie rather than his usual waistcoats, pinstripes, and flashes of colour. His sometimes wild hair is ruthlessly slicked back and—somewhat recklessly in the circumstances—he’s neither wearing sunglasses nor has a pair perched on his head. He’s clearly decided that looking smart, respectable, and conventional is more important than avoiding people seeing his eyes.
Gabriel’s testimony will be absolutely key. All the other witnesses’ evidence has been mostly circumstantial and there’s no CCTV or DNA to work with. But he claims to be an eyewitness.
Imran clears his throat. “What were you doing on the night of 15th June?”
Gabriel leans forward in the stand, head bowed. The perfect image of a mourning son forced to relive horrific memories. A terrified, traumatised witness, not a cocky liar driven by revenge.
“I was at home. Dad and I had dinner. Steak and ale pie. Then he went to bed, and I started getting ready for a night out.”
His voice is shaking, his words hesitant. I’ve never heard the slightest hint of nerves from him before. It’s presumably an act, but I’m not entirely sure.
“And then?”
“I was in my room. I heard the front door open, and someone come in and go up the stairs. Not making a scene, but not really making any attempt to disguise their presence either.”
I’m holding my breath and it feels like the whole court is doing the same. I’m staring at him, but for once, he’s paying me no attention. He’s looking from Imran to the judge to the jury, sucking them into his words.
“How did you react?”
“We weren’t expecting anyone, so I grabbed a knife. Stepped into the corridor. I saw the defendant heading for my father’s room. I called out. He made a run for it. I chased him, but he wasted no time. No drama, no hesitation, no panic. Straight into my father’s room. Shot him through the chest as I came through the door.”
His voice cracks on the last few words. The public gallery gasp in horror like they’re at a theatre production.
