“Alfie, for the benefit of the jury, could you confirm the location of the vehicle and read out the date and the time on the screen please?” Paul crossed to the map, another red sticker in his hand.
“The location is the traffic lights between Thunder Lane and St William’s Way, as you can see from the road signs. This is supported by the GPS chip in the dash-cam.” Paul located the junction on the map and placed the sticker on it. It almost overlapped the sticker that was placed over The Heartsease pub, they were that close together. Paul took the lid off his marker pen.
“What is the time on the footage please?”
“10:20 pm,” Alfie said.
Paul wrote 10:20 pm on the sticker and took a step back.
“Alfie, what is the distance between this junction and The Heartsease pub?” Paul asked.
“It’s just under half a mile. I measured it using GPS when I walked the route.”
“How long did that take you?”
‘Five minutes,” Alfie replied. Paul tapped the sticker over the Heartsease pub and looked thoughtfully at it, no doubt hoping that the jury was doing the same thing.
“And the distance between the junction and the location of Mr Wainwright’s body?” Paul asked.
“That’s one point three miles. It took me twenty three minutes at normal walking speed,’ Alfie replied. “That was the direct route, not through the park,” he added. Paul tapped again at the map, this time highlighting the sticker over The Griffin pub with ’10:22 pm’ written on it before turning to the jury. He said nothing, but just looked at them with his eyebrows raised, inviting them to make the conclusion themselves. There was no way I could have made it from The Griffin to the spot where the dash-cam had caught me in two minutes. Even Usain Bolt wouldn’t have been able to do it that quickly.
The screen showing my frozen face stayed turned on as Paul returned to the defence table. Laura handed him another set of notes. Paul looked up at me briefly before he turned back around. He had his back to the jury, and I caught the faintest of smiles on his face before it disappeared as he turned back around.
“Now, Alfie, you also did some more work for me looking more closely at Mr Wainwright,” Paul said. “Could you tell the court about that?”
“Yes,” Alfie replied. He looked up toward the public gallery. I followed his gaze and saw that the old couple had returned and were sitting in their original location. “With the permission of Mr Wainwright’s parents, I was able to access his laptop.”
“Really?” Paul said with a note of what sounded like surprise. “They were happy to hand it over to you?”
“When I explained what we were looking at, yes.” In the public gallery, the old man nodded at me. “Mr Wainwright’s father was quite surprised that the police hadn’t already asked for it,” Alfie continued.
“Your Honour,” I heard Miss Revell call out. “This is hearsay, surely.”
“Yes, you’re quite right,” Judge Watling replied. “Mr Nesbitt, you should know better as an ex-policeman.” Alfie managed to look suitably apologetic for a few seconds, but it didn’t last for long.
“So, you had the laptop analysed?” Paul continued after the judge had finished telling the jury to disregard the statement. It was as if the objection hadn’t even registered with Paul.
“Yes, using the same firm as before. Digital Solutions Incorporated.”
“Which is the firm that the police would have used, had they analysed the laptop?” Paul asked.
“That’s correct, yes.”
Paul paused for a few seconds, looking at his notes. I watched him as he stood there, and wondered what was coming next.
“Could you give us some information about what you found on the laptop, please Alfie?” he asked a couple of seconds later.
“There were three main elements. His social profiles, his e-mail, and his banking records,” Alfie replied.
“Let me just check, you were able to access all this information through his laptop?” Paul said, no doubt trying to head off an objection from the prosecutor about whether or not they would be allowed in court. Just as Alfie was about to reply to Paul, the prosecutor got to her feet.
“Your Honour, may we approach the bench?” she asked. Judge Watling looked down at her, across at Paul, and back to her again. He raised his eyebrows for a few seconds before replying.
“Yes, please do,” the judge said. Paul and Miss Revell both walked from behind their respective tables toward where the Judge was sitting. For a few minutes, there was a hushed conversation between the three of them. It was impossible to hear anything that was said, and their body language gave nothing away although it was difficult to get any cues as they were facing away from me. There was a quiet hubbub of conversation in the courtroom as the conversation went on, until Judge Watling lifted his head up to address the jurors.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid that I am going to recess the court at this point for further discussions between myself and the counsels.” Judge Watling looked up at the large clock on the wall of the courtroom. “It’s now just after eleven o’clock, so we’ll break here for lunch and reconvene at one o’clock this afternoon.”
The usher stepped forward and half the people in the court were already on their feet by the time he had told us to ‘all rise’, no doubt keen to make the most of the extra time for lunch. The only people who didn’t move were the two court officials sitting at the table behind the lawyers. Paul and Miss Revell walked behind the judge as they disappeared through the door behind the judge’s bench. As I stood watching them, I tried to imagine what his chambers were like. Mahogany walls, comfortable armchairs, and an endless supply of cigars and brandy perhaps? Or was it magnolia walls and plastic tables and chairs like the rest of the courtroom? The chances of me finding out soon were slim, that much I knew.
Mr Jackson and his nameless colleague led me back down to the holding area underneath the courtroom and locked me into one of the cells. I sat on the plastic mattress, loosened my tie and undid the top button on my shirt. The cell doors and walls were just bars, so although I was locked in, I could see out through the chipped painted metal. I was the only occupant in there. The second prison officer disappeared back through the door, no doubt off for a smoke, and Mr Jackson sat on one of the chairs in the communal area between the cells. A battered copy of a newspaper sat on the table in front of him.
“What do you think then, Mr Jackson?” I tried engaging him in conversation. It was worth a try.
“About what? Norwich’s chances against West Ham at the weekend?” he replied in a gruff voice. That was probably the closest I’d heard him ever come to humour. “I think City’ll get stuffed,” he said. I desperately racked my brains to try to remember something about the current team, but came up short.
“They’re not bad at the back, but they’ve not got much up front,” I tried, remembering a conversation I’d overhead back at the prison. Mr Jackson looked at me, a curious expression on his face. He made a sound that was somewhere between a grunt and a moan and opened the paper in front of him. I guessed that the conversation was over.
About ten minutes later, the other prison guard returned closely followed by Laura who was carrying a Sainsbury’s carrier bag. She walked over to the cell and pushed the bag through the bars. I opened it to see a prawn sandwich, a packet of cheese and onion crisps, and a can of coke. I’d not had a prawn sandwich since before I’d been locked up, and it was quite possibly my favourite sandwich in the world.
“Oh my God,” I said. “Who told you?” I looked up at her to see a broad smile on her face.
“Your mate Tommy mentioned that you had a bit of a thing for prawn sarnies, so I thought I’d treat you,” she said, still grinning. I looked across at Mr Jackson, afraid for a second that he would come across and confiscate the bag. He didn’t seem bothered in the slightest, so I tore open the sandwich and took a huge bite out of it. I closed my eyes and savoured the taste. When I opened them again, Laura was
sitting on one of the plastic chairs just the other side of the bars. I’d been so focused on the taste of the soft bread and prawn mayonnaise that I’d not even heard her fetch a chair.
“So, what’s going on?” I mumbled through another bite of the sandwich.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she replied with a smile. “I’m not sure, to be honest. I think it’s probably about whether what’s on Wainwright’s laptop is admissible or not.”
“Why would it not be?” I asked.
“Er, because he’s dead,” Laura said, the smile fading. “All sorts of consent issues there. I wouldn’t worry though, Paul’s all over it.”
“How important is what’s on the thing?” I said, my appetite starting to fade. Laura looked at me, her face now deadpan. She blew her breath out through her cheeks.
“Well, I wouldn’t quite say ‘no laptop, no case’, but probably not far off it, to be honest. It’s pretty crucial.”
I put the remains of the sandwich back in the plastic bag, my appetite now completely gone. This made little sense. Surely they all had to agree what could and couldn’t be talked about in the court before the trial? Laura and I sat in silence for a few minutes before she looked at her watch.
“I need to get going, Gareth,” she said. “I’m meeting Seb for lunch around the corner.” I tried to hide my disappointment as I thanked her for the sandwich, but from the look on her face as she said goodbye, I didn’t think I’d done a very good job of it. When she’d left the cell block, I slipped my shoes off and lay down on the thin plastic mattress, lacing my arms behind my head and staring at the ceiling.
I seemed to spend most of my life in this position, just thinking.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I trust that you all had an enjoyable lunch,” Judge Watling said from his raised position at the front of the courtroom. I thought about my half-eaten sandwich that was in the bin of the cell block downstairs. I’d eaten the crisps and drunk the can of coke, but had not been able to finish the sandwich. “I apologise for the delay over lunch, but the counsels and I had a couple of the finer points of law to discuss. For the record, I have ruled that the evidence contained within Mr Wainwright’s laptop should be allowed into evidence.” I exhaled, not even aware that I’d been holding my breath. Laura turned around to look at me, and I tried to keep my face neutral but might have let a small smile slip through. I just caught the judge saying something about the Criminal Justice Act from the year two thousand and something or other. I couldn’t care less what the legal point was, I was just relieved that it was going to be allowed. As Paul stood to face the front of the courtroom, I had to remind myself that I had no idea what the evidence actually was, but I trusted his judgement. I didn’t have any other options.
“Mr Nesbitt,” Paul said to Alfie who was back in his original position on the witness stand. “Let’s start with social profiles, shall we?”
“Yes, certainly,” Alfie replied. “Until almost a year ago, Mr Wainwright was an active social media user. He had accounts on Twitter, Facebook and also Instagram, and was active on all of them. These accounts have all been verified with the relevant service providers as existing and used until that point.” Alfie stopped there and looked at Paul. This looked like it was a well-rehearsed play for the jury, but I guessed it didn’t matter whether it was or not.
“Until around a year ago, you say. What happened then?” Paul asked.
“They were all deleted. I was able to retrieve most of the content from various internet archives that catalogue social media profiles, and there was nothing particularly contentious within them.” Alfie looked down at his notes for a second. “But they were all deleted within a few days of each other, at about the same time he moved house.”
“And was there anything unusual about his activity when he moved house?” It was obvious, at least to me, that Paul was leading Alfie carefully through a series of events to build a picture for the jury.
“Yes, there was,” Alfie replied. “He became ex-directory at that point, and he also failed to re-register on the electoral role at his new address.” Paul paused to let that sink in for the jury.
“Almost as if he was trying to hide from something or someone?” Paul suggested. I looked across at Miss Revell, expecting her to object. I was getting the hang of things. As I watched, one of the two young men with her leaned across and whispered something in her ear.
“Your Honour,” Miss Revell said, half rising to her feet. “Counsel is leading the witness to speculate.”
“Thank you, Miss Revell, you are quite correct,” Judge Watling replied, giving Miss Revell a look somewhere between confusion and concern.
“I apologise, Your Honour,” Paul replied, also looking at his counterpart. I couldn’t read his face, and not for the first time I promised myself never to play poker with the man if I ever got the opportunity.
“So to summarise, in May of this year, Mr Wainwright deleted all of his social media accounts and moved house. At the same time, he became unlisted in public telephone directories, and also didn’t register himself on the electoral roll?”
“That’s correct,” Alfie replied. Paul’s previous comment about Robert hiding wasn’t needed. It was obvious that was what he was trying to do. “So, I looked at his e-mail account to see if there was any further information there.”
“Was this information password protected?” Paul asked, looking at the Judge.
“No, the password was saved onto the computer so wasn’t required by the firm that did the analysis,” Alfie replied. The judge nodded his head, and I figured that this must have been part of the discussions in the back room. Maybe something about the information being easily available and not hacked? I looked up at the public gallery and saw David sitting up there. When I caught his eye, he gave me a theatrical wink that I hoped no one else in the courtroom noticed. Saved onto the computer my arse.
“I examined his e-mail account, including his deleted items. He didn’t empty his deleted items very often if at all,” Alfie said. I didn’t dare look up at David. “There was a series of increasingly threatening e-mails from an account with the e-mail address ‘[email protected]’ regarding repayment of an unspecified sum of money throughout March and April. The last e-mail from this individual was on April 21st. Then there was a further e-mail from another Romanian service provider on April 25th. It’s not clear who this came from as the e-mail address is a random collection of letters and digits.”
“Your Honour, may I introduce these e-mails as exhibits? These are copies of the relevant e-mails to Robert Wainwright.” The judge nodded as Paul handed him a copy of what must have been the e-mail. Laura then handed copies to the usher who walked across to Miss Revell, handed her a copy and continued to the jurors’ bench after giving copies to the two court officials sitting behind the prosecution desk. As the jurors passed the papers down their line, Paul continued. “Could you read this e-mail out please, Alfie?” Alfie cleared his throat before replying.
“This e-mail is from ‘[email protected]’, and is dated April 25th at 10:45 am. The text of the e-mail reads ‘Last warning. Pay now.’ The e-mail isn’t signed.”
“Were there any more e-mails from this e-mail address?” Paul asked.
“No, nothing,” Alfie replied.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I remind you that April 24th is the night that Robert Wainwright was attacked by the unknown assailants, as reported by the defendant.” He then turned back to Alfie.
“Mr Nesbitt, could you let us know what you found out about Mr Wainwright’s finances when you had his computer examined?” Paul said.
“Yes. Digital Solutions Incorporated was able to retrieve all his bank statements from his online account. Again, his passwords and access codes were all saved onto his computer.” I didn’t look up at David.
“So, what did they show in terms of financial activity?”
“Well, the bulk of his transactions were pretty routine,” Alfie replied. “Direct debits, ca
sh withdrawals, that sort of thing. Nothing out of the ordinary from January at all.”
“How about prior to January?” Paul asked. “In terms of, as you put it, anything out of the ordinary?”
“Yes. Prior to January, there were a series of regular payments to six different online gambling companies. We could only go back three years, but they increased in the amount over time. In January, the total payment to all six companies was just over £10,000.” Several sets of eyebrows in the courtroom, including my own, shot up.
“In one month?” Paul asked, doing a good impression of incredulity.
“That’s correct,” Alfie replied. “But at the same time, there were also a series of payments into the account.” Alfie stressed the word ‘into’.
“Were you able to trace where this money was coming from?”
“No. They were cash payments into the account, usually in the first week of the month. Untraceable. Like the outgoing payments, they slowly increased over about two years. This was separate from his wages which were paid by bank transfer at the end of the month,” Alfie explained.
“Did the incoming cash payments and outgoing payments to the gambling companies match?” Paul asked.
“No, not quite. Some months there was more coming in that coming out, but most of the time it was the other way round. He was haemorrhaging money. There was also a regular series of unusual outgoing bank transfers, usually just after he got paid for his regular job.”
“And what made them unusual?”
“It was where they were going to,” Alfie replied. “That’s what made them unusual. There’s no way of tracing the actual account holder, but the IBAN was from an overseas account.” A frown creased Paul’s forehead and as if he realised what the gesture meant, Alfie carried on. “An IBAN is an International Bank Account Number. The first two letters show which country the account is in.”
“So where were these payments going to?” Paul asked.
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