‘Yes, but it isn’t blue. You need a blue tie when you’re giving evidence. Joanna must have told you. A blue tie signifies truth, it’s a psychological thing. Green doesn’t signify truth it says…’ Red was arrogant and aggressive, I knew that. Pink said you were either gay or making a statement that you were so secure in your heterosexuality that you could get away with it. Yellow was just stupid, brown was yuck, navy was not blue enough, black was for mourners and waiters. What was green again? ‘A green tie is something else. What it’s definitely not is a blue tie of truth.’
Howie was unrepentant. ‘I don’t care. It’s the tie I wore when I proposed to my wife. It’s lucky.’ With a face like his he must have had something going for him.
‘Maybe after the trial we can ask Mrs Howie if she agrees,’ I said.
Joanna butted in. ‘That’s enough, Robbie. You’re not helping.’ Mrs Howie, who had been standing sobbing a distance away, heard her name mentioned and made her way over to us, dabbing each eye in turn with the corner of a handkerchief. Joanna shoved me in her direction. ‘Stop her.’
I did as I was told. If the accused wasn’t prepared to take my advice, then he and his emerald neck-wear would have to take their chances.
‘Have you had any breakfast?’ I asked, intercepting Mrs Howie and steering her away from her husband. ‘They do a lovely bacon roll next door and the coffee is—’
‘No,’ Mrs Howie shook her head, ‘I couldn’t possibly eat at a time like this.’
I could. Very easily. Breakfast was but a fond memory. Taking her by the arm, I manoeuvred her towards the swing doors at the end of the hall. ‘Then let’s go for a walk. If you stay in the courtroom you’ll only upset yourself and the last thing you want to do is sit worrying in a witness room for the next hour or so. There’ll be plenty of time for that when the jury is out.’ Mrs Howie stifled a short howl with her hanky. ‘Come on. Let’s get some fresh air inside you. You’ll feel better.’
Somehow, I managed to propel her against her will through the doors. Halfway down the stairs to the main lobby she asked, ‘Will he really be in there an hour or more? How will he stand it? I was only in for twenty minutes when I gave my evidence and it seemed like days.’
‘He’s going to be a while, but if they go full steam ahead he should be finished by lunch.’ Outside the big bronze front doors, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. On the High Street the rain was stotting off the cobbles and gurgling down the gutters. I tried again. ‘Are you sure you won’t have a coffee?’ She was sure. ‘Then how about you watch me drink one?’
46
Keith and Elizabeth Howie had been an item since their school days. They’d married young and had children late. He owned a small toyshop on Linlithgow High Street. She was a freelance writer, penning poems and sentimental slush for greetings cards and the In Memoriam sections of newspapers.
‘His name was Fred and now he’s dead. That sort of thing?’ I asked, but Mrs Howie didn’t see the funny side of that, if there was one.
During the time it had taken us to scurry the fifty yards or so to the café, find a table and place an order, I’d introduced any number of topics of conversation in an effort to take the woman’s mind off what was happening next door in Court 4. None of them worked.
‘He’ll die in there, you know,’ she said, matter-of-factly. Mrs Howie alternated between states of extreme calm and hysterical weeping. I liked the extreme calm moments the best. ‘If they send him to jail, he’ll not last a day.’
There was little doubt that the scent of fresh meat like Howie would have the wolves circling, but I could hardly tell her that. ‘Prison’s not so bad,’ I said. ‘It’s the thought of going that’s the deterrent. A lot of people who do go are surprised at how normal it is. It’s just a matter of getting into the routine and treating it like a job. Except with fewer holidays.’
Mrs Howie’s face twitched, a sign I’d come to recognise as the precursor to tears. I really couldn’t be doing with any more crying. ‘I’m sure everything will be fine,’ I said.
‘Do you really think so?’
Of course I didn’t. ‘Of course I do. The case has been prepared meticulously by Miss Jordan, and Fiona Faye is one of Scotland’s top criminal QCs. In fact, she is the top. Once she gets her go at the jury they’ll be putty in her hands.’
‘I can’t help thinking that if Keith is found guilty, I’ll somehow be to blame.’ I wasn’t sure what to say. Perhaps in a way she was to blame. If she hadn’t been such a sound sleeper she might have heard her husband getting out of bed and tiptoeing through to the next room in the middle of the night. Then she could have gone after him and asked what the hell he thought he was doing. ‘They made me tell the jury that I saw Ruby upset and crying and screaming to be let out of the house.’
Until recently a spouse could not be compelled to give evidence for the prosecution unless the case concerned violence between husband and wife. The Scottish Government had changed that age-old rule, though a lot of people had argued that forcing one spouse to testify against another was a breach of the marriage vow.
In the present case, Ruby Maguire’s evidence had been that she’d been raped by Keith Howie. Her word alone on the matter was insufficient, another long-established rule of evidence the Scottish Government was keen to erase, even though corroboration was one of the few things that God and Scotland’s most famous philosopher and atheist, David Hume, saw eye to eye on.
For a conviction in any rape case three crucial facts had to be proved. Firstly, that there had been intercourse; secondly, that it had been non-consensual and, thirdly, the identity of the rapist. The forensic finding of sperm had taken care of any doubts as regards intercourse. That it had been non-consensual was spoken to by Ruby Maguire and supported by the evidence of Mrs Howie and her description of the young woman’s distress. The only thing left was identification of the rapist, and by a process of elimination, who else could it have been other than the only male inside a locked house?
‘You had no choice but to give evidence and tell the truth,’ I assured her. ‘Anyway, hearing you speak so fondly about your husband, and the jury seeing the kind of woman you are and that you are standing by him, can only have helped to give a good impression.’
‘Do you think so?’ Mrs Howie sniffed and fumbled in her handbag for her hanky.
Though I was doing my best, I could tell we were in danger of tipping from calm to hysterical, and so to change the discussion I brought up the one subject no mother could help herself talking about: her children.
Our drinks arrived. Coffee for me and tea for Mrs Howie who had eventually succumbed to my suggestion of a hot drink. She steadied herself, blew her nose into the sodden hanky and sat up straight. ‘You’re right. I have to be brave for the children,’ she said, visibly steeling herself and sounding like the heroine from a Sunday night TV costume drama.
‘I take it your kids don’t know what’s happening?’ I asked, checking the coffee for temperature and scalding my tongue.
‘We’ve said nothing to them.’ Mrs Howie poured milk from a little jug and sighed. ‘Fortunately the twins are too young to ask questions. The oldest suspects something’s going on. I’ve told her it’s all to do with a Christmas surprise.’
That certainly would be a surprise on Christmas morning. Surprise! Your dad’s doing six years for rape!
‘It’s three girls you’ve got, isn’t it?’ I said, seeing an opportunity. ‘What are they getting for Christmas? Your husband owning a toyshop, I bet he’s not had any trouble getting his hands on a few Pyxie Girls.’ Looking back, perhaps that wasn’t the best way of putting it. I manufactured a casual little laugh.
‘Don’t get me started on Pyxie Girl,’ Mrs Howie said, peering at me over the top of her teacup.
‘No, please,’ I said. ‘Get started.’
She wet her lips. ‘Back in August, Keith ordered in two dozen of the things. They were flying off the shelves and I told him to keep three back for our girls. No
need, says he, I’m going to order in a lot more for Christmas. Then the big carry-on started about the doll’s name and since then no one in the trade, far less any customers, has been able to lay hands on one. You wouldn’t believe the sums of money Keith’s been offered by some parents.’ I could. ‘Do you have children, Mr Munro?’
‘A daughter,’ I said. ‘One’s enough for me. Three must be difficult.’
Mrs Howie couldn’t deny it. ‘My sister has two sons and a daughter and says that the girl is more bother than both her brothers. She says with boys you only have to feed them, put them out to play and make sure they wash behind their ears occasionally. With girls everything is a negotiation.’
It wasn’t just Tina then. My cup was cooling. I attempted another sip of coffee across my furry tongue. ‘Did you ever think fourth time lucky for a boy?’
At that moment Mrs Howie came as close to what I could reasonably describe as a smile as she had on the few occasions I’d met her. ‘No, that wasn’t a risk I was prepared to take. Twins run in my family, and I wasn’t falling into that trap again.’
I could imagine. Twin girls. Much as I loved my daughter, the thought of Tina in duplicate made me shudder.
‘As soon as I saw the first scan and knew I was having twins I had Keith booked in,’ she said.
Having established my coffee was drinkable, and there being some time to go before lunch, I was toying with the idea of a bacon roll. I glanced around for the waitress, stopped and then turned to Mrs Howie again. ‘Booked in?’
‘Yes.’ She winced slightly. ‘You know?’ She set her teacup back down on its saucer, released her grip on the handle and made scissors with the index and middle finger of her right.
‘Your husband’s had the snip?’
Her previously pale cheeks took on a faint sign of colour. ‘Keith said it was quite painless.’
I took that as hearsay and as such quite possibly unreliable evidence.
Mrs Howie must have noticed the expression on my face. ‘Trust me, he’d have found it a lot more painful to have another mouth, or, perhaps, another two mouths, to feed.’
But my expression had nothing to do with excess children or even the thought of someone closing in on my gentleman’s parts with a blade in their hand.
‘Mr Munro, are you all right?’
I jumped to my feet with a loud squeal of wooden chair legs on ceramic floor tiles. ‘Mrs Howie, I’m going to nip over to the court for a moment. Could you wait here? And if the bill comes, maybe you could take care of it.’
47
There were easier courts to slip into unnoticed than Courtroom 4 at the Lawnmarket, especially if you were in a rush.
From the doorway, I could see Fiona Faye had completed her examination-in-chief of Keith Howie and Cameron Crowe was on his feet cross-examining.
The demeanour of the two, advocate depute and accused, could not have been more different. Crowe, cool and collected, leaning a languid arm against the jury box, shot a taught line of questions across the well of the court at the accused who, sweating like a cheese, did his best to walk that tightrope in the knowledge that one slip and it was all over.
The design of the room meant I had to sidle past the jury box and at least make a pretence at being inconspicuous, ducking my head slightly as I passed between Cameron Crowe and his prey. When I reached the defence side of the table, I sat down on the nearest vacant chair and gently pushed myself along the floor until I could waggle my way in between Joanna and senior counsel.
The questioning of witnesses under Scots procedure was straightforward enough. The side calling the witness, be it prosecution or defence, went first. There then followed cross-examination to test the reliability and credibility of the evidence that had been led in chief.
The third stage was re-examination. This was an opportunity for the side that had originally called the witness to clarify any matters raised during cross-examination. Like me, I knew Fiona Faye preferred not to re-examine. It was a sign of weakness. It sent a message to the jury that the prosecution’s questioning had been effective, and that you were trying in vain to rivet on some iron plates to stop the holes in a defence battleship that had been torpedoed by the Crown.
‘Fiona,’ I whispered.
‘Go away, Robbie.’ The QC didn’t look up from the notepad she was doodling on.
‘I need you to ask a question.’
‘No.’
‘It’s very important.’
Joanna tapped my shoulder. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I want Fiona to re-examine.’
‘Howie’s not doing so bad,’ Joanna said. ‘Crowe’s chucking everything at him, but he’s sticking to his story.’
‘I put it to you, Mr Howie that you are nothing but a bare-faced liar…’ Cameron Crowe was winding up his cross in what was a trailer for his speech to the jury rather than any actual examination. ‘That you crept into that young woman’s bed after she had entrusted herself to your care, and in the middle of the night, while your own wife and three daughters slept soundly next door, you raped her.’
Howie stood in the witness box visibly shaking. The accusation hanging in the air, Crowe strode back to his seat. As with a dramatic flap of his gown he sat down, Fiona rose to her feet.
‘M’Lady, if that last tirade was supposed to be a question, perhaps Mr Crowe would at least allow my client the opportunity of answering it.’
Lady Bothkennar stared down to her right at the advocate depute. ‘Mr Crowe?’
With a great deal of unnecessary effort, Cameron Crowe climbed to his feet. Hands planted on the table in front of him, he fixed his serpent-like gaze on the witness and sneered. ‘Well?’
Howie gripped the sides of the witness box, partly in anger, partly I was sure, to stop himself from collapsing. ‘No, Sir, I am not a liar and I did not rape Miss Ruby Maguire.’
Crowe took his seat again, behind him row upon row of grim-faced jurors. No matter how brilliant Fiona’s closing remarks, there was no way she was going to wring an acquittal out of that lot. Not unless she listened to me.
Lady Bothkennar looked down at the defence huddle. ‘Is there to be any re-examination?’
I tugged at Fiona’s gown. ‘You must re-examine Howie.’
‘No, Robbie. It’s as good as it’s going to get,’ she said, rising to her feet to address the judge.
I stood too.
‘Just leave it,’ Joanna whispered up at me.
How could I just leave it? Before the trial Fiona had asked me to come up with some ammunition. Don’t have me standing there firing blanks. Ironic, because the only person firing blanks was Keith Howie.
‘Is there a problem, Miss Faye?’ the judge enquired, as I leaned in closer to the QC.
Fiona favoured the bench with one of her smiles. ‘I’m just taking some instructions, M’Lady.’ She turned to me and hissed. ‘What is it?’
‘Ask Howie if he’s had a vasectomy.’
‘What?’
‘Ask—’
‘I heard you. Why didn’t you tell me this before?’
Now Joanna was on her feet. ‘Vasectomy?’
‘Didn’t you ask him if he’d had the snip?’ Fiona asked me.
I turned to Joanna. ‘Did you?’
The judge wasn’t happy at the delay. ‘Miss Faye, really…’
Fiona hesitated. There was a general stirring amongst the jury who no doubt just wanted to convict the rapist in the witness box and get on with some last-minute Christmas shopping.
I tugged again at the QC’s gown. ‘His wife says he was cut three years ago. You’ve got to ask the question.’
Fiona knew that too. The problem was how to get the question in. The purpose of re-examination was to deal only with any matters raised during cross-examination. If a subject had not been mentioned by the cross-examiner, you couldn’t go there. Crowe would be on his feet objecting the moment Fiona strayed off the path and tried to lead new evidence. If the judge ruled the vasectomy
question invalid, as the rules of procedure said she must, then it would go unanswered and as such form no part of the evidence the jury would subsequently have to consider before returning a verdict.
Joanna and I sat down. There was nothing we could do but leave things in defence counsel’s hands.
‘If your Ladyship pleases.’ Fiona turned to the witness. ‘Mr Howie, the advocate depute mentioned that you have three daughters. Is that correct?’
Howie looked puzzled. ‘Yes.’
‘How did you come by those three children?’
Cameron Crowe got to his feet. ‘Is my learned friend asking if the witness’s children are adopted? If so, what possible relevance has that to these proceedings?’
Lady Bothkennar tended to agree. ‘Is that what you’re asking, Miss Faye?’
‘No, M’Lady, it’s not.’
‘Then,’ said the judge, ‘I expect Mr Howie came by his children in the same biological fashion men and women normally come by their children. Is that correct, Mr Howie?’ The witness, hugely embarrassed, could only agree. A few of the jurors laughed politely at the judge’s comments, and Lady Bothkennar couldn’t resist a glance at the jury box to accept their acclaim.
‘Thank you for raising that point, M’Lady,’ Fiona said graciously, squeezing herself through a procedural eye of a needle. ‘If I might ask just a few questions to clarify further on that?’
Lady Bothkennar looked down at the Crown’s side of the table. She having asked a question of the witness on the subject of human reproduction, the judge could hardly sustain an objection to a follow-up question.
‘So,’ Fiona continued seamlessly, ‘we can take it that nine years ago one of your intrepid sperm entered an egg belonging to Mrs Howie, resulting nine months later in the delivery of a baby girl?’
The witness looked decidedly wobbly. He was handed a glass of water by the macer and moistened his mouth before answering. ‘I suppose that’s what must have happened.’
‘And three years ago by the same process you became the proud father of twin girls?’
Present Tense Page 22
