‘It would help me,’ I kept my voice even, ‘if you could outline how you intend to defend the case, and in particular tell me what you have discovered regarding the witnesses. Their evidence seems to form the basis for the prosecution’s case.’
Dermott Pitt looked most unhappy. His upper lip curled slightly. ‘We intend to concentrate on the complete lack of motive, of intent, and the fact that there was no shred of evidence of ill-will between the victim and the accused. The accused neither owned nor carried a knife, and he made no attempt to quit the scene. Quite the reverse.’
‘And the witnesses?’
He shifted in his chair, ran a thumb along the edge of his desk. He pursed his lips. ‘In my view and that of my learned colleagues, it is paramount that we introduce a degree of doubt into the veracity and accuracy of the witnesses’ statements. The night was dark,’ he gestured with his hand laying out the points of his argument for me, ‘people may have been drinking or consuming illegal drugs, the witnesses may have confused the meaning of the scene they reported – an over-eager greeting can, for example, be misinterpreted as a violent assault. Then there is the question of their delay in coming forward. Why such a delay? And how would it impact on their recollection of events?’
‘Delay?’
‘They came forward late the following day.’
‘So they didn’t ring for the ambulance?’
‘No,’ he didn’t elaborate.
‘What did they do?’
‘They returned home.’
‘After witnessing a murder?’ I was incredulous.
‘It is an area we intend to probe in great depth.’
‘But presumably the police-’
‘The police are happy with the evidence the prosecution has, but we will be challenging that view.’
‘I’d like to speak to the witnesses,’ I said. ‘I have their names already. Victor Wallace gave me all the information he had about who’d been seen.’
Pitt raised and lowered his eyebrows but kept his own counsel.
‘If you have their addresses?’
He paused. I waited. I resisted the urge to justify my request, to reason and mollify. I sat tight. He switched on the intercom on his desk. ‘Frances, get me the Wallace file, will you?’
‘What about the weapon?’ I asked. ‘Have you any idea where that came from? Luke told me it resembled one that Joey Deason carried.’
‘It did, but the police established that the Deason boy still had his.’
His secretary brought in the file and he took it from her. She closed the door softly behind her when she left. In neat italics he transcribed names and addresses using a fountain pen with blue ink onto thick embossed white paper. He blotted it carefully on his blotter. He’d have been completely at home in a costume drama, Dickens or Austen.
