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Connor’s pupil, Tilly Henley-Smith, impeccably dressed in a black two-piece, was typing ferociously on a laptop. They both stopped what they were doing. ‘Morning, John,’ came the greeting, only from Tilly.
    â€˜How did you get on with the schedule, Sam?’ Anderson asked.
    â€˜It’s done.’ Connor handed his leader a bundle of papers; columns with figures.
    Ever the perfectionist, Anderson said: ‘But you haven’t numbered the rows?’ He handed the pages back to Connor. ‘It could be a problem, referring the jury to a particular entry.’
    Connor’s face turned red, a combination of anger and embarrassment.
    Remembering Gary’s words earlier, Anderson was anxious not to humiliate Connor, but winning the case was everything. ‘I’m sorry, Sam, but you’ll have to add a column. It’s not a problem, just come across when it’s done.’
    â€˜But what about the con with the CPS? How will it look if I’m not there?’
    â€˜Tilly can keep a note until you arrive if you like.’ Anderson was already setting off for court with Tilly following obediently, hanging on his every word.
    Sam Connor was fuming. He disliked Anderson. Rivals since pupillage, they were the same age, which had made Anderson’s success even harder to come to terms with. Anderson’s parentage and powerful pupil-master had given him a head start; Connor had never caught up. And now, as the second biggest player in chambers, Anderson was leading him in the Crown versus Waqar Ahmed.
    Connor had no choice but to live with it.

Chapter 6
    Anderson and Tilly walked along the side of the huge 1960s concrete court building towards the entrance. Rectangular pillars spaced along its length with high glass windows between. Anderson knew every inch of it.
    His opponent, Tahir Hussain, was already in the robing room – a grand name for a small, unimpressive, dusty space, crammed with boxes of paper exhibits from past cases, pink ribbons and rails of unclaimed coats. To Anderson it was home. He opened his wig tin, embossed in gold with the name B. Anderson – his late grandfather. He thought of his ancestry, of how he was living up to the expectations of his family, coping with the pressure of the big cases. It gave him more confidence, if any were needed, for the day to follow. ‘I hope we’re not going to have any more of your hackish defence antics today, Hussain?’
    Sensing trouble, Tilly tried to blend into a coat stand.
    Hussain was determined not to let this prosecutor get to him. In fact, he pitied him. Despite Anderson’s success, he seemed lonely. Had an air of melancholy about him. ‘What are you on about now, Anderson? I’m just doing my best to defend my client.’
    â€˜Do you have to try so hard?’
    Hussain shook his head at his opponent. ‘I can’t believe you just asked that.’
    â€˜Don’t you ever get fed up defending murderers and drug dealers?’ Anderson loathed Hussain, convinced he suggested defences to his clients. It was the only explanation for his incredible win rate. ‘All the lowlifes from Rusholme and Longsight do seem to come to you. I wonder why? Quite the Pied Piper of the Asian criminal community.’
    â€˜The reason all my clients are of Asian origin is because few white men in England want an Asian barrister and no Asian man in England trusts a white barrister. That says more about society than me, don’t you think?’
    Hussain had an answer for everything.
    Several advocates came in and began unpacking their wigs and robes. Ignoring Hussain, they were all keen to congratulate Anderson on his award. Hussain on the other hand was an outsider, not a member of any chambers. A solicitor with a run-down office in Rusholme and a highly questionable reputation. Although there was no hard evidence of his dishonesty, there were plenty of rumours flying around various robing