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rooms about dodgy defences and backhanders.
    The two men couldn’t have been more different.

Chapter 7
    Anderson strode along the concourse towards the courtroom. His entourage had grown: Connor’s pupil, a CPS lawyer and the Officer In The Case. Last-minute instructions and titbits of information were fired at him.
    Court Three, Manchester Crown Court, was heaving. A trial involving the criminal activities of a gangster like Waqar Ahmed always drew a crowd. A large, high-sided wooden dock surrounded by bulletproof glass dominated the back of the courtroom. Steps either side led down into the well of the court and counsels’ rows, rising up again to the judge’s bench. The jury box was situated to the judge’s left so that they could see across to the witness box on the judge’s right. A couple of journalists were still finding their seats in the press box towards the rear of the courtroom, next to the public gallery. Anderson took his place in counsels’ row and began arranging his files. He noticed Hussain turn and nod to the defendant being brought up into the dock from the cells. A tall, overweight individual, Ahmed still had remnants of the physique needed to force a place in Manchester’s villainous underworld. A white shirt and dark suit without a tie was the preferred uniform at court for organised criminals. Anderson had an uneasy feeling that there was more to their relationship than that of a lawyer and his lay client.
    Anderson glanced around the courtroom. The buzz of anticipation.
    â€˜All rise!’ called the usher as His Honour Judge Pounder came into court. He was a large man with a ruddy complexion to match his purple robes.
    â€˜Gentlemen, I decided to come in without the jury so that any outstanding issues relating to the next witness could be addressed.’
    â€˜I’m grateful, Your Honour,’ Anderson replied before he was even on his feet. He had to take control before Hussain tried anything. ‘As Your Honour is aware there are special measures in place for this witness.’
    â€˜Yes, screens I believe?’
    â€˜That’s right. He will give his evidence behind a curtain which will be pulled partly around the witness box. Your Honour, counsel and the jury will be able to see him, but not the defendant, or the gallery.’
    Hussain was on his feet. ‘I object to the special measures, Your Honour.’
    The judge sighed. ‘This matter was argued at the pre-trial review, Mr Hussain. And I ruled against you, did I not?’
    â€˜I accept that, Your Honour, but I wish to renew my objection. The defendant knows what the witness looks like. His identity does not need protecting, and—’
    â€˜Mr Hussain,’ interjected the judge.
    Hussain ignored him. ‘And the defendant is in a witness protection scheme, so could not be found, even if anybody wanted—’
    â€˜Mr Hussain!’ barked the judge. ‘You know the test. Will it improve the quality of his evidence if he can give it behind the screen? I have already ruled that it will. The jury are to be given the standard direction to counter any possibility of prejudice. Usher, bring them in, please.’
    Hussain turned towards Ahmed in the dock as he retook his seat and shrugged.
    Connor, clearly flustered, came into court and hurried to his seat carrying the amended documents for the jury. He passed them to his leader who gratefully acknowledged the supreme effort of being robed and ready before the witness was called.
    The jury were brought in and after being given the appropriate direction about screens, Anderson announced: ‘Your Honour, I call Martin Tredwell.’
    Martin Tredwell cowered in the witness box behind a velvet curtain which screened off two sides. No hair on his head. Only skin, stretched and uneven as if chewing gum had been pulled across his face.
    Anderson began: ‘Would you give the Court your full name