Free Death By Dangerous

racket?’
    â€˜No I wasn’t. Where’s your evidence?’
    A question – Connor was thrown − lacking the sharpness of mind to bat it away.
    The judge came to the rescue again: ‘It is prosecution counsel’s task to ask the questions, Mr Ahmed, not to answer them.’
    Ahmed wasn’t going to let it go. ‘But where are the records? There’d be books, ledgers, wouldn’t there, Mr Connor? I couldn’t have known the police were coming to arrest me. Did they find anything? The jury should be told.’
    The judge peeked over his glasses at Connor as if to say: what have you started?
    Connor made the mistake of ploughing on with his questions.
    Ahmed took advantage: ‘Why are you ignoring the question, Mr Connor? Don’t you want the jury to know that nothing was found?’
    Prosecution counsel had completely lost control of the defendant. He cut it short and sat down with Ahmed riding high. A total disaster.
    Hussain hardly re-examined. Why ruin a great finish for the defence?
    Connor didn’t have the courtroom presence to prosecute a case like this. Anderson wondered what the rest of his cross had been like.
    The jangle of keys signalled that the prison officer was leading the defendant from the witness box back into the dock. As he was about to take his seat, Ahmed looked down and caught Anderson peeping through the door below. They held each other’s gaze for a split second. Ahmed’s mouth widened into a demonic grin, then he winked. Despite his predicament, it was he who held the power. Was it the power of knowing something that Anderson didn’t?
    Anderson jolted, felt a shiver. He shut the door, almost falling back.
    Did Ahmed have something to do with the crash?

Chapter 18
    Anderson took refuge in West’s flat, glad of the opportunity to hide away from the world. He couldn’t get Waqar Ahmed’s face out of his mind.
    He eyed up West’s drinks tray then checked his watch – only eleven o’clock. What the hell? He poured himself a large brandy, gulped it down, then another.
    Why couldn’t he remember?
    Now he wanted to forget.
    6pm. The buzzer woke him. Someone at the door. He picked himself up, straightened his tie and peeked through the spyhole. A man clutching a holdall. Anderson opened the door.
    â€˜Evening, sir. Aces couriers.’ He handed over a bag. ‘From a Mrs Anderson.’
    Anderson thanked him and went to shut the door.
    â€˜Payment on delivery, sir. £28, please?’
    He had just enough to cover it. He retreated back inside to examine the contents. Maybe there was a letter, something to give him hope? Only clothes and the clean dressings the hospital had given him. If he’d been in any doubt before, he knew now that the separation was final.
    He turned on his iPad and listlessly began to google a few words. His own name brought up previous cases and a few newspaper reports of the accident − his job and being released on police bail. Then he tried Heena Butt. No match.
    In despair, he poured himself another drink, making a mental note that he would need to buy his friend another bottle. He took out his mobile and dialled home. ‘Hi, Will, it’s me – Dad.’
    â€˜Hi, Dad. I miss you.’
    A choked reply: ‘I miss you too. How’s Angus?’
    â€˜Fine. When are we going to see you?’
    â€˜Soon. I’ll speak to your mum. We’ll arrange something, OK?’
    â€˜OK. Love you, Dad.’
    â€˜Love you too. Will?’
    Will had already hung up. Anderson poured another drink.
    Then another.

Chapter 19
    The next few days passed in much the same way. A haze of booze, a few painful meetings at the flat with his boys and unfocused searches for a defence. At least he could limp around unaided and he was getting used to leaving his facial scar uncovered, but the more time went on, the weaker he felt mentally. The thought of going back into the