The adults stared in silence at one another, their eyes shifting from the giggling boy back to the faces of their colleagues, searching for an answer. Mrs Johnson closed the door of the witness room. It was disrespectful, that’s what it was. What if Matthew Cook’s family heard it? What would they think? They’d think that she was incapable of controlling a snot-nosed killer, that’s what they’d think. Mrs Johnson straightened her back, the small muscles in her face tightening, twisting her mouth. She walked with a new purpose over to the door of the witness room and made sure it was closed. Breathing deeply, she walked towards the boy. Not for the first time did it cross her mind that the devil was at work within him. The palms of her hands were greasy with sweat; she rubbed them up and down her skirt. The social worker’s flat shoes made no sound on the red linoleum floor. Even if they had, she doubted the boy would have heard or paid the slightest bit of attention. No one else noticed what she was doing. They stood mesmerized by Kevin Milne’s performance. Only she could see it for what it was–an attempt to evade responsibility.

Mrs Johnson drew her hand back, and smacked her palm off the boy’s cheek. The sound cracked round the room, rooting everyone to the spot.

He stopped laughing.

Renee clapped her hands over her mouth, shaking her head. She whispered, ‘She shouldn’t of done that.’ Her hand went up to her hair and she pulled at the roots. ‘She shouldn’t of done that.’ Michelle laid her hand over Renee’s. It had taken months of patient counselling to get the girl to stop pulling her hair out. Renee was rocking back and forth repeating, ‘She shouldn’t of done that.’

Kevin’s mouth fell open. Slack-jawed, he held his hand over his hot and swollen cheek. A slow smile of satisfaction crossed Mrs Johnson’s face; she knew how to deal with unruly children. Her smile fell as she saw Kevin Milne smile too.

He was playing them all. Now he could go into court with a recent, red, shiny slap mark across his face.

Maybe things would work out after all.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The main entrance to Wood Green Crown Court resembled a medieval bishop’s palace, the towers and turrets paying homage to justice. Lord Chief Justice Edward Hunter stared down at the media circus and the angry mob. He ran a tight ship. All the barristers and solicitors knew this, and over the course of the three-week trial the jury members and press were about to find out too.