Murray-Smith looked up from his notes, straight at the woman. ‘Is that correct?’

‘It is,’ she confirmed.

‘Word perfect?’

No hesitation. ‘Yes.’

‘So, Ms Orman, as we have heard, you’ve had no formal qualifications or training in the art of lip-reading. Yet you claim to have observed my client in discussions over what might or might not have been a business deal. Pretty damning evidence if true, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘I would,’ she said.

Murray-Smith went in for the kill. ‘So, as I understand it, Sharon Orman, you have no qualifications and no formal training to be a member of the Surrey and Sussex Police Surveillance Unit. Is that also correct?’

‘No, I have had surveillance training,’ she replied.

‘So, it is agreed,’ the defence counsel pounced, the bit between his teeth now. ‘We’ve asked what training you’ve had and you have told us. We have asked what qualifications you have to give this evidence and you’ve replied that you have no qualifications. So, you have come to court as a so-called “expert” witness, telling this court very damning evidence about what my client is alleged to have said. You’re not qualified to give this evidence. What gives you the authority to come here and tell this court what you have? Why should any of us here in this court believe what you have said?’

Calmly, her voice more assured now, Sharon Orman said, ‘Well, in childhood I lost my full hearing. I’ve spent the last twenty-five years of my life reading people’s lips, watching their movements – just like I’ve been reading yours. That’s the way I survive in the modern world. I think that’s all the qualification I need, wouldn’t you say?’

For a fleeting instant, Murray-Smith’s suave features took on an appearance of a bone-china cup that had been dropped from ten storeys onto a concrete block. Instantly regaining his composure, although not his confidence, he turned to the judge. ‘No further questions.’

73

Friday 6 September

At 3.45 p.m., Roy Grace and Glenn Branson met Mark Taylor, their Surveillance Team leader, as well as DC Keri Brogan, the Intelligence Development Officer, who was to be the liaison between the Major Crime Team and the Surveillance Team on Operation Lagoon.

Brogan, late thirties, had the stocky build of a hockey goalkeeper, which Grace, having met her some while back, remembered was her passion. Shoulder-length hair, set in tight curls like a judge’s wig, but brown not grey, framed her face. She was dressed in casual clothes and new-looking trainers.

Detective Sergeant Taylor, who was in his mid-forties, had shaggy, collar-length hair and chiselled good looks that reminded Grace of the actor he’d last seen in Game of Thrones, Nikolaj Coster-Waldau. He wore a thin leather jacket over a grey T-shirt, jeans and basketball boots. Not a man to be messed with, Grace knew from his background. He had joined the police at the age of twenty-five after six years’ distinguished service in the Royal Marines. On finishing his two-year probation, he’d immediately, at his request, been posted to CID, then Surveillance. Subsequently, the quietly spoken man, who did not suffer fools, had worked at all levels of Surveillance, including a three-year stint with Scotland Yard, before transferring back to Sussex Police after the birth of his first child.