‘Mr Muirhead, I asked you if it was your intention to call your client to give evidence.’

‘Whether I call my client is something of which I will advise the Court at the appropriate time. Or rather, the time I consider to be appropriate.’

‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, no doubt you are anxious to hear from the accused. Unfortunately, you are not to be told when that will happen – if at all.’

Oh, no you don’t!, Muirhead thought to himself.

‘As my Lord is, I have no doubt, well aware, there is no obligation upon an accused person to give evidence. In the event that he – elects – to go into the witness box, his counsel, namely me, and no one else is entitled to determine when that should be.’

‘Mr...’

‘I noted, as no doubt the jury noted, that your Lordship, very properly, made no comment on the order in which the Crown called witnesses...’

‘Mr...’

A tidal wave is hard to resist.

‘I am sure your Lordship is not seeking to imply that there is anything wrong with the way in which I propose to conduct my case, otherwise he would be ruling against me on a point of law. I have received no such ruling from your Lordship and indeed it is difficult to conceive how there could be such a ruling.’

‘Mr Muir...’

‘Accordingly, I assume that I may now proceed with my case and as I have indicated, twice, the first witness will be Hilda Gallagher.’

‘Mr Muirhead, I was only trying to help by clarifying...’

‘I am, as ever, obliged to your Lordship for his assistance, but help like that I can do without, with the greatest of respect.’

The day had begun.

Hilda Gallagher was a striking figure as she strode into the witness box and took the oath. The chemist who had concocted the liquid which had produced her red hair was a man with a very sick sense of humour. She wore a tight-fitting emerald green suit with a skirt length which would have turned many a head if worn by a twenty year old. All it turned were stomachs. Her fingers were dripping with ostentatiously large gold rings – as vulgar as they had been expensive. Only a minor miracle could prevent her falling off her six-inch heels.

Muirhead glowered at Morton who had inexplicably contrived to find something of all consuming interest in the file in front of him.

‘…and nothing but the truth.’

‘That’ll make a change, I suspect,’ muttered Anderson.

‘Now, now, this is our defence.’

‘Should I panic now or wait till she starts?’

‘Christ’s sake, Donald!’

‘Mr Muirhead.’

He began with the usual background details. Name, age, address, relationship to the accused. He began to wonder if Anderson had, perhaps, been right. Mother Gallagher had a voice which could grate cheese and to complete the image was affecting a BBC2 accent.