Throughout most of the trial he had shown no emotion whatsoever. After an initial outburst at a witness, he had sat implacably in the dock, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts and feelings. Now he looked drawn and deathly pale. Before he sat down, he turned to the back of the room and smiled thinly to his family in the gallery. Muirhead noticed that his hands were trembling. He was fighting to keep control – and was determined not to show it.

Muirhead nodded to the macer who headed for the jury room and then paused at the door. Donald Anderson walked straight into the court. He knew his senior’s superstition well. Muirhead would not come in for the verdict until everyone was in place and the macer had gone to collect the judge. His practice was invariable. In the far corner, opposite the dock, a door opened and, preceded by the macer, the jury began to file into their places.

There is a theory among lawyers that if jurors cannot look at the man in the dock on returning to court, then they intend to convict him. Muirhead eschewed such notions. There was no way of knowing how juries would behave. Occasionally, very occasionally, you might get a clue. Although juries are always told by judges that punishment is a matter for the court and they should not allow themselves to be influenced by the possible sentence that might be imposed, every juror knows that a guilty verdict in the High Court is likely to result in a lengthy prison sentence. Jurors who returned to their box chattering amongst themselves and appearing relaxed, were usually an encouraging sign. They know that they will not have to witness a man being sent to jail. They know that, for practical purposes, the case is already over.

Muirhead saw no such encouraging sign on this occasion. Every jury member bar one walked in, heads slightly bowed, stony-faced. Only one appeared to show any reaction at all, and Muirhead thought he saw the hint of a smile. The small prissy-looking man who took his seat at the end of the middle of the three rows had an almost perceptible air of triumph about him. The foreman, Muirhead thought … undoubtedly the foreman.

The macer passed on his way to the judge’s chambers and paused to take Muirhead aside.

‘Dour bunch, sir. Glad to see the back of them. Bet the foreman is the one who looks like Rab C. Nesbitt. Right moaning-faced bastard he’s been, sir. Speaking of which, I’m away to get his nibs.’ The macer moved on.

‘Oh no, he isn’t’, muttered Muirhead as he took a few deep breaths in an attempt to stop the churning in his stomach. Waste of time, and he knew it.