‘What did Mr Manuel’s letter say?’
Dowdall has to step very carefully here. Manuel asked him to visit and act as his lawyer. Strictly speaking Dowdall is bound by client/lawyer confidentiality and shouldn’t be telling anyone what was said.
‘Mr Manuel sent me a letter concerning one matter but, in an addendum, stated that he had information concerning another client of mine, one who had been described in the press as “an all-round athlete”.’
‘And you took this to mean Mr Watt?’
This may sound unlikely to the jury because Watt is a big fat man, so Dowdall explains.
‘Mr Watt had been a competitor in the Highland Games in his youth. He had been referred to in those terms by a newspaper just the week before so I deduced that it was about him.’
‘Do you still have this letter?’
‘I’m afraid it was not kept.’ The letter is damning for Dowdall. It is clear Manuel is inviting him to visit in his capacity as his legal representative. He wanted Dowdall to put in a hopeless application for bail. Dowdall told him it was pointless but Manuel insisted they put it in anyway.
Dowdall knows what innocent looks like: he maintains eye contact with Gillies. He forces himself to take a breath and blink slowly.
‘And so you went to see Mr Manuel?’
‘I did.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Our first meeting was brief. Mr Manuel told me that Mr Watt was innocent. He said he knew the man who had really committed the murders.’
The public benches gasp. The jury scribble in their notepads. Gillies strikes a pose and lets the statement sink in.
‘And what did you say to Mr Manuel?’
‘I urged him to go to the police and tell them.’
‘And what did he say to that?’
‘Well, Mr Manuel was reluctant to do that.’
‘Why?’
‘He indicated to me that he was not a very great fan of the police.’
‘How did he indicate that?’ Gillies is solemn. He is hoping Manuel threatened someone.
‘Mr Manuel expressed his hostility to the police…’ Dowdall hesitates over the wording, ‘in an inelegant, three-word, copulative sentence.’
It takes a moment for the room to hear the three-word phrase. A sudden tidal wave of HAHAHA tension-breaking laughter sweeps through the court. Later, those present will relate this dialogue to others but no one else will find it just as funny. To them it is hilarious because they’ve heard ‘fuck the police’ in their heads in this formal setting, because of the bloody clothes and guns and the brassiere on the evidence table, because they’ve been on the edge of their seat.
The tide of laughter ebbs out, leaving everyone refreshed. Dowdall continues. ‘I told Mr Manuel that the lack of details made me conclude that his story was not credible. Then I left.’
‘Did you see Mr Manuel again?’
‘Yes. I received yet another letter from him. He said he had additional information.’
‘What did this letter say?’
‘It hinted that he was willing to give me details this time. So I went to see him for a second time. It was a more productive encounter.’
Dowdall remembers this meeting as he recounts the story of it. He doesn’t have to be en guarde because he didn’t go as Manuel’s lawyer this time.
Peter Manuel sits at a table in a dark grey prison interview room that smells of Lysol and desperation. Hands clasped in front of him, smartly turned out even in his rough prison uniform, looking up at Dowdall through thick eyebrows.
They deal with the preliminaries. Then Manuel leans towards him and in a low growl says, ‘I know who done it, the Watt murders, and it wasn’t William Watt.’
Dowdall draws him out by affecting disinterest. ‘Yes, you said that before. I’ve been hearing all sorts from all quarters.’
Manuel smirks. ‘Is it details you want?’
Dowdall will never forget the look on Manuel’s face as he murmurs the story. Eyes hooded, mouth loose, his cheeks pink in an almost girlish flush. He looks over Dowdall’s shoulder as he speaks and his hands tell the story too.
‘The man crept along the dark street to the house. He walked up the path to the front door. He’s broke the glass panel at the left-hand side of the door. He’s reached in–’
Manuel slides and curls his flat hand towards Dowdall as if he is in the dark street, breaking in right now.
‘–He’s reached in and unlocked the door. He’s let hisself into the narrow hall with the chiffonier on the left and a picture of a yellow dog hanging above it. He’s slid into the dark hallway, onto the red carpet. He’s shut the door after himself. On the wall–’
He lifts his right hand, thumb and forefinger pinched.
‘–A key rack. But he doesn’t take any keys, there’s no keys hanging there. He’s walked on through the dark, into the still house, surprised that no one’s come out or heard him. He pushes open the bedroom door and there’s two beds, twin beds, and two women in them. He’s took out his gun, and he’s shot both the women in the head. Just there–’
He screws the tip of his forefinger into his temple. ‘–And he stood looking at them for a bit. But then he’s heard the girl.’
In the grey prison interview room Dowdall finds he has chewed his cheek so hard that he has broken the skin. He keeps chewing. He is hurting himself. Manuel’s voice has dropped to a growl, a whisper, and Dowdall sees a spark of glee in his eyes. Not because of Dowdall’s reaction. He doesn’t seem to care about that, not much. He’s reliving the story through the telling and he’s enjoying it.