The Flatshare: A Novel

Ms Constantine: Mrs Wilson, as our first expert witness, please could you begin by telling the judges what your expertise entails?

Mrs Wilson: I’m a CCTV analyst and enhancer. Have been for fifteen years. I work for the UK’s leading CCTV forensics business – it was my team that pulled that enhanced footage together [gestures to screen].

Ms Constantine: Thank you very much, Mrs Wilson. And in your experience of examining CCTV footage, what can you tell us about these two short clips that we have seen today?

Mrs Wilson: Plenty. They’re not the same bloke, to start with.

Ms Constantine: Really? You sound absolutely sure of that.

Mrs Wilson: Oh, sure as anything. For starters, look at the colour of the hoodie in the enhanced footage. Only one hoodie is black. You can tell by the shade that it comes out as, see? The black is a denser colour.

Ms Constantine: Can we have images from both up on screen, please? Thank you.

Mrs Wilson: And then look at how they walk! It’s a fair imitation, all right, but the first bloke is clearly fu— is clearly drunk, My Lords. Look at how he’s zigzagging. Almost walks into the display. Then the next guy walks much straighter and doesn’t fumble or anything when he reaches for the knife. Our first bloke nearly dropped the beers!

Ms Constantine: And with the new CCTV footage from outside Aldi, we can see the distinctively . . . zigzagged walk more clearly.

Mrs Wilson: Oh, yeah.

Ms Constantine: And of the group that we see walking by a few moments after the first figure, who we have identified as Mr Twomey . . . would you be able to identify any of those figures as the man with the knife in the off-licence?

Mr Turner, to the judges: My Lords, this is nothing but speculation.

Judge Whaite: No, we’ll allow it. Ms Constantine is calling on her witness’s expertise.

Ms Constantine: Mrs Wilson, could any of those men have been the man in the off-licence, looking at this footage?

Mrs Wilson: Oh, yeah. Bloke on the far right. His hood is down, and he’s not putting on the walk there, but look at how his shoulder drops with each step of his left foot. Look how he rubs his shoulder – the same gesture as the bloke in the off-licence makes before he pulls out the knife.

Mr Turner: We are here to examine an appeal against Mr Twomey’s conviction. What is the relevance of implicating an unidentifiable bystander?

Judge Whaite: I see your point, Mr Turner. All right, Ms Constantine – do you have any further questions which are pertinent to the case at hand?

Ms Constantine: None, My Lord. I hope perhaps we can return to this discussion at a later date, should this case be reopened.

Prosecution lawyer, Mr Turner, scoffs into his hand. Gerty turns a freezing cold glare on him. I remember how Mr Turner intimidated Richie at the last trial. Called him a thug, a violent-minded criminal, a child who took whatever he wanted. I watch Mr Turner pale under Gerty’s gaze. To my delight, even robed and wigged, Mr Turner is not immune to the power of Gerty’s dirty looks.

I meet Richie’s eye, and, for the first time all day, crack a genuine smile.

*

Step outside in the break and switch on my phone. My heart’s not exactly beating faster than usual, just beating . . . louder. Bigger. Everything feels exaggerated: when I buy a coffee, it tastes stronger; when the sky clears, the sun is stark and bright. Can’t believe how well it’s going in there. Gerty just doesn’t stop – every single thing she says is so . . . conclusive. The judges keep nodding. The judge never nodded first-time around.

I’ve imagined this too many times, and now I’m living it. Feels as if I’m inside a daydream.

A few messages from Tiffy. I go to tap out a brief reply, palms sweaty, almost afraid writing it down and sending will jinx it. Wish I could call her. Instead I check Tasha Chai-Latte’s Facebook page – Tiffy says she’s filming the book launch. There’s already a video on her page with thousands of views; looks like it’s from the launch, judging by the vaulted ceiling in the holding image.

I watch, settling down on bench outside the court building, ignoring the gaggle of paparazzi waiting there for the chance of shooting someone they might get paid for.

It’s Katherin’s thank-you speech. I smile as she talks about Tiffy. From what Tiffy says, editors never get much credit, and designers even less – I can see Rachel beaming as she takes the stage with Tiffy.

Camera jolts. Someone pushing through to the front. As he jumps up on to the stage I realise who it is.

Sudden awful, guilt-inducing urge to leave courtroom and go to Islington. Sit forward, staring at the tiny video playing out on my screen.

Video cuts after she’s said yes.

Surprising how truly terrible it feels. Perhaps you never know how you feel about someone until they agree to marry someone else.