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about ups and downs in his marriage, yes.’
    ‘No more detail than that?’
    ‘Not concerning the period you mention, no.’
    Making his point, Bavistock said, ‘So the period of Mr Deacon’s life between leaving the Army and the car accident effectively went unexamined by you.’
    ‘With the exceptions I’ve already mentioned, the subject simply never arose.’
    ‘But you see what I’m suggesting, don’t you, Dr Ainsley? That the difficulties and depression Mr Deacon had in this eight-year period could have stemmed from post-traumatic stress related to his active service, and that you would have been unaware of the fact.’
    ‘I can only report on what I find, and as I’ve already stated he gave no indication of pre-existing PTSD.’
    In the pause that followed, the judge suggested it might be a convenient time to rise for lunch. Emerging slowly from his self-imposed trance, Tom got up and went down into the body of the court to see Ainsley, who greeted him with a smile and an upturning of both palms which he converted into a handshake, his left hand laid over Tom’s, so that Hugh was reminded of a priest giving benediction.
    Desmond turned to Hugh and murmured, ‘A couple of points we could have done without, but no serious damage.’
    ‘Will you re-examine?’
    Desmond plucked the wig off his head and stuffed it into his tote bag. ‘I would say so, yes. But let’s see what the afternoon brings.’ Then, because he liked his food, he said keenly, ‘How about lunch? There’s a nice little place over the road.’
    ‘And the conference with Tom?’
    ‘Oh, while we eat, don’t you think?’
    Aware that the opposition were still in court, Hugh kept his voice very low. ‘It’s Price he wants to discuss with you.’
    ‘I rather thought it might be.’
    ‘He wants to tell the judge his side of the story.’
    ‘A perfectly natural impulse.’ Desmond’s gaze travelled across to Tom. ‘But one that is probably best resisted.’
    ‘More harm than good?’
    ‘There has to be a risk, doesn’t there?’ Desmond glanced at the clock. ‘I don’t mean to rush you, but we should get going if we want a table.’
    Hugh went down into the body of the court, meaning to keep out of earshot, only to hear Tom say in a tight voice, ‘But then I can’t get to sleep again . . .’
    Looking up, Ainsley narrowed his eyes at Hugh, as if to confirm he wasn’t going to be much longer, then bending his head, touching a light hand to Tom’s arm, spoke to him in a soothing voice. Tom gave a series of sharp nods, then as they moved apart turned towards Hugh with a look of unguarded distress.
    Ainsley had made his own plans for lunch, and they left him at the doors to the courts. Desmond, walking at a cracking pace, led the team to a busy wine bar in a narrow lane off the Strand. It was a dark place with wood panelling, frugal lighting and a menu that tested Isabel’s health convictions to the limit, a fusion of chips, pasta, and pies which catered to the boyish appetites of its clientele. The five of them squeezed round a table designed for four next to the window and ordered from an Estonian waitress called Anna, whose name Desmond enunciated with an elaborate flourish, as if to endow it with the authentic pronunciation.
    In the confusion of examining menus, breaking off and reclaiming conversations, Hugh didn’t hear what the others ordered, so that when some red wine appeared immediately in front of him he thought at first it must be Desmond’s, who always had a glass of claret at lunch. But Desmond, sitting diagonally opposite, was already clasping his wine, while to Hugh’s right Isabel and Sanjay were sipping mineral water. Which left Tom, immediately across the table, who was meant to be on the wagon.
    Desmond was singing Ainsley’s praises. ‘A robust witness. Just the right amount of bloody-mindedness. Enough to irritate the other side, but not the judge.’
    ‘You’ll re-examine?’ asked Tom, who knew all