‘A man who, if he thought, just thought, that he might have made a mistake, would not be too arrogant to admit the possibility?’
‘I hope not.’
‘You say in your statement that you saw Mr Price quite clearly because he was facing towards you.’
‘Yes. He was to my right, from the shop window, facing three-quarters towards me.’
‘But he was also facing the victim. So the victim was facing away from you. That was why you could not later help in the identification of his face.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you say the second mugger, whom you believe to be Mr Cornish, was standing behind the victim. Surely he also was facing away from you?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Then how did you see his face?’
Mr Patel looked worried.
‘I did not do so, then. Only when they began to circle the man on the ground, kicking him.’
‘Mr Patel, if you were kicking someone on the ground, where would you look?’
‘Well, at the man.’
‘Meaning, downwards?’
‘Yes.’
‘If I may crave the court’s indulgence, sir. Mr Cornish, would you stand up?’
In the dock, Harry Cornish rose, as did the prison officer to whom he was handcuffed. Mr Stein looked startled, but Vansittart would not pause.
‘Mr Cornish, would you please look down at a spot in front of your feet.’
Cornish did so. His lank hair fell in a screen covering any sign of his face from the court. There was a stunned silence.
‘Sit down, Mr Cornish,’ said Vansittart. He addressed the Indian shopkeeper quite gently.
‘Mr Patel, I suggest you saw a thin, sallow-faced man with ear-length hair at a distance of thirty yards. The next day when you saw a photo of a thin, sallow-faced man with ear-length hair you assumed it must be the same man. Could that be what happened?’
‘I suppose so,’ mumbled Veejay Patel. Burns tried vainly to catch his eye. He would not make eye contact. He’s been got at, thought Burns in despair. Someone has been on the blower to him, a quiet voice in the middle of the night, mentioning his wife and daughter. Oh God, not again.
‘Now, regarding Mr Price. Do you ever go to watch Arsenal at Highbury, Mr Patel?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You see, looking across that road on that terrible day, you saw a beefy young white man with a shorn skull, did you not?’
‘Yes.’
‘And if you went to Highbury, you would see a hundred of them. And if you look behind the windscreens of fifty per cent of the white vans that cut up other drivers on the roads of north London every day, you would see another hundred. And do you know what they wear, Mr Patel? Blue jeans, usually grubby, leather belts and a soiled T-shirt. It is almost a uniform. Have you ever seen men like that before?’
‘Yes.’
‘All over the streets of London?’
‘Yes.’