‘Yes.’
‘And you examined everything with the latest state-of-the-art technology to see if any fibres from the one set could be found on the other set?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were there any such traces?’
‘No.’
‘You also received a T-shirt soaked in dried blood?’
‘Yes.’
‘And a sample of blood from my client, Mr Price?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did they match?’
‘They did.’
‘Was there anyone else’s blood on that T-shirt?’
‘No.’
‘Did you receive samples of blood taken from the pavement in the area of Paradise Way or the streets of the Meadowdene Grove estate?’
‘No.’
‘Did you receive samples of blood taken from beneath and around a builder’s truck in Farrow Road?’
Mr Finch was totally bewildered. He glanced at the bench, but received no help. DI Burns had his head in his hands. Miss Sundaran was looking out of her depth.
‘Farrow Road? No.’
‘Precisely. No further questions.’
Mr Hamilton presented his post-mortem report with cheerful self-confidence. Cause of death, he pronounced, was due to severe axonal damage to the brain stem caused by repeated and heavy blows to the skull, compatible with blows administered by boots.
‘Did you,’ asked James Vansittart, ‘examine every inch of the body during post-mortem?’
‘Of course.’
‘Including the right hand?’
Mr Hamilton referred to his notes.
‘I have no reference to the right hand.’
‘Because there was no damage to it?’
‘That would be the only reason.’
‘Thank you, Mr Hamilton.’
Unlike the professionals, Mr Whittaker, the elderly dog-walker, was slightly nervous and had taken some trouble with his dress. He wore his blazer with the Royal Artillery badge; he was entitled: in his National Service he had been a gunner.
There had already been a pleasing stir at the Over Sixties Club when it was learned he would be a witness in a murder trial, and a grateful but bewildered Mitch had received a lot of petting.