Chapter Seventy-one
Matthew had never seen Oscar angry, putting aside his feigned outrages exhibited sometimes during cross-examination. He had cornered Matthew in the tiny shoebox-c*m-chambers where he was languishing whilst on a trial period to see how he performed at the bar.
Oscar’s scalp blazed into a deep red, and his face was a mottled pink as he stood only a metre or so from where Matthew was sitting and commenced the lecture.
‘I can’t believe you would be so stupid, so stubborn as to risk your life in this mad scheme.’
‘I take it that Lena has had a word,’ Matthew replied in a conciliatory tone.
‘She’s beside herself, and with good reason. Mannheim is a cold-blooded killer, and you’re determined to play Russian roulette with him. All based on the word of a perjurer. Haven’t I
