The final prosecution witness was a man called Keith Somers. His testimony was straightforward and damning. He knew Gary Harker, and he had seen him in Albert Street just after one a.m. on the night of the rape. Gary had been wearing black jeans and a black shirt, and had even acknowledged him with a wave.
The significance of this was that Albert Street ran parallel to Thorpe Street, where Sharon Gilbert lived. The houses had small back gardens with low fences which backed onto each other. The rapist could easily have left Sharon’s house, climbed the fence and come out in Albert Street.
From Sharon’s phone bill, Lloyd-Davies demonstrated that she had phoned her friend Mary at 1.08 a.m., and the police at 1.22 a.m. Somers had seen Gary at about 1.05. This, Lloyd-Davies insisted, put Gary in exactly the right place, at exactly the right time.
As Sarah stood up to cross-examine she felt her pager tremble in her pocket. Looking down she saw her husband’s work number. What did he want — more problems with Emily? Nothing she could do now, anyway.
Somers was a good, credible witness. She tried to cast doubt on the time he had seen Gary, but he would have none of it. He had been at a friend’s house watching a film which ended at 12.50 a.m. He’d left immediately: no lingering conversations, no cups of coffee. He’d had a few beers but he wasn’t drunk. He’d seen Gary’s face clearly under a streetlight. Sarah tried to turn this, at least, to her advantage.
‘You could see all of his head, could you?’
‘Yes. He was bare-headed.’
‘So he wasn’t wearing a balaclava hood?’
‘No.’
‘Did you see any sign of a hood — something in his hand, a bulge in his pocket, perhaps?’
‘No. No, I can’t say I did.’
‘I see. Well, thank you very much.’ She sat down. It was the best she could do — Gary admitted being in the area that night, after all. Sarah remembered the pager again. What did Bob want? She felt suddenly tired, unaccountably low after the adrenalin rush of the early afternoon.
Julian Lloyd-Davies said: ‘That completes the case for the prosecution, my lord.’
‘Very well.’ The judge looked inquiringly at Sarah, who stood up. ‘My lord, I would like to address the court on a point of law.’
‘I see. In that case, members of the jury, I must ask you to retire for a short time.’
As the jury filed out of court the barristers digested the phrase a short time. Lloyd-Davies knew very well what Sarah was about to say, and no doubt regarded it as a forlorn hope. But she was determined to give it a try.
‘Before I present the case for the defence, I would like to invite your lordship to dismiss the case as being unsafe to put before a jury. As your lordship will have seen, the prosecution have completely failed to produce any evidence which puts my client at the scene of the crime. They have no forensic evidence at all. My client has consistently protested his innocence, and the only evidence against him is that of identification. The evidence of the victim’s child has been discounted, and that of the victim herself is highly suspect and tainted by her own extreme animosity towards my client, whose face she never saw. In view of all these points it seems to me that the only proper course for your lordship is to dismiss the case now rather than running the risk of an unsafe conviction before a jury.’
Julian Lloyd-Davies stood to reply but the judge waved him away.
‘No, Mr Lloyd-Davies, it won’t be necessary. I hear what you say, Mrs Newby, and I agree with you that there are a number of difficulties with the identification evidence, and the child’s evidence has been excluded. But the fact remains that Ms Gilbert was very well acquainted with the defendant, and can be presumed able to recognise his voice, even from behind a mask. The last witness puts your client in the area at precisely the time the rape was committed. Even if the Crown have not been able to produce the watch, its existence does give your client a motive, in addition to the intention to rape, for entering the house, and its theft suggests that the intruder knew the layout of the bedroom. So in view of all these points I am satisfied that the Crown have produced a case to answer.’
Sarah bowed. ‘As your lordship wishes.’ It was no more than she had expected. But any appeal court would know that she had tried three times to get this case thrown out. The judge’s decision would have to be proven right in all three instances; no one could say she had not tried.
‘So, Mrs Newby. The jury are chafing at the bit. Shall we begin?’
Sarah sighed. ‘Very well, my lord.’ The jurors filed morosely back into their seats, looking far less eager than the judge had suggested, and she called Graham Dewar.
Dewar was a bricklayer who had worked with Gary for a company called MacFarlane’s. When Lucy had first discovered him Sarah had been delighted. Whatever else, he would embarrass the police. He was a respectable, red-faced man, uncomfortable in his shiny blue suit.
‘Mr Dewar, when you worked with Gary Harker, did you know a man called Sean?’
‘I did, yes.’.
‘Did you know his surname?’
‘Never did, no. Always called him Sean, that’s all.’
‘Was he friendly with Gary?’
‘Quite friendly, yes, I suppose. I think they met in prison, like.’
That’s just what I didn’t need, Sarah thought. Quickly, she moved on.
‘What sort of man was he?’
Dewar considered. ‘Well, a sort of fitness fanatic, I suppose. Did a lot of training. Not very chatty. I didn’t know him right well, like. He were there for two or three weeks and then gone.’
‘Is that unusual?’
‘No. We get lots like him. Work for a bit then go back on t’dole. Happens all’t time.’
‘When did he leave?’
‘Well, I can’t say for definite — but it were about same time as Gary got arrested. Middle of October, maybe. Around then.’
‘I see.’ Sarah glanced at the jury. ‘One last question, then, Mr Dewar. Did the police ever come to your building site, to ask you or your mates if this man existed?’
Dewar shook his head. ‘No. Definitely not. If they’d come I’d have told them like, but nobody ever asked before your solicitor did.’ He indicated Lucy, sitting behind Sarah.
‘Thank you, Mr Dewar. Stay there, please.’ Sarah glanced at Terry in the well of the court, and sat down. Lloyd-Davies, perhaps as a sign of contempt, had asked his junior, James Morris, to cross-examine. The young man stood up eagerly, and began in a well-educated southern voice. ‘That’s all a pack of lies, Mr Dewar, isn’t it?’
Dewar took his time answering, examining the young lawyer curiously, as though he had never seen anything quite like him before and was curious how he was put together. ‘No, young man, it isn’t bloody lies. It’s the truth, like I swore to tell on yon book.’
James Morris flushed. ‘Well, we’ll see what the jury think, shall we? You’re a close friend of Gary Harker, aren’t you?’
‘No, not particularly.’
Sarah glanced at Lloyd-Davies, to see how he was taking his protege’s performance.
‘Well, you came here to testify on his behalf.’
‘Don’t make me his friend, does it? As a matter of fact I don’t like the feller much.’
‘But … if you don’t like him, why have you come?’
‘To tell’t truth, young man. For justice’ sake. In’t that what you do ‘ere?’
Morris was sunk. He floundered on for some time but only dug himself deeper into a hole. Sarah blew Lucy a silent kiss. Despite the unfortunate comment about prison, Dewar was a gem. She had hit the bullseye this time. The only trouble was, he was the only shot in her locker.
James Morris sat down at four o’clock. The judge peered at Sarah over his spectacles.
‘Will your client be taking the stand, Mrs Newby?’
‘That remains to be decided, my lord. I need to take instructions.’
‘Very well. We will resume at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’ The judge levered himself to his feet, the clerk cried out ‘All Stand!’ and court was over for the day.
Lucy came out of court with her. ‘Will you put him on the stand?’
‘I would advise not.’
‘Why? We’re doing well, and he’s consistently denied it.’
‘You know how he talks. Lloyd-Davies will prick him and goad him until he explodes. The jury will loathe him.’
‘But if we don’t, they’ll think he’s got something to hide.’
‘He has. His voice, his temper, the lies about his alibi. He’s got everything to hide. But if he doesn’t speak they won’t hear it from his own mouth. They’ll just hear me.’
In his cell Gary grinned at them. ‘We’re doing well, lasses, eh?’
‘I’m doing well,’ said Sarah coolly. ‘You’re probably going to jail.’
‘Eh? What d’yer mean, you stuck-up bitch? It’s your job to keep me out of jail, in’t it?’
‘Yes, but unless you prove your alibi, the jury are going to draw the obvious conclusion.’
‘What d’you mean? You’ve just heard about Sean, haven’t you?’
‘We’ve heard he exists but that doesn’t mean he was with you that night, does it? And their last witness saw you in Albert Street, for heaven’s sake! What were you doing there?’
‘I’ve told yer. I was on me way home after shagging this bird I met.’
‘A bird whose name we don’t know, with a friend called Sean who’s conveniently vanished. The prosecution will crucify you about that, Gary. It would have been better to say nothing than tell the police a tale about girls whose names you can’t even remember.’
‘Have you never had a feller whose name you forgot next day? It happens all’t time.’
‘To you, maybe, but not to me,’ Sarah said primly, thinking bleakly of her first husband Kevin and how similar he was in some ways to this thug before her. ‘And my girlfriends didn’t do a bunk the next day, either. You do realise, if we could find this shagging companion of yours — Sean — and he confirmed your story, you’d be a free man tomorrow.’
Gary grinned, amused by her unexpectedly coarse language. ‘I know, but he’s scarpered, ain’t he? He always were a devious bugger.’
‘Not much of a friend, then, after all?’ Sarah said sarcastically. ‘If he was ever there.’
‘You calling me a liar, woman?’ He rose suddenly to his feet, six foot three of tattooed brawn and beer belly towering above them. Lucy flinched, but Sarah stood her ground. She was not surprised; she had intended to provoke him.
‘That’s what Lloyd-Davies will say tomorrow. He’ll say you’re lying about this man Sean and the two prostitutes. Sean’s scarpered and they never existed.’
His fists opened and closed like claws. Sarah imagined them closing around her throat. But he looked more sly than angry. ‘Aye, well. It’s not a crime is it, to have the coppers on?’
‘It’s not exactly a brilliant idea to lie to the police when they’re accusing you of rape. Is that what you’re going to say in court tomorrow, that this alibi was just a fantasy of yours?’
‘What if I do? It don’t prove I raped the cow, does it? You said so yourself!’
‘I didn’t call her a cow, Gary.’
‘No. But she is for all that. You don’t know her.’
‘All right, Gary.’ Sarah became brisk, preparing to leave. ‘We’ve done quite well, like you say, and tomorrow is the final speeches. As a defendant you have the right to give evidence on your own behalf if you choose, but as your advocate I strongly suggest you say nothing. If you go in the witness box Julian Lloyd-Davies will do his best to make the jury dislike you, and to be frank I think he’ll succeed. If you say nothing then I can emphasise the weaknesses in the prosecution case, which will give us a better chance. But it’s for you to decide. Do you agree?’
He frowned at her, thinking. ‘You want me to keep me trap shut and tell no more lies?
‘Exactly. If you’d done that in the beginning you’d be better off now.’
‘I’ll think on. I’ll tell you in’t morning.’
‘All right. But think hard, Gary. Juries don’t like liars. Nobody does.’
With that she left. In the corridor outside she looked at Lucy. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘Tell no more lies,’ Lucy sighed.
‘Quite.’ Sarah took a deep breath and walked quickly up the stairs. Crossing the entrance hall with her solicitor was Sharon Gilbert. As Sarah watched, another woman, her friend Mary probably, met her on the steps outside with two small children — one of them the little boy who had dared to attack the brute who was raping his mother.
She went back to her chambers where two young barristers were commiserating with Savendra over the conviction of his filthy farmer for polluting the borehole with his slurry pit.
‘My expert assured them that it takes twenty years to reach the water table,’ he said, gloomily watching the bubbles in a glass of mineral water instead of the champagne languishing in the fridge. ‘But that only made it worse. The applicants could see themselves drinking foul water for decades to come — you could see the steam coming out of their ears!’
‘Leaving the pollution in their minds, no doubt!’
‘Exactly. They got costs as well. My client may have to sell up …’
‘Is there much money in slurry these days? Maybe you can bottle it and sell it as perfume for dogs …’
Sarah squeezed past into her room to write her speech for tomorrow. There were plenty of questions she could raise about the evidence; her real problem was how to appeal to the jury, to get them to feel good about acquitting a man who not only looked like a horrendous thug but probably was one. Particularly when the acquittal would be so devastating for Sharon. And for her children too.
That was the problem. To question the evidence was easy, to gain the jury’s sympathy … not so easy. Not even slightly easy. Impossible, probably.
Well, that’s what I’m paid to do. Not the easy things, but the difficult ones. That’s the whole point of the challenge.
For an hour she tried out phrase after phrase, rejecting one after another. All the time Gary’s words haunted her: ‘Keep me trap shut and tell no more lies.’ It was as close as she was likely to get to an admission of guilt. Gary was an old enough lag to know the game; a client must never admit guilt to his barrister. If the client did admit it, it was the barrister’s duty to advise a guilty plea, even at this late stage. If that advice was rejected the barrister could, as some did, withdraw from the case there and then, or more likely, offer only a token defence, questioning the evidence with a lack of conviction that clearly signalled to everyone in court — except the jury, who were new to the game — how little you believed in your task. Sarah had seen that done but always hated it. She wanted to do the job properly, go all out for victory.
After all Gary, repulsive as he was, had consistently professed his innocence.
Until now.
‘Keep me trap shut and tell no more lies.’ You sod, Gary — why didn’t you keep it shut with me! But of course he hadn’t admitted his guilt — she and Lucy had just inferred it from a couple of words. There was no ethical reason why she shouldn’t continue to defend him, and every practical reason — including a substantial fee from the legal aid fund — why she should. It was a good case, a step up in her career. If only it didn’t feel so tacky and sordid, suddenly.
The phone rang and she picked it up.
‘Sarah?’
‘Bob. Hi.’ She’d meant to ring him earlier but got absorbed in her work. ‘How’s Emily?’
‘That’s just it. I don’t know.’
‘Don’t know? What do you mean? Where are you ringing from — school?’
‘No, I’m at home. But she’s not here.’
‘What time is it?’ She glanced at her watch. Half past six. ‘Did she leave a note?’
‘No, nothing. I got home at five and she wasn’t here. No plates or sign of lunch. I’ve rung her friends — Michelle and Sandra anyway — and they haven’t seen her either.’ There was a hint of anxiety in Bob’s voice — unusual for him.
‘Didn’t you ring this afternoon like I asked?’
‘Look, I’ve had two teachers sick and a football match to referee, for God’s sake! Anyway the answerphone was still on when I got here.’
‘Have you tried her mobile?’
‘It’s here in her bedroom. She told me this morning the card has run out.’
‘Well …’ Sarah was nonplussed. ‘Have you tried her friend Joanne? She sometimes goes there.’
‘I haven’t got the number.’
‘Well, go round by car. You know where she lives.’
‘All right. But someone should be here in case she comes home. It’s not like her, Sarah — you know what a state she was in this morning.’
‘I’ll be back in an hour or so. I’ve got this speech to write …’
‘The hell with your speech! Bring it home, Sarah, do it later — you should be here!’
Sarah’s face tightened. She didn’t need this, not now. ‘Stop panicking, Bob. She’ll be OK. She’s probably gone for a walk to get her head together. There’s nothing we can do until she comes back anyway. If I get my speech out of the way I can talk to her later.’
Silence came from the phone. Don’t play silly games with me, Bob Newby, not now. In a light voice intended to reassure, she said: ‘In about an hour. OK?.’ And put the phone down.
Now — how to appeal to the jury’s emotions. The deadline would concentrate her mind, as it always did. She bent forward over her desk, and her mind closed down all thoughts of Bob and Emily.
It would open again in an hour.
She got home at eight to find Bob alone. He had tried Emily’s friend Joanne and two more without success, he said. The schoolgirls had phoned their network of friends — none of them had seen or heard from Emily today.
Bob looked distraught. When Sarah came in he rushed downstairs, hoping it was Emily. One of the mothers had suggested he search her bedroom to find out what clothes she had been wearing, but he had no memory for girls’ clothes at the best of times. But the idea, the fear in the mind of the woman who had put him up to it, made Sarah shiver as she unzipped her black leather jacket.
‘Why do you want to know what she’s wearing?’
‘I don’t know … well, in case, the police …’
‘Bob..’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘She’ll be all right.’
‘So you say. You haven’t been here — you’ve been writing your wretched speech to defend some rapist! Sarah, it’s eight o’clock in the evening and none of her friends have seen her all day. It’ll be dark in an hour.’
‘Well, maybe she’s gone for a walk.’
‘Where?’
‘Well, you know — where does she go? By the river.’
Oh God no! The same thought struck them both at once. ‘I didn’t know she went by the river,’ Bob said.
‘She has done once or twice recently. She told me about it. She saw a heron …’
‘We’d better go and look.’ He grabbed a coat and went to the back door. She followed. Outside in the garden he turned. ‘No, one of us ought to stay here, in case she comes back …’
‘But if we both go, one can go upstream and one down. As you say, it’ll be dark soon.’
‘But what if she comes back?’ Bob’s panic was infectious. They stood there, indecisive, staring at each other on the carefully mown lawn, beside the weeping willow and the rose trees they had worked so hard to afford. This is absurd, Sarah thought. Nothing is going to happen.
‘We’ll leave a note,’ she said firmly. ‘Surely you left a note when you went out before?’
‘No. I didn’t think.’
Christ! And you a head teacher! ‘All right, I’ll write one.’ She turned back to the house. ‘You go on. Which way will you go?’
‘Upstream.’
‘I’ll go down then. See you soon.’
She wrote two large notes — GONE FOR A WALK BY THE RIVER, BACK SOON, MUM AND DAD — and left one on the fridge door and one on the stairs. If Emily came in she would either look for food or go to her room, surely. Then she put on her wellington boots and went out through the garden gate, across the field to the river bank. She set off downstream.
She could hear birds singing in the trees, and a blackbird called out in alarm as she approached. A lawnmower hummed in the distance. But other than that the silence was eerie, empty as she often found it. The sound of her boots on the grass, the creak of her leather jacket, became large as they never were in the city. She could even hear the cows munching in the meadow. The sudden croak of a moorhen startled her, and without warning two ducks skimmed round the bend and crash-landed on the river in front of her.
I’m supposed to like this place, she thought. It’s luxury. Emily likes it anyway, that’s why she may be out here. But why so late? She noticed a tangle of green weed close under the bank and shuddered. God what am I looking for? She braced her shoulders resolutely and strode on. For Christ’s sake the child can swim well enough and anyway why would anyone be so crazy as to try swimming here when there are perfectly good swimming pools in town?
But she might have slipped and fallen in. Then she would climb out and come home. The girl’s not an idiot.
So where is she?
A woman, a matronly figure in stout boots, tartan skirt and woolly hat, came along the path walking two labradors. ‘Hello,’ she said politely. ‘Lovely evening, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Sarah said. ‘Er … you haven’t seen — a girl, have you?’ A corpse, a drowned body floating up from under the water, her long hair drifting around her like water weed?
‘Girl? No, I don’t think so. Do you mean a small child?’
‘No — no, not a child, a teenager. She’s got long dark hair, looks a bit like me, about fifteen years old …’
‘What was she wearing?’
‘I don’t know, I’m afraid. She’s my daughter, and she went out before I came back from work. I’m a bit worried — but you haven’t seen anyone?’
‘No one like that, dear, no, I’m sorry. They’re a worry, aren’t they, children? Specially at that age. I remember …’
‘Yes — well, thanks anyway.’ Sarah moved on swiftly to avoid getting entangled in the woman’s reminiscences. But after fifty yards she thought: there’s no point, if that woman’s already been along here. I should have asked her how far she went. She looked back and saw the woman and the dogs in the distance. If I go back I’ll get involved in conversation and that’s pointless too. I’ll go half a mile further on and then back. Emily wouldn’t have gone further than that, she’s no great walker but she’s been gone all day and Bob’s right, it’s getting dark. Christ this is bloody absurd, she can’t have been abducted. She’s probably gone into town and run out of bus fare.
Did I leave the answerphone on? I didn’t check it when I came in — surely Bob did that? What happens if she hasn’t got any money and she rings the operator for a reverse charge call and gets the answerphone?
Nothing, probably. No message at all.
Sarah walked another hundred yards, stared despairingly at the empty towpath winding through vacant fields beside the river in the gathering twilight, and turned back. I’m no good here, I’d be better in the house. I can organise things there.
When she got back the house was empty and there were no messages on the answerphone. She dialled 1471. A flat mechanical voice said: ‘Telephone number 0–1 — 9–0 — 4–3 — 3–6 — 8–9 — 4 called today at ten twenty seven a.m. If you wish to return the call press 3.’
Sarah pressed 3. The phone rang five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty five times. She put it down, dialled 1471 again and wrote the number down. That’s something, she thought. She looked at the number but didn’t recognise it. That’s where she must be. I can ring it again and if it doesn’t answer the police can find out where it is.
The police. It isn’t going to come to that, is it?
The back door opened. She turned with hope singing in her heart but it was Bob. He stood there in boots and anorak, breathing heavily as though he had been running.
‘Have you found her?’
‘No. You?’
‘No. There’s a number on the phone.’ She showed him. ‘I rang it but it didn’t answer.’
‘I don’t recognise it, do you?’
‘No. I thought …’
‘What?’
‘The police could find out who it was if …’ Sarah hesitated, not wanting to draw the conclusion. It seemed so ridiculous. Things like this didn’t happen to them. ‘… if she doesn’t come home soon,’ she finished more firmly.
‘Soon? She’s been gone over twelve hours! I’m going to ring them now. Give me that.’ Bob took the receiver out of her hand. For a moment she thought of resisting but then she looked out of the window and saw it was nearly dark. He was right. It was already far too long.