Julian Lloyd-Davies stood to face the jury. One hand clutched the edge of his gown, the other was behind his back somewhere. The pose looked odd and pompous to Sarah. She hoped the jury felt the same.
It was his duty, he said, to prove Gary’s guilt beyond all reasonable doubt. Confidently, he set about doing so. ‘Let us remind ourselves exactly what Gary Harker has done. We say that on the night of 14th October last year, he deliberately entered the house of Sharon Gilbert … ’
Seamlessly, he progressed into a precise, detailed description of the horrors of the assault. For nearly an hour he painstakingly constructed Gary’s guilt from the evidence. He tore up Sarah’s arguments and cast them aside like rubbish. How was it possible for any woman to be mistaken about the identity of a rapist, hooded or not, when she had lived with him for over a year? Lloyd-Davies invited the jury to consider their own partners — would they fail to recognise them, just because of a balaclava hood? Surely not.
Do QCs wear hoods in their wives’ bedrooms, Sarah wondered flippantly. We should be told. But then ordinary barrister’s daughters can go missing, can’t they? her mind screamed back. Lost alone in some pervert’s bedroom. Oh shut up, please. Concentrate.
Sharon, Lloyd-Davies reminded the jury, had heard the rapist’s voice. She had seen his body, he had even used her son’s name. How could she be mistaken? And Gary had two clear motives — to gain revenge after their quarrel that evening, and to recover his watch. He knew exactly where she lived, alone and defenceless with her children. He knew where she kept the watch; she had seen him take it. The police couldn’t find it because he had hidden it, that was all.
And what about his so-called alibi? Well, it relied on three people who could not be proved to exist at all. But a witness who did exist had seen him in the adjacent street just a few minutes after the rape took place.
Finally there was the question of character. Someone was lying in this case, clearly. Well, the jury had seen Sharon Gilbert in the witness box; and they had seen the police inspector. All those people believed Gary was guilty. Then the jury had seen Gary himself. So who did they believe? Sharon, her son and the police? Or Gary Harker?
Quite, Sarah thought. A man with a criminal record three pages long, including violence against women. My charming client.
‘We know who is telling the truth, don’t we, members of the jury?’ Lloyd-Davies concluded. ‘We know who broke into Sharon Gilbert’s house and raped her in front of her two small children. It was that man there. Gary Harker.’
So far Lloyd-Davies had been dry, calm, understated, allowing the horror of the facts to make his points for him. Now, he raised his right arm, and pointed at Gary. Then he sat down.
The judge eyed the clock. 11.30. Too early to adjourn for lunch. ‘Mrs Newby?’
The phone box was in Blossom Street — near the Odeon cinema, a bus stop, a Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet, and a few streets of Victorian tenements. Inside it an advert offered French lessons for naughty boys. Harry Easby examined it curiously.
‘All right,’ Terry said, to Harry and two young uniformed constables. ‘We’ve got the girl’s photo. Let’s see if anyone’s seen her. Or knows who rang from here at 10.27 yesterday.’
It was the only clue he had, so far. His visit to Sarah’s son Simon had yielded nothing. The door of the terraced house in Bramham Street had been opened by a truculent, muscular young man in a teeshirt and shorts. He had short reddish-gold hair, a round face with a broad nose, and a ring in one ear. He had led Terry into a cramped, untidy front room and answered his questions while putting on pair of old socks and ancient, mud-stained trainers. Yes, his stepfather had rung at two a.m. last night; no, he had no idea where Emily had gone. He had last seen her a month ago in Tesco with their mother. He and his sister weren’t particularly close but he could readily understand that the pressure from their highly academic parents had become too much for her. Probably she would come back in a day or two. Terry was welcome to search his house if he wanted but if not, he was going for a run.
Terry had considered a search but decided against it. Everything in the boy’s demeanour suggested innocence. What disturbed Terry was how little the lad seemed to care. What sort of family is this, he wondered as he drove away. Son a half-employed brickie, husband a gibbering wreck, daughter run away from home. What does that woman do to people?
None of my business, he told himself firmly. Just as well, perhaps.
Terry and Harry took alternate houses down the street. Some had offices downstairs, others were entirely given over to bedsits. At quarter to twelve they crossed the road to confer with the uniformed branch. Or youth wing, as Harry called it.
‘There are two possibles, sir,’ reported PC Kerr eagerly. ‘A woman who saw a man using the box yesterday morning — he was on for ages so she had to wait; and another bloke who said his neighbour always used the phone at the same time. Said he was obsessive, like.’
‘Could your woman describe this man at all?’
Kerr consulted his notebook. ‘About forty, balding, grey suit, camel coat.’
‘Hm. And the obsessive neighbour? What did he look like?’
PC Kerr flushed. ‘I didn’t think to ask, sir. But he lives in flat 3a., number 7. He’s out now but he usually watches telly in the afternoons, I was told.’
‘All right, we’ll check him out later today,’ Terry said. ‘Now I’d best get back and see the anxious parents. Anxious dad, at least.’
Sarah tried to listen to Lloyd-Davies, but her ability to concentrate was gone. She’d had no sleep last night and in the warm courtroom she found her eyes closing. Behind her eyelids she saw Emily running away. Someone was holding her hand, but who? She’d been about to find out when she awoke with a jolt and looked round wondering if anyone had noticed. Pray God the jury weren’t laughing at her.
She stood up mechanically, her notes in her hand. ‘Members of the jury, Mr Harker is, as you know, accused of a quite horrendous crime.’ Which he almost certainly committed, she thought miserably. What now?
She stopped, transfixed by the extraordinary sensation that the jury were in a glass tank where she couldn’t touch them. The fat one at the back is a crab.
Wake up, for God’s sake. Concentrate. This is what you came to work for. Do it now.
I can’t. I’m too tired.
You will.
Somehow, despite the turmoil in her tired mind, her voice continued without her. ‘It is no part of Mr Harker’s case to minimise the terrible suffering Sharon Gilbert has endured, or the harm done to her children. No decent man or woman could fail to sympathise with it.’
Not even me. As Emily’s mother I sympathise with it, too. Shut up.
‘What Mr Harker says is quite simple. It wasn’t me, he says. You’ve got the wrong man. These terrible things happened but I didn’t do them. That’s what Mr Harker says.’
Which is just what a child says when there’s milk spilt on the carpet, a voice nagged in her mind. I didn’t do it, the milk just jumped straight out of the cup. Come on, you can do better than that. Concentrate.
Several jurors were shuffling or fiddling with their hands. A young woman gazed up at the decorated roof. Come on. You’re losing them. Try harder.
‘Mr Lloyd-Davies says that the evidence proves Gary Harker’s guilt. But that’s not true, members of the jury, is it? The evidence in this case is really very thin indeed. The prosecution can’t even prove that Gary was in the house, never mind that he committed this horrible rape. He wasn’t there, members of the jury. It’s the prosecution’s job to prove he was there and they have totally failed to do so. Let’s take a closer look at the evidence.’
Mercifully, the words were trickling out, but they were not flowing. The glass screen between Sarah and the jury remained. But the logic of the case was clearly laid out in her notes. She consulted them desperately.
‘The only evidence that really counts is Sharon’s belief that she could identify Gary. Well, do you remember how many drinks Sharon had that night? She was drunk, members of the jury — hopelessly drunk and terrified. How could she possibly identify anyone in that state? Could you? A man wearing a hood, wielding a knife, who spoke two or three words at most before forcing you to do terrible acts? I doubt it. I doubt if anyone could think clearly in that situation.’
Better. The adrenalin was beginning to flow. If only that juror would stop playing with his watch. This is important, damn you!
‘Of course Ms Gilbert was angry and upset. Something terrible had happened to her and she wanted to blame someone for it. So she blamed the first man who came into her mind — the man she’d had an argument with that night. But she didn’t know it was him, she couldn’t possibly know. Nor could her little son. He was brave, wasn’t he? Heroically brave. But he was only a child, he believed what his mother told him.’
So what about the rest of the evidence, she asked. The prosecution claimed Gary had gone there to steal a watch — well, where was the watch then? Why wasn’t it in Gary’s house? Where was the hood? That wasn’t there either. There was no semen, no fingerprints, no forensic evidence to show he had ever been in Sharon’s house. True, he’d been seen in a street not far away, but he had an explanation for that. The police claimed his friend Sean didn’t exist — well, a witness had come to court who’d met him, after all. Gary’s alibi didn’t show him as a very pleasant character, but that wasn’t the point. They didn’t have to like him to believe him. And if they believed him, he was not guilty. Simple as that.
‘The prosecution have failed to prove their case beyond reasonable doubt, members of the jury. There are many doubts in this case, very reasonable doubts indeed. Their case is as full of holes as a colander. They can’t prove that Gary entered Ms Gilbert’s house; they have failed to prove that he raped her. And so the only verdict you can possibly reach, is not guilty.’
She sat down. It sounded lame to her, not the sharp, incisive performance she had planned. But she had done her job. It was as much — more — than a lying thug like Gary was entitled to. Now she could think of Emily.
The judge adjourned the court for lunch and Sarah immediately phoned home.
‘Hello?’ Bob’s voice sounded hopeful, desperate.
‘Bob? It’s me. Any news?’
‘No.’ The hope in his voice faded to a flat, bitter, resentment as he recognised hers. ‘Did you get your rapist off?’
‘Don’t know yet. Have the police been in touch?’
‘Yes. They’re all over the village, they’ve seen Simon, they’re trying to trace this phone call but it won’t be any good, how can it be? She’s just gone, Sarah — vanished!’
‘Have you been by the phone all morning?’
‘What the hell do you think I’ve been doing? You should be here, Sarah, so I could go out and look!’
‘As soon as we have a verdict I will be. But there’s not much we can do, Bob, is there? If she’s gone of her own accord she’ll come back when she wants to.’
‘And if she hasn’t gone of her own accord?’
‘Don’t say that, Bob, please. Of course she has.’
‘What’re all these policemen doing here then?’
‘Bob, don’t let’s quarrel, please. I’ll be home as soon as I can and you can page me any time if something happens. I’ll talk to her when she comes back. That’s when I can really help. When she’s actually there.’
‘And you’re actually here too. That’s the point, isn’t it?’
‘All right, yes, when we’re both there. And you. All three of us.’
‘Right,’ Bob said quietly. And put the phone down.
There was a bicycle in the hallway, and Terry caught his foot twice in the stair carpet. As he knocked he could hear the sound of the TV inside. No one answered. He knocked again, louder this time, and the door jerked suddenly open.
‘Not now, for Chrissake! It’s two thirty five!’
The door slammed shut and the volume of the TV inside reached a crescendo. An angry voice yelled something like ‘nitwit dettori.’ Then the door opened.
‘Well, what is it?’
‘Police.’ Terry showed his warrant card. ‘Can we come in?’
‘Christ, it never rains but it pours! I ain’t done nothing.’
‘We’re investigating a missing girl …’
Inside there was an armchair, and a bed with The Racing Post on it. The man, about forty, balding, in a shiny grey suit, glared at them defensively. Terry explained why he had come.
‘Yeah, all right, so I did phone from there yesterday morning. It don’t make me a child snatcher, does it?’
‘No sir, of course not, but we have to investigate, that’s all. Would you mind telling us who you were telephoning?’
‘Who I always phone, o’course.’ The man jerked his thumb at the TV. The sound was off but Terry could see a racehorse loping nonchalantly into the winner’s enclosure, surrounded by an ecstatic crowd of owners, trainer, jockey and stable lad, all delighted at their good luck.
‘Blasted 33-1 rag gets up to the favourite on the line. I had twenty quid on at 4–1. Sounds pathetic, don’t it, but that’s a big bet for me nowadays. Sodding Dettori got in front too soon!’
‘You were ringing your bookie, you mean?’
‘Got it in one, my son. I used to make money at it. And will again, I promise you. OK?’
A dejected Terry was already leaving when Harry Easby asked: ‘You didn’t happen to notice anyone in the phone box before you, did you, sir?’
The man frowned. ‘Dunno. Yeah, wait a mo, I think there was, matter of fact. Student, probably — lots of ‘em round here. Music on all bloody night, sometimes. Thump, thump, thump.’
‘You couldn’t describe him, could you?’
‘Long hair, pony tail, ring in one ear. I think I’ve seen him before, in that house over there.’ He pointed out of the window. ‘I could be wrong, though.’
Outside, Terry looked at the list from this morning’s search. The house the man had indicated contained eight bedsits. There had been no one at home in three of them that morning.
Sarah tried, but failed, to find anything unfair in the judge’s summing up. He gave reasonable weight to all aspects of the evidence, asking the jury to focus their minds particularly on the question of identification, and the impressions they had formed of the truthfulness of the two key witnesses, Sharon Gilbert and Gary Harker.
Which if they have any sense will send Gary down, Sarah thought.
He repeated that they should ignore anything they had read in the press, and disregard the remarks Sharon had made about Gary having attacked other women.
‘He is charged with one crime only before this court, and that is the only matter you are to consider, members of the jury. And in view of what Ms Gilbert alleged, I must emphasize that the defendant is charged with no other crimes against women at all, apart from this one. It is fair that you should know that.’
It is indeed, Sarah thought, surprised. He must be very confident of a conviction to say that. It probably dishes my chance of an appeal, too. My presentation must have been awful.
But she cared less than she once had. As soon as the jury were out she phoned home again.
‘Bob? Any news?’
‘They rang to ask if she knows any students living off Blossom Street. Does she?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘That’s what I said too. Where would she meet students? She’s only a kid.’
‘Clubs. Parties. She’s been to a few, you know.’
‘She’s not old enough, Sarah!’
‘She’s fifteen. I was her age when I met Kevin.’
‘Christ! Don’t remind me!’
But you weren’t there, Bob, Sarah thought. You don’t know what it was like. When I first met Kevin it was magic, for a while. As though the world had been black and white and then someone switched the colour on. Maybe it’s like that for Emily now.
‘When are you coming home?’ Bob asked.
‘After the verdict. I’ve got to stay for that.’
‘Oh yes, of course. Mustn’t let your rapist down, must you?’
I don’t think I’ve ever really hated Bob before now, Sarah thought as she put the phone down. Why does he keep slipping this needle under my nails? To make me feel guilty for going to work? Or because he knows there’s a part of me that doesn’t think Emily’s in danger at all, but is having the time of her life with some boy just as I did with Kevin? And he can’t stand that because he’s not half the lover Kevin was. Never could be.
Even though Kev was a brutal selfish arrogant cocky little git, and not intelligent or hardworking or sensitive as we always wanted our daughter to be. Of course Bob’s right this is a disaster but … oh Emily, what sort of a man have you chosen to run away with?
If you had any choice at all.
It was always a tense moment, but today, for once in her career, Sarah couldn’t feel it. She walked into court isolated, anaesthetized inside her own bubble of indifference.
‘Members of the jury, have you chosen a foreman to speak for you?’
‘We have, yes.’ A young man, in a smart suit and tie, stood up.
‘Mr Foreman, answer these questions yes or no. On count one of the indictment, the unlawful rape of Sharon Gilbert, have you reached a verdict on which you are all agreed?’
‘We have, yes.’
‘And on that charge, do you find the defendant Gary Harker guilty or not guilty?’
‘Not guilty.’
‘Yeessss!’ The shout came from behind her. Sarah turned, as everyone did, to see Gary standing in the dock, a triumphant grin on his face. The judge contemplated him coldly.
‘In that case, Mr Harker, you are free to go.’
As Gary left the dock, Sarah rose to her feet to demand costs from public funds. Then she gathered up her papers as the judge turned to thank the jury.
‘Congratulations. A feather in your cap, no doubt.’ With stiff politeness, Julian Lloyd-Davies essayed the smile of the gallant loser.
‘Thanks.’ Sarah thought how in other circumstances she would have been proud — cock-a-hoop with bubbling delight at having achieved such a triumph in the teeth of fierce pre-trial publicity, a prosecution headed by a QC, and firm control of the trial itself by a judge who clearly believed in Gary’s guilt. But with Emily missing, it was ashes in her mouth.
In the foyer, she saw Sharon Gilbert sobbing, supported by her friend. Gary saw Sharon too. He laughed, and jerked his forearm upwards in the traditional footballer’s gesture of triumph — shafted!