Lucy had warned Sarah about the Press, but the message had not really sunk in. She had been too busy preparing her case. It was not until she left her chambers, and walked the short distance across Castle Street to the court, that she saw what Lucy had meant.
Outside the Crown Court was a wide circle of grass, the Eye of York, with a circular road running round it. The eighteenth century court building, with its stone pillars and the blind statue of justice with her spear and scales, faced in towards this grassy circle. On two mores sides was the old prison, now the Castle Museum. On the northern side, on a high mound, was the keep of the Norman castle, Clifford’s Tower.
On a normal morning this area was largely empty. Schoolchildren might queue for the museum; the black windowed prison bus would park outside the court; the judges’ limousine would pull up smoothly at the court steps. Witnesses and jurors would mill uncertainly in the entrance. And that was all.
But today, Sarah saw in horror, the Eye of York was packed. There were four TV vans, each with camera crew, news reporters and fluffy microphones on sticks. The court steps and terrace swarmed with reporters, with microphone or cameras in their hands. Cars were parked indiscriminately all around the grass; the outnumbered security men had retreated, trying only to control entrance to the court itself. Sarah paused, stunned at the sight.
‘Mother of God, Luce, why didn’t you warn me about this?’
‘I did, lovey, I did,’ Lucy muttered, awestruck. ‘But I never thought it would be this bad. Come on, heads down, let’s get through it quick.’
‘But why are they here?’
Sarah found out soon enough. They were twenty yards from the entrance when the first reporters rushed towards them. Cameras flashed and questions battered their ears.
‘Mrs Newby, what’s it like to defend your son?’
‘How do you feel about this murder? Did you know the victim?’
‘Had she ever visited your house?’
‘Do you feel guilty, Mrs Newby? Isn’t it a bit like defending yourself?’
Lucy gripped her friend’s arm firmly, dragging her forwards through the scrum.
‘Don’t say a word, just keep walking. Come on, we’re nearly there.’
As they reached the foot of the steps two security men reached them, elbowing media people out of the way. But to Sarah it seemed an age before the assault from cameras and questions ceased, and they were safe inside.
‘My God! I never expected that. Those questions were so personal.’
‘Yes, they were, weren’t they?’ Lucy looked at her anxiously. ‘But it doesn’t matter, Sarah, you don’t have to answer them.’
‘No.’ Sarah breathed deeply, then smiled. A shaky, nervous smile, but a smile for all that. ‘Anyway, this trial isn’t about me, it’s about Simon. Come on, we’ve got work to do.’
Simon was in a cell below the court, dressed in the ironed shirt, suit and tie that Sarah had bought for him. The sleeves were tight over his biceps, and a little too short. Sarah tried to tug them down, but he drew back irritably.
‘Mum, I’m fine. It’s OK.’
‘Yes. You look great, Simon. Anyway, all you’ve got to do is say you’re not guilty, and then sit there, looking sensible.’
‘Yeah, okay, I’ll try. But it’s shit scarey, Mum. What if the jury’s crap?’
‘This isn’t America, I can’t choose the jurors for you. But don’t worry.’ She looked at him firmly. ‘You’re not guilty and that’s it. Say it loud and clear and look the judge straight in the eye. We’re going to win, Simon.’
‘Yeah. I bloody well hope we are, anyhow.’
‘We are. But don’t swear — not if the jury can hear you. These things matter now, Simon.’
‘Yeah, okay. I’m sorry.’
‘I’m going upstairs to put on my battle gear now. Lucy will stay with you. See you in court.’ She smiled, and banged for the guard to open the door. Lucy was patting a spot under Simon’s chin where he’d cut himself shaving. Oh no, not blood on his throat, please, Sarah thought. Then the door opened and she walked briskly upstairs to the robing room.
Where her opponent, the bluff, charming Phil Turner, was waiting for her.
The court was, as she had always known, a theatre. Usually, however, they played to a few relatives, idlers, and an aged court reporter sleeping off his liquid lunch. Today the public gallery was packed. Not a single seat was left free. A buzz of conversation echoed from the stucco pillars and the decorated ceiling of the dome. Sarah had to bend her head to catch what Lucy was saying.
‘ … like a football match …’
‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘Why are they here?’
Lucy jerked her thumb towards the crowded Press bench. ‘Because of them. And you. A dreadful murder, a mother defending her son …’
Sarah shuddered, then stiffened herself instantly. It was not the eyes of the press and public that mattered, but those of the prospective jurors, seated immediately behind the dock. She must try to look confident for them.
And for Simon.
There was a hush, then a further swell in conversation as Simon entered the dock, with two security men beside him. He looked around, amazed, and everywhere conversations died, then rose again as his look passed on. Sarah walked back, stood on a bench and leaned in over the side of the dock.
‘You never said it would be like this, mum.’ His face, already pale from months on remand, had gone, if anything, even whiter.
‘It isn’t, usually. Probably they’ll lose interest after an hour or two. Court proceedings are very slow, you know, and often boring. Just try to look calm and serious. And remember, the jury are the important people. If they like you, that’s half our case won.’
As she regained her seat the clerk called out, in her loudest voice: ‘All stand!’ Judge Mookerjee entered from the door beneath the royal coat of arms, bowed to Sarah and Phil Turner, and sat down. The audience did the same.
‘Her Majesty’s Court of York is now in Session, his lordship P. J. Mookerjee presiding. All those who have business with this court are hereby required to draw nigh and give attendance!’ the clerk proclaimed. ‘Is Simon Newby in court?’
Sarah rose to her feet. ‘He is, my lord.’
The clerk directed her gaze to the dock, behind Sarah. ‘Stand up, please.’
Simon stood, nervously clasping his hands.
‘Are you Simon Newby, of 23 Bramham Street, York?’
‘Er, yeah.’
Sarah groaned. Make a better effort than that, Simon, please.
‘Simon Newby, you are hereby indicted before this court on one count, namely: on count 1, on the night of 13/14th May this year, you did murder Jasmine Antonia Hurst, of 8a Stillingfleet Road, York, contrary to Section 1 of the Homicide Act 1957. How do you plead? Guilty, or not guilty?’
There was a pause. Not a long pause, perhaps, but to Sarah it seemed to last for ever. Oh my God, Simon, come on, you can understand plain English, can’t you? Lucy was supposed to have coached him in this but probably like many first-time defendants he was overwhelmed by the high-flown language, the sheer terror of a public trial for murder.
‘Not guilty.’ There was a sigh from the public gallery, who had collectively been holding their breath. Sarah turned round to smile encouragement.
‘Very well,’ said the clerk smoothly. ‘Sit down, Simon. We will move to empanel a jury.’
Seven men were chosen as jurors, and five women. A minuscule advantage to Simon, Sarah thought speculatively, watching them take the oath. Two were young men with short hair like her son. One wore an earring. But three others wore suits and ties, an unusual proportion nowadays. The women, she noticed — two over thirty, three under — all studied Simon intently. None of the looks were friendly.
In America, she thought, Lucy and I would have spent hours interviewing these people to ascertain their views and suitability to serve. As it is I have to take pot luck. I can object to no one without cause, and since I know nothing about any of them the only possible cause is if one of them can’t read the oath or admits to being Jasmine’s best friend.
Oh well, justice is blind, like the statue outside.
Phil Turner rose to his feet. In his old wig and gown, he looked just as Sarah had feared. The ancient wig was shoved back a little and to the side, like the flat cap of a farmer. His gown and suit were comfortable rather than smooth or ostentatious. He turned his rugged, dependable face towards the jury, and began.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the case you are to try is a murder. All murders are serious, but this was a particularly horrible and brutal one, and it will be my duty to present you with some very unpleasant and upsetting evidence. I am sorry for that, but it cannot be helped. It is my duty to prove that the man who committed this awful crime, the murderer, is the young man whom you see sitting in the dock — Simon Newby. It is the job of my learned colleague Mrs Newby here — who, most unusually, you may think, happens to be Simon’s mother — to defend him against this charge.’
He paused, while the jury examined Sarah with interest. A hushed murmur came from the public gallery.
‘And it is your job — the most important job of all — to listen carefully to all the evidence put before you, and then to decide on one simple question: does this evidence prove, beyond all reasonable doubt, that Simon Newby committed this murder, or not?’
Wonderful, Sarah thought, as several jurors nodded solemnly. They’re eating out of his hand already. The moment that man opened his mouth they had him placed; as a decent, dependable Yorkshireman, one of their own. And he’s telling them my son’s a murderer.
‘It’s as simple as that,’ Phil Turner continued calmly. ‘And my answer is equally simple: does the evidence prove that Simon Newby is guilty? Yes, it does.’
He lifted one foot comfortably onto the bench beside him, like a countryman leaning on a fence, telling a story to a group of friends.
‘Let me outline it for you. Firstly, the murder itself. You will hear police officers and forensic scientists describe it all in great detail. But the basics are these. Early on the morning of Friday 14th May a man was walking his dog on a footpath near the river Ouse south of York, when the dog found something in the bushes. When the man looked he saw the body of a young woman. He called the police and later that day they identified the body as that of Jasmine Hurst, a young woman of 23 who lived with her current boyfriend David Brodie about half a mile from where her body was found.
‘The forensic scientists will tell you, members of the jury, exactly how poor Jasmine was killed. But in simple layman’s terms, she died because her throat was cut. Her throat was cut with a large, serrated knife by someone who was standing behind her, probably pulling her head back by her hair to expose her neck. Naturally, once her throat was cut, she died very swiftly.
‘But her ordeal was not swift, ladies and gentlemen. The cuts on her arms, the bruising to her face and genital area show that before she was killed she was beaten and raped. This young woman suffered a prolonged, brutal attack in which her death was only the final stage.’
The jury watched him, riveted. He looked at each of them briefly, then resumed his story.
‘So, how do we know who did it? Well, firstly, there were a number of footprints near the body. Footprints, in particular, of a man’s training shoe, size 9. You will know that all training shoes have different patterns on the sole, and you will hear that there are forensic experts who make a study of these. You will hear, too, that in Simon Newby’s house the police found a pair of training shoes whose size and make exactly matched these footprints by the body. And you will hear that one of those training shoes, the shoes found in Simon Newby’s house, was stained with the blood of Jasmine Hurst.
‘Secondly, you will hear evidence that Jasmine Hurst was raped, and that semen was found in her vagina. You will hear forensic evidence that the DNA in that semen matches exactly the DNA found in a sample taken from the accused, Simon Newby. Proof conclusive, you may think. Her blood on his training shoe, his semen in her body. That is what the prosecution believe.’
He paused, and looked down thoughtfully at Sarah. Long enough for the jury to examine her too. Sarah willed her face to show no emotion whatsoever.
‘But Mr Newby pleads not guilty, as is his legal right, and so it is my duty to call all this detailed evidence before you so that his defence can question it.’
Which makes it my fault, Sarah thought. Well done, Phil. None of us would have to go through any of this excruciating torture if only I’d told my son to own up and plead guilty. That’s what he wants them to think. That’s what they are thinking, now.
Phil Turner’s calm, reassuring voice continued, inviting the jury to trust him to lead them through this maze of guilt and evil.
‘But why, you may ask, would anyone do such a dreadful thing? Was this a random attack or was there a motive? This is something the police always ask. Well, yes, there certainly was a motive — a very basic motive, jealousy. It’s a simple, age old story. You will hear that Simon Newby was a former boyfriend of Jasmine Hurst. They had lived together for several months. Then Jasmine met another young man, David Brodie, and went to live with him. No crime in that; it happens all the time. But it made young Simon jealous. A quite natural, understandable emotion. Except that, unfortunately, his jealousy got out of hand. He couldn’t take no for an answer. You will hear evidence that he followed Jasmine around, pestering her to come back to him; and that he threatened her new boyfriend with violence.
‘Then, the very day before she died, Simon met her again, and persuaded her to come to his home. But they didn’t make up, as he probably hoped: they quarreled, violently. You will hear a witness who saw them arguing bitterly in the street outside his home; a quarrel in which Simon punched his former girlfriend in the face.
‘And finally you will hear what Simon did the day after this quarrel, after he had punched her in the face. Was he at home when the police came to question him about the body they had found? No, members of the jury, he wasn’t. He had run away in the middle of the night — the same night that Jasmine was killed. No one knew where he’d had gone or if he ever intended to come back. It was only by good detective work that the police found him, a fortnight later, in Scarborough. And you will hear that when he was arrested and interviewed about Jasmine’s death, the first thing he told the police was that he hadn’t seen Jasmine for weeks. When in fact, a witness saw him hit her on the day of her death.
‘So that, in brief, is the evidence I shall lay before you, members of the jury. Evidence of a terrible crime motivated by sexual jealousy. Evidence that Simon Newby was the last person known to see Jasmine Hurst alive, and that he was using violence towards her then. Evidence that he disappeared on the night she was murdered, and lied when the police interviewed him about her death. And most conclusive of all, forensic evidence that his training shoe, with her blood on it, matched the footprints found at the scene of the crime; and his semen was found in her bruised vagina.
‘It’s a terrible, damning story. However, you must not simply take my word for it. It’s my task to prove that all this is true, and it is for you to judge, after listening to all the evidence, if I have succeeded. If I have not — if there is still any doubt in your minds about Simon Newby’s guilt — then he gets the benefit of that doubt. Simon Newby does not have to prove anything. He says he is not guilty and that is all he is required to say. It is for me, representing the prosecution, to prove to you that he is.’
He paused, surveying each of the jurors in turn, drawing them into his confidence.
‘And so now I would like to call my first witness.’
Why bother? Sarah thought gloomily, watching the jury. As far as they’re concerned you could take him out and hang him now. You may say he’s innocent until proven guilty but none of them listened to that. It’s all over in the first half hour. The rest is just going to be a charade.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Terry took the photofits of the Irishman, Sean, to Helen Steersby. To his delight, the girl said, yes, her attacker had looked something like that. Then he played her a set of tapes of men all speaking in different accents. She picked one from southern Ireland as nearest to the voice of her attacker. Hardly a positive identification, but a satisfying morning’s work nonetheless.
If Sean had been in York during Gary’s trial, then he was a suspect for all three remaining assaults on women — Clayton, Whitaker, and Steersby. And, intriguingly, when his mate Gary had raped Sharon Gilbert, he’d claimed he’d spent the evening with Sean. What was all that about, Terry wondered. A competition to see which of them could treat women worst?
On his way to lunch, he heard a commotion around the custody sergeant’s desk..
‘He fucking raped me, he did! You all know that but you don’t do nowt, do yer?’
‘Ah, shut your trap, you daft cow! I want her prosecuted, I do, for assault.’
‘All right, stow it, the pair of you. You’ll get your turn …’
‘Him bloody sue me? Come over here, shitface, I’ll rip your fucking eyes out!’
It was not the beauty of the language that attracted his attention, but the voices. He recognized them both. Turning swiftly along the corridor, he saw two uniformed constables struggling to hold Gary Harker, while a WPC kept a firm grip on Sharon Gilbert. Sergeant Chisholm was booking her in.
‘What’s up, Nick?’ he asked a constable holding Gary.
‘Brawl in a pub, sir. She claims he hit her …’
‘Oh yeah, right,’ said Gary belligerently. ‘And I did this to myself too, did I?’
Terry noted several trails of blood below Gary’s left eye. The sight filled him with sadistic glee. ‘Cut yourself shaving, Gary, did you?’ he enquired.
The question enraged Gary, who elbowed one constable in the face, broke loose from the other, and was halfway to Terry before the two constables tripped him, smashed him face down on the floor and cuffed his hands behind his back.
‘See what he’s like?’ Sharon screamed. ‘You know what he did, Mr Bateson, don’t you?’
‘I know, Sharon, yes.’ He turned to the constables. ‘Book him for assault while resisting arrest. Then fill me in on this case, OK? In my office upstairs.’
An hour later he interviewed Gary with Nick Burrows, one of the arresting constables, while Harry Easby interviewed Sharon with the other.
‘So how did this happen, Gary?’
‘She just sunk her nails in, didn’t she? Bitch!’
‘And you were doing nothing to her, of course?’
‘Have you seen them nails? You ought to do her for wearing offensive weapons.’
‘Let’s just take it from the beginning, Gary, shall we? Where did this argument start?’
The story in itself was simple. Gary claimed to have been in the Lighthorseman when Sharon came in with a girlfriend. Dressed, as Gary put it, ‘for a day’s work on her back.’ He had approached her, he said, in a friendly spirit to buy her a drink and make up for the past, whereupon she had tried to tear his eyes out with her dagger-like nails.
‘No excuse, she just went for me. I bet a dozen witnesses saw it. So do your job, Mr Bateson. I want that bitch charged with assault.’
Reluctantly, Terry ordered the constables to get witness statements. When they returned, Terry contemplated them gloomily. Two witnesses had seen Sharon scratch Gary’s face. Neither had seen him hit her.
‘It’s quite monstrous, sir, I agree,’ Nick Burrows said. ‘But if he persists with this complaint we’ll have to charge her with assault, won’t we? We’ve no choice.’
‘He assaulted you too, constable. I saw it. We all did.’
‘Yes, but in a police station, sir. The lawyers will say we provoked him.’
Harry Easby had interviewed Sharon. He looked shattered by the whole experience; why, Terry could not at first understand.
‘She says he was making offensive remarks and tried to put his hand up her skirt,’ Harry said. ‘That’s as far as the physical stuff goes. She claims her girlfriend Cheryl will support her so I’ve sent a car to fetch her in now. But the real problem isn’t that, boss.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘She’s gone hysterical, she really has. What turned him up so much, was that she’s getting a reporter from some TV program — Rough Justice, I think — to interview her about her case. Apparently this reporter’s up here to cover the Newby trial and Sharon went to meet her in that pub for lunch. She claims because you’ve got new evidence the CPS ought to go for a second trial. You know there’s been talk about that in the papers recently — saying the prosecution ought to have a second go after an acquittal in serious cases where major evidence comes to light …’
‘We should be so lucky.’ Terry laughed bitterly. ‘Hot air. It’ll never happen.’
‘Well, maybe not, but that’s what journalists love, talk, isn’t it? Anyway Sharon thinks hers could be a sort of test case on TV. You know — ‘ the law needs changing to prevent injustice’ — that kind of thing. Bad publicity for us.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Terry gloomily. ‘And guess who’s in the firing line. Did she scratch him on purpose, then, as a publicity stunt?’
‘Could be,’ Harry shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’
Terry could see the embarrassment, the hours of paperwork and media interviews, stretching ahead of him. If the case ever did appear on TV he’d be the joke of the nation.
An awful thought struck him.
‘This reporter wasn’t there in the pub? Filming the fight while Sharon set it up?’
‘No, thank God. But she turned up soon after. She’s got the story by now, for sure. The whole pub was buzzing with it.’
‘Bloody hell fire.’ Terry gazed at Harry in despair. ‘And Harker wants us to charge her with assault, which makes me look dafter than ever. I’ll be on telly as the dumbo detective who not only failed to get a rape conviction, but prosecuted the victim for assault. Brilliant. Your caring sharing police force.’
‘And if you don’t, Harker puts in a complaint.’
‘Exactly. Well, let him. He assaulted you too, didn’t he? Keep him in overnight.’
‘And what about her, sir? She’s, er, got kids you know.’
‘Yes.’ Terry contemplated Harry curiously. It was unlike him to be so concerned. ‘Well, I can look stupid doing the right thing, at least. Get a statement from this Cheryl and send Sharon home. Will that persuade her to give up her chance of becoming a media superstar, Harry?’
‘Not likely, sir.’
Terry sighed. ‘Oh well. It was a good life while it lasted.’
Phil Turner began with the undisputed statement of the man who had found Jasmine’s body. The grim facts, read out in Turner’s calm, dependable voice, held the jury’s attention.
‘I was taking my dog for a walk at seven in the morning … the dog started barking in the bushes … a few yards off the track I saw the body of a young woman, the throat all covered with blood, and my dog barking hysterically at it …’
Sarah saw a middle-aged juror fumble for a tissue in her handbag, and a younger man dart nervous, vengeful looks at Simon in the dock.
PC Wilson, who had responded to the 999 call, had felt for pulse and breathing but found none. In his opinion the young woman had been dead for some time. Nothing that PC Wilson said was controversial and Sarah had no questions.
Dr Jones, the forensic pathologist, was a different matter. Sarah shivered as he took the Bible in his right hand. She vividly recalled the last time she had seen that smooth, sharp face. The memory became worse as the usher distributed a book of photos of Jasmine’s injuries. Several jurors turned pale as they looked at them.
Sarah had seen these photos before but they still upset her. She remembered how she had been called to identify this very body — Emily’s body, as she had expected. The smell of formaldehyde came back to her, and that cold, clinical room. This pathologist had been watching her, waiting until she could screw her courage that last turn higher and say yes, I’m ready now, let me look. And see that it wasn’t Emily after all.
A hand touched her shoulder. Sarah turned to see Lucy watching her anxiously.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes … yes, sure.’
‘Only you seemed upset.’
‘I’m fine. It’s OK. Thanks.’
The judge had noticed her distress too. God, how long did I lose it? A few seconds, a minute perhaps? To her relief she realised that Phil Turner was proceeding normally; her lapse had not upset him, at least. She sat up straight and focussed her mind on the matter in hand.
‘Dr Jones,’ Turner was saying. ‘What was the cause of Miss Hurst’s death?’
‘She died from a severe arterial haemorrhage caused when the carotid artery was severed by a sharp instrument. Death in such instances is fairly swift and always irreversible.’
‘And what can you tell us about how this fatal wound was inflicted?’
‘Well, I’m afraid the victim’s throat had suffered some subsequent damage — after death — due to possible gnawing by a fox or a dog …’
Sweet Jesus, Sarah thought, I hope someone warned Jasmine’s mother to avoid this.
‘ … but there was enough of the original wound remaining to indicate that it was inflicted by a sharp instrument such as a knife, entering the throat just below the left ear and travelling across to the right, severing the artery and windpipe on the way. It’s the sort of wound that could easily be inflicted by a right-handed assailant standing behind the victim, holding her head back by her hair to expose her neck, while he cut her throat with the knife.’
‘I see.’ Phil Turner paused thoughtfully. ‘And from your examination of the wound, were you able to tell anything about the nature of this sharp instrument?’
‘Certainly.’ This pathologist was a supremely confident young man, Sarah thought; not the sort who would react kindly to any questioning of his conclusions. ‘It was a single cut, severing nearly half of the neck in one go. So it would have to be a relatively large and sharp instrument to do that. With a serrated edge.’
‘How can you tell that? About the serrated edge?’
‘Well, because of the marks made on her vertebrae. You can see that in photograph 15.’
Sarah studied the photograph carefully. It showed a number of small irregular marks which the pathologist identified as typical of a serrated blade.
‘Dr Jones, did you find any other knife wounds on Miss Hurst’s body?’
‘Yes. Four cuts on the inside of her left forearm. You’ll see them in photograph 17.’
‘And how, in your opinion, were those cuts inflicted?’
‘They are the typical wound that we see in a person trying to defend themselves from a knife attack. You naturally raise your arms up like this …’ Dr Jones went into a defensive crouch in the witness stand. ‘ … and as you see, the inside of your forearm is exposed. If the victim was attacked from behind, the cuts would go across the arm and slightly upwards, as these do.’
‘And were these cuts also inflicted by a weapon with a serrated edge?’
‘One appears to be. The knife marked the ulna — the smaller bone in the forearm. You can see that in photograph 18.’
Phil Turner picked up a knife in a plastic bag. ‘My Lord, could I ask the witness to examine this breadknife. Exhibit One for the prosecution.’ The usher passed it forward. ‘Do you recognize this knife, Dr Jones?’
‘Yes. It’s a breadknife given to me by the police to examine in connection with the wounds inflicted on the deceased.’
‘And what was the result of your examination?’
‘I tried to establish whether or not this knife could have caused these wounds. I did that in two ways. Firstly, I made quite careful measurements of the blade and serrations, and compared these measurements to the marks on the victim’s vertebrae and ulna.’
‘And what was the result of that experiment?’
‘The distances were compatible, to within a quarter of a millimetre or less.’
‘So according to those measurements, it was quite possible that this knife could have caused these wounds?’
‘Yes.’
‘And for your second experiment?’
‘I used the knife on the bones of a pig. A dead pig, of course.’
‘And what results did that show?’
‘You can see it in photographs 26 and 27, I believe. The marks are almost identical to those on the dead girl.’
The jury, Sarah noticed, were fascinated, examining the photographs and Dr Jones intently, with expressions which varied from open revulsion to excitement and even awe. Certainly he had captured their interest; perhaps if he allowed his scientific enthusiasm to go too far he might also repulse them, which would be a small advantage. But more likely, that repulsion would fall upon Simon.
And the gruesome, intimate details were far from over.
‘Now, Dr Jones, let me take you to another subject. In your report, you claim that the victim was raped …’
‘So we’re not preferring charges, Sharon,’ said Terry, as emolliently as he could.
‘I should bloody well think not. It’s him should be locked up, not me.’
‘I know,’ Terry sighed. ‘But the law …’
‘You can stick the bloody law up your backside. What good’s it done me, eh? Sod all. But for brutes like him it’s different. Not enough evidence to convict, my arse! Can I go?’
‘Yes. Just try to stay out of trouble, if you can.’
‘Me? Oh thanks very much. You’ve not heard the last of this, Mr smarmy Bateson. There’s telly as well as courts, you know.’ She fished a cigarette out of her bag and lit up, trying to recover her dignity. ‘I don’t know how you lads can face yourselves in the morning, doing a shit job like yours. No one’s so much as mentioned my kids, the whole time I’ve been in here.’
‘How are they, Sharon?’ Terry ventured feebly, remembering the brave little boy who had given evidence in court. A fine story for the cameras, that would be.
‘With Mary, I sincerely hope. I should’ve fetched them hours ago. Don’t I even get a lift home? Me a single mum, and a rape victim!’
‘I’m going that way, sir,’ Harry broke in. ‘I’ll see you find your kids all right.’
She took a long drag on her cigarette, and blew the smoke out, straight at him. ‘Yeah, and that’s all you’re going to see, too, sunshine. All right, then. See you on telly, Inspector. They’ll grind you into sewage, they will. You and Gary both.’
Terry accompanied her and Harry to the front door. It was nearly four o’clock, the end of his shift. He wondered what his children would be up to, and how the first day of Simon’s trial had gone. There’d be reporters and TV journalists there too. But Churchill wouldn’t mess his case up — he had too much luck. Unlike Terry. Or was he simply a better detective?
Terry watched Harry cross the car park with Sharon, and blinked. Had Harry squeezed her buttock as he opened the passenger door? Surely he must have imagined it. The mood she was in she would have raked his face with her nails and run screaming back for a complaint form. Anyway the lad would never be so daft. My eyes are playing me tricks.
The evidence which Dr Jones presented to prove that Jasmine had been raped seemed as clear and convincing as his evidence about the way she had died. He had found bruising to the walls of her vagina, and traces of semen within it. There were cuts and scratches on the backs and sides of her legs which were also consistent with a violent sexual attack.
As Sarah rose to cross-examine, she noted looks of pity and irritation from the jury. We’ve made up our minds already, the expressions said; Dr Jones has told us the truth. Going through it all again will be a pointless waste of everyone’s time.
A few looked less hostile, though. She focused her hopes on a man at the back, and began.
‘Dr Jones, I’d like to return to these cuts on Miss Hurst’s arms. They were quite severe, noticeable cuts, I think you said?’
‘It would have been very hard to miss them,’ Dr Jones agreed smoothly. Sarah noticed once again how unusually well dressed he was, in an expensive charcoal suit, pale lemon shirt, light blue tie — quite a fop, really; proud of himself. Maybe she could provoke him into showing off, and lose some of the jury’s sympathy that way.
‘Yes. Just so that we’re clear about these cuts, Dr Jones, how big were they? How deep and wide, and so on?’
‘They varied. The shortest was about an inch, the longest about three inches long, on the inside of her left arm. As for depth, one went in to the bone.’
‘And from these marks on the victim’s bones, you deduce that all the cuts were inflicted by a weapon with a serrated edge, like the breadknife Mr Turner showed you?’
‘Exactly, yes.’
‘Yes. But that doesn’t prove that these wounds were inflicted by that particular breadknife, does it? I mean, there must be hundreds, probably thousands, of breadknives of the same model manufactured by the same company as the knife Mr Turner showed you, and every one of those knives could have inflicted exactly the same injuries, couldn’t it?’
‘Obviously.’ Dr Jones shrugged. ‘But none of those other knives were found in the defendant’s home, were they?’
‘Weren’t they?’ Sarah stared at him witheringly. ‘You visited my son’s home then, did you, Dr Jones?’
Dr Jones blushed, seeing his mistake at once. ‘No, no, of course not. I was simply given the knife by the police. I have no first hand knowledge of where it was found.’
‘Exactly. So let’s stick to what you do know, shall we? I’d like to draw your attention to another cut on the body. Would you tell the jury what you can see in photograph 36, please?’
‘It’s a photograph of the victim’s left hand.’
‘And is there a cut on that hand?’
‘Yes, there is. A very small cut on the thumb.’
‘Did you examine that cut?’
‘I … examined it briefly, yes.’
‘Only briefly, you say. Why was that?’
‘It seemed a very minor wound in the overall context of her injuries. It certainly didn’t contribute to her death.’
‘Quite so. But your job is to examine all injuries to the victim’s body, isn’t it? However minor. Could you tell the court, please, did this cut exhibit similar characteristics to the other cuts we’ve been discussing? In terms of depth, age and so on?’
‘I’m not sure. May I consult my notes? … I’m afraid I couldn’t be certain about that. I’ve simply noted it here as a minor cut to the left thumb.’
‘Was it healed?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘This minor cut on the thumb. Had the blood in it clotted and begun to knit together? In the natural way that cuts heal?’
‘I, er …’ Dr Jones looked carefully at his notes. ‘I’m unable to say. As I say it was a very minor injury.’
And you didn’t examine it, Sarah thought with vindictive glee. Got you, you smug bastard!
‘Do you notice a black mark around the cut? Signs of a sticking plaster that’s fallen off?’
He frowned, and looked closer. ‘It might be that, yes.’
‘So it is possible, then, that unlike all the other wounds on the body, this cut had begun to heal? In other words, that this cut had been inflicted some hours, even days, beforehand?’
Dr Jones shrugged, as though the matter was unimportant, a trifle. ‘It’s possible, yes.’
The shrug irritated Sarah. She had offered him a way out and he had spurned it. Her concluding question, spoken with perfect politeness, crackled with concealed contempt.
‘So there’s nothing in your notes, or your thorough, detailed and professional examination of the body, to exclude that possibility?’
‘No.’ Dr Jones glared back at her coldly. But he’d got the point, Sarah thought. So had the judge. It wasn’t a minor detail that he had missed. Nothing ever was, in a murder case.
It was after four o’clock. Sarah was not tired, but she sensed the jury’s attention flagging.
‘My lord, I have quite a number of further questions for this witness, but time is getting on, so might this be a convenient point to pause?’
The judge agreed instantly. ‘Very well, Mrs Newby. Until ten tomorrow morning, then.’
The clerk called ‘all stand!’ The judge got to his feet, bowed, and left the court. A buzz of conversation broke out. Sarah rushed back to the dock, where a security guard was handcuffing himself to her son’s wrist. ‘All right, Simon? That’s it for today.’
‘Yeah. Back to my cell, then?’
‘I’m afraid so. But so far, so good.’
‘You think so? Really?’ The anguish in his eyes burned into her own. Whatever she said now would stay with him through the night.
‘Yes, really. Nothing went wrong today. We gave as good as we got. And I’ve plenty more questions for that pathologist tomorrow.’
‘You’ve got to do this, Mum. You’ve got to get me out of there, you really have.’
‘I know. And if I possibly can, I will.’ Tiptoe on a bench, she reached into the dock and grasped his left hand, the one that was free. ‘Have a good meal and a sleep, and don’t worry. You’ve got me and Lucy to do that for you.’
And we will, she thought, as she watched him led away. Late, late into the night.
Harry swung the car out into the Fulford Road. Beside him, Sharon was examining her face in the courtesy mirror.
‘So where’d you get this idea of the reporter, anyway?’ he asked irritably.
‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’
‘Well I’m trying to find out. That’s why I’m asking.’
‘And I’m not telling.’ She sucked in her cheeks, brushed back an eyelash, and flashed him an impudent smile. ‘That OK with you? We all have our little secrets, after all.’
Harry drove silently, controlling his temper. He had thought he was set up nicely with this woman. He kept the social services and vice squad off her back, while she gave him free, regular sex and occasional nuggets of useful information. So far these had led to two arrests — of a minor drug dealer and a burglar posing as a window cleaner. It was exactly the way an informant should operate, in his opinion. But it all depended on his remaining in control, while she gave information to him, and no one else. Certainly not to national TV.
‘What exactly do you think you’ll achieve?’ he asked after a while. ‘However much publicity you get there can’t be a second trial, you know. The law forbids it.’
‘Then they should change the sodding law, shouldn’t they? Like it said in the paper.’
‘Not soon enough for you, Sharon. That’ll take years — if it ever happens.’
‘That’s what you think. I got my sources.’
He drove on, thinking hard. Harry wasn’t overly concerned about anyone apart from himself, but he could see that if this scheme of Sharon’s caused trouble for the police, then it wasn’t just Terry Bateson who was likely to be involved. Whatever scandal she managed to stir up, the camera’s unblinking eye might focus on him. How would that help his future career? The idea made him squirm.
‘Look, Sharon, you’re making a mistake. I mean, guys like this reporter, they’re not interested in you for yourself. He’ll just exploit you for what he can get …’
She laughed. ‘Tell me about it, lover boy. Anyhow, it’s not a guy, it’s a woman.’
‘This woman then. She’ll come up from London, milk your story for what she can get, splash it all over the papers, and leave. You’ll be a star for a day and then left on your own. It won’t change a thing.’
‘It will for me. I want everyone to know the truth.’
‘About what? How Gary raped you? That’s been in the papers already, only the jury didn’t believe you. How will this be different?’
‘Because it won’t be just about Gary. It’ll be about you lot too, and how you screwed it up. You don’t like that, do you? Well you can stick it up your arse for all I care. That’s what I want and that’s what I’m doing.’
She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another, closing the lighter with a snap.
‘And what about Gary? What if he comes looking for you again?’
‘Then I’ll scratch his other cheek, the bastard!’ She took a deep drag on her cigarette, then turned her head and deliberately blew smoke all over his face. ‘Why didn’t you charge him this time, eh? I told you, he stuck his hand up my skirt.’
‘That’s not what the other witnesses said. There were two of them.’
‘And you listened to them, of course, like you always do. Not to me. Well, I’ll find someone who will listen. Drop me here, will you.’
Harry pulled the car to the kerb, and watched her go into the house where she had left her kids. He knew she didn’t like him much, but he didn’t care. To an extent it only added to the excitement, the sense of being able to control and exploit her that he’d had. Until now.
He scowled, and drove slowly away.