Next morning, the reporters were still there. But this time, Sarah walked straight towards them. The questions came from all sides.
‘Mrs Newby, is the trial going well?’
‘Why are you defending your son yourself?’
‘Could you give us a few words, please?’
At the top of the steps she paused and turned. She had never heard this done by a British barrister but she knew of nothing against it in law. Every newspaper, TV and radio station had reported Phil Turner’s opening speech. If I’m going to suffer this publicity, she thought, I may as well make use of it too.
A TV cameraman focussed his lens on her face. Lucy tugged discreetly at her elbow, but Sarah ignored her. ‘I just want to say that I took this case at my son’s request. He assures me he is innocent and I believe him. That may be unusual for a barrister but it’s perfectly legal. I intend to fight this case to the best of my ability and prove his innocence.’
Pens scribbled in notebooks, microphones were thrust in her face.
‘The victim was your son’s girlfriend, wasn’t she, Mrs Newby? Did you know her?’
‘I knew her, yes.’ Sarah hesitated, feeling Lucy’s tug more insistent than before. She hadn’t planned to answer any more questions, didn’t know quite what to say.
‘Did you like her, Mrs Newby?’
‘Do you feel sorry for her parents?’
The TV camera zoomed closer to her face. This is why we don’t do this, she realised, it needs planning and preparation. She took a deep breath. ‘Jasmine Hurst was a very beautiful girl and my son was in love with her. Her parents have all my sympathy at this terrible time. But my son did not kill her.’
Her voice faltered and she thought God no, the whole world is going to see this.
‘So who did kill her, Mrs Newby? Do you have any idea about that?’
‘No, I’m sorry. That’s all. Thank you very much.’
She went inside, feeling her whole body trembling. ‘For heaven’s sake, Sarah, what are you doing?’ Lucy said. ‘We’re not in California now. What if the judge says you’ve unfairly prejudiced the case?’
‘Then he does.’ Sarah smiled shakily. ‘How did it look? Did my voice break?’
‘Keep the day job, love, leave Hollywood to the experts.’ Relenting, Lucy gave her a brief, motherly hug. ‘The real jury’s in here, not outside.’
To Sarah’s relief, judge Mookerjee ignored her remarks outside court. Dr Jones took the stand in a dark suit with yellow tie and matching silk handkerchief. Sarah stood.
‘Now, Dr Jones, let us turn to the semen from Miss Hurst’s vagina. You have described how the DNA in this semen was an exact match for the DNA which you took from my son.’
‘I have, yes.’
‘Very well. You may know, Dr Jones, that the defence does not dispute that the semen is indeed that of my son, Simon Newby. He will give evidence that he and Miss Hurst made love earlier that day at his house in a consensual, loving fashion. That’s why the semen is there, he says. So may I ask, Dr Jones, is there anything about the sample that would contradict this story?’
‘Simply the fact that it was there. In the body of a girl who had been raped and murdered.’
Sarah frowned. ‘Dr Jones, I’m not sure you understand my question. Let me make it clearer. I want you to put aside the vaginal bruising, and the victim’s death, and concentrate solely on the semen which you examined. Was there anything about the age or condition of the sample which would tell you when, precisely, it entered her body?’
The pathologist shrugged, as if the question was of minor academic interest. ‘Well, if you concentrate on that alone, then I suppose the answer is no, not precisely. By the time I analysed the sample, it was already some sixteen hours old. There is no test that could precisely determine whether it was deposited at the time of death or a few hours earlier.’
‘So it is possible that Miss Hurst had sexual intercourse several hours before her death?’
Dr Jones frowned, as though correcting an errant pupil. ‘If she did, then the vaginal bruising would suggest it was more like a rape than the loving consensual activity you describe.’
‘Very well, let us come to that.’ Sarah was determined not to be patronized by this man, but every time she looked at him she saw him in his white coat, about to show her Emily’s body. He had seemed the ultimate figure of medical authority then, the gatekeeper to life or death.
Resolutely, she thrust the memory aside. Now he was a threat to her son.
‘In your report you describe some bruising. When do you believe this bruising occurred?’
‘Immediately prior to the victim’s death.’ He shrugged, as if the answer were obvious.
Sarah contemplated the witness coldly. ‘Can you be more precise about that, Dr Jones? Do you mean ten seconds before death? Five minutes? Half an hour? Two hours? More?’
‘Probably a few minutes before. Depending on the severity of the actual trauma, it could theoretically have been longer, I suppose. But you’d have to consider this along with the evidence of the crime scene to decide when the rape actually happened.’
‘Very well. But I’m interested in your phrase ‘depending on the severity of the trauma.’ Can you explain that a little further?’
‘Well, these bruises appeared relatively minor. The most likely explanation of that is that the victim was raped only a few minutes before her throat was cut, and therefore although the vaginal trauma she suffered was quite severe, the bruising did not have time to develop fully before the blood flow was cut off.’
‘And the other explanation?’
‘I suppose … a theoretical alternative explanation could be that she suffered a milder vaginal trauma some time before, and that the bruising had in fact fully developed.’
It was a key admission, reluctantly given. ‘So how long before could this much milder vaginal trauma have occurred, doctor?’
‘Well, it’s hard to be precise. If it was very mild, two or three hours, I suppose. But …’
‘Thank you. So it is possible that this bruising was caused up to two or three hours before death. And in that case, the trauma that caused it was much milder than the brutal rape which my learned friend has attempted to describe?’
And so my son didn’t rape her. Or at least, not very roughly. Oh Simon, Simon!
‘It’s a theoretical possibility, yes. But only if you treat these injuries in isolation from all the others, which indicate a violent, sexual attack. There were scratches to the backs and insides of her thighs, which would indicate a violent sexual assault.’
‘You put the prosecution case very well, doctor. But it remains true, does it not, that there is a completely different and credible possibility — that the semen and bruising in the vagina were the result of a very much milder and less violent form of intercourse which may have taken place up to three hours before the violent attack which led to her death? That’s what you said, isn’t it?’
It was a vital point. Sarah fixed the witness with a basilisk stare.
‘It’s a theoretical possibility, yes. But only if you disregard the rest of the evidence.’
‘Or if the rest of the evidence can be explained in a different way,’ Sarah persisted. ‘In which case, although she was murdered, she may not have been raped at all?’
Dr Jones hesitated, then shrugged. ‘That is a possible interpretation, yes. Although even if I accept your premise, I wouldn’t call this sexual activity mild, exactly. Loving, consensual sex doesn’t usually cause trauma or bruising of any kind.’
It was a damaging reply, Sarah knew. Even if Simon’s story were true, how had he treated this poor girl? She remembered how tantalizing and aloof Jasmine could be; and Simon’s intense, frightening rage. What had really happened between them that day?
‘But mild or not, these bruises do not necessarily indicate rape?’
Dr Jones hesitated, making a conscious effort to be fair. ‘If intercourse took place some hours before death, then … the physical evidence does not necessarily indicate rape, no. But at the very least it does indicate vigorous penetration. If Ms Hurst had been alive and complained of rape, these bruises would certainly have supported her claim.’
‘But it is also possible that this bruising was caused by sexual intercourse which was vigorous, as you say, but still consensual. Not a rape?’
‘Possible, yes.’
‘Thank you.’ Sarah glanced at the jury. She had established this vital point; now was the time to develop it further. ‘So, Dr Jones, if we accept that sexual intercourse took place some hours before death, then there is no physical proof that the man with whom Jasmine Hurst had sex, was the same man who cut her throat and killed her, is there?’
The silence in court was electric. Reluctantly, he sighed. ‘If we accept your premise, no.’
Was it enough? Did the jury understand how vital this was? Sarah was not sure. When in doubt, she had learned, you must drive your point home, by repetition if necessary.
‘So from your evidence, Dr Jones, is it possible that Jasmine Hurst had sexual intercourse with my son in his house that afternoon, as he says, and that her throat was cut by a quite different man several hours later?’
Dr Jones sighed. ‘It’s possible, yes.’
‘Thank you. That’s all I have to ask.’
She smiled, and sat down.
After a night in the cells Gary slouched into the interview room, surly and unshaven. He slumped into a chair, his heavy forearms on the table. ‘Have you charged her then?’
‘Not yet, no.’ Terry studied him contemplatively, pleased to see that his scratches were inflamed and angry. ‘You assaulted a police officer.’
‘Did I fuck! He attacked me. You all did!’
‘It’s a serious charge, Gary. The magistrates hate that kind of thing.’
‘You’re joking. I’d get a jury, anyhow. It were police brutality — four of you beat me up!’
Terry was not surprised. Gary knew the system well enough to work it to his advantage. With legal aid, he would be much better off avoiding magistrates and opting for trial by jury. His defence lawyer would claim that Gary had been assaulted in police custody. There were stories like this in the press all the time.
Even if a jury did convict, he’d get six months maximum, out in three. Terry decided to cut his losses and go for a deal. He studied the big man coolly.
‘Funny thing, Gary, that’s exactly what Sharon says. She was sitting peacefully in the pub, when all of a sudden she was assaulted, by a man twice her size.’
‘That’s crap, that is. She went for me. Everyone saw it.’
‘Not everyone, Gary. Some did, some didn’t. But what happens when we charge her with assault, Gary? Think about it. The magistrates look at you, fifteen stone of solid brawn, and then her. Who are they going to believe, do you think?’
‘It won’t be magistrates. It’ll be a jury.’
‘Ah no. This time she gets to choose, not you. You’d have to pretend to be the victim. The trouble is, not many victims look like you.’ Terry smiled, savouring the moment. ‘What I’m saying, Gary, is this. I can charge you with assaulting a police officer, and oppose bail on the grounds that you’re a danger to the public. That way you’ll serve a couple of months on remand, whatever happens at the end of it. Maybe you like being locked away, I don’t know?’
The threat, he guessed from Gary’s silence, was going home. He continued in the same calm, reasonable voice. ‘On the other hand, if you drop your charge against Sharon, a lot of police time and money would be saved. We’d look at it in that light.’
‘You wouldn’t charge me with assault?’
Terry smiled thinly. ‘You choose, Gary. You go home now, or you don’t. Up to you.’
Gary was silent for a moment. It was a mistake to regard this man as stupid, Terry thought. He might not be great at nuclear physics but he had an instant, unerring regard for his own self-preservation.
‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘It’s just scratches anyhow. Women’s stuff.’
‘You’re dropping the charges?’ Terry asked formally.
Gary nodded sullenly. He hadn’t got what he wanted but had only lost a night in the cells.
‘OK. There’s this form to complete.’ Terry watched Gary sign in solid, careful writing. ‘Oh, just one other thing, before you go.’
‘What?’
‘These pictures.’ Terry spread the photofits of Sean on the table. ‘Anyone you know?’
Gary scowled. ‘No, don’t think so. Who are they?’
Terry watched him closely, not believing the denial for a second.
‘No? Oh come on, Gary, try harder. He worked for Robsons’, delivering tiles to Maria Clayton’s house. And to the university lodgings where that girl Karen Whitaker lived. You worked with him at MacFarlane’s too, remember?’
‘Sean.’ Gary shrugged. ‘These aren’t supposed to be him, are they?’
‘Yes, they are. Don’t they look right?’
Gary smiled contemptuously. ‘Not really.’
Oddly, now he’d acknowledged who the photofits were meant to represent, he seemed unable to take his eyes off them. Terry watched while Gary examined each picture in turn.
‘Maybe you could help us make some better ones?’
Gary didn’t dignify this with an answer. Instead, to Terry’s surprise, he asked: ‘Who helped you with these? That bitch Sharon?’
‘Sharon? No. Why? Should she?’
‘She’d do owt to cause trouble, that one.’
‘She knows him, then, does she?’
Gary got abruptly to his feet. ‘I’m free to go, you said?’
‘In a minute. When did you last see this Sean, Gary?’
‘God knows. Years ago.’
‘Really? Then why did you cite him for an alibi, at your trial?’
Again, Gary didn’t bother to answer. Something was eating him up, Terry was sure of it. ‘Can I go now, or what?’
‘For the moment. If you do see your friend Sean, tell him I’d like a word, will you?’
At the door, Gary turned. ‘You going to be showing them pictures around?’
‘It’s our job, Gary, it’s what we do.’
‘Stupid tossers. Wasting your bloody time.’
The forensic scientist, Laila Ferguson, was tall, with clear black skin and a strikingly beautiful face. She gave her evidence in a pleasant, husky voice. The seven men in the jury paid her rapt attention.
Yes, she had examined a breadknife, exhibit one, and found minute traces of blood under the handle. And a pair of size 9 Nike training shoes, exhibit two, on one of which she had also found blood — two stains in the crevices of the sole, and five on the upper surface, near the toe. DNA analysis had proved that all these stains were identical to the blood of the victim, Jasmine Hurst. On the trainer she had also found grass stains and sandy soil consistent with samples taken from the crime scene.
Phil Turner sat down with an air of quiet contentment. Sarah rose slowly.
‘Ms Ferguson, let’s take the minor details first. These bits of grass and soil which you found on the trainer, they were consistent with samples from the crime scene, weren’t they?’
‘Yes, they were.’ Ms Ferguson nodded calmly.
‘But — to make this quite clear for the jury — ‘consistent with’ doesn’t mean that the samples on the shoe actually came from the crime scene, does it?’
‘No …’
‘It just means that they could have come from that area. But they could have come from other places on the river path, couldn’t they? Half a mile away, perhaps?’
‘If there was the same sort of soil there, yes. And grasses.’
‘So if someone had been jogging regularly along that river path, would you expect to find the same sandy soil and grass seeds on their shoes? Even if they hadn’t been within half a mile of the crime scene?’
‘Possibly, yes …’ The young woman could probably explain the matter further, but Sarah had no intention of letting her do so. Her calm beauty and assured scientific competence had impressed the jury too much already this morning; she needed to be rattled, have some of her flaws exposed.
‘So this phrase ‘consistent with’ doesn’t take us very far, does it? What about blood?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The only thing that really connects either of these shoes with the crime are a few tiny stains of blood that you found on one shoe — the left one, I think. Two stains on the sole, and five on the upper surface near the toe. Let’s examine the stains on the sole first, shall we? How large were they?’
‘Not large. One was about half a centimetre across and the other a bit less.’
‘And they were both hidden in the patterns of the tread?’
‘That’s right, yes.’
‘Where you found traces of sandy soil and grasses.’
‘I did, yes.’
‘All right. Tell me, Miss Ferguson, did you find traces of anything else in the tread of these shoes? Things not obviously connected to this crime?’
Laila Ferguson frowned, trying to remember. The frown did things to her face which entranced the younger men in the jury. ‘Yes, I think so. There was grit — from pavements and roads, probably. Household dust. And traces of mashed potato chip, on the heel of the right shoe.’
Someone laughed, and Sarah smiled, glad to ease the tension. ‘So these trainers had quite an eventful life, it seems. They hadn’t been cleaned recently, then?’
‘No,’ Laila nodded emphatically. ‘They were fairly dirty.’
‘All right. Now tell me, Miss Ferguson, the blood on the sole of this shoe — was it mixed up with any grass, at all?’
‘Some of it, yes. Several fragments of grass had blood on them.’
‘And does that mean that the grass and the blood got onto the shoe at the same time?’
‘It … could mean that, yes.’
‘But it doesn’t necessarily mean that, does it? I mean, if the grass was already lodged on the shoe when the blood fell on it, the blood would still stain the grass, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Ms Ferguson agreed hesitantly.
‘So, from your evidence, it’s not possible to say whether this grass got onto the shoe at the same time as the blood, or at a completely different time, is it?’
‘No …’
‘Nor is it possible to say when this blood got onto the sole of this shoe?’
‘No.’
‘Or where, either, surely. I mean, the blood could have got onto the sole of the shoe in the house, when the household dust got there; or out in the roads, when the road grit got there; or perhaps on a path where there was sandy soil. Is that right?’
‘I suppose that’s right, yes,’ Ms Ferguson agreed, frowning thoughtfully. ‘I mean, all I can say is that the blood was there. I can’t tell you when or how it got there.’
‘Exactly.’ Sarah let the words hang in the air, and looked at the young woman with some warmth. ‘Now let’s think about these drops of blood you found on top of the shoe, if we may. How big were they?’
‘The largest was two millimetres across.’
‘Big enough to see with the naked eye?’
‘Oh yes. The size of a small drop of ink.’
‘I see. And the others?
‘One was about the same size. The rest were smaller. The size of a large grain of dust.’
‘Five drops of blood, three of them the size of a grain of dust. But you examined the shoe very carefully, I suppose? The top and the sides, the laces and the tongue, you looked inside too? With special scientific equipment, I take it?’
‘Yes, of course. I spent hours examining this shoe. There were plenty of other marks, mud and grass stains chiefly, and some paint and coffee; but there were just these two stains on the sole and five on the upper surface near the toe.’
‘And the other shoe? Any blood on that?’
‘None at all, no.’
‘No blood anywhere on the left shoe. Very well. Would you turn to photo number three, Ms Ferguson, and tell the jury what you see there, please.’
‘It’s … a photograph of a dead body.’
‘Yes. It’s a photograph of the murder victim, Jasmine Hurst. It was taken at the crime scene, where she was discovered. I want to draw your attention to the blood in the photograph, Ms Ferguson. Is there a lot of blood?’
‘A lot, yes.’
‘I’m sorry if this is distressing, but could you describe to the court, in your own words, just how much blood you see in the photograph, and where it is?’
‘Well … there’s a lot on her throat, where it’s been cut, and … all over her chest and upper body. It’s on her arms too … her left arm seems to be cut and there’s blood on her legs too.’
‘Is there blood on the grass beside the body?’
‘Yes. Some of the grass looks a reddish colour.’
‘There was blood on the grass; the scene of crime report confirmed that. Now, Ms Ferguson, when someone’s throat is cut, the blood doesn’t just leak out, does it — it sprays out everywhere, pumped out by the heart because an artery has been severed. Is that right?’
‘Well, I’ve never seen it …’
‘You’re a scientist, aren’t you? A forensic scientist — you know how an artery works?’
‘Yes, of course. You’re right — the blood would spray everywhere.’
‘Yes. And we can see that in the photo, can’t we? Blood on the victim’s chest, blood on her arms and legs and all over the grass. A lot of blood, you said. Blood everywhere. Am I right?’
‘Yes, that’s right. There’s a lot of blood in this photo.’
‘Very well. Now you’re a forensic scientist; so what would you expect to find on the shoes of the person who committed this horrible crime? Someone who struggled with the victim, stood close enough to cut her throat?’
‘Blood …’
‘Yes, of course. You’d expect to find blood on those shoes, wouldn’t you? Not just blood on the top of the shoes, from the spray you’ve described, but blood on the soles too, from that bloodstained grass. You’d expect to find blood in all the little cracks of the soles, wouldn’t you? The soles of both shoes?’
Laila Ferguson hesitated. The girl was far too intelligent not to see where this was going. Sarah had noticed her talking quite intimately to Will Churchill outside the court; she must know how vital her evidence was to his case. What would she do? Prevaricate and attempt to spin the evidence to support the police? Or value her own reputation as an independent scientist? She was very young — it could be the first time she had been in a situation like this.
She fiddled with the plaits of her afro haircut, then looked directly at Sarah.
‘If the shoes had walked in that grass, yes, I would.’
Good girl, Sarah thought. ‘The only way to get the blood out of the soles would have been to wash them, wouldn’t it? I suppose you’d have to wash them quite thoroughly?’
‘Yes, you would. Blood is notoriously hard to get rid of.’
‘Did these shoes look as though they’d been washed?’
Laila Ferguson smiled — a flash of white teeth in her striking black face. ‘Not recently, no. They were filthy.’
Sarah smiled back. She was getting to like this girl. ‘All right. What about the upper surface of these shoes? Given the amount of blood we saw in those photographs, most of which came from the victim’s throat, wouldn’t you have expected to find some of that spray on top of the murderer’s shoes, too? Not just five tiny drops, but quite a lot of it?’
‘If the victim was standing up when her throat was cut, certainly. I suppose it’s possible she might have been lying down. Or the murderer stood behind her.’
There’s such a thing as being too clever, Sarah thought grimly. Or in my case, not clever enough. I should have thought of that first.
‘Even then, he would have to step carefully to avoid it, wouldn’t he? Given how much blood we can see.’
‘There’s a lot of blood in the photo, yes. It would probably get on the killer’s shoes.’
‘And yet there was no blood at all on one shoe you examined, isn’t that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And on the other one, just two tiny stains on the sole and five drops, two of them the size of — what did you say? — a grain of dust on the upper surface. That’s all you found, isn’t it?’
‘That’s all the blood I found, yes.’
‘Very well.’ Again Sarah paused, looking at her notes, to let the impact of the last few questions sink in. She had a clear sense that the jury was interested, and intrigued. This had been her best morning so far. She looked at Laila Ferguson again.
‘Now, what about the blood on the breadknife. Were these stains any bigger?’
‘No. There were just a few small specks, trapped in between the blade and the handle. There isn’t much room in there.’
‘What about the rest of the knife? Were there any stains on the blade, or the handle?’
‘No. The knife was quite clean; it looked as though it had been washed recently.’
‘Very well. But that’s a normal thing to do with a breadknife, isn’t it?’
Laila Ferguson shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘What was the handle made of?’
‘Plastic.’
‘Did you find any blood on the handle? Anything to suggest that a person with a bloodstained hand had gripped it, for instance?’
‘No. But then blood wouldn’t stain plastic, if it was washed soon enough.’
‘I see. Now, what can you tell us about the age of this blood?’
‘I’m sorry?’ The question clearly came as a surprise to Miss Ferguson.
‘How old was it?’
‘I … it’s impossible to tell. It was dried blood, so obviously it was more than a few hours old, but beyond that there’s no way of saying.’
‘You can’t say if the samples were a week old, two weeks old, a month old even?’
‘I’m afraid not, no.’
‘If you can’t say how old it is, you can’t say when the blood got onto the knife, can you?’
‘No.’
‘Or onto the shoes?’
‘No.’
‘Very well. So you have no way of saying that this blood got onto the shoe or the knife at the time of Jasmine’s death, have you?’
‘Well, I can’t say that, no.’ Laila Ferguson looked surprised at where the questions had led her. ‘I can only tell you definitely that the blood came from Jasmine Hurst. That’s all.’
‘Yes, I understand that,’ said Sarah patiently. ‘But as far as you’re concerned it’s possible that all of these blood stains could have got there as the result of an incident that occurred several hours before Jasmine’s death? Days earlier, even?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’ Whether Laila Ferguson had anticipated the direction these questions were leading or not, she seemed unable to resist it.
‘A quite different incident, nothing to do with murder at all.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Very well.’ Sarah paused, to gather her thoughts and ensure that the jury were waiting for her next question, when it came. She had got as far as she could with this witness. If she were to build the basis for Simon’s defence later, the next few moments were crucial.
‘So if Simon Newby says, as he does, that this blood got onto the shoe and the knife when Miss Hurst cut her thumb in the kitchen, that is scientifically quite possible, isn’t it?’
‘I can’t say what happened,’ Laila Ferguson answered. ‘I wasn’t there.’
‘No, of course not. But what I mean is, there’s nothing in your scientific examination of the shoe and the knife and the blood to say that it isn’t a reasonable explanation, is there?’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Even if this accident happened some hours or even days beforehand?’
‘True. There’s nothing to say it couldn’t have been like that.’
‘Very well. And given the very small, almost insignificant amounts of blood we’re talking about here, compared to the massive carnage at the murder scene, don’t you think that’s a more likely explanation, Ms Ferguson? A minor accident in the kitchen, producing a few drops of blood on a shoe, and a tiny stain on a knife?’
Phil Turner coughed, looking meaningfully at the judge. Sarah knew she was perilously close to asking the witness to speculate about things beyond her competence. But the important thing was to plant the idea in the jury’s minds.
Before the judge could react, Laila Ferguson answered. ‘I suppose it’s a theoretical possibility, yes.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sarah, and sat down. Wondering, with a small part of her mind, whether Will Churchill would be quite so entranced with the lovely young scientist now.