‘I thought it was unfair. After all, Turner talked about Brodie in his own speech, didn’t he? That was what he closed with.’
Lucy’s voice echoed strangely from the concrete walls of the corridors below the court. This place, which she knew so well, today seemed weird to Sarah, almost dreamlike. Perhaps they were taking her to be locked away, she thought. She was sure she deserved it.
‘You’re right,’ she replied, with the part of her mind which was still functioning. ‘I should have noticed that.’
‘He took you unawares, that’s all.’
‘He did. But I should be ready for ambushes, damn it! That’s my job.’
‘Never mind. You did your best.’
‘No!’ Sarah stopped, while the warder opened the door of Simon’s cell. ‘That’s just it! On this one occasion when it really mattered, I didn’t do my best, Lucy! I let him down!’
As they went inside, Sarah saw that Simon had heard. He stood, pale and dismayed, as the door clanged shut behind them. ‘What do you mean, Mum? How did you let me down?’
‘I … didn’t end as well as I could, Simon, that’s all. You must have noticed.’
‘Your speech, you mean?’ She saw fear in his face as the blow hit home. ‘You said everything, didn’t you? I thought you did.’
‘I said everything, yes. It was just … he tripped me up at the end with that reference to Brodie. I should never have made it. The rest was fine.’
She touched his arm and felt the tension in it. He shook her off abruptly and sat, head cradled in his hands. Then he looked up, eyes wild.
‘But you had to talk about Brodie, didn’t you? I mean, if I didn’t kill her, who did?’
‘That’s what I wish we knew, Simon,’ said Lucy softly, sitting quietly beside him. They watched Sarah, pacing the cell like a trapped cat. ‘That’s what we all wish we knew.’
The paramedics eased the stretcher gently into the ambulance. There was a small crowd on the pavement outside the house. A policewoman tried to comfort the little girl in the doorway.
‘You go with her, Harry,’ Terry said. ‘Anything she says …’
A paramedic frowned disapprovingly. ‘She’s not likely to say anything for a while, sir. And we’ll be very busy …’
‘All the same,’ Terry insisted. ‘This is a major murder enquiry. We have to know.’
Cautiously, Harry climbed into the back of the ambulance and sat near Sharon’s head. The paramedic fitted an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose and busied himself with a drip to her arm. Despite the pads he had strapped tightly across her stomach the blood was oozing into the blanket. Her face, what he could he could see of it, was as pale as the sheet and her hair was flecked with blood.
The paramedic handed him a bottle. ‘Here, make yourself useful and hold this. Up in the air, make sure no bubbles get into the line. I’ll try some adrenaline.’
The ambulance lurched into movement and Harry heard the crackle of the radio as the driver called in. ‘ … serious stab wounds to stomach … major haemorrhage … a full crash team … ETA seven minutes, with luck …’
The siren began to howl and the ambulance moved off. The paramedic was giving an injection into Sharon’s leg. Nothing happened. He felt for a pulse, then lifted an eyelid, and bent his mouth close to her ear. ‘Sharon? Come on, love, don’t give up. Open your eyes, honey.’
Shocked, Harry watched as the eyelid flopped back; then, ten long seconds later, it began to flutter. Her eyes opened and gazed around her, confused.
‘Sharon, are you with us? There’s a good girl. You’re in an ambulance, love, you’ll be in hospital soon. Now what I want you to do, is take deep breaths from this mask on your face, all right? Fill your lungs, really good, slow, deep breaths.’
The eyes closed again. After a moment, he saw her chest rise and fall. Once, twice, three times. He heard her breathing inside the mask. Her eyes opened.
‘That’s great, Sharon, just great. You’re doing fine. More deep breaths, now.’
She breathed deeply while they watched. The paramedic took her pulse again.
‘That’s brilliant, Sharon, brilliant. Now you just lie there and take deep breaths and we’ll have you in hospital in no time. I’m going to give you another injection. You just look up at the ugly policeman who’s come to protect you.’
As Sharon turned her head the oxygen mask slipped. ‘Harry?’
‘Don’t worry, Sharon, you’re going to be OK. We know who did it.’
‘Sean?’
‘Yeah. We’ll get him, don’t worry. Here, breathe this.’
Holding the bottle with his left hand, he replaced the oxygen mask with his right. She took a few more deep breaths, then pulled it away herself.
‘Harry … my kid. Did he …?’
‘No, she’s fine, Sharon. Just fine. She’s with a policewoman now. He never touched her.’
‘Thank God. And … Wayne?’
‘He’s at school, isn’t he? We’ll send someone to pick him up.’
She nodded, put the mask back and took several long, shaky breaths. Harry swayed precariously on his seat as the ambulance, siren wailing, zigzagged through a set of red lights. She took off the mask again and tried a faint smile, her lips almost as pale as her teeth.
‘You should try this, Harry. Good stuff.’
‘Don’t talk too much now, Sharon,’ the paramedic warned. ‘Save your strength.’
But the adrenaline injections seemed to have revived her. She breathed from the mask a couple more times, then said: ‘He was the one who raped me before. Not Gary. He told me.’
‘What, Sean? He was wearing the hood?’
She closed her eyes, then nodded faintly. ‘That’s not all … he did … other things …’
The effort seemed to be weakening her. She closed her eyes. The paramedic replaced the mask firmly over her face. ‘Come on now, Sharon. You can tell him all this later, when you’re better. You just lie still and save your strength, okay? Breathe in, there’s a good girl …’
Harry glanced out of the window. They were crossing Lendal Bridge, weaving down the centre of the road through the traffic which was climbing the pavements to get out of their way. They should reach the hospital in three or four minutes. Sharon’s eyes were closed. She seemed paler than before.
He glanced questioningly at the paramedic. The man shook his head and began to unwrap a third pre-packed needle, larger than the others. He jabbed it into her chest, underneath the heart. She shuddered, then opened her eyes.
‘That’s a girl, Sharon. Come on now, love. Keep breathing. You’re doing great.’
She took two shuddering breaths, her eyes wide and shocked. Then she turned to Harry and said something. ‘Hiiklljjasssminhurshtooo.’
‘What’s that? Sharon, I can’t hear.’
Harry reached to take off the mask but the paramedic held his arm. ‘She can’t talk now. You’ll kill her.’
Sharon’s eyes stared at his, wide and pleading. Harry shoved the man’s arm aside.
‘Just a couple of words. What is it, Sharon?’
‘He killed … Jasmine … Hurst too.’
The words were like a whisper, scarcely louder than a breath. Her eyes closed abruptly. The paramedic clamped the mask over her face. ‘Come on, Sharon, keep breathing. You can do it, Sharon, breathe deeply now. We’re nearly there. You’re doing great.’
The breaths came fainter and fainter and seemed to Harry to stop altogether. The ambulance drew up outside Accident and Emergency and in an instant the driver was round opening the back doors. They got the wheels of the stretcher down and hurried Sharon along the corridor into the emergency theatre, Harry running alongside still holding the bottle for the drip until a nurse took it from him.
He waited outside with the paramedics for a while, thinking of what he should tell Terry. Then a doctor came out. There was blood on his white coat. He shook his head sadly.
‘Dead on arrival, I’m afraid. If she’d lasted a few minutes longer, perhaps …’
The paramedic glared at Harry. ‘I told you,’ he said.
‘How long does it take?’ Simon asked.
Sitting on the bench in the cell beside him, Lucy shrugged. ‘How long is a piece of string? Half an hour, if they all agree at the start. Three hours, four — a day even, if they don’t.’
‘If they don’t agree I’m free, aren’t I?’
‘Not necessarily.’ Sarah paused from her pacing. ‘If they can’t agree after what the judge thinks is a reasonable time, he’ll ask for a majority verdict. Eleven to one or ten to two. So if only three people think you’re innocent …’ She gave him a small, tight smile.
‘You think we’ve lost, don’t you?’ Simon muttered, avoiding her eyes.
‘The truth is I don’t know, Simon. I really don’t. Anyway what I think doesn’t matter any more. There’s nothing we can do about it now.’
‘Christ!’ Simon strode to the door, and banged his forehead against it, softly. ‘This is the worst part of all, this waiting. They’re deciding about my life, in there!’
‘A lot of them were following your mother’s speech closely, Simon,’ Lucy said helpfully. ‘Especially the younger ones …’
‘And what about the old bat with the necklace? She hates me, you could see it in her eyes!’ Simon swung round to face them. ‘And those two old farts next to her. They’d have me shot, if they could!’
‘You can’t always tell from looks, Simon. Sometimes …’
There was a rattle of keys in the door. The three of them froze. A warder came in.
‘Are they back?’ Sarah asked.
‘No, not yet madam. It’s the judge — he’s called for you. Urgent, he says.’
‘Oh? Right.’ She glanced at the others apologetically. ‘I’ll be back.’
When Harry walked into the Crown Court he wondered if Churchill would be there. He’d phoned Terry half an hour ago and learned that Sean and Gary had escaped. The patrol car had lost sight of them and they could be anywhere. Terry had put out an all car alert.
‘How’s Sharon?’ Terry had asked.
‘Dead on arrival, sir, I’m afraid. But she said something, in the ambulance.’
When Harry had explained what he had heard, Terry had insisted he go straight to the court to tell the judge. Harry was worried — this was direct interference in DCI Churchill’s case. Shouldn’t they consult him first?
‘Just tell the judge, Harry,’ Terry had insisted. ‘That’s an order. If it’s wrong, it’s my head on the block, not yours.’
Nonetheless, Harry did not relish bumping into Churchill on his way. He imagined how the conversation might go.
‘Hi, Harry, what are you doing here today, old son?’
‘Just come to wreck your case, sir, that’s all. Won’t take a minute.’
‘Oh, okay, fine, go ahead. Use my name when you apply for promotion, okay?’
Outside court he saw Churchill in conversation with a tall, rustic-looking barrister in wig and gown and a fat, middle-aged solicitor, whom Harry took to be the prosecution team. Luckily, Churchill had his back to the entrance. Harry strode swiftly past, located the court clerk, and a few minutes later was telling his story to the judge in chambers.
Judge Mookerjee sat back in his leather chair, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on his desk. ‘You’re quite sure of this, detective constable?’
‘Perfectly, sir. It happened less than an hour ago. My superior officer ordered me to bring you the information immediately.’
‘Quite so, quite so. Then I suppose I must disclose this to counsel. Though whether it can make a difference, at this stage … Wait there, detective constable, will you?’
He picked up the phone and dialled.
‘It seems to me that it makes all the difference in the world, my lord,’ Sarah insisted. We all know there’s been a series of unexplained rapes and murders in York, and now we have evidence that a man who has murdered again, this very day, has admitted to them all. Including the murder of which my son stands accused. You must stop this trial now. Any conviction in these new circumstances would be unsafe.’
‘Hm. I see your point, of course. But there are difficulties.’ Judge Mookerjee leaned forward. ‘Mr Turner?’
Turner seemed reluctant to speak. He rubbed his ear thoughtfully. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t see how this evidence can be admissible. It’s hearsay. Hearsay at second hand, in fact, since DC Easby is telling us that he heard Sharon Gilbert tell him what she heard another person say. If, of course, he heard her words clearly at all. You were in an ambulance, constable, you say?’
‘Yes, sir. Approaching York District Hospital.’
‘Anyone else with you at the time?’
‘Yes, sir. The paramedic. And the driver, of course.’
‘Did the paramedic hear the words as well?’
‘I don’t know, sir. I haven’t asked him. He was called away on another emergency shortly after we arrived.’
‘Well, what do you think? Were the words clear enough for him to hear?’
Harry hesitated. This was not what he’d anticipated. As usual the lawyers were screwing things up. ‘It was a whisper, sir. But he may have heard, I don’t know. It was quite clear to me.’
‘Was the siren sounding?’
‘Yes, sir, of course.’
‘Well, there we are then.’ Turner turned back to the judge. ‘Hearsay, at second hand, whispered in an emergency ambulance with the siren on. Another witness present who may well have heard nothing at all. It has to be inadmissible.’
‘But there are clear exceptions to the hearsay rule,’ Sarah intervened desperately. ‘In homicide cases exactly like this. The law assumes that when a person is dying, as this woman was, what she says must be treated as truth. After all, what could she gain by lying?’
‘If she said it at all,’ Turner said, picking up a book from a row on the judge’s desk.
‘But she did. You heard him, didn’t you, constable? There’s no doubt in your mind?’
‘No doubt at all,’ Harry confirmed. ‘He killed Jasmine Hurst too. That’s what she said.’
‘Here it is. Article 39.’ Turner began to read from the law book in his hands. ‘The oral or written declaration of the deceased is admissible evidence of the cause of his death …’ he paused significantly. ‘… at a trial for his murder or manslaughter, provided he was under a settled hopeless expectation of death when the statement was made, and provided he would have been a competent witness if called to give evidence at that time. It seems to me that Ms Gilbert’s statement fails on at least three grounds. Firstly, this is not a trial for her murder. Secondly, I doubt if she was under a ‘settled hopeless expectation of death’ — do you think she knew she was dying, detective constable?’
‘It’s hard to say, sir,’ Harry admitted hopelessly. ‘It was all very sudden.’
‘Exactly. And thirdly, would she have been a competent witness if called to give evidence in this trial? No, presumably, because it’s still hearsay.’
‘But this is a clear statement that my son is not guilty. Made by a woman who has just been murdered,’ Sarah insisted. ‘We know that this man — what’s his name?’
‘Sean Murphy,’ Harry said. ‘We think, anyway.’
‘You think, exactly,’ Turner interrupted. ‘That’s another element of doubt here.’
‘But there’s no element of doubt about the fact that he killed her, surely? So whatever his name is, we know he is a murderer. And he made this statement knowing that he was going to kill Sharon Gilbert, and therefore thinking that no one else would hear about it. So there was no reason why he shouldn’t tell the truth. So surely, if this evidence was put before the jury, they would have to conclude that my son is innocent.’
Turner shook his head sadly. He seemed convinced by his argument, but embarrassed to meet her eyes. The judge peered at her reproachfully over his reading glasses, as though she were a student who’d handed in a sub-standard essay.
‘Your argument is flawed on several grounds, Mrs Newby. Firstly, until this man is arrested, tried and convicted we cannot know for a fact any of these things — either that he is a murderer, or that he killed Sharon Gilbert, or that he made this statement knowing that he was about to kill her. Even we accept that he did actually make the statement, it does not necessarily follow that he was telling the truth. In the absence of other evidence, it might be argued that he lied deliberately in order to frighten or torment his victim.’
‘And the jury? I doubt if they would see it like that.’
‘They might very well not. But it is my function, as trial judge, to decide what evidence does and does not go before this jury. And I regret to say that in view of its undoubted nature as hearsay at second hand, the evidence of DC Easby cannot be put before this jury.’
There was a silence, as the short-hand writer’s fingers rattled out the decision on her keys. Sarah felt faint, as though a hand was squeezing her heart.
‘And if other evidence comes to light? As it may very well do now that the police are investigating this man. What then?’
‘Then, if your son is convicted, he will have grounds for an appeal.’
‘After three or four years in prison.’
‘That is the nature of the law, Mrs Newby. We cannot bend it to suit ourselves, as you well know.’
Sarah was struck dumb. She had lost another argument, the worst of all. She gazed at the judge helplessly, hoping for pity. He smiled faintly.
‘After all, the jury are still out. They may well acquit him today.’
The traffic police spotted the van on the A64. When they stopped it two men got out and sprinted away across the fields, but one of the traffic policemen, a rugby back, brought down Gary with a fine tackle as he paused to cross a ditch. A second squad car arrived in time to rescue Sean from a farmer with a shotgun who had found him, covered in mud and cow pats, fiddling with wires under the dashboard of his Range Rover.
Terry watched as the pair of them were booked in at the police station by the custody sergeant. The knife, wrapped in a plastic bag, had already been checked in. In the back of the van the arresting officers had also found a rucksack, packed with clothes and other items.
‘Is that yours, son?’ Sergeant Chisholm asked Gary.
‘No, it’s his,’ said Gary sullenly. ‘All of it’s his.’
‘Yours, then,’ said Sergeant Chisholm placidly, turning to Sean.
‘Never seen it before in me life.’
Terry studied the man he had been hunting for so long. He was filthy after his attempted escape. Apart from that he was big, powerfully built like Gary, with the red-gold hair and boxer’s nose they’d seen in the photofit. But it was the eyes that interested Terry mostly — the eyes that he was going to look into during the interrogation to come. As far as he could see they were flat, devoid of any obvious emotion — no fear, no panic, no resentment or anger at his predicament. Just emptiness, and a sense of sullen, reserved control. This was not over yet, clearly.
He turned his attention to the rucksack, which Sergeant Chisholm was unpacking methodically. Clothes mostly, and a few items of toiletry, as though for a journey. And then, at the bottom, a crumpled brown envelope. Sean shifted uneasily as the sergeant emptied it.
‘A pair of female panties, white, stained — these yours, son?’
‘None of it’s mine.’
‘No? And yet it’s your rucksack, Gary says. And what’s this — dog collar? And a scrapbook?’ He opened it. ‘Oh my God! Sir — I think you’d better have a look at this.’
Terry and Sergeant Chisholm leafed through the book together. Newspaper cuttings, locks of hair, and photographs. Large, black and white pictures. The sort of quality any scenes of crime officer would die for. The sort of subject two women had died for.
Terry’s phone trembled in his pocket. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he answered.
‘Sir? It’s Harry. I’m at the court now.’
‘Oh yes, Harry. Good. Did you get the trial stopped?’
‘No, sir. That’s what I’m ringing about. The judge won’t listen. Says Sharon’s words are hearsay. Not real evidence.’
‘What?’ The graphic pictures in front of Terry’s eyes were branding themselves on his brain. ‘Why the hell not?’
‘Usual lawyer crap, sir. Anyway the point is that the jury’s still out but they may come back any time. I did my best, sir, but …’
‘OK, Harry, just wait there. Tell them I’m on my way.’
Shoving his phone into his pocket, Terry slipped the scrapbook into an evidence bag. ‘Book this out sergeant. I need it for evidence.’
Sergeant Chisholm protested. ‘Sir, you can’t! I need to list each item separately.’
‘Later, sergeant, later. This is more important now. I’ll take full responsibility.’
As he ran down the stairs, two at a time, the phone in his pocket said: ‘DCI Churchill’s here too, sir. He’s not very happy …’
‘This is it, then,’ Lucy said. ‘Chin up, Simon. Hope for the best.’
‘Yeah, OK. Now or never, eh?’
Handcuffed to the security guards, Simon made his way up the grim concrete stairs, into the wood-panelled courtroom with its stucco pillars and elaborate domed ceiling. The court was full. Above him the public gallery creaked and hummed, fifty mouths muttering, a hundred eyes staring down. Lucy smiling encouragingly back at him as she took her seat.
In front of Lucy, he could see his mother’s slim gown and the back of her horsehair wig. He wondered why she didn’t turn and smile too when he came in, and if it might be a bad omen. Neither he nor Lucy had seen Sarah since she left them half an hour ago, and Lucy didn’t know why she had gone.
The judge in his red robes entered, bowed, and sat down. The clerk intoned the ancient formula: ‘All those having to do with the case of the Crown versus Simon Newby draw nigh and give your attendance. Her Majesty’s Crown Court at York with his Lordship S. Mookerjee presiding is now in session.’ The judge nodded to the usher to fetch the jury.
For a minute, perhaps longer, there was silence. Simon stared at his mother’s neck, slender under the ribbons of the wig. Why doesn’t she turn and smile, he wondered desperately. He crossed his fingers like a child. If only she turns and looks at me it’ll be all right. Come on, Mum, turn. Turn now!
But she didn’t.
Simon watched anxiously as the jurors filed back into court, willing them to meet his eyes. He had read somewhere that if they looked at you it was all right; if they avoided your eyes you were done for. Six of them glanced at him. Three of those looked away quickly when they met his eyes. None of them smiled.
When they had all taken their places the clerk of the court rose.
‘Members of the jury, would your foreman please stand.’
Simon closed his eyes. When he opened them it was still true. The elderly woman at the back, the one with the grey hair and the string of pearls, was standing up. She wasn’t looking at him. None of them were.
Terry drove with one hand on the wheel and the other holding the phone to his ear. Twice on the busy Fulford Road he had pulled out to overtake, once causing a car to hoot at him directly outside the police station. He was talking to Harry Easby.
‘Look, Harry, I’ve got new evidence which proves it was him beyond a shadow of a doubt. You’ve got to get back in there and stop it, son, before it’s to late.’
Harry was on the steps outside the court. ‘I can’t, sir, you don’t understand. The lawyers have told DCI Churchill what I tried to do, and he’s hopping mad, sir, I daren’t go back in …’
‘If you don’t, Harry, there’ll be a miscarriage of justice!’
‘If I do there’ll be murder, sir. You haven’t seen him. Anyway I haven’t got the evidence to show. You’ll just have to bring it yourself before the jury come back.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to do, Harry — Christ!’ Terry swerved to avoid a cyclist. ‘I’m in Fishergate now, I’ll be there in a couple of minutes. Just stall them till then, Harry, will you?’
‘Just get here, sir, will you?’ But Terry’s phone had already switched off. Cautiously, Harry made his way back into court, hoping he would not run into DCI Churchill on the way.
Sarah couldn’t face Simon. It was all she could do to sit here, facing the judge and the assembling jury. She was conscious of Phil Turner a few feet away, but couldn’t meet his eyes. He had beaten her, persuaded the judge to disallow evidence that strongly suggested Simon’s innocence. There was no justice in it but what did that matter? He had won the game of proof.
As the elderly woman identified herself as the jury foreman Sarah shuddered, as Simon had done. My worst enemy on the jury, the one who had fiddled in her handbag when I was making my strongest points.
‘Madam foreman, have you reached a verdict?’
‘We have, yes.’ A thin clear voice, slightly more educated than Sarah had expected, but cold, too, without emotion. The old cow would probably vote for hanging if she could. Oh well, I’ll win on appeal, but that could take years.
‘And is …’
A hand was tugging on Sarah’s sleeve. Turning, she saw it was Harry Easby, the detective who’d brought the news of Sharon’s death and Sean’s confession. He was crouched, whispering something to her earnestly. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘DCI Bateson’s on his way. He’s got more evidence. He says it proves Sean did it.’
‘Yes, but it’s too late now — look!’
The court clerk, irritated by their whispered conversation, frowned at them in reproof, before continuing, in a slightly louder voice. ‘… and is that the verdict of you all?’
‘It is.’
‘Very well. On count one, the murder of Jasmine Hurst, do you find the defendant, Simon Newby, guilty or …’
‘He’s got the proof,’ Harry insisted. ‘He’ll be here in a minute. If you want to stop them now’s the time …’
‘… not guilty?’
‘My Lord.’ Sarah rose to her feet, slowly, so slowly it seemed, as if she was trying to run through water in a dream, a nightmare in which she had to act but couldn’t because her muscles wouldn’t obey her. She couldn’t even seem to attract their attention; the clerk and the judge were both looking at the jury forewoman, not her, as though she wasn’t there. Even her voice wasn’t working. She tried again. ‘My Lord …’
‘Not guilty.’
There was a gasp, a murmur of mingled outrage and relief from the public gallery behind her. At least they’ve heard me, Sarah thought, why hasn’t the judge noticed yet?
‘My Lord …’
‘Mrs Newby?’ The judge studied her curiously, almost with compassion, rather than the anger she had expected. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Newby, there’s no need any more.’
He looked past her and said, ‘Simon Newby, you are free to go.’
And then it sank in. There was a roaring in Sarah’s ears, and she sat down quite suddenly, like a puppet whose strings are cut. She heard talking around her and felt Lucy’s soft hands on her shoulders but it was all a blur and her arms didn’t seem to work. Judge Mookerjee, about to thank the jury and discharge them, noticed the commotion about Sarah and looked down, concerned. ‘Mrs Newby, are you all right?’
Sarah looked up through a film of tears and straightened her spine as she had always done, all her life. ‘Oh yes, My Lord, thank you.’ Then she turned to the jury, where the elderly woman she had called a cow was still on her feet and said again, ‘Thank you. Thank you all very much indeed.’