‘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.
Chapter Thirty-Five
N
EXT 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.’