This wasn’t going down so well, she could see. Two men were frowning and a young woman whispered something to her neighbour. Yet it ought to be such an obvious, easy point to get across. Grimly, she persevered.
‘Simon tells us he drove away to Scarborough that night and the prosecution have no evidence, no evidence at all, to show that’s not true. So I suggest that in fairness to him, we must assume that it
is
true.’
They didn’t like this, damn them. She’d done better with the forensic evidence, which should have been harder. It must be the impression Simon had created on the stand.
‘And if you accept that, then you must also accept that when the police came to arrest him, bursting into his bedroom in the middle of the night in that brutal way, then he had no idea that Jasmine was dead. He wasn’t just shocked and terrified, as any one would be, to be snatched from his bed in the middle of the night - he was also overcome by grief. Suddenly, in the cruellest, worst possible way, he learns that his girlfriend is dead. Murdered by some maniac with a knife. And the police think it’s him.
‘Imagine that for a moment, ladies and gentlemen. Imagine yourselves in the same position. Can you be sure you would behave rationally and sensibly, when the world seems to have gone mad all around you? Isn’t it possible that you might say something in a panic that you later realize was wrong, just to escape from this terrifying situation? Something like, ‘I can’t have killed her, I haven’t seen her for weeks’?
‘The police have rules for how to behave in these situations, and that’s why they are there. So that they aren’t allowed to put unfair pressure on people which may amount to pyschological torture. That’s why they’re not allowed to interrogate suspects in police cars. Because there’s no tape recorder there, no lawyer, nothing to see that everything is fair.
‘And yet that’s exactly what happened in this case, isn’t it? The police interrogated Simon in the middle of the night in a police car, and trapped him in a lie. Bullying again, isn’t it?’
Several heads were nodding in sympathy, she was pleased to see. One of the shaven headed young men who’d seemed to dislike Churchill, and a fair-haired young woman. The old woman with the necklace and handbag was frowning, deep in thought.
‘But if Simon did lie then, he changed his mind as soon as he reached the police station, didn’t he? Of his own accord he made a full written statement, and everything in that statement was true. There’s only one thing the prosecution claim is untrue, and that’s why we’re here today. He says he didn’t kill Jasmine, they claim he did. But everything else in that statement
is
true.’
She paused, looking at her notes. The ending, which had been so clear in her mind last night, had temporarily escaped her. It had taken so much emotional energy to get to this point, she had forgotten how to go further. The confidence which had carried her so far had drained away, gone. She felt herself rambling.
‘So ... you may ask yourselves, if Simon didn’t kill her, who did? Well, the sad truth is, I don’t know. I don’t believe Simon does either. Maybe you think it was rash of me to question David Brodie in the way that I did, but my point was to show that David had as strong a motive for killing Jasmine as Simon had ...’
‘My Lord.’ Turner was on his feet. The judge was looking at him, and the attention of the jury had switched away from her. ‘My Lord, we discussed this in chambers. In my view, it’s improper for Mrs Newby to make such insinuations without evidence.’
The judge nodded. ‘I agree. Mrs Newby, please. Members of the jury, I must ask you to disregard that last remark.’
And so she was destroyed. Right at the end of her speech she had not only lost the jury’s attention but been publicly reprimanded. She felt a flush rising to her face, her fingers trembled.
Somehow, her voice struggled on.
‘ ... and yet
motive
is the only thing the prosecution have to rely on. The forensic evidence is flawed, there is no ... excuse me ... no witness evidence to put Simon anywhere near the crime; he has made no confession, you see ... and so all the prosecution have to say is that Simon must have killed her because he quarrelled with her. Well, I am sure we all quarrel with our partners all the time without killing them. It’s absurd ...’
It was no good. The interruption had thrown her. She had lost the jury completely. Some of them were still watching her out of politeness, some in pity, and several were looking at their hands in embarrassment. But she had to struggle on. She
had
to.
‘ ... the police have cut corners in this case. They’ve gone for the easiest suspect, the person who saw her last. They bullied him in the police car, they’ve produced shoddy forensic evidence, and they have no witness evidence at all. In these circumstances, I suggest that you, the jury, have every ground for reasonable doubt. The prosecution have failed to prove their case. So you
must
find Simon not guilty.’
In that very last sentence, as in her first, her voice broke. It was almost, but not quite, a sob. Humiliated, she sat down, feeling smaller and more useless than she could ever remember.
The silence in the courtroom radiated pity.
After a long moment, the judge coughed, and faced the jury.
Chapter Forty-Two
‘O
H NO,
no.
I don’t want you.
Get out!’
Sharon tried to slam the door in Sean’s face, but he was too quick for her, too strong. He had one foot inside already and when she tried to shut it he shoved it back, slamming her against the wall. She swung her arm to hit him but he caught her wrist easily and held it back against the wall beside her head.
‘Now then Sharon, that’s not nice, is it? No way to greet an old friend.’
‘Old friend be fucked. What do you want?’
His face, a few inches from hers, darkened with anger. ‘Be fucked you say, is it? Well, maybe that
is
what I want. Like last time.’
Only you couldn’t manage it,
thought Sharon.
So you beat me half to death
. Katie began crying in the living room. ‘That’s my little girl. Let me see to her, will you?’
‘Just a second, then. Make it quick.’
He released her, and she scooped up the child hurriedly, trying to
think clearly at the same time. This was one customer she didn’t need.
Think
. ‘It’s all right, Katie, love, it’s just a man visiting. Is it your teeth again?’
The child, as she had hoped, nodded tearfully.
‘Look, it’s her teeth, they’ve been hurting all night, I’ve got to get some Calpol from the chemist. If you come back later ...’
‘No. Now. If she’s had the toothache all night another half hour won’t matter.’
‘
I
choose who I go upstairs with, Sean. It’s my body ...’
‘Put her down, woman.’ To her horror he actually tried to lift the child from her arms. When she clung on, he took something from his belt. There was a pain, a
sharp
pain in her neck, below her ear. ‘Put her down, Sharon. I don’t want to cut the baby.’
Trembling, she obeyed. ‘It’s all right, Katie, we’ll get the medicine soon, okay?’
When she had shut the living room door she saw the knife clear in his hand. A long, jagged blade, the tip an inch from her throat. Her limbs were trembling like jelly.
‘Please. What do you want?’
‘Upstairs.
Now!’
She stumbled up to her bedroom, the man with his knife close behind. ‘Look, I’ll do what you want but just don’t hurt my kid, all right. Don’t hurt my kid.’
‘I won’t hurt her. I don’t care about kids.’
‘All right, what do you want? I’ll do it any way you like.’ She began unbuttoning her blouse, her fingers clumsy like thumbs. She could see he had a hard-on but that wasn’t his problem, was it? It was later.
‘You’ve been a bad girl, Sharon, they tell me.’
‘Who tells you? I don’t know what you mean.’ She dropped her blouse on the floor and began unfastening her bra, the knife still pointing at her throat.
‘Our friend Gary tells me.’
‘Gary?’ She took off the bra and stood there, trembling. Somehow, she must gain control of this situation. ‘What’s he said about me?’
‘You’ve been talking about him to the Press. Go on. Don’t stop.’ She stepped out of her skirt. He took a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘He wants you to sign this.’
She took it and read, in Gary’s big, clumsy handwriting:
I want everyone to know, in the Press and TV, that when I say Gary raped me it isn’t true. I always knew it wasn’t him but I was just getting my own back. I lied about it all.
Astonishment overcame her fear. ‘He really wants me to sign this?’
‘He does so.’ A faint, ironic grin appeared on Sean’s face. ‘Will you do it?’
‘Is that what you’re here for?’
‘That’s what Gary thinks I’m here for.’
‘But you want something else?’
‘Yes.’ He waved the knife at her tights and panties. ‘Them too.’ When she stood before him naked he said, ‘What I want is a lock of your hair.’
‘My hair?’ Somehow this frightened her more than anything else. The strange smile reappeared, as if he thought the demand might amuse her; but it didn’t. It scared her witless. ‘What do you want that for?’
‘To add to my collection. Cut some off for me, will you?’
There were scissors on her dressing table, with her brushes and make-up. She sat down automatically in front of the mirror, as she did every day. But not like this, not naked with a knife at her back. She lifted the scissors to cut some hair.
‘A good long bit, now. You’ve plenty to spare, after all.’
Suddenly it came to her. ‘You’re the one they want, aren’t you? The one who killed that woman, a year ago. Maria something - Clayton.’
His voice lost its playful tone. ‘How in hell do you know that?’
‘Because they’re on to you. The police have got photos of you, and I ... saw them.’
Scared as she was, she realized too late what she’d said. But she’d said it because she needed something - words, objects, anything at all - to throw at him and protect herself. She got up, scissors in one hand, a lock of hair in the other, and backed away. Towards the bed, towards the
telephone.
If she could ring 999, perhaps ...
‘The police have shown you photographs of me?’
‘Yes. They asked if I recognized you. Here.’ She handed him the lock of hair. Anything to gain a little time, live a little longer. ‘Did you kill her, really?’ She made her voice sound as if it was some heroic, wonderful feat. The phone was only a foot away now.
He sniffed the hair, then slipped it into his pocket. ‘Clever girl. But that’s not all I did.’
‘Not all?’
‘No. Don’t forget the others.’
‘What others? Who do you mean?’ Only a foot to the phone now, on the bedside table behind her. She could reach it easily. The problem was how to distract him long enough to dial. And then what?
‘For example this girl they’re having the trial about now. Jasmine Hurst.’
‘You killed Jasmine Hurst?’
‘With this very knife. Look at it, Sharon, I brought it specially for you. Sharp, isn’t it?’’
As she moved backwards, he stepped towards her, round the side of the bed. The knife was only an arm’s length from her throat. If she picked up the phone, she’d be dead before she could dial. But if she didn’t dial, she’d die anyway.
‘I can see you trembling, Sharon. I like that.’
Her mind was racing so fast she was aware of everything, every tiny movement of his face and hands, even while she was thinking what to do. Everyone said you should humour people like this, make a relationship with them if you could. As long as he still wanted to talk to her she would stay alive.
‘The papers call me the
Hooded Rapist
, you know. But you can see my face.’
‘The
Hooded Rapist?
But he attacked other people, didn’t he?’
‘A few, so far. That girl Whitaker who had such a lucky escape. And you, the first time.’
‘
Me?
’ The phone was directly behind her now. She could feel it against her thigh. Very carefully, with her left hand, she began to shift the receiver off its cradle. Thank God the buttons were on the base of the phone, not the handset. If she was lucky she might manage to press 9 three times without him noticing. If only she could keep him talking.
‘What do you mean,
me,
the first time?’
‘You may as well sign the paper for Gary, you know. After all, it’s true what it says. About him not raping you.’
‘What?’
Yes, the handset was off now. He was mad, but she didn’t care what he said, so long as he said something, to mask the dialling tone. Her fingers fumbled behind her.
Where was 9?
Bottom right, wasn’t it? Or was that those star and hash things?
‘Yes, it was me that raped you that night, Sharon. Not our friend Gary, as you thought. The joke was on him, don’t you think?’
‘
You?
But it wasn’t you, I recognized him!’
‘By his voice, right?’ He laughed, and held his left arm in front of his mouth, so that the sleeve muffled his voice. To her astonishment he said, in a Yorkshire accent, very like Gary’s: ‘Wayne, go away.’
The memory of that night flooded back -
this man after all, not Gary
. He hadn’t ejaculated then, either, had he? He just pulled out and hit me in the face.
More keenly she remembered the way her little son had fought back
.
A desperate surge of adrenalin rushed through her. Thank God Wayne was at school; but Katie was downstairs, and she was all they had, both of them.
‘Oh God, help me.’ She slumped down on the bed, making it look like a faint, though it wasn’t really, not yet. Her hair fell forwards over her face and she glanced quickly under it at the phone. Nine wasn’t at the bottom right, but the next one up. She leaned sideways and dropped her hand over the phone, as though accidentally, fumbling for balance.
‘But why?’ Her finger pressed 9 three times. ‘Why did you do that?’