‘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 ...’