18. Tentative cuts
It was clear to Savendra, as it was to Sarah, that the pathologist’s evidence was crucial in this case. If he couldn’t cast doubt on it, he might as well pack up and go home now. So he began by challenging the time Dr Tuchman had claimed Shelley could have survived with a bleeding artery.
‘Is it usual for people to survive for half an hour with a pierced artery?’
‘Not usual, no. As I said, half an hour is probably a maximum time.’
‘So what would be a minimum time?’
Dr Tuchman shrugged. ‘Five or ten minutes, maybe.’
‘Five or ten minutes?’ Sarah grimaced, and Savendra glanced down at her triumphantly. This was better than he had hoped. ‘That’s a big difference, Dr Tuchman, isn’t it? This morning you told my learned friend that she could have been lying in that bath for up to half an hour, but now you say she could have been there for only five or ten minutes. Which is right?’
‘I didn’t say that she was likely to have to have been there for five or ten minutes,’ the pathologist protested irritably. ‘I said that was a minimum time. Miss Walters clearly survived longer than that because she was still alive when the ambulance team arrived.’
‘So which is more normal? Five minutes, or half an hour?’
To Savendra’s satisfaction, the pathologist looked annoyed, even flustered. A quick glance at the jury confirmed that they were following the exchange with interest.
‘Somewhere in between, of course. The half hour figure would typically be for a large fat person with a slow heartbeat and a lot of blood.’
‘But Shelley Walters was a slim young woman. So presumably it would take less time for her to bleed to death. What would be the maximum time, for a girl of her age and condition?’
Dr Tuchman scowled at his young tormentor. ‘Fifteen, twenty minutes, perhaps. Unless of course the artery healed itself.’
‘Is that possible?’ Savendra looked stunned.
‘Certainly it’s possible, particularly when a small artery like the ulnar is pierced rather than severed, and where the blood flow is not aided by water.’
‘But ... that didn’t happen in this case, did it?’
‘The artery didn’t heal itself, no.’
‘Very well then.’ Savendra drew a deep sigh of relief, coupled with annoyance at this deliberate red herring. ‘Then since the artery did not heal itself, Dr Tuchman, this young woman would have bled to death in fifteen or twenty minutes. That’s your best guess, is it?’
‘That, young man, is my educated opinion.’
So far, so good, Savendra thought. For the next ten minutes he worked away at this point, dragging further damaging admissions from the elderly pathologist. The ambulance had arrived after seven minutes, so if Shelley could have died from blood loss fifteen minutes after David Kidd had cut her wrists, he would have had to leave the flat, walk to the shop, discuss football with the shopkeeper, buy olive oil and flowers, return from the shop, and ring 999 - all in under 8 minutes. Surely that was impossible?
‘I know nothing of that,’ Dr Tuchman answered stiffly. ‘As I said, she may well have survived longer. It is impossible to be sure.’
‘Quite.’ Savendra paused, to let the jury take this point in. He glanced down at Sarah, a faint smile playing round his lips as he anticipated her reaction to his next question.
‘Then let us turn to another issue, shall we? The tentative cuts. You told Mrs Newby that you found no tentative cuts on the victim’s wrists, which inclined you to regard this death as murder. But perhaps I could suggest another way of interpreting this evidence, Dr Tuchman.You also claim, do you not, that if this was suicide the wound to the left wrist would have been inflicted before the one to the right?’
‘Since this girl was right handed, yes.’
‘So isn’t it possible, doctor, that the wound to the left wrist - a much shallower, less fatal wound than the one to the right - is in itself the tentative cut you are looking for? Miss Walters had never cut herself before, so she cut her left wrist first, as you say, but didn’t really cut deep enough. It was only on her second attempt, to cut her right wrist, that she nerved herself to press hard enough to do lethal damage.’
Sarah groaned inwardly. It was a typical Savendra point - smart, unexpected, appearing to completely turn the tables on the expert witness - and therefore highly likely to delight any smart alecks and wise guys there might be among the younger jurors.
The pathologist sighed, making a conscious effort to balance his irritation with objectivity. ‘It is a remote possibility, I suppose. Very remote, in my view.’
Nonetheless, Sarah thought ruefully, the damage is done, another doubt lodged safely in the jurors’ minds. With Savendra on this sort of form, this trial may not be so easy after all.
Savendra moved on smoothly to his third point, the subcutaneous bruises on Shelley’s head and neck, which the pathologist had claimed were typical of someone being forcibly drowned. ‘These bruises to her head and neck which you mention. You cannot say that they were necessarily caused in the bath, can you?’
Dr Tuchman stared at him, surprised. ‘Not if you look at the bruises on their own. But ...’
‘Isn’t possible that they were caused before she entered the bath, doctor? In a previous argument of some kind?’
Dr Tuchman sighed, his commitment to objectivity fighting with his increasing dislike of this supercilious young barrister. ‘Possible, yes, if you consider them on their own. They could have been caused by an incident up to an hour before her death.’
‘Very well, so it’s also possible, isn’t it, that Mr Kidd may have taken a firm grip on her head and neck to restrain her during an argument which took place some time before she entered the bath. An argument which he admits did take place. If she resisted, his hands would have caused these subcutaneous bruises then, wouldn’t they?’
‘That’s a possible explanation, yes.’
Savendra paused, surveying the jury to make sure he had their full attention before his next, key question which, he hoped, would radically transform their view of what had happened in the flat and begin his client’s rehabilitation. The picture he was painting was ugly, but not as ugly as the one Sarah had offered.
‘So it’s perfectly possible, is it not, that the bruising was inflicted upon Ms Walters long before she entered the bath? And if that was the case, these bruises wouldn’t be evidence of a murder, would they?’
‘Not in that scenario, no.’
‘No.’ Savendra glanced at the jury, and was gratified to see they were following with rapt attention. ‘In your experience, Dr Tuchman, does it occasionally happen that a person commits suicide as a result of a bitter, perhaps violent argument with their lover? A person is so upset by the way they have been treated that they decide life is simply not worth living, and decide to kill themselves instead?’
‘As you yourself pointed out before, I am a pathologist, not a psychologist. I can tell you about the state of a person’s brain, but not the state of their mind.’
‘Very well, Dr Tuchman. Unlike Mrs Newby, I won’t ask you to extend your opinions beyond your proper sphere. But as I recall, you did tell Mrs Newby that ... ah, here it is ... suicide is not completely impossible. Is that still your opinion?’
‘I believe I did say that, yes. But taking all facts into account, the balance of probability suggests that it was murder. I also said that, young man.’
‘You did, Doctor, yes. And you said one other thing, Dr Tuchman, which I would like to ask you about. Here it is. “I regret that I cannot absolutely be certain. The longer you work in my field, the more you find that is true.” Do you recall saying that?’
‘I do, yes.’
‘Thank you. That is all.’
19. Priest
As the priest nervously took the oath, both lawyers saw that this witness had to be handled much more gently than the previous one. Dr Tuchman was a professional, used to speaking in open court, confident of his own opinion. Canon Rowlands, by contrast, was a church mouse. His speech was low and hesitant; his hands fluttered and frequently clutched the testament which the court clerk had thoughtfully left on the witness stand. Sarah led him kindly through his evidence about the quarrel he had heard in the flat below his on the day of Shelley’s death - a violent quarrel in which he had feared a woman was being hurt. But he had done nothing about it, and shortly afterwards, leaving for evensong in the Minster, he had met David Kidd on the stairs outside his flat.
‘If only I’d done something,’ he muttered repeatedly, glancing anxiously around the court as though in search of forgiveness, ‘that poor girl might still be alive today.’
His fluttering ineffectualness served Sarah’s case quite well. No juror, watching the priest give evidence, could fail to be convinced that the man was telling the truth as he saw it, or that he was seriously upset by his failure to prevent the crime which he had overheard. When Sarah sat down Savendra got to his feet thoughtfully. To appear to bully or intimidate this man, as he had done with the previous two witnesses, would be a disaster. Nonetheless, somehow he had to mitigate the damage his evidence had done.
‘Canon Rowlands, you are a man of God, and one of your trials, perhaps, is to live amongst sinners. You were David Kidd’s neighbour for over a year, you said - did you find that relationship difficult?’
‘With David? Yes, well, he was a very different person to me, certainly.’ A faint charitable smile accompanied the answer.
‘Yes. How did these differences show themselves?’
‘Well, he liked to play loud music sometimes, which I found trying. And then he had a lot of friends in, for parties and so on. Girls, often.’
‘And these people made a noise that you could hear through the floor, did they?’
‘Yes, that’s right. It could be quite disturbing.’ The priest nodded, grateful to see his difficulties understood.
‘Did he ever invite you to these parties?’
‘No.’ The priest smiled. ‘I wouldn’t ... it’s not my thing.’
‘I understand. But you could hear people talking and shouting through the floor and you imagined - you couldn’t help it after all - you often imagined what was going on?’
‘Yes, of course. The floor’s not very thick, unfortunately.’
‘Quite. But you’d never been in to his flat with his friends so you didn’t know for certain what they were doing, did you? You just had to guess.’
The priest’s hands fluttered uneasily, as he began to see where this was leading. ‘Well, yes I suppose that’s true, but I had a general idea.’
‘A general idea, perhaps. But it’s fair to say, isn’t it, that David Kidd and his friends lead very different lives to you? They have very different attitudes, different ways of behaving?’
‘Well yes, certainly.’
‘You wouldn’t shout at a woman, would you, Canon Rowlands?’
‘Oh no.’ The little man fluttered his hands in horror. ‘No, of course not. I never have. The whole idea, it’s ... awful. I detest violence.’
‘Yes, exactly.’ Savendra smiled in sympathy. ‘So when you heard these very distressing sounds which you have described to the court - a man and woman shouting at each other - you naturally imagined there was violence involved, didn’t you?’
‘Well, yes. It sounded like he was hitting her.’
‘So you say. Although in fact no bruises were found on her body, apart from those on her neck. None of the forensic evidence suggests that she had been hit. So do you accept that maybe you were wrong about that? You
imagined
he was hitting her, but in fact he wasn’t.’
‘Well, I ... I don’t know, do I? It sounded like that.’
‘Exactly. You don’t know. You couldn’t know, how could you? You heard something, and you used your imagination as anyone would in your position. Nothing wrong with that, Canon Rowlands. It’s all you could do, really.’
‘I could have gone in to help her,’ the priest insisted earnestly. ‘If I had she might still be alive today.’
‘Well, perhaps, yes,’ Savendra agreed patiently, wishing he had avoided that. ‘But we can’t really be sure of that, because we don’t know yet when or how she met her death. We are here to decide whether David Kidd killed her, or whether, as the defence say, she killed herself.’
Savendra paused, considering how wise it was to ask the next question he had jotted down on his pad. It might turn some people against him, but he felt he was already doing well with the younger men in the jury, and anything which might consolidate that position further was worth a try. ‘Now you told Mrs Newby that you heard one more sound from the flat, a little while after the quarrel ended. Could you describe that sound?’
‘Well, yes. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought it sounded like a laugh, perhaps. God forgive me. A strange laugh, but ... I couldn’t be sure.’
‘A laugh, or something different, I think you told my learned friend. Not like someone in pain.’
‘Yes. I think I said that.’
‘Could that
something different
have been the sound of a woman having a orgasm, perhaps, Canon Rowlands? The sound of pleasure, rather than pain?’
The little priest blushed bright red, and fumbled with the testament. ‘Well, I don’t know, it’s hard to say. I suppose it might have been that, yes.’
Savendra noted a few flickers of amusement on the lips of the younger jurors. ‘Did you continue to listen?’
‘Well, yes, but ... I mean, there was no more noise, so I hoped everything was all right, and began to get ready for evensong.’
‘How long did that take you?’
‘About ten, fifteen minutes, I suppose.’
‘And you didn’t hear any more noise in that time?’
‘Nothing unusual, no.’
‘Very well. Then when you left your flat you met Mr Kidd outside his flat with a bunch of flowers in his hand, didn’t you? How did he look at that time?’
‘I don’t know; a little nervous, perhaps. I think he was surprised to see me.’
‘But he wasn’t covered in blood, was he? You would have noticed that.’
‘No.’ The priest shook his head, surprised. ‘His clothes were quite clean.’
‘And they weren’t wet? He wasn’t wet with bath water?’
‘No. His clothes were clean and dry.’
Savendra paused, choosing his words carefully. This was his key point.
‘So when you saw him there was nothing to suggest to you that Mr Kidd had cut her wrists, as the prosecution allege, or drowned her before he went out? You didn’t imagine that had happened, did you? The idea never entered your mind?’
‘No. No, of course not.’
‘Was Mr Kidd sweating or shaking? Did he look upset, frightened or panic-stricken in any way? Like a man who has just committed a murder?’
‘No. He just looked a little nervous, that’s all. Because I’d seen him listening at the door.’
‘All right. So what you saw was a man in clean dry clothes, looking a little nervous, as any man might do, perhaps, if he’d just had a shouting match with his girlfriend, and carrying a bunch of flowers in his hand. Is that right?’
‘Yes. Yes, that’s what I saw.’
‘So is it fair to say that you imagined, from what you saw, that Shelley Walters was still alive inside the flat, and that David Kidd had bought the flowers in the hope of making things up with her, after the quarrel that you had overheard?’
‘Yes, I ... I suppose that
is
what I thought, yes. And so I went out to evensong. But if only I’d known ...’
‘But you couldn’t know what went on in the flat, could you, Canon Rowlands? You weren’t there. All you can tell us is what you actually saw and heard. And you’ve done that very fairly and well. Thank you.’
Savendra smiled politely, and sat down. As the priest left the witness stand Savendra thought he looked grateful, as though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders, and something was becoming clear to him at last.
Sarah’s next witness was Sandy Murphy, Shelley’s closest friend at university. She and her boyfriend knew David Kidd well - the couples had been on several dates together. Shelley, she said, had been besotted with David - hanging on his every word in a way that she, Sandy, had never liked. So she had been delighted when, a few days before her death, Shelley had come into Sandy’s room, distraught, saying David had deceived her and everything was over between them. She had found David in bed with a young woman called Lindsay. Not only were the pair naked in bed together - the bed she normally shared with David - but they had set up a camera on a tripod to record what they were doing. It was a porno film, David had explained, a new business venture Lindsay had thought of. In fact, it would be a brilliant idea if she, Shelley, joined in.
But Shelley hadn’t seen it like that, Sandy said. Instead of joining in, she had smashed the camera on the floor. A tremendous screaming row had then ensued, during which Shelley discovered that not only had this Lindsay lived with David until he had dumped her a year ago, but she had even had his child, for Christ’s sake! She lived in Liverpool, but had come over this afternoon with this idea of combining a reunion for old times’ sake with something she could sell on the internet.
The court listened to this tale, riveted, much as Sandy and Richard had in the university bedsit all those months ago. From time to time the jurors stole appalled glances at David, who sat back lounging in the dock with a faint smirk on his face like some yob from Big Brother who was proud of the whole episode.
After this, Sandy confirmed, Shelley saw her relationship with David as completely, definitely over. During the rest of that week she’d had a flurry of phone calls from David but her decision hadn’t changed; she’d even gone home for a night to her mother and confirmed that she was dumping him. The only reason she had gone round to the flat that Sunday was to return her key, collect her things, and bring it all to a final conclusion.
Savendra tried hard to challenge this story. Crucially, he established that Sandy knew about the psychiatric treatment Shelley had been having, although Sandy insisted that Shelley seemed perfectly normal and took her medication regularly. Sandy admitted that she and Richard had offered to accompany Shelley to the flat that Sunday to collect her things, but she had turned them down. She wanted to go on her own, she said.
So why was that? Savendra asked. If Shelley had really had no intention of staying, why not take her friends along for moral support? And anyway, what was the real value of these ‘things’ she had gone to collect?
One by one, Savendra held up the contents of Shelley’s bag for the jury. A blue satin nightie, a lacy bra and thong, three pairs of tights, a teeshirt, and a box of make-up containing a used lipstick, a powder puff and some eye liner. There were two novels by the Bronte sisters, and a copy of Cosmopolitan. The total cost, according to him, was £68.50. Surely, he suggested, she had no real need to go back for such items; they were just an excuse for her to see David on her own, one last time, to give the relationship one last try.
‘And then, when something went wrong, perhaps she had a further argument with him,’ he suggested. ‘A violent, emotional argument perhaps. And maybe she decided that this was all too much, and she simply didn’t want to live any more. She was so upset that she decided to take her own life. Isn’t that possible, Sandy?’
Firmly, Shelley’s friend Sandy denied it. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s not possible, Shelley wasn’t like that. She never spoke of suicide, and she didn’t love him any more, she hated him, that’s what she told me. Maybe those clothes weren’t worth much, but they were hers, and she wanted them back. That’s why she went there: to get her stuff back and show him she wasn’t afraid. And that’s why he killed her, I think. Because he couldn’t stand it when she told him what a scumbag he really was. That’s what I think happened. He killed her because she told him to get lost!’
Savendra sat down, having no further questions. As he did so, to his horror, he heard something like applause from the public gallery. Not for him, it seemed, but for the witness, Sandy. He twisted round in his seat, and saw Shelley’s mother and sister Miranda clapping their hands - softly, but loud enough to encourage Sandy, who smiled back at them through her tears. He turned back, to find Sarah Newby grinning at him in cruel sympathy.
‘Good try, Savvy,’ she murmured softly. ‘But I don’t think they buy it, do you?’