A Game of Proof (60 page)

‘All right, let’s examine the rest of your story, shall we? After you slapped her, as you say, you got into your car, and drove away to Scarborough, all on your own. Where you arrived in the middle of the night, with only seals to see you. Correct?’

‘The beach was empty, yeah.’

‘So again, we have only your word for this too. And you stayed there for over a week, without contacting anyone.’ Turner put a foot on the bench beside him, and scratched his ear, as though he were genuinely puzzled. ‘So remind me - why do you  claim you ran away?’

Simon turned to the jury, as though this was something he
did
expect them to believe. ‘After the quarrel with Jasmine, I was sick with the way she’d behaved. I couldn’t take it any more. I wanted to get away, try to forget about her, make a new start.’

‘You weren’t sick of the way you’d behaved yourself?’

‘Well, yeah, a bit. But she was teasing me, leading me on ...’

‘And that made you angry?’

‘Yeah.’

‘So when you went to Scarborough, did you contact anyone to tell them where you were? Your friends? Your parents? Your sister?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I wanted to be on my own.’

Turner scratched his head, rubbing a pencil under his wig. ‘But you weren’t angry with your friends or your family, were you? You were just angry with Jasmine?’

‘Yes.’

‘So why not ring someone and talk about it? Ring your friends, your sister, your mother here, your dad - tell them how she’d treated you, how you felt.’

Because my son’s not like that, Sarah thought. Probably most young men aren’t. As Phil Turner must know.

‘I don’t know. I was too angry. I didn’t want to talk.’

‘Jasmine had made you very angry then?’

‘Yes. But I didn’t kill her.’

‘Didn’t you?’ If there had been any shred of irony or amusement in Turner’s voice before, it had all drained away now. ‘I think that’s exactly what you
did
do, Simon. I suggest that your anger is the only true part of this whole story. Jasmine made you angry, all right. So angry that you couldn’t control yourself. So angry that you punched her in the face in the street, and called her a bitch. So angry that you went to the river path where you knew she walked; and there you waited for her, raped her, cut her throat, and dumped her poor dead body in the bushes. That was the result of your anger, wasn’t it?’

‘No.’

The courtroom was utterly silent, a hundred eyes focused directly on Simon.

‘After that you drove to Scarborough because you wanted to hide, to escape from this horrible thing that you’d done. And the reason you didn’t phone your family or friends wasn’t because you were still angry as you say. It was because your anger had turned to guilt and fear that you would be found out.  That’s the real truth, isn’t it, Simon?’

‘No, it’s not. You’ve just twisted it all. I didn’t kill her. I didn’t even know she was dead until the police told me.’

Thank God, Sarah thought, he’s not displaying any anger now. He’s past anger, the moment is too serious. He’s cold and certain and staring his enemy in the eye.

‘Didn’t you? And yet your first response to the police, your very first response, was to lie. Not to show grief about this girl you say you loved, but to try to save your own wretched skin. That’s the truth, isn’t it, Simon? You lied because you knew you were guilty.’

‘I did show grief. I loved her. You don’t understand that.’

‘But you killed her.’

‘No.’

‘The evidence of her body says you killed her, Simon. Dead people don’t lie.’

‘Someone killed her all right, but it wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.’

‘Oh yes, you did, Simon.’

‘No.’

Turner sat down. The court was silent. The judge glanced at Sarah, who rose to her feet.

‘That concludes the evidence for the defence, My Lord.’

Simon had resisted as well as he could. There was nothing she could ask him that would improve matters, no further witness she was allowed to offer. Now everything would rest on the speeches from the lawyers.

‘Very well. Mr Newby, you may return to the dock, if you will.’

As Simon walked past Sarah smiled at him encouragingly. The smile was partly for him, and partly for the jury. If you act as though you’ve won, people sometimes believe that you have.

Chapter Forty-One

I
T SEEMED ironic that it was such a beautiful morning. Sarah sat in bed at half past six, nursing a cup of tea and staring out at a clear blue autumn sky with wispy cirrus clouds high above. The river meadows were blanketed with silver mist, rising in wispy tendrils as the sun began to burn it off. A heron flapped lazily by, in search of its favourite fishing spot.

For Sarah, there was no comfort in any of it. As she got up, showered, and dressed her mind was running through her speech, as it had nearly all night. In her dreams the judge had dangled a hangmen’s noose with a ten year old Simon choking in it. The judge swung him to and fro as she stumbled and forgot her words.

Well, that’s all rubbish, she told herself briskly. It’s the jury that matters, anyway.

Bob groaned and sat up. ‘How do you feel?’ he asked blearily.

‘Tense. On edge. Fighting fit.’ She smiled at him in the mirror as she applied her lipstick.

‘You’ll do your best. You always do.’

‘Yep,’ she agreed. ‘That’s me.’ It was like the day of her law finals, only ten times worse.  The butterflies in her stomach were fighting the battle of Britain. She pulled on her motorcycle leathers. ‘Wish me luck?’

‘Yes ... sure.’ His hesitation hurt. ‘May the jury make the right decision.’

‘They will, Bob. They will.’ Her eyes fierce and determined, she walked out into the beautiful, misty morning.

Terry’s daughters were asleep when he left home that morning. Trude would take them to school. He reached the building site at half past seven. It looked as if the eco-warriors had been defeated. Most of the trees had gone; there were big yellow machines and concrete foundations everywhere. The site manager met them at the gate, and Terry parked the car just inside. Terry and  Harry accompanied him into the warmth of his office.

‘You can sit by that window,’ the man said, handing them tea in polystyrene cups. ‘Anyway he’ll come in here first to punch his card. So you’re bound to see him, aren’t you?’

‘Let’s hope so,’ said Terry, peering out through the grimy, wire-covered glass. ‘We’ve been waiting long enough, after all.’

In the prison van, Simon sat in a tiny, claustrophobic cubicle. He hated it. Sometimes he felt his head would burst from the pressure of confinement.

But this would be his life, if he lost today. Confined for up to twenty hours a day in a room as big as a bathroom. And the nature of his crime would make it worse. Already he had been taunted and jostled by remand prisoners who knew what he was accused of, and being defended by his mother made things worse. If he was convicted, he could expect razor blades and excrement in his stew, beatings and rape in the shower. He would be on the special wing with paedophiles, rapists and other sex criminals, and if there was a prison riot - well, he would be one of the first targets.

Outside, the sun was burning the mists off the fields. He watched the cars and houses and people go by, as if they were in a foreign country.

Tracy Litherland sat in her car, fifteen yards from Gary Harker’s front door. Terry had chosen her for this because she, unlike most of her colleagues, had no connection with Gary. She recognised him from the photographs but he, she hoped, was unlikely to recognise her. He would just see a woman in a car reading the
Daily Mail.

Tracy feared that her car - a shiny blue Clio of which she was inordinately proud - might attract more attention. The car in front was a ten-year-old Sierra, the white van directly outside Harker’s door had a wing rotten with rust. Several people - a mother with a baby, two young boys playing football - had already peered inquisitively through her window.

And then, quite suddenly, Gary came out. He got straight into the white van, and drove away. Tracy began to follow him. It was probably pointless, she thought - he would go to work and that would be it. But Terry had insisted that they cover all angles and she, for once, had got the duff job. Ah well ...

She kept the white van in view along the Fulford Road. It crossed the river by Skeldergate Bridge and headed into the warren of little streets by the Knavesmire. Tracy’s interest began to rise. Surely he didn’t work here? But she dared not get too close. She stayed back, and nearly lost him when he took a sharp turn down a back alley between the houses, designed for Victorian nightsoil men. If she followed down there he would definitely see her. But maybe ...

She made a guess, turned left, and got stuck behind a bread van double parked outside a shop. She hooted her horn relentlessly until it moved, then turned left again into a street parallel to the one she had left. No white van. Damn! Where could he have gone? Sweating, she drove slowly along the street. Nothing. Then, in her rear view mirror, she saw the van pull out of the alley into the street behind her. Now
he
was following
her
.

Or rather
they
. As the van stopped behind her at a T junction she saw two men in it. Staring directly at her. She studied them in the mirror. The man in the passenger seat turned to talk to Gary, and as he did so the sun lit his face clearly. That was him, surely -
Sean
, the man in the photofit! The shock paralysed Tracy so she didn’t notice that the road was clear ahead. Gary hooted irritably.

Damn! Now I’ve really got their attention. Quickly, she pulled out into the main road. The white van followed close behind her.

Lucy adjusted Simon’s tie critically. ‘Not too bad. You look like a pop star.’

‘A star with a prison record,’ he muttered morosely. ‘Great.’

‘Come on, think positive.’ she smiled encouragingly ‘You may be free tonight.’

‘Do you think so? Really?’

Long experience had taught Lucy the raw earnestness of questions at a time like this. Simon was watching her intently as though a twitch of her mouth could determine his fate for ever. Her opinion was all he had, a liferaft in the storm. She smiled firmly.

‘I think you have a chance, yes. Your mother’s done a good job and you held up well against Turner yesterday. The jury must have some doubts.’

‘Some doubts. That won’t be enough.’

‘It should be, if they play by the rules. But no one knows what goes on in the jury room, unfortunately. We’re not allowed to ask.’

‘There are some wicked old bats in the jury. That cow with the necklace hates my guts.’

‘Well, whatever you do, don’t scowl at her. Try to look innocent and unthreatening.’

‘Yeah, sure. Oh Jesus!’ He shook his head anxiously. ‘There’s one thing I should have said yesterday, but it never came out.’

‘What was that?’

‘That if ... if they do get it wrong and convict me, then the guy who murdered her will still be free, won’t he? He could do it again!’

Time passed. Nearly forty men had come into the portacabin to punch their cards before going out to start up the massive machines. Several had glanced curiously at Terry and Harry watching by the window, empty polystyrene cups in front of them. But no Sean.

He’ll come soon, Terry told himself, he must have just overslept. Nonetheless, as the flood of new arrivals slowed to a trickle, he began to feel not only conspicuous but foolish.

‘You sure he starts today?’ Harry asked the site manager, at his grimy desk.

‘That’s what he said.’ The man shrugged apologetically. ‘Maybe he’s got a better offer, gone racing, or just overslept. Who knows? For a lot of lads like him, work’s just an unwelcome interlude in a life of idle pleasure.’

‘Has anyone else not come in?’ asked Terry, peering at the rack of punchcards irritably.

‘A few.’ The man pulled out the unpunched cards. Adams ... Greer ... Harker, again ...’

‘Let me see that!’ Terry took the car, which confirmed exactly what he had feared: Gary worked here! Gary, who knew they were looking for Sean! And
he
was missing today, too ...

‘What does Harker do here?’

‘Labouring, mostly. Laying concrete.’

‘Could he have overheard you when I phoned yesterday?’

‘No, of course not. I was in the office!’

‘I hope so.’ Terry waved the card in his face. ‘Because this man Harker ...’

At that moment Terry’s mobile rang. Tracy spoke in his ear.

In most of Sarah’s cases, there had been a camaraderie between the barristers on either side. This was something that was frequently resented by clients but well understood at the Bar. Barristers were rivals, certainly, but not enemies. Friendly banter between them gave a veneer of civility to the contest.

But not now. Objectively, Sarah recognized that Phil Turner was a capable, honest man, good at his job and probably excellent company for his friends. All this simply made her fear him. If only he could have been smarmy, arrogant, callous - anything to make the jury distrust him. But he wasn’t. He was an excellent prosecutor with a decent, down-to-earth manner that no juror could fail to like. He terrified her.

Recognizing this, Turner treated her with studious, distant politeness. They sat at the same large table in the well of the court, a frozen wall of silence between them.

He rose to face the jury for the last time, his ancient wig askew as always, and the court settled back comfortably to listen. Sarah shuddered. The man was too good, too reassuring, too dangerous. She folded her arms over the tumultuous butterflies in her stomach, and glared at him.

‘Members of the jury, as I said at the start of this trial, it is my job to convince you, beyond all reasonable doubt, that Simon Newby is guilty of this murder. And as I said then, if after listening to all the evidence you still have doubts, then Simon must get the benefit of them. If you’re not sure, then you must find him innocent. You must only find him guilty if you are absolutely convinced, in your own minds, that he did commit this terrible crime.’