Innocent Graves

by Peter Robinson

  Tasker nodded. “The DNA extracted from the dried bloodstain on Mr. Pierce’s anorak was fifty million times more likely to be hers than anyone else’s, and the DNA taken from the tissue sample discovered under the victim’s fingernail was fifty million times more likely to be Owen Pierce’s than anyone else’s. All we can say is how rare such a result is compared to the rest of the population.”

  “Still,” smiled Shirley Castle. “Those are impressive odds, aren’t they?”

  “Oh, yes.” Tasker beamed. “I certainly wouldn’t bet against them.”

  “Almost beyond a shadow of a doubt,” Shirley Castle said, “And that is, after all, what this is all about, isn’t it? However, Dr. Tasker, there are one or two points you might be able to clarify for me.”

  Owen swore that Tasker almost flushed with pleasure. “Of course. It would be a pleasure.”

  Shirley Castle acknowledged the compliment with a slight tilt of her head. “How much of Deborah Harrison’s blood did you find on my client’s anorak?”

  “A small amount.”

  “Could you please give the court some sense of how much that might be?”

  Tasker smiled. “Well, not a great deal. But enough for polymerase chain reaction analysis, as I described earlier.”

  “Yes, but how much? A thimble full?”

  “Oh, good heavens, no, not that much.”

  “As much, then, as might smear from a small cut or scratch?”

  “Mmm. About that, yes.”

  “A pinprick?”

  “Possibly.”

  “In other words, a spot of blood about the size of a pinhead. Am I right?”

  “Perhaps a little bigger than-”

  “Approximately the size of a pinhead?”

  “I suppose so. About that, yes. But, as I said-”

  “Now the court has already heard Dr. Glendenning testify that there was a small scratch beside Deborah Harrison’s left eye. Is this the kind of wound that might produce a similar amount of blood if some fabric brushed against it?”

  Tasker shifted in his seat. “Well, I didn’t see the scratch so I can’t say for certain, but it was a small amount, definitely commensurate with a minor injury such as the one you describe.”

  “Where did you find this blood?”

  “On the accused’s anorak.”

  “Where on the accused’s anorak?”

  “On the left arm. Near the shoulder.”

  “Now we have already heard that Deborah Harrison was five foot six inches tall and Owen Pierce is six foot two. Would this put Deborah Harrison’s left eye in the region of his upper arm?”

  Tasker shrugged. “I suppose so. I couldn’t say exactly.”

  “If Your Honor would allow me,” Shirley Castle addressed Judge Simmonds, “I would like the opportunity to demonstrate to the court that this is, in fact, so.”

  Owen could see her holding her breath. Most judges, she had told him, hate anything that smacks overly of theatrics. She must, however, have convinced him that she was following an important line of questioning, because he granted his permission after hardly any hesitation at all.

  It was a simple enough thing to do. A man and a young girl were brought in-where Shirley had found them, Owen had no idea-the girl markedly shorter than the man. They were officially measured at five foot six and six foot two, then stood side by side. The girl’s eye came level with the upper part of the man’s arm. Shirley Castle thanked them and continued.

  “Was that the only blood you discovered on my client’s clothing?”

  “Yes.”

  Shirley Castle called for Owen’s anorak to be shown to the jury. One feature, she pointed out, was the zippered pocket at the outside top of the sleeve. “Did you, Dr. Tasker, find any of the girl’s blood on or around this zip?”

  “Yes. In the vicinity.”

  “Could you elaborate?”

  “It was right at the end of the zip, actually.”

  “Would you point to the spot on the exhibit, please?”

  Tasker did so.

  “The edge of the metal teeth is fairly sharp there,” Shirley Castle went on. “Does that not indicate to you that the girl may have scraped her cheek on the zip when she collided with Mr. Pierce after running backwards in the fog?”

  “It could have got there in any number of ways.”

  “But it could have got there in the way I suggest?”

  “Yes, but-”

  “And that was all the blood you found?”

  “I’ve already said that. I-”

  “Not very much, is it?”

  “As I said, it was enough for PCR analysis.”

  “Ah, yes: PCR, STR, DNA, ‘genetic fingerprinting.’ Magic words, these days. And what does that prove, Dr. Tasker?”

  “That the blood on the defendant’s anorak is fifty million times-”

  “Yes, yes. We’ve already been through all that, haven’t we? But the defense has never denied that it is Deborah Harrison’s blood. She bumped into my client and scratched herself on the zip of his anorak. Would you admit that the amount and location of the blood you found bear out that explanation?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You suppose so. Did you find any traces of blood on the cuffs of the anorak?”

  “No.”

  “Wouldn’t you expect to if the victim were bleeding from the nose as the accused strangled her?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “So he might be expected to get blood on his cuff if he did indeed strangle her from behind with the satchel strap?”

  “Well, it’s possible, yes, but-”

  “And did you find any blood lower down his sleeve?”

  “No. But she could have twisted side-”

  “Thank you, Dr. Tasker. You have answered my question. Now, given the life-and-death struggle that must have taken place, it would have been difficult to avoid some close contact, wouldn’t it?”

  “Presumably.”

  “And did you test the rest of anorak for blood?”

  “Yes. We carried out a thorough examination.”

  “But you found no blood other than this infinitesimal amount high on the sleeve, at the edge of the metal teeth on the zip?”

  “No.”

  The infatuation seemed to be on the wane, Owen noticed. Tasker didn’t even want to look Shirley Castle in the eye now. Owen glanced over at “Minerva,” who was regarding the doctor sternly. No more would she believe the “scientific tests have proved” commercials, if, indeed, she ever had.

  “Dr. Tasker, do you know where Deborah Harrison’s hairs-what we have since learned only might in fact be Deborah Harrison’s hairs-were found on Mr. Pierce’s anorak?”

  “No, that’s not my-”

  “Then let me tell you. They were found on the upper left arm and on the upper left arm only. In fact, all three of her hairs were found in the teeth of Mr. Pierce’s zip, by the pinpoint bloodstain. What do you have to say to that?”

  “I don’t know. It’s not my field.”

  “Not your field? But would you not say it’s consistent with the scenario I just outlined for you? A minor collision?”

  “I have already agreed that is a possible explanation.”

  “How much blood and skin did you find under the victim’s fingernail?”

  “A small amount. But enough for-”

  “Consistent with what might be deposited from a light scratch?”

  “Yes.”

  “If Deborah Harrison had been fighting for her life, wouldn’t you have expected to find more, in your professional judgment?”

  “Possibly. But again, it’s not my-”

  “I understand that, Dr. Tasker. But we can’t have it both ways, can we? Either she did get the opportunity to defend herself by scratching, in which case she came away with a pitiful amount of skin, or she didn’t. Which is it to be, in your opinion?”

  Owen saw Lawrence on the verge of an objection, but he seemed to think better of it and sank down aga
in.

  “It could have been just a lucky strike,” said Tasker. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know. Very well. Would you at least agree that the presence of a small amount of Mr. Pierce’s skin under one of her fingernails could have got there during a minor collision, if she put out her hand to steady herself?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then would you also agree that it is possible that Deborah Harrison’s killer could have been someone other than my client?”

  “Objection!”

  “Overruled, Mr. Lawrence. Witness will please answer the question.”

  Tasker fiddled with his tie. “Well, theoretically, yes. Of course,” he gave a nervous titter. “I mean, theoretically, anything’s possible. I wasn’t there, I can’t tell you exactly what happened. The DNA was a good match to the defendant’s, so he can’t be excluded.”

  “I submit that the DNA match is irrelevant. Is your answer to my question yes?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  Shirley Castle turned to the judge and threw her hands in the air. “Your Honor,” she said, “I find myself exasperated that the prosecution’s case is based on so little and such flimsy evidence. No further questions.”

  For the first time, Jerome Lawrence stood up to reexamine. It must be because it’s his last witness, Owen thought. He wants to leave a positive impression.

  “Just two questions, Dr. Tasker,” he said. “You are fully aware of the nature of the crime, the nature of the victim’s injuries. Would you say, in your expert opinion, that the amounts of the victim’s blood left on the accused’s clothing were in any way too little for him to have committed such a crime?”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” said Tasker.

  “And could the exchange of blood and tissue have taken place during a struggle for her life?”

  “Indeed it could.”

  Jerome Lawrence gave an oily bow. “Thank you very much, Dr. Tasker.”

  Chapter 12

  I

  Nothing could have prepared Owen for the shock of seeing Michelle sitting in the gallery when he glanced nervously around the courtroom before going into the witness-box.

  His heart thudded against his ribcage. He felt as if a large bird had somehow found its way inside him and was scratching and plucking at his chest and throat, beating its wings, trying to get out. She was still beautiful; she still had the power to make his heart ache and yearn.

  If anything, Owen thought, Michelle looked even younger than she had when they had been together: about fifteen or sixteen. She wore no make-up to mar her delicate, alabaster complexion, a maroon blazer and a simple white blouse, very much like the St. Mary’s school uniform.

  Her blonde hair-the same color and length as Deborah Harrison’s-hung over her shoulders in exactly the same way Deborah’s had in the newspaper photographs. Her lips, the color of the inside of a strawberry, were fixed in a childish pout. And the implication of innocence and immaturity permeated her entire bearing. Owen wondered if people knew who she was. She was sitting next to a man he had seen there often before: a reporter, Owen thought.

  He tried to avoid looking at her. Why was she here? Had the Crown lured her in to upset him? He had already realized that he was participating in a drama, a theatrical event more than anything else, and that the awards would be handed out in a few days’ time. Did Michelle have a part to play, too? She wasn’t going into the box-Shirley Castle had taken care of that-so what was she doing in court?

  He was so distracted by her presence that he didn’t hear Shirley Castle calling him to give evidence at first, then the judge called him to the box.

  Shirley Castle spent more than a day taking him through the events of that fateful Monday in November, as smoothly as she had before in the interview room near his cell. He felt calm as he spoke, and he hoped the jury wouldn’t interpret this as lack of emotion.

  “Minerva,” as far as he could tell, listened to him objectively, a slight furrow of concentration in her brow. Most of the others, he noticed, appeared to be paying attention too, but a couple had disbelieving sneers etched around their lips-that “come on, tell us another one” look he had become so adept at perceiving of late. Occasionally, he sneaked a glance at Michelle. Once in a while she turned and spoke behind her hand to the reporter next to her.

  The next day, after Shirley Castle had finished eliciting a reasonable and believable account of events from Owen, or so he thought, Jerome Lawrence dragged himself to his feet. “There hardly seems any point,” Lawrence’s weary, long-suffering movements seemed to be saying, “in bothering with this, as you and I know he’s guilty, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, but duty demands we go through the motions.” Owen looked at the gallery and saw Michelle was in court again.

  Lawrence asked what seemed a lot of dull questions for most of the morning, and after lunch he finally began to zoom in on the crime. “Mr. Pierce,” he said, “you have told the jury that between the hours of about six and six-thirty on November 6 last year, you simply walked around the area of St. Mary’s, Eastvale, in the fog, and stood on the bridge for some time. Is this so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you intoxicated, Mr. Pierce?”

  “Not at all.”

  “You drank, let me see, two pints of beer and a double Scotch at the Nag’s Head, is that right?”

  Owen shrugged. “I think so.”

  “And you weren’t intoxicated?”

  “I’m not saying I didn’t feel the effects at all, just that I was perfectly in control. And I was walking, not driving.”

  “You had more to drink later, didn’t you, at the Peking Moon?”

  “Yes. With a large meal.”

  “Indeed. And can you tell the court why you spent so long standing on the bridge before a fine view that you couldn’t possibly see because of the thick fog?”

  “I don’t know, really. It was just what I felt like doing. I had one or two problems to mull over and I find fog helps contemplation.”

  “What problems were these?”

  Owen saw Shirley Castle making discreet warning signals. He looked Michelle in the eye. “Personal matters. Of no relevance.”

  “I see. And was it this same personal matter that led you to drink so much?”

  “I didn’t drink a lot. I’ve already told you, I wasn’t drunk.”

  “And led you to hide yourself away in the corner of a restaurant and mutter to yourself?”

  Owen felt himself flush with embarrassment. “That’s just a habit, like when I’m adding up. I’ve always done it. Sometimes a thought just comes out loud, that’s all. I forget that there are people around. It doesn’t make me a maniac. Or a murderer.”

  “Are you sure you weren’t muttering in the Peking Moon about what you’d just done? Murdered Deborah Harrison?”

  “Of course not. That’s totally absurd. I was just reasoning with myself, to calm down.”

  “Calm down?” There was no missing the verbal underlining in that repetition. “Why did you feel the need to calm down, Mr. Pierce? What made you so agitated in the first place.”

  “I wasn’t agitated. There’s a difference between being a little melancholy and being agitated, isn’t there? I mean-”

  “Would you please stick to answering my questions?” Lawrence butted in. “If I need lessons in the English language, believe me, I shall ask for them.”

  “I’m the one in the dock, aren’t I? Why shouldn’t my opinion count? You’ve asked everyone else’s, haven’t you? Why should I let you get away with distorting the meaning-”

  “Mr. Pierce,” Judge Simmonds grumbled. “Please answer Mr. Lawrence’s questions as directly and as clearly as you can.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor,” said Owen. He turned back to Lawrence. “The answer is no. I wasn’t agitated; I was melancholy.”

  “Is it not true that you were upset and dejected about your break-up with a young lady some-”
>
  “Objection!”

  “Sustained. Mr. Lawrence!”

  “I apologize, Your Honor.”

  What the hell was that little skirmish about? Owen wondered, his heart jumping. He glanced at Michelle again. Lawrence was trying it on; he knew damn well that evidence had been ruled inadmissible. The bastard was trying to slip it in regardless. He thanked his lucky stars Shirley Castle was so quick. Still, something had been lodged with the jury, no matter how much the judge might tell them to disregard it. He looked at “Minerva.” She seemed puzzled. Owen’s breath came a little quicker.

  “Let us, then, move on to the scientific evidence,” Lawrence continued. “You don’t deny that Deborah Harrison’s hair and blood were found on your clothing?”

  “It’s not for me to accept or deny,” Owen said. “I’m not a scientist. If your experts have identified these things, that’s their business.”

  “And when faced with this fact by Detective Chief Inspector Banks, you gave him some story about bumping into the girl. Is this true?”

  It was plain enough that Lawrence intended “cock and bull” to come before “story.”

  “I didn’t bump into her,” Owen said. “She bumped into me as I was turning from the wall.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “I would answer it if it were correctly posed.”

  Lawrence sighed and made a long-suffering gesture to the jury. “Very well, then, Mr. Pierce. You told the police that the girl bumped into you. Is this correct?”

  “I told them exactly what happened.”

  “Why didn’t you tell them earlier?”

  “It didn’t seem important.”

  “Come on, Mr. Pierce, the police had already told you how important everything that happened that day was the second time they interviewed you. You knew you were in a serious situation. Why didn’t you tell them earlier?”

  “I’ve already told you. I didn’t tell them about the time I had to bend down and refasten my left shoelace, either, or about stopping at the newsagent’s for an evening paper, which, by the way, they didn’t have. It just didn’t seem important.”

  “Yet you remembered it well enough later. In fact, as soon as you were challenged with evidence of your physical contact with the victim, you suddenly came up with an explanation.” Lawrence laughed and flapped like a bat. “As if by magic. Really, Mr. Pierce. Do you expect the court to believe that?”