by Jane Isaac
The judge gave Sheldon a hard stare. “Overruled. The witness is a highly experienced officer. His experience on this point is relevant for the court.”
Jackman knew exactly where this was leading. “There was only one wound,” he said, “the knife was still in situ. Most stabbing victims have a number of wounds.”
“Was this not questioned?”
“It was. And we relied upon the expertise of our pathologist.”
Chapter Sixty-Nine
By day four, the lack of sleep was starting to take its toll. The night before, a new prisoner had spent almost half the night intermittently banging the door of her cell, demanding to see the governor. Grace’s head had ached from the minute she’d landed in the courtroom, only to find that the trial had been delayed, the first hour taken up with a legal argument. During these moments the court was emptied, leaving only the legal teams, the clerk and the judge present. Jane Barrington later advised her that the discussions were to do with the admissibility of evidence regarding the knife wound, but the extra hour in her cell did nothing to calm her frayed nerves.
By the time they were all back and ready to begin, it was almost midday.
Sheldon lingered over Barnes’ credentials as he introduced himself and shared them with the courtroom. He was making a point that he was a highly decorated and respected expert in his field of criminal profiling, with a special interest in personality disorders, and the court couldn’t have failed to note the significance.
“I understand you have studied Faye Campbell’s medical records, the statements in the case?” Sheldon said. “What did you deduce?”
“A pattern of behaviour indicating that Faye Campbell was a high functioning sociopath. Considering her background and the police intelligence, my theory is that she met Jo, made the connection with Grace’s family, decided to seek her out, befriend her and subsequently harm her.”
“Why murder her daughter?”
“Grief makes people vulnerable. They are much easier to manipulate when they are vulnerable.”
“In your experience, what would be the expected reaction of a rational person, somebody like Grace for instance, when they discovered a close friend killed their daughter?”
“Anger. Frustration. Naturally she’d feel betrayed.”
“Enough to motivate her to kill?”
“In the right circumstances, possibly enough to motivate anyone to kill.”
“No further questions, Your Honour.”
***
Eleanor waited for the shuffles of the court to settle before she opened her line of questioning.
“Mr Barnes, did you meet Ms Campbell?”
“Not in person, no.”
“But you’ve examined the statements in the case, her medical records?”
“Yes.”
“And you’ve examined the circumstances of the case, are familiar with how she died?”
“Yes.”
“Is it possible, therefore, that she could have inflicted the wound on herself?”
“Cases of suicide by stabbing are incredibly rare,” Barnes said. “The person would need to be strong, not only physically but also mentally to carry out something like that.”
“Thank you. You wrote a profile for Operation Ascott and Jo Lamborne’s murderer, did you not, in November of last year?”
“I did.”
“In your profile, you clearly suggested that Jo Lamborne’s offender was male. Directed police to look for men that fit into certain categories. Why is that?”
“The sexual motive in the case, the way that the women were attacked, suggested a male offender. But people with Faye’s condition usually have an exceptionally high IQ. She was single-minded, meticulous in her planning and this was the perfect foil to send the police in a different direction. We now know she’d read about the Oliver Turner case, copied the details as much as possible. Eugenie Trentwood was her practise run, before the main event.”
“Objection, Your Honour,” Sheldon stood as he spoke. “Faye Campbell is not on trial here.”
“Sustained.” The judge turned to Eleanor. “Keep to the current case, please.”
“Of course, Your Honour.” She turned back to the witness. “Mr Barnes, in your report you described Faye Campbell as single-minded, somebody who would perhaps stop at nothing to achieve her goals. In your opinion, would she be capable of killing herself in this manner?”
“I can only speak for her mental state. Her personality disorder makes her extraordinary in that respect. She was ruthless. And if her goal was to make Grace suffer, put her behind bars, away from the family she lived for, then it’s possible that she may have been psychologically capable of that.”
“No further questions, Your Honour.”
***
The afternoon opened with renewed vigour. Sheldon read out the statement made by the woman who’d helped Grace in the park when Lucky was injured. It was short, to the point. She mentioned how she’d remarked on what sort of person would injure a dog in that manner, and Grace’s response, ‘They don’t deserve to live.’ Grace blanched. It was a passing comment, fuelled by anger.
Sheldon followed with the introduction of another witness to the stand. Grace squinted as a young woman in tight denims strolled into the courtroom. She didn’t recognise her.
“For the purposes of the court,” Sheldon gestured towards the jury, as if only he and they were present. “Can you identify yourself?”
“My name is Rose Hunter. I live in the flat next door to Faye Campbell’s.”
“Thank you. And how long have you been Ms Campbell’s neighbour?”
“Almost two and a half years.”
“How would you describe your relationship?”
“Faye kept herself to herself. I saw her on the balcony a few times, we nodded, said hello.”
“Had you ever been in her flat?”
“No.”
“Could you explain to the court what you saw on the evening of the 11th of January.”
“I was watching the end of the news in my front room, just thinking about going to bed when a figure walked past. She turned and looked in. Gave me quite a fright to be honest.” She turned to the judge briefly. “I don’t tend to draw my curtains because we are on the first floor, and overlook the park.
“I heard the knocker on Faye’s door immediately afterwards and closed my curtains, in case her visitor made the same route back. A few minutes later there were raised voices. I couldn’t make out the words but somebody was clearly agitated. Then it all went quiet. The front door banged shut soon afterwards.”
“Could you tell if those arguing were male or female by their voices?”
“It sounded like they were both female.”
“What time did the figure walk past your window?”
“The news was just finishing, so I guess it was around 10.30pm.”
“And what time did they leave.”
“Around ten minutes later.”
“Around?”
“I didn’t look at the clock. But enough time for me to go into the bedroom and get changed for bed.”
“Did you see or hear anyone else visit the flat that evening, or earlier perhaps?”
“No. I was out shopping in the daytime though. I returned home just after 6pm.”
“One final question, if I may? Did you undertake the police formal identification process in order to pick out the person you saw attending Faye’s flat that night?”
“I did.”
“Thank you. My learned friend may have some questions for you now.” Sheldon looked pleased as he excused himself and sat.
It was moment before Eleanor rose. “Miss Hunter,” she finally said. “Can you explain the layout of your flats?”
“Yes. We are a row above a bank of shops on Western Avenue.”
“And the access points?”
“There are two stone staircases, one at either end.”
“Two? So, if somebody had approached Faye Campbe
ll’s flat from the staircase at the opposite side to your flat, they wouldn’t have to pass your window?”
The witness shifted position. “No. But I only heard one knock, followed by raised voices. And they were female voices.”
“If you could just answer the questions you are asked, thank you. So, it’s conceivable the person you thought was Grace could have walked past the entrance to Faye’s flat and down the other staircase, and somebody else knocked and entered?”
“No, I heard her voice.”
“Did you actually see the women arguing?”
“No.”
“Have you heard the defendant speak before?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know whose voice you heard?”
The witness cleared her throat.
“Had you ever met Grace Daniels before you saw her that evening?”
“No, never.”
“You’d never seen her before?”
A head shake. The judge leant forward. “Could you voice your answer for the court please?”
“No.”
“Thank you. Can I draw the witness’s attention to Exhibit BRO138A, a newspaper article written about Grace losing her daughter, featuring a family photograph. According to the Leicester Herald, this article received over 42,000 hits online, was printed in their weekly newspaper and circulated to around 10,000 homes. Are you telling me that you didn’t see it?”
The court clerk passed the article to the witness. She gave a fleeting glance. “No.”
“I put it to you that the person you saw that evening wasn’t in fact the defendant. That you saw someone who fitted Grace’s description, had seen the photo in the newspaper and thought it was her.”
Grace’s cheeks burned as Rose Hunter’s eyes bore into her. “It was her. I’m sure of it.”
***
After the witness was released, Detective Jackman was called back to the dock and asked to read a transcript of Grace’s police interview. Grace sat uncomfortably as the interview was read verbatim, the detective reading his parts and Sheldon, hers. It was Friday afternoon. The jury were waning. The questions and answers were wooden. This was the interview that led to Grace’s charge and Sheldon clearly wanted to leave them with a powerful message for the weekend.
As soon as they finished the judge checked his watch. It was 3.10pm. He told the jury they were free to go until Monday morning when they would resume. Reminded them that they should discuss the case with no one.
Grace watched their faces relax. It had been a heavy week. They were ready to go home and rest into the cushions on their sofas. Maybe they’d watch television tonight, moan at the adverts between the programmes, or maybe their partner would cook them a meal and they’d share a bottle of wine. She watched them longingly as they filed out of the court.
Chapter Seventy
“All rise for the judge.”
Grace stood and watched as Judge Browning entered the court with the weariness of a Monday morning. Without looking up, he thanked everyone, sat and opened his laptop while they settled into their seats. His face was slightly tanned and Grace wondered what sort of weekend he’d had. Perhaps he’d been to a garden party, or had a round of golf.
It had been a long, hot August. Grace could only imagine the array of colours decorating the gardens across the country. The cold brick buildings of Holloway were surrounded by concrete recreational areas, covered in wire mesh to stop prisoners throwing packages to those below, the view out of her cell window providing her only fix of greenery. At Peterborough, her window faced a brick wall.
Back in prison, the suspicious stares and whispers on Saturday followed Grace. There was none of the camaraderie of Holloway, none of the kindness of women. She ignored the wary glances, sat alone for dinner, spent recreation time in her cell. It was almost a relief when a disturbance on the remand wing put them in lockdown on Sunday. The heat levels were suffocating in the enclosed area and without her possessions, no books or magazines to read, the boredom had given way to anxiety. The case rolled around in her head. More than anything, she wanted it over, decided. Some sort of end to this hell.
It seemed to take forever for the court to proceed that morning. Eleanor was consulting her junior and the whispers between them were starting to grate. This wasn’t a tennis match, where the coach discussed the tactics with his team while the match was ongoing. This was her life, and the fact that she wasn’t party to their little discussions galled Grace. Eleanor had come on high recommendation. Phil said they needed an experienced barrister, someone with a track record of results in serious crime cases. Eleanor was a senior barrister, her solicitor referred to her as Queen’s Counsel, and she came with a hefty price tag. A price tag that was slowly draining them as the days went by. Grace sincerely hoped she was up to the job.
The defence opened with a string of character witnesses.
Julia Declan, Grace’s manager from the library, stood at the witness stand in her best olive suit and crisp white open-collared shirt, and talked about Grace’s diligence and reliability during their fourteen year working relationship. Grace’s eyes brimmed as she recalled ignoring her calls, deleting her messages after Jo had died. Julia answered the questions confidently. Eleanor was attempting to strengthen the ropes of her case through Grace’s support network, to show that Grace had a comfortable life, was a good mother, surrounded by people that cared about her, in order to discredit the notion that she would jeopardise it all by killing Faye, and Julia was a good witness.
“Mrs Declan, can you tell the court the date Grace last came into work?” Sheldon said as he began his cross-examination.
“It was Wednesday the 28th of October. The day before…” She hesitated a moment. “The day before her daughter, Jo, died.”
“And was that her last shift that week?”
“She works part time. Monday, Wednesday and Friday. But obviously she couldn’t work the Friday that week.”
“Obviously,” he said, letting the word hover in the air. “And when did she return to work after that date?”
“She didn’t. She was on compassionate leave, followed by sick leave.”
He cast a glance at the jury before he turned back to the witness. “So she didn’t return to work?”
“Not as such. But we kept in contact. I phoned her weekly to see how she was.” She looked towards the judge imploringly. “We were all very much looking forward to her coming back to work. She was a popular member of the team.”
The judge gave a gentle smile.
“When was the last time you actually spoke to Grace?”
“The week before Christmas.”
“December, not January? I thought you called her weekly?”
“Grace’s doctor’s certificates stated that she was suffering from anxiety and depression. It was felt…” She coughed. “I felt that she needed some time. I didn’t want to pressure her.”
“I see. Did you meet up with Grace at all, visit her after her daughter died?”
“I didn’t visit. The family were in mourning. It didn’t seem appropriate at the time.” Another glance at the judge, almost for reassurance. “But I did see her at the memorial service.”
“And when was that?”
“Two weeks before Christmas.”
“And how did Grace seem that day?”
“As well as can be expected. It was her daughter’s memorial service. She was grateful for people coming, thanked me on the way out.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“Only to offer my condolences. It was busy.”
Sheldon gave a brisk nod and looked at the judge. “I’ve nothing further, Your Honour.”
***
Beryl Knighton was next up. Warmth filled Grace’s chest as she watched her friend and neighbour take her oath. They’d moved into Arden Way within months of each other. Beryl was older than she, her own family grown up, and she’d babysat Grace’s girls in their early years. Even last year the two couples shared
BBQs together. Grace noticed her freshly washed hair, the smart shift dress she’d bought for her cousin’s wedding a year earlier, no inkling of the gardening clothes she normally wore, and listened as she talked about Grace’s reliability, kindness, grounded personality, how she’d supported Beryl following the death of her mother last year.
By the time Sheldon stood to cross-examine, Beryl had restored some of Grace’s belief in the kindness of humanity. She promised herself that if she got out of there, she would make more time for her friends, cherish them.
“Mrs Knighton, would you remind the court how long you have known the defendant?” Sheldon asked.
“Almost twenty years.”
“Right. And would I be right in thinking you have a close friendship with her?”
“Yes, I’d like to think so.”
“Thank you. May I ask when you last saw the defendant?”
Beryl blinked. “The day she was arrested. I saw her in the driveway as she was led to the police car.”
“I mean to speak to. You’ve said you were close friends, you spent time together.”
“I think it would be at Jo’s memorial service last December.”
“You think? Can you be sure?”
Beryl blushed. “Yes, I’m sure of it.”
“And what did you talk about?”
“I offered my help with the family. I used to babysit the girls when they were younger.”
“Thank you. And before that?”
“I’m not sure exactly.”
“Not sure. I see. And, may I ask, how many times in the normal course of a week, would you say you saw the defendant?”
“It depended on the time of year. If it was summer, we’d see each other out in the garden almost daily, chat over the fence. In the winter less often, maybe just passing on the driveway. We went to a book club once a month together in Great Bowden.”
“Okay. And how often did you see the defendant after her daughter died?”
Quiet fell upon the court. It was a moment before she spoke. “Once or twice.”
“Once or twice? This was a good friend of yours, was it not? By your own admission you shared confidences, supported each other. You’d spent time together, yet you only saw her once or twice?”