by Vicary, Tim
Would I let my wife treat me as Sarah treated him?
No way.
No wife anyhow.
In the cramped cell below the court, Gary Harker scowled at his lawyers.
‘I’ve thought about it and I’m going in the box.’
‘Why?’ Sarah stood by the door, wig in hand, Lucy beside her.
‘Well if I don’t, the judge is going to slag me off, in’t he? You said so yourself. I’m not going down just because of some crap advice my brief gave me.’
‘As your brief,’ Sarah said firmly, ‘I’m giving you the best advice possible. If you don’t give evidence the judge is entitled to draw the jury’s attention to your silence, Mr Harker; but if you go into the box, with your temper, the prosecution are going to hang you out to dry.’
‘What’s that bloody mean when it’s at home?’
‘Julian Lloyd-Davies is going to needle you about all the lies you’ve told, until you swear and curse and the jury despise you. He’s an expert - he’ll run rings round you.’
‘I have given evidence before, you know! You think I’m fucking stupid or what?’
‘I think you have a violent temper which you find hard to control.’
‘Well, that’s a load of crap, that is, thanks a lot! Me own bloody brief trying to bollock me before the trial! Fucking pair of slags!’
Sarah drew a deep breath. ‘I’m trying to present your case in the best light possible, Mr Harker. If you want to dismiss me and defend yourself you’re quite at liberty to do so.’
Gary considered it. ‘No, that’s not what I want, you know that.’
‘Right then. Well my advice is that if you go into that box and start swearing at people like you are now, you’ll destroy yourself more effectively than the judge ever could. So I suggest you exercise your right to keep silent, and let the judge say what he likes.’
‘And what if the jury listens to him, eh? What am I looking at?’
‘For a violent rape like this? Fifteen years, maybe. Minimum of eight.’
‘Fifteen fucking years! But it only lasted ten minutes, for fuck’s sake!’
Gary stood, his huge hands clenching and unclenching by his side. Sarah said nothing. This is what I came to work for, she thought. Bob’s right. I should be at home looking for Emily. Leave this tosser to rot. She saw the great vein swelling in his thick neck six inches from her face, as he shouted. ‘Fifteen years, and you don’t want me to speak? It’s me that’s going down, not you, you know, Mrs pretty barrister! For a ten minute shag.’
‘Are you admitting your guilt, Mr Harker? If you do that I can no longer represent you.’ And you can rot in hell, she thought. Where you belong. She turned to go, but the man grabbed her shoulder.
‘No I am not admitting no fucking guilt, not to you nor any other twat with a pile of horseshit on her head. But I’m not staying silent, neither. I’m going in that box to tell the truth, so you’d best sharpen up your fancy brain too, because if you don’t, I’ll be looking for you after those fifteen years and it won’t be no ten minutes’ revenge I have in mind, neither.’
She put her hand on his to push it away, but realised she could no more move it than pull a brick from the wall. As her fingers scrabbled on his she met his eyes and to her horror he smiled. Then he let go.
I’m losing control of this, she thought. Get out now. But she had to preserve some dignity. ‘Very well,’ she said shakily. ‘If you insist on giving evidence, that’s your right. I’ll see you in court.’
Outside in the corridor she saw that Lucy, too, was shaking. The two women leaned against opposite walls and gazed at each other. ‘Not your day really, is it?’ Lucy said.
‘No.’ Sarah pressed her trembling hands against the wall behind her. ‘What am I doing here, for God’s sake?’
Lucy fumbled in her bag for cigarettes. ‘It’s not your fault. You told the wanker what to do. His future’s in his own hands now.’
‘Yes. And with a temper like his he’ll probably yank it right off.’
For a moment, in relief after the shock of Gary’s rage, this remark struck the two women as hopelessly, hysterically funny. A warder, passing on the stairs, glanced at them curiously. They were still giggling together when they came up into the main entrance of the court and bumped into Sharon Gilbert.
Oh God, Sarah thought. How much worse can this day get?
I’m not going to try very hard, Sarah thought. There’s no point. Even if he hasn’t actually admitted it the bastard’s guilty and deserves to go down. Anyway I’m too tired. She stood up.
‘My lord, I call Gary Harker.’
Gary took the oath in a strong, loud voice, stumbling slightly over the words as he read them.
‘Mr Harker, you have heard all the evidence brought by the prosecution. Did you rape Sharon Gilbert?’
‘No.’
‘Did you go to her house on the night of Saturday 14th October last year?’
‘No.’
‘Very well. Let me take you through the events of that night. Did you meet Ms Gilbert earlier that evening, at a party at the Station Hotel?’
‘I did, yes.’
‘Why did you go to that party?’
‘Why not? I knew some lads there.’
‘Did you expect to meet Ms Gilbert?’
‘No. I hadn’t seen her for ... six months, mebbe.’
‘What were your feelings when you met her?’
‘Well, I weren’t bothered really. I mean, I bought her a drink, asked her to dance, like. That were it, really.’ To Sarah’s surprise Gary seemed quite calm, almost respectable in the way he spoke. The jury were listening intently, no sign of disgust on their faces as yet.
‘Did she seem pleased to see you?’
‘Not really. She’s a stroppy cow at times.’
Here we go, Sarah thought. Sink yourself if you want to. I don’t care.
‘Did you have an argument?’
‘I asked her for me watch back. She said she hadn’t got it.’
‘And how did you react to that?’
‘I said she were, er ...’ Gary paused, glanced at the jury, seemed to take a grip on himself. ‘I said it weren’t true. I reckon she’d sold it and she owed me t’brass.’
‘Were your voices raised when you had this argument?’
‘A bit. You had to speak up to be heard.’
‘All right. Did you threaten her in this argument, say you might come to her house and take the watch back, perhaps?’
‘No.’
‘Did you go to her house to get the watch back?’
‘No.’
‘So when did you last see this watch?’
‘When she slung me out of her home, last year.’
The bastard’s really trying, she thought. So far so good. For him, anyway. But now the silly lies start. The fake alibi.
‘Tell the jury in your own words, what happened when you left the Station Hotel that night.’
‘Well, I met a lad called Sean and we went to the Dog and Whistle. Cruising.’
‘Cruising?’
‘Yeah. Looking for lasses, like. Girls.’
‘Did you find any?’
‘Yeah. Two.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Well, they were tarts, like. Prostitutes. So we shagged ‘em.’
‘Did you pay them?’
‘I paid mine. Tenner. Too bloody much.’
‘What happened then?’
‘I went home to bed.’
‘Did Sean go with you?’
‘No. We split up when we met t’lasses. I didn’t see him again.’
‘What about the girl? Did she come home with you?’
‘No.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Can’t remember, sorry.’
‘You’ve never seen her before or since?’
‘No, I haven’t. Couldn’t afford her again, any road.’
‘Now, you’ve heard Keith Somers say he saw you in Albert Str
eet just after one a.m. that night. Were you in Albert Street at that time?’
‘Yeah. Probably. I could have been.’
‘Is it on your way home from where you met the girls?’
‘It’s one way home, yes.’
‘Keith Somers says you waved to him. Is that right?’
‘Could be. Can’t remember.’
‘Very well. Albert Street runs parallel to Thorpe Street, which is where Sharon Gilbert lives. So I ask you again, did you go to Sharon Gilbert’s house at any time that night?’
‘No.’
‘Did you rape her?’
‘No.’
‘So you say you are totally innocent of this crime that you are charged with?’
‘Innocent? Yeah, that’s right. I am.’
‘Very well, then. Wait there.’
There had been a smile on Julian Lloyd-Davies’ face ever since he’d learned that Sarah was calling Gary Harker to give evidence. Now he rose with what appeared to be a weary sigh, some sheets of notes in his hand. He peered at the notes intently for a few seconds, then tossed them aside in disgust.
‘Mr Harker, this is all a pack of lies, isn’t it?’
‘What? No.’
‘You don’t have a friend called Sean, do you?’
‘’course I do. I thought I did any road.’
‘Where does he live then?’
‘I don’t know. He’s left York. Must have done.’
‘You were just wasting police time, weren’t you?’
‘I bloody weren’t. They were wasting my time, more like!’
Here we go, Sarah thought. Score one to Lloyd-Davies. Or two, if we count the way he threw his notes away. The jury loved that.
‘Oh I see. You think it’s a waste of police time to investigate a brutal rape, do you?’
‘I never said that.’
‘Oh? Forgive me, I thought you did.’ Lloyd-Davies peered at Gary contemptuously over his reading glasses, deliberately affecting a superior, educated tone, and Sarah thought: that’s it. He’s got beneath his skin. Wait for the explosion.
To her surprise it didn’t come. Gary gripped the edge of the dock in those huge, cruel hands, flushed, and said - nothing.
Lloyd-Davies began again. ‘Do you have an unusually bad memory, Mr Harker?’
‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘Well, tell me then. What’s your friend Sean’s second name?’
‘I’m not right sure. I always called him Sean.’
‘Do you remember where he works, perhaps?’
‘He worked wi’ me. At MacFarlane’s. In Acomb.’
‘At MacFarlane’s, in Acomb.’ Lloyd-Davies sighed elaborately. ‘You see, that’s all lies too, Mr Harker. The police have checked. There was no one called Sean working for MacFarlane’s at that time.’
This time Gary shouted back. ‘It’s not bloody lies. He were there and he worked wi’ me. You heard Graham Dewar!’
‘Do you take this jury for complete fools, Mr Harker? To believe that you have a friend who simply doesn’t exist?’
‘I’m not a bloody fool! You may be!’
It was going as Sarah had predicted now. A contented smile played around Lloyd-Davies’ smooth, rather prominent lips. He phrased his next question with deliberate enjoyment.
‘Well, tell the jury this, then. Do you often ‘shag’ girls, as you put it, without even learning their names?’
‘Sometimes, yes. It happens. Mebbe not to you.’
There was a stir of muffled laughter in court, and Sarah saw to her surprise that two of the younger male jurors were grinning broadly. Irritation crept into Lloyd-Davies’ voice as he sensed the exchange had not gone his way.
‘Well, it’s not a very good story, is it, because none of the people you say were with you that night actually exist, do they? It’s all a tissue of lies, isn’t it?’
‘No, it bloody isn’t.’
‘Oh yes it is, Mr Harker. The truth is, that when you met Ms Gilbert that night you were angry with her, and you wanted to get your revenge. So after you left the hotel you waited in Thorpe Street until she was home, and then you broke into her house with a hood over your face, and brutally raped her in front of her children. That’s what really happened, isn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘Oh yes it is, Mr Harker. We know it’s true because she recognised you.’
‘No she didn’t! She couldn’t bloody recognise me because ...’
Just for a second Gary hesitated, staring straight ahead of him, apparently at nothing. Sarah thought, this is it. The silly burk is actually going to admit it. Good thing too - for justice if not for me.
‘Yes, Mr Harker? Why couldn’t she recognise you?’ Lloyd-Davies goaded him, gloating. His voice snapped Gary out of his trance.
‘Because I wasn’t bloody there, that’s why! Because the feller who raped her wasn’t bloody me! And if the police weren’t wasting time with all this load of crap here, they’d be out trying to catch the beggar who did do it, wouldn’t they?’
And so it went on, inconclusively, for a few more minutes, Lloyd-Davies needling sarcastically, Gary bludgeoning his attacks away. Neither complete triumph nor utter disaster, Sarah thought, when he sat down at last.
Lucy, however, was more upbeat. Dressed in a particularly vast and unflattering blue peasant smock, she confronted Julian Lloyd-Davies during the fifteen minute recess the judge granted before speeches.
‘Do you play cricket, by any chance, Mr Lloyd-Davies?’ she asked.
‘Why yes, as a matter of fact I do.’ Lloyd-Davies smiled, acknowledging her existence for the first time in the entire trial. ‘Most weekends, actually.’
‘I could tell from your style of cross-examination. Like England held to a draw by the Soweto second XI, I thought.’
‘Lucy, that was wicked,’ Sarah said, as the great man stalked away. ‘Do you always talk to opposition barristers like that?’
‘Only when they really get up my nose, like he does.’
‘But how did you know he played cricket? An inspired guess?’
‘Oh no. He boasts about it in Who’s Who. Played for Eton and Oxford. Got a blue.’
A faint smile, brief as winter sunshine, lit Sarah’s face and was gone.
‘I doubt Gary’s ever played cricket. Unless he could kill someone with the bat.’
Chapter Thirteen
JULIAN LLOYD-Davies stood to face the jury. One hand clutched the edge of his gown, the other was behind his back somewhere. The pose looked odd and pompous to Sarah. She hoped the jury felt the same.
It was his duty, he said, to prove Gary’s guilt beyond all reasonable doubt. Confidently, he set about doing so. ‘Let us remind ourselves exactly what Gary Harker has done. We say that on the night of 14th October last year, he deliberately entered the house of Sharon Gilbert ... ’
Seamlessly, he progressed into a precise, detailed description of the horrors of the assault. For nearly an hour he painstakingly constructed Gary’s guilt from the evidence. He tore up Sarah’s arguments and cast them aside like rubbish. How was it possible for any woman to be mistaken about the identity of a rapist, hooded or not, when she had lived with him for over a year? Lloyd-Davies invited the jury to consider their own partners - would they fail to recognise them, just because of a balaclava hood? Surely not.
Do QCs wear hoods in their wives’ bedrooms, Sarah wondered flippantly. We should be told. But then ordinary barrister’s daughters can go missing, can’t they? her mind screamed back. Lost alone in some pervert’s bedroom. Oh shut up, please. Concentrate.
Sharon, Lloyd-Davies reminded the jury, had heard the rapist’s voice. She had seen his body, he had even used her son’s name. How could she be mistaken? And Gary had two clear motives - to gain revenge after their quarrel that evening, and to recover his watch. He knew exactly where she lived, alone and defenceless with her children. He knew where she kept the watch; she had seen him take it. The police couldn’t find it because he ha
d hidden it, that was all.
And what about his so-called alibi? Well, it relied on three people who could not be proved to exist at all. But a witness who did exist had seen him in the adjacent street just a few minutes after the rape took place.
Finally there was the question of character. Someone was lying in this case, clearly. Well, the jury had seen Sharon Gilbert in the witness box; and they had seen the police inspector. All those people believed Gary was guilty. Then the jury had seen Gary himself. So who did they believe? Sharon, her son and the police? Or Gary Harker?
Quite, Sarah thought. A man with a criminal record three pages long, including violence against women. My charming client.
‘We know who is telling the truth, don’t we, members of the jury?’ Lloyd-Davies concluded. ‘We know who broke into Sharon Gilbert’s house and raped her in front of her two small children. It was that man there. Gary Harker.’
So far Lloyd-Davies had been dry, calm, understated, allowing the horror of the facts to make his points for him. Now, he raised his right arm, and pointed at Gary. Then he sat down.
The judge eyed the clock. 11.30. Too early to adjourn for lunch. ‘Mrs Newby?’
The phone box was in Blossom Street - near the Odeon cinema, a bus stop, a Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet, and a few streets of Victorian tenements. Inside it an advert offered French lessons for naughty boys. Harry Easby examined it curiously.
‘All right,’ Terry said, to Harry and two young uniformed constables. ‘We’ve got the girl’s photo. Let’s see if anyone’s seen her. Or knows who rang from here at 10.27 yesterday.’
It was the only clue he had, so far. His visit to Sarah’s son Simon had yielded nothing. The door of the terraced house in Bramham Street had been opened by a truculent, muscular young man in a teeshirt and shorts. He had short reddish-gold hair, a round face with a broad nose, and a ring in one ear. He had led Terry into a cramped, untidy front room and answered his questions while putting on pair of old socks and ancient, mud-stained trainers. Yes, his stepfather had rung at two a.m. last night; no, he had no idea where Emily had gone. He had last seen her a month ago in Tesco with their mother. He and his sister weren’t particularly close but he could readily understand that the pressure from their highly academic parents had become too much for her. Probably she would come back in a day or two. Terry was welcome to search his house if he wanted but if not, he was going for a run.