by Vicary, Tim
‘And if you don’t, Harker puts in a complaint.’
‘Exactly. Well, let him. He assaulted you too, didn’t he? Keep him in overnight.’
‘And what about her, sir? She’s, er, got kids you know.’
‘Yes.’ Terry contemplated Harry curiously. It was unlike him to be so concerned. ‘Well, I can look stupid doing the right thing, at least. Get a statement from this Cheryl and send Sharon home. Will that persuade her to give up her chance of becoming a media superstar, Harry?’
‘Not likely, sir.’
Terry sighed. ‘Oh well. It was a good life while it lasted.’
Phil Turner began with the undisputed statement of the man who had found Jasmine’s body. The grim facts, read out in Turner’s calm, dependable voice, held the jury’s attention.
‘I was taking my dog for a walk at seven in the morning ... the dog started barking in the bushes ... a few yards off the track I saw the body of a young woman, the throat all covered with blood, and my dog barking hysterically at it ...’
Sarah saw a middle-aged juror fumble for a tissue in her handbag, and a younger man dart nervous, vengeful looks at Simon in the dock.
PC Wilson, who had responded to the 999 call, had felt for pulse and breathing but found none. In his opinion the young woman had been dead for some time. Nothing that PC Wilson said was controversial and Sarah had no questions.
Dr Jones, the forensic pathologist, was a different matter. Sarah shivered as he took the Bible in his right hand. She vividly recalled the last time she had seen that smooth, sharp face. The memory became worse as the usher distributed a book of photos of Jasmine’s injuries. Several jurors turned pale as they looked at them.
Sarah had seen these photos before but they still upset her. She remembered how she had been called to identify this very body - Emily’s body, as she had expected. The smell of formaldehyde came back to her, and that cold, clinical room. This pathologist had been watching her, waiting until she could screw her courage that last turn higher and say yes, I’m ready now, let me look. And see that it wasn’t Emily after all.
A hand touched her shoulder. Sarah turned to see Lucy watching her anxiously.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes ... yes, sure.’
‘Only you seemed upset.’
‘I’m fine. It’s OK. Thanks.’
The judge had noticed her distress too. God, how long did I lose it? A few seconds, a minute perhaps? To her relief she realised that Phil Turner was proceeding normally; her lapse had not upset him, at least. She sat up straight and focussed her mind on the matter in hand.
‘Dr Jones,’ Turner was saying. ‘What was the cause of Miss Hurst’s death?’
‘She died from a severe arterial haemorrhage caused when the carotid artery was severed by a sharp instrument. Death in such instances is fairly swift and always irreversible.’
‘And what can you tell us about how this fatal wound was inflicted?’
‘Well, I’m afraid the victim’s throat had suffered some subsequent damage - after death - due to possible gnawing by a fox or a dog ...’
Sweet Jesus, Sarah thought, I hope someone warned Jasmine’s mother to avoid this.
‘ ... but there was enough of the original wound remaining to indicate that it was inflicted by a sharp instrument such as a knife, entering the throat just below the left ear and travelling across to the right, severing the artery and windpipe on the way. It’s the sort of wound that could easily be inflicted by a right-handed assailant standing behind the victim, holding her head back by her hair to expose her neck, while he cut her throat with the knife.’
‘I see.’ Phil Turner paused thoughtfully. ‘And from your examination of the wound, were you able to tell anything about the nature of this sharp instrument?’
‘Certainly.’ This pathologist was a supremely confident young man, Sarah thought; not the sort who would react kindly to any questioning of his conclusions. ‘It was a single cut, severing nearly half of the neck in one go. So it would have to be a relatively large and sharp instrument to do that. With a serrated edge.’
‘How can you tell that? About the serrated edge?’
‘Well, because of the marks made on her vertebrae. You can see that in photograph 15.’
Sarah studied the photograph carefully. It showed a number of small irregular marks which the pathologist identified as typical of a serrated blade.
‘Dr Jones, did you find any other knife wounds on Miss Hurst’s body?’
‘Yes. Four cuts on the inside of her left forearm. You’ll see them in photograph 17.’
‘And how, in your opinion, were those cuts inflicted?’
‘They are the typical wound that we see in a person trying to defend themselves from a knife attack. You naturally raise your arms up like this ...’ Dr Jones went into a defensive crouch in the witness stand. ‘ ... and as you see, the inside of your forearm is exposed. If the victim was attacked from behind, the cuts would go across the arm and slightly upwards, as these do.’
‘And were these cuts also inflicted by a weapon with a serrated edge?’
‘One appears to be. The knife marked the ulna - the smaller bone in the forearm. You can see that in photograph 18.’
Phil Turner picked up a knife in a plastic bag. ‘My Lord, could I ask the witness to examine this breadknife. Exhibit One for the prosecution.’ The usher passed it forward. ‘Do you recognize this knife, Dr Jones?’
‘Yes. It’s a breadknife given to me by the police to examine in connection with the wounds inflicted on the deceased.’
‘And what was the result of your examination?’
‘I tried to establish whether or not this knife could have caused these wounds. I did that in two ways. Firstly, I made quite careful measurements of the blade and serrations, and compared these measurements to the marks on the victim’s vertebrae and ulna.’
‘And what was the result of that experiment?’
‘The distances were compatible, to within a quarter of a millimetre or less.’
‘So according to those measurements, it was quite possible that this knife could have caused these wounds?’
‘Yes.’
‘And for your second experiment?’
‘I used the knife on the bones of a pig. A dead pig, of course.’
‘And what results did that show?’
‘You can see it in photographs 26 and 27, I believe. The marks are almost identical to those on the dead girl.’
The jury, Sarah noticed, were fascinated, examining the photographs and Dr Jones intently, with expressions which varied from open revulsion to excitement and even awe. Certainly he had captured their interest; perhaps if he allowed his scientific enthusiasm to go too far he might also repulse them, which would be a small advantage. But more likely, that repulsion would fall upon Simon.
And the gruesome, intimate details were far from over.
‘Now, Dr Jones, let me take you to another subject. In your report, you claim that the victim was raped ...’
‘So we’re not preferring charges, Sharon,’ said Terry, as emolliently as he could.
‘I should bloody well think not. It’s him should be locked up, not me.’
‘I know,’ Terry sighed. ‘But the law ...’
‘You can stick the bloody law up your backside. What good’s it done me, eh? Sod all. But for brutes like him it’s different. Not enough evidence to convict, my arse! Can I go?’
‘Yes. Just try to stay out of trouble, if you can.’
‘Me? Oh thanks very much. You’ve not heard the last of this, Mr smarmy Bateson. There’s telly as well as courts, you know.’ She fished a cigarette out of her bag and lit up, trying to recover her dignity. ‘I don’t know how you lads can face yourselves in the morning, doing a shit job like yours. No one’s so much as mentioned my kids, the whole time I’ve been in here.’
‘How are they, Sharon?’ Terry ventured feebly, remembering the brave little boy who had given evidence i
n court. A fine story for the cameras, that would be.
‘With Mary, I sincerely hope. I should’ve fetched them hours ago. Don’t I even get a lift home? Me a single mum, and a rape victim!’
‘I’m going that way, sir,’ Harry broke in. ‘I’ll see you find your kids all right.’
She took a long drag on her cigarette, and blew the smoke out, straight at him. ‘Yeah, and that’s all you’re going to see, too, sunshine. All right, then. See you on telly, Inspector. They’ll grind you into sewage, they will. You and Gary both.’
Terry accompanied her and Harry to the front door. It was nearly four o’clock, the end of his shift. He wondered what his children would be up to, and how the first day of Simon’s trial had gone. There’d be reporters and TV journalists there too. But Churchill wouldn’t mess his case up - he had too much luck. Unlike Terry. Or was he simply a better detective?
Terry watched Harry cross the car park with Sharon, and blinked. Had Harry squeezed her buttock as he opened the passenger door? Surely he must have imagined it. The mood she was in she would have raked his face with her nails and run screaming back for a complaint form. Anyway the lad would never be so daft. My eyes are playing me tricks.
The evidence which Dr Jones presented to prove that Jasmine had been raped seemed as clear and convincing as his evidence about the way she had died. He had found bruising to the walls of her vagina, and traces of semen within it. There were cuts and scratches on the backs and sides of her legs which were also consistent with a violent sexual attack.
As Sarah rose to cross-examine, she noted looks of pity and irritation from the jury. We’ve made up our minds already, the expressions said; Dr Jones has told us the truth. Going through it all again will be a pointless waste of everyone’s time.
A few looked less hostile, though. She focused her hopes on a man at the back, and began.
‘Dr Jones, I’d like to return to these cuts on Miss Hurst’s arms. They were quite severe, noticeable cuts, I think you said?’
‘It would have been very hard to miss them,’ Dr Jones agreed smoothly. Sarah noticed once again how unusually well dressed he was, in an expensive charcoal suit, pale lemon shirt, light blue tie - quite a fop, really; proud of himself. Maybe she could provoke him into showing off, and lose some of the jury’s sympathy that way.
‘Yes. Just so that we’re clear about these cuts, Dr Jones, how big were they? How deep and wide, and so on?’
‘They varied. The shortest was about an inch, the longest about three inches long, on the inside of her left arm. As for depth, one went in to the bone.’
‘And from these marks on the victim’s bones, you deduce that all the cuts were inflicted by a weapon with a serrated edge, like the breadknife Mr Turner showed you?’
‘Exactly, yes.’
‘Yes. But that doesn’t prove that these wounds were inflicted by that particular breadknife, does it? I mean, there must be hundreds, probably thousands, of breadknives of the same model manufactured by the same company as the knife Mr Turner showed you, and every one of those knives could have inflicted exactly the same injuries, couldn’t it?’
‘Obviously.’ Dr Jones shrugged. ‘But none of those other knives were found in the defendant’s home, were they?’
‘Weren’t they?’ Sarah stared at him witheringly. ‘You visited my son’s home then, did you, Dr Jones?’
Dr Jones blushed, seeing his mistake at once. ‘No, no, of course not. I was simply given the knife by the police. I have no first hand knowledge of where it was found.’
‘Exactly. So let’s stick to what you do know, shall we? I’d like to draw your attention to another cut on the body. Would you tell the jury what you can see in photograph 36, please?’
‘It’s a photograph of the victim’s left hand.’
‘And is there a cut on that hand?’
‘Yes, there is. A very small cut on the thumb.’
‘Did you examine that cut?’
‘I ... examined it briefly, yes.’
‘Only briefly, you say. Why was that?’
‘It seemed a very minor wound in the overall context of her injuries. It certainly didn’t contribute to her death.’
‘Quite so. But your job is to examine all injuries to the victim’s body, isn’t it? However minor. Could you tell the court, please, did this cut exhibit similar characteristics to the other cuts we’ve been discussing? In terms of depth, age and so on?’
‘I’m not sure. May I consult my notes? ... I’m afraid I couldn’t be certain about that. I’ve simply noted it here as a minor cut to the left thumb.’
‘Was it healed?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘This minor cut on the thumb. Had the blood in it clotted and begun to knit together? In the natural way that cuts heal?’
‘I , er ...’ Dr Jones looked carefully at his notes. ‘I’m unable to say. As I say it was a very minor injury.’
And you didn’t examine it, Sarah thought with vindictive glee. Got you, you smug bastard!
‘Do you notice a black mark around the cut? Signs of a sticking plaster that’s fallen off?’
He frowned, and looked closer. ‘It might be that, yes.’
‘So it is possible, then, that unlike all the other wounds on the body, this cut had begun to heal? In other words, that this cut had been inflicted some hours, even days, beforehand?’
Dr Jones shrugged, as though the matter was unimportant, a trifle. ‘It’s possible, yes.’
The shrug irritated Sarah. She had offered him a way out and he had spurned it. Her concluding question, spoken with perfect politeness, crackled with concealed contempt.
‘So there’s nothing in your notes, or your thorough, detailed and professional examination of the body, to exclude that possibility?’
‘No.’ Dr Jones glared back at her coldly. But he’d got the point, Sarah thought. So had the judge. It wasn’t a minor detail that he had missed. Nothing ever was, in a murder case.
It was after four o’clock. Sarah was not tired, but she sensed the jury’s attention flagging.
‘My lord, I have quite a number of further questions for this witness, but time is getting on, so might this be a convenient point to pause?’
The judge agreed instantly. ‘Very well, Mrs Newby. Until ten tomorrow morning, then.’
The clerk called ‘all stand!’ The judge got to his feet, bowed, and left the court. A buzz of conversation broke out. Sarah rushed back to the dock, where a security guard was handcuffing himself to her son’s wrist. ‘All right, Simon? That’s it for today.’
‘Yeah. Back to my cell, then?’
‘I’m afraid so. But so far, so good.’
‘You think so? Really?’ The anguish in his eyes burned into her own. Whatever she said now would stay with him through the night.
‘Yes, really. Nothing went wrong today. We gave as good as we got. And I’ve plenty more questions for that pathologist tomorrow.’
‘You’ve got to do this, Mum. You’ve got to get me out of there, you really have.’
‘I know. And if I possibly can, I will.’ Tiptoe on a bench, she reached into the dock and grasped his left hand, the one that was free. ‘Have a good meal and a sleep, and don’t worry. You’ve got me and Lucy to do that for you.’
And we will, she thought, as she watched him led away. Late, late into the night.
Harry swung the car out into the Fulford Road. Beside him, Sharon was examining her face in the courtesy mirror.
‘So where’d you get this idea of the reporter, anyway?’ he asked irritably.
‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’
‘Well I’m trying to find out. That’s why I’m asking.’
‘And I’m not telling.’ She sucked in her cheeks, brushed back an eyelash, and flashed him an impudent smile. ‘That OK with you? We all have our little secrets, after all.’
Harry drove silently, controlling his temper. He had thought he was set up nicely with this wo
man. He kept the social services and vice squad off her back, while she gave him free, regular sex and occasional nuggets of useful information. So far these had led to two arrests - of a minor drug dealer and a burglar posing as a window cleaner. It was exactly the way an informant should operate, in his opinion. But it all depended on his remaining in control, while she gave information to him, and no one else. Certainly not to national TV.
‘What exactly do you think you’ll achieve?’ he asked after a while. ‘However much publicity you get there can’t be a second trial, you know. The law forbids it.’
‘Then they should change the sodding law, shouldn’t they? Like it said in the paper.’
‘Not soon enough for you, Sharon. That’ll take years - if it ever happens.’
‘That’s what you think. I got my sources.’
He drove on, thinking hard. Harry wasn’t overly concerned about anyone apart from himself, but he could see that if this scheme of Sharon’s caused trouble for the police, then it wasn’t just Terry Bateson who was likely to be involved. Whatever scandal she managed to stir up, the camera’s unblinking eye might focus on him. How would that help his future career? The idea made him squirm.
‘Look, Sharon, you’re making a mistake. I mean, guys like this reporter, they’re not interested in you for yourself. He’ll just exploit you for what he can get ...’
She laughed. ‘Tell me about it, lover boy. Anyhow, it’s not a guy, it’s a woman.’
‘This woman then. She’ll come up from London, milk your story for what she can get, splash it all over the papers, and leave. You’ll be a star for a day and then left on your own. It won’t change a thing.’
‘It will for me. I want everyone to know the truth.’
‘About what? How Gary raped you? That’s been in the papers already, only the jury didn’t believe you. How will this be different?’
‘Because it won’t be just about Gary. It’ll be about you lot too, and how you screwed it up. You don’t like that, do you? Well you can stick it up your arse for all I care. That’s what I want and that’s what I’m doing.’