by Vicary, Tim
‘She did, yes.’ Mrs Hurst looked at Brodie sadly. ‘She said she was going to leave him.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘She was tired of him, she said. She said he was too neat and ... possessive.’
‘Did she mention any quarrels they’d had?’
‘She mentioned one or two, yes. Just words, though. Nothing violent. He couldn’t hurt a fly, that lad. Not like yours.’
I’m losing it, Sarah thought. This could collapse into a cat-fight at any time. That’s what this woman wants - to make me suffer. In her most neutral voice, she continued.
‘So, to sum up, when you last saw Jasmine, she said she intended to leave David Brodie and said she’d had several quarrels with him, and she was still seeing my son. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’ Miranda Hurst nodded cautiously, wondering where this was leading. Nowhere, was the answer. She had arrived. Without a word, Sarah sat down.
After a moment, when she realized what was implied, Miranda Hurst began to shout angrily. ‘But David didn’t kill her, your son did! He’s a filthy murdering sadist, whatever your lawyer’s tricks in here! He killed her, the bastard, and you should be ashamed!’
There was nothing Sarah could do. She sat and waited for the judge to intervene, which he did, belatedly and with embarrassed reluctance. ‘Mrs Hurst, I’m afraid that’s all now. You really mustn’t say any more, however upset you are. This court is grateful to you for giving your evidence but you should go with the usher and stand down now.’
As the usher took her gently by the arm and began to lead her away, the tears began to flow uncontrollably. In the well of the court, right in front of the jury, she looked across at David Brodie, and pointed directly at Sarah. ‘You’re right what you said, David. She’s a first class bitch, she is, and everyone here should know it! Her son should have been drowned at birth!’
When she had gone, Phil Turner rose to his feet in the stunned silence.
‘My Lord, that concludes the case for the prosecution.’
‘In that case ...’ Judge Mookerjee glanced at the clock, which stood at 3.25, then back at Sarah, sitting white-faced like a stone. ‘... although it may be a trifle early, in view of the somewhat emotional nature of this afternoon’s evidence I think it might be best for all concerned if we were to adjourn until tomorrow morning. If that suits you, Mrs Newby?’
Sarah stood, stiffly. ‘Indeed, My Lord.’
‘Then let us call it a day.’
The judge rose to his feet, the usher called ‘All stand!’ and the hubbub began.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
‘I’M TRYING to establish reasonable doubt,’ Sarah insisted. ‘And it seems to me that these two witnesses, together with Brodie’s own testimony, do exactly that.’
‘Hm.’ Judge Mookerjee listened thoughtfully, then turned back to the papers on his desk. Sarah and Phil Turner were in front of him, discussing the admissibility of evidence for the defence. The papers on the desk were an outline of the statements given to Lucy by two witnesses whom Sarah wanted to put on the stand - the eco-warrior, Mandy Kite, and a nurse, Ian Jinks.
Mandy Kite, after prolonged persuasion, had agreed to tell the ‘pigs’ court’ about David Brodie’s furious argument with Jasmine two days before she was killed, and that he had threatened to ‘sort her out’ on the morning she’d died. She would also say that once when she’d been with Jasmine they’d been followed by someone who might have been Simon but might equally well have been David.
Ian Jinks was a nurse whom Larry and Emily had found. He was prepared to testify about the change David’s relationship with Jasmine had created in him; at first he had been delighted, ecstatically happy, then increasingly worried and anxious as he began to suspect that she was still seeing Simon. On the night Jasmine was killed Brodie, according to Jinks, had been angry and upset, unable to do his work properly. Just before he left he had said he would like to ‘cut someone’s head off’ which was quite out of character.
‘My Lord, my learned friend intends to use these two witnesses simply to accuse Brodie,’ Phil Turner insisted. ‘There is no direct relevance to the guilt or innocence of her son.’
‘That seems a reasonable interpretation,’ the judge murmured. ‘Mrs Newby?’
It was not only reasonable but accurate, Sarah knew. That was exactly what she wanted to do. Her problem was the second part of Turner’s statement. What connection did these witnesses have to Simon?
‘Their testimony is entirely relevant, My Lord,’ she insisted earnestly. ‘This trial is about whether or not my son murdered Jasmine Hurst. If I can demonstrate a reasonable possibility that the murder was committed by someone else, then clearly that is evidence that the jury should consider. If it’s possible that Brodie killed her, then it’s possible that my son didn’t. There is a reasonable doubt.’
Turner frowned. ‘The doubt is only reasonable if you can create a credible case for Brodie’s involvement. As it is, you have no witnesses who put him anywhere near the scene ...’
‘Neither do you,’ Sarah retorted. ‘No one saw Simon anywhere near the body. Whereas Brodie lives just a quarter of a mile away.’
‘True, but we have forensic evidence. Semen, blood on his trainers and the knife ...’
‘I’ve accounted for the blood and semen in cross-examination, Phil. You know I have.’
‘So you say.’ Turner laughed drily. ‘It depends whether the jury believe your story or not. Anyway why would Brodie kill her?’
‘Jealousy, of course!’ Sarah faced the judge eagerly. ‘This girl was playing them both along, they both had equal reason to be furious with her. That’s the motive - the only motive - which the prosecution have to explain why Simon would kill her. Sexual jealousy. Well, these two witnesses give Brodie exactly the same motive - in fact, they show his jealousy was much stronger. The prosecution have no witnesses to say that Simon threatened to cut her head off ...’
‘He hit her, though, didn’t he?’ Turner interrupted. ‘In full public view.’
‘Yes ... all right, he hit her, but Brodie was seen to scream at her and make threats ...’
‘Not necessarily against Jasmine though,’ the judge pointed out. ‘As I read Mr Jinks’ statement it seems he was threatening to cut Simon’s head off. If he meant it at all, that is.’
‘It’s not clear who he was threatening, My Lord,’ Sarah said despairingly. ‘All I am asking is to put this witness on the stand, then Phil can cross-examine him as much as he likes. Let the jury decide.’
‘Mr Turner?’ The judge leaned back, folding his arms.
‘I understand my friend’s passion, My Lord. But on balance, I believe her argument is flawed. This trial is to establish the guilt or innocence of Simon Newby, no one else. If there were a single shred of evidence to put Brodie near the body, then I would say yes, in the interests of justice it must be put before the jury. But there isn’t. All she has is this suggestion of motive which, quite frankly, isn’t good enough. As I see it, Brodie probably was in love with the girl and is genuinely heartbroken by her death. To allow further suggestions that he’s the murderer, with no evidence to back it up, would seem to be an abuse of process. And rather cruel, too.’
Sarah shrivelled inside. ‘But there is evidence, My Lord. The evidence of these witnesses and his own cross-examination ...’
Judge Mookerjee waved a hand to silence her. ‘We’ve been through all that, Mrs Newby. And I agree with the prosecution. The evidence of these two witnesses sheds no light whatsoever on the actions and culpability of the accused, Simon Newby. So I shall exclude them.’
There was no more Sarah could do. She rose, and walked across the street to her chambers. Where she met Lucy, with a pen in one hand and a cheese sandwich in the other.
‘Any luck?’ she queried.
‘No.’ Sarah flung her wig down in disgust. ‘We just lost half the defence before I’ve even started.’
Terry and Harry were in the car outside Gar
y’s flat. When he arrived, they got out and followed him to his door. He turned and saw them. ‘Oh no, not you again.’
‘This isn’t an arrest,’ Terry said. ‘For once. Just a few questions. Can we come in?’
‘What if I say no?’
‘We’ll do it down the station.’ Terry smiled. ‘You choose.’
Gary scowled, and led them into a room decorated with beer cans and old plates of curry. ‘That cow Sharon been complaining again, has she?’
‘No,’ Terry chose a seat carefully. ‘It’s about those pictures I showed you in the station. Of your mate Sean.’
‘He’s not my mate.’ Gary opened the fridge for a can of export. ‘Who says he is?’
‘Well, quite a lot of people, as a matter of fact. Sharon, for one.’
‘What does she know about him?’ He supped his beer truculently
‘More than you’d think.’ Terry studied the man’s face, on which he thought he detected a sheen of anxious sweat.. ‘Oh come, on Gary, don’t mess me about. This lad was your so-called alibi the night you raped Sharon. Remember?’
‘I were found not guilty, copper.’ Gary slammed the can down on his chair, bringing froth through its top. ‘Christ, how many times? I did not rape Sharon. OK?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Terry sighed. ‘And you weren’t in prison with Sean either, I suppose?’
‘I were locked up with five hundred and odd lads. Doesn’t mean I knew ‘em all, does it?’
‘You shared a cell with this one. Sean Patrick Murphy. It says so here - look, on the prison records.’ Terry held out a paper which Gary ignored. ‘With his photo.’
‘All right, so I did. What’s that to do with you?’
‘I need to talk to him, Gary. About some serious sexual assaults. That’s why we’re here.’
‘We need your help to find him,’ Harry put in.
‘You must be bloody daft, the pair of you.’ Gary shook his head in derision ‘You couldn’t pin owt on me, so now you want to pin it on him. That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘We’d remember your help,’ Harry offered. ‘Next time you were in trouble.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Gary took a long swig of his beer. ‘As if I’m a stinking snitch. Which crimes, for instance?’
Was he going to bite, Terry wondered. As neutrally as he could, he said: ‘You remember that woman who was murdered? Maria Clayton? You did some building work on her house.’
‘And you thought I killed her, didn’t you, Mr Bateson? Only I didn’t, see.’
‘Yes, well.’ Terry looked at his hands. ‘Sean delivered some tiles there, for Robsons.’
‘So?’
‘And he screwed her too, Gary. Same as you did. Almost.’
‘She’d screw anyone, for money. Except you, maybe.’
Behind the routine insolence the man was interested now, Terry could see.
‘It doesn’t surprise you, that?’
‘No. Why should it? That’s what tarts are for.’ There was no sign of surprise, Terry noted, no apparent awareness of Sean’s sexual disability.
‘And he delivered some more building materials to the student lodgings where Karen Whitaker lived. Remember her, Gary?’
‘Her with the nudey pics? Yeah - you thought I chased her in’t woods, didn’t you? Prat!’
‘Sean delivered on the day you found those pictures, Gary. Did you show them to him?’
‘Might have done. So?’ A look of devious cunning spread across Gary’s face. ‘Oh, I get it. You’re after him for that, too, are yer? And the murder - is that it?’
‘Maybe,’ Terry admitted cautiously. ‘Some evidence points that way.’
‘Like the evidence that said I did it, eh?’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Where’s that now, then?’
Terry hesitated. There was no easy answer. But if he had nothing to say Gary suddenly had plenty. His face flushed with anger as he realised what Terry was admitting.
‘All these months you’ve been after me for them two and now you change your mind, just like that? What about a fucking apology then, Inspector Shitarse Bateson? The word’s sorry - ever heard of it? And while you’re about it you can drag that bitch Sharon in here to apologize too, instead of scratching me fucking face when I go to buy her a bloody drink!’
‘Oh, come on, Gary, you did rape her! I’ve not changed my mind on that, no one has!’
Gary glared at him. ‘You daft pillock! You don’t know shit, do yer?’
This was going as badly as Terry had feared it might. He was glad he had Harry with him. ‘Look, Gary, all I want is a bit of help to find this lad Sean. These are serious crimes we’re investigating. If he’s innocent, he’s got nothing to fear.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Gary spat into the fireplace. ‘You say that, after the shit you’ve given me.’
Terry sighed. ‘Where is he, Gary? Is he in York now?’
‘Even if I knew, which I don’t, you’re the last person I’d bloody tell.’ Gary supped his beer contemptuously. ‘So if that’s it, Mr Bateson, I suggest you take yon poodle and clear out of here. All right?’
Sarah’s spare bedroom overlooked the drive, where Larry’s old hatchback was parked. She could hear music in Emily’s bedroom. The judge’s ruling had upset the young people badly. They had found Ian Jinks and Mandy Kite, and believed that Brodie was Jasmine’s killer. Sarah knew she should spend time talking through their disappointment. But time was something she didn’t have, any more. Tomorrow she would put her only witness, Simon, on the stand. They had only one chance. If they messed it up, they would lose, for certain.
This room had once been Simon’s. She sat at the desk they had bought for him to do his homework, checking her questions for tomorrow, imagining his answers, puzzling over the most effective way to present his case. She made notes, pressing the pencil hard into the paper.
Annoyingly, the lead snapped. She searched the desk drawers for a sharpener. Nothing useful, of course. The first drawer was empty, the second contained motorcycle magazines - the sort where the female riders wore boots and nothing else - the third contained an old brown envelope. Idly, she emptied the contents onto the desk.
It was full of old photographs. Surprised, she spread them out. They were almost all of Simon as a child. Simon aged five, going to school; Simon playing football in the park at Seacroft; Simon with bucket and spade in Blackpool, on a rare family holiday; Simon in Bob’s mother’s kitchen with his face covered with chocolate, trying to bake a cake. They were photographs she hadn’t seen for years.
The door opened softly behind her and Bob came in. ‘What are you doing?’
She sighed. ‘I was writing my notes. Then I found these.’
‘What are they?’ He came to look, over her shoulder.
‘They were in Simon’s drawer. He must have put them there, once upon a time.’
‘Are they all of him?’
She sifted through some more: Simon holding baby Emily in his arms; Simon and Bob reading a book; Simon in a Leeds United football shirt.
‘It looks like, it, yes,’ Sarah said. ‘I didn’t know we had so many.’
‘That’s because he’s put them here. They must have meant something to him, at the time.’
‘Yes.’ A painful thought struck her. ‘There don’t seem to be many of me.’
It was true. There were plenty of Simon alone; a few of him with grandparents or Bob; but only two of him with Sarah. One was of Simon as a baby, clutched in the arms of a mini-skirted Sarah who looked younger than Emily was today; and the other was of a gangly teenager, standing sullenly beside a beaming mother in mortar board and gown receiving her law degree.
‘Where are the rest?’ she murmured, distressed. ‘Surely there are more than this?’
‘Maybe he took them with him.’
‘Or maybe there weren’t any. I was always so busy studying, I didn’t have time. He said that to me in prison, a while ago.’
‘Well, you’re making up for it now,’ said Bob softly.
She saw a stray photo under the pad, and pulled it out. It was of Bob, lying on the ground between two goal posts, having failed to save a shot from a triumphant ten year old Simon.
‘He was your project, in those days.’ She turned to face him. ‘What happened, Bob?’
‘He grew past the point where I could help him. Now only you can.’
‘If I can,’ she muttered, feeling the grey despair leak into her soul. ‘Bob, about today ...’
‘Let’s not talk about it. I shouldn’t have poked my nose in.’
‘I only did it for Simon.’
‘I understand that. You’re the lawyer, I’m not. Only ...’ He shook his head.
‘Only it was a cruel thing to do to David Brodie. Is that what you were going to say?’
‘Sarah, please. I don’t want to quarrel.’
‘Of course you’re right. I’m not so stupid that I can’t see that, Bob. The trouble is that being a lawyer makes you see morality ... in a more complex way than you probably do.’
For a while they sat silent. Emily’s bedroom door opened and footsteps went downstairs.
‘Well, there’s an admission. You mean you don’t really think Brodie did it at all?’
‘There’s no proof that he did, Bob, is there?’
‘So who did it then, if Simon didn’t?’
‘God knows. But all that’s left, now, is his assertion that he didn’t. Tomorrow he’s going to try to make the jury believe him. If he can’t do that, he’s finished.’
There was another, longer silence. Outside the window, they heard Larry and Emily talking quietly. Then Larry’s car door slammed and he drove away. Emily came upstairs and went into her bedroom.
Bob put his hands on her shoulders, kneading the tense muscles gently. ‘I’d hate to do what you do. You carry the whole world on these, don’t you?’
He used to be good at this, she remembered. Before they both became so busy, and the children tore them apart. She leaned into the massage, letting her arms relax.