A Game of Proof (50 page)

‘And the other explanation?’

‘I suppose ... a theoretical alternative explanation could be that she suffered a milder vaginal trauma some time before, and that the bruising had in fact fully developed.’

It was a key admission, reluctantly given. ‘So how long before could this much milder vaginal trauma have occurred, doctor?’

‘Well, it’s hard to be precise. If it was very mild, two or three hours, I suppose. But ...’

‘Thank you. So it
is
possible that this bruising was caused up to two or three hours before death. And in that case, the trauma that caused it was much milder than the brutal rape which my learned friend has attempted to describe?’

And so my son didn’t rape her. Or at least, not very roughly. Oh Simon, Simon!

‘It’s a theoretical possibility, yes. But only if you treat these injuries in isolation from all the others, which indicate a violent, sexual attack. There were scratches to the backs and insides of her thighs, which would indicate a violent sexual assault.’

‘You put the prosecution case very well, doctor. But it remains true, does it not, that there is a completely different and credible possibility - that the semen and bruising in the vagina were the result of a very much milder and less violent form of intercourse which may have taken place up to three hours
before
the violent attack which led to her death? That’s what you said, isn’t it?’

It was a vital point. Sarah fixed the witness with a basilisk stare.

‘It’s a theoretical possibility, yes. But only if you disregard the rest of the evidence.’

‘Or if the rest of the evidence can be explained in a different way,’ Sarah persisted. ‘In which case, although she was murdered, she may not have been raped at all?’

Dr Jones hesitated, then shrugged. ‘That is a possible interpretation, yes. Although even if I accept your premise, I wouldn’t call this sexual activity
mild
, exactly. Loving, consensual sex doesn’t usually cause trauma or bruising of any kind.’

It was a damaging reply, Sarah knew. Even if Simon’s story were true, how had he treated this poor girl? She remembered how tantalizing and aloof Jasmine could be; and Simon’s intense, frightening rage. What had really happened between them that day?

‘But mild or not, these bruises do not necessarily indicate rape?’

Dr Jones hesitated, making a conscious effort to be fair. ‘If intercourse took place some hours before death, then ... the physical evidence does not necessarily indicate rape, no. But at the very least it does indicate vigorous penetration. If Ms Hurst had been alive and complained of rape, these bruises would certainly have supported her claim.’

‘But it is also possible that this bruising was caused by sexual intercourse which was vigorous, as you say, but still consensual. Not a rape?’

‘Possible, yes.’

‘Thank you.’ Sarah glanced at the jury. She had established this vital point; now was the time to develop it further. ‘So, Dr Jones, if we accept that sexual intercourse took place some hours before death, then there is no
physical
proof that the man with whom Jasmine Hurst had sex, was the same man who cut her throat and killed her, is there?’

The silence in court was electric. Reluctantly, he sighed. ‘If we accept your premise, no.’

Was it enough? Did the jury understand how vital this was? Sarah was not sure. When in doubt, she had learned, you must drive your point home, by repetition if necessary.

‘So from your evidence, Dr Jones, is it possible that Jasmine Hurst had sexual intercourse with my son in his house that afternoon, as he says, and that her throat was cut by a quite different man several hours later?’

Dr Jones sighed. ‘It’s possible, yes.’

‘Thank you. That’s all I have to ask.’

She smiled, and sat down.

After a night in the cells Gary slouched into the interview room, surly and unshaven. He slumped into a chair, his heavy forearms on the table. ‘Have you charged her then?’

‘Not yet, no.’ Terry studied him contemplatively, pleased to see that his scratches were inflamed and angry. ‘You assaulted a police officer.’

‘Did I fuck! He attacked me. You all did!’

‘It’s a serious charge, Gary. The magistrates hate that kind of thing.’

‘You’re joking. I’d get a jury, anyhow. It were police brutality -  four of you beat me up!’

Terry was not surprised. Gary knew the system well enough to work it to his advantage.  With legal aid, he would be much better off avoiding magistrates and opting for trial by jury. His defence lawyer would claim that Gary had been assaulted in police custody. There were stories like this in the press all the time.

Even if a jury did convict, he’d get six months maximum, out in three. Terry decided to cut his losses and go for a deal. He studied the big man coolly.

‘Funny thing, Gary, that’s exactly what Sharon says. She was sitting peacefully in the pub, when all of a sudden she was assaulted, by a man twice her size.’

‘That’s crap, that is. She went for me. Everyone saw it.’

‘Not everyone, Gary. Some did, some didn’t. But what happens when we charge her with assault, Gary? Think about it. The magistrates look at you, fifteen stone of solid brawn, and then her. Who are they going to believe, do you think?’

‘It won’t be magistrates. It’ll be a jury.’

‘Ah no. This time she gets to choose, not you. You’d have to pretend to be the victim. The trouble is, not many victims look like you.’ Terry smiled, savouring the moment. ‘What I’m saying, Gary, is this. I can charge you with assaulting a police officer, and oppose bail on the grounds that you’re a danger to the public. That way you’ll serve a couple of months on remand, whatever happens at the end of it. Maybe you like being locked away, I don’t know?’

The threat, he guessed from Gary’s silence, was going home. He continued in the same calm, reasonable voice. ‘On the other hand, if you drop your charge against Sharon, a lot of police time and money would be saved. We’d look at it in that light.’

‘You wouldn’t charge me with assault?’

Terry smiled thinly. ‘You choose, Gary. You go home now, or you don’t. Up to you.’

Gary was silent for a moment. It was a mistake to regard this man as stupid, Terry thought. He might not be great at nuclear physics but he had an instant, unerring regard for his own self-preservation.

‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘It’s just scratches anyhow. Women’s stuff.’

‘You’re dropping the charges?’ Terry asked formally.

Gary nodded sullenly. He hadn’t got what he wanted but had only lost a night in the cells.

‘OK. There’s this form to complete.’ Terry watched Gary sign in solid, careful writing. ‘Oh, just one other thing, before you go.’

‘What?’

‘These pictures.’ Terry spread the photofits of Sean on the table. ‘Anyone you know?’

Gary scowled. ‘No, don’t think so. Who are they?’

Terry watched him closely, not believing the denial for a second.

‘No? Oh come on, Gary, try harder. He worked for Robsons’, delivering tiles to Maria Clayton’s house. And to the university lodgings where that girl Karen Whitaker lived. You worked with him at MacFarlane’s too, remember?’

‘Sean.’ Gary shrugged. ‘These aren’t supposed to be him, are they?’

‘Yes, they are. Don’t they look right?’

Gary smiled contemptuously. ‘Not really.’

Oddly, now he’d acknowledged who the photofits were meant to represent, he seemed unable to take his eyes off them. Terry watched while Gary examined each picture in turn.

‘Maybe you could help us make some better ones?’

Gary didn’t dignify this with an answer. Instead, to Terry’s surprise, he asked: ‘Who helped you with these? That bitch Sharon?’

‘Sharon? No. Why? Should she?’

‘She’d do owt to cause trouble, that one.’

‘
She
knows him, then, does she?’

Gary got abruptly to his feet. ‘I’m free to go, you said?’

‘In a minute. When did you last see this Sean, Gary?’

‘God knows. Years ago.’

‘Really? Then why did you cite him for an alibi, at your trial?’

Again, Gary didn’t bother to answer. Something was eating him up, Terry was sure of it. ‘Can I go now, or what?’

‘For the moment. If you do see your friend Sean, tell him I’d like a word, will you?’

At the door, Gary turned. ‘You going to be showing them pictures around?’

‘It’s our job, Gary, it’s what we do.’

‘Stupid tossers. Wasting your bloody time.’

The forensic scientist, Laila Ferguson, was tall, with clear black skin and a strikingly beautiful face. She gave her evidence in a pleasant, husky voice. The seven men in the jury paid her rapt attention.

Yes, she had examined a breadknife, exhibit one, and found minute traces of blood under the handle. And a pair of size 9 Nike training shoes, exhibit two, on one of which she had also found blood - two stains in the crevices of the sole, and five on the upper surface, near the toe. DNA analysis had proved that all these stains were identical to the blood of the victim, Jasmine Hurst. On the trainer she had also found grass stains and sandy soil consistent with samples taken from the crime scene.

Phil Turner sat down with an air of quiet contentment. Sarah rose slowly.

‘Ms Ferguson, let’s take the minor details first. These bits of grass and soil which you found on the trainer, they were consistent with samples from the crime scene, weren’t they?’

‘Yes, they were.’ Ms Ferguson nodded calmly.

‘But - to make this quite clear for the jury - ‘consistent with’ doesn’t mean that the samples on the shoe actually came from the crime scene, does it?’

‘No ...’

‘It just means that they
could
have come from that area. But they could have come from other places on the river path, couldn’t they? Half a mile away, perhaps?’

‘If there was the same sort of soil there, yes. And grasses.’

‘So if someone had been jogging regularly along that river path, would you expect to find the same sandy soil and grass seeds on their shoes? Even if they hadn’t been within half a mile of the crime scene?’

‘Possibly, yes ...’ The young woman could probably explain the matter further, but Sarah had no intention of letting her do so. Her calm beauty and assured scientific competence had impressed the jury too much already this morning; she needed to be rattled, have some of her flaws exposed.

‘So this phrase ‘consistent with’ doesn’t take us very far, does it? What about blood?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘The only thing that really connects either of these shoes with the crime are a few tiny stains of blood that you found on one shoe - the left one, I think. Two stains on the sole, and five on the upper surface near the toe. Let’s examine the stains on the sole first, shall we? How large were they?’

‘Not large. One was about half a centimetre across and the other a bit less.’

‘And they were both hidden in the patterns of the tread?’

‘That’s right, yes.’

‘Where you found traces of sandy soil and grasses.’

‘I did, yes.’

‘All right. Tell me, Miss Ferguson, did you find traces of anything else in the tread of these shoes? Things not obviously connected to this crime?’

Laila Ferguson frowned, trying to remember. The frown did things to her face which entranced the younger men in the jury. ‘Yes, I think so. There was grit - from pavements and roads, probably. Household dust. And traces of mashed potato chip, on the heel of the right shoe.’

Someone laughed, and Sarah smiled, glad to ease the tension. ‘So these trainers had quite an eventful life, it seems. They hadn’t been cleaned recently, then?’

‘No,’ Laila nodded emphatically. ‘They were fairly dirty.’

‘All right. Now tell me, Miss Ferguson, the blood on the sole of this shoe - was it mixed up with any grass, at all?’

‘Some of it, yes. Several fragments of grass had blood on them.’

‘And does that mean that the grass and the blood got onto the shoe at the same time?’

‘It ... could mean that, yes.’

‘But it doesn’t necessarily mean that, does it? I mean, if the grass was already lodged on the shoe when the blood fell on it, the blood would still stain the grass, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Ms Ferguson agreed hesitantly.

‘So, from your evidence, it’s not possible to say whether this grass got onto the shoe at the same time as the blood, or at a completely different time, is it?’

‘No ...’

‘Nor is it possible to say
when
this blood got onto the sole of this shoe?’

‘No.’

‘Or
where
, either, surely. I mean, the blood could have got onto the sole of the shoe in the house, when the household dust got there; or out in the roads, when the road grit got there; or perhaps on a path where there was sandy soil. Is that right?’

‘I suppose that’s right, yes,’ Ms Ferguson agreed, frowning thoughtfully. ‘I mean, all I can say is that the blood was there. I can’t tell you when or how it got there.’

‘Exactly.’ Sarah let the words hang in the air, and looked at the young woman with some warmth. ‘Now let’s think about these drops of blood you found on top of the shoe, if we may. How big were they?’

‘The largest was two millimetres across.’

‘Big enough to see with the naked eye?’

‘Oh yes. The size of a small drop of ink.’

‘I see. And the others?

‘One was about the same size. The rest were smaller. The size of a large grain of dust.’

‘Five drops of blood, three of them the size of a grain of dust. But you examined the shoe very carefully, I suppose? The top and the sides, the laces and the tongue, you looked inside too? With special scientific equipment, I take it?’

‘Yes, of course. I spent hours examining this shoe. There were plenty of other marks, mud and grass stains chiefly, and some paint and coffee; but there were just these two stains on the sole and five on the upper surface near the toe.’

‘And the other shoe? Any blood on that?’

‘None at all, no.’

‘No blood anywhere on the left shoe. Very well. Would you turn to photo number three, Ms Ferguson, and tell the jury what you see there, please.’