‘Just a slap, you say.’ Turner tugged at his ear thoughtfully. ‘Must have been some slap, to leave a great ugly bruise on her cheek like that.’
‘It was a slap. After all, she hit me first, with her bag.’
‘Oh, did she? Really. Did it leave a bruise?’
‘No.’
‘You didn’t go to hospital to have it treated?’
‘No …’ Simon’s answer was almost a growl.
‘But for once we have a witness to this fight, Simon, don’t we? Mr Mullen. And he doesn’t agree with your story. He’s quite clear. You hit Jasmine, he says. He didn’t say anything about her hitting you.’
‘No, well he didn’t see everything, did he?’
‘So he’s lying, is he? Not you, him.’
‘I said he didn’t see it all.’
‘I see. Well, once again it’s your word against his, isn’t it? Because the only other witness is dead. With a bruise on her cheek from this slap of yours.’
This time, Simon didn’t bother to answer. He simply folded his arms and stared silently at his tormentor. Turner avoided his gaze, looking down at his notes. Whatever the jury made of this, Sarah thought, it was unlikely to be helpful to Simon.
‘All right, let’s examine the rest of your story, shall we? After you slapped her, as you say, you got into your car, and drove away to Scarborough, all on your own. Where you arrived in the middle of the night, with only seals to see you. Correct?’
‘The beach was empty, yeah.’
‘So again, we have only your word for this too. And you stayed there for over a week, without contacting anyone.’ Turner put a foot on the bench beside him, and scratched his ear, as though he were genuinely puzzled. ‘So remind me — why do you claim you ran away?’
Simon turned to the jury, as though this was something he
‘You weren’t sick of the way you’d behaved yourself?’
‘Well, yeah, a bit. But she was teasing me, leading me on …’
‘And that made you angry?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So when you went to Scarborough, did you contact anyone to tell them where you were? Your friends? Your parents? Your sister?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I wanted to be on my own.’
Turner scratched his head, rubbing a pencil under his wig. ‘But you weren’t angry with your friends or your family, were you? You were just angry with Jasmine?’
‘Yes.’
‘So why not ring someone and talk about it? Ring your friends, your sister, your mother here, your dad — tell them how she’d treated you, how you felt.’
Because my son’s not like that, Sarah thought. Probably most young men aren’t. As Phil Turner must know.
‘I don’t know. I was too angry. I didn’t want to talk.’
‘Jasmine had made you very angry then?’
‘Yes. But I didn’t kill her.’
‘Didn’t you?’ If there had been any shred of irony or amusement in Turner’s voice before, it had all drained away now. ‘I think that’s exactly what you
‘No.’
The courtroom was utterly silent, a hundred eyes focused directly on Simon.
‘After that you drove to Scarborough because you wanted to hide, to escape from this horrible thing that you’d done. And the reason you didn’t phone your family or friends wasn’t because you were still angry as you say. It was because your anger had turned to guilt and fear that you would be found out. That’s the real truth, isn’t it, Simon?’
‘No, it’s not. You’ve just twisted it all. I didn’t kill her. I didn’t even know she was dead until the police told me.’
Thank God, Sarah thought, he’s not displaying any anger now. He’s past anger, the moment is too serious. He’s cold and certain and staring his enemy in the eye.
‘Didn’t you? And yet your first response to the police, your very first response, was to lie. Not to show grief about this girl you say you loved, but to try to save your own wretched skin. That’s the truth, isn’t it, Simon? You lied because you knew you were guilty.’
‘I did show grief. I loved her. You don’t understand that.’
‘But you killed her.’
‘No.’
‘The evidence of her body says you killed her, Simon. Dead people don’t lie.’
‘Someone killed her all right, but it wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.’
‘Oh yes, you did, Simon.’
‘No.’
Turner sat down. The court was silent. The judge glanced at Sarah, who rose to her feet.
‘That concludes the evidence for the defence, My Lord.’
Simon had resisted as well as he could. There was nothing she could ask him that would improve matters, no further witness she was allowed to offer. Now everything would rest on the speeches from the lawyers.
‘Very well. Mr Newby, you may return to the dock, if you will.’
As Simon walked past Sarah smiled at him encouragingly. The smile was partly for him, and partly for the jury. If you act as though you’ve won, people sometimes believe that you have.
Chapter Forty-One
It seemed ironic that it was such a beautiful morning. Sarah sat in bed at half past six, nursing a cup of tea and staring out at a clear blue autumn sky with wispy cirrus clouds high above. The river meadows were blanketed with silver mist, rising in wispy tendrils as the sun began to burn it off. A heron flapped lazily by, in search of its favourite fishing spot.
For Sarah, there was no comfort in any of it. As she got up, showered, and dressed her mind was running through her speech, as it had nearly all night. In her dreams the judge had dangled a hangmen’s noose with a ten year old Simon choking in it. The judge swung him to and fro as she stumbled and forgot her words.
Well, that’s all rubbish, she told herself briskly. It’s the jury that matters, anyway.
Bob groaned and sat up. ‘How do you feel?’ he asked blearily.
‘Tense. On edge. Fighting fit.’ She smiled at him in the mirror as she applied her lipstick.
‘You’ll do your best. You always do.’
‘Yep,’ she agreed. ‘That’s me.’ It was like the day of her law finals, only ten times worse. The butterflies in her stomach were fighting the battle of Britain. She pulled on her motorcycle leathers. ‘Wish me luck?’
