A Game of Proof

confidence which had carried her so far had drained away, gone. She felt herself rambling.

‘So … you may ask yourselves, if Simon didn’t kill her, who did? Well, the sad truth is, I don’t know. I don’t believe Simon does either. Maybe you think it was rash of me to question David Brodie in the way that I did, but my point was to show that David had as strong a motive for killing Jasmine as Simon had …’

‘My Lord.’ Turner was on his feet. The judge was looking at him, and the attention of the jury had switched away from her. ‘My Lord, we discussed this in chambers. In my view, it’s improper for Mrs Newby to make such insinuations without evidence.’

The judge nodded. ‘I agree. Mrs Newby, please. Members of the jury, I must ask you to disregard that last remark.’

And so she was destroyed. Right at the end of her speech she had not only lost the jury’s attention but been publicly reprimanded. She felt a flush rising to her face, her fingers trembled.

Somehow, her voice struggled on.

‘ … and yet motive is the only thing the prosecution have to rely on. The forensic evidence is flawed, there is no … excuse me … no witness evidence to put Simon anywhere near the crime; he has made no confession, you see … and so all the prosecution have to say is that Simon must have killed her because he quarrelled with her. Well, I am sure we all quarrel with our partners all the time without killing them. It’s absurd …’

It was no good. The interruption had thrown her. She had lost the jury completely. Some of them were still watching her out of politeness, some in pity, and several were looking at their hands in embarrassment. But she had to struggle on. She had to.

‘ … the police have cut corners in this case. They’ve gone for the easiest suspect, the person who saw her last. They bullied him in the police car, they’ve produced shoddy forensic evidence, and they have no witness evidence at all. In these circumstances, I suggest that you, the jury, have every ground for reasonable doubt. The prosecution have failed to prove their case. So you must find Simon not guilty.’

In that very last sentence, as in her first, her voice broke. It was almost, but not quite, a sob. Humiliated, she sat down, feeling smaller and more useless than she could ever remember.

The silence in the courtroom radiated pity.

After a long moment, the judge coughed, and faced the jury.

Chapter Forty-Two

‘Oh no, no. I don’t want you. Get out!’

Sharon tried to slam the door in Sean’s face, but he was too quick for her, too strong. He had one foot inside already and when she tried to shut it he shoved it back, slamming her against the wall. She swung her arm to hit him but he caught her wrist easily and held it back against the wall beside her head.

‘Now then Sharon, that’s not nice, is it? No way to greet an old friend.’

‘Old friend be fucked. What do you want?’

His face, a few inches from hers, darkened with anger. ‘Be fucked you say, is it? Well, maybe that is what I want. Like last time.’

Only you couldn’t manage it, thought Sharon. So you beat me half to death. Katie began crying in the living room. ‘That’s my little girl. Let me see to her, will you?’

‘Just a second, then. Make it quick.’

He released her, and she scooped up the child hurriedly, trying to think clearly at the same time. This was one customer she didn’t need. Think. ‘It’s all right, Katie, love, it’s just a man visiting. Is it your teeth again?’

The child, as she had hoped, nodded tearfully.

‘Look, it’s her teeth, they’ve been hurting all night, I’ve got to get some Calpol from the chemist. If you come back later …’

‘No. Now. If she’s had the toothache all night another half hour won’t matter.’

‘I choose who I go upstairs with, Sean. It’s my body …’

‘Put her down, woman.’ To her horror he actually tried to lift the child from her arms. When she clung on, he took something from his belt. There was a pain, a sharp pain in her neck, below her ear. ‘Put her down, Sharon. I don’t want to cut the baby.’

Trembling, she obeyed. ‘It’s all right, Katie, we’ll get the medicine soon, okay?’

When she had shut the living room door she saw the knife clear in his hand. A long, jagged blade, the tip an inch from her throat. Her limbs were trembling like jelly.

‘Please. What do you want?’

‘Upstairs. Now!’

She stumbled up to her bedroom, the man with his knife close behind. ‘Look, I’ll do what you want but just don’t hurt my kid, all right. Don’t hurt my kid.’

‘I won’t hurt her. I don’t care about kids.’

‘All right, what do you want? I’ll do it any way you like.’ She began unbuttoning her blouse, her fingers clumsy like thumbs. She could see he had a hard-on but that wasn’t his problem, was it? It was later.

‘You’ve been a bad girl, Sharon, they tell me.’

‘Who tells you? I don’t know what you mean.’ She dropped her blouse on the floor and began unfastening her bra, the knife still pointing at her throat.

‘Our friend Gary tells me.’

‘Gary?’ She took off the bra and stood there, trembling. Somehow, she must gain control of this situation. ‘What’s he said about me?’

‘You’ve been talking about him to the Press. Go on. Don’t stop.’ She stepped out of her skirt. He took a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘He wants you to sign this.’

She took it and read, in Gary’s big, clumsy handwriting: I want everyone to know, in the Press and TV, that when I say Gary raped me it isn’t true. I always knew it wasn’t him but I was just getting my own back. I lied about it all.

Astonishment overcame her fear. ‘He really wants me to sign this?’

‘He does so.’ A faint, ironic grin appeared on Sean’s face. ‘Will you do it?’

‘Is that what you’re here for?’

‘That’s what Gary thinks I’m here for.’

‘But you want something else?’

‘Yes.’ He waved the knife at her tights and panties. ‘Them too.’ When she stood before him naked he said, ‘What I want is a lock of your hair.’

‘My hair?’ Somehow this frightened her more than anything else. The strange smile reappeared, as if he thought the demand might amuse her; but it didn’t. It scared her witless. ‘What do you want that for?’

‘To add to my collection. Cut some off for me, will you?’

There were scissors on her dressing table, with her brushes and make-up. She sat down automatically in front of the mirror, as she did every day. But not like this, not naked with a knife at her back. She lifted the scissors to cut some hair.

‘A good long bit, now. You’ve plenty to spare, after all.’

Suddenly it came to her. ‘You’re the one they want, aren’t you? The one who killed that woman, a year ago. Maria something — Clayton.’

His voice lost its playful tone. ‘How in hell do you know that?’

‘Because they’re on to you. The police have got photos of you, and I … saw them.’

Scared as she was, she realized too late what she’d said. But she’d said it because she needed something — words, objects, anything at all — to throw at him and protect herself. She got up, scissors in one hand, a lock of hair in the other, and backed away. Towards the bed, towards the telephone. If she could ring 999, perhaps …

‘The police have shown you photographs of me?’