A Game of Proof

you credit. I am also fully aware of the purpose of public funds.’ He paused for a moment, rubbing his thumb along his jaw and staring intently at an area just below her chin. Did her collar have a stain on it, she wondered anxiously? But no, of course not — it was merely another technique for humiliating people, putting them in their place. The judge cleared his throat and resumed.

‘I have already directed the jury to ignore both remarks and will repeat those instructions in my summing up. In my opinion that will suffice to ensure your client the fair trial which he undoubtedly deserves.’

The words appeared impeccable but the sarcastic final phrase was a deliberate reference to the fact that everyone in court — except, she hoped, the jury — regarded Gary Harker as an unpleasant thug who was almost certainly guilty and belonged in prison. Not that the judge had actually said that, of course, but …

‘In that case, my lord, I hope that any uncharitable references to Ms Gilbert’s character which may come out in court will be treated with equal leniency.’

It was waspish, petulant, and unwise. The judge’s face grew cold. ‘You mistake me, Mrs Newby. There was no lenience in my directions this afternoon, and there will no leniency either for you or your client. This is a most unpleasant rape case and will be tried with proper respect shown to the victim. I would have thought that you, as a young woman, would appreciate that.’

Youngwoman, Sarah thought. Odd how a phrase that might be a compliment in one context could be an insult in another. Foolishly, she floundered on. ‘Of course, my lord, but she does have a very chequered history and if my client’s record is to be brought before the jury then in all fairness …’

‘You fail to grasp the point, Mrs Newby. Your client’s record has not been brought before the jury and it will not be unless you choose to tell them about it yourself. Therefore it would be quite improper for you to make irrelevant accusations about Ms Gilbert’s sexual past. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes.’ Sarah bit her lip, counted to ten under her breath, and said, ‘I am grateful to your lordship.’ Then she got to her feet and moved to the door.

The men, either out of reflex politeness or as a further subtle insult, rose to their feet when she did, but did not immediately follow her to the door. When she opened it and turned to bow she saw an ironic smile on the judge’s heavy jowl.

‘After all, Mrs Newby, we’re all feminists here, you know.’

She strode down the softly carpeted corridor, seething with anger and humiliation. Halfway along she paused, wondering if she heard laughter from the judge’s chambers, from which Julian and his junior had still not emerged. Then she burst into the robing room and tore at the stud in her stiff collar with her fingers.

I’ve made a complete mess of it, she thought. My biggest case so far and on the very first day I antagonise the judge to no purpose whatsoever. I sound off about justice with as much emotional control as a teenager on her first date, and now they’re going to be needling me about it for the rest of the week.

She glanced into the mirror and saw with relief that her face was only slightly flushed, not nearly as hot as it felt. It was an attractive face, with neat shoulder length dark hair and hazel eyes around which a network of tiny wrinkles had begun to appear. Perhaps they had always been there but she had only noticed them since she had begun to wear contact lenses eighteen months ago. There’s the problem. Your vision improves and you see faults in yourself, she thought wryly.

As Sarah unbuckled her collar another barrister came into the room — Savendra Bhose, a young Indian from her own chambers. Although he was seven years younger than her they had qualified at the same time, and apart from Lucy he was the person she felt closest to at work. He smiled. ‘Hi! The big rape defender! How’d it go?’

‘Dreadful!’ Sarah dropped her wig into her briefcase. ‘The victim’s as hard as nails, shoots her mouth off about my client’s record, and when I complain the judge tells me he’s a feminist!’

‘What?’ Savendra laughed. ‘You don’t mean old Baskerville Gray?’

‘Yes, the old bloodhound himself. He must be sixty-five if he’s a day, and eighteen stone into the bargain, and he’s in there now with his buddy Julian choking over his port because he told me to respect the rights of women!’

Savendra grinned delightedly. ‘Well, so you should, you know! The man has a point. The world’s changing — even women and blacks can vote nowadays.’

‘Really? I hadn’t heard. No one tells me anything.’ Sarah smiled ruefully. ‘I just blew it, that’s all. Rushed in like a rookie and asked for a retrial and of course he told me the grounds weren’t strong enough and it would be a waste of public funds, etcetera, etcetera … but what am I to do, Savvy, eh? Sit there and smile meekly while they pull a fast one on me?’

‘That hardly sounds like you …’ Savendra began, but got no further before Julian Lloyd-Davies swept in. He nodded at Sarah. ‘No hard feelings, I hope?’

She picked up her briefcase and made for the door. ‘Of course not. It was a long shot anyway.’

He smiled genially. ‘Like the whole case, I should think.’

‘Yours, do you mean? I’ll tell my client that — he’ll be delighted!’

She winked at Savendra and left. Pleased with her smart remark, she ran down the wide eighteenth century staircase to the entrance hall, where Lucy Sampson sat amid a cluster of security guards, witnesses, and departing students. Lucy, a large, motherly solicitor in a baggy black suit, rose to her feet expectantly.

‘Any luck?’

‘No, sorry, I just set them all against me. Come on, let’s go and see Valentino.’

The two women made for the staircase to the police cells, where Gary Harker would be held until the Group 4 van took him back to Hull prison for the night. As they went through the door they left the imposing pomp of the courtroom with its ancient oak panelling, stucco pillars and exotic domed ceiling, and entered a grey, comfortless world of bare stone corridors and clanging cell doors. At the foot of the stairs they met a detective on his way out.

‘Aha, the devil’s advocate! Hello, Sarah. And Lucy Sampson, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right. My solicitor.’ Sarah smiled coolly at DI Terry Bateson, one of the few CID men she actually liked. Bateson, as usual, was managing to make his double-breasted suit hang crumpled around him like a tracksuit. Perhaps it was something to do with the tie, strung several inches below the top button; or the loose-limbed, broad-shouldered frame that supported the clothes, but every time Sarah saw the man he looked more like an athletic teenager than the senior criminal detective that he actually was. And despite her cool smile, conversations with Terry seldom failed to flutter her. He was a widower, too, which made him all the more attractive.

It was Terry who had charged Gary with rape; and as the officer investigating the murder of Maria Clayton and the attempted rape of Karen Whitaker, he suspected that Gary was guilty of these crimes too. Maria Clayton, an up-market prostitute, had been found strangled on Strensall Common a year ago. Her hands had been bound behind her with the belt of her own raincoat, and the belt looped through its buckle round her neck, so that the harder she struggled the tighter the noose became. It seemed she had been half-strangled like this and then throttled with her attacker’s hands. She had been sexually assaulted and there was a small cut in her neck. Her dog, a Yorkshire terrier, was found with its throat cut in a ditch.

Karen Whitaker, a university student, had been posing nude in the woods for her boyfriend to photograph when the couple were attacked by a hooded assailant with a knife, who snatched their camera, handcuffed the boy to the steering wheel of his car, bound Karen’s hands with tape, and was attempting to rape her when the boyfriend managed to set off the car alarm and attract some walkers, who chased the attacker away.

This attack, which happened less than three weeks after the Clayton murder, led to the Hooded Knifeman articles in the Evening Press; and when Sharon Gilbert was raped a month after that, the pressure on the police to make an arrest was enormous. But although Gary was Terry’s prime suspect for all three attacks, the evidence he had to link him to the first two was very thin. Gary had been one of a small team of builders who had built an extension to Maria Clayton’s kitchen six months before her death, and had boasted of having sex with her once. He had also been one of a gang of builders repairing Karen Whitaker’s hall of residence, and had seen the naked pictures in her rooms. But scores of men had visited Maria Clayton’s house, and dozens of students and building workers had known about Karen Whitaker’s exhibitionist hobby. A smudged footprint from a size 9 Nike trainer had been found near the scene of both crimes, and a battered pair of size 9 Nike trainers had been found in Gary’s flat; but this, as Lucy had pointed out scornfully when the police presented it, would put about two million other men in the dock alongside Gary. Although she had been sexually