A Game of Proof

competition to see which of them could treat women worst?

On his way to lunch, he heard a commotion around the custody sergeant’s desk..

‘He fucking raped me, he did! You all know that but you don’t do nowt, do yer?’

‘Ah, shut your trap, you daft cow! I want her prosecuted, I do, for assault.’

‘All right, stow it, the pair of you. You’ll get your turn …’

‘Him bloody sue me? Come over here, shitface, I’ll rip your fucking eyes out!’

It was not the beauty of the language that attracted his attention, but the voices. He recognized them both. Turning swiftly along the corridor, he saw two uniformed constables struggling to hold Gary Harker, while a WPC kept a firm grip on Sharon Gilbert. Sergeant Chisholm was booking her in.

‘What’s up, Nick?’ he asked a constable holding Gary.

‘Brawl in a pub, sir. She claims he hit her …’

‘Oh yeah, right,’ said Gary belligerently. ‘And I did this to myself too, did I?’

Terry noted several trails of blood below Gary’s left eye. The sight filled him with sadistic glee. ‘Cut yourself shaving, Gary, did you?’ he enquired.

The question enraged Gary, who elbowed one constable in the face, broke loose from the other, and was halfway to Terry before the two constables tripped him, smashed him face down on the floor and cuffed his hands behind his back.

‘See what he’s like?’ Sharon screamed. ‘You know what he did, Mr Bateson, don’t you?’

‘I know, Sharon, yes.’ He turned to the constables. ‘Book him for assault while resisting arrest. Then fill me in on this case, OK? In my office upstairs.’

An hour later he interviewed Gary with Nick Burrows, one of the arresting constables, while Harry Easby interviewed Sharon with the other.

‘So how did this happen, Gary?’

‘She just sunk her nails in, didn’t she? Bitch!’

‘And you were doing nothing to her, of course?’

‘Have you seen them nails? You ought to do her for wearing offensive weapons.’

‘Let’s just take it from the beginning, Gary, shall we? Where did this argument start?’

The story in itself was simple. Gary claimed to have been in the Lighthorseman when Sharon came in with a girlfriend. Dressed, as Gary put it, ‘for a day’s work on her back.’ He had approached her, he said, in a friendly spirit to buy her a drink and make up for the past, whereupon she had tried to tear his eyes out with her dagger-like nails.

‘No excuse, she just went for me. I bet a dozen witnesses saw it. So do your job, Mr Bateson. I want that bitch charged with assault.’

Reluctantly, Terry ordered the constables to get witness statements. When they returned, Terry contemplated them gloomily. Two witnesses had seen Sharon scratch Gary’s face. Neither had seen him hit her.

‘It’s quite monstrous, sir, I agree,’ Nick Burrows said. ‘But if he persists with this complaint we’ll have to charge her with assault, won’t we? We’ve no choice.’

‘He assaulted you too, constable. I saw it. We all did.’

‘Yes, but in a police station, sir. The lawyers will say we provoked him.’

Harry Easby had interviewed Sharon. He looked shattered by the whole experience; why, Terry could not at first understand.

‘She says he was making offensive remarks and tried to put his hand up her skirt,’ Harry said. ‘That’s as far as the physical stuff goes. She claims her girlfriend Cheryl will support her so I’ve sent a car to fetch her in now. But the real problem isn’t that, boss.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘She’s gone hysterical, she really has. What turned him up so much, was that she’s getting a reporter from some TV program — Rough Justice, I think — to interview her about her case. Apparently this reporter’s up here to cover the Newby trial and Sharon went to meet her in that pub for lunch. She claims because you’ve got new evidence the CPS ought to go for a second trial. You know there’s been talk about that in the papers recently — saying the prosecution ought to have a second go after an acquittal in serious cases where major evidence comes to light …’

‘We should be so lucky.’ Terry laughed bitterly. ‘Hot air. It’ll never happen.’

‘Well, maybe not, but that’s what journalists love, talk, isn’t it? Anyway Sharon thinks hers could be a sort of test case on TV. You know — ‘ the law needs changing to prevent injustice’ — that kind of thing. Bad publicity for us.’

‘Wonderful,’ said Terry gloomily. ‘And guess who’s in the firing line. Did she scratch him on purpose, then, as a publicity stunt?’

‘Could be,’ Harry shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

Terry could see the embarrassment, the hours of paperwork and media interviews, stretching ahead of him. If the case ever did appear on TV he’d be the joke of the nation.

An awful thought struck him.

‘This reporter wasn’t there in the pub? Filming the fight while Sharon set it up?’

‘No, thank God. But she turned up soon after. She’s got the story by now, for sure. The whole pub was buzzing with it.’

‘Bloody hell fire.’ Terry gazed at Harry in despair. ‘And Harker wants us to charge her with assault, which makes me look dafter than ever. I’ll be on telly as the dumbo detective who not only failed to get a rape conviction, but prosecuted the victim for assault. Brilliant. Your caring sharing police force.’

‘And if you don’t, Harker puts in a complaint.’

‘Exactly. Well, let him. He assaulted you too, didn’t he? Keep him in overnight.’

‘And what about her, sir? She’s, er, got kids you know.’

‘Yes.’ Terry contemplated Harry curiously. It was unlike him to be so concerned. ‘Well, I can look stupid doing the right thing, at least. Get a statement from this Cheryl and send Sharon home. Will that persuade her to give up her chance of becoming a media superstar, Harry?’

‘Not likely, sir.’

Terry sighed. ‘Oh well. It was a good life while it lasted.’

Phil Turner began with the undisputed statement of the man who had found Jasmine’s body. The grim facts, read out in Turner’s calm, dependable voice, held the jury’s attention.

‘I was taking my dog for a walk at seven in the morning … the dog started barking in the bushes … a few yards off the track I saw the body of a young woman, the throat all covered with blood, and my dog barking hysterically at it …’

Sarah saw a middle-aged juror fumble for a tissue in her handbag, and a younger man dart nervous, vengeful looks at Simon in the dock.

PC Wilson, who had responded to the 999 call, had felt for pulse and breathing but found none. In his opinion the young woman had been dead for some time. Nothing that PC Wilson said was controversial and Sarah had no questions.

Dr Jones, the forensic pathologist, was a different matter. Sarah shivered as he took the Bible in his right hand. She vividly recalled the last time she had seen that smooth, sharp face. The memory became worse as the usher distributed a book of photos of Jasmine’s injuries. Several jurors turned pale as they looked at them.

Sarah had seen these photos before but they still upset her. She remembered how she had been called to identify this very body — Emily’s body, as she had expected. The smell of formaldehyde came back to her, and that cold, clinical room. This pathologist had been watching her, waiting until she could screw her courage that last turn higher and say yes, I’m ready now, let me look. And see that it wasn’t Emily after all.

A hand touched her shoulder. Sarah turned to see Lucy watching her anxiously.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes … yes, sure.’

‘Only you seemed upset.’

‘I’m fine. It’s OK. Thanks.’

The judge had noticed her distress too. God, how long did I lose it? A few seconds, a minute perhaps? To her