A Game of Proof

on?’

‘They varied. The shortest was about an inch, the longest about three inches long, on the inside of her left arm. As for depth, one went in to the bone.’

‘And from these marks on the victim’s bones, you deduce that all the cuts were inflicted by a weapon with a serrated edge, like the breadknife Mr Turner showed you?’

‘Exactly, yes.’

‘Yes. But that doesn’t prove that these wounds were inflicted by that particular breadknife, does it? I mean, there must be hundreds, probably thousands, of breadknives of the same model manufactured by the same company as the knife Mr Turner showed you, and every one of those knives could have inflicted exactly the same injuries, couldn’t it?’

‘Obviously.’ Dr Jones shrugged. ‘But none of those other knives were found in the defendant’s home, were they?’

‘Weren’t they?’ Sarah stared at him witheringly. ‘You visited my son’s home then, did you, Dr Jones?’

Dr Jones blushed, seeing his mistake at once. ‘No, no, of course not. I was simply given the knife by the police. I have no first hand knowledge of where it was found.’

‘Exactly. So let’s stick to what you do know, shall we? I’d like to draw your attention to another cut on the body. Would you tell the jury what you can see in photograph 36, please?’

‘It’s a photograph of the victim’s left hand.’

‘And is there a cut on that hand?’

‘Yes, there is. A very small cut on the thumb.’

‘Did you examine that cut?’

‘I … examined it briefly, yes.’

‘Only briefly, you say. Why was that?’

‘It seemed a very minor wound in the overall context of her injuries. It certainly didn’t contribute to her death.’

‘Quite so. But your job is to examine all injuries to the victim’s body, isn’t it? However minor. Could you tell the court, please, did this cut exhibit similar characteristics to the other cuts we’ve been discussing? In terms of depth, age and so on?’

‘I’m not sure. May I consult my notes? … I’m afraid I couldn’t be certain about that. I’ve simply noted it here as a minor cut to the left thumb.’

‘Was it healed?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘This minor cut on the thumb. Had the blood in it clotted and begun to knit together? In the natural way that cuts heal?’

‘I, er …’ Dr Jones looked carefully at his notes. ‘I’m unable to say. As I say it was a very minor injury.’

And you didn’t examine it, Sarah thought with vindictive glee. Got you, you smug bastard!

‘Do you notice a black mark around the cut? Signs of a sticking plaster that’s fallen off?’

He frowned, and looked closer. ‘It might be that, yes.’

‘So it is possible, then, that unlike all the other wounds on the body, this cut had begun to heal? In other words, that this cut had been inflicted some hours, even days, beforehand?’

Dr Jones shrugged, as though the matter was unimportant, a trifle. ‘It’s possible, yes.’

The shrug irritated Sarah. She had offered him a way out and he had spurned it. Her concluding question, spoken with perfect politeness, crackled with concealed contempt.

‘So there’s nothing in your notes, or your thorough, detailed and professional examination of the body, to exclude that possibility?’

‘No.’ Dr Jones glared back at her coldly. But he’d got the point, Sarah thought. So had the judge. It wasn’t a minor detail that he had missed. Nothing ever was, in a murder case.

It was after four o’clock. Sarah was not tired, but she sensed the jury’s attention flagging.

‘My lord, I have quite a number of further questions for this witness, but time is getting on, so might this be a convenient point to pause?’

The judge agreed instantly. ‘Very well, Mrs Newby. Until ten tomorrow morning, then.’

The clerk called ‘all stand!’ The judge got to his feet, bowed, and left the court. A buzz of conversation broke out. Sarah rushed back to the dock, where a security guard was handcuffing himself to her son’s wrist. ‘All right, Simon? That’s it for today.’

‘Yeah. Back to my cell, then?’

‘I’m afraid so. But so far, so good.’

‘You think so? Really?’ The anguish in his eyes burned into her own. Whatever she said now would stay with him through the night.

‘Yes, really. Nothing went wrong today. We gave as good as we got. And I’ve plenty more questions for that pathologist tomorrow.’

‘You’ve got to do this, Mum. You’ve got to get me out of there, you really have.’

‘I know. And if I possibly can, I will.’ Tiptoe on a bench, she reached into the dock and grasped his left hand, the one that was free. ‘Have a good meal and a sleep, and don’t worry. You’ve got me and Lucy to do that for you.’

And we will, she thought, as she watched him led away. Late, late into the night.

Harry swung the car out into the Fulford Road. Beside him, Sharon was examining her face in the courtesy mirror.

‘So where’d you get this idea of the reporter, anyway?’ he asked irritably.

‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’

‘Well I’m trying to find out. That’s why I’m asking.’

‘And I’m not telling.’ She sucked in her cheeks, brushed back an eyelash, and flashed him an impudent smile. ‘That OK with you? We all have our little secrets, after all.’

Harry drove silently, controlling his temper. He had thought he was set up nicely with this woman. He kept the social services and vice squad off her back, while she gave him free, regular sex and occasional nuggets of useful information. So far these had led to two arrests — of a minor drug dealer and a burglar posing as a window cleaner. It was exactly the way an informant should operate, in his opinion. But it all depended on his remaining in control, while she gave information to him, and no one else. Certainly not to national TV.

‘What exactly do you think you’ll achieve?’ he asked after a while. ‘However much publicity you get there can’t be a second trial, you know. The law forbids it.’

‘Then they should change the sodding law, shouldn’t they? Like it said in the paper.’

‘Not soon enough for you, Sharon. That’ll take years — if it ever happens.’

‘That’s what you think. I got my sources.’

He drove on, thinking hard. Harry wasn’t overly concerned about anyone apart from himself, but he could see that if this scheme of Sharon’s caused trouble for the police, then it wasn’t just Terry Bateson who was likely to be involved. Whatever scandal she managed to stir up, the camera’s unblinking eye might focus on him. How would that help his future career? The idea made him squirm.

‘Look, Sharon, you’re making a mistake. I mean, guys like this reporter, they’re not interested in you for yourself. He’ll just exploit you for what he can get …’

She laughed. ‘Tell me about it, lover boy. Anyhow, it’s not a guy, it’s a woman.’

‘This woman then. She’ll come up from London, milk your story for what she can get, splash it all over the papers, and leave. You’ll be a star for a day and then left on your own. It won’t change a thing.’

‘It will for me. I want everyone to know the truth.’

‘About what? How Gary raped you? That’s been in the papers already, only the jury didn’t believe you. How will this be different?’

‘Because it won’t be just about Gary. It’ll be about you lot too, and how you screwed it up. You don’t like that, do you? Well you can stick it up your arse for all I care. That’s what I want and that’s what I’m doing.’

She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another, closing the lighter with a snap.

‘And what about Gary? What if he comes looking for you again?’