A Game of Proof

and less violent form of intercourse which may have taken place up to three hours before the violent attack which led to her death? That’s what you said, isn’t it?’

It was a vital point. Sarah fixed the witness with a basilisk stare.

‘It’s a theoretical possibility, yes. But only if you disregard the rest of the evidence.’

‘Or if the rest of the evidence can be explained in a different way,’ Sarah persisted. ‘In which case, although she was murdered, she may not have been raped at all?’

Dr Jones hesitated, then shrugged. ‘That is a possible interpretation, yes. Although even if I accept your premise, I wouldn’t call this sexual activity mild, exactly. Loving, consensual sex doesn’t usually cause trauma or bruising of any kind.’

It was a damaging reply, Sarah knew. Even if Simon’s story were true, how had he treated this poor girl? She remembered how tantalizing and aloof Jasmine could be; and Simon’s intense, frightening rage. What had really happened between them that day?

‘But mild or not, these bruises do not necessarily indicate rape?’

Dr Jones hesitated, making a conscious effort to be fair. ‘If intercourse took place some hours before death, then … the physical evidence does not necessarily indicate rape, no. But at the very least it does indicate vigorous penetration. If Ms Hurst had been alive and complained of rape, these bruises would certainly have supported her claim.’

‘But it is also possible that this bruising was caused by sexual intercourse which was vigorous, as you say, but still consensual. Not a rape?’

‘Possible, yes.’

‘Thank you.’ Sarah glanced at the jury. She had established this vital point; now was the time to develop it further. ‘So, Dr Jones, if we accept that sexual intercourse took place some hours before death, then there is no physical proof that the man with whom Jasmine Hurst had sex, was the same man who cut her throat and killed her, is there?’

The silence in court was electric. Reluctantly, he sighed. ‘If we accept your premise, no.’

Was it enough? Did the jury understand how vital this was? Sarah was not sure. When in doubt, she had learned, you must drive your point home, by repetition if necessary.

‘So from your evidence, Dr Jones, is it possible that Jasmine Hurst had sexual intercourse with my son in his house that afternoon, as he says, and that her throat was cut by a quite different man several hours later?’

Dr Jones sighed. ‘It’s possible, yes.’

‘Thank you. That’s all I have to ask.’

She smiled, and sat down.

After a night in the cells Gary slouched into the interview room, surly and unshaven. He slumped into a chair, his heavy forearms on the table. ‘Have you charged her then?’

‘Not yet, no.’ Terry studied him contemplatively, pleased to see that his scratches were inflamed and angry. ‘You assaulted a police officer.’

‘Did I fuck! He attacked me. You all did!’

‘It’s a serious charge, Gary. The magistrates hate that kind of thing.’

‘You’re joking. I’d get a jury, anyhow. It were police brutality — four of you beat me up!’

Terry was not surprised. Gary knew the system well enough to work it to his advantage. With legal aid, he would be much better off avoiding magistrates and opting for trial by jury. His defence lawyer would claim that Gary had been assaulted in police custody. There were stories like this in the press all the time.

Even if a jury did convict, he’d get six months maximum, out in three. Terry decided to cut his losses and go for a deal. He studied the big man coolly.

‘Funny thing, Gary, that’s exactly what Sharon says. She was sitting peacefully in the pub, when all of a sudden she was assaulted, by a man twice her size.’

‘That’s crap, that is. She went for me. Everyone saw it.’

‘Not everyone, Gary. Some did, some didn’t. But what happens when we charge her with assault, Gary? Think about it. The magistrates look at you, fifteen stone of solid brawn, and then her. Who are they going to believe, do you think?’

‘It won’t be magistrates. It’ll be a jury.’

‘Ah no. This time she gets to choose, not you. You’d have to pretend to be the victim. The trouble is, not many victims look like you.’ Terry smiled, savouring the moment. ‘What I’m saying, Gary, is this. I can charge you with assaulting a police officer, and oppose bail on the grounds that you’re a danger to the public. That way you’ll serve a couple of months on remand, whatever happens at the end of it. Maybe you like being locked away, I don’t know?’

The threat, he guessed from Gary’s silence, was going home. He continued in the same calm, reasonable voice. ‘On the other hand, if you drop your charge against Sharon, a lot of police time and money would be saved. We’d look at it in that light.’

‘You wouldn’t charge me with assault?’

Terry smiled thinly. ‘You choose, Gary. You go home now, or you don’t. Up to you.’

Gary was silent for a moment. It was a mistake to regard this man as stupid, Terry thought. He might not be great at nuclear physics but he had an instant, unerring regard for his own self-preservation.

‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘It’s just scratches anyhow. Women’s stuff.’

‘You’re dropping the charges?’ Terry asked formally.

Gary nodded sullenly. He hadn’t got what he wanted but had only lost a night in the cells.

‘OK. There’s this form to complete.’ Terry watched Gary sign in solid, careful writing. ‘Oh, just one other thing, before you go.’

‘What?’

‘These pictures.’ Terry spread the photofits of Sean on the table. ‘Anyone you know?’

Gary scowled. ‘No, don’t think so. Who are they?’

Terry watched him closely, not believing the denial for a second.

‘No? Oh come on, Gary, try harder. He worked for Robsons’, delivering tiles to Maria Clayton’s house. And to the university lodgings where that girl Karen Whitaker lived. You worked with him at MacFarlane’s too, remember?’

‘Sean.’ Gary shrugged. ‘These aren’t supposed to be him, are they?’

‘Yes, they are. Don’t they look right?’

Gary smiled contemptuously. ‘Not really.’

Oddly, now he’d acknowledged who the photofits were meant to represent, he seemed unable to take his eyes off them. Terry watched while Gary examined each picture in turn.

‘Maybe you could help us make some better ones?’

Gary didn’t dignify this with an answer. Instead, to Terry’s surprise, he asked: ‘Who helped you with these? That bitch Sharon?’

‘Sharon? No. Why? Should she?’

‘She’d do owt to cause trouble, that one.’

‘She knows him, then, does she?’

Gary got abruptly to his feet. ‘I’m free to go, you said?’

‘In a minute. When did you last see this Sean, Gary?’

‘God knows. Years ago.’

‘Really? Then why did you cite him for an alibi, at your trial?’

Again, Gary didn’t bother to answer. Something was eating him up, Terry was sure of it. ‘Can I go now, or what?’

‘For the moment. If you do see your friend Sean, tell him I’d like a word, will you?’

At the door, Gary turned. ‘You going to be showing them pictures around?’

‘It’s our job, Gary, it’s what we do.’

‘Stupid tossers. Wasting your bloody time.’

The forensic scientist, Laila Ferguson, was tall, with clear black skin and a strikingly beautiful face. She gave her evidence in a pleasant, husky voice. The seven men in the jury paid her rapt attention.

Yes, she had examined a breadknife, exhibit one, and found minute traces of blood under the handle. And a