A Game of Proof

‘When he was handcuffed and strapped to his seat. Did you tell him how she had died?’

‘In general terms, yes. I told him she’d been raped, and had her throat cut.’

‘And what was his reaction to this news?’

‘He appeared to be upset.’

Again Sarah let the words hang in the air. The longer she waited, the more callous she hoped they might sound. But it was only a hope. The jury might equally well sympathize with Churchill’s cynicism.

‘Describe this appearance of being upset for us, Inspector, if you will. Did he seem shocked? Did he weep? What did he do?’

Churchill looked up at the ornate domed ceiling for a moment and sighed, as though to indicate his impatience. ‘As I recall he fell silent for a while. Then he started shouting at us and saying he hadn’t seen her for weeks.’

Damn! She had walked into that. I need an exit strategy, quick.

‘So, to sum up your evidence, Mr Churchill. Four policeman woke my son in the middle of the night, handcuffed him and told him his girlfriend was dead. He appeared to be upset by this. You told him she had been raped and had her throat cut and he appeared to be even more upset by that. Correct so far?’

The mocking smile again. ‘If you put it like that, yes.’

‘Then, when he is handcuffed in your car and still appears to be upset by this truly shocking news, you accuse him of murder and start to question him …’

‘No!’ Churchill shook his head vigorously. ‘We did not question him in the car.’

‘All right. When you are not questioning him in the car but you are describing to him how she was killed and simultaneously accusing him of her murder while driving him through the darkened countryside in his pyjamas with his hands cuffed, and according to you he appears to be upset, at that point he starts to lie and say he hasn’t seen her for weeks. Is that right?’

‘It’s your way of putting it, I suppose.’

‘Is any of it untrue?’

He thought back over what she had said. ‘Not in detail, I suppose, but …’

‘Very well, then. You then take him to a police station where he is allowed to see a lawyer and has a few moments to take in this appalling news without feeling that he is being kidnapped by two strangers who don’t believe a word he says, and at that point he immediately begins to co-operate and tell the truth. Is that right?’

‘Not all the truth, no. He told us he didn’t kill Jasmine.’

‘Apart from that, what else did he tell you in that interview that you don’t accept as true?’

Churchill paused before answering, searching swiftly through his mind for a detail she had forgotten. Then he grinned.

‘He said he’d made love to her in the afternoon. I don’t believe that.’

‘You may not believe it but you’ve no way of knowing whether it’s true or not, have you? The pathologist has already confirmed that it’s possible.’

Churchill shrugged dismissively, without answering.

‘You don’t believe he was genuinely upset to hear of her death, but it’s perfectly possible that he was, isn’t it? If he didn’t kill her?’

‘If he didn’t kill her, yes.’

‘So, if we accept that he didn’t kill her, Mr Churchill, everything that he did and said becomes perfectly comprehensible, doesn’t it? He was shocked, upset and terrified in your police car, when he panicked and told you a lie; but after that he recovered and everything he told you was completely one hundred per cent true. If we accept that he didn’t kill her, that is.’

Churchill spread his hands in exasperation. ‘Well, if you accept that, Mrs Newby, yes. But I don’t accept it, you see, not for a moment. I think he killed her.’

It was the best she could do. Quickly, to show she was not at a loss but was where she had wanted to be, Sarah smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr Churchill. That’s all I want to ask.’

She folded her gown about her, and sat down.

‘You stitched him up, the sod.’

‘Did I? I hope so, Simon. He’s a difficult witness to shake.’

‘You made him look like a thug. He is too.’

‘Let’s hope the jury agree with you.’

‘They will. Anyone could see what a pig he is.’

‘That was the plan, certainly.’ Sarah paced the brief length of the cell and back again. The adrenaline was still flowing in her, making it hard to stay still. Churchill had shaken her as much as she had shaken him. ‘It must be hard, watching all this.’

‘Not when you’re doing so well. You’re brilliant, Mum — honest!’

The enthusiasm, even the choice of words, reminded her of the small boy he had once been. Before all the teenage rebellion and hatred and … this. The brief light in his face brought her a keen joy and regret for all that was gone. She squeezed his arm briefly.

‘I wish all my clients were so grateful. But we’ve a long way to go yet.’

The cell door opened and a guard put a tray with pre-wrapped sandwiches, an apple, and coffee on the bench beside Simon.

‘Such luxury,’ Sarah said. ‘Lucy’ll be down to eat with you. I’ve got some notes to check in my chambers. See you this afternoon, OK?’

Outside, there was the usual shock of sunshine, tourists, traffic and a warm autumn wind that caressed her face and played with her gown as she walked. It was always so strange to step out of the all-absorbing world of the trial into this sound, bustle and colour. Like stepping out of the program into the adverts. She walked past children climbing the grassy slopes of Clifford’s Tower, a French tour guide giving a lecture. She waited at the traffic lights, one hand clutching her wig to stop it blowing off in the wind. A man pressed the button beside her.

‘How’s it going, then?’

‘Who — oh, Terry. Hi.’ They crossed the road, squeezing through a line of German school children. ‘It’s, er … OK so far.’

‘You had my boss on the stand this morning. He’s not your greatest fan.’

Sarah grimaced. ‘Nor I his. But I made a little progress, I think.’

‘How’s your son bearing up? Simon.’

‘He thinks we’re doing well.’ She looked at Terry thoughtfully, wondering how far she could go. ‘But that’s probably because he knows he’s innocent. No one else does. What I really need, is to know who did kill her. David Brodie, for instance?’

Terry met her gaze seriously, knowing he didn’t have the answer. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah. But I’m afraid at the moment …’

A hand touched her shoulder. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but would you mind posing for a photo next to my wife here? We’re from Kansas, and we so admire your quaint British law dresses …’

Stifling a groan, Sarah posed next to the woman for a second. Then she hurried upstairs to her chambers where coffee and sandwiches were waiting. To prepare for the afternoon, and the next witness.

The first witness after lunch was Simon’s neighbour, Archibald Mullen, who had dressed for the occasion. Instead of his old carpet slippers and cardigan he wore a jacket, shirt and tie. His sparse hair had been plastered to his scalp with Brylcreem. His pipe, which Sarah had seen him smoking in the foyer, had been extinguished and stuffed into his pocket.

Phil Turner took him slowly through his evidence — how he had seen Simon and Jasmine often, and recognized them; how he’d seen them arguing in the street on the night she died; how Simon had hit her and she had run off, crying; how Simon had gone back into his house and then come out later to drive away in his car. It was a crucial, damning part of the case against Simon.

Watching, Sarah thought, the old buzzard’s giving the performance of his life. He must have been standing in front of the mirror practising this for weeks.

If Bob hadn’t met him, Simon might never have been arrested.

When Turner sat down Sarah hesitated. She was debating with herself whether to ask the old crow anything