Phil Turner’s last witness was Miranda Hurst, Jasmine’s mother. The court fell silent as she made her way quietly to the witness stand. A tall blonde woman in a plain black suit and gloves, she took the oath in a soft voice with one hand on the testament. Despite her make-up there were dark smudges beneath her eyes. Turner began gently.
‘Mrs Hurst, I realise how painful this is for you. I will ask as few questions as possible.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Would you say you had a close relationship with your daughter, when she was alive?’
‘Fairly close, yes.’
‘She was twenty three, wasn’t she? She’d left home some years before. Did she still visit you and discuss things from time to time?’
‘Oh yes. She was a good girl that way. She came every week or so. Sometimes we’d meet for a swim and have lunch or go shopping after.’
As Sarah watched, she wondered why she had never met this woman while Jasmine was alive, and whether it might have made a difference, if they’d been able to talk. But then, she’d never really liked Jasmine, and she doubted if this woman had ever had much time for Simon.
‘Did you talk about her boyfriends sometimes?’
‘Yes, we did.’
‘Did you meet them?’
‘Yes. I met him.’ She pointed at Simon, in the dock. ‘And David. Both of them.’
‘What was your attitude to Simon Newby? Did you like him?’
Here we go. Conscious of the eyes watching her, Sarah made her face a neutral mask.
‘Bit of a layabout I thought. Nice to look at but no guts.’
‘Did you tell Jasmine what you thought?’
‘Yes. But she wouldn’t listen, would she? Girls that age, they do what they want.’
‘Indeed.’ Turner smiled sympathetically. ‘As you got to know Simon better, did your opinion about him change?’
‘Changed for the worse, yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, his house for one thing. It was a tip. I’d brought Jasmine up proper, I didn’t want to see her in a pigsty with beer cans all over the floor. But worst thing was he beat her. I should have stopped it then.’
‘When?’
‘When I saw the bruises. We went swimming one day and she had a great black bruise on her arm. I asked her why and she said they’d had a fight. Simon had done it.’
A murmur, a vast collective intake of breath, passed through the court. There’s another serious blow, Sarah thought.
‘What did you do?’
‘I said she should come home to me. But she just laughed. She wouldn’t listen.’ Until now Mrs Hurst’s voice had been quiet, but it suddenly rose to a shout. She pointed at Sarah. ‘It’s her fault! His mother sitting there all prissy in her wig! If she’d spent more time at home bringing up her son decent instead of sticking her nose in law books, none of this would have happened!’
Another murmur, louder than before. This is a massacre, Sarah thought. She kept her face perfectly still, expressionless. Phil Turner glanced sideways at her, then continued.
‘Were you afraid for your daughter, when you saw these bruises?’
‘Of course I was. What mother wouldn’t be?’
But did you ring me? Sarah thought. Did you tell me about all this when I might have stopped it? No.Did I see the bruises myself? No again.
‘Very well. Her other boyfriend, David Brodie. What’s your attitude to him?’
‘A decent lad. A sight better than Simon. Better for Jasmine too, if she’d stuck by him.’
‘To your knowledge, was he ever violent towards your daughter?’
‘Who, David? No, never. He’s not that sort.’
So there goes this morning’s effort, Sarah thought. Wrecked in a single confident remark.
‘Jasmine wasn’t afraid of him, was she?’
‘Her? No. She could twist him round her little finger.’
Now there’s a true saying.
‘To your knowledge, was Jasmine ever afraid of Simon?’
‘Well, when she left him to move in with David, he was very angry. He came round, in a filthy rage, to see if she was with me. She hid upstairs and I told him she wasn’t there.’
‘What did Simon do?’
‘He didn’t believe me. He wanted to go upstairs but I wouldn’t let him. I had a fair job to get him out the house, but he went in the end.’
‘Were you afraid?’
‘Angry, more like. I told him I’d clatter him with the broom if he stayed in my kitchen. I would have too!’
A woman in the jury nodded furious agreement.
‘What about Jasmine? Was she afraid of him then?’
‘She must have been, mustn’t she, or she wouldn’t have hid. But she wouldn’t let on, she’s not that sort. Wasn’t, I mean …’ For the first time, her voice broke, and she fumbled in her bag for a tissue. Turner waited while she blew her nose loudly.
‘She had a good laugh about it after, the silly girl. If only she’d had more sense …’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hurst. I do understand how you feel. I have no more questions, My Lord.’
Judge Mookerjee nodded. ‘Very well. Would you like a break, Mrs Hurst? I think fifteen minutes would do us all a lot of good, don’t you? Then Mrs Newby may have some questions.’
Of all the witnesses Sarah had to cross-examine, this was the one she dreaded most.
Whatever Jasmine’s failings — and there had been many — she had been this woman’s daughter, and now she was dead. Sarah remembered her own feelings in the mortuary, expecting to find Emily under that sheet. It had been the worst horror of her life, but she had been rescued from it. This woman had not. She had gone to the same place, been confronted with the same body on a trolley, and when the sheet had been pulled back there had been the cold face of the child she had carried, nurtured and loved for twenty-three years.
And she believed Sarah’s son had killed her.
As the court reassembled, Sarah stood up. There were no butterflies now; just a grey feeling of dread. I can’t offer her sympathy, she thought. She would just spit it back in my face. I must be as quick and clinical as I can. Across the courtroom, she met Jasmine’s mother’s eyes.
‘Mrs Hurst, when did you last see your daughter alive?’
‘Two — no three days before.’
‘Before she died?’
‘Yes.’
‘What were the circumstances of this meeting?’
‘She came to my house for a cup of tea and a chat. She often did that. Kept in touch.’
As Simon didn’t. Sarah understood the implied message.
‘Was she there long?’
‘An hour. An hour and a half maybe.’
‘Time for a good chat then. In this conversation, did she say anything about Simon?’
‘About your son? Yes.’ Mrs Hurst’s mouth closed shut.
‘What did she say?’
‘That she were still seeing him.’
‘Did she say that she intended to move back in with him?’
‘No. Thank God. Just that she were seeing him.’
‘And did you approve of this?’
‘You ask me that? You’ve got a nerve.’
The venom in the reply shook Sarah. For a moment she was lost for words. While she floundered, Judge Mookerjee leaned forward to speak to the witness.
‘I appreciate how difficult this is for you, Mrs Hurst, truly. But please confine yourself to answering the questions, as straightforwardly as you can. You don’t have to look at Mrs Newby. You can look at me if you prefer.’
Mrs Hurst nodded bitterly. ‘Of course I didn’t approve. I wish she’d never met him.’
‘Very well.’ Never had Sarah been more grateful for the gift of controlling her voice. Her knees were trembling like jelly and her feet wanted to run but her voice stayed calm. ‘And did you give her that advice?’
‘I’d told her before. She knew what I thought. It made no difference.’
‘She was going to see him anyway?’
‘She was. Sadly.’
‘Did she seem anxious about this? Worried in any way?’
‘About going to see him? No, not particularly.’
‘Very well. Now you’ve told the court about bruises you once saw on her arm. Did she have any bruises on this occasion?’