‘Could he have overheard you when I phoned yesterday?’
‘No, of course not. I was in the office!’
‘I hope so.’ Terry waved the card in his face. ‘Because this man Harker …’
At that moment Terry’s mobile rang. Tracy spoke in his ear.
In most of Sarah’s cases, there had been a camaraderie between the barristers on either side. This was something that was frequently resented by clients but well understood at the Bar. Barristers were rivals, certainly, but not enemies. Friendly banter between them gave a veneer of civility to the contest.
But not now. Objectively, Sarah recognized that Phil Turner was a capable, honest man, good at his job and probably excellent company for his friends. All this simply made her fear him. If only he could have been smarmy, arrogant, callous — anything to make the jury distrust him. But he wasn’t. He was an excellent prosecutor with a decent, down-to-earth manner that no juror could fail to like. He terrified her.
Recognizing this, Turner treated her with studious, distant politeness. They sat at the same large table in the well of the court, a frozen wall of silence between them.
He rose to face the jury for the last time, his ancient wig askew as always, and the court settled back comfortably to listen. Sarah shuddered. The man was too good, too reassuring, too dangerous. She folded her arms over the tumultuous butterflies in her stomach, and glared at him.
‘Members of the jury, as I said at the start of this trial, it is my job to convince you, beyond all reasonable doubt, that Simon Newby is guilty of this murder. And as I said then, if after listening to all the evidence you still have doubts, then Simon must get the benefit of them. If you’re not sure, then you must find him innocent. You must only find him guilty if you are absolutely convinced, in your own minds, that he did commit this terrible crime.’
That’s got the formalities out of the way, Sarah thought. Now he’ll go for the throat.
‘So, what would convince you of his guilt? Well, we’ve heard all the evidence, and examined it in exhaustive detail. Mrs Newby has cross-examined all of the prosecution witnesses and tried to cast doubt on their conclusions, as is her right. Simon Newby has told you his story. And what is the result, members of the jury?’
He paused, letting the silence build. Sarah watched the jury anxiously.
‘The result, I suggest to you, is that Simon’s guilt is clearer than ever before.’
Two — no, three — jury members nodded solemnly in agreement. A middle-aged lady with a pearl necklace, a man and a young woman. Sarah felt sick. If they do convict, she thought, I may actually vomit. People do, in extreme shock. It’s good to be nervous but this is extreme.
‘Let’s recall that evidence, shall we? Firstly, the forensic …’
Tracy had stayed in front of the white van all the way back across Skeldergate Bridge and along the Fulford Road. She had thought about turning off but then she would have lost them. She had feared they might overtake her and try to drive her off the road, but thank God, they had not done that either. To them, she hoped, she was just a dozy woman driver. Nothing more.
Then, without warning, they turned right into the streets by the river. Tracy had already passed the turning, but she swung into a garage forecourt, came out going in the opposite direction, and turned after them. Once again, the van was gone. She guessed and turned into a dead end. She did a U-turn, drove the other way in a panic, looking right and left, and then, to her great relief, came round a bend and saw the van parked outside a house. As she drove past she saw Sean get out and go up to the door. Gary stayed in the van.
Her heart pounding with excitement, Tracy drove about thirty yards beyond the van, and parked on the opposite side. She adjusted the mirrors to watch the van with her back to it. Gary hadn’t noticed her yet, she hoped. Cautiously, she picked up her mobile and phoned Terry.
Turner dealt with the forensic evidence in comprehensive detail. The semen, the vaginal bruising, the footprints, the blood on the knife and the shoe. It was a formidable list, he said, all pointing in one direction. And what of Simon’s story that the blood had got on the knife and shoe because Jasmine had cut her thumb in the kitchen? He looked each jury member in the eye.
‘Well, he had to invent something, didn’t he? So that’s what he’s done. A cock and bull story that a child could see through. I don’t think we need waste any time on it, do you? It’s a lie, members of the jury, pure and simple.’
Sarah seethed with anger. It was the most devastating response he could have made. This was a crucial part of her defence, but instead of engaging with her arguments and rebutting them he’d just dismissed it out of hand, as a lie. How could she revive it now?
‘So what about Simon’s story, his explanation of what happened? Well, members of the jury, you saw him for yourselves, in the witness stand. You know from your own lives how you judge whether someone is lying or telling the truth. What did you think of his performance? Let’s look at it, shall we?’ He hitched his foot up on the bench beside him, in the familiar manner of a farmer leaning on a gate, and rubbed his ear thoughtfully.
‘He says he made love to her gently, but there are bruises in her vagina. He says he only slapped her, but there’s a bruise on her face. He says he drove straight to Scarborough, but he didn’t book in at a guest house until the following day. And he says he was upset about how Jasmine had treated him, but he didn’t discuss this with anyone.’
Turner looked down cruelly at Sarah. ‘He didn’t go to his mother, did he? Or his father or his family or his friends. No one has come here to say ‘Simon was upset about his relationship with Jasmine. He rang me to ask my advice.’ No. Because you can’t ask someone’s advice about what to do with your girlfriend when you’ve already murdered her, can you? And that’s what Simon Newby had done. He’d murdered her, and gone to Scarborough to hide.’
Sarah remembered her nightmare about the judge swinging a ten-year-old Simon in a noose. That had been painful, but it was bliss itself compared to this.
Turner shuffled his notes as though he had finished. Then he looked up again.
‘Oh yes, I nearly forgot. There’s one other defence that was put forward. The idea that David Brodie murdered Jasmine, not him.’ He paused, stacking his papers. ‘Well, there’s no evidence for that at all, members of the jury. None. It’s just the panic reaction of a guilty child, pointing the finger at someone else, anyone else, saying it’s not me, sir, it’s not me, it was him.
‘You saw Mr Brodie on the stand, members of the jury. You heard his evidence. And you saw Simon Newby, too. You choose. Who do you think raped and murdered Jasmine Hurst?’
Abruptly, he sat down. And even that was a coup de theatre, Sarah realized. He’d done it before anyone expected. He hadn’t bothered to sum up in a final peroration, inviting them to convict, as most barristers did. He’d simply treated Simon’s story with contempt, as though neither he, nor any reasonable person, could be bothered with it any longer.
Follow that, she thought.
Hordes of giant wasps were murdering the butterflies in her stomach.
‘Tracy?’ Terry said. ‘What’s up?’
As Harry watched, Terry’s face changed. ‘You saw who? … but he didn’t see you, did he? You’d better be right. So where is he now? The registration of the van? Right, stay there. Don’t do anything, don’t go near him until we get there. Understand? We’re on our way.’
He switched off his phone and opened the portacabin door, all in one movement ‘Bloody hell fire! Come on, lad, quick!’
‘Yes, sir. But what is it?’
Terry was already outside. As he ran, he shouted: ‘I’ll tell you on the way. The main thing is to get there before anything happens to that woman. Come on, lad, run!’