Do QCs wear hoods in their wives’ bedrooms, Sarah wondered flippantly. We should be told. But then ordinary barrister’s daughters can go missing, can’t they? her mind screamed back. Lost alone in some pervert’s bedroom. Oh shut up, please. Concentrate.
Sharon, Lloyd-Davies reminded the jury, had heard the rapist’s voice. She had seen his body, he had even used her son’s name. How could she be mistaken? And Gary had two clear motives — to gain revenge after their quarrel that evening, and to recover his watch. He knew exactly where she lived, alone and defenceless with her children. He knew where she kept the watch; she had seen him take it. The police couldn’t find it because he had hidden it, that was all.
And what about his so-called alibi? Well, it relied on three people who could not be proved to exist at all. But a witness who did exist had seen him in the adjacent street just a few minutes after the rape took place.
Finally there was the question of character. Someone was lying in this case, clearly. Well, the jury had seen Sharon Gilbert in the witness box; and they had seen the police inspector. All those people believed Gary was guilty. Then the jury had seen Gary himself. So who did they believe? Sharon, her son and the police? Or Gary Harker?
Quite, Sarah thought. A man with a criminal record three pages long, including violence against women. My charming client.
‘We know who is telling the truth, don’t we, members of the jury?’ Lloyd-Davies concluded. ‘We know who broke into Sharon Gilbert’s house and raped her in front of her two small children. It was that man there. Gary Harker.’
So far Lloyd-Davies had been dry, calm, understated, allowing the horror of the facts to make his points for him. Now, he raised his right arm, and pointed at Gary. Then he sat down.
The judge eyed the clock. 11.30. Too early to adjourn for lunch. ‘Mrs Newby?’
The phone box was in Blossom Street — near the Odeon cinema, a bus stop, a Kentucky Fried Chicken outlet, and a few streets of Victorian tenements. Inside it an advert offered French lessons for naughty boys. Harry Easby examined it curiously.
‘All right,’ Terry said, to Harry and two young uniformed constables. ‘We’ve got the girl’s photo. Let’s see if anyone’s seen her. Or knows who rang from here at 10.27 yesterday.’
It was the only clue he had, so far. His visit to Sarah’s son Simon had yielded nothing. The door of the terraced house in Bramham Street had been opened by a truculent, muscular young man in a teeshirt and shorts. He had short reddish-gold hair, a round face with a broad nose, and a ring in one ear. He had led Terry into a cramped, untidy front room and answered his questions while putting on pair of old socks and ancient, mud-stained trainers. Yes, his stepfather had rung at two a.m. last night; no, he had no idea where Emily had gone. He had last seen her a month ago in Tesco with their mother. He and his sister weren’t particularly close but he could readily understand that the pressure from their highly academic parents had become too much for her. Probably she would come back in a day or two. Terry was welcome to search his house if he wanted but if not, he was going for a run.
Terry had considered a search but decided against it. Everything in the boy’s demeanour suggested innocence. What disturbed Terry was how little the lad seemed to care. What sort of family is this, he wondered as he drove away. Son a half-employed brickie, husband a gibbering wreck, daughter run away from home. What does that woman do to people?
None of my business, he told himself firmly. Just as well, perhaps.
Terry and Harry took alternate houses down the street. Some had offices downstairs, others were entirely given over to bedsits. At quarter to twelve they crossed the road to confer with the uniformed branch. Or youth wing, as Harry called it.
‘There are two possibles, sir,’ reported PC Kerr eagerly. ‘A woman who saw a man using the box yesterday morning — he was on for ages so she had to wait; and another bloke who said his neighbour always used the phone at the same time. Said he was obsessive, like.’
‘Could your woman describe this man at all?’
Kerr consulted his notebook. ‘About forty, balding, grey suit, camel coat.’
‘Hm. And the obsessive neighbour? What did he look like?’
PC Kerr flushed. ‘I didn’t think to ask, sir. But he lives in flat 3a., number 7. He’s out now but he usually watches telly in the afternoons, I was told.’
‘All right, we’ll check him out later today,’ Terry said. ‘Now I’d best get back and see the anxious parents. Anxious dad, at least.’
Sarah tried to listen to Lloyd-Davies, but her ability to concentrate was gone. She’d had no sleep last night and in the warm courtroom she found her eyes closing. Behind her eyelids she saw Emily running away. Someone was holding her hand, but who? She’d been about to find out when she awoke with a jolt and looked round wondering if anyone had noticed. Pray God the jury weren’t laughing at her.
She stood up mechanically, her notes in her hand. ‘Members of the jury, Mr Harker is, as you know, accused of a quite horrendous crime.’ Which he almost certainly committed, she thought miserably. What now?
She stopped, transfixed by the extraordinary sensation that the jury were in a glass tank where she couldn’t touch them. The fat one at the back is a crab.
Wake up, for God’s sake. Concentrate. This is what you came to work for. Do it now.
I can’t. I’m too tired.
You will.
Somehow, despite the turmoil in her tired mind, her voice continued without her. ‘It is no part of Mr Harker’s case to minimise the terrible suffering Sharon Gilbert has endured, or the harm done to her children. No decent man or woman could fail to sympathise with it.’
Not even me. As Emily’s mother I sympathise with it, too. Shut up.
‘What Mr Harker says is quite simple. It wasn’t me, he says. You’ve got the wrong man. These terrible things happened but I didn’t do them. That’s what Mr Harker says.’
Which is just what a child says when there’s milk spilt on the carpet, a voice nagged in her mind. I didn’t do it, the milk just jumped straight out of the cup. Come on, you can do better than that. Concentrate.
Several jurors were shuffling or fiddling with their hands. A young woman gazed up at the decorated roof. Come on. You’re losing them. Try harder.
‘Mr Lloyd-Davies says that the evidence proves Gary Harker’s guilt. But that’s not true, members of the jury, is it? The evidence in this case is really very thin indeed. The prosecution can’t even prove that Gary was in the house, never mind that he committed this horrible rape. He wasn’t there, members of the jury. It’s the prosecution’s job to prove he was there and they have totally failed to do so. Let’s take a closer look at the evidence.’
Mercifully, the words were trickling out, but they were not flowing. The glass screen between Sarah and the jury remained. But the logic of the case was clearly laid out in her notes. She consulted them desperately.
‘The only evidence that really counts is Sharon’s belief that she could identify Gary. Well, do you remember how many drinks Sharon had that night? She was drunk, members of the jury — hopelessly drunk and terrified. How could she possibly identify anyone in that state? Could you? A man wearing a hood, wielding a knife, who spoke two or three words at most before forcing you to do terrible acts? I doubt it. I doubt if anyone could think clearly in that situation.’