‘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 pair of size 9 Nike training shoes, exhibit two, on one of which she had also found blood — two stains in the crevices of the sole, and five on the upper surface, near the toe. DNA analysis had proved that all these stains were identical to the blood of the victim, Jasmine Hurst. On the trainer she had also found grass stains and sandy soil consistent with samples taken from the crime scene.
Phil Turner sat down with an air of quiet contentment. Sarah rose slowly.
‘Ms Ferguson, let’s take the minor details first. These bits of grass and soil which you found on the trainer, they were consistent with samples from the crime scene, weren’t they?’
‘Yes, they were.’ Ms Ferguson nodded calmly.
‘But — to make this quite clear for the jury — ‘consistent with’ doesn’t mean that the samples on the shoe actually came from the crime scene, does it?’
‘No …’
‘It just means that they could have come from that area. But they could have come from other places on the river path, couldn’t they? Half a mile away, perhaps?’
‘If there was the same sort of soil there, yes. And grasses.’
‘So if someone had been jogging regularly along that river path, would you expect to find the same sandy soil and grass seeds on their shoes? Even if they hadn’t been within half a mile of the crime scene?’
‘Possibly, yes …’ The young woman could probably explain the matter further, but Sarah had no intention of letting her do so. Her calm beauty and assured scientific competence had impressed the jury too much already this morning; she needed to be rattled, have some of her flaws exposed.
‘So this phrase ‘consistent with’ doesn’t take us very far, does it? What about blood?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The only thing that really connects either of these shoes with the crime are a few tiny stains of blood that you found on one shoe — the left one, I think. Two stains on the sole, and five on the upper surface near the toe. Let’s examine the stains on the sole first, shall we? How large were they?’
‘Not large. One was about half a centimetre across and the other a bit less.’
‘And they were both hidden in the patterns of the tread?’
‘That’s right, yes.’
‘Where you found traces of sandy soil and grasses.’
‘I did, yes.’
‘All right. Tell me, Miss Ferguson, did you find traces of anything else in the tread of these shoes? Things not obviously connected to this crime?’
Laila Ferguson frowned, trying to remember. The frown did things to her face which entranced the younger men in the jury. ‘Yes, I think so. There was grit — from pavements and roads, probably. Household dust. And traces of mashed potato chip, on the heel of the right shoe.’
Someone laughed, and Sarah smiled, glad to ease the tension. ‘So these trainers had quite an eventful life, it seems. They hadn’t been cleaned recently, then?’
‘No,’ Laila nodded emphatically. ‘They were fairly dirty.’
‘All right. Now tell me, Miss Ferguson, the blood on the sole of this shoe — was it mixed up with any grass, at all?’