‘I have no idea.’
Agnew raises an eyebrow, then, ‘You’re a runner, I believe, Mrs Mason?’
‘I’m not a runner. I go jogging.’
‘On the contrary, we have been told you used to run every morning, for several miles at a time.’
She shrugs. ‘Most days.’
‘And you wore training shoes?’
She shoots a look at him. ‘What else would I wear?’
‘And how many pairs do you have?’
She’s flustered now. ‘I had an old pair for the winter, when the ground is muddy. And a newer pair.’
‘And what colour were they – the newer pair?’
A hesitation. ‘Blue.’
‘The same colour as these, shown here?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘So are we to believe that that, also, is just a coincidence?’
Sharon gives him a poisonous look, but says nothing.
‘We were told, were we not, by the expert witness, that the training shoes recovered from your house had tiny traces of railway ballast embedded in the soles?’
The defence barrister rises to her feet. ‘My Lady, it has already been established, and confirmed by witnesses, that my client went running on Port Meadow and used to use the level crossing to get there, before it was closed off. There is thus a perfectly innocent explanation for the presence of the ballast on the shoes.’
She looks at the jury, underlining the point, then returns to her seat.
The prosecuting barrister removes his glasses. ‘Notwithstanding Miss Kirby’s intervention, I put it to you, Mrs Mason, that the image we have on the screen is an image of you. Wearing your husband’s high-viz clothing, your hair and face concealed, pushing a barrow containing your daughter’s body. You wore his clothing and his gloves – gloves you later disposed of in Loughton Road. But his boots, as a size eleven, would have been impossible to walk in, given you are only a size five. Hence the training shoes.’
‘It’s not me – I told you – I wasn’t there – ’
‘So where were you? At five o’clock that day? The time shown on the screen.’
‘At home,’ she says, folding her hands. ‘I was at home.’
‘But that’s not quite true, is it? You told the police that you left your children alone in the house that afternoon, and were absent in your car for at least forty minutes. And this,’ he jabs the pointer, ‘was at exactly the time shown on the video footage.’
‘I went to the shops,’ she says sullenly. ‘For mayonnaise. For the party.’
‘But you claim you couldn’t find any so there are no computer records of any such purchase. And no one remembers you at the store you said you went to, do they?’
‘That doesn’t prove I wasn’t there.’
‘Nor does it prove you were, Mrs Mason. On the contrary, it is the Crown’s case that you spent those forty minutes driving to the car park by the level crossing and burying your daughter’s body in rubble of the old footbridge. Waste which you knew – having conveniently received a leaflet through the door – would be collected that very night.’
He clicks the remote and an image of Daisy appears on the screen. She is smiling, in her party outfit. A charming gap-toothed smile. It’s three days before she disappeared. Then he holds up a plastic bag.
There are gasps from the public gallery and one or two of the jury put their hands to their mouths.
‘Exhibit nineteen, my Lady. DNA analysis has proved that this tooth belonged to Daisy Mason. As we have heard, it was found in the gravel near the site of that waste heap, by a search team from the Thames Valley Police.’ He takes his pointer again and gestures at the screen. A red label appears, marking the spot. Then he turns to the jury. ‘I am sure, ladies and gentlemen, that Daisy hoped to leave this under her pillow, like any other little girl. Perhaps you have children yourself, who have done the same. But there will be no fairy coming to collect this, will there, Mrs Mason?’
The defence barrister rises to her feet. ‘Is this really necessary, my Lady?’
The judge looks over her spectacles at the prosecuting barrister. ‘Move on, Mr Agnew.’
He bows. ‘So, Mrs Mason, let us recap. If it was your husband who killed your daughter, there are only two possibilities. Either he killed her after he got home at 5.30 or he came back earlier in the afternoon, while you were on your fruitless quest for mayonnaise. We can eliminate the first of these alternatives, not least because the time does not tally with the video evidence. And in any case, had he killed her then, it would have happened when you were in the house, and you, by definition, must have helped him cover it up, by failing to report the crime to the police. I assume you were not so complicit, Mrs Mason.’
‘No.’
‘We are therefore left with the forty minutes when you were absent from the house. Between approximately 4.35 and 5.15. During that time, your husband would have to return to the house, find you unexpectedly absent, take the opportunity to kill his daughter and wrap the body so diligently that no trace whatsoever is left in his pick-up truck, and leave. All in forty minutes. He would then have to drive to the car park, put Daisy in the wheelbarrow, where – somewhat inexplicably – he did manage to leave forensic evidence – and hide her body in the waste heap, before dumping the gloves in the skip, removing his high-viz clothing and returning to the house by 5.30. That’s quite some going. Has he ever thought of entering Supermarket Sweep?’
There’s some low-level laughter from the gallery, but the judge is clearly not amused. Agnew resumes.
‘Only there’s a flaw in this story, isn’t there, Mrs Mason? Because the person who buried the body, at that time and in that place – the person we can see on this video – couldn’t possibly be your husband.’
Sharon refuses to meet his eye. There are two spots of livid colour in her cheeks, but her face is white.
‘So who is it, Mrs Mason?’
‘I have no idea. I told you.’
‘I put it to you that you know exactly who this is. It’s you, isn’t it?’
She lifts her chin. ‘No. It’s not me. How many more times. It’s not me.’
***
19 July 2016, 5.18 p.m.
The day of the disappearance
Loughton Road, Oxford
The woman pulls the car over to the side of the road and switches off the engine. So far, so good. The 16.58 was on time, and even if no one on the train noticed her, she’s pretty sure all drivers’ cabs have cameras these days. And what with the wheelbarrow and what she’s wearing, surely the police will have enough.
Only the gloves to deal with now. And for that she needs another witness. A middle-aged female, for preference. A busybody. They’re the noticing type. Amazing how hard it is to get noticed, even if you’re trying to be. People are so preoccupied. They’re all so absorbed in themselves.
She unwraps the sheet of newspaper on her lap and checks the gloves. She could have left them at the crossing, but you have to give the police something to do in a murder case. Something to solve, like the pieces of a puzzle, so they can put them all back together and think they’ve found the answer. Because when it came down to it, there was no other way.
It had to be murder.
Daisy had to die.
***