by Jane Isaac
“I called around several times, phoned her.”
“But Grace didn’t wish to see you.”
“Grace withdrew after Jo died. From everybody. She was grieving.”
“So, for the two months leading up to her arrest, it’s fair to say you barely saw or heard from her?”
The witness opened her mouth and closed it again.
The judge leant forward. “Could you answer the question please?” he said to Beryl.
She glanced at Grace, her face full of sorrow. “Yes, that’s fair. But she knew I was there if she needed me.”
Grace cowered inwardly as Beryl left the witness box. She’d closed her doors when Jo died, shut the world out, pushed her friends aside. The only person she’d allowed in, invested her time with, was Faye.
Chapter Seventy-One
After Beryl’s questioning, the judge adjourned for lunch. Grace sat in her cell and imagined him in his chambers, enjoying a light salad, perhaps a glass of spring water or a green tea. He looked like the type of person who would drink green tea. The jury would slope off to the canteen, sampling food chosen off a menu, cooked by chefs, chatting with each other about their weekends. Back in her cell, Grace’s lunch was brought in by a security guard on a plastic tray. She poked the omelette around the plate, counting down the minutes until she heard the familiar jangling of keys outside her door. Court was characterised by late starts, long lunches and early finishes. The practical side of Grace understood why. The jury not only had to travel in from far and wide, but proceedings in the courtroom were draining. Every piece of evidence had to be examined, every comment scrutinised. They needed time to process the information. But for Grace, every minute, every second that passed was torture.
Grace was finally led back up to the dock and waited as Eleanor called her next witness to the stand.
The court lighting glinted off the bald head of the short stocky man who made his way down to the witness stand with a slight limp.
“Doctor Reid can you identify yourself for the court?” Eleanor asked, after formalities were completed.
“Doctor Jacob Reid. Senior pathologist at the Royal Free, London, based at Barnet.”
“Thank you. I understand you specialise in knife wounds?”
“I’ve examined hundreds of cases of victims who’ve suffered knife wounds, and written papers on the most regular and dangerous areas for major medical journals. The dissertation paper for my doctorate concentrated on this area.”
The judge sat forward. “Ms Talbot-Deane. Has this line of questioning been agreed with the prosecution?”
“It has, Your Honour.”
He sat back, steepled his fingers as Eleanor continued. “I understand you’ve examined the forensic material available in this case?”
“I have.”
“Can you tell us, in your expert opinion, what are your findings?”
“Most people that are attacked with a knife, even if they don’t die, have multiple wounds. Panic sets in. The killer goes into a frenzy, keeps going even after the victim is dead, afraid they might rise up and try to defend themselves. Here, the deceased has one stab wound and the knife wasn’t removed.”
“Thank you. So, in your opinion, it was unusual to have one wound?”
“Yes. I’ve only had four cases in my entire career where the victims have died from a single knife wound. And none of these were murders.”
“We’ve heard from the pathologist that the direction of the wound would make it difficult for the deceased to stab herself. What do you make of that?”
“Difficult, but not impossible if she was minded to kill herself and knew where the main arteries lay.”
“Would such knowledge be freely available?”
“It wouldn’t be difficult to research where the main arteries are positioned. Hit them and you bleed out quick. A search on the internet would provide that information. The difficulty lies in whether she’d have the mental and physical strength to carry out such an act.”
“Have you ever considered a case where the victim has stabbed themself in this manner?”
“I have. Four months ago a man in Chiswick died of a single stab wound to the neck. He had a history of mental illness and the circumstances around his death gave no suspicion that any other party was involved.”
“And the knife was lodged, not removed, in the same manner?”
“It was.”
“Was there a coroner’s finding in this case?”
“Yes. The coroner reached a decision of suicide.”
“This is inconsistent with the police pathologist’s report in Faye Campbell’s case.”
“It is.”
“Can you reconcile this inconsistency?”
“Merely that I have more experience of knife wounds.”
Eleanor bowed to the judge. “No further questions, Your Honour.”
Sheldon moved his robe back and rested his fist on his hip as he stood. “Doctor Reid, you’ve given us an account of a similar case of death by a single stab wound to the neck.”
The pathologist pushed his glasses up his nose. “Yes.”
“Of all of the substantial cases of fatal stabbings you have considered nonetheless, it is right, isn’t it, that instances of self-stabbing are very rare?”
“It is.”
“Thank you. May I ask you to remind the court, if you would, if the victim in the second case was male or female?”
“Male.”
“You clearly stated earlier for the court that a victim of a suicide in such a manner would have to be strong, both mentally and physically, to carry out such a crime.”
“Yes.”
“As prosecution counsel, I’ve also seen the papers on this other victim. Wasn’t it the case that he was over 6ft tall and 18 stone, a former boxer I believe?”
“Yes, but-”
“Thank you, Doctor. No further questions, Your Honour.”
Grace watched as Eleanor dispensed with her prized witness. When her solicitor had said they were bringing in an expert on knife wounds, she’d been impressed with Eleanor’s sharp efficiency. This was her trump card. But once again, Sheldon shot them down in flames.
***
Later that afternoon, Grace heard the key turn in the lock of her holding cell. Before adjournment, another expert witness had taken to the stand, this time a Doctor of Psychology who confirmed Faye’s personality disorder, said she was obsessive, vindictive, remorseless in pursuit of her goal, even if it meant killing herself. Once again, Sheldon had argued against his theory based on her physical strength.
Grace stood, preparing to be taken back to Peterborough for the night, and was surprised to find Eleanor Talbot-Deane and Jane Barrington enter. They looked oddly out of place in the small area with their dark suits and coiffured hair.
Eleanor’s wig and gown were absent, showing a petite frame with ginger hair smoothed back from her face. She wasn’t concerned about the prosecution’s questions to her expert witnesses. It was all about planting the element of doubt, she said. Moreover she was keen to check that Grace was ready to take the witness stand in the morning, prepared for examination. She had none of Sheldon’s warmth and despite being on her side, her confidence was intimidating. Even Jane Barrington, who wasn’t usually stuck for words, was conspicuous in her silence.
“My counterpart, Mr Sheldon, will provoke you,” she said. “The prosecution’s case is based around you having a temper and losing it, so don’t. Be prepared for leading questions. Make sure you direct the answers to the jury and don’t let him wear you down. As long as you stick to the facts and keep emotions out of it, you’ll be fine.” She gave a smile as she left, the first touch of warmth Grace had seen since the trial began, and the rarity of it made it feel all the more comforting.
Chapter Seventy-Two
It was a Tuesday morning when Grace took the long walk to the witness stand. After almost a week in the dock, she should have been used to the heat of eyes poring over her, b
ut today their gaze was different. More intense. Scrutinising her every move. She read out the oath, desperately trying to ignore the croak that splintered her voice.
Eleanor stood and confirmed Grace’s name, address and date of birth before kicking off with some basic questions. Grace felt herself relax slightly.
“So, it’s fair to say you’ve lived in Market Harborough all of your life?” Eleanor continued.
“Yes.”
Eleanor took her through the loss of Jo, how it made her feel and how her life had changed. “It’s a matter of agreement that your daughter, Jo, was murdered at the hands of Faye Campbell,” Eleanor said as she finished. “When did you discover this fact?”
“The police told me when I was interviewed on the 13th of January.”
“Not before?”
“No. I had no idea.”
“Grace, can you explain to the court the circumstances in which you first met Faye Campbell?”
Grace slowly relayed the details of their meeting in the supermarket, the incident at the shopping centre, the coffee she shared with Chloe and Meggy that sparked off a friendship culminating in a series of visits to Grace’s home.
The words dripped out of her mouth, almost of their own volition, as she talked about their ensuing friendship. Faye became her rock of support after losing Jo, somebody she could talk to without the fear of upsetting them, someone she could confide in. Grace felt the desperate need for the court to understand, to comprehend the spell that beset her to unknowingly befriend the woman that killed her daughter.
Eleanor didn’t interrupt, allowing Grace’s words to fill the courtroom, the only other sound the soft tapping of the court clerk’s keys on her keyboard as she made her notes. As her words eventually dried up, Grace became aware of a tear rolling down her cheek. She swiped it away.
“Thank you,” Eleanor said gently. “I realise this must be hard for you.” A slight pause. “Did you ever visit Faye’s home during your friendship?”
“No. Never. She told me her father had died recently. She said she was living in his bungalow on Fairfax Road while renovating it. There was a lot of work to do. It wasn’t a good time to visit, but she did say I would be invited round when she’d finished.”
“The court has heard that Faye also lived with your family for a short while in 1987. Can you tell us any more about that?”
“I’m afraid not. I don’t remember.”
“Not at all?”
“I was only nine years old. My parents fostered a lot of children. There were always people coming and going.”
“Interesting. How did Faye introduce herself when you first met?”
“As an old friend.”
“And you accepted that?”
“I looked her up on Facebook.” Grace felt her cheeks redden. “Her page said she’d attended Welland Park School, so I assumed she must have been a school friend that I didn’t remember. It was a long time ago.”
“Did you know of Faye’s infatuation with your next door neighbour, the man who later became your husband?”
Grace shook her head. “No, I didn’t know about that.”
“Did Faye ever stay with your family in Arden Way?”
Grace explained about Faye’s broken boiler after Christmas, how she’d slept on their sofa until Phil’s heart attack, the strange circumstances that occurred after she’d left, culminating in the attack on Lucky. Even now, the words she’d rehearsed on numerous occasions over the past months, seemed foreign.
“Let’s talk about Monday the 11th of January. The day Faye Campbell died. Can you give the court an account of your movements that day?”
Grace explained how she’d woken early, as usual, done some housework, prepared Phil’s breakfast. Later she moved on to her walk with Lucky in the park and was just relaying her conversation with the man she’d met that knew Faye when the judge cut in.
“Has this man given a statement to the police, Ms Talbot-Deane?”
“Yes, Your Honour. My learned friend, Mr Sheldon, is in receipt of his statement. He lived in Western Avenue for over twenty-three years, used the laundrette beneath Faye Campbell’s home. Was a distant acquaintance until he moved a couple of years ago.”
The judge clicked a few more buttons on his laptop until he found what he was looking for, nodded and eased back into his chair. Grace waited until Eleanor prompted her to continue and went on to describe her visit to Fairfax Road, and later to Western Avenue. By the time she’d finished she felt like a wilted balloon.
“Thank you,” Eleanor said. “What time did you visit Faye’s home in Western Avenue that day?”
“It was around one o’clock when I arrived.”
“And how long did you stay?”
“Only a few minutes.” Grace explained the ensuing argument, Faye’s reaction, how she’d driven home in shock.
“What time did you arrive home?” Eleanor asked.
“About one-twenty.”
“Did you go out again later that day?”
“No.”
“Thank you. No further questions, Your Honour.”
***
“Mrs Daniels, are you in the habit of making friends with somebody you’ve met once in a supermarket?” Sheldon was leaning his elbow on his lectern as if he had all the time in the world. His questions since he’d taken over cross-examination had been mild. He’d checked her movements, the facts. His tone was easy, almost friendly.
“She said she was an old friend.”
Sheldon looked down at his notes. “An old school friend you said you don’t remember?”
“That’s right. But she seemed genuine. It was a difficult time.”
“Of course. The court has heard that Faye Campbell murdered your daughter, Jo Lamborne, last October.” He enunciated every syllable, paused after each word. He wanted the jury to know this was significant. “When did you find out that she was responsible for Jo’s death?”
“As I said earlier, when I was interviewed by the police.”
“Oh, come now, Mrs Daniels. You’ve already told the court about the change in your relationship with Faye Campbell, how you believe she injured your dog. You even shared your argument with us that you had with Faye when you visited her on the day she died.”
The air in the courtroom thickened. Tiny spikes prickled the back of Grace’s neck.
Sheldon stood tall, but didn’t adjust his tone as the questions grew more hostile. There was no reason to raise his voice. He wanted the jury to empathise with Grace, to understand why she would plan the murder of her daughter’s killer. Because that made her guilt the more likely option.
“I put it to you that you argued with Faye that afternoon and you discovered something, the truth about your daughter’s death.”
Grace’s throat constricted. The courtroom blurred in front of her.
“Would you like a glass of water?” the judge asked Grace.
The kindness of his words induced the rush of tears that she’d kept so deftly at bay. Grace cleared her throat, shook her head. “No, thank you.”
Sheldon gave her a moment before he continued. “It played on your mind as it would any mother. Perhaps she revealed something, a secret that only you and Jo would know. You couldn’t let it lie.”
“No.”
“You went back that evening to have it out with Faye, lost your temper and stabbed her in cold blood.”
Grace shook her head, tears rolling down her cheeks now. “I was at home.”
“Mrs Daniels, we have a witness that places you in the location, hair samples that showed your presence in the flat. You had means, motive and opportunity.”
“I didn’t do it.”
Chapter Seventy-Three
Grace watched the jury trail back into the courtroom, one behind the other. Her knees started shaking. She pressed her heels to the floor.
It was late morning and already the temperature in the enclosed area was reaching unbearable heights, exacerbated by the growing number
of bodies filling the public gallery, all here to witness her fate. Grace could see Ged beside Phil, Lydia at the end. The journalist who’d interviewed her after Jo died was in the row behind, pen poised.
Fatigue pulled Grace in all directions. After days of questioning witnesses, different faces filling the box, the barristers had each taken the floor and delivered their closing speeches to the jury.
Sheldon opened for the prosecution, using sweeping hand gestures as he painted a picture of Grace, the grief-stricken mother, welcoming Faye’s friendship, inviting her into her home, being duped with false kindness, until she found out that Faye murdered her daughter and set out to avenge Jo’s death. Even now, as she recalled his speech, Grace shrank into herself, willing the world to swallow her up as the eyes of the court flashed back and forth between Sheldon and herself.
It took almost two hours for him to complete his speech and afterwards, even Grace had to admit his argument was compelling.
The jury sat back wearily as Eleanor Talbot-Deane took over after lunch. The rise and fall of Sheldon’s speech had been exhausting, but Eleanor was more measured. She didn’t deny the two women had forged a friendship, argued, fallen out. The base of her argument was that Grace couldn’t have killed Faye because she had no motive. Grace didn’t know who had killed her daughter until after Faye had died.
She picked holes in witness statements, talked about tenuous links with evidence, encouraged people to listen to the experts when they considered who was responsible for Faye’s death.
‘If, in fact, you do think she was murdered, consider this… We’ve heard how Faye Campbell lived a volatile lifestyle,’ Eleanor had said. ‘She forged love/hate relationships with people and exploited them for her own ends. In such cases a whole stream of people would have been lining up to kill her, all with firm motives intact.’
The courtroom hushed as Eleanor sat. Was it enough?
After two days of deliberations the judge had called the jury back in yesterday afternoon. Grace sat with bated breath while the elected foreman stood.
