A Game of Proof (The trials of Sarah Newby)

by Vicary, Tim

  But to Sarah her studies opened up such vistas of freedom that it was those outside who were in prison. She learned to inhabit two worlds - one in which she cooked, cleaned, and cared for the children, and the other in which she studied and passed exams - always with the highest grades so that she could move on to the next stage. After the OU degree she read law at the university of Leeds, and then spent a year at the Middle Temple in London, coming home only at weekends on the train. By then Simon had been fourteen, Emily ten, and her constant study was a fact of family life. And finally it had paid off. She got a pupillage and then a place in chambers as a barrister.

  And so she had climbed to the top of her ladder, only to find another stretching away above - the ladder to becoming a QC and eventually, perhaps, a judge. And the case of Gary Harker was one of the first squalid, slippery rungs.

  She began thinking about the case in the car and resumed, guiltily, during the school concert. She had no ear for music and although she was proud that Emily had passed so many flute exams she couldn’t concentrate on it for long. Tomorrow’s questions began to replay themselves in her mind, and she imagined the responses Sharon would make. There were a couple of awkward points, she realised, which she would have to work on when she got home.

  Emily stood up to play the flute solo she had been practising, and her mother smiled encouragingly. But Emily wondered, not for the first time, whether the mind behind her mother’s smile was really concentrating on her at all.

  Chapter Five

  AT BREAKFAST that morning Terry’s youngest daughter Esther let her pet hamster out of its cage, and by the time Terry had retrieved it from behind the sofa the rush hour traffic was gridlocked across the city, so that he was late for the team meeting which he was due to lead. When he arrived at the incident room his new boss, DCI Will Churchill, was striding back and forth at the head of his new troops, some of whom were looking distinctly resentful.

  ‘And when it comes to police work, what I’m looking for is commitment,’ he barked in his sharp Essex accent. ‘That’s what will finally nail the killer of Maria Clayton and the rapist who attacked Karen Whitaker.’ He waved at the photographs, maps, and articles about the Hooded Rapist displayed around then incident room walls. ‘I may be new here, but that has its own advantages. An outsider can often see more clearly.’

  And annoy people more deeply, Terry thought bitterly. Before Mary died, I was in line for this job. And it would have been enough for me, I didn’t want to rise higher. But Churchill, a man ten years younger and six inches shorter than himself, had been fast-tracked within the service from the moment he joined. He would be with them for a few years, no more, trampling on everyone in this room as he scrambled to the next rung of the ladder. Seeing Terry sliding into a back seat he broke off his tirade.

  ‘Ah, DI Bateson, I presume. Good of you to join us. Forgive me, I have used the general’s absence from his post for a little pep talk. One serious crime solved, two more to go. Or three, if your visit to the farm girl proved anything yesterday.’

  Terry signed, registering the implied criticism, and rose from his back seat.

  ‘Shall I brief the team about it now, sir?’

  ‘Of course, old son, you carry on.’

  Churchill parked himself in a front seat to judge the performance of his second in command, and began picking his teeth with a match.

  Terry looked around the room, feeling grateful for the moral support he detected in several faces. Unlike Churchill he knew these people, he had worked with them for years. Briefly, he outlined what he learned at the Steersby farm yesterday. All of them knew the details of the Clayton and Whitaker cases; most still believed, with Terry, that Gary Harker was the likeliest suspect for both. But clearly, he could have had nothing to do with this Steersby girl.

  ‘Most likely, then, it’s a copycat,’ he concluded. ‘But no hood this time, so at least we’ll get a photofit. In the meantime,’ he said, staring straight at Churchill as he spoke, ‘I know the amount of dedicated police work that has gone into the these investigations, and today we have our chief suspect up in court, thanks to the efforts of this team. But he’s only facing one charge. If Gary Harker is convicted this week - as we all hope and expect he will be - we need to go over the Clayton evidence especially with a fine-tooth comb. He’s still not ruled out of that. And if someone else attacked Whitaker then we need to find that person too. It’s our job to ensure that the women of York can sleep easy in their beds once again. Thank you. That’s all.’

  As the meeting broke up Churchill approached Terry. ‘You’re still set on this Harker for the Hooded Rapist, than, Terence?’

  Terry winced. Terence was his christian name but he hated anyone to use it. To him it sounded like some cheap gangster, not himself at all. Terry was uncertain if Churchill knew, or cared, much about the tragedy that had shattered his personal life; but he certainly did know which version of his name he preferred to be called by, because Terry had told him, several times. The man was persisting in this Terence business deliberately, to get under his skin. He decided to ignore it.

  ‘I’ve known Gary a long time, sir. He’s moved from petty theft to assault, GBH and rape over a period of ten years. He has exactly the profile we’re looking for.’

  ‘Yes, but the DNA in the Whitaker case wasn’t his, was it, old son? So until we have positive evidence to the contrary, I suggest you assume that Harker didn’t murder Clayton or attack this schoolgirl either, and get out there looking for the man who did.’ He paused. ‘Any reason why Harker won’t be convicted?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no sir. I’m giving evidence against him tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, well make sure you don’t cock that up, at least. He’s your one good catch so far. But there are more sharks than him - this Steersby case proves it. You’ve caught one, Terence - but we need two!’

  With an odd supercilious smile on his face, Churchill held up two fingers to illustrate his point. Two fingers that looked, to Terry’s eyes, uncannily like the first V-sign from his new boss.

  For her second day on the witness stand, Sharon Gilbert appeared in a navy blue skirt and jacket over a white blouse. It conveyed exactly the right impression - sober, respectable, the sort of thing a business secretary might wear. She flicked back a curl of hair as Sarah began.

  ‘Ms Gilbert, I believe Gary Harker lived with you for a year, didn’t he?’

  ‘About a year, yes.’

  ‘And during that time you slept in the same bed together, had regular sexual intercourse, and generally behaved as man and wife. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. That’s right.’ Sharon nodded suspiciously, unable to disagree so far.

  ‘You must have been very fond of him, then?’

  ‘Well ... yes, I was at first ...’

  ‘Were you in love with him?’

  Sharon smiled contemptuously. ‘’Course not, no!’

  ‘Really? Not in love?’ Sarah glanced at the jury. ‘But you let him move into your house, slept with him every night. How did you feel about him, exactly?’

  Sharon looked confused. ‘Well, I mean, I quite fancied him, like - he was a good lay, we had some laughs together.’

  ‘I see. He was good for sex and a laugh, but you didn’t love him.’

  ‘Love him? No.’

  ‘All right. But during that year you had the house to look after, and two children to bring up. Did Gary help you with that - contribute to the housekeeping, perhaps?’

  ‘Well, yes, ‘cause I made him. We wouldn’t have had money to eat, else.’

  ‘So he gave you money. Did he ever play with the children, take them places?’

  ‘Well, yeah, he did sometimes, what do you think?’

  ‘But they weren’t his children, were they? How did Gary get on with their father?’

  ‘With their fathers? Well, I dunno if he met them. I suppose he met Wayne’s dad once or twice, ‘cause he took him to football. But not Katie’s dad - he’s gone. I ne
ver see him.’

  So far, so good, Sarah thought. She was treading a thin line, as the judge had warned in chambers. It was no longer an acceptable defence to cross-examine a rape victim about her sex life, in order to suggest that the woman was so immoral that she somehow asked for it; but it was quite legitimate to ask about her relationship with the accused. And if Sharon chose to reveal that her children had two different fathers, and that she shacked up with Gary for sex rather than love, then so much the better. At least it began to alter the impression of a perfect mother that Julian Lloyd-Davies had tried to create yesterday.

  ‘All right, Ms Gilbert, I want to ask you a little more about your relationship. You say that Gary contributed to the housekeeping and sometimes played with the children, and that you liked him because he was a laugh and - a good lay, I think you said. When you made love with him, it was a good experience, was it?’

  Sharon smiled, embarrassed. She seemed almost more embarrassed by this easy question than by the horrific details she had given yesterday about the rape; but then she had been prepared for those, psyched herself up to tell them. Now she hesitated. ‘Well ... yeah, it was okay.’

  ‘He was a good lover to you?’

  ‘Sometimes, yes. When he wasn’t drunk.’

  ‘All right. And during that year, did he ever force you to do anything - any sexual act, I mean - that you didn’t want to do?’

  This was a risky question. The wrong answer would make things worse for her client. But there were benefits, too, if it went the way she hoped.

  Sharon hesitated. ‘Well ... he could be a bit rough, like ...’

  Wrong answer. Quickly, Sarah minimised the damage. ‘What I mean is, did he ever treat you the way the intruder treated you on the night of the rape? Did he ever do anything like that?’

  ‘Oh, nothing like that. God, no.’

  Right answer. The risk had paid off. ‘Did he ever tie you up in the way you described yesterday?’

  ‘No. No, he never done that.’

  ‘All right. So during that year, he regularly made love to you in a perfectly acceptable way, a way that you enjoyed, that gave you pleasure?’

  ‘Yeah ... I suppose.’ As Sharon hesitated, Sarah moved on quickly.

  ‘Very well. Now, I want to ask about the events of the night of the rape, Ms Gilbert.’

  Sarah paused, remembering the surprise change of direction she had planned. With luck, the jury would understand before Sharon did.

  ‘When you first saw this hooded man on the stairs, you were frightened, weren’t you?’

  ‘What? Yeah, of course. I was terrified.’

  ‘But you didn’t think it was Gary at that point, did you?’

  ‘No ... not then. I just saw the hood and screamed.’

  ‘I understand. You were frightened because you suddenly saw a hooded man, a complete stranger, coming up your stairs. That’s what you’re saying, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Sharon nodded her head sarcastically, and stared at Sarah as though she were a simpleton. ‘That’s what I’m saying, yeah. You deaf or something?’

  Sarah ignored this, and continued smoothly. ‘If you had thought the man on the stairs was Gary, would you have been less frightened?’

  ‘What?’

  Sarah repeated the question. Sharon thought about it. ‘Well, yes, I suppose a bit ...’

  ‘You would have been less frightened because Gary had never seriously hurt you or raped you before. Isn’t that right?’

  Sharon looked confused. ‘Well, yeah, but I didn’t know it was Gary then, did I? I mean, he had a hood on!’

  ‘Yes, exactly. You were afraid because you had no idea who the hooded man was.’ Sarah paused again, to let the point sink in. ‘So when you began to think this man was Gary, you were less afraid, were you?’

  ‘What? Well, yeah... I dunno.’

  ‘Were you more or less afraid when you began to think the man was Gary?’

  ‘What’s it matter?’ Sharon was confused now. ‘I was scared because this man had bust into my house and was raping me! It didn’t matter if it were Gary or not - I was bloody terrified!’

  ‘You were afraid of rape, of course, I appreciate that. But did you think the man might kill you as well, or hurt your children? Were you frightened of that?’

  ‘Yes, I bloody well was! He had a knife, you know - he stuck it in me throat. I thought I were going to die, and he’d murder my kids an’ all!’

  ‘Yes, I understand. So what I’m trying to get at, Ms Gilbert, is that while all these terrible things were happening, your mind was quite naturally full of all sorts of fears and terrors because you had no idea what the man was going to do next or who he was or whether you and your children were going to be alive at the end of it all; is that right? You were completely terrified because all these dreadful thoughts were rushing through your mind.’

  ‘Of course I was terrified. Wouldn’t you be?’

  ‘I’m sure I would be, Ms Gilbert. So would any woman. If a masked man with a knife broke into my house, I’d be in a complete panic. Is that how you were?’

  ‘Yes, right. You got it at last.’ Sharon looked at Sarah pityingly.

  ‘So if you were in a complete panic, with your mind full of all these natural terrors for yourself and your children, you weren’t in a very good condition to identify a man whose face was covered by a mask, were you?’

  Sharon hesitated. Sarah hoped the jury had understood the question quicker than Sharon had, and were wondering why she didn’t answer.

  ‘Ms Gilbert?’

  ‘I know it were him,’ she insisted finally. ‘I told you - I recognised his laugh, and ...’

  ‘And his penis, I believe you said, Ms Gilbert,’ Sarah broke in smoothly. ‘We’ll come to that in a minute.’ She was tempted to say that’s all you saw in Gary anyway, wasn’t it - a laugh and a good lay; but censored the idea instantly.

  ‘He said ‘Wayne’ too!’ Sharon almost shouted. ‘He said ‘Get off me, Wayne’!’

  ‘So you say, Ms Gilbert. But before that ...’ Sarah pretended to consult her notes, though she knew the phrase by heart. ‘... you said yesterday I told him to get out and run but he’s a little hero, that son of mine. Do you remember saying that?’

  ‘Yes, ’course I do! He is a hero, too, my Wayne is!’

  Sarah smiled. ‘I agree with you, Ms Gilbert. You must be proud to have a son like that. But what were your exact words to him? Do you remember? Something like ‘Get out, Wayne, call the police!’, perhaps? ‘Keep away, Wayne - you’ll get hurt!’ Something like that?

  ‘Something like that, yes.’

  ‘So you did say ‘Wayne’?’

  ‘Maybe. I can’t remember.’

  ‘Well, it would be natural to use the child’s name, wouldn’t it? And if you did, it’s likely the man heard you use it, isn’t it?’

  ‘I dunno. He might have. So what?’

  ‘Well, if he did hear you use Wayne’s name, that may be why he used it himself, you see, Ms Gilbert.’ Sarah smiled sweetly. ‘That’s common sense. It hardly proves that the man was Gary, does it?’

  ‘Well I think it does!’ Sharon glared angrily. ‘Anyhow, Wayne recognised him too!’

  ‘After you had talked to him, Ms Gilbert, yes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You did talk to Wayne afterwards, didn’t you? Before the police came?’

  ‘’Course I did. Poor little sod, he was shitting himself.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. He’s a very brave little boy. How old is he - seven? He saw his mother attacked and tried to defend her. He’s a little hero; any mother would be proud of him. So naturally you picked him up to comfort him, and told him it was Gary, and the police were going to arrest him, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, well - what of it?’

  Sarah heard the slight sigh from Julian Lloyd-Davies beside her, and stifled the urge to grin. She was beginning to make progress. The key thing now was to make her point crystal clear to the jur
y, without looking too triumphant about it. ‘It’s a perfectly natural way for a mother to behave, Ms Gilbert. I’m sure everybody understands that and sympathises. But it does mean, you see, that Wayne almost certainly got his idea about the man being Gary from you. He didn’t think of it for himself. He’s only a child - he thought it was Gary because you told him it was.’

  ‘That’s not true. He recognised him!’

  Sarah shook her head. The jury had got the point; she didn’t need to labour it.

  ‘So we are left with Gary’s voice, aren’t we? Tell me, Ms Gilbert, this hood the man was wearing - did it cover all of his face?’

  ‘Yes. All but his eyes.’

  ‘It covered his nose and mouth too, did it?’

  ‘Yeah. I think it did.’

  A little imp in Sarah’s mind began to laugh. That was more than she had hoped for. ‘So his voice must have sounded rather muffled, mustn’t it? If he spoke through a woollen mask?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Tell me, Ms Gilbert, how often have you heard Gary talk through a thick layer of wool?’

  ‘What? That’s not the point. I knew it was him, I tell you!’

  ‘You knew it was him because you think you recognised his voice through a thick woollen hood, when you’ve already admitted you were in a complete panic which made you so terrified you hardly knew what was happening? That’s not possible, Ms Gilbert. I don’t think anyone could make a proper identification in a situation like that.’

  ‘It was him, I tell you. I recognised his voice!’

  ‘That’s for the jury to decide.’ A vital skill, Sarah had learned from a QC in her first year, was how to wrong-foot a witness by stepping out of an argument just at the right moment. Never be drawn into a slanging match, he said. Always keep the initiative, and remember the impression you’re making on the jury. She glanced at the clock, and saw there were about ten minutes to go before lunch. But Sharon hadn’t finished.

  ‘Look, I recognised the bastard, and that’s it! Why would I say it was him if it wasn’t, eh? You tell me that!’

  Sarah nodded calmly: ‘Well, in fact that is exactly the point I intend to come on to next, Ms Gilbert. But ...’ She glanced at the clock, and then at the judge. ‘ ... I anticipate it may take some time, and as it is now twelve thirty, I wonder if your Lordship might think ...’