by Vicary, Tim
‘Please understand me, Ms Gilbert. I’m not suggesting for a second that you weren’t raped. What I am suggesting is that you were far too drunk to be sure that the man who raped you was Gary Harker. It could have been somebody else, you see, not Gary at all!’
‘No. It was Gary,’ Sharon insisted stubbornly.
‘All right then.’ Sarah sighed, and began a new tack. ‘Let’s go back to the party at the hotel where you met Gary earlier. What sort of things did you talk about?’
‘This and that. Where he was living, jobs he’d had. Whether he’d been in jail again.’ Sharon brought this last remark out with vindictive spite, no doubt remembering the effect her reference to Gary’s record had had yesterday.
It was a good hit, but Sarah moved quickly on. ‘He asked about his watch, didn’t he?’
‘Yeah. He said he knew where I kept it, it was in my bottom drawer with all my rings and things, and if I didn’t give it back he was going to get it himself.’
‘All right, Ms Gilbert. Now I want you to think carefully.’ Sarah thought carefully herself. The next point had to be built up step by step if it was to work. For the next few questions Sarah carefully established that the hotel had been crowded, and yes, Sharon and Gary had argued quite loudly enough about the watch for other people to overhear them talking about the watch and where it was kept. And after all, she had had this watch for six months, a man’s watch, not one she would wear herself. Had she shown it to a few friends, perhaps, men who might be interested in buying it? Sharon shrugged, not seeing the relevance.
‘I may have shown it to a few people, perhaps. So what?’
Sarah smiled inwardly. ‘The point I am putting to you, Ms Gilbert, is that plenty of people other than Gary must have known that you kept that watch in your bottom drawer. So even if the rapist did go straight to your bottom drawer, that doesn’t prove it was Gary, does it?’
‘Yes it bloody well does!’ Sharon saw the point now, and was angry. ‘He knew it was there and he took it, and anyway I recognised him by his voice, and the fact that he knew Wayne’s name, and ...’
‘...and his penis, Ms Gilbert. Yes, we heard about that this morning. But we have also just established that you were terrified out of your wits and drunk at the time. Are you quite sure that you’re telling the truth about this watch? It was there in your bottom drawer, wasn’t it? And the rapist definitely took it?’
‘Yes. I told you. How many times?’
‘All right. So how do you account for the fact that when the police arrested Gary next morning, they didn’t find the watch. He hadn’t got it. Surely if he was so fond of this watch he would have put it on his wrist, wouldn’t he? That would be the natural thing to do.’
‘He must have hidden it. Like the rings and the hood that might incriminate him.’
‘Yes, the balaclava hood.’ Sarah shook her head slowly. ‘The police didn’t find that in Gary’s flat either, did they? Well, you may be right, Ms Gilbert, he may have planned things carefully and hidden the watch and the hood and the rings before going home. But isn’t it equally possible - much more likely, in fact - that the reason the police didn’t find these things in Gary’s flat is because he didn’t rape you? You made a mistake, and identified Gary when it was someone else!’
‘No! It was him. I told you!’
‘Was it?’ Sarah paused, and as she did so she was suddenly aware of herself from outside, as though she were looking down from the gallery on this woman in a wig and gown, the focus of attention of everyone in the courtroom. It was a weird sensation, lasting only a second, but she delighted in it. This was exactly where she had wanted to get to in her cross-examination and she had done so without mishap. She felt like an actress on centre stage who is about to launch into her main soliloquy. Her voice was clear, resonant, persuasive.
‘You see, Ms Gilbert, you had two big shocks that night, didn’t you? The second one was the rape, which was a terrifying, awful thing; but the first one came earlier, when you met Gary Harker in the hotel. Gary, the man who’d betrayed you. It wasn’t a particularly nice surprise meeting him again, was it? You felt bitter towards him because of the way you’d broken up. Then you had an argument about this watch. You were angry with him, weren’t you?’
‘Angry? I was sick of him. Still am!’
‘Yes.’ The more shrill and angry Sharon’s voice became, the more Sarah tried to keep her own calm, reasonable, understanding. ‘So there you are, going out for a nice evening, when Gary turns up. You have a quarrel and it spoils your evening. You’re angry - sick of him, as you say. And you’ve had a lot to drink, too, we’ve established that. So on the way home, these feelings of anger towards Gary are still there in your mind; you can’t get rid of them. He’s nothing but trouble, you think - the last thing you want is to see him again. He spoils everything. It’s perfectly natural to think that, of course - nothing wrong with it. But then, in the middle of this, a masked man, a stranger, breaks into your house and rapes you. You’re confused, drunk, and terrified. So when he’s gone and the police start asking you questions, you put the two things together in your mind and think ‘that man must have been Gary.’
‘It was Gary! I recognised him!’
‘What I’m putting to you, Ms Gilbert, is that in your drunken, terrified state you imagined it was him, when in fact you didn’t recognise him at all, did you?’
‘I did! I told you! It was Gary - I know it was!’
‘But you have no real proof, Ms Gilbert, do you? You’re just imagining these things about recognising his voice and his penis because you’re angry with Gary and you want to get your own back on him, but the truth is that you don’t really know who raped you, do you? That’s the terrible truth. You were raped by a man who you simply didn’t recognise at all!’
‘No ... no ... I don’t know. I’ve told you it was Gary. It had to be.’
‘You don’t know. Exactly; you say it yourself. It’s much more terrifying to be raped by a complete stranger but that’s the real truth of the matter, isn’t it? You don’t know. You really don’t know who the man was, do you?’
Sarah had expected another instant denial but to her surprise there was a pause. Sharon looked down, fiddling distractedly with a ring. Every second the pause went on Sarah felt a rising thrill, a rush of adrenalin along her bloodstream as she thought I’ve done it! I’ve got her! In reality the pause only lasted perhaps fifteen seconds but it seemed to go on forever. Everyone in court watched Sharon intently, fascinated, waiting.
When Sharon finally raised her head there were tears in her eyes but she made no attempt to wipe them away. She looked directly past Sarah at the man in the dock, and when she spoke her voice was hoarse, quieter than before, almost a whisper.
‘It was Gary Harker who raped me.’
And so she had not broken. Sarah stood for a moment, irresolute, wondering what to do next. Part of her wanted to go on, to worry the woman like a bitch who has wounded her prey but not killed it, but she doubted now if this woman would ever surrender. Anyway she had no new questions and if she simply repeated the old ones the judge would stop her for bullying the witness. She remembered a point from her training - if you can’t break your witness, stop when the doubt is uppermost in the jury’s mind. She had reached that moment now.
‘That’s all I have to ask.’ She folded her gown about her and sat down.
‘Thank you, Ms Gilbert,’ the judge said courteously. ‘You may stand down now.’
As the usher guided Sharon out Sarah watched the jury, trying to gauge their reaction. The middle-aged lady looked disapproving, the girl in the pink fluffy pullover vacant, the man in the leather jacket sympathetic, as though he would like to get up and wrap Sharon in his arms. No joy there, then. But a grey haired man in tweeds, whom Sarah had not noticed before, shook his head sadly as Sharon went out, and a younger man was scribbling intently on his note pad.
That must have put some doubt in their minds, Sarah thought, her hands tre
mbling with suppressed excitement. I did the best I could; I couldn’t have done better.
She looked over her shoulder at Lucy, who smiled encouragement. Then she looked up, to see what Simon had made of her performance. At least he must see she wasn’t a complete dud at this job she had spent so long training for. Perhaps they could talk about it afterwards.
But to her surprise and intense disappointment, Simon was no longer there.
Chapter Eight
SARAH AWOKE at six as usual, and lay for a while thinking. In these first moments after waking her mind was always clear, and she could often solve problems that had been obscure the day before. It was as though a team of civil servants in her subconscious had been working all night, to present her with the main issues of the day neatly typed and sorted for her consideration.
Bob, still dozing beside her, was the exact opposite. He wouldn’t surface for half an hour, and then only with groans and sighs. She had often tried to discuss things with him at this time, but it was hopeless - he was scarcely human until she was already showered, dressed, and ready for work. It was a daily irritation in their marriage.
But family matters were not uppermost in her mind this morning; they seldom were. Today she might have to cross-examine Sharon Gilbert’s little boy by video link. It would not be easy. Then there were the forensic scientist and DI Terry Bateson, both tough nuts too. She replayed the questions she had planned in her mind as the dawn light filled the room.
She sat at her dressing table by the window, looking out. This was the time of day she liked this house best. There were dew-covered spider’s webs on the long grass in the meadow. She saw a heron float on its wide, creaky wings down to the river bank, where it folded its wings and stood, silent and intent, among the reeds on the further shore. There had been nothing like this in Leeds - it belonged in a nature film on the telly, not in real life where you could actually walk about in it if you wanted. Occasionally Sarah did that - put on a coat and wellington boots and trudged along the river bank; but she felt out of place in it then. It was too cold or damp or muddy; there were insects that bit her; it was eerily quiet and hostile.
It was better looking at it through the window. After all the fact of having a detached house with a view like this proved she and Bob had made it; they were a success at last. So she sat for a while longer, as other people did Tai Chi or meditation, and told herself she enjoyed it. Then she crossed the room to have a shower, tickling Bob’s toes wickedly under the end of the duvet just before the alarm went off.
She was putting on her face before the mirror when Bob came back with a cup of tea, his hair still tousled from sleep. He slumped down on the bed and, to her astonishment, spoke.
‘Can you talk to Emily before you go?’
She turned to stare at him. ‘What about?’
‘Her exams. I was up with her for an hour last night. She thinks she’s going to fail.’
‘Of course she’s not going to fail.’ Sarah turned back to the mirror to finish her eye-shadow. ‘She’s a clever girl, she’s done the work. She’ll be fine.’
‘She doesn’t think so. The poor kid’s in a dreadful state.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘Talk to her, that’s all. Show some sympathy. You’ve passed enough exams, you know what it’s like.’
‘All right.’ Sarah glanced at her watch. ‘But I’ve got to go in twenty minutes. Is she up?’
‘Probably not.’ Bob sighed, and took a life-saving draught of tea. ‘You don’t have to be first person in every day, surely? Have a heart, Sarah.’
‘It’s a brain she needs, not a heart.’ Sarah walked quickly across to her daughter’s bedroom. ‘Emily, are you up? I want a word.’
‘What? Oh, mum, no.’ Emily was still in bed. She opened one eye, saw who it was, and buried her face in the pillow.
Sarah softened a little. She sat on the edge of the bed and touched her daughter’s shoulder. The shoulder shrank away. ‘Emily, wake up. I just want to talk to you for a bit. Dad says you’re worried about your exams.’
A mumble that might have been ‘so I am’ came from deep in the pillow.
‘Don’t you want to talk about it?’
‘No, not now - I’m asleep.’
Sarah sighed. ‘You’ve got to get up anyway to go to school.’
‘No, I haven’t. Not going today.’
‘Don’t be silly, of course you’re going. You’re not ill, are you?’
‘No. I’m revising at home.’
‘But you can’t just skip school when you feel like it.’
‘’Course I can. Everyone’s doing it. The lessons are finished now - all we do at school is revise or sit around and talk. I can work better here.’
Emily hunched up to a half-sitting position facing her mother. Her face was puffy from sleep, but there were no signs of tears. Sarah felt her forehead. ‘You’re not feverish, are you?’
‘No, mother! For God’s sake, I’m just staying home to revise! It’s only six days to German, you know!’
‘All right.’ Sarah looked around the room. There were books and papers spread on the desk, clothes scattered all over the floor. ‘Have you got all your books here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you can at least pick up these clothes if you’re going to be here all day.’ She regretted the words as soon as she’d said them; predictably, they brought tears to Emily’s eyes.
‘I haven’t got time for that - don’t you understand? I’ve got all this work and almost no time left to do it and you go on about stupid things like clothes! It’s just like that silly concert - why did I have to waste time practising when I could have been revising instead? I don’t know any German and I’ve got an exam in six days and I’m going to fail, I know I am!’
She was crying, and turned her face towards the wall. Sarah groaned inwardly, and surreptitiously checked her watch. She really would have to go soon, to get ready for court. Clumsily, she tried to embrace her daughter, but Emily shoved her away.
‘Don’t! Leave me alone!’
Frustrated, Sarah tried to speak sensibly. ‘Look, you did all right in the German mock, didn’t you? You got an A ...’
‘A B! And I only just got that!’
‘All right, a B then. But that’s not too bad ...’
‘You never got Bs, did you? You never got a B in anything!’
‘Well, maybe I didn’t, but ... I thought I was going to get Bs lots of times, so I did a bit more work and got an A. That’s what you should do, darling. If you sit here and work hard ...’
‘It’s not just German, you know! There’s nine other subjects!’
‘I know. But they don’t all happen on the same day, do they? What you should do is set out a plan, a revision timetable, and then ...’
‘What do you think I’m doing?’ Furiously, Emily leapt out of bed, scrabbled in the mess of papers on her desk, and waved a coloured chart under Sarah’s nose. ‘See - look at that! That’s what I’m doing! Supposed to be doing, anyway. That’s what my life is now!’
‘Good, well, stick to it then. I do know, Emily, I have done a few exams myself. Do the work, and you’ll be OK.’
‘Yes, but you’re different,’ said Emily, shaking her tousled hair and glaring at her mother bitterly. ‘You’re just superwoman, you can do anything, no one else is like you. I don’t even want to be like you, why should I? I’ll fail and be like Simon - he’s happy!’
A cold panic flooded through Sarah. Simon wasn’t happy, she didn’t believe it. The worst pain of her adult life had been when Simon dropped out of school to become a labourer. It had been a rejection of everything she and Bob had wanted for him. At least Emily had always been diligent, conscientious, found schoolwork easy. And now, at the first big hurdle, to talk of dropping out ...
‘Don’t be stupid, Emily! Of course you’ll pass. Just stick at it for another few days, and you’ll do well. I promise!’
‘I can’t, mum! I don�
��t want to anyway!’
Sarah didn’t know how to deal with this. Nor did she have time. If she carried on talking now it was just going to blossom into a big discussion which would lead nowhere and make her late. She got up from the bed. ‘Of course you can, Emily, and of course you want to. Do your German revision this morning, and I’ll give you a ring at lunchtime, OK?’
‘If you must.’ Emily slumped dejectedly back on her bed as if she might go to sleep.
‘I will.’ Sarah smiled brightly, opened the door, and went out.
The conversation irritated her, filling her mind as she rode into town. Probably she should have been more sympathetic, but ... it was irritation rather than sympathy that inflamed her mind. Why did the girl make so much fuss! After all, at her age, Sarah told herself, I had a baby, I had been slung out of school, I was a social pariah in a cold smelly house with damp walls and rotten plastic furniture but I didn’t cry, did I? Not until Kevin left, anyway - I just got on with it.
So why can’t Emily do that? All that panic and emotion - it just gets in the way. Bob’s too soft with her; she’s got to stand on her own two feet. I’ll ring at lunchtime like I said but I’ll keep the talk light; she’ll manage best if no one takes the fuss too seriously.
And with that, she closed the file in her mind on Emily, and opened the ones on Gary Harker and Sharon Gilbert.
These weren’t just mental files, but real piles of paper wrapped in red tape which she carried into court a few hours later. The day began well, with a significant victory for Sarah. Before the jury entered, there was a brief conference between the barristers and the judge, at which Julian Lloyd-Davies conceded that there was no longer any point in presenting the evidence of Sharon’s little boy, Wayne. He had intended to do this via a video link, with the little boy in a separate room chaperoned by a trained police psychologist, but in view of Sharon’s admission yesterday that she had probably called Wayne by name during the assault, and certainly talked to him about Gary afterwards, there was no longer any point.
