A Game of Proof (The trials of Sarah Newby)

by Vicary, Tim

  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?’

  ‘Some of it, yes. Several fragments of grass had blood on them.’

  ‘And does that mean that the grass and the blood got onto the shoe at the same time?’

  ‘It ... could mean that, yes.’

  ‘But it doesn’t necessarily mean that, does it? I mean, if the grass was already lodged on the shoe when the blood fell on it, the blood would still stain the grass, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Ms Ferguson agreed hesitantly.

  ‘So, from your evidence, it’s not possible to say whether this grass got onto the shoe at the same time as the blood, or at a completely different time, is it?’

  ‘No ...’

  ‘Nor is it possible to say when this blood got onto the sole of this shoe?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or where, either, surely. I mean, the blood could have got onto the sole of the shoe in the house, when the household dust got there; or out in the roads, when the road grit got there; or perhaps on a path where there was sandy soil. Is that right?’

  ‘I suppose that’s right, yes,’ Ms Ferguson agreed, frowning thoughtfully. ‘I mean, all I can say is that the blood was there. I can’t tell you when or how it got there.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Sarah let the words hang in the air, and looked at the young woman with some warmth. ‘Now let’s think about these drops of blood you found on top of the shoe, if we may. How big were they?’

  ‘The largest was two millimetres across.’

  ‘Big enough to see with the naked eye?’

  ‘Oh yes. The size of a small drop of ink.’

  ‘I see. And the others?

  ‘One was about the same size. The rest were smaller. The size of a large grain of dust.’

  ‘Five drops of blood, three of them the size of a grain of dust. But you examined the shoe very carefully, I suppose? The top and the sides, the laces and the tongue, you looked inside too? With special scientific equipment, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I spent hours examining this shoe. There were plenty of other marks, mud and grass stains chiefly, and some paint and coffee; but there were just these two stains on the sole and five on the upper surface near the toe.’

  ‘And the other shoe? Any blood on that?’

  ‘None at all, no.’

  ‘No blood anywhere on the left shoe. Very well. Would you turn to photo number three, Ms Ferguson, and tell the jury what you see there, please.’

  ‘It’s ... a photograph of a dead body.’

  ‘Yes. It’s a photograph of the murder victim, Jasmine Hurst. It was taken at the crime scene, where she was discovered. I want to draw your attention to the blood in the photograph, Ms Ferguson. Is there a lot of blood?’

  ‘A lot, yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry if this is distressing, but could you describe to the court, in your own words, just how much blood you see in the photograph, and where it is?’

  ‘Well ... there’s a lot on her throat, where it’s been cut, and ... all over her chest and upper body. It’s on her arms too ... her left arm seems to be cut and there’s blood on her legs too.’

  ‘Is there blood on the grass beside the body?’

  ‘Yes. Some of the grass looks a reddish colour.’

  ‘There was blood on the grass; the scene of crime report confirmed that. Now, Ms Ferguson, when someone’s throat is cut, the blood doesn’t just leak out, does it - it sprays out everywhere, pumped out by the heart because an artery has been severed. Is that right?’

  ‘Well, I’ve never seen it ...’

  ‘You’re a scientist, aren’t you? A forensic scientist - you know how an artery works?’

  ‘Yes, of course. You’re right - the blood would spray everywhere.’

  ‘Yes. And we can see that in the photo, can’t we? Blood on the victim’s chest, blood on her arms and legs and all over the grass. A lot of blood, you said. Blood everywhere. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. There’s a lot of blood in this photo.’

  ‘Very well. Now you’re a forensic scientist; so what would you expect to find on the shoes of the person who committed this horrible crime? Someone who struggled with the victim, stood close enough to cut her throat?’

  ‘Blood ...’

  ‘Yes, of course. You’d expect to find blood on those shoes, wouldn’t you? Not just blood on the top of the shoes, from the spray you’ve described, but blood on the soles too, from that bloodstained grass. You’d expect to find blood in all the little cracks of the soles, wouldn’t you? The soles of both shoes?’

  Laila Ferguson hesitated. The girl was far too intelligent not to see where this was going. Sarah had noticed her talking quite intimately to Will Churchill outside the court; she must know how vital her evidence was to his case. What would she do? Prevaricate and attempt to spin the evidence to support the police? Or value her own reputation as an independent scientist? She was very young - it could be the first time she had been in a situation like this.

  She fiddled with the plaits of her afro haircut, then looked directly at Sarah.

  ‘If the shoes had walked in that grass, yes, I would.’

  Good girl, Sarah thought. ‘The only way to get the blood out of the soles would have been to wash them, wouldn’t it? I suppose you’d have to wash them quite thoroughly?’

  ‘Yes, you would. Blood is notoriously hard to get rid of.’

  ‘Did these shoes look as though they’d been washed?’

  Laila Ferguson smiled - a flash of white teeth in her striking black face. ‘Not recently, no. They were filthy.’

  Sarah smiled back. She was getting to like this girl. ‘All right. What about the upper surface of these shoes? Given the amount of blood we saw in those photographs, most of which came from the victim’s throat, wouldn’t you have expected to find some of that spray on top of the murderer’s shoes, too? Not just five tiny drops, but quite a lot of it?’

  ‘If the victim was standing up when her throat was cut, certainly. I suppose it’s possible she might have been lying down. Or the murderer stood behind her.’

  There’s such a thing as being too clever, Sarah thought grimly. Or in my case, not clever enough. I should have thought of that first.

  ‘Even then, he would have to step carefully to avoid it, wouldn’t he? Given how much blood we can see.’

  ‘There’s a lot of blood in the photo, yes. It would probably get on the killer’s shoes.’

  ‘And yet there was no blood at all on one shoe you examined, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And on the other one, just two tiny stains on the sole and five drops, two of them the size of - what did you say? - a grain of dust on the upper surface. That’s all you found, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s all the blood I found, yes.’

  ‘Very well.’ Again Sarah paused, looking at her notes, to let the impact of the last few questions sink in. She had a clear sense that the jury was interested, and intrigued. This had been her best morning so far. She looked at Laila Ferguson again.

  ‘Now, what about the blood on the breadknife. Were these stains any bigger?’

  ‘No. There were just a few small specks, trapped in between the blade and the handle. There isn’t much room in there.’

  ‘What about the rest of the knife? Were there any stains on the blade, or the handle?’

  ‘No. The kn
ife was quite clean; it looked as though it had been washed recently.’

  ‘Very well. But that’s a normal thing to do with a breadknife, isn’t it?’

  Laila Ferguson shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘What was the handle made of?’

  ‘Plastic.’

  ‘Did you find any blood on the handle? Anything to suggest that a person with a bloodstained hand had gripped it, for instance?’

  ‘No. But then blood wouldn’t stain plastic, if it was washed soon enough.’

  ‘I see. Now, what can you tell us about the age of this blood?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ The question clearly came as a surprise to Miss Ferguson.

  ‘How old was it?’

  ‘I ... it’s impossible to tell. It was dried blood, so obviously it was more than a few hours old, but beyond that there’s no way of saying.’

  ‘You can’t say if the samples were a week old, two weeks old, a month old even?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, no.’

  ‘If you can’t say how old it is, you can’t say when the blood got onto the knife, can you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or onto the shoes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very well. So you have no way of saying that this blood got onto the shoe or the knife at the time of Jasmine’s death, have you?’

  ‘Well, I can’t say that, no.’ Laila Ferguson looked surprised at where the questions had led her. ‘I can only tell you definitely that the blood came from Jasmine Hurst. That’s all.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that,’ said Sarah patiently. ‘But as far as you’re concerned it’s possible that all of these blood stains could have got there as the result of an incident that occurred several hours before Jasmine’s death? Days earlier, even?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’ Whether Laila Ferguson had anticipated the direction these questions were leading or not, she seemed unable to resist it.

  ‘A quite different incident, nothing to do with murder at all.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Very well.’ Sarah paused, to gather her thoughts and ensure that the jury were waiting for her next question, when it came. She had got as far as she could with this witness. If she were to build the basis for Simon’s defence later, the next few moments were crucial.

  ‘So if Simon Newby says, as he does, that this blood got onto the shoe and the knife when Miss Hurst cut her thumb in the kitchen, that is scientifically quite possible, isn’t it?’

  ‘I can’t say what happened,’ Laila Ferguson answered. ‘I wasn’t there.’

  ‘No, of course not. But what I mean is, there’s nothing in your scientific examination of the shoe and the knife and the blood to say that it isn’t a reasonable explanation, is there?’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  ‘Even if this accident happened some hours or even days beforehand?’

  ‘True. There’s nothing to say it couldn’t have been like that.’

  ‘Very well. And given the very small, almost insignificant amounts of blood we’re talking about here, compared to the massive carnage at the murder scene, don’t you think that’s a more likely explanation, Ms Ferguson? A minor accident in the kitchen, producing a few drops of blood on a shoe, and a tiny stain on a knife?’

  Phil Turner coughed, looking meaningfully at the judge. Sarah knew she was perilously close to asking the witness to speculate about things beyond her competence. But the important thing was to plant the idea in the jury’s minds.

  Before the judge could react, Laila Ferguson answered. ‘I suppose it’s a theoretical possibility, yes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sarah, and sat down. Wondering, with a small part of her mind, whether Will Churchill would be quite so entranced with the lovely young scientist now.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  EVERY TIME she saw Will Churchill in court, Sarah experienced a fierce rush of hatred. It was not normally like this. In the past there had been a few police officers - like Terry Bateson - whom she liked, a majority whom she tolerated, and a few whom she despised. She had never hated one before. But then, no policeman had ever charged her son with murder before.

  Churchill appeared to be enjoying the trial, patting his officers on the back, cracking jokes with Phil Turner, and trying to chat up the forensic scientist, Laila Ferguson.

  When he saw Sarah watching, his laugh grew louder.

  On the witness stand he explained why he had searched Simon’s house and what he had found there, and how he had arrested Simon in Scarborough two weeks later.

  Phil Turner nodded. ‘When you arrested Mr Newby, did you caution him?’

  ‘Yes, we did.’

  ‘So he was told, was he, that there was no need for him to say anything, but that anything he did say might be used in evidence?’

  ‘He was told that, yes.’

  ‘Did he appear to understand it?’

  ‘Yes. He was fully awake and I spoke the words of the caution slowly and clearly.’

  ‘Very well. And after he had been arrested and cautioned, did he in fact say anything?’

  ‘Yes. He said that he hadn’t killed Jasmine Hurst and that he hadn’t seen her for several weeks. He repeated those statements several times.’

  Sarah glared at the judge. She had argued in chambers for this damaging evidence to be excluded. But Turner had played the tape of Simon’s interview, arguing that although Simon had retracted the statements he had made in the car, he had admitted making them. (‘But you did say it, didn’t you ...’ ‘Yes, but ...’) To Sarah’s disgust, judge Mookerjee had agreed with him.

  ‘Where was Simon Newby when he made these statements?’

  ‘In the police car on the way from Scarborough to York. With DC Easby and myself.’

  ‘How did you respond?’

  ‘I said he would be interviewed at the police station. That’s correct police procedure.’

  Turner nodded approvingly. ‘Nonetheless, it is also correct procedure, is it not, to make a note of any comments an arrested person may make after caution. Did you make such a note?’

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘Would you read it to the court, please?’

  In his flat estuary English Churchill read: ‘At 3.45 a.m. on Monday 31st May, DCI Churchill of York police, accompanied by DC Easby of York police and DS Conroy and DC Lane of Scarborough police, entered room 7 of Seaview Villas in Whitton Street, Scarborough ... After being cautioned, Mr Newby stated that he had not killed Jasmine Hurst, and that he had not seen her for weeks. He repeated this statement several times.’

  ‘When you arrived at the police station, was Mr Newby given access to a lawyer?’

  ‘He was, yes. Mrs Lucy Parsons.’ Churchill eyed Lucy contemptuously.

  ‘Was Mr Newby cautioned again?’

  ‘He was, yes.’

  Sarah shifted restlessly in her seat. In his slow, painstaking way Turner was walling Simon in. The more solidly he built his case, the harder it would be for her to tear it apart.

  ‘Did you show Mr Newby this note?’

  ‘I did. I asked him to sign it as a correct record of what he had said.’

  ‘And what was his response?’

  ‘He refused. At first he claimed he hadn’t said those things at all. Then when I challenged him, he agreed he had said them but wanted to change his story. He admitted that he had met Jasmine Hurst on the day she was murdered, after all.’

  ‘I see.’ Turner paused, letting the words resonate in the jurors’ minds. He was making Simon look like a panic-stricken liar, who made up his story as he went along. And it was about to get worse.

  ‘He changed his story after meeting Mrs Parsons, his solicitor, you say?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. Yes.’

  ‘I see.’ Turner gazed at Lucy, sitting stony faced behind Sarah. His look was thoughtful, one eyebrow slightly raised. A brief glance, followed by a long pause, while the jury stared at Lucy too. Thinking, no doubt, she told him to change his
story.

  You devious old bastard, Sarah thought. Once she might have admired his court craft; now icy fury flooded through her.

  ‘So what happened next?’

  ‘Mrs Parsons handed me a statement which Simon had written himself.’ Churchill read the statement aloud.‘I met Jasmine Hurst a year ago and became very fond of her. In October she came to live with me at 23 Bramham Street and she stayed until March, when she left me. She said she was tired of me and had a new boyfriend. His name is David Brodie and he lives with her at 8a Stillingfleet Road. I went there once to ask Jasmine to come back and live with me but she wouldn’t. I’ve met her a few times since then but only briefly. On Thursday 13th May I met her by the river and she came back to my house for a meal. I asked her to come back and live with me but she wouldn’t. We argued about this and then she left. When she left I was upset so I decided to go to Scarborough for a holiday, to try to get over her. I drove to Scarborough that night and didn’t see Jasmine again. I had no idea Jasmine was dead until the police arrested me this morning. I did not kill her and I don’t know how she died. Simon Newby.’

  ‘So this was quite different to what he had told you an hour before, in the police car?’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  Turner rubbed his nose thoughtfully. ‘Chief Inspector Churchill, you have many years experience of interviewing criminal suspects, have you not? In your experience, is it usual for a defence solicitor to come into the police station, confer with her client, and then begin the interview by producing a written statement of this kind?’

  ‘No, it’s very unusual.’ Churchill smiled. ‘In fact, it’s the first time I’ve seen it myself.’

  This was too much. Sarah stood up. ‘My Lord, I really must protest. It seems that my learned friend is attempting to imply some form of professional misconduct on the part of Mrs Parsons, but there is no basis for this whatsoever.’

  Judge Mookerjee raised his eyebrows. ‘Mr Turner?’

  Turner glanced at Sarah in mock surprise. ‘My Lord, I’m merely trying to establish how the defendant arrived at his version of events.’

  ‘Which implies that he was influenced by his solicitor,’ Sarah insisted. ‘My Lord, there was no impropriety whatsoever in my colleague’s behaviour and on her behalf I most strongly resent the implication.’