by John Fairfax
‘Cast an eye over this one,’ said Tess.
‘No.’
‘Please. I’m interested.’
‘I refuse. Pass the Chianti.’
‘No.’
‘God, you’re childish.’
Sally snatched the page of A4.
‘This is the same person who wrote the questions,’ said Sally. ‘The writer is a man.’
Tess nodded.
‘Which was written first?’
‘The one in your hand.’
Sally began to read. ‘The open, round letters are rather closed. Ms and Ns are difficult to distinguish. The horizontal strokes on the Ts and Fs rarely touch the vertical stroke. Curiously, he doesn’t write on the line. He writes above it. The capitals are—’
‘Cut the crap. Do your stuff.’
‘Like the woman, he’s got a great deal to hide. He can turn himself into different people depending on who he’s with . . . because he’s fragmented . . . keeps different parts of himself in different drawers. He daren’t pull them out at the same time . . . because he can’t face the totality of himself. That’s why the horizontals float free of the verticals. He’s a rebel, too. Refuses – literally – to sign on the dotted line.’ She handed back the paper. The content spoke for itself. ‘I’d be slow to trust him, I’m afraid. This is William Benson, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, what I’ve just said tells you about him in 1999. He’s deteriorated since then. That later handwriting shows someone who’s even more closed and fragmented. How did you get the early stuff?’
‘I kept a copy of the trial brief.’
‘That’s pervy.’
On returning home with Sally, Tess had taken the brief out of its storage box for the first time in sixteen years. It lay open on her desk as if the statements and notes were a fresh set of instructions.
‘What are you going to do?’ Sally was holding the empty bottle up to the light of a chandelier.
‘I need to know if he’s innocent or not.’
‘Well, no one’s going to tell you, are they?’
‘No. Which is why I’m going to have to find out for myself.’
‘Oh no. What are you planning?’
‘I’m going to find out who killed Paul Harbeton. This is no whim. It’s a cool-headed, analytical and measured decision. Will you help me?’
28
‘I turned around, and it was as if Eddie was there, sitting at the back of the public gallery.’
Benson was on the phone to Abasiama. He was lying on his bed aboard The Wooden Doll. It was dark. The stern door was open. A cold breeze came off Seymour Basin.
‘I even looked out for him afterwards.’
‘It’s been a very long time, hasn’t it?’
‘Sixteen years.’
Benson had last seen his brother on 4 July 1999, the day before his trial. By that stage, Eddie had broadly stabilised. After extensive and varied therapies, he’d recovered the use of both his arms, though one was stronger than the other; he could speak, but slowly, which gave his words a strange emphasis and power; his memory was intact, save for the accident itself and the weeks that followed; his mind was sharp; but his legs remained paralysed: useless attachments to his body. Ordinarily someone charged with murder would have been remanded into custody. But exceptionally – and largely because of Eddie’s condition – Benson had been granted bail so he could help out at home. Which was why he’d been with his brother, the day before his trial. They’d had a brief and unforgettable conversation looking over the salt marshes at Brancaster Staithe. And every time Benson had been alone with Eddie, he’d said much the same thing, only this time he’d gone one step further.
‘I don’t believe you, Will.’
‘I’m innocent, Eddie.’
‘You’re not. We both know you’re not. Stop all this screwing around.’
‘I’m innocent, Eddie.’
‘I haven’t given a statement to the police, Will, because if I did, you would be convicted. You can’t put me in this position. You’ve got to put your hands up and take the consequences. There’s a bigger story here, and it has to come out. You’re locking me up, here, Will, and I want to be free. God, I’ve had it bad enough, don’t make it worse.’
‘But I’m innocent, Eddie. What else can I say?’
Eddie had spoken to the gash of crimson cloud above the sea. He’d rolled forward in his chair, getting some distance from his brother. ‘If you go ahead with this charade, I’ll never speak to you again.’
Abasiama seemed not to be there, but then she said:
‘You looked for him in the public gallery once before, didn’t you? On the day you were sentenced.’
‘Yes.’
‘And he wasn’t there, was he?’
‘No. But he couldn’t be. There’s no wheelchair access. But I still looked.’
‘Because you don’t accept he can’t walk.’
‘No, I don’t. It’s crazy. He does, and I don’t.’
‘Do you ever see him elsewhere, in other circumstances?’
‘Yes. Often. Every time I see a kid on a bike. Every time I see a wheelchair. And then there are times when I just see him in someone else.’
Abasiama waited a very long time before she next spoke. ‘What would you say to Eddie if he rose from that chair? If he stood up, his legs restored, and he walked towards you?’
If words could kill, Benson would have died from these. He felt like he was Andrew Bealing lying between the prongs of a forklift truck, watched by his killer; or Paul Harbeton lying in a Soho gutter, blood pooling around his head. These would be Benson’s last words. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘That’s not enough,’ said Abasiama, after a minute or two. ‘When are you going to tell Eddie the truth?’
‘I don’t know.’ Benson closed his eyes, seeking darkness within darkness. ‘I can’t imagine that day ever dawning.’
‘Then the sun will never set on your guilt. You will remain a haunted man.’
Abasiama waited, but Benson didn’t reply. With his free hand he stroked Papillon; Papillon who was always there, no matter what he said or didn’t say. No matter what he’d done or failed to do. Twenty minutes of silence later, Abasiama said:
‘That’s a choice, Will. Things needn’t be that way. You just have to face reality. Face what you have done.’
‘But I can’t. That’s why I came to you.’
‘And I can’t help you live a false life. I can listen. I can help you relax and breathe. I can prescribe medication. But I can’t take the fruit from the tree. You have to reach out for yourself.’
‘Goodnight, Abasiama.’
29
Not wanting to pressurise Abigail Obiora, Amanda Grange or Jack Felbridge – at least not just yet – Tess went to the Old Bailey the next morning, leaving Archie free to study Bealing’s business files. Glencoyne called Dr Stuart McDonald to present the forensic evidence relating to blood, fingerprints, footprints and a shred of scuffed shoe leather. Benson’s cross-examination was like an illusionist’s trick. It was all in the structure of the questions and order in which they were asked. Tess had the impression of walking through the crime scene while he magically erased Collingstone’s presence.
Her fingerprints were only on the front door handle and on the edge of Bealing’s desk. Nowhere else. Not on the bottleneck. Not on the door handle that led to the warehouse. Not on Andrew Bealing’s telephone.
None of her blood was found at Hopton’s Yard at all.
None of Andrew Bealing’s blood had been found on the defendant’s coat, even though blood had sprayed from his wound and the assailant must have been standing within arm’s length of his victim.
Two of the defendant’s footprints were found at the front entrance, where snow hadn’t gathered, but nowhere else. They tied in with the fingerprints on the door handle. And yet, whoever killed Bealing had wiped the interior floors clean before leaving. Just as they’d disturbed any footprints
in the warehouse. The impression created by Benson was of someone else being present at Hopton’s Yard on the night of the killing. They’d cleared away any trace of themselves, leaving behind apparent ‘clues’ that now pointed to Sarah Collingstone. In fact, they meant nothing. Except to DCI Winter and Miss Glencoyne.
But what of that shred of red leather scuffed on to a rib of concrete, thirty yards or so from the body? Dr McDonald confirmed the shred had been found at the exact spot where Kym Hamilton had seen Sarah Collingstone stumble over a Christmas kiss. Had other scuffed material been found? Yes. Had it been traced? No.
Tess needed a sip of water. But for the DNA evidence, Sarah Collingstone seemed to be walking out of the courtroom; and this, when Benson was conducting his first criminal trial, opposed by a silk of considerable experience and renown. The dominant presence in Court 1 was William Benson, not Rachel Glencoyne. He’d impressed his audience, sure, but now the show was over. Because Dr Elaine Gooding had taken the stand and was about to explain that Sarah Collingstone’s DNA was on the bottleneck that had severed Andrew Bealing’s left jugular vein. No one could upset that evidence. Not even the Great Defender, Marshall Hall. It was infallible.
30
‘I take it you are familiar with the work of van Oorschot and Jones?’ asked Benson after Glencoyne had surrendered her witness.
‘I’m sorry?’
Benson gave a pointer. ‘The study published in Nature on secondary DNA transfer.’
‘That’s some while ago.’
‘Nineteen ninety-seven. Have you read it?’
‘Yes, I think so, but that’s hardly recent scholarship.’
‘It’s an important piece of work, isn’t it? Because this was the first time that forensic scientists explored the possibility that an innocent person’s DNA could be inadvertently transferred to a surface or object – I’m thinking of a bottleneck – which that person has never touched. It would mean, for example, that my client’s DNA could be transferred on to the bottle by someone else, if she came into contact with them, and that person then handled the bottle.’
‘Mr Benson, I’m afraid you are very much behind the times. The issue of secondary transfer has been discussed by the forensic science community for many years. My view is that it remains a theoretical possibility. Later work replicating real-life conditions didn’t support the thesis.’
‘I imagine you’re referring to Carll Ladd and others?’
‘They weren’t alone.’
‘You’ve read the Technical Note published by Ladd et al. in 1999?’
‘I will have done, yes. If I remember rightly, laboratory personnel shook hands and then handled objects for various lengths of time. Swabs were then taken and tested. No secondary DNA transfer was observed.’
‘Quite right, it wasn’t.’
‘As I say, there’s been other work, and while there’s room for argument, I remain sceptical.’
‘So that’s your formed, professional view, relying upon published data?’
‘Very much so, Mr Benson.’
Tess felt slightly sick. Benson didn’t seem to realise that science was a living discipline. He’d relied entirely on research published prior to his imprisonment. She looked at the broken bottle fragments laid out on the exhibits table, the brown shards. It was a Bavarian beer. She could see the label: Etaller Heller Bock. Sarah Collingstone had picked the thing up, but she wouldn’t admit it.
‘Do you keep up to date in your reading, Dr Gooding?’
‘I do, Mr Benson.’
‘Have you read last month’s online edition of the Journal of Forensic Sciences? It’s an American publication.’
‘I haven’t, not yet, no.’
‘Are you a subscriber?’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Maybe you’ve heard the buzz? I’m referring to another Technical Note on secondary DNA transfer, this time by Cale et al.’
‘No, I can’t say I’ve heard anything about it.’
‘Here you are, Dr Gooding, you can see my copy. I’m a subscriber.’
Benson handed printouts of the article to the court usher. While Dr Gooding, Mr Justice Oakshott and Glencoyne did their reading, Tess, electrified once more, revisited all the conversations she’d had with Benson about this, the central and most troubling issue in the case. He’d known about this article all the time. It had been in his mind when he’d questioned Sarah Collingstone. But he’d said nothing; and he’d said nothing for a reason. Tess took another sip of water. Her mouth was as dry as sandpaper.
‘Let’s take this in stages, Dr Gooding. DNA amplification technology is now far more sensitive than it was in the past?’
‘It is.’
‘And in this recent experiment volunteers shook hands and then handled various knives?’
‘Yes.’
‘The knives were then swabbed for DNA samples.’
‘Correct.’
‘And Cale et al. discovered that in 85 per cent of the cases DNA from a person who did not touch a knife had been transferred in sufficient quantity to produce a profile. In five samples the main or only contributor of DNA to the weapon was from someone who hadn’t touched it at all.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I would call that a profoundly disturbing outcome.’
‘It is. As the title of the paper indicates, it means an innocent person could be falsely placed at the scene of a crime.’
‘Van Oorschot and Jones were right, weren’t they? The risk of DNA transfer through an intermediary isn’t simply theoretical at all, is it?’
‘No, it’s not. And I admit that this is a significant development. I wish I’d seen this article before giving my evidence.’
‘There’s no harm done, Dr Gooding, because you can still help this court. Do you now accept that even though Sarah Collingstone’s DNA was found on the bottleneck, it does not mean she actually touched it? That is only one possibility.’
‘Yes, I agree, and I withdraw my evidence on that point.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But we have to follow the science through, Mr Benson.’
‘Please lead us.’
‘Given the facts of this case, you are suggesting that your client must have touched Mr Bealing’s hands early in the evening, and that he then transferred her DNA on to the bottle when he was drinking from it, presumably after she had left Hopton’s Yard.’
Mr Justice Oakshott intervened to help the jury: ‘Is that a possibility, Dr Gooding?’
‘It is, my lord.’
‘Which would mean that later in the evening a third party, presumably wearing gloves, could have entered Hopton’s Yard, broken the bottle and used it to kill Mr Bealing . . . but only the victim’s DNA and defendant’s DNA would be found on the weapon?’
‘That is possible, yes.’
Mr Justice Oakshott frowned, tapping a note into his laptop. ‘And of course, the use of gloves would also explain the absence of that person’s DNA and fingerprints at the crime scene?’
‘They would, my lord. It’s an ingenious theory, but – with great respect – I’m not sure Mr Benson appreciates the implications of his own argument. He’s forgotten something important.’
‘What might that be?’
‘According to Cale et al., the defendant would need to have held Mr Bealing’s hand for at least two minutes. That’s what was done in the experiment. It’s a long time. Think of that song by the Beatles. “I Want to Hold Your Hand” doesn’t last much longer. And of course, she need not have held his hands at all. Holding on to his body would have produced identical results. Intimate relations are an obvious mechanism. I understand these are denied.’
Benson sat down. ‘Thank you, Dr Gooding.’
It took Tess some while to understand what had just happened. And when she did, she nearly banged the desk with a shout. Mr Justice Oakshott and Glencoyne had got there first, but Tess was now with them. Benson hadn’t forgotten anything. He’d pretty well sprung Sarah Coll
ingstone from the dock, using the Crown’s star witness and a High Court judge to do it for him.
Benson had forced Collingstone’s hand. Literally. If she didn’t kill Bealing, she would now have to admit that she’d had intimate contact with him on the night he was murdered – on her account between 6 p.m. and 6.30 p.m. And in doing so, given the already weakened prosecution case, Benson had provided the jury with all they needed to acquit her. All they required now was a good explanation as to why Collingstone had denied having a close relationship with Andrew Bealing. If she could do that, then she was going home to Daniel and her father.
Unless, of course, Sally was right; and Collingstone, being stubborn, maintained her denial.
31
Benson joined Tess and Archie for lunch in a backstreet café off Fleet Street. The decor was tired and a grimy air extractor coughed and sputtered but the sandwiches were out of this world. They bought a selection to share. Adrenalin was still giving Benson a good kicking; if anything the kicks were getting harder because the next witness was DCI Winter. And DCI Winter had angered Benson. His short-cuts and assumptions had nearly robbed Sarah Collingstone of a fair trial. He was the kind of officer, Benson was sure, who’d put Needles down for one of the offences he hadn’t committed, mindful of the ones he had.
‘There he is again.’ Tess had spoken. ‘Don’t look now, but there’s someone hanging around outside. He keeps looking in, moving on and then coming back.’
Benson had his back to the window. ‘Has he got a beard?’
‘Yes.’
‘Five foot ten or so?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bomber jacket? Black leather?’
‘Yes,’ said Tess. ‘I’ve see him before. The other night at Seymour Road. He was there, hanging around. He was with the others.’
Benson nodded. ‘He’s been tailing me for a while.’
‘Do you want me to land one on him?’ Archie had pushed his chair back.
‘No, I don’t. Think of the media reaction. Anyway, I’m not bothered.’
‘Don’t you get sick of it?’ asked Tess, seeming to check every line on Benson’s face; her concentration snapped a thread in his defences. Something gave way:
