Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘A decent lad. A sight better than Simon. Better for Jasmine too, if she’d stuck by him.’

‘To your knowledge, was he ever violent towards your daughter?’

‘Who, David? No, never. He’s not that sort.’

So there goes this morning’s effort, Sarah thought. Wrecked in a single confident remark.

‘Jasmine wasn’t afraid of him, was she?’

‘Her? No. She could twist him round her little finger.’

Now there’s a true saying.

‘To your knowledge, was Jasmine ever afraid of Simon?’

‘Well, when she left him to move in with David, he was very angry. He came round, in a filthy rage, to see if she was with me. She hid upstairs and I told him she wasn’t there.’

‘What did Simon do?’

‘He didn’t believe me. He wanted to go upstairs but I wouldn’t let him. I had a fair job to get him out the house, but he went in the end.’

‘Were you afraid?’

‘Angry, more like. I told him I’d clatter him with the broom if he stayed in my kitchen. I would have too!’

A woman in the jury nodded furious agreement.

‘What about Jasmine? Was she afraid of him then?’

‘She must have been, mustn’t she, or she wouldn’t have hid. But she wouldn’t let on, she’s not that sort. Wasn’t, I mean …’ For the first time, her voice broke, and she fumbled in her bag for a tissue. Turner waited while she blew her nose loudly.

‘She had a good laugh about it after, the silly girl. If only she’d had more sense …’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Hurst. I do understand how you feel. I have no more questions, My Lord.’

Judge Mookerjee nodded. ‘Very well. Would you like a break, Mrs Hurst? I think fifteen minutes would do us all a lot of good, don’t you? Then Mrs Newby may have some questions.’

Of all the witnesses Sarah had to cross-examine, this was the one she dreaded most.

Whatever Jasmine’s failings — and there had been many — she had been this woman’s daughter, and now she was dead. Sarah remembered her own feelings in the mortuary, expecting to find Emily under that sheet. It had been the worst horror of her life, but she had been rescued from it. This woman had not. She had gone to the same place, been confronted with the same body on a trolley, and when the sheet had been pulled back there had been the cold face of the child she had carried, nurtured and loved for twenty-three years.

And she believed Sarah’s son had killed her.

As the court reassembled, Sarah stood up. There were no butterflies now; just a grey feeling of dread. I can’t offer her sympathy, she thought. She would just spit it back in my face. I must be as quick and clinical as I can. Across the courtroom, she met Jasmine’s mother’s eyes.

‘Mrs Hurst, when did you last see your daughter alive?’

‘Two — no three days before.’

‘Before she died?’

‘Yes.’

‘What were the circumstances of this meeting?’

‘She came to my house for a cup of tea and a chat. She often did that. Kept in touch.’

As Simon didn’t. Sarah understood the implied message.

‘Was she there long?’

‘An hour. An hour and a half maybe.’

‘Time for a good chat then. In this conversation, did she say anything about Simon?’

‘About your son? Yes.’ Mrs Hurst’s mouth closed shut.

‘What did she say?’

‘That she were still seeing him.’

‘Did she say that she intended to move back in with him?’

‘No. Thank God. Just that she were seeing him.’

‘And did you approve of this?’

‘ You ask me that? You’ve got a nerve.’

The venom in the reply shook Sarah. For a moment she was lost for words. While she floundered, Judge Mookerjee leaned forward to speak to the witness.

‘I appreciate how difficult this is for you, Mrs Hurst, truly. But please confine yourself to answering the questions, as straightforwardly as you can. You don’t have to look at Mrs Newby. You can look at me if you prefer.’

Mrs Hurst nodded bitterly. ‘Of course I didn’t approve. I wish she’d never met him.’

‘Very well.’ Never had Sarah been more grateful for the gift of controlling her voice. Her knees were trembling like jelly and her feet wanted to run but her voice stayed calm. ‘And did you give her that advice?’

‘I’d told her before. She knew what I thought. It made no difference.’

‘She was going to see him anyway?’

‘She was. Sadly.’

‘Did she seem anxious about this? Worried in any way?’

‘About going to see him? No, not particularly.’

‘Very well. Now you’ve told the court about bruises you once saw on her arm. Did she have any bruises on this occasion?’

‘She had a jacket on. I wouldn’t have seen, would I?’

‘Did she tell you about any bruises she’d received?’

‘No. But then she never had done. I only saw them by chance, like.’

‘But that was only once, wasn’t it?’

‘So? Once is enough, in my opinion.’

‘When was it exactly, that you saw these bruises?’

‘Oh, three or four months before, maybe. When she lived with him, then she had them.’

‘All right.’ Sarah drew a deep breath. The first part of this ordeal was nearly over. ‘Would it be fair to say, then, that when you last saw Jasmine, you saw no signs of bruising on her body; she didn’t talk about being hit or beaten in any way; and she told you she was seeing Simon regularly, of her own free will. She didn’t say she was afraid of him at all.’

Miranda Hurst glared at Sarah bitterly, then looked away, as she’d been advised, towards the judge. ‘If you want to twist things you can put it like that, I suppose.’

‘Is any part of it untrue?’

‘Not in so many words, no.’

‘Very well. The only other thing I want to ask you about is David Brodie. Did she talk about him on the last day you saw her?’

‘She did, yes.’ Mrs Hurst looked at Brodie sadly. ‘She said she was going to leave him.’

‘Did she say why?’

‘She was tired of him, she said. She said he was too neat and … possessive.’

‘Did she mention any quarrels they’d had?’

‘She mentioned one or two, yes. Just words, though. Nothing violent. He couldn’t hurt a fly, that lad. Not like yours.’

I’m losing it, Sarah thought. This could collapse into a cat-fight at any time. That’s what this woman wants — to make me suffer. In her most neutral voice, she continued.

‘So, to sum up, when you last saw Jasmine, she said she intended to leave David Brodie and said she’d had several quarrels with him, and she was still seeing my son. Is that right?’

‘Yes.’ Miranda Hurst nodded cautiously, wondering where this was leading. Nowhere, was the answer. She had arrived. Without a word, Sarah sat down.

After a moment, when she realized what was implied, Miranda Hurst began to shout angrily. ‘But David didn’t kill her, your son did! He’s a filthy murdering sadist, whatever your lawyer’s tricks in here! He killed her, the bastard, and you should be ashamed!’

There was nothing Sarah could do. She sat and waited for the judge to intervene, which he did, belatedly and with embarrassed reluctance. ‘Mrs Hurst, I’m afraid that’s all now. You really mustn’t say any more, however upset you are. This court is grateful to you for giving your evidence but you should go with the usher and stand down now.’

As the usher took her gently by the arm and began to lead her away, the tears began to flow uncontrollably. In the well of the court, right in front of the jury, she looked across at David Brodie, and pointed directly at Sarah. ‘You’re right what you said, David. She’s a first class bitch, she is, and everyone here should know it! Her son should have been drowned at birth!’