Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

Churchill shrugged dismissively, without answering.

‘You don’t believe he was genuinely upset to hear of her death, but it’s perfectly possible that he was, isn’t it? If he didn’t kill her?’

‘If he didn’t kill her, yes.’

‘So, if we accept that he didn’t kill her, Mr Churchill, everything that he did and said becomes perfectly comprehensible, doesn’t it? He was shocked, upset and terrified in your police car, when he panicked and told you a lie; but after that he recovered and everything he told you was completely one hundred per cent true. If we accept that he didn’t kill her, that is.’

Churchill spread his hands in exasperation. ‘Well, if you accept that, Mrs Newby, yes. But I don’t accept it, you see, not for a moment. I think he killed her.’

It was the best she could do. Quickly, to show she was not at a loss but was where she had wanted to be, Sarah smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr Churchill. That’s all I want to ask.’

She folded her gown about her, and sat down.

‘You stitched him up, the sod.’

‘Did I? I hope so, Simon. He’s a difficult witness to shake.’

‘You made him look like a thug. He is too.’

‘Let’s hope the jury agree with you.’

‘They will. Anyone could see what a pig he is.’

‘That was the plan, certainly.’ Sarah paced the brief length of the cell and back again. The adrenaline was still flowing in her, making it hard to stay still. Churchill had shaken her as much as she had shaken him. ‘It must be hard, watching all this.’

‘Not when you’re doing so well. You’re brilliant, Mum — honest!’

The enthusiasm, even the choice of words, reminded her of the small boy he had once been. Before all the teenage rebellion and hatred and … this. The brief light in his face brought her a keen joy and regret for all that was gone. She squeezed his arm briefly.

‘I wish all my clients were so grateful. But we’ve a long way to go yet.’

The cell door opened and a guard put a tray with pre-wrapped sandwiches, an apple, and coffee on the bench beside Simon.

‘Such luxury,’ Sarah said. ‘Lucy’ll be down to eat with you. I’ve got some notes to check in my chambers. See you this afternoon, OK?’

Outside, there was the usual shock of sunshine, tourists, traffic and a warm autumn wind that caressed her face and played with her gown as she walked. It was always so strange to step out of the all-absorbing world of the trial into this sound, bustle and colour. Like stepping out of the program into the adverts. She walked past children climbing the grassy slopes of Clifford’s Tower, a French tour guide giving a lecture. She waited at the traffic lights, one hand clutching her wig to stop it blowing off in the wind. A man pressed the button beside her.

‘How’s it going, then?’

‘Who — oh, Terry . Hi.’ They crossed the road, squeezing through a line of German school children. ‘It’s, er … OK so far.’

‘You had my boss on the stand this morning. He’s not your greatest fan.’

Sarah grimaced. ‘Nor I his. But I made a little progress, I think.’

‘How’s your son bearing up? Simon.’

‘He thinks we’re doing well.’ She looked at Terry thoughtfully, wondering how far she could go. ‘But that’s probably because he knows he’s innocent. No one else does. What I really need, is to know who did kill her. David Brodie, for instance?’

Terry met her gaze seriously, knowing he didn’t have the answer. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah. But I’m afraid at the moment …’

A hand touched her shoulder. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but would you mind posing for a photo next to my wife here? We’re from Kansas, and we so admire your quaint British law dresses …’

Stifling a groan, Sarah posed next to the woman for a second. Then she hurried upstairs to her chambers where coffee and sandwiches were waiting. To prepare for the afternoon, and the next witness.

The first witness after lunch was Simon’s neighbour, Archibald Mullen, who had dressed for the occasion. Instead of his old carpet slippers and cardigan he wore a jacket, shirt and tie. His sparse hair had been plastered to his scalp with Brylcreem. His pipe, which Sarah had seen him smoking in the foyer, had been extinguished and stuffed into his pocket.

Phil Turner took him slowly through his evidence — how he had seen Simon and Jasmine often, and recognized them; how he’d seen them arguing in the street on the night she died; how Simon had hit her and she had run off, crying; how Simon had gone back into his house and then come out later to drive away in his car. It was a crucial, damning part of the case against Simon.

Watching, Sarah thought, the old buzzard’s giving the performance of his life. He must have been standing in front of the mirror practising this for weeks.

If Bob hadn’t met him, Simon might never have been arrested.

When Turner sat down Sarah hesitated. She was debating with herself whether to ask the old crow anything at all. Foolishly, she stood up, and instantly his old dark eyes swivelled to find her, like a thrush focussing on a worm.

‘Mr Mullen, you must have been watching this incident with great care.’

‘I saw what happened, right enough.’ The Adam’s apple in his leathery old throat bobbed sharply as he spoke.

‘I just want to get a picture of this,’ Sarah probed cautiously. ‘You were cleaning your teeth, when you heard a noise outside. A door slamming and people arguing, you said.’

‘Aye. Shouting at each other, like.’

‘So when you looked out of the window, the argument had already begun?’

‘Aye. Going at it hammer and tongs, they were.’

‘But you didn’t see the start of the argument, did you?’ This, really, was the only useful point Sarah had to make.

‘I saw best part of it. I saw him hit her, any road.’

‘Yes, I’m not disputing that. But you hadn’t been watching the street all evening, had you? You’d been watching television.’

‘True.’ The old man squinted at her suspiciously.

‘So when these two people slammed the door and started arguing, a minute or two passed before you started watching them. Isn’t that right?’

‘I saw him hit her,’ he insisted stubbornly. ‘You’ll not change me tale on that.’

‘Yes, but … Mr Mullen, which of these two slammed the door? Simon, or Jasmine?’

‘Him, likely.’

‘How do you know? Did you see him do it?’

‘No, but it’s his house, in’t it? Stands to reason.’

‘Women slam doors too, Mr Mullen.’

‘Aye, but she came out first. She were leaving, not him.’

‘But you didn’t see either of them slam the door, did you, Mr Mullen?’

‘I didn’t have to. It don’t really matter, anyhow, does it, lass?’

The jury probably agreed, Sarah realized. She was failing dismally to establish a rather unimportant point. She tried again. ‘What matters is how much of the argument you saw, and how much happened before you started watching. Which of them started shouting first?’

‘Nay, it were six of one and half a dozen of t’other. Both yelling at once, like.’

‘So the fact is, you were cleaning your teeth when you heard a door slam and people shouting at each other. You put down your toothbrush, walked to the window, and looked out to see what was happening. That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘Nay. I kept a good grip of me brush. Tha can watch a scrap and clean thi teeth at same time, lass.’ He made the point with such delight that several people in the public gallery exploded with suppressed laughter.

Sarah sighed. This was going nowhere. ‘I’m sure you can, Mr Mullen. The point I’m trying to establish, though, is this. You didn’t see all of the argument, although you did see the young man hit the girl. But it’s perfectly possible that she hit him first, before you started watching, isn’t it? Which would explain why he was angry, and hit her back.’