A Shred of Evidence (40 page)

Mrs. Ashman’s suicide was being regarded as a direct result of the assault; the charge of grievous bodily harm referred to the mental anguish which had led to it. And to cap it all, thought Harper, Brian Ashman had turned up for the trial. There he sat in the public gallery, a widower at twenty-five, with a two-year-old child to look after, still walking with two sticks after an accident at work a few weeks before the assault. And every time the jury looked at him, Colin Drummond’s
chances would take a further nosedive; with its usual lack of judicial awareness, the public held the defendant responsible for Mrs. Ashman’s suicide and all the other human tragedies that had resulted from the assaults before even one witness had been heard.

And twelve members of that public were sitting on the jury. Harper looked around the courtroom, trying to exude a confidence that he most assuredly did not feel, and saw DI Hill slip into court and make for a seat in the public gallery. He’d seen her around the courts from time to time, but he had never met her. She was more than good in the witness box, from what he’d heard. Juries took to her, they said, and Harper could believe it. She was attractive, well dressed, well groomed, her soft, unfussy, dark hair denoting common sense, her brown eyes honesty. Her word was rarely questioned, and he had been advised that he would have grave difficulty in casting doubt on her integrity. And since that was what he would have had to do, it was just as well he had managed to scupper her evidence.

Judy Hill was officially on leave; she had broken it to give evidence, and now that that evidence was not to be heard, she took a seat in the public gallery.

“Miss Benson, can you tell the court where you were at one-thirty A.M. on Monday, the twenty-eighth of October last year?” Robert Whitehouse asked, his voice gentle, as though he were speaking to a child. She was seventeen now; she looked thirteen.

The girl took a breath, and glanced around the courtroom before she replied, a batsman weighing up the field. “I was …” she began, and faltered. She licked her lips, cleared her throat, and carried on in a firm, defiant voice. “I was in Hosier’s Alley.”

“This was a hundred-yard-long passageway winding between John Wesley Road and Andwell Street in Malworth, my Lord,” said Whitehouse. “It was formed by the walls of a derelict shirt factory, an ex-warehouse, and two empty blocks of flats, in one of which the witness was living, with a number of others, as a squatter. The area was awaiting demolition in order to build the
bypass now under construction in that area. There was thick fog that night, and the alleyway was unlit.” He turned back to the girl. “And could you tell the court, in your own words, what happened to you?” he asked.

“He raped me,” she said, with a quick nod toward the dock.

Judy felt irrationally guilty about that; the girl had been a last-minute replacement for Judy herself, as Drummond had lost no time in pointing out to her.

“I know this is distressing for you,” Whitehouse said. “But we have to take it step by step. What happened first of all?”

“He grabbed me as I turned into the alley,” she said. “He had his hand over my mouth.”

“His bare hand?”

“No. He had big gloves on. And he had a knife up to my eye.” Her hand unconsciously went to her eye as she spoke. “He sort of pressed his elbows into me, and pulled me down the alley to where it was dark.”

“Could you see the knife?”

“Sort of.” She went pale when she was shown the knife found on the bank of the Andwell River which ran parallel to the street bearing its name, and was asked if it was the one she had seen. “It could be,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “The blade looks the same. I couldn’t see the handle.” The knife was taken away.

“And what happened in the alley?” asked Whitehouse.

“He … he pushed me facedown and knelt over me,” she said. “Then he pulled me up so I was on my knees, and he was behind me. He told me to pull down my leggings and—” She broke off, tried to carry on, failed.

“Take your time,” said Whitehouse.

“He—” Her mouth trembled, and she tried to blink away the tears, but she couldn’t go on.

“Would the witness like a glass of water?” asked the judge.

Judy was never convinced of the magic properties of a glass of water. Would the witness like a stiff gin, then you’d be talking. The witness shook her head, and took a moment to gather herself.

“Did he say anything to you while this was happening?”

She nodded miserably. “He kept saying something over and over, but I couldn’t understand him,” she said. “I was dead scared he’d cut me if I made a noise. I was just trying not to cry.” She was still trying not to cry. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“That’s all right,” said Whitehouse. “Go on.”

“After a bit, these two men came down the alley, and he got off me and ran away. One of them went after him.”

When Whitehouse had finished getting as much detail of the assault as he could from the girl, he thanked her. “I know this is very difficult for you,” he said, “but you must stay there, please—my learned friend will have some questions to put to you.”

The judge looked at the clock, and advised Harper that he was going to wait until after lunch to begin his cross-examination, which didn’t, Judy fancied, go down too well with Whitehouse’s learned friend. And so it was that afternoon that she got her first proper look at the hotshot lawyer Drummond senior had retained, as the judge reminded the little girl that she was still under oath, and Harper stood up to cross-examine her.

Slim, blond, early thirties, if that. Quite handsome, in a slim, blond sort of way, but it was a combination that Judy always felt looked better on women. Under his gown his dark court clothes were tailored and sharp. He obviously did well in his chosen profession.

“This morning we heard a very harrowing story,” he said. “But that isn’t quite how it happened, is it?”

“Yes, it is,” she said.

“I suggest that you were walking through the alleyway on your way to your squat, and came across Mr. Drummond as he was returning to his motorbike,” he said. “You propositioned him and he paid you for sex. It’s as simple as that, isn’t it?”

“No.” The girl shook her head. “He grabbed me and pulled me in there.”

“Did you shout for help when he grabbed you? After all. as it turned out, the police were remarkably close at hand, weren’t they? They would have heard a cry for help.”

“I couldn’t! He had his hand over my mouth!”

“I think you didn’t cry for help, not because he had his hand over your mouth, but because you didn’t need any help. You needed money, though, didn’t you? Had you had any customers that night?”

“Enough.”

“But you had spent most of the evening in the police station, hadn’t you?”

VERDICT UNSAFE
by Jill McGown

Published by Fawcett Books
.

By Jill McGown:

RECORD OF SIN

AN EVIL HOUR

THE STALING HORSE

MURDER MOVIE
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The Lloyd and Hill Mysteries

A PERFECT MATCH
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MURDER AT THE OLD VICARAGE
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GONE TO HER DEATH
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THE MURDERS OF MRS. AUSTIN AND MRS. BEALE
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THE OTHER WOMAN
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MURDER … NOW AND THEN
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A SHRED OF EVIDENCE
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VERDICT UNSAFE
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Published by Fawcett Books