Glendenning nodded. “Yes, she
could
have been.”
“In fact, death
could
have occurred even as late as six-forty, couldn’t it?”
“Yes. But I believe Rebecca Charters heard—”
“Please, Doctor. You should know better than that. Rebecca Charters has already admitted that what she heard could easily have been some animal or another. Now, given that nobody actually saw Owen Pierce enter St Mary’s graveyard, and given that time of death could have occurred as late as six-forty, when Mr Pierce was already in the Peking Moon, there is no direct evidence placing him at the exact scene of the crime at the exact time the crime was committed, is there, Doctor?”
“This is not—”
“And as no-one saw either Deborah Harrison
or
Owen Pierce enter the graveyard,” Shirley Castle charged on before anyone could stop her, “then it follows that Deborah could have gone somewhere else first, couldn’t she?”
“It’s not my place to speculate on such matters,” said Glendenning. “I’m here to testify on matters of medical fact.”
“Ah, yes,” said Shirley Castle. “Facts such as time of death. It’s a lot of leeway to give the definition of a fact, isn’t it, Doctor?”
“Objection.”
“Sustained. Will you get on with it, Ms Castle?”
“I have no further questions, Your Honour,” she said, and sat down.
Very clever, thought Owen, then he turned to watch the juror who looked like a wrestler try to scratch an egg stain off his club tie.
IV
A week later, after more legal arguments and a succession of dull, minor scientific witnesses, from the fingerprint man to the officer responsible for keeping track of the forensic exhibits, Owen watched
Shirley Castle intimidate the hair expert, who ended up retreating into scientific jargon and admitting that it was virtually impossible to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that hair found on a victim’s or suspect’s clothing could be positively matched to its source.
The final prosecution witness was Dr Tasker, biologist and DNA expert, a thin-faced, thin-haired academic of about forty, Owen guessed. He seemed to know his stuff, but there was a tentativeness about his delivery that threw Jerome Lawrence off kilter occasionally.
Owen wondered if the jury were as bored as he was by the interminable descriptions of autorads and enzyme scissors, by the testimony as to the scientific validity of polymerase chain reactions and the meaning of short tandem repeats, by the seeming hours spent describing the extreme care taken against the possibility of contamination of laboratory samples.
When Shirley Castle stood up to cross-examine the next afternoon, Tasker seemed a little in awe of her, and if Owen were not mistaken, perhaps a mite smitten, too. Maybe she realized this. Her tone, as she began, was relaxed, friendly, a little flirtatious even.
“Dr Tasker,” she said with a smile, “I’m sure the court was most impressed yesterday with your account of DNA analysis. You would seem to have proved, without blinding us all with science, that the DNA derived from the bloodstain on Mr Pierce’s anorak was indeed the DNA of Deborah Harrison. Is this true?”
Tasker nodded. “The DNA extracted from the dried bloodstain on Mr Pierce’s anorak was fifty million times
more likely to be hers
than anyone else’s, and the DNA taken from the tissue sample discovered under the victim’s fingernail was fifty million times more likely to be Owen Pierce’s than anyone else’s. All we can say is how rare such a result is compared to the rest of the population.”
“Still,” smiled Shirley Castle. “Those are impressive odds, aren’t they?”
“Oh, yes.” Tasker beamed. “I certainly wouldn’t bet against them.”
“Almost beyond a shadow of a doubt,” Shirley Castle said, “And that is, after all, what this is all about, isn’t it? However, Dr Tasker, there are one or two points you might be able to clarify for me.”
Owen swore that Tasker almost flushed with pleasure. “Of course. It would be a pleasure.”
Shirley Castle acknowledged the compliment with a slight tilt of her head. “How much of Deborah Harrison’s blood did you find on my client’s anorak?”
“A small amount.”
“Could you please give the court some sense of how much that might be?”
Tasker smiled. “Well, not a great deal. But enough for polymerase chain reaction analysis, as I described earlier.”
“Yes, but how much? A thimble full?”
“Oh, good heavens, no, not that much.”
“As much, then, as might smear from a small cut or scratch?”
“Mmm. About that, yes.”
“A pinprick?”
“Possibly.”
“In other words, a spot of blood about the size of a pinhead. Am I right?”
“Perhaps a little bigger than—”
“
Approximately
the size of a pinhead?”
“I suppose so. About that, yes. But, as I said—”
“Now the court has already heard Dr Glendenning testify that there was a small scratch beside Deborah Harrison’s left eye. Is this the kind of wound that might produce a similar amount of blood if some fabric brushed against it?”
Tasker shifted in his seat. “Well, I didn’t see the scratch so I can’t say for certain, but it
was
a small amount, definitely commensurate with a minor injury such as the one you describe.”
“Where did you find this blood?”
“On the accused’s anorak.”
“Where on the accused’s anorak?”
“On the left arm. Near the shoulder.”
“Now we have already heard that Deborah Harrison was five foot six inches tall and Owen Pierce is six foot two. Would this put Deborah Harrison’s left eye in the region of his upper arm?”
Tasker shrugged. “I suppose so. I couldn’t say exactly.”
“If Your Honour would allow me,” Shirley Castle addressed Judge Simmonds, “I would like the opportunity to demonstrate to the court that this is, in fact, so.”
Owen could see her holding her breath. Most judges, she had told him, hate anything that smacks overly of theatrics. She must, however, have convinced him that she was following an important line of questioning, because he granted his permission after hardly any hesitation at all.
It was a simple enough thing to do. A man and a young girl were brought in—where Shirley had found them, Owen had no idea— the girl markedly shorter than the man. They were officially measured at five foot six and six foot two, then stood side by side. The girl’s eye came level with the upper part of the man’s arm. Shirley Castle thanked them and continued.
“Was that the only blood you discovered on my client’s clothing?” “Yes.”
Shirley Castle called for Owen’s anorak to be shown to the jury. One feature, she pointed out, was the zippered pocket at the outside top of the sleeve. “Did you, Dr Tasker, find any of the girl’s blood on or around this zip?”
“Yes. In the vicinity.”
“Could you elaborate?”
“It was right at the end of the zip, actually.”
“Would you point to the spot on the exhibit, please?”
Tasker did so.
“The edge of the metal teeth is fairly sharp there,” Shirley Castle went on. “Does that not indicate to you that the girl may have scraped her cheek on the zip when she collided with Mr Pierce after running backwards in the fog?”
“It could have got there in any number of ways.”
“But it could have got there in the way I suggest?”
“Yes, but—”
“And that was
all
the blood you found?”
“I’ve already said that. I—”
“Not very much, is it?”
“As I said, it was enough for PCR analysis.”
“Ah, yes: PCR, STR, DNA, ‘genetic fingerprinting.’ Magic words, these days. And what does that prove, Dr Tasker?”
“That the blood on the defendant’s anorak is fifty million times—”
“Yes, yes. We’ve already been through all that, haven’t we? But the defence has
never denied
that it is Deborah Harrison’s blood. She bumped into my client and scratched herself on the zip of his anorak. Would you admit that the
amount
and
location
of the blood you found bear out that explanation?”
“I suppose so.”
“You suppose so. Did you find any traces of blood on the cuffs of the anorak?”
“No.”
“Wouldn’t you expect to if the victim were bleeding from the nose as the accused strangled her?”
“Perhaps.”
“So he might be expected to get blood on his cuff if he did indeed strangle her from behind with the satchel strap?”
“Well, it’s possible, yes, but—”
“And did you find any blood lower down his sleeve?”
“No. But she could have twisted side—”
“Thank you, Dr Tasker. You have answered my question. Now, given the life-and-death struggle that must have taken place, it would have been difficult to avoid
some
close contact, wouldn’t it?”
“Presumably.”
“And did you test the rest of anorak for blood?”
“Yes. We carried out a thorough examination.”
“But you found no blood other than this infinitesimal amount high on the sleeve, at the edge of the metal teeth on the zip?”
“No.”
The infatuation seemed to be on the wane, Owen noticed. Tasker didn’t even want to look Shirley Castle in the eye now. Owen glanced over at “Minerva,” who was regarding the doctor sternly. No more would she believe the “scientific tests have proved” commercials, if, indeed, she ever had.
“Dr Tasker, do you know where Deborah Harrison’s hairs— what we have since learned only
might
in fact be Deborah Harrison’s hairs—were found on Mr Pierce’s anorak?”
“No, that’s not my—”
“Then let me tell you. They were found on the upper left arm and on the upper left arm
only
. In fact, all three of her hairs were
found in the teeth of Mr Pierce’s zip, by the pinpoint bloodstain. What do you have to say to that?”
“I don’t know. It’s not my field.”
“Not your field? But would you not say it’s consistent with the scenario I just outlined for you? A minor collision?”
“I have already agreed that is a
possible
explanation.”
“How much blood and skin did you find under the victim’s fingernail?”
“A small amount. But enough for—”
“Consistent with what might be deposited from a light scratch?” “Yes.”
“If Deborah Harrison had been fighting for her life, wouldn’t you have expected to find more, in your professional judgement?”
“Possibly. But again, it’s not my—”
“I understand that, Dr Tasker. But we can’t have it both ways, can we? Either she did get the opportunity to defend herself by scratching, in which case she came away with a pitiful amount of skin, or she didn’t. Which is it to be, in your opinion?”
Owen saw Lawrence on the verge of an objection, but he seemed to think better of it and sank down again.
“It could have been just a lucky strike,” said Tasker. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. Very well. Would you at least agree that the presence of a small amount of Mr Pierce’s skin under one of her fingernails could have got there during a minor collision, if she put out her hand to steady herself?”
“Yes.”
“Then would you also agree that it is possible that Deborah Harrison’s killer could have been someone other than my client?” “Objection!”
“Overruled, Mr Lawrence. Witness will please answer the question.”
Tasker fiddled with his tie. “Well, theoretically, yes. Of course,” he gave a nervous titter. “I mean, theoretically, anything’s possible. I wasn’t there, I can’t tell you exactly what happened. The DNA was a good match to the defendant’s, so he can’t be excluded.”
“I submit that the DNA match is irrelevant. Is your answer to my question yes?”
“I suppose so.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
Shirley Castle turned to the judge and threw her hands in the air. “Your Honour,” she said, “I find myself exasperated that the prosecution’s case is based on so little and such flimsy evidence. No further questions.”
For the first time, Jerome Lawrence stood up to re-examine. It must be because it’s his last witness, Owen thought. He wants to leave a positive impression.
“Just two questions, Dr Tasker,” he said. “You are fully aware of the nature of the crime, the nature of the victim’s injuries. Would you say, in your expert opinion, that the amounts of the victim’s blood left on the accused’s clothing were in any way
too little
for him to have committed such a crime?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” said Tasker.
“And could the exchange of blood and tissue have taken place during a struggle for her life?”
“Indeed it could.”
Jerome Lawrence gave an oily bow. “Thank you very much, Dr Tasker.”
TWELVE
I
Nothing could have prepared Owen for the shock of seeing Michelle sitting in the gallery when he glanced nervously around the courtroom before going into the witness-box.
His heart thudded against his ribcage. He felt as if a large bird had somehow found its way inside him and was scratching and plucking at his chest and throat, beating its wings, trying to get out. She was still beautiful; she still had the power to make his heart ache and yearn.
If anything, Owen thought, Michelle looked even younger than she had when they had been together: about fifteen or sixteen. She wore no make-up to mar her delicate, alabaster complexion, a maroon blazer and a simple white blouse, very much like the St Mary’s school uniform.
Her blonde hair—the same colour and length as Deborah Harrison’s—hung over her shoulders in exactly the same way Deborah’s had in the newspaper photographs. Her lips, the colour of the inside of a strawberry, were fixed in a childish pout. And the implication of innocence and immaturity permeated her entire bearing. Owen wondered if people knew who she was. She was sitting next to a man he had seen there often before: a reporter, Owen thought.
He tried to avoid looking at her. Why was she here? Had the Crown lured her in to upset him? He had already realized that he was participating in a drama, a theatrical event more than anything else, and that the awards would be handed out in a few days’ time. Did Michelle have a part to play, too? She wasn’t going into the box—Shirley Castle had taken care of that—so what was she doing in court?