Close to Home (DI Adam Fawley #1)(84)
She closes her eyes and puts her face up to the sun, seeing the redness inside her eyelids, feeling the warmth on her skin. When she opens her eyes again, there’s a woman walking slowly along the edge of the water. She has a little girl with her, in a pink floppy sunhat and a little flowered dress. The woman is holding the child carefully by the hand as she jumps the waves, squealing and splashing. When they draw close enough to speak, the woman smiles at her. ‘You’re up early.’
‘I was too excited to sleep. I’ve never been abroad before.’
‘It’s so nice to have the beach to yourself, isn’t it? We live just round the bay. We love the early mornings.’
The woman bends down to the little girl and straightens the hat. The little girl puts up her arms to her mother and the woman lifts her, high, high into the sun, then kisses the laughing delighted child and swings her round and round and round in the glittering air.
The girl watches, barely breathing, like one gasping for a glimpse of heaven.
At last the woman sets the child gently back on the sand and they continue their walk. They’re almost out of earshot when the girl finds herself calling out to her, ‘What’s your little girl’s name?’
The woman turns and smiles again as the wind rises for a moment and catches at her hair, and her long earrings, and her white cotton dress.
‘Daisy,’ she says. ‘Her name is Daisy.’
*
‘So it is your contention, Mrs Mason, that your husband was responsible for the death of your daughter?’
Sharon folds and unfolds her hands in her lap. She has no handbag, not today.
‘His gloves were found in that skip. They had her blood on them, and his DNA.’
It’s 9 January 2017, Oxford Crown Court, number two. The sky outside is dark and rain is splintering against the skylight above. Despite the fact that the room is freezing, the public gallery is packed: it’s the first time Sharon Mason has taken the stand. She’s wearing a plain navy dress with a white collar and cuffs. It’s probably not her own choice.
The prosecuting barrister looks up from his notes. ‘In fact, a subsequent test also found traces of your DNA, did it not?’
‘Only on the outside,’ she snaps. ‘He was always leaving them lying about. I was always having to tidy them away. I never wore them.’
‘But even if you had, there wouldn’t necessarily be DNA inside, would there, Mrs Mason? Not if you’d worn plastic gloves underneath. Rubber gloves, say. They’re very easy to obtain.’
She lifts her chin. ‘I don’t know anything about that.’
‘As we have heard from Detective Inspector Fawley, during your interrogation you contended that it was your husband who killed Daisy and disposed of her body. You said he had been molesting her, and must have killed her either in a fit of rage or to prevent her divulging the abuse. Is that correct?’
She says nothing. There is a murmur in the public gallery, a glancing at one another.
The barrister pauses and scans his notes, then lifts his head. ‘Well, let us examine the evidence, shall we? Exhibit eighteen in your bundle, my Lady,’ he says, nodding to the judge.
‘Thank you, Mr Agnew.’
Agnew turns to the jury.
‘As we have heard, the police have used special simulation software to analyse the footage taken by an on-board train camera, which passed the Oxford level crossing at approximately five o’clock the afternoon Daisy disappeared. I believe we can now show the jury on the large screen?’
An usher switches on a computer display and a still from the video appears.
The barrister picks up an electronic pointer and directs a red light on to the screen. ‘I draw your attention to what you can see here. It is the Crown’s case that this barrow contains the body of Daisy Mason, and this has been confirmed by expert forensic examination of blood spots discovered in a wheelbarrow found discarded at the site. Let me be absolutely clear: the person you are looking at here is Daisy’s killer.’
He looks around. The air is electric.
‘The quality of the video does not, unfortunately, allow for a more detailed close-up. However, I am pleased to say digital technology has not entirely deserted us.’
He presses the remote control again and the photogrammetry image appears. Various labels have been posted on to the model – Line of railway track, Allotments, Waste heap. The barrister pauses, allowing everyone to take this in.
‘This technology has been employed successfully in both criminal investigations and legal proceedings, and has proved to be reliable. The findings I am about to show you have also been independently verified by undertaking a physical reconstruction on the site in question, details of which you will find in your folders.’
Another click and the model is overlaid with a grid of lines and numbers.
‘As you can see,’ he continues, ‘this particular software allows us to re-create a two-dimensional photographic image in three dimensions. In virtual reality, if you prefer. And because some of those objects are of a known size – the fencing, for example – we can use the model to deduce the width – or height – of other objects, whose dimensions are not known. By using this software, the police have proved conclusively that the person shown here is no more than 1.7 metres in height.’ He looks across at the jury. ‘Approximately five feet six inches.’