Close to Home (DI Adam Fawley #1)(85)

The court erupts. The judge calls for silence.

The barrister turns to Sharon. ‘How tall is your husband, Mrs Mason?’

Sharon shifts in her seat. ‘Six foot two.’

‘Six feet two inches. Or 1.88 metres. Approximately. So I put it to you, it is absolutely impossible that the figure shown here is your husband.’

‘I wouldn’t know. You’ll have to ask him.’

He smiles. Like a cat. ‘Perhaps you could tell us how tall you are, Mrs Mason?’

Sharon glances at the judge. ‘Five foot six.’

‘I’m sorry,’ says the barrister, ‘I didn’t quite catch that.’

‘Five foot six.’

‘So exactly the same height as the figure shown in this image.’

‘It’s just a coincidence.’

‘Is it?’ He gestures with the pointer again. ‘Can you describe to me what you see here? What footwear is this figure wearing?’

Sharon narrows her eyes, ‘Looks like training shoes.’

‘I agree. Blue training shoes. Rather odd footwear for a construction worker, wouldn’t you say? Surely they’d be wearing safety boots or something of the kind?’

‘I have no idea.’

Agnew raises an eyebrow, then, ‘You’re a runner, I believe, Mrs Mason?’

‘I’m not a runner. I go jogging.’

‘On the contrary, we have been told you used to run every morning, for several miles at a time.’

She shrugs. ‘Most days.’

‘And you wore training shoes?’

She shoots a look at him. ‘What else would I wear?’

‘And how many pairs do you have?’

She’s flustered now. ‘I had an old pair for the winter, when the ground is muddy. And a newer pair.’

‘And what colour were they – the newer pair?’

A hesitation. ‘Blue.’

‘The same colour as these, shown here?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘So are we to believe that that, also, is just a coincidence?’

Sharon gives him a poisonous look, but says nothing.

‘We were told, were we not, by the expert witness, that the training shoes recovered from your house had tiny traces of railway ballast embedded in the soles?’

The defence barrister rises to her feet. ‘My Lady, it has already been established, and confirmed by witnesses, that my client went running on Port Meadow and used to use the level crossing to get there, before it was closed off. There is thus a perfectly innocent explanation for the presence of the ballast on the shoes.’

She looks at the jury, underlining the point, then returns to her seat.

The prosecuting barrister removes his glasses. ‘Notwithstanding Miss Kirby’s intervention, I put it to you, Mrs Mason, that the image we have on the screen is an image of you. Wearing your husband’s high-viz clothing, your hair and face concealed, pushing a barrow containing your daughter’s body. You wore his clothing and his gloves – gloves you later disposed of in Loughton Road. But his boots, as a size eleven, would have been impossible to walk in, given you are only a size five. Hence the training shoes.’

‘It’s not me – I told you – I wasn’t there – ’

‘So where were you? At five o’clock that day? The time shown on the screen.’

‘At home,’ she says, folding her hands. ‘I was at home.’

‘But that’s not quite true, is it? You told the police that you left your children alone in the house that afternoon, and were absent in your car for at least forty minutes. And this,’ he jabs the pointer, ‘was at exactly the time shown on the video footage.’

‘I went to the shops,’ she says sullenly. ‘For mayonnaise. For the party.’

‘But you claim you couldn’t find any so there are no computer records of any such purchase. And no one remembers you at the store you said you went to, do they?’

‘That doesn’t prove I wasn’t there.’

‘Nor does it prove you were, Mrs Mason. On the contrary, it is the Crown’s case that you spent those forty minutes driving to the car park by the level crossing and burying your daughter’s body in rubble of the old footbridge. Waste which you knew – having conveniently received a leaflet through the door – would be collected that very night.’

He clicks the remote and an image of Daisy appears on the screen. She is smiling, in her party outfit. A charming gap-toothed smile. It’s three days before she disappeared. Then he holds up a plastic bag.

There are gasps from the public gallery and one or two of the jury put their hands to their mouths.

‘Exhibit nineteen, my Lady. DNA analysis has proved that this tooth belonged to Daisy Mason. As we have heard, it was found in the gravel near the site of that waste heap, by a search team from the Thames Valley Police.’ He takes his pointer again and gestures at the screen. A red label appears, marking the spot. Then he turns to the jury. ‘I am sure, ladies and gentlemen, that Daisy hoped to leave this under her pillow, like any other little girl. Perhaps you have children yourself, who have done the same. But there will be no fairy coming to collect this, will there, Mrs Mason?’

The defence barrister rises to her feet. ‘Is this really necessary, my Lady?’