He Said/She Said(37)

‘Possibly?’ My patience began to thin. Even I’d been more convincing than this, surely.

‘A friction burn would not, in fact, vanish after four hours, would it?’

‘No.’ Irene Okenedo leaned forward on the witness box, but for support rather than in emphasis. Lean back, I willed her silently. Stand up straight.

‘Were you able to find such marks on the complainant’s body?’

‘No.’

Nathaniel Polglase shook his head in derision. His perfect wig bounced precariously.

‘You also examined my client physically,’ continued Price. ‘A genital swab showed the complainant’s vaginal fluid. But that merely confirms what my client has maintained all along: that sex took place, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

The barrister’s voice had been slowly building in volume throughout this exchange. ‘Did your physical examination of the complainant upturn any forensic evidence that she was forced into sex? There isn’t a single physical injury, externally or internally, that rebuts the suggestion that there was nothing other than spontaneous sex?’

This time, she got the answer she wanted.

‘No,’ said Dr Okenedo. ‘I can’t say that.’

She looked like I felt; like she was watching a ball she’d kicked sail through her own goalposts.

‘Thank you, Dr Okenedo. Your Honour, I have no further questions for this witness.’

As she sat down, Polglase rose, the movement smooth as two kids on a seesaw. ‘Your Honour,’ he said in a voice with the fight knocked out of it, ‘That concludes the case for the prosecution.’





Chapter 19





LAURA

11 May 2000

The day Jamie Balcombe went into the witness box, the sky above Truro was a clear, even blue. The defendant was borne in to the lobby on his usual flotilla before handing himself over to the dock officer.

The journalist with the bobbed hair was back in the atrium. When the court announcer called all parties in Crown versus Balcombe to Court One, Ali winked at her and whispered, ‘Showtime.’

We filed in to the public gallery, Kit and I taking care not to nudge or touch any of the Balcombe party. Someone was wearing an overpowering floral perfume that reignited yesterday’s headache; my temples started to throb. The fiancée, Antonia, sat in the back row. Her outfit was calculatedly, almost parodically virginal, with a black velvet hairband and a frilly collar, little girl’s clothes from a bygone time: she was only a pair of stripy stockings away from Tenniel’s Alice. She craned to see Balcombe as he entered the dock. When he saw her sitting in the back, a hard, furious expression flashed over his face so quickly that I couldn’t trust I had really seen it.

‘Did you see that face he just pulled?’ I asked Kit in a whisper. He looked at Jamie, who appeared solemn and respectful, and shrugged.

‘He’s always like that, isn’t he?’

I watched as Jamie nodded sharply at the empty seats in the front row. Antonia stood up as though he’d yanked a string. Mouthing apologies at the dock, she scuttled forward until she was seated in the front row, where she sat, twisting her engagement ring nervously.

‘You must have seen that,’ I asked Kit, but he was fiddling with his watch, synchronising it with the court clock.

Jamie’s walk from the dock to the witness box was ten, maybe twelve paces. He was overly polite and co-operative, loudly thanking the usher who held the door open for him and saying, ‘Of course, of course, thank you,’ as he was shown into the witness box.

‘You may sit down, Mr Balcombe,’ said the judge.

‘Thank you, Your Honour,’ said Jamie, bowing his head, ‘But I prefer to stand.’

He was dressed in a different suit today. It was slightly oversized and made him look like a schoolboy on the first day of term, in a new blazer bought with growing room. As surreptitiously as I could, I looked sideways at the rest of them, immaculately dressed in the gallery next to me. It was hard to believe that Jamie’s ill-fitting suit was anything but a device to disarm the jurors. His eyes looked bluer than they had before; was he wearing lenses?

He swore on the Bible. Of course he did.

Fiona Price smiled warmly at her client.

‘Jamie, thank you,’ she said, as though he had a choice, as though he was doing us all a favour by gracing us with his presence. ‘Before we get to the night in question, I’d like you to tell me a bit about your education,’ she continued.

‘Thank you, Miss Price. I was educated at the Saxby Cathedral School, where I got four As at A level. I’m currently studying to be an architect. I got my Bachelor’s in Architectural Design at Bath University.’

His voice was like expensive honey, dripping off a silver spoon.

‘There are a further three years of study and work experience required before I’m eligible to join the Royal Institute of British Architects. I believe I’m right in saying that only veterinary surgeons train for longer than architects. After your BA, you spend a year working in the industry before returning to university for two years to complete a Diploma in Architecture, then more professional practice, more studying, more exams.’ He gave a little smile. ‘And after that you have to apply to RIBA and get a job. That’s when the hard work really starts.’