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?’
The judge looks over her spectacles at the prosecuting barrister. ‘Move on, Mr Agnew.’
He bows. ‘So, Mrs Mason, let us recap. If it was your husband who killed your daughter, there are only two possibilities. Either he killed her after he got home at 5.30 or he came back earlier in the afternoon, while you were on your fruitless quest for mayonnaise. We can eliminate the first of these alternatives, not least because the time does not tally with the video evidence. And in any case, had he killed her then, it would have happened when you were in the house, and you, by definition, must have helped him cover it up, by failing to report the crime to the police. I assume you were not so complicit, Mrs Mason.’
‘No.’
‘We are therefore left with the forty minutes when you were absent from the house. Between approximately 4.35 and 5.15. During that time, your husband would have to return to the house, find you unexpectedly absent, take the opportunity to kill his daughter and wrap the body so diligently that no trace whatsoever is left in his pick-up truck, and leave. All in forty minutes. He would then have to drive to the car park, put Daisy in the wheelbarrow, where – somewhat inexplicably – he did manage to leave forensic evidence – and hide her body in the waste heap, before dumping the gloves in the skip, removing his high-viz clothing and returning to the house by 5.30. That’s quite some going. Has he ever thought of entering Supermarket Sweep?’
There’s some low-level laughter from the gallery, but the judge is clearly not amused. Agnew resumes.
‘Only there’s a flaw in this story, isn’t there, Mrs Mason? Because the person who buried the body, at that time and in that place – the person we can see on this video – couldn’t possibly be your husband.’
Sharon refuses to meet his eye. There are two spots of livid colour in her cheeks, but her face is white.
‘So who is it, Mrs Mason?’
‘I have no idea. I told you.’
‘I put it to you that you know exactly who this is. It’s you, isn’t it?’
She lifts her chin. ‘No. It’s not me. How many more times. It’s not me.’
*
19 July 2016, 5.18 p.m.
The day of the disappearance
Loughton Road, Oxford
The woman pulls the car over to the side of the road and switches off the engine. So far, so good. The 16.58 was on time, and even if no one on the train noticed her, she’s pretty sure all drivers’ cabs have cameras these days. And what with the wheelbarrow and what she’s wearing, surely the police will have enough.
Only the gloves to deal with now. And for that she needs another witness. A middle-aged female, for preference. A busybody. They’re the noticing type. Amazing how hard it is to get noticed, even if you’re trying to be. People are so preoccupied. They’re all so absorbed in themselves.
She unwraps the sheet of newspaper on her lap and checks the gloves. She could have left them at the crossing, but you have to give the police something to do in a murder case. Something to solve, like the pieces of a puzzle, so they can put them all back together and think they’ve found the answer. Because when it came down to it, there was no other way.
It had to be murder.
Daisy had to die.
*
‘So, Mrs Mason,’ says Agnew, ‘you maintain that the person on the footage is not you. Even though this person is exactly your height. Even though this person has distinctive training shoes identical to yours. Even though this person is wearing high-viz clothes just like those your husband kept in the house. We are a very long way beyond coincidence, Mrs Mason.’
‘Anyone can get clothes like that.’
Agnew takes a step back in exaggerated surprise. ‘Am I to understand that you are changing your story, Mrs Mason? That you’re now suggesting it was someone else who killed Daisy, and not your husband?’
‘Well, it must have been, mustn’t it?’ She’s veering towards sarcasm now. ‘If it wasn’t him it must have been someone else. It certainly wasn’t me. It’s not my fault.’
‘I see. And I agree that it is not particularly difficult to obtain high-viz protective clothing. One can buy almost anything online these days, in relative anonymity. But how do you reconcile that with the timeline in this case? Your daughter disappeared sometime on the afternoon of July nineteenth. That we know. This footage was taken shortly before five o’clock that afternoon. That we also know. The person shown here must, therefore, have already had that protective clothing to hand. Beyond those actually working in the construction industry, there are very few people to whom that applies. Apart from you, of course.’
The defence barrister rises and the judge nods to her. ‘I anticipate your objection, Miss Kirby.’
‘I withdraw that last remark, my Lady,’ says Agnew. ‘But I do have a further question for Mrs Mason. If you are now telling the court that it was some unknown abductor who took your daughter, why did you go to such lengths to incriminate your husband?’
Sharon refuses to look at him.
‘You took two items to the police, did you not, with the express aim of suggesting your husband was molesting your daughter, and therefore, by extension, had a motive to kill her? The incriminating birthday card, exhibit seven, which you retrieved from the dustbin after your husband tried to dispose of it, and the mermaid fancy-dress costume you claim he had hidden in his wardrobe, exhibit eight.’
‘He did hide it – that’s where it was – that’s where I found it.’
‘You also told the police that you had no idea until that moment that your daughter might be being abused?’
Silence.
Agnew puts his glasses back on and whips through his pages. ‘This assertion is in direct contradiction to what your husband has already testified. He says you accused him of having some sort of incestuous fixation with Daisy as long ago as April 2016, when you confronted him about the birthday card. And yet you did not see fit to report any of this to the appropriate authorities.’
Again, silence. Sharon is gripping her hands together so hard her knuckles are white.
‘It was revenge, wasn’t it?’ Agnew continues. ‘Pure and simple. You found out your husband had been on a dating site, meeting other younger women and sleeping with them, and you saw your chance to get your vengeance by framing him for your daughter’s death. You gave the police material that pointed to his guilt and you wore his high-viz clothing when you disposed of Daisy’s body, so that if anyone saw you they would assume the person they were looking at was not a woman, but a man. Not you, but your husband.’
‘He wasn’t just cheating. He was looking at porn. At kiddie porn.’ She leans forward and points at Agnew, stabbing the air. ‘He’s in prison for it.’
Agnew raises an eyebrow. ‘Ah, but you didn’t know he was doing that then, did you? You didn’t know that until after Daisy disappeared. At least that’s what you told the police.’
‘I didn’t know he was on that dating site either,’ she snaps. ‘How could it be revenge if I didn’t know? I’m not telepathic. I didn’t even know he had that phone.’