‘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.’
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.