The prosecutor rose to begin her opening address to the jury.
The atmosphere in the courtroom was tense. Lizzie’s friends and family filled one side of the public gallery. Liam, the boyfriend, was sitting further along, apart from them. That space said what everyone thought, that he’d caused it, that if he hadn’t been such a petty and jealous thug she wouldn’t have run off into the night, towards her death. Liam didn’t see it that way, his glare alternating between Dan and Peter Box.
Dan looked away. He expected that. Instead, he tried to focus on what lay ahead, the words of the judge stamped hard onto his memory. He couldn’t mess this up. The judge had warned him that he was being watched, ready to report him if he turned out to be not good enough.
As Francesca turned to the jurors, Dan closed his eyes for a moment, just to get some focus. He tried to shut out the atmosphere and tension in the courtroom, so that all he heard were the soft creaks of the carpet under Francesca’s feet along with the occasional rustle of clothes as people settled down in the public gallery. Concentrate on the evidence. Let the facts speak for themselves.
He opened his eyes and turned to look back towards the dock. Peter Box was sitting up, rigid in his posture, staring at the prosecutor, his head cocked to listen to what was about to be said.
Francesca held out her papers, but they were more of a prop than an aide. Her speech would come from years of experience. Like Dan, Francesca used a laptop in court, all the police statements and exhibits on it, but would use a paper bundle when on her feet. Holding out a witness statement was more dramatic than scrolling with a mouse.
‘Members of the jury,’ she said. Her tone was slow and rich. The jurors craned forward. ‘I’m going to take you back to just after midnight, the early hours of New Year’s Day in the town of Highford. Once the fireworks had died down, Elizabeth Barnsley was assaulted by her boyfriend in the car park of a local pub. She was Lizzie to her friends, and over the course of the next few days, you’ll hear details about her life. Some of it happy, some of it not so. You’ll hear details about her death too. Violent and brutal and senseless.’
Murmurs from the gallery accompanied her words.
The judge looked up from the notes he was making and leaned forward. ‘A reminder to the members of the public in the gallery that you are here because you have an interest in this case and because it is your right. It is not unqualified, however, because the bargain you make with the court is that you remain quiet and do not disturb the proceedings.’
He let his words linger for a few seconds before he nodded at the prosecutor to continue.
Francesca turned back to the jurors.
Dan stared at his notepad as she spoke. He knew what Francesca was going to say because the opening address had been sent to him two weeks earlier, part of the pre-trial protocol.
Francesca moved on. ‘Unbeknownst to Lizzie, in her desire to escape the violence of one man, her search for a place of supposed safety led her into the path of another violent man: Peter Box, hiding in the darkness. Her friends sought to stop her from being followed, but it meant that she was alone, and it was in that solitude that Peter Box attacked her. He fought with her and forced her into the water on that freezing night.’
One of the jurors swallowed and the look of intrigue had been replaced by something much darker: sorrow for the ending of a young life, anger directed at the man sitting in the dock, and fear at what they were about to be confronted with.
‘Members of the jury, Peter Box held her under the water until she drowned.’
Francesca looked each juror in the eye to let that fact sink in before continuing.
‘The prosecution has to prove the case against Peter Box beyond any reasonable doubt, so that you are sure of his guilt.’ Her voice softened. ‘It is a high burden, and in this case the evidence is circumstantial.’ She smiled. ‘Do not be fooled by that word. No one saw Peter Box murder Lizzie Barnsley. Instead, you will look to the circumstances of the case and you will be drawn to one unavoidable conclusion: that Peter Box murdered Lizzie Barnsley. You will hear from witnesses who watched her break away from her violent boyfriend. You will hear how no one from that public house followed her, and how her boyfriend was prevented from going after her. You’ll hear from forensic specialists who will explain how she was assaulted and held under water, from the marks on her neck and body, and then on her legs and feet as she struggled against the canal bank. And most importantly of all, you’ll hear from the Crime Scene Investigator who discovered Lizzie’s shoe with blood on its stiletto heel, and from the nurse who tended to a wound on Peter Box’s head. The blood on her shoe, members of the jury, belonged to Peter Box.’
Francesca softened her tone even more, so that the jurors leaned forward, drawn in by her address. ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Peter Box murdered Lizzie Barnsley. When you’ve heard all the evidence, you will be sure that this is the truth. The only truth. Nothing but the truth.’
As she moved on to calling the first witness – one of the men who’d been drinking at the Wharf pub that night – Dan made a tick on his notepad. It had been a strong opening statement. Not so detailed that the jury would spot her case going wrong if a witness didn’t give evidence as well as she hoped, but with enough detail to let them know what the case was about.
Dan looked back to the public gallery, gazing beyond Peter towards the seats along the back row, to the man who’d been watching him outside the court that morning. Whoever the stranger was, he wasn’t concentrating on Francesca. Instead, he was staring at Dan and then back at Peter, his brow furrowed, his finger tapping his lip.
Dan picked up his phone, which he’d secreted under some papers. As everyone waited for the usher to come back from the witness room with the first witness, Dan scrolled through his messages. No response yet from Jayne.
He checked quickly that the judge wasn’t watching him and then sent another message before he put his phone back under his papers.
He sat back as the usher returned with the witness. All he could do was put aside whatever thoughts he had about the danger sitting in the gallery. He had a murder case to deal with and his focus had to be on that.
As the witness stepped into the box, he lifted his papers to check again for the small flashing light that would tell him he had a message. There was none.
He was frowning as the witness took the oath.