The Accused, page 12
19
Monday 27th May
32 days until the deadline
Cora stared at the hand-drawn chart on the wall of the little cubby-hole round the corner from the studio. It was where presenters went to pick up their microphones and talk-back units before the show, but the wall above the equipment shelf was normally adorned with nothing more exciting than roster sheets and flyers advertising local bars. Today, though, a large grid of names, some with a row of blue stars against them, dominated the space. Cora’s own name had just one star next to it.
‘What on earth is this?’ She jabbed a finger at the wall.
‘A potty mouth chart. Far too much bad language in this place. And not enough spare cash for booze. So, we thought – we being the floor managers – we’d fine all the reporters and presenters every time they swear, and we get to drink the proceeds on a Friday afternoon.’
Cecily, one of the longest serving floor managers, grinned. ‘So, everyone’s a winner. You lot clean up your act and we have a fun Friday. Here you go, stick that up your top.’ She handed Cora her microphone and then, grabbing her by the upper arms, firmly turned her around and started attaching the packs to the waistband of her wide-legged black trousers.
‘Oh – and your star is for “knob”, on that 3D printer, if you were wondering. I know that was more than two weeks ago, but none of us could remember you swearing since then, amazingly, and we had to put you on for something.’ Cecily finished what she was doing and turned Cora round to face her again.
‘Oh come on, a knob is an actual thing, you know! It was just everyone else’s filthy minds that made that sound rude ...’
Cecily adjusted the microphone clipped to Cora’s lapel and shook her head. ‘Nope. A rude word is a rude word, even if unintentional. Come on, a quid in the box.’
‘So unfair.’ But Cora grinned as she fumbled in her bag for a pound coin and popped it through the slot in the money box under the wall chart. She studied the names for a moment.
‘Blimey – what happened to Alice? Seven stars?’
‘She broke a heel on the way down from the newsroom on Friday. Louboutins I think they were. Never heard so much swearing in my life. She ticked up all seven stars in about thirty seconds.’
Cecily giggled. ‘She’s a changed woman since last year, and I do love her now, but honestly, Cora, for a minute the old Alice was back. It was hilarious.’
Cora chuckled to herself as she headed into the studio to read the 6 a.m. news. Alice was indeed a totally different person nowadays to the nasty, insecure girl she’d been before Jeanette’s murder. In those days, she had terrorised the younger staff and alienated herself from the older members of the crew. Now, with her transformation from girl about town to doting mother, she was slowly becoming a valued friend and colleague, her true and really quite sweet personality finally coming to the fore. But, thought Cora as she settled at the news desk, it was quite nice in a strange way to see that a little of the old Alice fire still burned somewhere deep inside.
It was nearly four o’clock by the time Cora finally managed to extricate herself from the newsroom and hail a cab to Harley Street. As they pulled up outside the Wellford Clinic, a tall Georgian building with a handsome, grey-painted door, she paid the driver and climbed out of the taxi, pausing for a moment to take in the splendour of the street. It had been London’s most prestigious address for the medical profession since the late 1800s, its elegant sweep running northwards from Cavendish Square and on to Regent’s Park. Now, the historic buildings housed state-of-the art-technology, but if Cora closed her eyes, she imagined she could still hear the clack of horses’ hooves and the rumble of the wheels of hansom cabs whisking the wealthy down the street. She stood for a moment, letting her mind’s eye take her back in time, then jumped as an irate female voice barged into her consciousness.
‘Excuse me, please!’ Cora opened her eyes to see a small, very round woman in a dark brown trench coat and slightly comical cat’s-eye glasses attempting to manoeuvre what looked like a vintage Silvercross pram around her.
‘Gosh, sorry, miles away.’ Cora stepped back to allow the woman to pass, catching a glimpse of a small baby swaddled in a pale blue blanket under the navy hood. The woman glared at her, tutted loudly, and stomped off, the pram rolling smoothly in front of her on well-oiled wheels. Cora watched them go for a moment, gathering her thoughts, then turned and pushed the brass doorbell. She had rung the Wellford first thing this morning, and luck had been with her. Dr Ana Taylor could spare her twenty minutes if she could get to Harley Street anytime between four and six, as she had ‘ring-fenced those two hours to catch up on some admin’, according to the woman who’d taken the call. It had taken nearly half an hour to get there from the South Bank and was now just coming up to 4.30, which was perfect, Cora thought. She and Adam were planning to pop out for an early dinner at their favourite local Italian, and she was already salivating at the prospect. It would be a rare treat for a Monday night, but Adam had told her he realised how tough the whole Sam business was and that she needed a treat, and she wasn’t going to argue.
A young woman with a broad smile and a smart tan-coloured dress opened the front door and ushered her into a large waiting room with a plush cream carpet, armchairs upholstered in soft green fabric and, on one wall, a widescreen television playing a film of a tropical coral reef – the modern equivalent of a waiting room aquarium, thought Cora wryly as she took a seat. On the wall to her left hung a large framed photograph, and she squinted to read the caption underneath it: ‘Dr Humphrey Barden, our founder and friend’, it said.
She had been waiting less than a minute when the door opened and another woman walked in, older but also dressed in tan. Unlike her smiling younger colleague, she looked ill at ease and frumpy in her slightly flared skirt and rumpled blouse, her greying brown hair clipped back severely from her plain face. She looked at Cora, and her eyes suddenly widened in recognition. Cora smiled, realising that this latest member of staff must be a Morning Live viewer, but her smile froze as the woman’s expression suddenly changed to one more akin to fear. They started at each other for a moment, Cora unsure what to do, and then the woman’s face cleared.
‘Miss Baxter? I’m Eleanor Hawkins, one of the nurses here. If you come with me, Dr Taylor can see you now.’ Her voice was low and sullen, and now she didn’t look at Cora at all, her eyes flitting around the room as she spoke, as if following the trajectory of a fly.
‘Thank you.’ Cora stood up and followed the woman out of the room and down a long corridor carpeted in the same plush cream. How on earth did they keep it so clean, especially in winter? Did they make everyone take their shoes off? Cora pondered as they made their way around a corner to the left and paused outside what looked like a freshly painted door with a small silver sign bearing the doctor’s name.
‘Knock and go in,’ Eleanor Hawkins muttered abruptly, and then turned and scurried off in the direction they had come. Somewhat amused at the woman’s slightly odd behaviour, although people did sometimes act oddly when confronted with someone they’d only ever seen before on the TV in their living room, Cora did as she’d been told, and pushed the door open. The room inside was warm and bright, walls covered with framed academic certificates and a few black and white lithographs, a light aroma of fresh coffee hanging in the air. At the far side of the office, a tall, elegant woman was already emerging from behind a huge mahogany desk, hand outstretched.
‘Miss Baxter, how nice to see you again!’ The voice was soft and melodious with a hint of a West Country accent. Dr Ana Taylor, chic in a tailored black suit and pearls, and with dark hair in an Audrey Hepburn-style pixie crop, smiled broadly.
Cora smiled back. ‘Oh, please call me Cora. Thank you so much for seeing me at such short notice.’
She settled herself in the low-backed club chair in front of the desk and for a couple of minutes they made polite small talk. Then, aware of the time, Cora decided to get to the point.
‘Dr Taylor ... I know you’re a bit of an expert on DNA. I wanted to run something past you. It’s for a ...’ she paused, not wanting to say too much, ‘a crime story I’m working on, a murder charge which hasn’t come to trial yet so I can’t really go into detail. But the case hangs on DNA evidence. I wanted to check a couple of things. First – and I think I already know the answer to this, but I just wanted to double check – is it possible, by the remotest of chances, for two unrelated people to have the same DNA profiles? Because, in this case, the police say they’ve found the accused’s DNA on the murder weapon, and this person is absolutely, one hundred per cent adamant that they are innocent. So, could there be a tiny, tiny chance of it being somebody else’s DNA, which happens to be the same?’
Dr Taylor shook her head. ‘It’s an argument that criminals often try and use – “there must be somebody with the same DNA as me, because I didn’t do it”. But ...’
She leaned forwards, hands on the desk, a large emerald ring sparkling on one middle finger. ‘Look, we get our DNA from our parents. So people who are closely related, like siblings, will have similar DNA profiles, and identical twins will have, to all intents and purposes, the same profile, except on incredibly detailed analysis. But even when you get to first cousin level, the likelihood of a match is about one in a hundred million, and for unrelated people it’s about one in a billion. Hence, if you look at the population of the whole world ... what are we at now, around seven billion? That’s about six other people on the planet with possibly the same DNA profile as me or you, but in reality ... well, the chances of unrelated people having matching DNA is one in several trillion. It’s like a personal barcode. There’s very little room for error.’
‘I see. So unless this person has an identical twin, then they probably ... they probably committed the crime themselves?’
‘Yes.’ Dr Taylor nodded.
‘Right.’ Cora ploughed on, not letting the crushing feeling that was creeping over her take hold. ‘OK, so the other thing is – well, the person accused of this crime thinks that maybe somebody might have framed them, by stealing their DNA, then carrying out the murder themselves and planting the DNA at the scene. How easy would that be? And how long does DNA last, say for example on a water glass, or something else?’
Dr Taylor raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, it’s possible,’ she said, sounding sceptical. ‘But again, a little bit far-fetched. I mean, we can’t go anywhere without leaving some trace of ourselves. This isn’t really my area, but in theory somebody with access to us, our home, our belongings, could take something with our DNA on it and, I suppose, use it at a crime scene. It’s as simple as swabbing a drinking glass, or a cigarette stub, and then wiping that swab on something at the scene. But they’d have to make damn sure they didn’t leave any of their own DNA there too, otherwise it’d be a bit of a waste of time. As for how long it lasts, well, it depends on the conditions. A sample of human DNA found in Spain was found to be seven thousand years old, for example. It’s impossible to say, really – I’m not an expert in forensics. But in the right environmental conditions, well looked after, it can certainly hang around for a while. Is that any use to you?’
‘It is, yes. Thank you, Dr Taylor.’
‘Is that it, then? Anything else I can help you with? That was too easy!’ The doctor laughed and leaned back in her chair again, adjusting the pearls at her throat.
‘No, that’s it. Thanks so much for your time.’
Cora stood up, suddenly feeling deeply depressed. Dr Taylor’s information about DNA possibly being used to frame somebody had been interesting, but Cora realised now that she had simply stopped believing in that possibility. And with the fact that nobody else could have the same genetic profile as Sam now confirmed, she faced the prospect of telling her friend that her last faint hope had been dashed. How on earth would she react? And what was left? If there was no lab mix-up, nobody who had framed Sam and nobody with the same DNA as her, that meant ... as Cora left the clinic, she pushed the thought from her mind. Sam is not a killer, Sam is not a killer, Sam is not a killer. She chanted the words in her head like a mantra as she made her way back out on to the street and hailed a cab.
As she sat in her taxi, mind whirling, Cora suddenly decided to pay Sam’s mother a visit. Ellen Tindall must be distraught, so it would be a nice thing to do anyway, but maybe, just possibly, she could help. Maybe Sam had some old enemy that none of them knew about, who might have come out of the woodwork now to get revenge and frame her for murder. And maybe I’ll see a pig flying down the street in a minute, thought Cora, and leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the side window as the black cab lurched to a halt yet again in the evening rush hour traffic. On Marylebone Road, tourists were pouring through the doors of Madame Tussauds as it closed for the day. A harassed-looking woman in a floral dress was trying to shepherd a small flock of schoolchildren into a line, gesturing impatiently to two other adults, a man and a woman who both wore dark tracksuits, to help her. Normal people, trying to cope with the normal, small inconveniences of life, thought Cora, as the taxi jolted and moved off again. And then there’s me, with one of my best friends facing life in prison for murder, and me facing an impossible deadline to save her from that fate, desperately scrabbling for any little bit of hope at all. She shut her eyes for a moment, sighed, then opened them again, reached into her bag for her phone, and called Ellen Tindall’s number.
20
Tuesday 28th May
31 days until the deadline
‘You know it’s Sam’s birthday on Thursday? Her thirty-first? Imagine spending your birthday in prison. I can’t bear it, Cora, I really can’t.’
Wendy slumped over her desk, a picture of despair. Cora, swinging disconsolately from side to side on the swivel chair next to her, felt as gloomy as Wendy looked. It really was a dreadful thought. Sam’s response to Cora’s findings at the Wellford Clinic had been predictably bad when Cora had called her last night, and now she was facing a birthday in jail to boot.
‘I mean, can we even send her anything? A cake? We can’t let her have nothing to celebrate with, we just can’t, it’s just too awful. She was so looking forward to the big night out we were all going to have, and now she’s going to be all on her own, in that dreadful place ...’
Wendy sat up abruptly, eyes glinting with tears, and turned to Cora with an anguished expression.
‘We can’t send much, I checked last week. No food or toiletries. But we can send DVDs, books, stuff like that.’ Cora stopped swinging and leaned forward to squeeze Wendy’s arm.
‘Let’s get some bits from the two of us this afternoon. And we can see if Ellen wants to send anything too, when we see her later. Put it all together in a nice package for Sam. I’ll drop it off at Henworthy tomorrow on my way home, OK?’
‘OK. Thanks, Cora.’ Wendy sniffed and ran a finger under each eye, checking for mascara runs. They were sitting in the Morning Live graphics suite, a big room which was always in semi-darkness to allow the graphic artists to see their screens more easily. It was a four-strong team, working round-the-clock shifts, so Cora had been relieved to find Wendy alone when she’d popped in after coming off air, wanting to recount her telephone conversation with Ellen Tindall. Sam’s mother had been delighted at the prospect of a visit from Cora, and had begged her to bring Wendy too, a request to which Wendy had happily agreed. They’d been invited for afternoon tea, a prospect which had briefly cheered them both up – Ellen was well known for her baking skills. The gloom had soon descended again though, thoughts of Sam’s birthday making both of them feel utterly miserable. They all loved birthdays, and celebrated them lustily – Cora’s thirty-sixth birthday party in April had been an all-day affair that had taken three days to recover from. The prospect of Sam sitting alone in a jail cell without so much as a glass of bubbly to mark hers was hideous.
Cora sighed heavily. ‘So ... your shift ends at two, right?’ She stood up, smoothing down her navy suede skirt.
Wendy nodded. ‘Come and get me. We can pop into Covent Garden quickly to pick up the presents and then head to Ellen’s.’
‘OK. I’ve got plenty of work to do in the newsroom before then, got a couple of big interviews in the bulletins tomorrow ...’
She turned as the door opened and Miranda walked in, casual today in an off-air outfit of pale denims and a loose coral jumper, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail.
‘Oh – Cora, hello! I wanted to see Wendy about a graphic for this head lice piece they want next week, before I head off to the New Forest to do some filming later. Hi, Wendy – is this a bad time?’
‘No, you’re fine, I was just getting rid of this pain-in-the-ass reporter.’
Wendy glowered at Cora and then her face broke into a smile, and Cora, appreciating the effort her friend was making to appear normal, punched her gently on the arm.
‘Rude!’
Miranda laughed. ‘I love the banter between you lot. I bet you’re missing Sam. How ... how is she, have you heard?’
Cora and Wendy exchanged brief glances. ‘She’s OK. Bearing up. She’s tough, our Sam. It’s her birthday on Thursday though, her thirty-first, which is going to be pretty grim for her.’
Miranda gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. ‘Oh! That’s just awful! It’s mine in a couple of weeks, on the fourteenth of June – I’ll be thirty-one too. I’m going away to Paris on the Eurostar with some of my medic friends, I’m so excited. Poor Sam. I can’t even imagine ...’
She sat down heavily on Cora’s recently vacated chair, looking stricken.
‘I know. But we’re going to put a little box together for her, some DVDs and books to keep her going. We can celebrate properly when she gets out,’ Wendy said firmly.
Miranda nodded. ‘That’s nice. Look, give her my best wishes, won’t you?’
‘Of course. You could visit her too, you know, if you like? You don’t need a visiting order, not while she’s on remand,’ said Cora.
