“It could have got there in any number of ways.”

“But it could have got there in the way I suggest?”

“Yes, but-”

“And that was all the blood you found?”

“I’ve already said that. I-”

“Not very much, is it?”

“As I said, it was enough for PCR analysis.”

“Ah, yes: PCR, STR, DNA, ‘genetic fingerprinting.’ Magic words, these days. And what does that prove, Dr. Tasker?”

“That the blood on the defendant’s anorak is fifty million times-”

“Yes, yes. We’ve already been through all that, haven’t we? But the defense has never denied that it is Deborah Harrison’s blood. She bumped into my client and scratched herself on the zip of his anorak. Would you admit that the amount and location of the blood you found bear out that explanation?”

“I suppose so.”

“You suppose so. Did you find any traces of blood on the cuffs of the anorak?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t you expect to if the victim were bleeding from the nose as the accused strangled her?”

“Perhaps.”

“So he might be expected to get blood on his cuff if he did indeed strangle her from behind with the satchel strap?”

“Well, it’s possible, yes, but-”

“And did you find any blood lower down his sleeve?”

“No. But she could have twisted side-”

“Thank you, Dr. Tasker. You have answered my question. Now, given the life-and-death struggle that must have taken place, it would have been difficult to avoid some close contact, wouldn’t it?”

“Presumably.”

“And did you test the rest of anorak for blood?”

“Yes. We carried out a thorough examination.”

“But you found no blood other than this infinitesimal amount high on the sleeve, at the edge of the metal teeth on the zip?”

“No.”

The infatuation seemed to be on the wane, Owen noticed. Tasker didn’t even want to look Shirley Castle in the eye now. Owen glanced over at “Minerva,” who was regarding the doctor sternly. No more would she believe the “scientific tests have proved” commercials, if, indeed, she ever had.

“Dr. Tasker, do you know where Deborah Harrison’s hairs-what we have since learned only might in fact be Deborah Harrison’s hairs-were found on Mr. Pierce’s anorak?”

“No, that’s not my-”

“Then let me tell you. They were found on the upper left arm and on the upper left arm only. In fact, all three of her hairs were found in the teeth of Mr. Pierce’s zip, by the pinpoint bloodstain. What do you have to say to that?”

“I don’t know. It’s not my field.”

“Not your field? But would you not say it’s consistent with the scenario I just outlined for you? A minor collision?”

“I have already agreed that is a possible explanation.”

“How much blood and skin did you find under the victim’s fingernail?”

“A small amount. But enough for-”

“Consistent with what might be deposited from a light scratch?”

“Yes.”

“If Deborah Harrison had been fighting for her life, wouldn’t you have expected to find more, in your professional judgment?”

“Possibly. But again, it’s not my-”

“I understand that, Dr. Tasker. But we can’t have it both ways, can we? Either she did get the opportunity to defend herself by scratching, in which case she came away with a pitiful amount of skin, or she didn’t. Which is it to be, in your opinion?”

Owen saw Lawrence on the verge of an objection, but he seemed to think better of it and sank down again.

“It could have been just a lucky strike,” said Tasker. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know. Very well. Would you at least agree that the presence of a small amount of Mr. Pierce’s skin under one of her fingernails could have got there during a minor collision, if she put out her hand to steady herself?”

“Yes.”

“Then would you also agree that it is possible that Deborah Harrison’s killer could have been someone other than my client?”

“Objection!”

“Overruled, Mr. Lawrence. Witness will please answer the question.”

Tasker fiddled with his tie. “Well, theoretically, yes. Of course,” he gave a nervous titter. “I mean, theoretically, anything’s possible. I wasn’t there, I can’t tell you exactly what happened. The DNA was a good match to the defendant’s, so he can’t be excluded.”

“I submit that the DNA match is irrelevant. Is your answer to my question yes?”

“I suppose so.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

Shirley Castle turned to the judge and threw her hands in the air. “Your Honor,” she said, “I find myself exasperated that the prosecution’s case is based on so little and such flimsy evidence. No further questions.”

For the first time, Jerome Lawrence stood up to reexamine. It must be because it’s his last witness, Owen thought. He wants to leave a positive impression.

“Just two questions, Dr. Tasker,” he said. “You are fully aware of the nature of the crime, the nature of the victim’s injuries. Would you say, in your expert opinion, that the amounts of the victim’s blood left on the accused’s clothing were in any way too little for him to have committed such a crime?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Tasker.

“And could the exchange of blood and tissue have taken place during a struggle for her life?”

“Indeed it could.”

Jerome Lawrence gave an oily bow. “Thank you very much, Dr. Tasker.”

Nothing could have prepared Owen for the shock of seeing Michelle sitting in the gallery when he glanced nervously around the courtroom before going into the witness-box.

His heart thudded against his ribcage. He felt as if a large bird had somehow found its way inside him and was scratching and plucking at his chest and throat, beating its wings, trying to get out. She was still beautiful; she still had the power to make his heart ache and yearn.

If anything, Owen thought, Michelle looked even younger than she had when they had been together: about fifteen or sixteen. She wore no make-up to mar her delicate, alabaster complexion, a maroon blazer and a simple white blouse, very much like the St. Mary’s school uniform.

Her blonde hair-the same color and length as Deborah Harrison’s-hung over her shoulders in exactly the same way Deborah’s had in the newspaper photographs. Her lips, the color of the inside of a strawberry, were fixed in a childish pout. And the implication of innocence and immaturity permeated her entire bearing. Owen wondered if people knew who she was. She was sitting next to a man he had seen there often before: a reporter, Owen thought.

He tried to avoid looking at her. Why was she here? Had the Crown lured her in to upset him? He had already realized that he was participating in a drama, a theatrical event more than anything else, and that the awards would be handed out in a few days’ time. Did Michelle have a part to play, too? She wasn’t going into the box-Shirley Castle had taken care of that-so what was she doing in court?

He was so distracted by her presence that he didn’t hear Shirley Castle calling him to give evidence at first, then the judge called him to the box.

Shirley Castle spent more than a day taking him through the events of that fateful Monday in November, as smoothly as she had before in the interview room near his cell. He felt calm as he spoke, and he hoped the jury wouldn’t interpret this as lack of emotion.

“Minerva,” as far as he could tell, listened to him objectively, a slight furrow of concentration in her brow. Most of the others, he noticed, appeared to be paying attention too, but a couple had disbelieving sneers etched around their lips-that “come on, tell us another one” look he had become so adept at perceiving of late. Occasionally, he sneaked a glance at Michelle. Once in a while she turned and spoke behind her hand to the reporter next to her.

The next day, after Shirley Castle had finished eliciting a reasonable and believable account of events from Owen, or so he thought, Jerome Lawrence dragged himself to his feet. “There hardly seems any point,” Lawrence’s weary, long-suffering movements seemed to be saying, “in bothering with this, as you and I know he’s guilty, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, but duty demands we go through the motions.” Owen looked at the gallery and saw Michelle was in court again.