A Game of Proof (The trials of Sarah Newby)

by Vicary, Tim

  ‘Did they never quarrel?’

  Sarah shrugged. ‘Yes, they split up, about six weeks ago. She moved out of his house, went off with another boy.’ She closed her mouth abruptly. She had no intention of telling this woman what Simon had confided in her, that Jasmine still visited him for occasional sex.

  ‘Do you know where your son is now?’

  ‘At his home, I suppose. I was going to see him. Some things you can’t say by phone.’

  ‘Before you go, Mrs Newby,’ Tracy Litherland said, ‘you should know that we have evidence that he was seen with a girl answering Jasmine’s description last night, and that later he left home and hasn’t been seen since.’ Tracy briefly explained what the old man had said. ‘Do you have any idea where he might have gone?’

  ‘No.’ This news shook Sarah considerably. ‘Who told you about this old man?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

  ‘You are treating him as a suspect, aren’t you? The poor boy probably doesn’t even know Jasmine’s dead yet!’

  ‘In that case we need to talk to him,’ said Tracy carefully. ‘He may have been the last person to see her alive, and he doesn’t seem to be at home. Does he have grandparents, relatives, friends that he sometimes visits?’

  Reluctantly, Sarah gave Tracy her parents’ address, and a framed photograph of Simon. As she took it down she thought first Emily, now Simon; I never knew it hurt so much.

  ‘I want that back when you’ve copied it, please. And - what did you say your name was?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Tracy Litherland.’

  ‘Yes, well, DS Litherland, I hope you’re looking for other suspects too. Simon didn’t kill this girl. He couldn’t - he’s not a murderer.’

  Tracy had heard all this before from parents, many times. She responded with a detached professional compassion that Sarah recognised only too well from her own work.

  ‘I hope you’re right, Mrs Newby. I hope you’re right.’

  With a search warrant in his pocket, Churchill watched Mike Candor smash the lock.

  Simon’s house had a kitchen and living room downstairs, two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. The sagging armchair and sofa were strewn with magazines, socks, and towels. There was a pyramid of empty beer cans in a corner, under a Manchester United poster and an old Pirelli calendar. The smell suggested that not all the beer cans had been empty when added to the decoration, if that was what it was. On some shelves in an alcove were a TV, video and CD player, all fairly new and in good order.

  ‘I thought this lad was a part-time brickie,’ said Churchill, staring at them in surprise. ‘Where’d he get all this stuff?’

  Mike Candor shrugged. ‘His parents, maybe? They’re not short of a bob or two. Kids today, they take this stuff for granted, you know.’ He was exploring the kitchen when Harry Easby gave a shout from upstairs.

  ‘Sir! Come and have a look at these!’

  He was in the smaller bedroom, not one dedicated to sleeping. The main piece of furniture was a padded exercise bench. Scattered around the floor were a weight-lifter’s bar, a selection of weights, a skipping rope, some elastic stretching gear, a crumpled tracksuit, socks and trainers.

  ‘Quite the fitness freak,’ said Churchill, admiringly. ‘So what’s suspicious, Harry?’

  ‘These, sir.’ Carefully, Harry picked up a trainer by its lace. Will Churchill looked, and saw what he meant. The trainer was old and scuffed and muddy. As it twirled slowly in the air they saw little bits of grit and mud embedded in the sole, and the top of the shoe was stained green and brown, from mud and grass. The tread on the sole looked familiar.

  ‘Weren’t there some footprints near the body, sir?’

  A slow smile crossed Churchill’s face. ‘There were, Harry. There were indeed.’

  ‘Bob? Wake up, I’ve brought you something.’

  He sat up in surprise. It was a long time since Sarah had done anything as domestic as bring him tea in bed. ‘Oh, thanks.’ He ran his hand through his tousled hair. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Five thirty. In the afternoon.’ She put the cup on a bedside table. ‘Have a good sleep?’

  ‘I suppose so, yes.’ He had slept fully dressed - it was years since he had done that, either. He took his tea gratefully, then winced as memory flooded back. ‘God, what a mess.’

  ‘A policewoman came.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To get a photo of Simon, and ask about his relationship with Jasmine. They’re treating him as a suspect, Bob.’

  Bob sipped his tea and avoided her eyes. ‘Why?’

  ‘A witness claims he saw Simon with a girl like Jasmine. He hit her, this man claims.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She walked to the window. The wind was rustling the willow leaves in the garden. In the distance, she could see Emily and Larry, arm in arm on the river bank.

  ‘Yes, oh. God knows where they found that out.’

  She doesn’t know I told them, Bob thought. Thank God. ‘Do you think it’s true?’

  She hesitated. ‘She did go back to him, sometimes. He loved that girl, Bob. I wish he hadn’t, but he did. Maybe someone saw them together.’

  ‘But the old man says he hit her. People do kill for love, Sarah.’

  ‘Not Simon.’ She turned, blood draining from her face. ‘What are you talking about, the old man? Bob, do you know something about this?’

  Nervously, Bob put down his cup. He felt ridiculous and vulnerable, sitting on the bed in his shirt and socks, with those bright hazel eyes glaring at him like a tigress. I should never have tried to deceive her, he thought, I have no gift for it.

  ‘Look, I met this old man outside Simon’s house when I was searching for Emily. He told me he’d seen Simon quarrel with a girl in the street. She was wearing Emily’s coat, remember! I thought it was her!’

  ‘So it was you who told them! For Christ’s sake, Bob! Have you any idea what the police will make of this? What have you done?’

  ‘The girl’s dead, Sarah, this is deadly serious.’

  ‘I know that - I saw her, damn it! But Simon’s our son!’

  In Bob’s eyes Sarah read the cruel message: your son, not mine. Yours and Kevin’s.

  ‘That doesn’t mean he didn’t do it. How much longer can you blind your eyes to what he’s like? Get real, Sarah - he’s not your misunderstood little boy any more. He’s a grown man.’

  ‘You rang the police and told them, Bob? Without talking to me? He’s my son!’

  ‘That’s exactly why I didn’t discuss it with you. And because that poor girl Jasmine is somebody’s daughter too, Sarah. Was.’

  ‘Don’t preach to be, Bob, I’m not your school assembly.’ She paused, then continued relentlessly. ‘Would you have done this if he’d been your own son? If it had been Emily?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’ He wondered if it was true. ‘I have tried with him, Sarah. You know that.’

  ‘Over the years, yes.’ Her first flood of rage ebbed, leaving a grey meaningless silt of despair. Is this what my marriage has come to? ‘But we’ve given up, since he left home, haven’t we? Both of us.’

  ‘Maybe. He’s nineteen years old, Sarah. He’s a grown man.’

  Sarah walked to the window, stared out unseeing at the willow tree and the river. She leaned her forehead against the glass to cool it. ‘I thought we’d succeeded, in a way,’ she said quietly, watching a heron lift itself laboriously into the air, long legs trailing over a river that sparkled pink and silver in the setting sun. What was the point of striving every hour God gave to live in an expensive environment like this if your son turned into a murderer, she wondered. And your husband a Judas.

  ‘You shit Bob!’ She whipped away from the window suddenly, slapping her palm against the wall in a second outburst of fury. ‘By Christ, I wish you’d never met that old man! What were you doing there anyway?’

  ‘Looking for Emily, I told you.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Always Emi
ly. Would you have gone to look for Simon if he’d run away at fifteen? Or is that when you began to give up?’

  ‘We both gave up ...’ Bob began, but Sarah shook her head decisively.

  ‘No. Not me. Not now, not ever. Look, Bob, I’ve got to find him. Whether he did this or not he needs help now. You stay here with Emily, will you? Tell her where I’ve gone and why, if you can face it.’

  ‘But we’re supposed to be giving her support.’

  ‘You do it.’ She turned and was out of the bedroom door as she spoke.

  ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘When you see me.’

  The words floated up from the hall below. The front door closed on her last word.

  ‘If.’

  ‘Yes, of course we have a search warrant, madam.’

  Churchill held it out, and Sarah examined it meticulously, while he took in the incongruous sight of this slender woman in black motorcycle leathers, confronting him on the upstairs landing of Simon Newby’s house. With her neat black shoulder length hair, the leather jacket and trousers gave her an attractive boyish look, he thought, really quite fetching. But her brusque manner, the determination in her face and the tiny wrinkles around her keen cat-like eyes warned him that this was no child, no messenger girl to be brushed aside. This was the woman, after all, who had ruined Terry Bateson’s case against Gary Harker.

  ‘It’s less than twenty four hours since the girl was killed, isn’t it?’ she said sharply, handing the warrant back. ‘Isn’t that rather early to be smashing someone’s door and making all this mess? Who’s going to pay for it?’

  ‘This is a murder enquiry, madam. The sooner we interview all suspects the more likely we are to get a result.’

  ‘A result, yes, but maybe not the right one. This is my son you are talking about, Chief Inspector. He loved Jasmine Hurst, he’ll be devastated by the news of her death. He doesn’t need all this hassle as well.’

  ‘We need to find him, madam. Do you know where he is?’

  ‘No. I gave your detective the names and addresses of some relatives; have you enquired there yet? If he knows she’s dead, perhaps he’s gone away to grieve somewhere. He could be with friends, in a pub - how should I know?’

  ‘You’re his mother, wouldn’t he come to you, if he was unhappy?’

  ‘He might, but he hasn’t. That’s why I’m here.’ She pushed past him, into Simon’s bedroom where Harry Easby was indiscriminately throwing clothes onto the floor. ‘Great God Almighty, what the devil are you doing?’

  ‘Looking for evidence, madam,’ Harry said.

  ‘What evidence? Clean underwear? Who’s going to clear all this up when you’ve gone?’

  ‘It wasn’t exactly tidy when we arrived,’ said Churchill smoothly. ‘And as you will know since you’ve seen the body, the young lady’s throat was cut and there was a great deal of blood. So if we find bloodstains on your son’s clothes, for example ...’

  ‘You’ll be very lucky. Unless she cut herself or had a period while she was living here. That won’t get you very far, will it?’

  ‘Would these be your son’s trainers?’ Churchill asked, holding the old, muddy shoes in a plastic evidence bag.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Sarah, looking at them scornfully. ‘Anyway, where’s the blood?’

  ‘We’ll leave that to forensics. All we’re doing is looking for evidence at the moment, madam. Now I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Sarah coolly. ‘This is my house.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My husband and I paid the deposit on it, my son only pays the interest on the mortgage. So we’re joint owners, as you could have found out if you’d asked before smashing the door down. I even have a key.’ She took it out of her pocket and dangled it under his nose. ‘I believe I have a right to stay in my own house while it’s being searched?’

  Churchill swore under his breath. ‘So long as you don’t impede our enquiries. But you may have a long wait. This is a serious investigation, we have to be thorough.’

  ‘I’ll survive. You get used to hanging around at the Bar. And perhaps you can tidy up and write out an acknowledgement for the damage to the door, before you go?’

  She scored a few points but, after the other shocks of the day, it had an appalling emotional effect on her. When the police eventually left, making rudimentary attempts to stuff clothes back into drawers, an immense aching weariness flooded through her. She made herself a cup of strong coffee in the small, grubby kitchen and slumped on a stool to drink it.

  It had been a dreadful few days - the disappearance of Emily, the death of Jasmine, and now this. Simon, what have you done?

  She remembered the last time she had seen him, at court. He’d seemed angry then, but he was often like that. He felt he had failed in life, been betrayed by everyone. Abandoned by his father, Kevin, unable to live up to the expectations of herself and Bob. Christ! Was it her fault then, Bob’s fault? God knew they had both tried, but the boy was so difficult, always wanting to do everything his own way, and always making a mess of it - no wonder he was so full of rage and resentment.

  Or at least he had been until he met Jasmine. Sarah had never liked the girl but she’d made Simon happy, and proud, too, for a while. For Jasmine had been a stunning, drop-dead beauty, the sort of girl who could cause a multiple car crash simply by crossing the road. She was a lad’s triumph, Sarah thought ruefully - her son had strutted beside her like a bantam cock with two tails; worshipped the girl like a slave.

  And Jasmine had known it. Known she could leave him and still come back, whenever she chose.

  Was that enough to make him kill her? Had he finally realised what a bitch the girl could be, and turned on her in a jealous fury? It was possible, Sarah supposed. But actually cut her throat with a knife - Simon? Her baby whom she had bred in her body, fed with her own milk, taught to smile and walk and laugh - could he do that?

  She imagined Jasmine’s terror as she realised what was going to happen to her. Sarah remembered her own terror, when Kevin had beaten her before he left. Kevin, Simon’s natural father. It hadn’t been just the beating, the sense of betrayal; the really frightening part had been the way Kevin had seemed to enjoy her own fear. Like father, like son, she thought - is there a trait for murder in Simon’s genes?

  But half his genes are mine, so what does he inherit from me? They say I’m aggressive, single-minded, intolerant of failure, desperate for success at all costs. It’s true; but those are virtues too. How else could a teenage single mum, a battered wife, progress from a run-down council estate to the Bar? It’s Simon who’s had the back hand of them; the neglect, the lack of time, the impatience, the impossible example to follow.

  And so he left me for Jasmine - his living pin-up, his angel - and she betrayed him too. When he cut her throat, was it my memory that he was murdering?

  If he murdered anyone.

  I won’t believe it, she told herself, I can’t. Not my son.

  Chapter Seventeen

  NEXT MORNING Churchill called a meeting to assess what they’d got. Harry had bullied the car registration out of DVLC Swansea, and circulated it throughout the country. Tracy described her meeting with Sarah Newby. ‘I got this photo and some addresses, sir. But she wasn’t particularly co-operative - all right, what’s so funny?’

  A rash of grins and nudges spread amongst the men.

  ‘She savaged us last night, Trace,’ Churchill explained. ‘Didn’t you notice Mike clutching his balls just now? She-wolf in defence of her young.’

  ‘Oh,’ Tracy smiled sympathetically. ‘Well, she probably saw what a load of wimps you are. Anyway, look at this.’ She put the photo of Simon beside the photofit of Helen Steersby’s assailant. ‘What do you think?’

  In the photo, Simon’s red-gold hair was cut very short, the neat, round face clean shaven with a broad, pugilistic nose and light brown eyes. The skin was pink and healthy, the smiling mouth showed stron
g white teeth. The left ear was small and close to the head, with a gold ring in it.

  The hair of the man in the photofit was hidden by the black woolly hat. His jaw was shaded with black stubble, his eyebrows darker than those in the photo, the eyes smaller and wider apart. The mouth was small, grim looking. There was a ring in the left ear, which stuck out prominently. The unusually broad nose and round, neat shape of the face, though, were the same.

  ‘Not identical twins, are they, Trace?’ Churchill said doubtfully.

  ‘But look at that hooter,’ Mike Candor pointed out. ‘And the ring in the ear.’

  ‘That’s the fashion,’ Churchill said. ‘Terence - you’ve met the lad. What do you think?’

  ‘I think we should be cautious, sir.’ Terry said, frowning at Tracy. Why hadn’t she told him first before making this public in front of Churchill, of all people? ‘Assault victims are pretty unreliable about facial identification, are they?’

  Churchill laughed derisively. ‘Cautious, unreliable? This is the guy, ladies and gents, who took Gary Harker to court when his victim claimed to recognize him with a hood over his bonce!’

  ‘That was different, sir. Anyway it was his voice she recognized, not his face.’

  Churchill waved this away. ‘Look. This is a lead for that attack on Helen Steersby, and you’re rubbishing it already. We’ve got an attempted assault in the same area as this murder, by a guy with a striking feature like that nose. What more do you want? Well spotted, Trace.’

  He turned back to Terry. ‘What sort of lad is he?’

  Terry thought back. ‘Strong. Fit. Short-tempered, maybe. But no record, sir - I checked. And if he had this girlfriend, Jasmine, a real beauty by all accounts, why on earth would he go round scaring schoolkids? It doesn’t add up.’

  ‘Yes, but she’d left him,’ Tracy said. ‘Six weeks ago.’

  ‘So what are you saying?’ Terry persisted. ‘That he got frustrated and started dragging schoolgirls off their ponies? We’re looking for a nutter for that, a psycho. This lad seemed quite normal to me.’