A Game of Proof (The trials of Sarah Newby)

by Vicary, Tim

  ‘Duty Sergeant Chisholm, sir. Sorry to disturb you, but a car registered to Simon Newby has been found in Scarborough - a blue Ford Escort?’

  ‘Right. I’m on my way. Have they made an arrest?’

  ‘No sir. They’re keeping the car under surveillance.’

  ‘Good. Put me through to the crime desk, will you? I’ll need someone to come with me to Scarborough right away.’

  ‘Right sir.’ Sergeant Chisholm transferred the call, grinning at PC Burrows who had just brought him a welcome mug of coffee.

  ‘That’s something you’ll learn, son, when you’ve been here a while.’

  ‘What’s that, sarge?’

  ‘A keen detective’s always on the job.’ He winked, and sipped his coffee happily.

  It was a windy morning in Scarborough when Churchill and Harry Easby arrived just before four, with the breakers bursting along the esplanade. The blue Escort was parked outside a peeling establishment called Seaview Villas. The only things moving in the street were a milk float and a few seagulls, their feathers ruffled by the wind.

  DS Conroy waited at one end of the street, a uniform car at the other. ‘We’ve made enquiries, sir, and your man’s in room 7. DC Lane’s getting a key from the landlady now.’

  ‘Right. Send your uniform lads round the back, and we’ll go in.’

  Three minutes later the four of them pounded up the worn stair carpet, surprising an old man tottering towards the loo on the landing. Inside room seven lay a young man, sleeping peacefully. Churchill held the photograph next to the face on the pillow. There was no doubt at all. They matched. He shook the boy roughly by the shoulder and he started up in shock.

  ‘Simon Newby, I am arresting you in connection with the murder of Jasmine Hurst. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  ‘What? Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Come on, lad, we’re off to York.’

  Simon was handcuffed and bundled into the car in his pyjama trousers and a coat before he fully realised what was happening. Harry Easby waited with him there while Churchill and the two Scarborough officers searched his room and sealed his clothes in plastic evidence bags.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Simon asked desperately.

  ‘You’re under arrest, son, didn’t you hear? For the murder of Jasmine Hurst.’

  ‘For the what? Jasmine? You’re out of your skull!’

  ‘Not me, son. We think you killed her.’

  ‘You mean she’s dead? Jasmine? Where? How?’

  ‘You tell me, son.’ The boy was in a panic, thrashing about. But he couldn’t get out because his hands were cuffed behind his back and he was held in place by the seat belt.

  ‘She can’t be dead! What are you doing - let me out of here!’

  Easby watched him with a quiet, satisfied smile. The wild eyes, the tears, the desperate thrashing movements. He had seen them all before. They might mean either guilt or innocence - most likely just panic. As Simon struggled, he watched, and said nothing.

  Churchill returned to the car with two bags of clothes which he flung into the boot. He opened the back door and glanced at Simon with a fierce, triumphant smile. ‘Gotcha!’

  ‘I didn’t kill her. Let me out - where are we going?’

  ‘To York, my son. Remember anything you say may be used in evidence. Move over.’

  ‘But how did she die? What happened, for Christ’s sake?’

  As Harry drove Churchill examined his prisoner with a long contemplative stare. He looked a mess - unshaven, his short hair tousled with sleep, his eyes wide with shock and panic. As he twisted angrily in his seat Churchill could see the muscles that he and Harry had felt as they bundled the lad downstairs. More than enough to subdue a girl, however tall and fit.

  ‘You can’t just break in and tell me Jasmine’s dead, for Christ’s sake! It’s not true!’

  ‘When did you last see her?’ They weren’t supposed to interview a suspect in the car but if the boy was going to talk anyway they couldn’t very well gag him.

  ‘I haven’t seen her for days - weeks. What happened - how did she die?’

  ‘She was raped, and someone cut her throat with a knife.’

  ‘Oh no.’ The bald statement seemed to shock Simon, and dissolve his rage and panic into grief. He slumped sideways on the seat and began to weep. It was a human reaction that in a normal person might mean innocence, Churchill knew; but in his experience rapists and murderers were not normal people. They were normal looking people whose emotional wires had got horribly crossed. It was perfectly possible for a murderer to weep at the injuries he had himself caused, either out of remorse or schizophrenia or self-pity because his own guilt had been discovered. So all that mattered was the evidence.

  ‘It made me puke, seeing that girl’s body,’ Harry said. ‘People like you should be hanged, slowly.’

  ‘But I didn’t kill her!’ The car swayed with the violence of Simon’s response. ‘So shut your fucking trap!’

  ‘Stow it, Harry,’ Churchill ordered. ‘Questions at the station.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Several more times during the journey Simon protested his innocence, but when Churchill made no response, he lapsed into silence. As they entered York he asked: ‘What happens now?’

  ‘You go into a cell and the custody sergeant gives you breakfast, and then we’ll have a proper recorded interview.’

  ‘I can have a lawyer, can’t I?’

  ‘If you want. I’ll call the duty solicitor.’

  ‘No. My mother’s a barrister, she knows who’s best. I want to call her.’

  Churchill sighed. ‘All right, it’s your choice. But I suggest you tell the truth, son. That’s my advice to you.’

  It was a rare event for Sarah and Emily to eat breakfast together; usually everyone grabbed their own in a headlong rush. Now both of them, shattered by the last few days, were attempting to restore their relationship. Out of consideration for Sarah, Emily had switched on the pop music station more quietly than usual; out of consideration for Emily, Sarah had refrained from switching it off.

  ‘Which exam are you most worried about?’ Sarah asked tentatively.

  Emily frowned, and instead of dismissing the question as Sarah had expected, considered it. ‘History, I think.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, there’s such masses to learn, far more than any other subject; and then you don’t get proper essay questions which let you explain it. It’s all ‘what does this cartoon of Adolf Hitler prove’ - stuff like that.’

  ‘Is there anything I can help you with?’

  ‘Mum, it’s better if I do it on my own, honest. We’d only quarrel.’

  ‘Well, maybe Larry knows some history. Are you going to see him today?’

  As Emily nodded, the phone rang. She got up, a slice of toast in her hand. ‘I bet that’s him. Hello? Oh, Simon! God, where are you? Yes, she’s here.’

  As she passed the phone over Emily noticed her mother sway for a second in shock; but the hint of weakness was gone as soon as it came. With a recovery so complete it was almost a change of personality, Sarah’s voice became crisp, sharp, businesslike.

  ‘Yes. Right. I’ll get someone down there right away. In the meantime say nothing to anyone. Do you understand? Just say your solicitor’s coming and you can’t answer any questions until you’ve spoken to her. And you’re entitled to food and rest and decent treatment so if you don’t get it, ask to see the custody sergeant. Say if you’re not treated properly there’ll be a complaint. And Simon - I’ll be coming too.’

  As Lucy Sampson entered the main police station, she was relieved not to see a reporter. But it was only a matter of time. Few of her clients came from middle-class families, and when they did, in a small city like York, there was enormous potential for social embarrassment. The Evening Press would be delighted -
a local barrister’s son charged with murder! It would be the talk of the legal circuit for months; it might ruin Sarah’s career.

  ‘Yes, madam?’ The young desk constable looked up reluctantly from the Sun.

  ‘I’m a solicitor. I’ve been called to a client in custody here - Mr Simon Newby.’

  ‘Mr’ was an important touch. Despite the safeguards of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, the processes of arrest still stripped the accused of freedom, dignity and sometimes their clothes as well; it was her job to get all of these back, if she could.

  ‘Right, madam, if you’ll wait there.’

  ‘I need to see the officer in charge of this case, right away. My client is facing a murder enquiry, young man; I don’t intend to sit around like a spare piece of furniture.’

  ‘I dunno ...’ The constable met her eyes. ‘I’ll see what I can do ...’

  A faint grin crossed Lucy’s face. She had that sort of effect on young men nowadays; Savendra had once suggested, unkindly, that she reminded them of their mothers when they were being potty trained. Not flattering, perhaps, but it had its uses. Lucy was a large woman who had abandoned the struggle with diets and corsets years ago. She disguised her bulk in a long voluminous black skirt, white blouse and loose jacket with many useful pockets. Her feet spread comfortably in Doc Martin boots, a fashion she had adopted from her teenage son. When her hair had started to go grey she’d had it bleached pure white in an anti-ageist fashion statement. If she had been carrying a couple of plastic bags instead of a monogrammed briefcase she could easily have been taken for a vagrant on the street.

  The constable returned with Will Churchill, who held out his hand.

  ‘Mrs Sampson? I’m the officer who arrested Simon Newby.’

  Lucy nodded, ignoring the hand. ‘Then I’d like to see him straight away. And I’ll need the custody file.’

  ‘Certainly.’ Churchill showed her into a room with a table bolted to the floor, two chairs, and a buzzing neon light. As Simon came in she saw a tall, well-built young man with hazel eyes which reminded her irresistibly of his mother. His face was bewildered, sullen and defiant.

  ‘Did my mum send you?’

  ‘She did. She’s outside. We’ve worked together a lot, your mother and I.’

  ‘Well, you’d better be good. You’ve got to get me out of here.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ Lucy smiled cautiously.

  ‘I didn’t kill her, you know.’

  ‘Then that’s what matters. I’m on your side, Simon. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that. Nobody else is. They don’t believe me.’

  ‘Have you said anything to them so far?’

  ‘I told them I haven’t seen Jasmine for weeks.’

  Lucy frowned. ‘That’s not what your mother told me. She said you’d been seen quarrelling with Jasmine outside your house, the night she was killed.’

  ‘Oh, God.’ Simon sat down abruptly. ‘How did they know that?’

  ‘A neighbour saw you. An old man apparently.’ Lucy pulled a pad of paper from her briefcase. ‘So you’d better tell the truth about that, Simon. Come on, I can’t help you unless I know the full story. Let’s start from the beginning, hadn’t we? Tell me about you and Jasmine.’

  Simon scowled and turned away, facing the wall. It was a response Lucy had seen many times before and it was not, she knew, a good sign.

  ‘Why do you need to know about that?’

  She spoke very gently. ‘Because she’s dead, Simon, and if I’m going to help you I have to know your story. Will you tell me? Simon?’

  After a long, sullen silence Simon sighed, leaned forward, and began to talk.

  ‘Right. It’s now eleven fifteen a.m.,’ said Churchill, with a meaningful glare at Lucy, who had delayed the interview for nearly two hours. ‘We are at Fulford Police Station in York. Present in the room are Simon Newby, his solicitor Mrs Lucy Sampson, DCI William Churchill and DC Harry Easby. This interview will be recorded and a copy of the tape will be made available to Mr Newby’s legal representative. Now then, Simon. Let me repeat the words of the caution ...’

  As he did so Simon avoided his eyes. He seemed tired, nervous, jumpy, Churchill thought. Guilty, almost certainly.

  ‘Right. First I have to show you my notes of what you said in the car. If you agree they are a correct record, you should sign them at the bottom.’ He passed over a sheet of paper.

  At 3.45 a.m. on Monday 31st May, DCI William Churchill of York police, accompanied by DC Harry Easby of York police and DS Conroy and DC Lane of Scarborough police, entered room 7 of Seaview Villas in Whitton Street, Scarborough where Simon Newby was found to be asleep in bed. DCI Churchill woke Mr Newby and informed him that he was being arrested on suspicion of the murder of Jasmine Hurst. He was cautioned that he need not say anything, but that it might harm his defence if he did not mention when questioned something which he later relied on in court, and that anything which he did say might be given in evidence. Mr Newby was then escorted to a police car and driven from Scarborough to York.

  After being cautioned, Mr Newby stated that he had not killed Jasmine Hurst, and that he had not seen her for weeks. He repeated this statement several times.

  Churchill passed Simon a pen. ‘Here. If it’s a true record sign at the bottom.’

  ‘No, wait ...’ The words terrified Simon. ‘No, I didn’t say that.’

  ‘You did, son. I heard you - we both did. Several times.’

  Simon turned to Lucy in panic. ‘Well, I didn’t know what I was saying, I ...’

  ‘Mr Churchill, did you interview my client in the car?’

  ‘No, Mrs Sampson, of course we didn’t. This is a record of voluntary statements made under caution.’ He gave her a brief, dismissive glance, then focussed his attention back on Simon. ‘You told us you didn’t kill Jasmine, and you hadn’t seen her for weeks. Those were your own words, Simon. Are you now saying they aren’t true?’

  ‘Yes. No. No, it isn’t true.’

  ‘Which part isn’t true?’ Churchill asked silkily. ‘That you didn’t kill Jasmine?’

  ‘No! Of course not that.’ Simon hid his face in his hands, confused. ‘I ... I had seen her.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The day before I went to Scarborough.’

  ‘Last Friday night?’

  ‘Yes.’ Simon glanced at Lucy. ‘Tell him.’

  ‘Before we go any further, Detective Chief Inspector,’ Lucy intervened, ‘my client has a statement to make.’ She passed a piece of paper across the table. ‘He wrote this a few minutes ago. I think it will help explain things.’

  Will Churchill picked the paper up and began to read aloud.

  ‘I met Jasmine Hurst a year ago and became very fond of her. In October she came to live with me at 23 Bramham Street and she stayed until March, when she left me. She said she was tired of me and had a new boyfriend. His name is David Brodie and he lives with her at 8a Stillingfleet Road. I went there once to ask Jasmine to come back and live with me but she wouldn’t. I’ve met her a few times since then but only briefly. On Thursday 13th May I met her by the river and she came back to my house for a meal. I asked her to come back and live with me but she wouldn’t. We argued about this and then she left. When she left I was upset so I decided to go to Scarborough for a holiday, to try to get over her. I drove to Scarborough that night and didn’t see Jasmine again. I had no idea Jasmine was dead until the police arrested me this morning. I did not kill her and I don’t know how she died. Simon Newby.’

  Churchill looked at Harry and laughed. ‘That’s not what you said in the car, is it?’

  ‘No, well I was scared. I didn’t even know she was dead until you told me. What am I supposed to say?’

  ‘The truth, son.’

  ‘Well, I have now. That’s it, there on that paper.’

  ‘So if you have no evidence against my client,’ said Lucy, ‘I would ask you to drop this mistaken charge and release him now
.’

  ‘Oh, you would, would you?’ Churchill put a plastic evidence bag on the table. Inside it were a pair of muddy trainers. ‘Well, we do have evidence, Mrs Sampson.’ He spoke clearly so the tape would catch his every word. ‘I’m showing Mr Newby a pair of men’s Nike trainers, size 9. Do you recognize these, Simon?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They were found in your house. They’re yours, aren’t they?’

  Simon shrugged. ‘Maybe. Lots of people have trainers like that.’

  ‘Well, these trainers were found in your house, and they have mud and grass on them similar to the mud and grass found near Jasmine’s body. There were also footprints there which appear to fit these trainers.’

  ‘So? Like I said, thousands of people have trainers like that.’

  ‘And the mud and grass?’

  ‘I go running. That’s what they’re for.’

  ‘Yes, sure.’ Churchill leaned forward, watching Simon intently. ‘And the blood?’

  ‘What blood?’ Simon’s face paled. ‘Where?’

  Churchill pointed, to a group of faint, unremarkable brown stains on the toe just below the laces on the left shoe. Then he turned the shoe over and pointed with a pen at the indentations on the sole. ‘Here, and here. They don’t look much, but they’re going to send you to prison for a long time, my son. Because the forensic scientists have examined these stains, and they’re group AB negative, which is the same group as Jasmine Hurst. It’s her blood, Simon, isn’t it? You got it on your shoes when you killed her.’

  ‘But I didn’t kill her!’ Simon half rose to his feet, shouting. ‘Give me those shoes! They’re not mine!’

  Churchill held the shoes away from him, smiling. ‘They are yours, Simon. They’re the shoes the murderer wore, and they were found in your house, in your bedroom, with her blood on. Does anyone else live in your house?’

  ‘No.’ Simon sat down slowly.

  ‘Anyone else keep their training shoes there?’

  ‘No. But ...’

  ‘Well then. What about this?’ Churchill produced another evidence bag. ‘I’m showing Mr Newby a breadknife with a black handle. We found this in your house too. Is this yours?’