Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘You shared a cell with this one. Sean Patrick Murphy. It says so here — look, on the prison records.’ Terry held out a paper which Gary ignored. ‘With his photo.’

‘All right, so I did. What’s that to do with you?’

‘I need to talk to him, Gary. About some serious sexual assaults. That’s why we’re here.’

‘We need your help to find him,’ Harry put in.

‘You must be bloody daft, the pair of you.’ Gary shook his head in derision ‘You couldn’t pin owt on me, so now you want to pin it on him. That’s it, isn’t it?’

‘We’d remember your help,’ Harry offered. ‘Next time you were in trouble.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Gary took a long swig of his beer. ‘As if I’m a stinking snitch. Which crimes, for instance?’

Was he going to bite, Terry wondered. As neutrally as he could, he said: ‘You remember that woman who was murdered? Maria Clayton? You did some building work on her house.’

‘And you thought I killed her, didn’t you, Mr Bateson? Only I didn’t, see.’

‘Yes, well.’ Terry looked at his hands. ‘Sean delivered some tiles there, for Robsons.’

‘So?’

‘And he screwed her too, Gary. Same as you did. Almost.’

‘She’d screw anyone, for money. Except you, maybe.’

Behind the routine insolence the man was interested now, Terry could see.

‘It doesn’t surprise you, that?’

‘No. Why should it? That’s what tarts are for.’ There was no sign of surprise, Terry noted, no apparent awareness of Sean’s sexual disability.

‘And he delivered some more building materials to the student lodgings where Karen Whitaker lived. Remember her, Gary?’

‘Her with the nudey pics? Yeah — you thought I chased her in’t woods, didn’t you? Prat!’

‘Sean delivered on the day you found those pictures, Gary. Did you show them to him?’

‘Might have done. So?’ A look of devious cunning spread across Gary’s face. ‘Oh, I get it. You’re after him for that, too, are yer? And the murder — is that it?’

‘Maybe,’ Terry admitted cautiously. ‘Some evidence points that way.’

‘Like the evidence that said I did it, eh?’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Where’s that now, then?’

Terry hesitated. There was no easy answer. But if he had nothing to say Gary suddenly had plenty. His face flushed with anger as he realised what Terry was admitting.

‘All these months you’ve been after me for them two and now you change your mind, just like that? What about a fucking apology then, Inspector Shitarse Bateson? The word’s sorry — ever heard of it? And while you’re about it you can drag that bitch Sharon in here to apologize too, instead of scratching me fucking face when I go to buy her a bloody drink!’

‘Oh, come on, Gary, you did rape her! I’ve not changed my mind on that, no one has!’

Gary glared at him. ‘You daft pillock! You don’t know shit, do yer?’

This was going as badly as Terry had feared it might. He was glad he had Harry with him. ‘Look, Gary, all I want is a bit of help to find this lad Sean. These are serious crimes we’re investigating. If he’s innocent, he’s got nothing to fear.’

‘Yeah, right,’ Gary spat into the fireplace. ‘You say that, after the shit you’ve given me.’

Terry sighed. ‘Where is he, Gary? Is he in York now?’

‘Even if I knew, which I don’t, you’re the last person I’d bloody tell.’ Gary supped his beer contemptuously. ‘So if that’s it, Mr Bateson, I suggest you take yon poodle and clear out of here. All right?’

Sarah’s spare bedroom overlooked the drive, where Larry’s old hatchback was parked. She could hear music in Emily’s bedroom. The judge’s ruling had upset the young people badly. They had found Ian Jinks and Mandy Kite, and believed that Brodie was Jasmine’s killer. Sarah knew she should spend time talking through their disappointment. But time was something she didn’t have, any more. Tomorrow she would put her only witness, Simon, on the stand. They had only one chance. If they messed it up, they would lose, for certain.

This room had once been Simon’s. She sat at the desk they had bought for him to do his homework, checking her questions for tomorrow, imagining his answers, puzzling over the most effective way to present his case. She made notes, pressing the pencil hard into the paper.

Annoyingly, the lead snapped. She searched the desk drawers for a sharpener. Nothing useful, of course. The first drawer was empty, the second contained motorcycle magazines — the sort where the female riders wore boots and nothing else — the third contained an old brown envelope. Idly, she emptied the contents onto the desk.

It was full of old photographs. Surprised, she spread them out. They were almost all of Simon as a child. Simon aged five, going to school; Simon playing football in the park at Seacroft; Simon with bucket and spade in Blackpool, on a rare family holiday; Simon in Bob’s mother’s kitchen with his face covered with chocolate, trying to bake a cake. They were photographs she hadn’t seen for years.

The door opened softly behind her and Bob came in. ‘What are you doing?’

She sighed. ‘I was writing my notes. Then I found these.’

‘What are they?’ He came to look, over her shoulder.

‘They were in Simon’s drawer. He must have put them there, once upon a time.’

‘Are they all of him?’

She sifted through some more: Simon holding baby Emily in his arms; Simon and Bob reading a book; Simon in a Leeds United football shirt.

‘It looks like, it, yes,’ Sarah said. ‘I didn’t know we had so many.’

‘That’s because he’s put them here. They must have meant something to him, at the time.’

‘Yes.’ A painful thought struck her. ‘There don’t seem to be many of me.’

It was true. There were plenty of Simon alone; a few of him with grandparents or Bob; but only two of him with Sarah. One was of Simon as a baby, clutched in the arms of a mini-skirted Sarah who looked younger than Emily was today; and the other was of a gangly teenager, standing sullenly beside a beaming mother in mortar board and gown receiving her law degree.

‘Where are the rest?’ she murmured, distressed. ‘Surely there are more than this?’

‘Maybe he took them with him.’

‘Or maybe there weren’t any. I was always so busy studying, I didn’t have time. He said that to me in prison, a while ago.’

‘Well, you’re making up for it now,’ said Bob softly.

‘Yes, years too late.’ She shovelled the photos back into the envelope and picked up her pad, then threw it down in disgust. ‘What does it matter? I’m as ready now as I ever will be.’

She saw a stray photo under the pad, and pulled it out. It was of Bob, lying on the ground between two goal posts, having failed to save a shot from a triumphant ten year old Simon.

‘He was your project, in those days.’ She turned to face him. ‘What happened, Bob?’

‘He grew past the point where I could help him. Now only you can.’

‘ If I can,’ she muttered, feeling the grey despair leak into her soul. ‘Bob, about today …’

‘Let’s not talk about it. I shouldn’t have poked my nose in.’

‘I only did it for Simon.’

‘I understand that. You’re the lawyer, I’m not. Only …’ He shook his head.

‘Only it was a cruel thing to do to David Brodie. Is that what you were going to say?’

‘Sarah, please. I don’t want to quarrel.’

‘Of course you’re right. I’m not so stupid that I can’t see that, Bob. The trouble is that being a lawyer makes you see morality … in a more complex way than you probably do.’

For a while they sat silent. Emily’s bedroom door opened and footsteps went downstairs.