Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘Oh, so-so, I suppose. I told her not to worry about the exams — I wish you’d do the same.’

‘What do you mean, you wish … Bob? You asked me to talk to her this morning and I did. I told her to stick to her revision and she’d be all right.’

‘She said you put the wind up her. You always do, somehow. Poor kid, she’s terrified she won’t do as well as her mother. You don’t have to remind her of that, you know.’

‘Bob, I didn’t do that! I wouldn’t, surely you know that!’

‘You remind her just by being there, a living example of over-achievement. You …’

‘Well, thanks a lot, Bob Newby.’ Sarah held the phone at arm’s length while Bob’s voice chattered away tinnily to itself. Why had he started doing this to her recently? She didn’t know but she hated it. Everything they’d shared for so many years — her academic success, her daughter — had suddenly become a cold wet cloth which he slapped in her face. What was going wrong?

Whatever it was, this was no place to sort it out. The police constable stood a couple of yards away, pretending not to listen; the car thief lounged on the top step, blowing smoke rings with undisguised glee as the mad lady barrister let her phone talk to itself.

‘Look, Bob, I can’t talk now and I’ll be in court all afternoon. Give her a ring from your office sometime and check she’s OK, will you? Bye.’

As she turned back to go in again she collided with a man coming out. ‘Oh, excuse me.’

‘Sarah! The devil’s advocate — I was looking for you!’ Terry Bateson grasped her arm. ‘Fancy a spot of lunch?’

‘It’s not … the best moment, Terry.’

‘Nonsense. Not a word about the case, I promise. Just a pie in the Red Lion. ’

She sighed. That hadn’t been what she’d meant but that was why he was here, of course — to give evidence this afternoon. But if they didn’t discuss the case, there was no reason why not. And the alternative, a moody meal on her own, suddenly seemed vastly unattractive.

She had no idea what made this detective so cheerful, particularly given the flaws in the evidence he was here to give. Maybe he wasn’t aware of them, yet. Anyway, she might as well profit by it. He might not be the brightest detective in the world, but he was handsome.

‘All right. Just wait while I disrobe.’

‘Who could resist?’

Whether she heard those words or not Terry didn’t know, but six minutes later he found himself squeezed into a seat opposite Sarah in a corner of the pub. On the small round table in front of them he set down two halves of lager and a numbered white ticket entitling them to chef’s special pasties with gravy. The cramped space forced their knees companionably together. He smiled, and tried to wave away the money she fished out of her purse.

‘My treat.’

‘Oh no. I’m not having my meal subsidised by a prosecution witness. Besides, you’ll want your money back when I’ve finished with you this afternoon.’

‘Sounds ominous.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to a long painful sentence for Mr Harker.’

‘ Terry! One more word and I’m out of here. No shop, remember?’

‘I remember.’ The waitress brought the pasties with white napkins, gleaming knives and forks and gravy in a jug. Terry poured for them both, smiling. ‘This place is one of our few rewards for bringing villains to court. Every time we fail I have to eat in the police canteen.’

‘Shame.’ Sarah tucked in her napkin carefully. ‘You should learn to cook for yourself.’

‘Our nanny does that.’

‘Oh yes.’ Sarah knew a little of Terry’s personal circumstances, but not much. ‘Norwegian open sandwiches, isn’t it?’

‘Sometimes. You should try them.’

‘Ask me and I will.’ She smiled. He thought, it’s just an offhand remark, but I wish …

‘How’s your daughter — Emily, isn’t it?’

Sarah sipped her lager, frowned. ‘Don’t ask. She’s a teenager, she’s got GCSEs next week, she hates her mother … what else? You wait, Terry, you’ve got it all to come.’

But Terry was feeling like a teenager himself, on a date. That frown, he thought wryly, the way it crinkles her forehead, the little feminine gestures she makes as she sips her beer and pats her lips with the napkin — they’re such tiny, normal things yet I could watch them all day. This is how it was with Mary, all those years ago — so beautiful that it hurt.

Don’t be daft, he scolded himself, you’re forty years old. Still, any man can dream …

‘What’s the joke?’ Sarah asked, her napkin patting the puzzled half-smile on her lips.

‘What? Oh — nothing. Just you.’

‘Me? What did I say?’

Careful , Terry. This is a married woman, a barrister, a dangerous lady who’s about to cross-examine you in court. Not a fantasy in your dreams.

‘Just — a look on your face. It took me back, that’s all. To a girl I once knew.’

‘Your wife, you mean?’ A look of careful sympathy crossed Sarah’s face.

‘No, no. Before that. Long ago. When I was a student.’ That’s it. Clever move, old son. Get her interested in your exotic past.

‘Where were you a student?’

‘Here in York.’

‘Oh.’ Sarah glanced at a group of students near the door. To her they looked like children, little more than Emily’s age. ‘Well, I’m flattered, if I remind you of someone as young as that. What were you like as a student? Long hair and flowered jeans?’

‘No, I was an athlete …’

And for a while he told her about his running career, and his reminiscences of student life. His ambitions then had been to bed all the pretty girls on campus and win the Olympics, neither of which he had quite achieved. He knew very little of her background, but realised as they talked that she did not seem to have the same sort of carefree student memories. She had studied in Leeds, he gathered, as a mature student. There seemed to be some mystery about what had happened before, but before he could solve it she glanced at her watch.

‘Court resumes in ten minutes, Detective Inspector. I hope you’re ready for a roasting. I mean it.’ The sharp, ironic, smile irritated him somehow.

‘What for? Putting a serial rapist in the dock? As a woman you should be grateful.’

‘For providing a brief with so many flaws in it? Oh, I am, Detective Inspector, I am!’

This time the cynicism definitely got beneath his skin. She might be pretty and clever with words, he thought, but if she’d seen the things I’ve seen … Sharon Gilbert shaken and bruised in front of her little kids … Karen Whitaker sobbing in the woods … Maria Clayton’s dead body …

‘No, not that. For making the streets safer by getting scum like Harker locked up. Play your games in court if you like, Sarah, but his place is behind bars, because he’s guilty as hell. You know that as well as I do.’

Sarah flushed. She had enjoyed the banter over lunch, but she was in no mood to be lectured. She seldom was. ‘You may think you know that, Terry, but can you prove it? The courtroom game, as you call it, means that you must prove his guilt to the jury. And my job is to defend him, in case you get it wrong. Which you have done, I’m sorry to say.’

‘Have I? How?’

‘You’ll see. In court this afternoon.’

‘I hope not.’ Terry’s anger made him clumsy. ‘I’ve worked hard on this case, you know.’

‘So have I.’ She shrugged and walked to the door. ‘We’d better not go back together, it wouldn’t look good. Anyway it’s a different world in court. We meet as strangers.’

Just how right she was, he was about to find out.