Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘And who the hell might you be?’

Terry showed his card. ‘We’ve met before, actually, Mr Newby. At the judge’s ball.’

‘Have we? Well, that doesn’t matter now. What I need is someone to find my daughter.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Terry followed him into the living room where Sarah sat, her hands clasped round a cup of coffee. To his surprise she was wearing black motorcyclist’s trousers, jacket and boots. Her face was pale, with dark bruises of sleeplessness round her eyes. She didn’t appear to notice him.

‘Hello, Sarah. I’m sorry to hear about all this.’

She looked up, startled. ‘Oh, it’s you. Hello, Terry.’

He glanced at Bob. ‘Your wife and I work together sometimes at the courts, Mr Newby.’ Where she shows the world how useless I am. Well, the boot’s on the other foot now.

‘Yes, no doubt. Well, what are you going to do?’

‘I’ve only just come on duty, sir, I’m afraid. I need to know all the facts.’

‘For God’s sake! She’s been missing nearly twenty four hours and they send a complete newcomer on the case!’

Sergeant Hendry intervened. ‘DI Bateson is the most senior officer to be involved so far, sir. If we set up a full scale search he’ll be the man to co-ordinate it.’

‘Yes, all right. Let’s get on with it then. For all we know every minute counts.’ As Hendry explained the details Terry scrutinized Bob and decided that a display of anger and nervous energy was the only way he had of coping with the situation. A cocktail of fear and despair drove him to constantly interrupt the sergeant, creating more confusion rather than less. Sarah, on the other hand, sipped her coffee in silence, apparently withdrawn into herself.

The basic rule in child disappearances was: first look for the child, then look for the problem. If the child hasn’t simply had an accident or got lost then there must be a reason for its running away, and very often the reason had something to do with family conflicts.

Was there a conflict here? The father pacing up and down manically, the wife silent. Neither offering the other any comfort, hardly looking at each other. Probably. After all, he knew from personal experience what a bitch the wife could be.

‘You’re quite sure, Mr Newby, there’s nothing else your daughter might have said or done to indicate where she might be now?’

‘I’ve told you that — no! Not that I can think of.’

‘And there was no unusual quarrel or family row yesterday?’

‘Not with me , anyway. Emily was worried about her exams, and I asked Sarah to talk to her before she went to work. She was supposed to comfort her but I don’t know what she said.’

‘I told her to stick to her revision plan and she’d be all right. I promised to ring her at lunchtime, which I did.’ In comparison to her husband’s voice Sarah’s was perfectly calm and controlled. But that was the danger of it, Terry thought, wryly. It was the same controlled, deadly voice she had deployed against him in the witness box yesterday, when his friendly lunch companion had transformed herself into a razor-tongued witch. If that was how she behaved as a mother, God knows how many emotional wounds her daughter had.

Terry shut his notebook. ‘All right. I think I’ve got the picture. It seems sergeant Hendry has done all the correct things so far. When your men come back from the river, Tom, we’ll put them on house to house enquiries with the others — it’s not a big village, someone must have seen her if she was about yesterday. Get onto the bus company too, see which drivers came here yesterday and show them her photo. Then I want to check that phone box where the call came from …’

‘How on earth will that help?’ Bob interrupted irritably. ‘If it’s a public phone anyone could have used it.’

‘Yes, sir, of course. But it’s our only real clue so far, and unless it’s at the station or in the city centre it probably has its own group of regular users. Most public phones do. So I’ll check that, and then I’ll need to talk to that son of yours, Sa … Mrs Newby.’

It didn’t seem right to use her first name, in front of her husband. But the surname felt awkward too.

She picked up her motorcycle helmet with a faint, strained smile. ‘All right. I go near his house on my way to work. If you follow me I can take you right to his door.’

Bob exploded. ‘What the hell are you talking about, Sarah? You can’t go to work! For Christ’s sake — Emily’s missing!’

Sarah’s voice remained quiet and dry; exhausted but determined. ‘I know that, Bob. I’ve already been out on the bike to look for her but it does no good. I don’t know where she is and neither do you. And now we’ve got the police to search for us. I’ve got a job to do.’

‘Defending a bloody rapist — when your own daughter might be lying dead somewhere! You’re out of your mind!’

‘It’s you that’s out of your mind, Bob. You’ve been shouting nonstop for four hours, and I can’t take any more. I think Emily will come back when she’s good and ready. In the meantime I’ve got one speech to make in court and that’s it. I’ll ring when I can. Do you want to follow me, Terry?’

Terry, like Bob, was aghast. ‘I … don’t need to do that, Sarah. Just give me your son’s address and I’ll find it.’

‘Oh, all right. Bob knows it.’ She turned for the door. Terry had the impression she was sleep-walking. Her husband tried to block her path.

‘For God’s sake, Sarah — I need you here! Just ring the court and explain — the judge’ll adjourn the trial!’

To Terry’s amazement, she walked right past him, out of the door. ‘Don’t stop me, Bob. I have to do this. Nothing I do here will make any difference this morning, anyway.’

And then she was gone. The three men heard the motorbike engine start up, cough to a crescendo as she roared out of the short drive, and gradually fade into the distance. Terry had a sense that something was wrong here, something surreal. That woman had just put the defence of a brutal rapist before the search for her own daughter.

It was, ironically, a sunny day. The sky was a brilliant blue as Sarah rode into York, and sunlight slanted diagonally across her desk to light up the brief, tied with faded red tape. Beside it were the handwritten notes for her speech, prepared last night before going home.

Last night. So long ago it seemed. A decade past.

She tried to recall what the speech was about. That was why she was here, why she had come in. Wasn’t that what she had learned over the years? Never be distracted by the accidents of daily life; identify your main goal, focus all your efforts on achieving it. The other things will sort themselves out on their own.

Emily will come back. Of course she will.

So how was she going to present this case? Sarah bent over her notes, and tried to concentrate.

Anyway Bob’s at home and the police are the professionals, not us.

Concentrate. The main thing is to destroy the identification evidence. Without that there’s no case. Accept the jury’s sympathy for Sharon as a victim but insist it wasn’t Gary who did it. Get them to accept the possibility that the brutal rapist is still out there, wandering free. Looking for another victim.

A teenage girl perhaps.

Shut up . Focus. Concentrate. The police found no hood, no watch, no witnesses apart from Keith Somers. He’s damaging, but his evidence is circumstantial — how exactly did I plan to deal with him …?

Emily, dragged by the hair into some grotty bedroom, forced to her knees, punched in the face, her legs dragged apart …

God no! Stop it!