Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘Waiting for these lads to come back. Ridiculous, isn’t it! Emily might be in one those flats right now. Why don’t you just smash the door down, I said, go in and have a look! This is my daughter you’re talking about, a fifteen year old child! But oh no, they can’t do that, they say. They need a search warrant, they haven’t got enough evidence, they can’t say if these lads have anything to do with at all. I ask you! I ought to go down there myself!’

‘It wouldn’t help, Bob. They have to act within the law. They’re bound to make reasonable attempts to contact the occupants first, before breaking in. That’s how it works.’

‘Law, law, law!’ he yelled. ‘That’s all there is with you, isn’t it? And meanwhile Emily’s been missing for over a day and nobody cares a toss!’

‘Don’t be silly, Bob — I care!’

‘Like hell you do! Off all day in your bloody court. No wonder the kid ran away, when she’s got a mother with ice in her veins!’

‘Bob, please! We don’t know why she went.’

‘Don’t we? No, but I can guess.’ He went to the sideboard and poured himself a whisky. ‘What happened in your wretched trial, anyway?’

‘Not guilty.’ Bob’s face mirrored the expressions she had seen on the face of Judge Gray when the verdict was announced — surprise, followed by consternation and disgust. In the judge’s case the visible signs of these emotions were swiftly smothered by long practice, but in Bob’s they were sustained, open, and bitter.

‘So you got him off, did you? Set a rapist free. I suppose you’re proud of that?’

‘Not proud, no, not exactly, Bob, but …’

‘But you won the fight. Trouble is you thought he was guilty, didn’t you?’

They had discussed the case on a couple of occasions. Calmer occasions, normal evenings. He knew her too well for her to deceive him.

‘He never actually admitted it, Bob. I’m not the jury, I’m his defence.’

‘So now …’ Bob swirled the whisky around his gums, as though he were trying to anaesthetise some toothache. ‘… now your rapist is out there walking free, God knows where, just like our daughter Emily. Makes you feel great, I suppose?’

‘No, of course not …’

‘It makes me sick!’ He finished the drink, strode to the door, and put on his coat.

‘Bob? Where are you going?’

‘Out. To walk along the river bank, look for Emily, anywhere. You stay by the phone, see how you like it!’

‘Bob!’ But he was gone, and didn’t come back for two hours. When he did, the evening and night passed in similar style, with recrimination, sullen silences, and occasional unsuccessful attempts at a truce. Towards dawn Bob fell asleep, exhausted. Then at eight he showered, dressed, and came downstairs.

‘Where are you going?’ Sarah asked, from the armchair where she slumped, gazing at the garden listlessly.

‘To work, like you yesterday. I’ve got some reports to sign, they can’t go off without me. Then … I don’t know. I can’t just sit. You’ll stay here, won’t you?’ It was more of a plea this time, less of an insult.

‘If that’s what you want. I’ll give you a ring if anything happens.’

‘Of course.’

But in the event, that was precisely what she was unable to do.

Terry’s phone rang as he was entering the school playground. Jessica had skipped away with a bright wave and a kiss; but Esther was miserable that morning. It was something about some boys who had torn her book; he had promised to speak to her teacher about it, and her seven-year-old hand gripped his forefinger tightly as they made their way through the screaming, jostling crowd of tiny figures.

Then his mobile rang.

Terry cursed silently. He had told them time and again not to do this unless it was an emergency. He fumbled the phone from his inside pocket. ‘Bateson.’

‘Sir, there’s been a development in that missing child case of yours. They’ve found a body.’

‘Oh no.’ Terry stopped in the middle of the playground. ‘Where?’

‘In some bushes near the river, sir. Not far from where they’re building the new designer outlet. A man walking his dog found it this morning.’

‘What makes you think it’s connected with the Newby case?’

‘Clothing, sir. There’s a car there now. Says it’s a teenage girl with a blue and red jacket like the one in the description you’ve circulated. She’s had her throat cut.’

‘Mr Bateson, good morning! Hello, Esther, how are you today?’ A friendly, motherly woman in a cream blouse and tartan skirt — Esther’s class teacher — approached them, and noticing the anxious look in Esther’s eyes, squatted down to smile at her. ‘Have you come to see me?’

‘OK, I’ll go straight there.’ Terry clicked the phone off and nodded vaguely at the woman. ‘Er, yes, we were, but there’s been a bit of an emergency …’

‘Dad!’ Esther’s grip tightened round his finger and her other hand clutched his wrist. ‘You promised!’

‘Yeah … yeah, OK love.’ He looked down, saw his daughter was near to tears, and scooped her up onto his hip. ‘Can we go inside for a moment?’

‘Of course, follow me.’

In the light, airy classroom decorated with beautifully mounted children’s drawings and stories, hanging mobiles of fish and whales and perfectly arranged exhibits about the sea and the natural world — the topic for this half term — Terry found it hard to concentrate on Esther’s problem of the torn book, and the petty dispute which had led the boys to tear it. But thank goodness the teacher, Mrs Thomson, seemed to have a clear grasp not only of the crime but also, more importantly, of a solution to make everything better. Five minutes later Terry left Esther comfortably ensconced on Mrs Thompson’s knee, and waded out through a cloakroom full of small chattering bodies hanging up their coats and bags.

What a thing it must be to have a job that can make things better, he thought, crossing the playground to his car. What will I tell Sarah Newby, later today? I’m sorry, love, but that child you brought up for fifteen years — she’s lying by the river with her throat cut.

Christ.

The body, like all bodies, looked pathetic. It was only the second corpse Terry had seen since his wife, Mary, was killed and he coped with it by concentrating on the way it was no longer a real living person but something essentially, fundamentally different. Something not just dumped here by the murderer but also discarded by the original occupant; a wrapping, no longer required on the journey. There has to be some sort of afterlife, he thought. Otherwise — this is it.

The body lay twisted, half on its back and half on its side, the limbs asprawl, the face wrenched sideways, half buried in brambles and nettles. The uppermost side of the face, the left side, was discoloured by mud and a bruise on the cheekbone just under the eye. The other side, which he gingerly lifted with a latex gloved finger before letting it fall, was imprinted with twigs and mud and leaves, among which ants and worms crawled industriously. But it was not the face or the white, stiffening limbs which caught the eye the most. It was the red gash in the throat, wide enough for a man’s hand and so deep he thought he could see bone and cut sinew inside it, from which the blood had gushed out and dried all over the girl’s blouse and arms and onto the trampled grass around.

Terry stepped carefully, where the Scenes of Crime Officer, Jack Middleton, showed him. The body was in a group of bushes a few yards from the river path down which, presumably, a man had come walking his dog early this morning to meet this unwelcome surprise.

‘Looks like your misper, doesn’t it, Terry?’ Jack Middleton said. He wore white overalls, and in one latex gloved hand he held the print of a proud, smiling Emily Newby that Terry had copied from the school photo on Sarah’s mantelpiece. Underneath was a brief description of the clothes she was believed to be wearing.