Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘It is a very remote possibility, sir. As it happens he was free six or eight hours before she was killed. But there’s no motive, no other connection.’

‘No?’ Churchill looked at him pityingly. ‘Then I suggest you concentrate on the facts. Do you have any leads?’

‘There is one, sir, yes. I was intending to talk to him later today.’

‘Who’s that then?’

‘A lad called Simon Newby. Jasmine Hurst’s ex-boyfriend. They quarrelled, apparently, and she left him.’

‘Newby … Newby …’ Churchill pondered. ‘Don’t I know that name?’

‘His mother, sir,’ Terry admitted reluctantly. ‘She happens to be the barrister who defended Gary Harker.’

Churchill’s mouth widened in a slow, incredulous grin. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘No sir, I’m not.’

‘Well, there you are then!’ Churchill laughed aloud. ‘What’s his address?’

Terry told him, and Churchill got swiftly into his car and drove away, still laughing. Terry sighed, thinking of Sarah trembling beside Jasmine’s body, and the words of Dr Jones, the forensic pathologist, in front of Churchill later. Evidence conclusive — you find the wicked laddie gentlemen, and I’ll send him down. No room for doubt.

This was just the sort of case an ambitious Detective Chief Inspector would want, he thought, to make his mark in the media.

It was late afternoon when Terry located Jasmine Hurst’s mother. According to Sarah the father had left and gone to Australia; Jasmine had a one younger sister who lived with her mother in a small lodging house near the Minster. Terry met a tall handsome woman of about fifty, cooking in a large kitchen where a pretty dark-haired twelve-year-old was doing her homework with her feet resting on an ancient Alsatian under the table.

The woman welcomed him with a friendly smile. I’m about to destroy your life, Terry thought. ‘Mrs Miranda Hurst?’

‘Yes. Is it a room you’re after?’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’ He showed his card. ‘Are you the mother of Jasmine Hurst?’

‘Yes.’ The atmosphere of domestic happiness was jarring now. As though someone were screeching his fingernails down a blackboard slowly. ‘Is she in some sort of trouble?’

‘I’m afraid I have some bad news, Mrs Hurst. Perhaps you’d better sit down.’

In Terry’s mind, the screech grew louder.

Bob didn’t discuss it with Sarah. He knew it would create an impossible scene. She would want to prevent him and know that she shouldn’t; the conflict would tear her to shreds. The responsibility must be his alone; with luck she’d know nothing about it.

Nonetheless his fingers shook as he pressed the buttons on the phone.

‘Police. Can I help?’

‘Er — hello. I want to talk to … what was the name? … the detective investigating the death of Jasmine Hurst, please.’

‘Hold the line.’

At least the police, thank God, did not play Vivaldi interspersed with recorded protestations about how all their detectives were busy right now. Just silence and the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears.

‘DCI Churchill. Hello.’

‘Er — hello.’ His fingers fumbling, Bob placed a tissue across the mouth of the receiver. This is stupid, his conscience screamed, you’re a grown man, a head teacher, you can’t play silly games like this. But it works, I’ve seen it on TV. With his voice muffled he said: ‘You’re investigating the murder of that girl, Jasmine Hurst, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Churchill sounded puzzled. ‘Do you know something about it?’

‘There’s a man you should ask. He’s called Archibald Mullen, number 17 Bramham Street. Have you got that?’

‘OK, but what can he tell us?’

‘Ask him if he saw Simon Newby yesterday. He’ll tell you.’

‘Can I have your name, please sir?’

‘No, sorry.’ Bob crashed the phone down, and used the tissue to mop his brow. What had he done? It felt awful. The image of Judas Iscariot came into his mind — Judas hanging himself in the garden. He understood why now. He had betrayed his stepson! He had done it and it couldn’t be undone. And it was worse to have done it secretively like this, not better. He could never explain his reasons or defend their morality, because no one knew he’d done it.

He slumped at his desk with his head in his hands, groaning softly.

‘Bob?’ Sarah came in, and ran her hands lightly across his hair and shoulders. He could feel the tension in her fingers, too, but at least she was making an effort. ‘Come on. It’s been an awful couple of days, but at least we’ve got Emily back now. If we stick together we’ll come through all this.’

He said nothing. Surprised, she cradled the back of his head against her breasts. It was the sort of gesture he loved, that had become all too rare in their busy lives. He tried to relax, but his body was rigid, frozen.

‘Bob? What’s the matter? Talk to me.’

Now or never. But he couldn’t talk. He turned, put his arms around his wife, and held her silently. Feeling the soft feminine strength of her body. Seeing the image of Judas, swinging on a tree in the garden of Gethsamene, behind his closed eyelids.

Will Churchill was delighted. The informant’s voice had sounded odd but it confirmed Terry’s suspicion that the murder was connected with this boy Simon Newby. He collected Harry Easby, Tracy Litherland and Mike Candor and went straight round to Bramham Street. He pounded on Simon’s front door. No answer.

‘All right. Let’s find this neighbour at number 17.’

Archibald Mullen greeted them eagerly, his yellow teeth parted in a knowing smile. ‘You’re late, young man. The lad’s gone long since.’

‘Who do you mean, Mr Mullen?’

‘Simon Newby — him over’t road. His car’s not been here all day.’

‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

‘Me? No, lad. But he went out last night after he hit yon lass in the street, that I do know. He drove off after her. This morning his car were gone and I’ve not seen him since.’

After he hit yon lass in the street. That was the key phrase. When Churchill and DS Litherland took his statement, the point became clearer. Simon had driven away in a blue Ford Escort about ten minutes after hitting the girl. When they presented Mullen with a photograph of the dead girl he unhesitatingly identified her as the one Simon had hit.

‘Grand looking lass — and she’s dead, you say? By, there’ll be a to-do about that, then. Pictures in the papers, no doubt!’

Outside in the street Will Churchill rapped orders as though he had a plane to catch.

‘Harry, get on to DVLC and trace this car. Blue Escort, registered keeper Simon Newby 23 Bramham Street. Got that? Mike, watch the house — if the lad turns up, pull him in. Tracy, get round to his parents’ home, see what you can pick up there. I’ll get a search warrant.’

After she had identified the body, Miranda Hurst sat on the green plastic sofa, pale and stunned. A WPC gave her tea.

‘Is there anyone who might want to do this to your daughter, Mrs Hurst?’ Terry asked.

‘No. Of course not! She doesn’t know anyone as monstrous as that, how could she?’

‘I believe she knew a young man called Simon Newby?’

She looked up, tears smudging her mascara. ‘Simon? Yes, she lived with him until perhaps … six weeks ago, something like that. You don’t think he could have done this?’

‘We don’t think anything at the moment, Mrs Hurst, we’re just trying to find out. Did she quarrel with him at all, as far as you know?’

‘He did, yes. That’s why she left him.’