Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘I see. And there was another boyfriend, later?’

‘Yes, David. Brodie I think his surname is … I’m sorry, can I go now?’

‘Yes, of course, Mrs Hurst. If you just happen to have this David Brodie’s address?’

She wrote it down for him. Terry nodded at the WPC, who had seen him inflict a similar pain on Sarah Newby earlier that day. ‘Call a car to take Mrs Hurst home, will you?’

As the pair walked slowly out he ran his hands through his hair and thought: how many more times? God. How many more?

‘Mrs Newby? DS Tracy Litherland, police. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may? About your son, Simon. It might be better if we went inside.’

So it had begun, already. Grimly, Sarah led the way into the living room. ‘My husband’s asleep, I think. You may not know it, but we’ve had a hard couple of days.’

Bob was indeed asleep upstairs, and Emily had gone for a walk with Larry along the riverbank, of all places. But they weren’t worried about her now; she would come back. The four of them had spent the afternoon coming to an agreement which Sarah fervently hoped would work. Probably Emily and Larry were discussing it now.

The agreement was simple. If Emily would stay at home and complete her GCSEs, Larry could visit her as often as he wanted. He could help her with revision if he liked — but it had to be genuine revision, Bob had warned, with the bedroom door unlocked. Her mother is a real barrister and the law means what it says about girls under sixteen.

Sarah had winced, but to her relief Larry and Emily had agreed. It wasn’t that much of a threat because the GCSEs were only a few days away and Emily’s birthday a month later. But the great thing was that this Larry genuinely appeared to care for Emily and appreciate a little, at least, of their concern. Sarah rather liked him, too. He seemed naive and passionate but that is how the young are supposed to be. He wasn’t bad looking either; if she washed some of the dirt off, she could imagine how the lithe, skinny body under the ragged clothes could be quite appealing. Certainly Emily seemed to think so; but then she knew . And whatever she herself had done, Sarah had not wanted her own daughter to know boys in the biblical sense quite yet.

But if the boy stuck by Emily and gave her some emotional support, it might be the best thing that could happen. Neither she nor Bob had done enough of that recently; and now, with this disaster about Jasmine and Simon, it was going to be even harder. Sarah wasn’t surprised that Bob was asleep; she herself had been sitting in an armchair for the past hour, thinking.

This detective was unwelcome. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Did your son, Simon, have a relationship with Jasmine Hurst?’

‘Yes. He loved her. I was about to go and break the news to him, when you came.’

‘Well, I’ll try not to keep you long,’ Tracy said, diplomatically. ‘Would you tell me about their relationship, please?’

Slowly, choosing her words with care, Sarah described her son’s relationship with this young beautiful woman who now lay in the mortuary. Simon had met Jasmine a year ago, and brought her to this house several times. She had been a strikingly attractive girl, lithe, athletic, and Simon had been besotted with her. Sarah had been less impressed. The girl seemed to treat her son with quiet disdain, as though it amused her have him running around her like a puppy. But Simon loved the girl, she repeated; he worshipped everything she did.

‘Did they never quarrel?’

Sarah shrugged. ‘Yes, they split up, about six weeks ago. She moved out of his house, went off with another boy.’ She closed her mouth abruptly. She had no intention of telling this woman what Simon had confided in her, that Jasmine still visited him for occasional sex.

‘Do you know where your son is now?’

‘At his home, I suppose. I was going to see him. Some things you can’t say by phone.’

‘Before you go, Mrs Newby,’ Tracy Litherland said, ‘you should know that we have evidence that he was seen with a girl answering Jasmine’s description last night, and that later he left home and hasn’t been seen since.’ Tracy briefly explained what the old man had said. ‘Do you have any idea where he might have gone?’

‘No.’ This news shook Sarah considerably. ‘Who told you about this old man?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

‘You are treating him as a suspect, aren’t you? The poor boy probably doesn’t even know Jasmine’s dead yet!’

‘In that case we need to talk to him,’ said Tracy carefully. ‘He may have been the last person to see her alive, and he doesn’t seem to be at home. Does he have grandparents, relatives, friends that he sometimes visits?’

Reluctantly, Sarah gave Tracy her parents’ address, and a framed photograph of Simon. As she took it down she thought first Emily, now Simon; I never knew it hurt so much.

‘I want that back when you’ve copied it, please. And — what did you say your name was?’

‘Detective Sergeant Tracy Litherland.’

‘Yes, well, DS Litherland, I hope you’re looking for other suspects too. Simon didn’t kill this girl. He couldn’t — he’s not a murderer.’

Tracy had heard all this before from parents, many times. She responded with a detached professional compassion that Sarah recognised only too well from her own work.

‘I hope you’re right, Mrs Newby. I hope you’re right.’

With a search warrant in his pocket, Churchill watched Mike Candor smash the lock.

Simon’s house had a kitchen and living room downstairs, two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. The sagging armchair and sofa were strewn with magazines, socks, and towels. There was a pyramid of empty beer cans in a corner, under a Manchester United poster and an old Pirelli calendar. The smell suggested that not all the beer cans had been empty when added to the decoration, if that was what it was. On some shelves in an alcove were a TV, video and CD player, all fairly new and in good order.

‘I thought this lad was a part-time brickie,’ said Churchill, staring at them in surprise. ‘Where’d he get all this stuff?’

Mike Candor shrugged. ‘His parents, maybe? They’re not short of a bob or two. Kids today, they take this stuff for granted, you know.’ He was exploring the kitchen when Harry Easby gave a shout from upstairs.

‘Sir! Come and have a look at these!’

He was in the smaller bedroom, not one dedicated to sleeping. The main piece of furniture was a padded exercise bench. Scattered around the floor were a weight-lifter’s bar, a selection of weights, a skipping rope, some elastic stretching gear, a crumpled tracksuit, socks and trainers.

‘Quite the fitness freak,’ said Churchill, admiringly. ‘So what’s suspicious, Harry?’

‘These, sir.’ Carefully, Harry picked up a trainer by its lace. Will Churchill looked, and saw what he meant. The trainer was old and scuffed and muddy. As it twirled slowly in the air they saw little bits of grit and mud embedded in the sole, and the top of the shoe was stained green and brown, from mud and grass. The tread on the sole looked familiar.

‘Weren’t there some footprints near the body, sir?’

A slow smile crossed Churchill’s face. ‘There were, Harry. There were indeed.’

‘Bob? Wake up, I’ve brought you something.’

He sat up in surprise. It was a long time since Sarah had done anything as domestic as bring him tea in bed. ‘Oh, thanks.’ He ran his hand through his tousled hair. ‘What time is it?’

‘Five thirty. In the afternoon.’ She put the cup on a bedside table. ‘Have a good sleep?’

‘I suppose so, yes.’ He had slept fully dressed — it was years since he had done that, either. He took his tea gratefully, then winced as memory flooded back. ‘God, what a mess.’