Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘I’ll survive. You get used to hanging around at the Bar. And perhaps you can tidy up and write out an acknowledgement for the damage to the door, before you go?’

She scored a few points but, after the other shocks of the day, it had an appalling emotional effect on her. When the police eventually left, making rudimentary attempts to stuff clothes back into drawers, an immense aching weariness flooded through her. She made herself a cup of strong coffee in the small, grubby kitchen and slumped on a stool to drink it.

It had been a dreadful few days — the disappearance of Emily, the death of Jasmine, and now this. Simon, what have you done?

She remembered the last time she had seen him, at court. He’d seemed angry then, but he was often like that. He felt he had failed in life, been betrayed by everyone. Abandoned by his father, Kevin, unable to live up to the expectations of herself and Bob. Christ! Was it her fault then, Bob’s fault? God knew they had both tried, but the boy was so difficult, always wanting to do everything his own way, and always making a mess of it — no wonder he was so full of rage and resentment.

Or at least he had been until he met Jasmine. Sarah had never liked the girl but she’d made Simon happy, and proud, too, for a while. For Jasmine had been a stunning, drop-dead beauty, the sort of girl who could cause a multiple car crash simply by crossing the road. She was a lad’s triumph, Sarah thought ruefully — her son had strutted beside her like a bantam cock with two tails; worshipped the girl like a slave.

And Jasmine had known it. Known she could leave him and still come back, whenever she chose.

Was that enough to make him kill her? Had he finally realised what a bitch the girl could be, and turned on her in a jealous fury? It was possible, Sarah supposed. But actually cut her throat with a knife — Simon? Her baby whom she had bred in her body, fed with her own milk, taught to smile and walk and laugh — could he do that?

She imagined Jasmine’s terror as she realised what was going to happen to her. Sarah remembered her own terror, when Kevin had beaten her before he left. Kevin, Simon’s natural father. It hadn’t been just the beating, the sense of betrayal; the really frightening part had been the way Kevin had seemed to enjoy her own fear. Like father, like son, she thought — is there a trait for murder in Simon’s genes?

But half his genes are mine, so what does he inherit from me? They say I’m aggressive, single-minded, intolerant of failure, desperate for success at all costs. It’s true; but those are virtues too. How else could a teenage single mum, a battered wife, progress from a run-down council estate to the Bar? It’s Simon who’s had the back hand of them; the neglect, the lack of time, the impatience, the impossible example to follow.

And so he left me for Jasmine — his living pin-up, his angel — and she betrayed him too. When he cut her throat, was it my memory that he was murdering?

If he murdered anyone.

I won’t believe it, she told herself, I can’t. Not my son.

Next morning Churchill called a meeting to assess what they’d got. Harry had bullied the car registration out of DVLC Swansea, and circulated it throughout the country. Tracy described her meeting with Sarah Newby. ‘I got this photo and some addresses, sir. But she wasn’t particularly co-operative — all right, what’s so funny?’

A rash of grins and nudges spread amongst the men.

‘She savaged us last night, Trace,’ Churchill explained. ‘Didn’t you notice Mike clutching his balls just now? She-wolf in defence of her young.’

‘Oh,’ Tracy smiled sympathetically. ‘Well, she probably saw what a load of wimps you are. Anyway, look at this.’ She put the photo of Simon beside the photofit of Helen Steersby’s assailant. ‘What do you think?’

In the photo, Simon’s red-gold hair was cut very short, the neat, round face clean shaven with a broad, pugilistic nose and light brown eyes. The skin was pink and healthy, the smiling mouth showed strong white teeth. The left ear was small and close to the head, with a gold ring in it.

The hair of the man in the photofit was hidden by the black woolly hat. His jaw was shaded with black stubble, his eyebrows darker than those in the photo, the eyes smaller and wider apart. The mouth was small, grim looking. There was a ring in the left ear, which stuck out prominently. The unusually broad nose and round, neat shape of the face, though, were the same.

‘Not identical twins, are they, Trace?’ Churchill said doubtfully.

‘But look at that hooter,’ Mike Candor pointed out. ‘And the ring in the ear.’

‘That’s the fashion,’ Churchill said. ‘Terence — you’ve met the lad. What do you think?’

‘I think we should be cautious, sir.’ Terry said, frowning at Tracy. Why hadn’t she told him first before making this public in front of Churchill, of all people? ‘Assault victims are pretty unreliable about facial identification, are they?’

Churchill laughed derisively. ‘ Cautious, unreliable? This is the guy, ladies and gents, who took Gary Harker to court when his victim claimed to recognize him with a hood over his bonce!’

‘That was different, sir. Anyway it was his voice she recognized, not his face.’

Churchill waved this away. ‘Look. This is a lead for that attack on Helen Steersby, and you’re rubbishing it already. We’ve got an attempted assault in the same area as this murder, by a guy with a striking feature like that nose. What more do you want? Well spotted, Trace.’

He turned back to Terry. ‘What sort of lad is he?’

Terry thought back. ‘Strong. Fit. Short-tempered, maybe. But no record, sir — I checked. And if he had this girlfriend, Jasmine, a real beauty by all accounts, why on earth would he go round scaring schoolkids? It doesn’t add up.’

‘Yes, but she’d left him,’ Tracy said. ‘Six weeks ago.’

‘So what are you saying?’ Terry persisted. ‘That he got frustrated and started dragging schoolgirls off their ponies? We’re looking for a nutter for that, a psycho. This lad seemed quite normal to me.’

‘Normal? This is your impression when — Thursday morning?’ Churchill’s contempt was blatant. ‘But on Thursday evening, this quite normal young lad seems to have raped his girlfriend in the woods and cut her throat. Maybe your judgement’s not what it was, old son.’

Terry was silent. However cruelly put, Churchill had a point. Gary Harker was free, and now this. Maybe his own skills were waning. The others avoided his eyes. Once he’d been the blue-eyed boy with the sharp brain, on the fast track for promotion. Now his colleagues’ respect was changing to pity. Probably he still hadn’t got over Mary’s death; perhaps he never would.

Churchill flipped a cigarette into his mouth and lit it with a snap of his lighter. ‘Let’s run through the rest. What have we got from the crime scene, Jack? We know her throat was cut and there was blood everywhere. What about footprints? That’s what we need to know.’

Jack Middleton pointed to a photograph. ‘Look here, sir. This is the best print we’ve got so far. It looks like a trainer, just a couple of feet from the body. I’ve taken a cast, but I haven’t identified it yet.’

‘Well, have a look at these, then.’ Triumphantly, Will Churchill held up the evidence bag with Simon’s muddy trainers in. ‘Will they match it, do you think?’

‘What size are they?’

‘Nine. Nikes.’

Jack Middleton turned the bag over to look at the soles. A cautious smile spread on his face. ‘Maybe, yes. I’ll scan these into the computer. Is there any blood on the shoes?’