Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘Hello … yes?’

‘This is Fulford Police Station, madam. Is DCI Churchill there, please?’

‘Who?’

‘Detective Chief Inspector William Churchill, madam. It is urgent.’

‘Oh, you mean Willy? Yes … Christ … it’s for you.’

‘Hello? Who the hell’s this?’

‘Chief Inspector Churchill?’

‘Yes.’ Don’t be long, Willy, murmured a voice in the background, or so the sergeant would tell his friends in the canteen later, to predictable guffaws. Was he long Sarge? How long exactly — did she say?

‘Duty Sergeant Chisholm, sir. Sorry to disturb you, but a car registered to Simon Newby has been found in Scarborough — a blue Ford Escort?’

‘Right. I’m on my way. Have they made an arrest?’

‘No sir. They’re keeping the car under surveillance.’

‘Good. Put me through to the crime desk, will you? I’ll need someone to come with me to Scarborough right away.’

‘Right sir.’ Sergeant Chisholm transferred the call, grinning at PC Burrows who had just brought him a welcome mug of coffee.

‘That’s something you’ll learn, son, when you’ve been here a while.’

‘What’s that, sarge?’

‘A keen detective’s always on the job.’ He winked, and sipped his coffee happily.

It was a windy morning in Scarborough when Churchill and Harry Easby arrived just before four, with the breakers bursting along the esplanade. The blue Escort was parked outside a peeling establishment called Seaview Villas. The only things moving in the street were a milk float and a few seagulls, their feathers ruffled by the wind.

DS Conroy waited at one end of the street, a uniform car at the other. ‘We’ve made enquiries, sir, and your man’s in room 7. DC Lane’s getting a key from the landlady now.’

‘Right. Send your uniform lads round the back, and we’ll go in.’

Three minutes later the four of them pounded up the worn stair carpet, surprising an old man tottering towards the loo on the landing. Inside room seven lay a young man, sleeping peacefully. Churchill held the photograph next to the face on the pillow. There was no doubt at all. They matched. He shook the boy roughly by the shoulder and he started up in shock.

‘Simon Newby, I am arresting you in connection with the murder of Jasmine Hurst. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

‘What? Who the hell are you?’

‘Come on, lad, we’re off to York.’

Simon was handcuffed and bundled into the car in his pyjama trousers and a coat before he fully realised what was happening. Harry Easby waited with him there while Churchill and the two Scarborough officers searched his room and sealed his clothes in plastic evidence bags.

‘What’s going on?’ Simon asked desperately.

‘You’re under arrest, son, didn’t you hear? For the murder of Jasmine Hurst.’

‘For the what? Jasmine? You’re out of your skull!’

‘Not me, son. We think you killed her.’

‘You mean she’s dead? Jasmine? Where? How?’

‘You tell me, son.’ The boy was in a panic, thrashing about. But he couldn’t get out because his hands were cuffed behind his back and he was held in place by the seat belt.

‘She can’t be dead! What are you doing — let me out of here!’

Easby watched him with a quiet, satisfied smile. The wild eyes, the tears, the desperate thrashing movements. He had seen them all before. They might mean either guilt or innocence — most likely just panic. As Simon struggled, he watched, and said nothing.

Churchill returned to the car with two bags of clothes which he flung into the boot. He opened the back door and glanced at Simon with a fierce, triumphant smile. ‘Gotcha!’

‘I didn’t kill her. Let me out — where are we going?’

‘To York, my son. Remember anything you say may be used in evidence. Move over.’

‘But how did she die? What happened, for Christ’s sake?’

As Harry drove Churchill examined his prisoner with a long contemplative stare. He looked a mess — unshaven, his short hair tousled with sleep, his eyes wide with shock and panic. As he twisted angrily in his seat Churchill could see the muscles that he and Harry had felt as they bundled the lad downstairs. More than enough to subdue a girl, however tall and fit.

‘You can’t just break in and tell me Jasmine’s dead, for Christ’s sake! It’s not true!’

‘When did you last see her?’ They weren’t supposed to interview a suspect in the car but if the boy was going to talk anyway they couldn’t very well gag him.

‘I haven’t seen her for days — weeks. What happened — how did she die?’

‘She was raped, and someone cut her throat with a knife.’

‘Oh no.’ The bald statement seemed to shock Simon, and dissolve his rage and panic into grief. He slumped sideways on the seat and began to weep. It was a human reaction that in a normal person might mean innocence, Churchill knew; but in his experience rapists and murderers were not normal people. They were normal looking people whose emotional wires had got horribly crossed. It was perfectly possible for a murderer to weep at the injuries he had himself caused, either out of remorse or schizophrenia or self-pity because his own guilt had been discovered. So all that mattered was the evidence.

‘It made me puke, seeing that girl’s body,’ Harry said. ‘People like you should be hanged, slowly.’

‘But I didn’t kill her !’ The car swayed with the violence of Simon’s response. ‘So shut your fucking trap!’

‘Stow it, Harry,’ Churchill ordered. ‘Questions at the station.’

‘Sir.’

Several more times during the journey Simon protested his innocence, but when Churchill made no response, he lapsed into silence. As they entered York he asked: ‘What happens now?’

‘You go into a cell and the custody sergeant gives you breakfast, and then we’ll have a proper recorded interview.’

‘I can have a lawyer, can’t I?’

‘If you want. I’ll call the duty solicitor.’

‘No. My mother’s a barrister, she knows who’s best. I want to call her.’

Churchill sighed. ‘All right, it’s your choice. But I suggest you tell the truth, son. That’s my advice to you.’

It was a rare event for Sarah and Emily to eat breakfast together; usually everyone grabbed their own in a headlong rush. Now both of them, shattered by the last few days, were attempting to restore their relationship. Out of consideration for Sarah, Emily had switched on the pop music station more quietly than usual; out of consideration for Emily, Sarah had refrained from switching it off.

‘Which exam are you most worried about?’ Sarah asked tentatively.

Emily frowned, and instead of dismissing the question as Sarah had expected, considered it. ‘History, I think.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, there’s such masses to learn, far more than any other subject; and then you don’t get proper essay questions which let you explain it. It’s all ‘what does this cartoon of Adolf Hitler prove’ — stuff like that.’

‘Is there anything I can help you with?’

‘Mum, it’s better if I do it on my own, honest. We’d only quarrel.’

‘Well, maybe Larry knows some history. Are you going to see him today?’

As Emily nodded, the phone rang. She got up, a slice of toast in her hand. ‘I bet that’s him. Hello? Oh, Simon! God, where are you? Yes, she’s here.’

As she passed the phone over Emily noticed her mother sway for a second in shock; but the hint of weakness was gone as soon as it came. With a recovery so complete it was almost a change of personality, Sarah’s voice became crisp, sharp, businesslike.