Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

Simon?

She slipped it on her finger. Who would have a ring with S for Simon on it? Jasmine, obviously. She had been a tall girl, strong, athletic as well as beautiful. But why was it here, in a bag in this shed? Another of Simon’s failures, perhaps — he’d proposed to her with it and she’d dumped him. Or … what else was in the bag?

She picked up the other thing, the black woolly hat which had fallen out at the same time, and laid it carefully on the table. It wasn’t a woolly hat, as she had thought. Not quite. As she unfolded it she saw the two holes cut in it for eyes. Nothing for the mouth. The sort used by terrorists. And robbers. And rapists.

The sort of hood that Sharon Gilbert had described. Here — in Simon’s shed. Why?

Sarah’s knees felt suddenly weak. She grasped the edge of the table and stared down at the repulsive thing. The blank eye slits gazed back up at her. What did it mean?

Jasmine’s ring. A hood. What else was in this bag? Trembling, she fumbled inside. A pair of black jeans, a jumper. Nothing else. She put on her motorcycle gauntlets and examined the clothes more closely. Would there be blood — please no. So far as she could see there was none but forensics, she knew, could trace specks invisible to the naked eye. The police should have searched this shed but they obviously hadn’t. What did it all mean?

Her head was still fuddled with the hangover. She found it hard to think clearly. But one thing seemed obvious. This balaclava was found in Simon’s shed with Jasmine’s ring. It must be his. The police may say he wore it when he killed Jasmine.

No one said anything about Jasmine’s murderer wearing a balaclava.

How could they? There were no witnesses. Only Jasmine, and she’s dead.

It’s not Simon’s, this thing. I’ve never seen him wear one. Why would he?

It’s here in his shed. At the very least it’s evidence.

If the police want evidence they must find it for themselves. That’s their job.

It doesn’t matter, it’s my duty to give it to the police. I have no choice.

No!!

But it’s evidence, isn’t it? And I’ve found it. If I’m caught concealing evidence I’ll be struck off, I’ll never practise as a barrister again. I’ll just be a mother.

You’re a mother first and last .

The lawyer’s voice in her head was firm, insistent, rational, but the mother’s was more persuasive. Sarah gripped the edge of the table, staring at the wretched balaclava and ring. Why did I ever come in here? If I hadn’t looked I would never have found them. No one would.

If Adam hadn’t eaten the apple he’d never have known good and evil. But he ate and I looked so we both know something, though God knows what it means. Probably Adam was confused, too. Who did he talk to? Eve? I know who I’ve got to discuss this with right now.

Sarah stuffed the hood into her saddle bag, unlocked her bike, and rode towards Hull.

It’s not a question of being just a mother , she told the lawyer’s voice in her mind. That’s not a role or a career choice you can try out for a while. It’s a life sentence.

The prison was as depressing, the queues and searches as long and humiliating as before. She left the balaclava with the bike, to avoid the search; the ring was on her finger.

‘You came without him then?’ Simon glanced at her warily.

‘Without Bob? Yes. He’s teaching today.’

‘Yeah, well.’ Simon shrugged. ‘I doubt he wanted to come anyway.’

‘It’s difficult for him, Simon. He’s not used to places like this.’

‘You think I am? Christ, Mum! Do you know how small the cells are? They lock you in all night with a stranger and this stinking bucket. It’s gross. It’s fucking medieval.’

‘I know, Simon, and I’m sorry. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Really.’

He took a deep breath, to control himself. ‘Look. I’ve been thinking … about that blood.’

Something in his eyes made her shiver. It was a look she had seen so often before — the infinitely cunning look of a rat caught in a trap, a criminal about to change his story because his life depended on it. ‘The blood on the shoe and the knife, you mean?’

‘Yeah. Look, if it’s hers — they don’t know for certain, do they?’

‘Not yet, no.’

‘Then I’ve remembered. There’s a way it might have happened.’

She waited, a well of infinite sadness rising inside her.

‘You see, it wasn’t that day, it was earlier in the week. We spent most of that afternoon in bed too, making love. But one time she got up, to make tea and toast. Well, she wore my shirt — she often did that, she looked good in it. She wore my trainers too. You know, like slippers. Well, when she came upstairs she’d wrapped a tissue round her thumb because she’d cut it. It wasn’t a big cut but it was bleeding. So I got her a plaster and put it on. That’s it.’

He stopped. His mother said nothing.

‘Don’t you see? Maybe she cut herself with the breadknife and some blood fell on my shoes. That’s why it’s there!’

It was a remote possibility, Sarah thought. Either that or a good lie — hard to prove either way. ‘Just a few days before? So the cut on her thumb must still be there?’

‘Yeah.’ He nodded earnestly. ‘With a plaster on it. I put it there myself.’

‘Well, I can check. We’re not even sure it’s her blood yet. All these things take time.’

‘How much time? Until the trial?’

‘Six months, at least. Maybe more.’

‘Six months, in here? No!’

She sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Simon, it’s out of my hands. Look, there’s something I came to say. I’ve … got some questions.’ She glanced around cautiously, lowering her voice to ensure they were not overheard. ‘This morning I found two things in your shed which I can’t explain. One was a black balaclava hood. You know, the sort terrorists wear, that you can pull over your face, with two holes for eyes.’

‘So?’

‘So? Don’t be stupid, Simon Is it yours? ’

‘How should I know?’

‘Simon! This was in a bag in your shed! How did it get there?’

‘God knows. I haven’t been in that shed for months, Mum.’ He gazed at her, a puzzled frown on his face. ‘You said there were two things. What else?’

‘This ring. On my finger. Just look at it quickly, Simon,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Don’t let the screws see. Do you recognize it?’

‘No. Never seen it before.’

‘It’s not Jasmine’s? It’s got an S for Simon on it.’

‘No. She didn’t like rings. I told you, I never saw it before.’

‘So how did it get in the bag with this balaclava hood, then?’

‘Well, as to the balaclava, lots of blokes have ‘em. Bit of a laugh, like, you can make your own with a pair of scissors, pull it down and give folk a shock.’

‘Simon! Do you do that?’

‘May have done, once or twice. For a laugh.’

A laugh , she thought. God save us all from young men. ‘So it could be yours?’

‘No. I’ve not done it myself, like.’

‘There were jeans and a jumper in the bag too, Simon. What about them?’

‘I dunno. Maybe old ones that I slung out.’

There was something very wrong here. Something he was not telling her. ‘Look, how can these things be in your shed if they’re not yours? Don’t say you don’t know — the police won’t believe that!’

‘The police? What’s this got to do with them? What is this, Mum?’

‘Simon, are you completely stupid? Don’t you know there’ve been other attacks on women apart from Jasmine?’