Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

Terry tried again. ‘Look, Sarah, it may not come to that. His story’s absurd, we’ll break him in questioning and get him to plead guilty. Then you won’t have to give evidence.’

‘It’s still a sensation, though, isn’t it? Even with a guilty plea. Reporters aren’t stupid.’

‘Maybe not, but at least he’ll be locked up. Otherwise he’ll do it again to some other innocent woman. Just as he did to Sharon Gilbert before you. And the others.’

‘We don’t know he raped Sharon, Terry.’ Sarah met his disbelieving eyes and sighed. ‘All right, I admit it’s likely and what happened last night makes it even more likely, but the fact is the evidence didn’t convince a jury. That’s why he got off. It wasn’t some sort of wicked trick that I pulled, you know. You didn’t have the proof.’

‘Maybe. But I’ve got it now, Sarah. I can show you.’

‘Proof that he raped Sharon?’

‘Yes.’

It was Sarah’s turn to look astonished. ‘How come you’ve got it now and not before?’

‘We found some things last night. In that shed.’

‘Oh.’ Although Sarah had been afraid of what they would find in the shed, in all the trauma it hadn’t occurred to her that they had anything to do with Gary. ‘What things? Tell me.’

‘Come back this afternoon and I’ll show you.’

‘Why not now?’

‘Harry’s getting them identified. As soon as he comes back we’ll confront Gary with them. Then I can show them to you and tell you his response.’

‘Is your Mum at home, sonny?’

‘Yes.’ The small boy stared up at Harry Easby. ‘She’s upstairs, working.’

‘Could you tell her a policeman’s here, to talk to her?’

The question seemed to pose more difficulties than Harry had expected. The child’s face — a surprisingly strong, determined face for a seven-year-old — puckered with a frown. ‘She’s upstairs, working,’ he repeated, surprised he hadn’t been understood. ‘Come back later.’

‘No, wait.’ Harry put his foot in the door just in time. ‘I’m a policeman, son, all right? You just go upstairs and tell your mum I’m here. I’ll wait inside, OK?’

‘You can’t …’ But Harry already had come in. There was an awkward confrontation in the hall, when he actually thought the small boy was going to try to push him out, but Harry sidestepped him and went into the front room, where a four-year-old girl was playing with dolls.

‘Hello. What’s your name then?’

‘Katie.’ The child favoured him with a brief glance and returned to wrapping sellotape round a doll’s forearm.

‘And your brother?’

‘Wayne.’

‘I see.’ Wayne glowered at him from the doorway. He showed no inclination to go upstairs. Harry was about to try again when he noticed a sound. It was rhythmic, repetitive, and came from the ceiling overhead. The nature of their mother’s work suddenly became clear.

‘I’ll just wait here then, till your mum’s finished,’ he said, sitting on the sofa. ‘OK?’

The rhythm of the bedsprings began to be accompanied by cries and groans. ‘Does your mum do a lot of work?’ Harry asked.

The little girl ignored him. Wayne frowned, still apparently wanting to throw this stranger out. ‘You should ring up before you come,’ he said accusingly.

‘I will next time. What’s the number?’

‘479386.’ Harry wrote it down.

This having exhausted the conversation, they sat in uneasy silence. After a while a man came downstairs and went out of the front door. A moment later a woman in a purple satin nightdress walked into the room. She stopped when she saw Harry Easby.

‘Did you make an appointment?’

‘No.’ Harry grinned. ‘I will next time. How much?’

‘Not in front of the kids.’ She ruffled Wayne’s hair and smiled at little Katie. ‘You OK, you two?’ Seeing they were in no urgent need of anything she looked at Harry again, weighing him up. ‘Well, I’m not busy. You can come upstairs if you like. I can tell you the prices there.’

In her bedroom Harry listened with interest to her prices and the range of services she offered. She was a tall, slender woman with elaborately curled peroxide-blonde hair. When she had recited her menu she smiled at him provocatively, one hand on her hip, the other brushing a lock of hair along her cheek. ‘Anything you fancy, cowboy?’

‘Another time, perhaps,’ said Harry. He showed her his warrant card.

‘Bloody hellfire!’ She turned away angrily. ‘I’ve done nowt wrong!’

‘Oh no? Social services might see it differently.’

‘My kids are happy, aren’t they?’ A shadow of fear flickered across her face. ‘Do they look neglected to you?’

‘They might, if I wanted something,’ said Harry nastily. ‘But as it happens I don’t — not for the moment anyway. You are Sharon Gilbert, I presume?’

‘No, I’m Dr Livingstone. ‘Course I am, you knew that before you came in.’

‘All right.’ He began to take things out of his plastic bag, and lay them on the double bed. ‘There, Ms Gilbert. I need to know if you recognize any of these.’

‘Interview resumed at 2.37 p.m. Present in the room, Gary Harker, his solicitor Mrs Lucy Sampson, DC Harry Easby and myself, DI Terry Bateson.’ Terry checked the tapes were spinning smoothly in the recorder, then leaned both elbows on the table and stared at his suspect.

‘Now then, Gary, I want to check a few details of your story. You said you were in this shed for about five minutes before Mrs Newby arrived. Is that right?’

‘Yeah. More or less. I wasn’t exactly counting the time.’

‘I understand. You didn’t, er, look at your watch before you went in?’

‘No. Why should I?’

This question, Terry was pleased to see, brought out signs of anxiety on Gary’s face. Skin a trifle paler than before, tiny beads of sweat around the temples. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps you wondered if Mrs Newby was late?’

‘I didn’t say I had an appointment.’

‘Didn’t you? I thought you went there to meet her. Or was it her son?’

Gary said nothing. He glanced briefly at Lucy, his solicitor, who refused to meet his eyes. Lucy hated being there. If she had not already been Gary’s solicitor she would have refused to come. She was prepared to see that the police behaved within the law, and no more. Apart from that, Gary could drown in his own lies.

Terry noted the exchange of looks with satisfaction.

‘You didn’t really go there to meet Mrs Newby at all, did you, Gary?’

‘I did. I told yer.’

‘What for?’

‘To thank her. She was my barrister, remember? Chewed you up in court, didn’t she?’

‘She did.’ Last night Terry might have lost his temper. Today he felt in control. ‘So why did you need a torch, Gary?’

‘What torch?’

‘This one.’ Terry put it on the table. It was a pencil torch which would throw a strong, narrow beam. ‘It was in your pocket when you were arrested last night.’

‘So? I often carry a torch.’

‘Sure. Useful tool for a burglar.’

‘I told you …’

‘Yeah, yeah, we know. You were waiting for your mistress. Find anything interesting in the shed while you were waiting, Gary, did you? A quick flash around with the torch maybe?’

‘No.’

‘Well, that’s a pity, because we did. We searched that shed quite thoroughly, in fact. D’you want to know what we found?’

Gary shook his head, but Terry was delighted to note that the sweat was still there. The bastard knows what’s coming all right, Terry thought. He put a small plastic evidence bag on the table. ‘For starters, there was this ring.’ He held it up a few inches from Gary’s nose. ‘For the tape, I’m showing Mr Harker a woman’s ring, decorated with precious stones in the shape of the letter S . Ever seen that before, Gary?’