Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

At the door she put her hand on his arm. ‘Terry, wait! Can I ask you one more thing?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Let me know the DNA results, as soon as they come in. I don’t want to wait, or hear it from that swine Churchill. Just give me a ring when you know. Please.’

‘I’ll do that, certainly. It probably isn’t him, Sarah.’

‘No,’ she agreed numbly. ‘It probably isn’t. But tell me anyway, will you, Terry?’

‘Yes.’ As he left, he looked back, and saw her standing, a slight woman in the doorway of a terraced house, and thought, that’s how she’ll be if this all goes wrong. She’ll grow old like that, no career, no family, all alone.

‘I’ve told you all this,’ Simon growled sulkily. ‘I’ve told mum anyhow.’

‘Yes, but the answers weren’t good enough,’ said Sarah quietly. Lucy nudged her under the table to stop her saying more.

‘Tell me , Simon will you?’ Lucy asked, in a reassuring, businesslike voice. ‘We need to get all the facts straight before the police try to trip you up. Now, when did you first meet Gary?’

Simon stared at a spot on the wall that had just become hugely, cosmically fascinating. Lucy waited patiently. She was used to this sort of awkward behaviour from clients; the only difference today was the presence of the boy’s mother, who also happened to be her friend.

On the way to Hull they had discussed whether it was a good idea for Sarah to be present at this interview. Her presence might either embarrass Simon or reassure him, loosen him up. Finally they had decided that Sarah should be present, if Simon agreed, but say as little as possible. That way Lucy could preserve something of her normal client-lawyer relationship, while at the same time assuaging Sarah’s enormous emotional need to be involved.

But now, as Simon sat silent, Lucy wondered if this scheme was going to work.

‘Would you rather talk to me on your own, Simon?’ she asked at last. ‘Your mother doesn’t have to be here, if you find that difficult.’

Simon snorted scornfully. ‘It’s not her that’s difficult. It’s you and your daft questions. What’s it matter, whether I knew Gary or not?’

‘It matters because you may be asked about it in your trial,’ Lucy explained patiently. ‘And because his watch, and the ring and the hood, were found in your shed when he was there apparently looking for them. If I’m going to defend you, I need to know why those things were there. So let’s start at the beginning, shall we? When did you first meet him?’

‘I dunno. A year ago, maybe. Year and a half?’

Reluctantly, with gentle prodding from Lucy, a picture began to emerge.

Two years ago, he had been at college gaining NVQs in building skills and bricklaying. When he left he joined a pool of semi-employed labourers, working as demand rose, unemployed when it fell. Gary had been an older man in a similar position. Simon had been impressed and intimidated by him. He used his undoubted strength to work hard at times, and his cunning to deceive or scare his employers at others.

‘You knew he was a criminal then?’ Lucy asked softly.

Simon shrugged. ‘He boasted about it. Said he’d been a right hard case in prison. Not many dared cross him. I tried to keep away.’

‘So how did he come to visit your house?’

Simon stared at her, surprised that she knew about this; but he didn’t deny it. ‘He just came, that’s all. Lots of lads did. I’d go to their place, they’d come to mine.’

‘They didn’t all use your shed though, did they?’

‘No.’ Simon looked down.

Lucy probed gently: ‘What did he use it for, Simon?’

‘To keep stuff he’d nicked.’ Simon’s voice was sharp and defiant, but he avoided Sarah’s eyes. Lucy pressed her friend’s hand under the table, to ensure she remained quiet.

‘How did that come about, Simon?’

Reluctantly, Simon explained. As she watched, Sarah felt he seemed more ashamed of this than about the much more serious matter of Jasmine’s death. Maybe that’s a good sign, she thought. He feels guilty about this because he did it; he doesn’t feel guilty about Jasmine because he didn’t kill her. Or is it all bluster, an act put on for my benefit?

At many building sites, Simon said, there was a problem of petty theft. Tools disappeared, building materials were siphoned off to the labourers’ own uses. It was more rife at the bigger companies because low paid workers, like himself, felt they were being ripped off. So it became a challenge to redress the balance by nicking something for yourself. Or so Simon had seen it.

He had taken a few things — a still saw, some carpenter’s tools. But he’d not known how to find a buyer, and asked Gary, showing him the tools in his shed, which had been a mistake. Gary had offered to find Simon a buyer if Simon helped him hide more stuff. At first Simon went along with it; then, when he tried to back out, Gary turned nasty.

Simon was caught in a classic piece of petty blackmail: if he refused to let Gary use the shed, Gary and his friends might beat him up, inform on him, or both. If he allowed Gary to carry on, he was paid a share of the proceeds. Simon took the money, and said nothing.

‘They stored stuff until they could sell it,’ he said. ‘I never looked in there.’ He glanced at his mother, embarrassed. ‘OK, it was wrong but it doesn’t mean I killed anyone, does it?’

Sarah shook her head, wordlessly. It just means you were stupid, Simon. Again. He read the message in her eyes.

‘So Gary used your shed to hide stolen property,’ Lucy confirmed. ‘So what about this balaclava your mother found there? And the watch and the ring?’

‘I told you, I was sick of it! I don’t know nowt about them!’

Sarah spoke for the first time. ‘You told me you might have made a hood, Simon. Don’t you remember? For a laugh , you said.’

‘I was just winding you up, mum. Forget it.’

‘Winding me up! For Christ’s sake, the police think that hood was used in a rape! And they say it’s got your hairs in it!’

‘What?’

Lucy squeezed Sarah’s arm hard under the table, but it was too late. The diplomatic approach had ended. Sarah explained what Terry had told her about the hairs. ‘They’re the same colour as yours — red-gold — short like yours is, and they were found in your shed. Can you blame them for thinking it you who wore that hood?’

Simon shook his head wordlessly, looking wildly around the room as if for exoneration from some invisible audience. Sarah continued, remorselessly. ‘So if you did make it and wear it as a joke , Simon, you’d better tell Lucy how it happened, because otherwise …’

‘It was a stupid joke, Mum. I didn’t mean it.’

‘What was the joke? Wearing the hood or telling me you wore it?’

‘Telling you I did. It’s not true, OK? I didn’t even know the bloody thing was there!’

‘Oh, Simon, Simon.’ Sarah shook her head sadly. ‘How am I to believe you?’

‘If you don’t believe me, Mum, I don’t want you here. You just make it worse.’ He looked at Lucy. ‘Maybe she should go.’

Lucy compromised. ‘Your mum’s almost the only person who does believe you, Simon. Without her you’ll have no friends left. But you did promise to be quiet, Sarah. Remember?’

‘OK, OK.’ Sarah held up her hands. ‘Fine. You talk, I’ll listen. But remember, Simon, Lucy can only defend you if you tell her a story that makes sense, and is preferably true. So no more stupid jokes, for God’s sake, now.’

‘Do you see me laughing?’

‘Simon, just let me get this right,’ Lucy continued. ‘You’re telling us that you never wore the balaclava, so the hairs inside it can’t possibly be yours. Is that it?’