Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘Yes.’

‘OK. Well, the hairs have been sent for DNA tests, so we’ll know in a few weeks whether they’re yours or not. They can tell to within one probability in several hundred thousand, which makes it virtually certain. Do you still say they’re not yours?’

However gently put, it was a killer question, as both Sarah and Lucy knew. They watched keenly for his response. To their surprise it came swiftly. ‘Yes, sure. They can’t be mine, I never wore it.’ When they didn’t react immediately he looked at them in astonishment. ‘OK?’

Lucy recovered first. ‘Good. If you’re right then the test will prove you’re innocent of any crimes connected with the hood. That’s the great thing about DNA testing; it works both ways.’

A brief, nervous smile crossed Simon’s face. ‘Good news at last, then. So what are you two getting your knickers in such a twist for?’

‘Because we’re worried for you, Simon. The police are trying to use the evidence of this hood, and the things in your shed, to pin more crimes on you. It’s only because your mum found out what they’re thinking that we’re able to ask you these questions now, before they do.’

Simon looked dazed. ‘ More crimes? Like what?’

‘Do you know Sharon Gilbert?’

‘Who?’

‘The woman who was raped. Your mum defended him. Remember?’

‘Oh, yes, her.’ Simon’s look of confusion turned to incredulity. ‘No, of course I don’t. I saw her in court, that’s all. Right slapper, I thought.’

‘So you’ve never met her or talked to her in any way?’

‘ No!’ He stared from one to the other in astonishment. ‘And I didn’t rape her either, for heaven’s sake! I thought Gary did it.’

‘He was acquitted.’ Lucy shifted in her chair, uncomfortably. ‘This all stems from the hairs in that hood, Simon, you see. If they’re yours, they may try to prove that you raped that woman. Whoever did it was masked, after all, with a hood like the one found in your shed. From their point of view it’ll clear another crime off their books. So if they are your hairs …’

‘Well they’re not and I didn’t. For Christ’s sake! Isn’t it enough that I’m charged with murdering Jasmine?’

‘That’s not the end of the story, I’m afraid. About a year ago, did you do some building repairs at the university?’

Sarah studied the expression on shock and confusion on Simon’s face closely. It seemed genuine, but she no longer trusted her own judgement. Nothing seemed real any more. Was he really perplexed, or had he become, as so many people did, a consummate actor under the pressure of the fight to preserve his freedom?

If I no longer believe him,what will I do then?

‘A bit, yeah. Some pointing, refixing window frames, and a wall to rebuild. Why?’

‘You remember the police coming round? About a student called Karen Whitaker?’

‘I remember the girl,’ said Simon slowly.

‘What do you remember, Simon?’

‘She was attacked in the woods — oh God!’ He stood up abruptly. ‘They’re not saying I did that too? This is bloody ridiculous!’

‘What the police say, Simon, is that Gary saw some nude pictures in her room, and showed them to his mates. Like you. You all had a laugh about them. Do you remember that?’

Simon’s face was flushed, there were beads of sweat on his forehead. ‘Yeah, OK, yeah, I remember some nudey pictures. They were all over her room. So what? It’s not a crime, is it?’

‘Not to look, no, Simon. But a few days later someone — maybe a man who saw those photos — attacked the girl and her boyfriend when they were taking some more pictures in the woods. And her attacker was wearing a black balaclava hood.’

‘Oh, I get it. So they think I attacked this girl as well, because this hood was found in my shed with these hairs inside. Is that it?’

‘Yes,’ said Lucy patiently. ‘And the main piece of evidence that they have is another hair. The attacker was trying to bind the girl with tape, and a hair from his arm got stuck on it. So they’re trying to match the DNA from that hair to the DNA from the ones in the hood. And then compare the results from both of these to the sample they took from you.’

‘My God.’ Simon dropped his head into his hands for a moment, then looked up, shaking his head slowly. ‘What’s it like, mum, to have a serial rapist for a son? Will they lock me in a cave with a glass wall, like in Silence of the Lambs? It couldn’t be much worse than this shit hole, could it? Jesus! The world’s gone mad! They don’t just think I murdered Jasmine, but …’

He paused, tears in his eyes, unable to go on. ‘ … God, Jasmine . As if that wasn’t enough. And now this! Rape this Sharon woman, attack this student what’s her name — Whitaker? All because of the hairs in a hood that Gary must have left in my shed, the bastard!’ An idea came to him suddenly. ‘They must be his hairs, mustn’t they? It’s his hood, he did it!’

‘No. His hair’s brown,’ said Lucy quietly. ‘Anyway his DNA doesn’t match Whitaker’s attacker. They’re not his.’

‘Well, they’re not bloody mine either!’ Simon stared at them both furiously, trying to pierce through the masks of concern and sympathy to what they really thought. ‘You’ve got to believe me, all right? Mum? Come on now, this is a load of crap, I didn’t do any of these things! They’re not my hairs in the hood, OK?’

‘OK, Simon,’ Sarah said quietly. ‘If that’s what you say, I believe you.’

‘Thank Christ for that.’ He held her gaze, trying to reassure himself that what she said was really true. She gazed back, trying to do the same in return. Both wanted to believe the other, but neither found that they could quite, completely, manage it.

Simon turned away first, to Lucy. ‘So, is that it, then? All my multiple crimes?’

Lucy sighed. ‘Not quite, Simon, I’m afraid. There are two more they’ll probably want to ask you about. Helen Steersby and Maria Clayton.’

Not for the first time, Churchill was castigating Terry. His ammunition had come to light during further investigations into Simon’s background. Tracy had discovered it, but Churchill latched onto it with delight. Terry sensed the atmosphere as soon as he entered the room.

‘At last! The man himself!’ Churchill was perched on a table, with one foot on a chair and the other swinging free, beaming. Harry Easby and Mike Candor seemed to share his mood, but Tracy looked flushed, embarrassed maybe. She flashed Terry a look which he was unable to interpret — a warning, or a hint of pity, perhaps?

‘You remember how convinced you were, Terence, that our Simon had no connection with any crime except the murder of his girlfriend? He couldn’t possibly be our phantom rapist, you said, he doesn’t have the right profile. No criminal record, and no connection with the first murder, Maria Clayton. Remember that, Terence old son?’

‘Yes. It’s true, isn’t it?’

‘Not any more it isn’t, no siree! Wrong on both counts. Tell me, when you made your list of possible contacts with Maria Clayton, you checked all her clients, right? And then the building workers, of whom friend Harker was one?’

‘Yes,’ Terry agreed cautiously.

‘But what you didn’t check, old son, was who delivered things to those building workers. They needed bricks, sand, cement, all that kind of stuff. And they didn’t collect it themselves, they had it delivered from a builders’ merchant called Robsons. Who just happened to employ, for a period of three weeks, guess who?’

A sick, empty feeling flooded Terry’s stomach. ‘Not Simon Newby?’