Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘The very same, old son. The very same.’

‘But … for three weeks, you say?’ Terry floundered feebly. ‘Was that the same period …’ The triumph on Churchill’s face told him the answer before he had finished the question.

‘More or less, yes. We’ll come to that. But first, Tracy here has charmed their manager into showing her all his delivery notes, and — you guessed it — the driver who delivered two separate loads to Maria’s house was none other than Simon Newby. We’ve got the sheets, look, with his signature on both.’

Terry took the two pink sheets, stunned. The signature S Newby was quite plain at the bottom of each. He looked up, catching Tracy’s eye. He saw what the anguished expression her face meant now. It was an apology, and underneath that an expression of pity. I didn’t mean to show you up, her face was saying, but what could I do? These are the facts, and we should have discovered them before.

Worse was to come.

‘You haven’t asked why he only worked for three weeks,’ Churchill prompted gloatingly.

But you’re going to tell me, Terry thought. ‘All right, why?’

Churchill nodded to Tracy. ‘Your discovery. You tell him.’

In a cool, neutral voice Tracy said: ‘He was dismissed after a complaint from a female employee. She says he felt her legs, and sexually harassed her.’

‘But why isn’t this on the computer?’ Terry asked. ‘He hasn’t got a record — I checked.’

‘The manager didn’t want a fuss. He gave young Simon his cards the same day, and said if he ever came back he’d call the police. So that was that.’

‘My God.’ Terry sank down on a chair. ‘What day was that?’

‘March 7th. Two days before they started work on the extension. But it still gives him a link to Maria Clayton, doesn’t it?’

Terry nodded numbly. ‘Have you got this woman’s statement?’

Tracy passed him a sheet of paper. ‘Here.’ As Terry read, his nausea increased. The image of Sarah Newby came back to him, standing slim, upright and alone outside her son’s house, protesting his innocence. What had he thought, as he left? She’ll grow old like that, no career, no family, all alone.

And then a second thought, worse than the first. Had she known about this, when they met? Had she already known her son had lost a job for — what did this statement say? He touched my legs from behind when I was bent over picking something up, and when I protested he grabbed my wrists and asked if I’d let him fuck me.

Wonderful! And he’d told Sarah that in his — Terry’s — judgement her son couldn’t have committed these crimes, because he just wasn’t like that. How could his judgement be so wrong? Because — face it, Terry — you were infatuated by the boy’s mother, so you wanted it to be true. You were trying to please her. But if she knew about this, she must have been laughing up her sleeve as I spoke, taking me for a sucker all along.

Dear God, Terry thought. I can’t do this job any more. I’ve lost my touch.

With deep satisfaction, Churchill was watching Terry’s reaction. ‘Don’t take it personally, old son,’ he said, in his oiliest manner. ‘The world is full of surprises.’

‘I read about it in the paper, that’s all,’ said Simon firmly. ‘No more than that.’

‘You never met this woman, Maria Clayton, then?’ Lucy asked, patiently.

Simon shook his head. ‘Not that I remember, no.’

‘Never went to her house, worked on any buildings there?’

‘What’s the address again?’

‘47, Flaxton Gardens. It’s in Strensall.’

‘I’ve had that many jobs … but no. No, I never worked there.’

‘And Gary didn’t talk to you about her?’

‘No.’

‘All right.’ Lucy made a brief note on her pad. ‘Well, as far as we know, that’s the only possible connection between you and Maria Clayton — the fact that you know Gary who did some building work there. It’s not much, so let’s forget it. But then there’s Helen Steersby.’

‘Another one?’ Simon shook his head wearily. ‘It’s daft, all this.’

‘DCI Churchill doesn’t think so. It seems that a schoolgirl, Helen Steersby, was accosted by a man when she was riding her pony in the woods, not far from the shopping development. He tried to pull her off her pony, but she hit him with her riding crop and rode away.’

‘What’s this got to do with me?’ Simon asked wearily.

‘Nothing, I hope. But the girl made a photofit of what she thought the man looked like. And since they claim it looks a bit like you, they want you to go in for an identity parade.’

‘They’re screwy,’ said Simon, putting a finger to his forehead and turning it like a screwdriver. ‘Totally screwless. If they lose any more their heads’ll drop off.’ He laughed manically, gratified to draw a faint smile from Lucy.

‘So you didn’t attack a young girl on a pony? On…’ She checked her notes. ‘9th March?’

‘As it happens, no, I didn’t. It was only little lasses on elephants that day. And giraffes.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘Look, can’t you just stop it, all of it? I didn’t even know any of these bloody women, let alone rape them or murder them or drag them off their stupid ponies. I didn’t hurt anyone except Jasmine. Christ!’

He got abruptly from his chair again and drummed his fists on the wall, hard, so that flakes of plaster floated down. Then he noticed that both women had fallen silent, staring at him.

‘What?’

Sarah drew a deep breath. ‘You said you hurt Jasmine, Simon.’

‘Oh. Yeah, well I mean I hit her, mum. In the street, you know that.’

‘And that’s all?’

‘Of course that’s all! Jesus!’ He kicked the chair aside with a crash, and leaned forward, both hands on the table, glaring into his mother’s face. ‘You said you believed me, didn’t you?’

‘I’m trying to, Simon. You’re not making it easy.’

‘Well try harder, can’t you? I’ve got no one else.’

Once again their eyes locked. All Sarah could see was the face of an angry, hurt young man, thrust deliberately forward a few inches from her own. The smack of the chair hitting the wall still rang in her ears, and the sense of rage and injustice radiated from him so palpably that if she had not been his mother he would have terrified her.

She wondered how Jasmine would have coped with this level of fury from her lover. Was this why she left? Or had she — arrogant, beautiful, self-centred young woman that she was — actually enjoyed the reaction she could arouse? Maybe she even got a thrill out of his rage and the occasional slap or blow that she received, because it proved that she, not he, had emotional control. Was that why she had behaved as she did with David Brodie and Simon, playing games with the jealousy of both? Perhaps she enjoyed the game and wanted to see how much rage and jealousy she could provoke. That was very like the Jasmine Sarah remembered. Had she simply pushed the situation too far, tested Simon quite literally to destruction — the destruction of her own life?

Sarah had never articulated this fear to herself so clearly before. Now it came all at once. It was the best explanation so far. And his own words had led to it. She gazed back at him coldly.

Lucy tried again. ‘Sit down, Simon, please. We can’t discuss these things in a rage.’

‘I’m not in a bloody rage. I just want to be believed, that’s all.’ Slowly Simon withdrew from his aggressive crouch over the table, picked up the chair, and straddled it, still glowering at his mother.

‘Thank you. Now look, if we’re going to defend you, we have to do a number of things. Firstly, we have to be sure that you’re going to plead not guilty. Because if you did kill Jasmine, we can mount a completely different defence, claiming that she provoked you and you didn’t know what you were doing. You understand all that?’