Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

But not tonight, it seemed. He yawned, his mind wandering. Best to stop now, he told himself, before I miss something. He heard Trude put the phone down in the corridor and as she came in he dropped the diary gratefully on the sofa beside him.

‘How’s Odd?’

She smiled. ‘Oh, happy, I think. His team won yesterday so — that makes up for me.’

‘He prefers football to you?’

‘Sometimes, yes, I think he does.’

He gazed at her, astonished — this slender young woman with the cropped teeshirt and provocative, lithe bellybutton. ‘How could he, Trude? That’s really odd, you know.’

‘It is, isn’t it? Let’s hope he’s not bent as well.’

It was an old joke between them. Terry had been bemused to learn that her Norwegian boyfriend was called Odd, and astounded to hear of other boys in Norway called Bent. Later he had learned that she herself had nearly been christened not Trude, but Randi.

He could imagine what the lads at work would have said about that. It was hard enough anyway, sharing a house with a lovely young girl in whose eyes he was, presumably, geriatric. He had wondered sometimes what might happen if she ever cast an erotic glance his way; but sadly, it seemed the thought never entered her head.

‘I’m off to bed soon,’ she said innocently. ‘Would you like a drink, Terry?’

‘A hot chocolate if you’re making one. Thanks.’

While Trude made the drinks Terry thought about his conversation with Sarah earlier that day. Had he been too harsh? No, probably he’d been too soft before. All that guff the other night about Simon being not the type to commit such crimes was just self-deception on his part.

Churchill was right. The lad had assaulted a secretary and hit his girlfriend; why couldn’t he murder as well? He had a problem relating to girls; probably caused by his bitchy, over-achieving mother. I should keep clear; the pair of them are nothing but trouble.

When Trude had gone to bed he picked up the diary and leafed backwards to an entry that had puzzled him earlier. It seemed to refer to one of Maria Clayton’s clients. He read it again.

S big promise, no result. Gets it up but can’t get it out. V frust for him, poor lamb, blames me. Outside? No way, Jose, I say.

What did it mean? Terry wondered. Like many entries it seemed to refer to a client with sexual difficulties. But Maria’s attempts at therapy had caused more frustration, which he apparently blamed on her. Outside? was a little more puzzling. Was the man waiting for her outside the house, and she had told him to leave — No way, Jose, I say ? Or had he, perhaps, wanted to have sex outdoors?

Either way, it was interesting. Maria had refused, leaving the man frustrated; so he might have returned to force himself upon her. And his name, apparently, began with S. Well, there were millions of Samuels and Sidneys and Stephens in the world, and no doubt several had come to Maria. Simon began with S, too. Could he be the client Maria was referring to here?

On reflection, Terry doubted it. Firstly, the diary entry was dated 18th April, a fortnight after Gary and the others had finished the extension, and six weeks since March 5th, Simon’s only recorded visit.

And what about big promise, no result? It seemed to suggest some sort of impotence in the man. Yet everything Terry had learned about Simon suggested a vigorous, healthy, red-blooded young male, violent and aggressive perhaps but hardly someone who, in bed with Maria, would have the slightest difficulty in getting it up. And yet, and yet … what other sexual problems were there? It wasn’t a subject Terry was expert in.

Most of Maria’s clients, he reflected, had been middle-aged men like, well, himself. The ones he felt least sympathy for were those with a wife and children at home, but others had reached their early forties to find themselves single, or divorced, or widowed as he was. Their need for discreet sexual gratification was easy enough to understand.

Easier, at least, than a desire to rape and murder.

He yawned and finished his chocolate. Then he climbed the stairs quietly to the landing, crept into his daughters’ bedroom, and listened for the reassurance of their quiet steady breathing. Trude’s light, he noticed as he came out, was still on under her door. Writing to Odd, perhaps.

He went into his own room, undressed, put on his pyjamas, and climbed wearily into bed.

The inspector smiled. ‘You must be Helen Steersby?’

The girl nodded, and Lucy thought how young she was. Like many fourteen year olds she was long-limbed and gawky but still obviously a child, even if she was tall enough to look adults in the eye. Lucy imagined her being assaulted by a burly young thug in a mask, and shuddered.

Inspector Harvey, in charge of the identification parade, introduced Lucy to the girl and her mother, then explained the procedure. ‘Through that door you’ll find a long window in one wall. Behind that window you’ll see ten young men. They can’t see you, because the window is made of one-way glass. Do you understand that?’

‘Yes,’ Helen said quietly. Her expression, Lucy noted, was anxious, determined, and deeply serious. If she does pick Simon out, she’ll make an impressive witness.

‘I want you to look at each man very carefully, at least twice. There’s no hurry, take as long as you want. It’s quite possible that the man who attacked you isn’t there at all. If he isn’t, just say so.’

‘OK.’

‘But if you do recognize him, tell me the number. Nothing else, just his number. OK?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right then. Mrs Parsons, are you satisfied?’

‘Yes.’ Lucy was here on Simon’s behalf to ensure that everything was done correctly. They went through the door, and saw a row of young men behind the glass, quite unaware of their presence. Each young man wore a black woolly hat. Several wore ear rings but not Simon; Lucy had persuaded him to remove his. Helen peered at them nervously.

Inspector Harvey spoke into a microphone. ‘Would you all stand up, please. Look straight ahead, until I tell you to move again.’

As Helen moved along the line Lucy recalled the photofit that she and Simon had been shown that morning. Only when he had put the woolly hat on, had the likeness become really close. She looked at him now and thought it’s the nose. That flat, prominent nose will give him away. She drove her fingernails into her palm and watched silently.

Helen paused at number two, Simon’s position. She studied him for a long, long time before moving on. It’s all over , Lucy thought, she’s recognized him . But the girl was very conscientious. She spent almost as much time on each one. When she reached the end she looked questioningly at Inspector Harvey.

‘Look again carefully, Helen. We’ve got all the time in the world.’

Helen walked slowly back along the line. She looked long and hard at Simon, but equally long and hard at number 7 who also had a large nose, and at two others whose noses were not prominent at all. Then she looked a third time, and turned to Inspector Harvey.

‘He’s not here.’

Lucy breathed a silent sigh of relief.

‘You can’t identify any of these men as the one who attacked you?’

‘No. I’m sorry, but you did say …’ The girl looked crestfallen, on the verge of tears.

‘Yes, of course, Helen, that’s fine. It’s very sensible and honest of you.’ Despite himself, he sighed. ‘That’s it, then. If you’d like to come this way …’

‘She didn’t pick any of them?’ Churchill asked incredulously.

‘Sorry, no.’ Inspector Harvey dropped his report on the desk. Churchill ignored it.