Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘Mandy. Mandy Kite.’

When at last Mandy had gone Sarah sat with Larry and Emily. Bob, who had refused to have anything to do with the woman, was making a curry in the kitchen.

‘Well,’ Emily said. ‘What do you think?’

Sarah looked up from her notes. ‘I think,’ she said slowly. ‘That it’s promising, but it may mean nothing at all.’

‘Mum? Emily frowned, puzzled. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Sarah chewed her lip thoughtfully. ‘What you want it to mean, is that this David Brodie killed Jasmine, not Simon.’

Emily nodded energetically. ‘Yes, exactly. You heard her, Mum — he had a row with her, he was furious, he marched off to look for her and sort things out …’

‘But we don’t know if he found her, do we?’

‘Well, he was looking.’

‘According to Mandy. Not according to his statement to the police, though. I’ve seen it.’

‘So he’s lying!’ Emily burst out. ‘Of course he would if he killed her, wouldn’t he?’

Sarah studied her quietly. ‘It’s exactly what they say about Simon, isn’t it? That he killed her because he’s jealous, and then lied?’

Emily looked crestfallen. ‘Yes, but …’

‘But like me, you don’t want to believe it. You want to blame someone else. But to do that we need proof. Look, Emily, I’ve made notes and we’ll get a proper statement from her in Lucy’s office tomorrow. Then Simon’s barrister can decide what to do with it. It may be useful but an allegation like that can also be very cruel.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, just think, Emily. What if this David didn’t do it and a lawyer says he did, how would that feel?’

‘It’s what your mother calls the game of proof,’ said Bob tactlessly from the kitchen door. ‘Other people call it lying to save your skin.’

‘Dad!’ Emily flared angrily. ‘We’re trying to save Simon! ’

‘Which is all very well,’ said Bob gently. ‘If you don’t ruin other people’s lives in the process. We all want to save Simon if he’s innocent, but …’ He paused. A silence, electric with bitter unspoken arguments, crackled between them.

Carefully, to avoid an explosion, Sarah said: ‘There’s a lot of evidence which seems to suggest Simon’s guilt, but when it’s examined in court it may look rather different. And apart from this David Brodie, there’s at least one other possible suspect. A man called Gary Harker.’

‘The man you defended?’ Emily asked.

Sarah nodded. Her eyes met Bob’s in an unspoken compact. Emily didn’t know that Garry had assaulted her. She’d explained her bruises as an accident with her bike — there were scratches on the petrol tank to prove it. She didn’t want Emily to know. Bob, for once, supported her.

‘That’s just a coincidence,’ he said. ‘Obviously when your mother defended him she had no idea he might do this, if he did. Now come on, sit up. I don’t often cook but when I do I expect it to be treated with some respect.’

‘Mum,’ Emily’s eyes were bright with anxious curiosity. ‘Why do you think Gary Harker might have done it?’

As they sat at the table Sarah met her daughter’s eyes, and sighed. This wasn’t going to be an easy evening, after all.

But then none of them ever were, any more.

‘Oh, hello. Mr … Bates, isn’t it?’

‘Bateson. Detective Inspector.’

‘Ah yes. Well, come in.’ The slight frown that crossed the woman’s face, Terry thought, was nothing personal. It was to do with the painful memories he brought back.

Ann Slingsby, a well-dressed, motherly woman in her fifties, had been Maria Clayton’s maid until her death last year. Her duties had been to answer the phone, make appointments, clean the house, and when necessary make tea for Maria’s clients when they arrived early, like a receptionist at a private clinic. She showed him into a living room furnished with comfortable flowery armchairs, lovingly polished china ornaments, an array of family photographs and a widescreen television. She poured tea into bone china cups, chattering cheerfully about her recent trip to the United States.

‘But enough of my holiday stories. Have you caught that evil man yet?’

‘Not yet, no. So I’m checking every detail, to see if there’s anything we missed.’

‘Well, you’re lucky to find me, Inspector. Next week I start with an acupuncturist. He rang when I got back. One of Maria’s old clients, you know. Milk?’

‘Please.’ Terry sipped his tea appreciatively. Then he pulled a pink form out of his pocket, with the signature, S. Newby , at the bottom.

‘Now, I believe Maria had a delivery of building materials on 5th March last year …’

An hour later, two things had become clear. In the first place, Ann Slingsby did remember the young man who had delivered building materials on 5th March. A fair-haired young man, she said, quite handsome but a bit uncouth in his manners. She remembered because there had been a problem about where to dump the materials. Maria had been away and left no instructions.

‘Away where?’ Terry asked.

‘Austria, skiing with her daughter. They came back on the 10th. Surely I told you before?’

‘No,’ said Terry, astonished. How could he have missed such a vital point? Presumably because no one had asked about these dates earlier; they hadn’t been important. But if Maria had been in Austria on the 5th, she couldn’t have met Simon. And he was sacked from his job on the 7th, three days before she returned. His connection with Maria’s death, so vital to Churchill’s suspicions, collapsed. So Sarah was hiding nothing after all, Terry thought. Simon never met her.

The second discovery came when he showed Mrs Slingsby the entry in Maria’s diary.

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.

‘The first part seems pretty clear,’ Terry said. ‘A man with some kind of sexual problem, impotence of some kind. But she must have come across that more than once. It would be a speciality of hers, I suppose?’

‘Oh yes, she had her ways, dear.’ A friendly, knowing twinkle came into Ann Slingsby’s eyes. ‘And the last part probably means he asked her to do it outside and she wouldn’t. She had the neighbours to consider, after all.’

‘Yes, well, who do you think he could be, this S ? It’s dated 18th May, after the builders left but about a month before she died. I’ve checked through the appointments book for that day but there’s no client whose name begins with S , or admits to a nickname that does, either.’

‘You asked them all, did you? Poor lambs.’ She took the diary and appointments book, poring over them carefully. ‘No, you’re right. Anyway …’ she looked up, thinking hard. ‘It was around then that I was ill. Didn’t I tell you? Maria had to do all the reception for herself. Only a few days, but it could have been then.’

‘So you can’t guarantee who came on that day?’

‘No. I had tonsilitis, I was feverish. But I remember … oh my goodness, I don’t think I told you this. That delivery driver.’

‘Who? Simon Newby?’

‘No. Not him, I mean the one who came later.’

‘There was another delivery driver? From the same firm?’

‘Yes. Robsons, wasn’t it? He brought the tiles for the roof.’

‘You don’t remember his name?’

‘Sorry, love, no.’ She clicked her lips. ‘Heavens, I should have mentioned him before, shouldn’t I? I never met him, you see, Maria dealt with him. But there was something she said.’

‘What was it?’ Terry asked patiently.