Tim Vicary - A Game of Proof

‘Not about that, no. Like me, he thinks we may have been mistaken to see these crimes as part of a series. But he still thinks he has enough evidence to convict Simon for the murder of Jasmine. I imagine he’s treating it as a crime of passion again, just as he did at the beginning.’

‘So the prosecution’s still going ahead?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even though it could have been Gary? You said so yourself, remember?’

‘Yes, well that’s the other piece of bad news, I’m afraid. I’ve checked his alibi for the night of Jasmine’s death and for once it seems to add up. Five witnesses saw him in the private room of the Lighthorseman until after midnight, celebrating his acquittal. I’m sorry, Sarah.’

‘Oh.’ There was a pause. In the lounge, Terry could hear Trude reading to his daughters. ‘But you say Gary’s hair was in the balaclava too,’ Sarah resumed thoughtfully, remembering the night he had attacked her in the shed.

‘Yes. Which is more proof that he raped Sharon, if we needed it.’

There was a silence on the other end of the phone.

‘The jury decided on the evidence presented to them at the time, Terry. Which is less than we know now.’

‘And that’s my fault, is that what you’re saying?’

‘I’m not saying anything. Look, we’re neither of us perfect, but what concerns me is Simon’s defence. You said yourself you didn’t believe he could have killed Jasmine.’

This time, the silence came from Terry’s end. With every second, Sarah’s pain increased.

‘Terry?’

‘What I think I said was, I didn’t believe he was the type to attack a range of women. I’ve been proved right on that. But for a single attack on his girlfriend, perhaps in jealous rage …’

Moments like this, Terry thought, are crueller over the telephone. Her voice came back at him tinny, bitter, distant. ‘I thought you were on my side, Terry.’

‘I’m on the side of the truth. I have to be. That’s my job.’

‘And I’m just Simon’s mother, which makes me blind, I suppose. Look, just because Gary didn’t do it, it doesn’t mean that Simon did. What about David Brodie, Terry? He had a motive — jealousy, because Jasmine was two-timing him with Simon. Dozens of times, it seems.’

‘Have you met him, Sarah? He’s a nurse — clean, house-trained, inoffensive …’

‘So was Dr Crippen, probably.’

‘Yes, but he used poison, not a knife. Jasmine was a big girl, athletic, probably stronger than him …’

‘Jealousy can fire people up,’ said Sarah desperately. ‘What if I told you I had a witness who saw this David Brodie full of anger, stalking off to find Jasmine a few hours before her death?’

‘Then I’d suggest you investigate further,’ said Terry slowly. ‘Tell Churchill, if you’re sure it adds up to something. In the meantime he’s still got the blood on the shoes and the knife, and the semen, and the fact that Simon was the last person to be seen with her before he ran off to Scarborough. He’s dead set on it, Sarah. It’s a strong case to upset with a little bit of incidental jealousy.’

‘But if it’s all I’ve got, Terry?’

‘Then I wish you luck. If it leads to the truth, at least.’

And that, Sarah thought, was the difference between them. He, as a moderately decent policeman, had the moral luxury of an objective search for the truth, whatever it might turn out to be; she, on the other hand, was committed to Simon’s innocence.

There had been many moments over the past few weeks when she had doubted him; but as a lawyer she was used to that. You don’t ask clients if they’re innocent; you ask how they wish to plead. Then you present their case to the best of your ability. The search for truth is conducted by the court and the jury, the lawyer is supposed to be biased.

But when the lawyer is a mother too — well, that’s just more of the same. Simon may be a liar, she thought, violent, unstable, and downright stupid at times — but he’s not a murderer, he can’t be.

I couldn’t live with that.

The more Terry thought about his meeting with Ann Slingsby, the happier he felt. It wasn’t the exquisite tea or the pat on the bottom which cheered him, though both were welcome; it was the priceless jewel of information which had not only confounded Churchill but might also, with luck, solve the Clayton murder, all in one go.

There had been a second delivery driver — something that Tracy had missed! And not only had this man delivered tiles to Maria’s house when she was at home — unlike Simon Newby — but he had also, apparently, had sex with her and had a sexual problem! If that wasn’t a suspect, what was?

On the way to the builder’s merchant, Robsons, a second thought struck him. What if this same driver had delivered building materials to the university lodgings where Karen Whitaker lived? Might as well check those dates too.

The receptionist at Robsons was uncooperative. A burly girl with fat legs and a hint of a moustache, she kept him waiting for nearly five minutes while fiddling with some paperwork which she didn’t seem to understand. The employment clerk in the back office seemed brighter, but worried somehow. He checked the two addresses and sets of dates Terry gave him, and fished some delivery notes out of the files. He laid them before Terry reluctantly.

‘There you are, that’s them.’

The handwriting on each was identical. So it was the same driver, Terry noted with a pulse of excitement. ‘What’s this signature at the bottom? The driver’s name?’

The man inspected it in surprise, as though wondering why it was there. ‘Hard to read, isn’t it? Just a scrawl. Some of these lads are barely literate, you know.’

Terry had met this sort of response before. ‘Look, I’m not from the DSS or the Revenue, OK? This is a murder enquiry. So if you’re going to be obstructive …’

The scales seemed to lift from the man’s eyes. ‘Irish fellow — name of Sean … something.’

‘Sean what?’

‘Ah well, there’s the problem, see. He’ll have wanted to avoid tax, you see … we wouldn’t keep a record.’

‘I thought they had a special Irish card, for that?’

‘That was in the old days, before 1999. Most of them were forgeries but no one ever checked. But now the Revenue’s tightened up; it’s not just a card but a proper booklet with photo, name, address, everything. They need a passport and a driver’s licence to get it — and a utility bill, to prove their address over here, see?’

‘So? Didn’t this Sean fellow have one of these?’

‘Ah, well, no, that’s just it.’ The clerk gave him a wry, embarrassed grin. ‘The Revenue think they’ve solved this problem of the lump by making the paperwork hard to get, but it’s just driven them underground. Most of these lads can’t produce a utility bill even if they want to — either they share lodgings or they’re not over here long enough. Anyway why should they go to all this trouble just to pay tax? They just don’t bother with cards any more. But they’re still there, looking for work, and we’re short-handed So …’ He shrugged apologetically.

‘You pay them under the counter, no questions asked?’

‘Your words, not mine. No address, no phone number, nothing.’

‘But you let this man drive. You must have seen his licence!’

‘Oh, yes, of course, but …’ The man shrugged again. ‘I didn’t keep it, did I?’

Terry sighed. ‘Well, at least you can give me a description. Or I will tell the Revenue.’

The man held up his hands. ‘Look, in a murder case, no question. I’ll get some lads too. There’s several knew him. When he left us he worked for MacFarlane’s, I think.’