‘Might have done. So?’ A look of devious cunning spread across Gary’s face. ‘Oh, I get it. You’re after him for that, too, are yer? And the murder — is that it?’
‘Maybe,’ Terry admitted cautiously. ‘Some evidence points that way.’
‘Like the evidence that said I did it, eh?’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Where’s that now, then?’
Terry hesitated. There was no easy answer. But if he had nothing to say Gary suddenly had plenty. His face flushed with anger as he realised what Terry was admitting.
‘All these months you’ve been after me for them two and now you change your mind, just like that? What about a fucking apology then, Inspector Shitarse Bateson? The word’s
‘Oh, come on, Gary, you did rape her! I’ve not changed my mind on that, no one has!’
Gary glared at him. ‘You daft pillock! You don’t know shit, do yer?’
This was going as badly as Terry had feared it might. He was glad he had Harry with him. ‘Look, Gary, all I want is a bit of help to find this lad Sean. These are serious crimes we’re investigating. If he’s innocent, he’s got nothing to fear.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Gary spat into the fireplace. ‘You say that, after the shit you’ve given me.’
Terry sighed. ‘Where is he, Gary? Is he in York now?’
‘Even if I knew, which I don’t, you’re the last person I’d bloody tell.’ Gary supped his beer contemptuously. ‘So if that’s it, Mr Bateson, I suggest you take yon poodle and clear out of here. All right?’
Sarah’s spare bedroom overlooked the drive, where Larry’s old hatchback was parked. She could hear music in Emily’s bedroom. The judge’s ruling had upset the young people badly. They had found Ian Jinks and Mandy Kite, and believed that Brodie was Jasmine’s killer. Sarah knew she should spend time talking through their disappointment. But time was something she didn’t have, any more. Tomorrow she would put her only witness, Simon, on the stand. They had only one chance. If they messed it up, they would lose, for certain.
This room had once been Simon’s. She sat at the desk they had bought for him to do his homework, checking her questions for tomorrow, imagining his answers, puzzling over the most effective way to present his case. She made notes, pressing the pencil hard into the paper.
Annoyingly, the lead snapped. She searched the desk drawers for a sharpener. Nothing useful, of course. The first drawer was empty, the second contained motorcycle magazines — the sort where the female riders wore boots and nothing else — the third contained an old brown envelope. Idly, she emptied the contents onto the desk.
It was full of old photographs. Surprised, she spread them out. They were almost all of Simon as a child. Simon aged five, going to school; Simon playing football in the park at Seacroft; Simon with bucket and spade in Blackpool, on a rare family holiday; Simon in Bob’s mother’s kitchen with his face covered with chocolate, trying to bake a cake. They were photographs she hadn’t seen for years.
The door opened softly behind her and Bob came in. ‘What are you doing?’
She sighed. ‘I was writing my notes. Then I found these.’
‘What are they?’ He came to look, over her shoulder.
‘They were in Simon’s drawer. He must have put them there, once upon a time.’
‘Are they all of him?’
She sifted through some more: Simon holding baby Emily in his arms; Simon and Bob reading a book; Simon in a Leeds United football shirt.
‘It looks like, it, yes,’ Sarah said. ‘I didn’t know we had so many.’
‘That’s because he’s put them here. They must have meant something to him, at the time.’
‘Yes.’ A painful thought struck her. ‘There don’t seem to be many of me.’
It was true. There were plenty of Simon alone; a few of him with grandparents or Bob; but only two of him with Sarah. One was of Simon as a baby, clutched in the arms of a mini-skirted Sarah who looked younger than Emily was today; and the other was of a gangly teenager, standing sullenly beside a beaming mother in mortar board and gown receiving her law degree.
‘Where are the rest?’ she murmured, distressed. ‘Surely there are more than this?’
‘Maybe he took them with him.’
‘Or maybe there weren’t any. I was always so busy studying, I didn’t have time. He said that to me in prison, a while ago.’
‘Well, you’re making up for it now,’ said Bob softly.
‘Yes, years too late.’ She shovelled the photos back into the envelope and picked up her pad, then threw it down in disgust. ‘What does it matter? I’m as ready now as I ever will be.’
She saw a stray photo under the pad, and pulled it out. It was of Bob, lying on the ground between two goal posts, having failed to save a shot from a triumphant ten year old Simon.
‘He was your project, in those days.’ She turned to face him. ‘What happened, Bob?’
‘He grew past the point where I could help him. Now only you can.’
‘
‘Let’s not talk about it. I shouldn’t have poked my nose in.’
‘I only did it for Simon.’
‘I understand that. You’re the lawyer, I’m not. Only …’ He shook his head.
‘Only it was a cruel thing to do to David Brodie. Is that what you were going to say?’
‘Sarah, please. I don’t want to quarrel.’
‘Of course you’re right. I’m not so stupid that I can’t see that, Bob. The trouble is that being a lawyer makes you see morality … in a more complex way than you probably do.’
For a while they sat silent. Emily’s bedroom door opened and footsteps went downstairs.
‘Well, there’s an admission. You mean you don’t really think Brodie did it at all?’
‘There’s no proof that he did, Bob, is there?’
‘So who did it then, if Simon didn’t?’
‘God knows. But all that’s left, now, is his assertion that he didn’t. Tomorrow he’s going to try to make the jury believe him. If he can’t do that, he’s finished.’
There was another, longer silence. Outside the window, they heard Larry and Emily talking quietly. Then Larry’s car door slammed and he drove away. Emily came upstairs and went into her bedroom.
Bob put his hands on her shoulders, kneading the tense muscles gently. ‘I’d hate to do what you do. You carry the whole world on these, don’t you?’
He used to be good at this, she remembered. Before they both became so busy, and the children tore them apart. She leaned into the massage, letting her arms relax.
‘You don’t have to sleep in here, you know,’ he said after a while. ‘It makes me lonely too. Why not come back and join me?’
‘All right, maybe I will.’ She touched his hand to stop him, kissed his fingers, and straightened up. ‘I’ll come when I’ve finished this.’
Two hours later, she crept into bed beside her sleeping husband.
Chapter Forty
Simon walked quite calmly to the witness stand. His face was pale, but that was a prison pallor due to many weeks on remand. He read the oath in a clear, slightly subdued voice. Then he looked up, taking in the crowded public gallery, full of eyes that had been above him in the dock, and focused his attention on his mother.
She began at the heart of the matter.
‘Simon, you have heard the prosecution claim that you murdered Jasmine Hurst. Is that true? Did you kill her?’
‘No, I did not.’ The voice was firm, a little louder than before. The jury, she knew, were watching and listening intently; not so much for what he said, but for the conviction with which he said it.
