A Game of Proof

‘Yes. They asked if I recognized you. Here.’ She handed him the lock of hair. Anything to gain a little time, live a little longer. ‘Did you kill her, really?’ She made her voice sound as if it was some heroic, wonderful feat. The phone was only a foot away now.

He sniffed the hair, then slipped it into his pocket. ‘Clever girl. But that’s not all I did.’

‘Not all?’

‘No. Don’t forget the others.’

‘What others? Who do you mean?’ Only a foot to the phone now, on the bedside table behind her. She could reach it easily. The problem was how to distract him long enough to dial. And then what?

‘For example this girl they’re having the trial about now. Jasmine Hurst.’

‘You killed Jasmine Hurst?’

‘With this very knife. Look at it, Sharon, I brought it specially for you. Sharp, isn’t it?’’

As she moved backwards, he stepped towards her, round the side of the bed. The knife was only an arm’s length from her throat. If she picked up the phone, she’d be dead before she could dial. But if she didn’t dial, she’d die anyway.

‘I can see you trembling, Sharon. I like that.’

Her mind was racing so fast she was aware of everything, every tiny movement of his face and hands, even while she was thinking what to do. Everyone said you should humour people like this, make a relationship with them if you could. As long as he still wanted to talk to her she would stay alive.

‘The papers call me the Hooded Rapist, you know. But you can see my face.’

‘The Hooded Rapist? But he attacked other people, didn’t he?’

‘A few, so far. That girl Whitaker who had such a lucky escape. And you, the first time.’

‘Me?’ The phone was directly behind her now. She could feel it against her thigh. Very carefully, with her left hand, she began to shift the receiver off its cradle. Thank God the buttons were on the base of the phone, not the handset. If she was lucky she might manage to press 9 three times without him noticing. If only she could keep him talking.

‘What do you mean, me, the first time?’

‘You may as well sign the paper for Gary, you know. After all, it’s true what it says. About him not raping you.’

‘What?’

Yes, the handset was off now. He was mad, but she didn’t care what he said, so long as he said something, to mask the dialling tone. Her fingers fumbled behind her. Where was 9? Bottom right, wasn’t it? Or was that those star and hash things?

‘Yes, it was me that raped you that night, Sharon. Not our friend Gary, as you thought. The joke was on him, don’t you think?’

‘You? But it wasn’t you, I recognized him!’

‘By his voice, right?’ He laughed, and held his left arm in front of his mouth, so that the sleeve muffled his voice. To her astonishment he said, in a Yorkshire accent, very like Gary’s: ‘Wayne, go away.’

The memory of that night flooded back — this man after all, not Gary. He hadn’t ejaculated then, either, had he? He just pulled out and hit me in the face.

More keenly she remembered the way her little son had fought back. A desperate surge of adrenalin rushed through her. Thank God Wayne was at school; but Katie was downstairs, and she was all they had, both of them.

‘Oh God, help me.’ She slumped down on the bed, making it look like a faint, though it wasn’t really, not yet. Her hair fell forwards over her face and she glanced quickly under it at the phone. Nine wasn’t at the bottom right, but the next one up. She leaned sideways and dropped her hand over the phone, as though accidentally, fumbling for balance.

‘But why?’ Her finger pressed 9 three times. ‘Why did you do that?’

‘For fun, that’s all. For a bet, Sharon, because Gary was pissed with you, and didn’t have the guts to do it himself. Just like now. Only now, you know all about me, don’t you, Sharon? So you could tell everyone.’

He moved closer, the tip of the long, serrated knife flicking her left nipple. She clutched the scissors and stared at him, trying to think of something to say. Anything at all, to save her life.

‘Emergency services. Do you need fire, police or ambulance?’ the telephone asked.

Terry and Harry were stuck in slow-moving traffic. Terry edged the car to the middle of the road, to see if he could overtake. But there was a traffic island just ahead, and a steady stream of cars coming the other way. Frustrated, he drummed his fingers on the wheel.

‘Ask Tracy what’s happening now,’ he said. ‘Is Sean still inside the house?’

Harry dialled the number. The response stumped him.

‘No signal, sir. Either that or she’s got it switched off.’

‘Hell’s teeth! What the bloody hell would she do that for?’

‘No idea, sir, I’m afraid.’

Sarah found it hard to listen to the judge’s summing up. She had made such a mess of things, she had let Simon down. It had all been going so well, too — she had overcome her nerves, controlled her voice, had the jury’s attention focussed on her. She had made all the points she wanted to, and then …

She couldn’t understand what had happened. She had choked, like an athlete in sight of the winning tape. She had forgotten her conclusion, lost all energy and conviction at that vital moment. She had never even meant to mention David Brodie and when Turner had interrupted her, she’d had no response. Simon would go to prison because she had let him down.

‘And so, members of the jury, the guilt or innocence of this defendant is entirely a matter for you. It is a heavy responsibility which I am sure you will approach with the utmost seriousness. There is no hurry; you should consider the evidence thoroughly, and take as long as you need. Your verdict should be one on which you all agree. Now, the usher will conduct you to a room to begin your deliberations.’

As the jury left, Turner caught Sarah’s eye. ‘That’s us finished. No hard feelings, I hope?’

‘They’re all hard, Phil. Always will be.’ She turned away, cutting him dead. It was not the way barristers were meant to behave but then barristers were not meant to defend their own sons. She understood why now, better than she’d ever done.

As the court emptied, she walked back to the dock. ‘I’m sorry, Simon. I blew it.’

‘What? No, Mum, you were great.’ His face, was tense, but not downcast.

She frowned at the security guards. ‘I’ll talk to you downstairs, then.’

‘Yeah, OK. We’ll have one of those five-star lunches.’

The fact that he was cheerful, even hopeful, hurt her more. She watched him go down to the cells below, the way he would go when he was convicted in few hours time. Then, dragging her wig from her head, she walked disconsolately out of court, with Lucy at her side.

At last the traffic cleared, and with some risky, assertive driving from Terry they reached the street. They parked a few spaces behind Tracy’s blue Clio. Terry called her on her mobile. This time she answered.

‘All right, Trace, we’re here. What’s happened?’

‘Nothing much, sir, since I phoned in.’

‘Nobody gone in or out?’

‘No, sir. Like I said, Sean if that’s who it is went in there about ten, fifteen minutes ago, and Gary’s still in that van …’

‘Not now he isn’t,’ Harry broke in, looking over his shoulder. ‘He’s got out, look! He’s going up to the house.’

Terry looked, and saw Gary disappear through the front door. Now what, he asked himself. ‘Do you think he’s seen us?’

‘Could well be, sir,’ Harry suggested. ‘After all he knows you and me well enough.’

‘Damn,’ Terry muttered. What to do now? It was bad enough Sean being in that house with Sharon and her kids, but Gary too? The question was, should he wait for them to come out, call for back-up, or go in straight away? If they didn’t know they were being watched, he could wait, but if they did there was no sense just dithering about here any longer.

‘Come on,’ he said, opening the door as he spoke. ‘We’re going in.’