A Game of Proof

papers as the judge turned to thank the jury.

‘Congratulations. A feather in your cap, no doubt.’ With stiff politeness, Julian Lloyd-Davies essayed the smile of the gallant loser.

‘Thanks.’ Sarah thought how in other circumstances she would have been proud — cock-a-hoop with bubbling delight at having achieved such a triumph in the teeth of fierce pre-trial publicity, a prosecution headed by a QC, and firm control of the trial itself by a judge who clearly believed in Gary’s guilt. But with Emily missing, it was ashes in her mouth.

In the foyer, she saw Sharon Gilbert sobbing, supported by her friend. Gary saw Sharon too. He laughed, and jerked his forearm upwards in the traditional footballer’s gesture of triumph — shafted!

Chapter Fourteen

‘So what do they say?’

‘Who? The police? Nothing much.’ Bob’s eyes met hers — dark accusing eyes in a face pale with exhaustion. ‘Do you really care?’

‘Oh come on, Bob, of course I care. What did they say?’

He took a deep breath. ‘The only one who’s said anything of any consequence is that Inspector — Bateson I think his name is, the one who was here this morning. According to him someone saw a young man use that phone box around 10.27 yesterday. But it could have been one of three possible young men who live in Blossom Street. The snag is, none of them are at home. So, as far as I can make out, they’re just sitting outside watching.’

‘Watching?’

‘Waiting for these lads to come back. Ridiculous, isn’t it! Emily might be in one those flats right now. Why don’t you just smash the door down, I said, go in and have a look! This is my daughter you’re talking about, a fifteen year old child! But oh no, they can’t do that, they say. They need a search warrant, they haven’t got enough evidence, they can’t say if these lads have anything to do with at all. I ask you! I ought to go down there myself!’

‘It wouldn’t help, Bob. They have to act within the law. They’re bound to make reasonable attempts to contact the occupants first, before breaking in. That’s how it works.’

‘Law, law, law!’ he yelled. ‘That’s all there is with you, isn’t it? And meanwhile Emily’s been missing for over a day and nobody cares a toss!’

‘Don’t be silly, Bob — I care!’

‘Like hell you do! Off all day in your bloody court. No wonder the kid ran away, when she’s got a mother with ice in her veins!’

‘Bob, please! We don’t know why she went.’

‘Don’t we? No, but I can guess.’ He went to the sideboard and poured himself a whisky. ‘What happened in your wretched trial, anyway?’

‘Not guilty.’ Bob’s face mirrored the expressions she had seen on the face of Judge Gray when the verdict was announced — surprise, followed by consternation and disgust. In the judge’s case the visible signs of these emotions were swiftly smothered by long practice, but in Bob’s they were sustained, open, and bitter.

‘So you got him off, did you? Set a rapist free. I suppose you’re proud of that?’

‘Not proud, no, not exactly, Bob, but …’

‘But you won the fight. Trouble is you thought he was guilty, didn’t you?’

They had discussed the case on a couple of occasions. Calmer occasions, normal evenings. He knew her too well for her to deceive him.

‘He never actually admitted it, Bob. I’m not the jury, I’m his defence.’

‘So now …’ Bob swirled the whisky around his gums, as though he were trying to anaesthetise some toothache. ‘… now your rapist is out there walking free, God knows where, just like our daughter Emily. Makes you feel great, I suppose?’

‘No, of course not …’

‘It makes me sick!’ He finished the drink, strode to the door, and put on his coat.

‘Bob? Where are you going?’

‘Out. To walk along the river bank, look for Emily, anywhere. You stay by the phone, see how you like it!’

‘Bob!’ But he was gone, and didn’t come back for two hours. When he did, the evening and night passed in similar style, with recrimination, sullen silences, and occasional unsuccessful attempts at a truce. Towards dawn Bob fell asleep, exhausted. Then at eight he showered, dressed, and came downstairs.

‘Where are you going?’ Sarah asked, from the armchair where she slumped, gazing at the garden listlessly.

‘To work, like you yesterday. I’ve got some reports to sign, they can’t go off without me. Then … I don’t know. I can’t just sit. You’ll stay here, won’t you?’ It was more of a plea this time, less of an insult.

‘If that’s what you want. I’ll give you a ring if anything happens.’

‘Of course.’

But in the event, that was precisely what she was unable to do.

Terry’s phone rang as he was entering the school playground. Jessica had skipped away with a bright wave and a kiss; but Esther was miserable that morning. It was something about some boys who had torn her book; he had promised to speak to her teacher about it, and her seven-year-old hand gripped his forefinger tightly as they made their way through the screaming, jostling crowd of tiny figures.

Then his mobile rang.

Terry cursed silently. He had told them time and again not to do this unless it was an emergency. He fumbled the phone from his inside pocket. ‘Bateson.’

‘Sir, there’s been a development in that missing child case of yours. They’ve found a body.’

‘Oh no.’ Terry stopped in the middle of the playground. ‘Where?’

‘In some bushes near the river, sir. Not far from where they’re building the new designer outlet. A man walking his dog found it this morning.’

‘What makes you think it’s connected with the Newby case?’

‘Clothing, sir. There’s a car there now. Says it’s a teenage girl with a blue and red jacket like the one in the description you’ve circulated. She’s had her throat cut.’

‘Mr Bateson, good morning! Hello, Esther, how are you today?’ A friendly, motherly woman in a cream blouse and tartan skirt — Esther’s class teacher — approached them, and noticing the anxious look in Esther’s eyes, squatted down to smile at her. ‘Have you come to see me?’

‘OK, I’ll go straight there.’ Terry clicked the phone off and nodded vaguely at the woman. ‘Er, yes, we were, but there’s been a bit of an emergency …’

‘Dad!’ Esther’s grip tightened round his finger and her other hand clutched his wrist. ‘You promised!’

‘Yeah … yeah, OK love.’ He looked down, saw his daughter was near to tears, and scooped her up onto his hip. ‘Can we go inside for a moment?’

‘Of course, follow me.’

In the light, airy classroom decorated with beautifully mounted children’s drawings and stories, hanging mobiles of fish and whales and perfectly arranged exhibits about the sea and the natural world — the topic for this half term — Terry found it hard to concentrate on Esther’s problem of the torn book, and the petty dispute which had led the boys to tear it. But thank goodness the teacher, Mrs Thomson, seemed to have a clear grasp not only of the crime but also, more importantly, of a solution to make everything better. Five minutes later Terry left Esther comfortably ensconced on Mrs Thompson’s knee, and waded out through a cloakroom full of small chattering bodies hanging up their coats and bags.

What a thing it must be to have a job that can make things better, he thought, crossing the playground to his car. What will I tell Sarah Newby, later today? I’m sorry, love, but that child you brought up for fifteen years — she’s lying by the river with her throat cut.