A Game of Proof

‘Is there anything I can help you with?’

‘Mum, it’s better if I do it on my own, honest. We’d only quarrel.’

‘Well, maybe Larry knows some history. Are you going to see him today?’

As Emily nodded, the phone rang. She got up, a slice of toast in her hand. ‘I bet that’s him. Hello? Oh, Simon! God, where are you? Yes, she’s here.’

As she passed the phone over Emily noticed her mother sway for a second in shock; but the hint of weakness was gone as soon as it came. With a recovery so complete it was almost a change of personality, Sarah’s voice became crisp, sharp, businesslike.

‘Yes. Right. I’ll get someone down there right away. In the meantime say nothing to anyone. Do you understand? Just say your solicitor’s coming and you can’t answer any questions until you’ve spoken to her. And you’re entitled to food and rest and decent treatment so if you don’t get it, ask to see the custody sergeant. Say if you’re not treated properly there’ll be a complaint. And Simon — I’ll be coming too.’

As Lucy Sampson entered the main police station, she was relieved not to see a reporter. But it was only a matter of time. Few of her clients came from middle-class families, and when they did, in a small city like York, there was enormous potential for social embarrassment. The Evening Press would be delighted — a local barrister’s son charged with murder! It would be the talk of the legal circuit for months; it might ruin Sarah’s career.

‘Yes, madam?’ The young desk constable looked up reluctantly from the Sun.

‘I’m a solicitor. I’ve been called to a client in custody here — Mr Simon Newby.’

‘Mr’ was an important touch. Despite the safeguards of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, the processes of arrest still stripped the accused of freedom, dignity and sometimes their clothes as well; it was her job to get all of these back, if she could.

‘Right, madam, if you’ll wait there.’

‘I need to see the officer in charge of this case, right away. My client is facing a murder enquiry, young man; I don’t intend to sit around like a spare piece of furniture.’

‘I dunno …’ The constable met her eyes. ‘I’ll see what I can do …’

A faint grin crossed Lucy’s face. She had that sort of effect on young men nowadays; Savendra had once suggested, unkindly, that she reminded them of their mothers when they were being potty trained. Not flattering, perhaps, but it had its uses. Lucy was a large woman who had abandoned the struggle with diets and corsets years ago. She disguised her bulk in a long voluminous black skirt, white blouse and loose jacket with many useful pockets. Her feet spread comfortably in Doc Martin boots, a fashion she had adopted from her teenage son. When her hair had started to go grey she’d had it bleached pure white in an anti-ageist fashion statement. If she had been carrying a couple of plastic bags instead of a monogrammed briefcase she could easily have been taken for a vagrant on the street.

The constable returned with Will Churchill, who held out his hand.

‘Mrs Sampson? I’m the officer who arrested Simon Newby.’

Lucy nodded, ignoring the hand. ‘Then I’d like to see him straight away. And I’ll need the custody file.’

‘Certainly.’ Churchill showed her into a room with a table bolted to the floor, two chairs, and a buzzing neon light. As Simon came in she saw a tall, well-built young man with hazel eyes which reminded her irresistibly of his mother. His face was bewildered, sullen and defiant.

‘Did my mum send you?’

‘She did. She’s outside. We’ve worked together a lot, your mother and I.’

‘Well, you’d better be good. You’ve got to get me out of here.’

‘I’ll do my best.’ Lucy smiled cautiously.

‘I didn’t kill her, you know.’

‘Then that’s what matters. I’m on your side, Simon. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Thank Christ for that. Nobody else is. They don’t believe me.’

‘Have you said anything to them so far?’

‘I told them I haven’t seen Jasmine for weeks.’

Lucy frowned. ‘That’s not what your mother told me. She said you’d been seen quarrelling with Jasmine outside your house, the night she was killed.’

‘Oh, God.’ Simon sat down abruptly. ‘How did they know that?’

‘A neighbour saw you. An old man apparently.’ Lucy pulled a pad of paper from her briefcase. ‘So you’d better tell the truth about that, Simon. Come on, I can’t help you unless I know the full story. Let’s start from the beginning, hadn’t we? Tell me about you and Jasmine.’

Simon scowled and turned away, facing the wall. It was a response Lucy had seen many times before and it was not, she knew, a good sign.

‘Why do you need to know about that?’

She spoke very gently. ‘Because she’s dead, Simon, and if I’m going to help you I have to know your story. Will you tell me? Simon?’

After a long, sullen silence Simon sighed, leaned forward, and began to talk.

‘Right. It’s now eleven fifteen a.m.,’ said Churchill, with a meaningful glare at Lucy, who had delayed the interview for nearly two hours. ‘We are at Fulford Police Station in York. Present in the room are Simon Newby, his solicitor Mrs Lucy Sampson, DCI William Churchill and DC Harry Easby. This interview will be recorded and a copy of the tape will be made available to Mr Newby’s legal representative. Now then, Simon. Let me repeat the words of the caution …’

As he did so Simon avoided his eyes. He seemed tired, nervous, jumpy, Churchill thought. Guilty, almost certainly.

‘Right. First I have to show you my notes of what you said in the car. If you agree they are a correct record, you should sign them at the bottom.’ He passed over a sheet of paper.

At 3.45 a.m. on Monday 31st May, DCI William Churchill of York police, accompanied by DC Harry Easby of York police and DS Conroy and DC Lane of Scarborough police, entered room 7 of Seaview Villas in Whitton Street, Scarborough where Simon Newby was found to be asleep in bed. DCI Churchill woke Mr Newby and informed him that he was being arrested on suspicion of the murder of Jasmine Hurst. He was cautioned that he need not say anything, but that it might harm his defence if he did not mention when questioned something which he later relied on in court, and that anything which he did say might be given in evidence. Mr Newby was then escorted to a police car and driven from Scarborough to York.

After being cautioned, Mr Newby stated that he had not killed Jasmine Hurst, and that he had not seen her for weeks. He repeated this statement several times.

Churchill passed Simon a pen. ‘Here. If it’s a true record sign at the bottom.’

‘No, wait …’ The words terrified Simon. ‘No, I didn’t say that.’

‘You did, son. I heard you — we both did. Several times.’

Simon turned to Lucy in panic. ‘Well, I didn’t know what I was saying, I …’

‘Mr Churchill, did you interview my client in the car?’

‘No, Mrs Sampson, of course we didn’t. This is a record of voluntary statements made under caution.’ He gave her a brief, dismissive glance, then focussed his attention back on Simon. ‘You told us you didn’t kill Jasmine, and you hadn’t seen her for weeks. Those were your own words, Simon. Are you now saying they aren’t true?’

‘Yes. No. No, it isn’t true.’

‘Which part isn’t true?’ Churchill asked silkily. ‘That you didn’t kill Jasmine?’

‘No! Of course not that.’ Simon hid his face in his hands, confused. ‘I … I had seen her.’

‘When?’

‘The day before I went to Scarborough.’

‘Last Friday night?’

‘Yes.’ Simon glanced at Lucy. ‘Tell him.’

‘Before we go any further, Detective Chief Inspector,’ Lucy intervened, ‘my client has a statement to make.’ She passed a piece of paper across the table. ‘He wrote this a few minutes ago. I think it will help explain things.’

Will Churchill picked the paper up and began to read aloud.