A Game of Proof

to support her claim, but not all of it does, even now.’ He smiled enigmatically at Terry. ‘Unlike you I examined that hood, when I took it down to forensics. What do you think I found?’

Terry refused to answer. Churchill delighted in his hostility.

‘Fair hairs, Terence. With a tinge of red. Quite short ones …’ He held his finger and thumb a millimetre apart. ‘… inside the hood, so they must have been left by the wearer. See what I mean now, about looking carefully at the evidence? Your friend Harker has brown hair. Whereas Simon Newby’s hair is — go on, tell me?’

‘Fair, sir,’ said Terry bitterly. ‘But …’

‘And very short, too, as I recall. What my father used to call a crewcut, right?’

‘But he couldn’t have done it! All the evidence points to Harker ….’

‘Not this evidence, Terence …’

‘Sharon identified him, for God’s sake! Her son did too!’

‘He was masked, Terence! Wearing a hood!’

‘But …’ Terry stuttered, trying to put up reasons for something he thought was obvious. ‘… but Simon didn’t even know her!’

‘Didn’t he? All the rapist’s stuff was found in his shed.’

‘Yes, but the watch! The rapist took Gary’s watch.’

Churchill nodded. ‘I agree, that’s a key point. But even so, where was this watch found? In Simon’s shed, where Gary had gone to look for it. What does that tell you? Maybe he’d asked Simon to get it back for him, and Simon interpreted his instructions a little enthusiastically …’

‘That’s absurd, sir, it has to be …’

‘Is it? It’s only a possibility, true, but look what happens next. Gary has an argument with Simon’s mother, and assaults her — a serious assault that she won’t bring up in court. Why? Fear of what Gary might say about her son? About herself, perhaps? About what they both knew?’

Terry’s baffled silence seemed to gratify him.

‘You’ve always believed these attacks were the work of one man, haven’t you, Terence? The Hooded Killer, as the Evening Press called him. Well, maybe your idea was right, but you got the wrong villain, that’s all? What if our serial rapist isn’t Gary at all, but Simon Newby?’

Terry shook his head. ‘I just don’t see it, sir.’

‘Well, look more closely. I’ve sent Simon’s hair for DNA analysis, and asked forensics to compare it with the fair hairs in the hood, right? I’ve also asked them to compare the Whitaker hair with both of those. If all three match, then presto! We’ve got him for three of your five assaults — Sharon Gilbert, Karen Whitaker, and Jasmine Hurst!’

‘And if they don’t?’

Churchill shrugged. ‘If they don’t, we still prosecute Simon for Jasmine’s murder, and look again at the rest. But I think they will match, Terence old son. For two reasons. One, Whitaker’s attacker had fair hair too. Fair hair with a faint tinge of red, no less — under my pretty forensic scientist’s microscope they look exactly the same. And two, the photofit that Helen Steersby gave us. Remember that?’

Terry nodded glumly. He could see what was coming.

‘It didn’t look like Gary, did it? Of course not, he was locked up at the time. But it did look like Simon, remember? Especially about the nose. If Steersby picks him out at an ID parade, there’s another one crossed off our list. Which only leaves Maria Clayton.’

Churchill considered Terry thoughtfully. ‘Did Simon have any connection with her?’

‘None that I know of, no.’

‘But you’ve had no reason to look, have you? Well now you have. I want you to go through that file again. Check it carefully, piece by piece, for anything, anything at all, that links to Simon Newby. If there is something, then your original idea about a single attacker will begin to make sense again, won’t it?’

He smiled expansively. ‘You were just focussing on the wrong man, old son. Gary instead of Simon. So this last one, the murder of Jasmine Hurst, may not be the crime of passion it first appeared, but the work of a guy who’s been practising for some time.’

The door opened and a small boy peered out. Harry Easby smiled.

‘Hello, Wayne. Is your mother working now?’

‘No. She’s on’t loo.’

‘Oh, right.’ Harry hesitated, digesting this unusually frank admission. ‘Well, er …’

‘Who is it, Wayne?’A woman’s voice called down the stairs, followed by the sound of a toilet flushing and feet descending.

‘A feller, mum. He’s …’

Sharon Gilbert’s smile of welcome faded as she recognized Harry. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

‘Don’t be like that, now. I’ve brought your ring back. Can I have a word?’

‘If you must.’ In the living room, she sat down and Wayne climbed onto her lap, from where he glared at Harry suspiciously.

‘Where’s the little lass?’

‘Asleep, upstairs.’ She frowned at him. ‘How did it go then? Did you get him?’

‘Gary? We made him sweat.’ Harry passed her the gold ring with the letter S engraved on it. She looked insulted. ‘Won’t you be needing it for evidence?’

‘We had it dusted for prints but there weren’t any, I’m afraid.’

‘So what have you charged him with?’

‘Nothing, I’m afraid, love. He …’

‘Nothing! But he raped me — I told you!’

‘We know that, Sharon …’

‘And this ring and that watch prove it. The trial was all wrong.’

‘I know that, but the law says we can’t charge him with the same crime twice …’

‘So he’s got away with it again, the bastard.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry.’

For a moment he thought she was going to cry. Wayne thought so too; he put his arms up and hugged her. She hugged him back, fiercely. Then they heard Katie grizzling upstairs. She put Wayne down.‘There’s a bottle of orange in the kitchen. Take it up to her, will you, Wayne.’

As he left the room Harry smiled. ‘He’s a little prince, that lad. How old is he, now?’

‘Seven. He always looks out for his sister. And me.’

Harry nodded, remembering her trial. ‘He does that, right enough.’

Sharon opened her handbag for a cigarette. Her hair hid her face as she lit it. When she looked up Harry noticed again how attractive she was. She was also, he realised, very angry.

‘So Gary’s walking round, free as a bird. What am I supposed to do if he comes here? He might, you know!’

‘Phone the station. Ask for me if you like.’

‘Oh aye.’ She gave him a brief, pitying glance. ‘Gary eats lads like you for breakfast.’

‘He didn’t look so tough earlier. Like I said, he was sweating.’

She took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘What are you, my personal bodyguard?’

That hadn’t been his idea, but Harry suddenly saw possibilities in it. After all, officers were encouraged to use their initiative. ‘Well, if you feel you need protection …’

‘You’d offer it?’ She laughed, a mixture of anger and contempt. ‘And that’s it, is it? That’s all I get for being raped, screwed by the police and the bloody lawyers — you! What are you going to do, then, sunshine? Come round here on your night off?’

‘I could do,’ said Harry softly.

There was a silence. She sat down on the arm of a chair, crossing her legs slowly and flicking ash into the fireplace. A cool, knowing look came into her eyes. ‘Oh yes. Fancied what I told you last time, did you?’

‘I could be useful to you,’ Harry said.