A Game of Proof

Terry swallowed, aware of how unprofessional this conversation had become.

‘None, I told you. Just a suspicion; the knowledge of what he’s like. The fact that he knew Jasmine through Simon, that he fancied her — he admitted that — and that when he fancied a woman he thought he could do what he liked. And he was free that night: he’d been released for several hours. He was watching football in a pub until ten — that part checks out. After that, he says he stayed on, drinking in a private room. It’s not clear when he left. His route home from the pub doesn’t exactly take him near the river, but it’s not far out of his way, either. He could have walked up there, for whatever reason, met Jasmine going home, talked to her — because he knew her, after all — and then …’ Terry shrugged. ‘It could have gone on from there.’

‘He asked her for sex, she refused, so he pulled out a knife, raped her, and then cut her throat,’ said Sarah softly.

‘Exactly. It could have happened like that …’

‘But there’s no evidence to support it.’

‘None.’ Terry shook his head. ‘And a lot to suggest it was your son.’

Silence fell between them again. Terry thought how little surprised she had seemed at what he was saying. Almost as though he were voicing her own thoughts.

A cocktail of emotions — relief, joy, terror, foreboding and guilt — effervesced inside Sarah. She smiled. ‘If you think like that no wonder you’re in the doghouse with your colleagues.’

‘They don’t listen; they’ve got their case.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe they’re right; I’ve lost the plot. I shouldn’t be talking to you like this; it’s not professional.’

‘It’s a comfort, though.’ Sarah tried to smile again, and failed. ‘I appreciate that. You must be the first …’ She felt her voice falter, paused, took control of it. ‘You are the first person except for Lucy — you know, his solicitor — who has actually, in all these weeks, said anything to suggest Simon might not have done it. And you don’t even know him!’

‘I’ve met him once, but it’s not because of that,’ Terry admitted. ‘But I do know Gary, and I’ve got this obsession about these other cases. The only judgement I have about your son is that he wouldn’t have done all these things. He has no record and he didn’t strike me like that.’

‘Thank you, Terry.’

Terry met her eyes, wondering. Her tone was passionately sincere and ironic at the same time; sincere because he had expressed belief in Simon, ironic because he had felt it necessary to reassure her that her own son was not a serial murderer. He felt embarrassed, conscious that he had gone too far. But he was tired — tired of professional discretion, tired of the rules, tired of Churchill and being treated like a rookie cop. It would bring a little comfort after all, and do no harm that he could see.

She shuddered, looked up at him again. ‘There is another possibility, Terry.’

‘What’s that?’

For a while she didn’t answer. She looked down at her hands, fiddling with her ring.

‘Sarah?’

‘I’m sorry, Terry, I can’t say. There’s probably nothing in it anyway.’ She looked up. ‘You’ve been very honest with me and I appreciate it. Really. You’re the first person …’

‘What is this other possibility, Sarah?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’m sorry.’

‘You do understand why I’ve told you all these things? To help you and Simon, if I can. I’m taking a risk for you, but if you’re going to hold out on me …’

‘It’s my son’s life we’re talking about here, Terry.’ She got up from her chair, walked distractedly up and down the room a couple of times. She stopped in the corner furthest away from the single lamp, looking across at him from the shadows.

‘All right, let me put it like this. Simon says he had nothing to do with Jasmine’s death and I …’ She hesitated, then continued firmly. ‘I believe him. That will be his defence in court, if necessary. As for these other offences, no one’s even asked him about them yet, but I can’t believe he’s a serial rapist. That has to be absurd. But there’s a problem about these hairs, which may or not be his, and the fact that the hood and the other things were found in his shed. That’s what your boss Churchill is focussing on. Now all I can say is that if — if — those hairs are his, and there’s more to his relationship with this thug Harker than either of us know about, then, well …’

She paused again, a catch in her voice, and for while he thought she wasn’t going to go on. But the voice from the semi-darkness resumed, cool, very controlled really for a woman under such monumental stress. But then that’s what she’s like, Terry thought. If someone ever presses the nuclear button this is the lady to have in the dugout with you.

‘… then what you have to realize is that he’s only a kid really, just nineteen, while Gary Harker is ten years older and as you say, steeped in violent crime up to his eyeballs. So if Simon did try on this hood — for a laugh maybe or to try and impress his new friend — it was only that and no more. He’ll have been following where the older man led.’

‘Not if he attacked Karen Whitaker,’ said Terry softly. ‘That was just one man on his own.’

‘I’m sure he didn’t, Terry. But if — just for the sake of the argument, if those hairs in the hood are not only his, but match those found in the Whitaker case, which they won’t do, then … then it could only be that he was put up to it by someone like Gary. Simon may be stupid but he’s not cruel or misogynistic — he couldn’t even think of doing a thing like that on his own.’

When she finished Terry didn’t speak for a while. He let her words fall gently into his mind, wondering how they would settle on the suspicions already there. Hers was hardly an objective assessment — the words of a mother, spoken with the persuasive fluency of a barrister used to pleading in mitigation. But then how else could she speak, about her own son?

‘Have you asked him?’ he said at last. ‘About his relationship with Gary?’

‘Not yet. But I will.’

‘If you could tell me what he says, it might help.’

She considered this. ‘If it helps to convict Gary, then of course I will.’

I could hardly expect more, he thought. He stood up. ‘I think we’ve said all we can, for now. I should go.’

At the door she put her hand on his arm. ‘Terry, wait! Can I ask you one more thing?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Let me know the DNA results, as soon as they come in. I don’t want to wait, or hear it from that swine Churchill. Just give me a ring when you know. Please.’

‘I’ll do that, certainly. It probably isn’t him, Sarah.’

‘No,’ she agreed numbly. ‘It probably isn’t. But tell me anyway, will you, Terry?’

‘Yes.’ As he left, he looked back, and saw her standing, a slight woman in the doorway of a terraced house, and thought, that’s how she’ll be if this all goes wrong. She’ll grow old like that, no career, no family, all alone.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

‘I’ve told you all this,’ Simon growled sulkily. ‘I’ve told mum anyhow.’

‘Yes, but the answers weren’t good enough,’ said Sarah quietly. Lucy nudged her under the table to stop her saying more.

‘Tell me, Simon will you?’ Lucy asked, in a reassuring, businesslike voice. ‘We need to get all the facts straight before the police try to trip you up. Now, when did you first meet Gary?’

Simon stared at a spot on the wall that had just become hugely, cosmically fascinating. Lucy waited patiently. She was used to this sort of awkward behaviour from clients; the only difference today was the presence of the boy’s mother, who also happened to be her friend.

On the way to Hull they had discussed whether it was a good idea for Sarah to be present at this interview. Her presence might either embarrass Simon or reassure him, loosen him up. Finally they had decided that Sarah should be present, if Simon agreed, but say as little as possible. That way Lucy could preserve something of her