A Game of Proof

Outside? was a little more puzzling. Was the man waiting for her outside the house, and she had told him to leave — No way, Jose, I say? Or had he, perhaps, wanted to have sex outdoors?

Either way, it was interesting. Maria had refused, leaving the man frustrated; so he might have returned to force himself upon her. And his name, apparently, began with S. Well, there were millions of Samuels and Sidneys and Stephens in the world, and no doubt several had come to Maria. Simon began with S, too. Could he be the client Maria was referring to here?

On reflection, Terry doubted it. Firstly, the diary entry was dated 18th April, a fortnight after Gary and the others had finished the extension, and six weeks since March 5th, Simon’s only recorded visit.

And what about big promise, no result? It seemed to suggest some sort of impotence in the man. Yet everything Terry had learned about Simon suggested a vigorous, healthy, red-blooded young male, violent and aggressive perhaps but hardly someone who, in bed with Maria, would have the slightest difficulty in getting it up. And yet, and yet … what other sexual problems were there? It wasn’t a subject Terry was expert in.

Most of Maria’s clients, he reflected, had been middle-aged men like, well, himself. The ones he felt least sympathy for were those with a wife and children at home, but others had reached their early forties to find themselves single, or divorced, or widowed as he was. Their need for discreet sexual gratification was easy enough to understand.

Easier, at least, than a desire to rape and murder.

He yawned and finished his chocolate. Then he climbed the stairs quietly to the landing, crept into his daughters’ bedroom, and listened for the reassurance of their quiet steady breathing. Trude’s light, he noticed as he came out, was still on under her door. Writing to Odd, perhaps.

He went into his own room, undressed, put on his pyjamas, and climbed wearily into bed.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The inspector smiled. ‘You must be Helen Steersby?’

The girl nodded, and Lucy thought how young she was. Like many fourteen year olds she was long-limbed and gawky but still obviously a child, even if she was tall enough to look adults in the eye. Lucy imagined her being assaulted by a burly young thug in a mask, and shuddered.

Inspector Harvey, in charge of the identification parade, introduced Lucy to the girl and her mother, then explained the procedure. ‘Through that door you’ll find a long window in one wall. Behind that window you’ll see ten young men. They can’t see you, because the window is made of one-way glass. Do you understand that?’

‘Yes,’ Helen said quietly. Her expression, Lucy noted, was anxious, determined, and deeply serious. If she does pick Simon out, she’ll make an impressive witness.

‘I want you to look at each man very carefully, at least twice. There’s no hurry, take as long as you want. It’s quite possible that the man who attacked you isn’t there at all. If he isn’t, just say so.’

‘OK.’

‘But if you do recognize him, tell me the number. Nothing else, just his number. OK?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right then. Mrs Parsons, are you satisfied?’

‘Yes.’ Lucy was here on Simon’s behalf to ensure that everything was done correctly. They went through the door, and saw a row of young men behind the glass, quite unaware of their presence. Each young man wore a black woolly hat. Several wore ear rings but not Simon; Lucy had persuaded him to remove his. Helen peered at them nervously.

Inspector Harvey spoke into a microphone. ‘Would you all stand up, please. Look straight ahead, until I tell you to move again.’

As Helen moved along the line Lucy recalled the photofit that she and Simon had been shown that morning. Only when he had put the woolly hat on, had the likeness become really close. She looked at him now and thought it’s the nose. That flat, prominent nose will give him away. She drove her fingernails into her palm and watched silently.

Helen paused at number two, Simon’s position. She studied him for a long, long time before moving on. It’s all over, Lucy thought, she’s recognized him. But the girl was very conscientious. She spent almost as much time on each one. When she reached the end she looked questioningly at Inspector Harvey.

‘Look again carefully, Helen. We’ve got all the time in the world.’

Helen walked slowly back along the line. She looked long and hard at Simon, but equally long and hard at number 7 who also had a large nose, and at two others whose noses were not prominent at all. Then she looked a third time, and turned to Inspector Harvey.

‘He’s not here.’

Lucy breathed a silent sigh of relief.

‘You can’t identify any of these men as the one who attacked you?’

‘No. I’m sorry, but you did say …’ The girl looked crestfallen, on the verge of tears.

‘Yes, of course, Helen, that’s fine. It’s very sensible and honest of you.’ Despite himself, he sighed. ‘That’s it, then. If you’d like to come this way …’

‘She didn’t pick any of them?’ Churchill asked incredulously.

‘Sorry, no.’ Inspector Harvey dropped his report on the desk. Churchill ignored it.

‘Oh well. You did your best, I suppose.’ He glowered out of the window.

‘I carried out the identification parade in the correct manner, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Of course that’s what I mean.’

There had been an edge to Harvey’s voice which Churchill didn’t care for. By rights Harvey, a uniformed Inspector, should have called the new DCI Sir, but he hadn’t. Churchill wondered whether to make a point of it. Harvey was a well respected officer old enough to be his father. He decided against insisting on his rank. Instead he snatched up the report from the desk and skimmed swiftly through it. A copy of the photofit was attached.

‘Was he wearing this?’ Churchill jabbed his finger at the earring in the photofit.

‘I didn’t notice one, no.’

‘So did you say anything about it? Offer him one?’

‘We’d have had to fit earrings to all ten in the line up. We can’t do that. They all wore black woolly hats, though.’

‘Yes, well. Did she even look at Simon Newby?’

‘Very carefully, three times. But she was quite definite. Her attacker wasn’t there.’

‘Oh well. She’s only a kid, I suppose.’ Churchill said dismissively. ‘Thanks, Bill.’ As Harvey left Terry Bateson came in. Churchill thrust the report into his hands.

‘Here. Look at that for a load of useless gibberish.’

Terry read it carefully. ‘I see.’

‘Total waste of time,’ Churchill muttered irritably. ‘I’ll bet Mrs solicitor Parsons told him to take his earring off, and Dixon of Dock Green there never noticed. It seems this city’s full of smartass lawyers and half-witted policemen. Tourist attraction, is it, Terence?’

The young woman had a thin face, no hair at all, and a line of studs like a scar in her right eyebrow. She wore baggy jeans and a purple teeshirt, and her hands, like her clothes, were strong, practical, and stained with dirt. A strong whiff of dope hung around her like a miasma. She draped herself luxuriously across Sarah’s armchair, her left leg dangling over the arm, her right hand waving in the air as though in search of a joint or cigar, and talked.

She explained how global capitalism was destroying the environment, not just the physical environment like trees and fields and rivers, but the social environment too and the way people related to each other, and how much of this was supported by the traditional family which was really just a nursery producing children to feed the