A Game of Proof

Sarah nodded. Her eyes met Bob’s in an unspoken compact. Emily didn’t know that Garry had assaulted her. She’d explained her bruises as an accident with her bike — there were scratches on the petrol tank to prove it. She didn’t want Emily to know. Bob, for once, supported her.

‘That’s just a coincidence,’ he said. ‘Obviously when your mother defended him she had no idea he might do this, if he did. Now come on, sit up. I don’t often cook but when I do I expect it to be treated with some respect.’

‘Mum,’ Emily’s eyes were bright with anxious curiosity. ‘Why do you think Gary Harker might have done it?’

As they sat at the table Sarah met her daughter’s eyes, and sighed. This wasn’t going to be an easy evening, after all.

But then none of them ever were, any more.

Chapter Thirty

‘Oh, hello. Mr … Bates, isn’t it?’

‘Bateson. Detective Inspector.’

‘Ah yes. Well, come in.’ The slight frown that crossed the woman’s face, Terry thought, was nothing personal. It was to do with the painful memories he brought back.

Ann Slingsby, a well-dressed, motherly woman in her fifties, had been Maria Clayton’s maid until her death last year. Her duties had been to answer the phone, make appointments, clean the house, and when necessary make tea for Maria’s clients when they arrived early, like a receptionist at a private clinic. She showed him into a living room furnished with comfortable flowery armchairs, lovingly polished china ornaments, an array of family photographs and a widescreen television. She poured tea into bone china cups, chattering cheerfully about her recent trip to the United States.

‘But enough of my holiday stories. Have you caught that evil man yet?’

‘Not yet, no. So I’m checking every detail, to see if there’s anything we missed.’

‘Well, you’re lucky to find me, Inspector. Next week I start with an acupuncturist. He rang when I got back. One of Maria’s old clients, you know. Milk?’

‘Please.’ Terry sipped his tea appreciatively. Then he pulled a pink form out of his pocket, with the signature, S. Newby, at the bottom.

‘Now, I believe Maria had a delivery of building materials on 5th March last year …’

An hour later, two things had become clear. In the first place, Ann Slingsby did remember the young man who had delivered building materials on 5th March. A fair-haired young man, she said, quite handsome but a bit uncouth in his manners. She remembered because there had been a problem about where to dump the materials. Maria had been away and left no instructions.

‘Away where?’ Terry asked.

‘Austria, skiing with her daughter. They came back on the 10th. Surely I told you before?’

‘No,’ said Terry, astonished. How could he have missed such a vital point? Presumably because no one had asked about these dates earlier; they hadn’t been important. But if Maria had been in Austria on the 5th, she couldn’t have met Simon. And he was sacked from his job on the 7th, three days before she returned. His connection with Maria’s death, so vital to Churchill’s suspicions, collapsed. So Sarah was hiding nothing after all, Terry thought. Simon never met her.

The second discovery came when he showed Mrs Slingsby the entry in Maria’s diary.

S big promise, no result. Gets it up but can’t get it out. V frust for him, poor lamb, blames me. Outside? No way, Jose, I say.

‘The first part seems pretty clear,’ Terry said. ‘A man with some kind of sexual problem, impotence of some kind. But she must have come across that more than once. It would be a speciality of hers, I suppose?’

‘Oh yes, she had her ways, dear.’ A friendly, knowing twinkle came into Ann Slingsby’s eyes. ‘And the last part probably means he asked her to do it outside and she wouldn’t. She had the neighbours to consider, after all.’

‘Yes, well, who do you think he could be, this S? It’s dated 18th May, after the builders left but about a month before she died. I’ve checked through the appointments book for that day but there’s no client whose name begins with S, or admits to a nickname that does, either.’

‘You asked them all, did you? Poor lambs.’ She took the diary and appointments book, poring over them carefully. ‘No, you’re right. Anyway …’ she looked up, thinking hard. ‘It was around then that I was ill. Didn’t I tell you? Maria had to do all the reception for herself. Only a few days, but it could have been then.’

‘So you can’t guarantee who came on that day?’

‘No. I had tonsilitis, I was feverish. But I remember … oh my goodness, I don’t think I told you this. That delivery driver.’

‘Who? Simon Newby?’

‘No. Not him, I mean the one who came later.’

‘There was another delivery driver? From the same firm?’

‘Yes. Robsons, wasn’t it? He brought the tiles for the roof.’

‘You don’t remember his name?’

‘Sorry, love, no.’ She clicked her lips. ‘Heavens, I should have mentioned him before, shouldn’t I? I never met him, you see, Maria dealt with him. But there was something she said.’

‘What was it?’ Terry asked patiently.

‘Let me think. She made some sort of joke about him. That’s all, really. I’m afraid we did that sometimes about the men, you understand. In a friendly way only.’

I’ll bet you did, Terry thought, wryly. ‘But what was the joke about?’

‘Well, he came back, didn’t he? After all the building work was done. And he had some sort of problem, maybe like it says there in her diary. I wasn’t here, it was in the evening, but she told me about it. She said a workman had brought her another extension but this time she couldn’t make use of it. Something like that.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘It was just a silly joke.’

So that’s it, Terry thought. He’d missed the delivery driver in his first investigation, but Tracy had missed the fact that there’d been a second one, a replacement when Simon Newby lost his job. This man, it seemed, had sex with Maria — and had a problem. Terry sat silent, thinking.

‘I’m sorry, dear, I’ve shocked you. But we were very discreet, most of the time. That was the key to the business.’

‘I’m sure it was, Ann.’ He folded his notebook and smiled, ready to go. ‘I’m glad I wasn’t one of your customers, though.’

‘Are you? Oh no, don’t say that, Mr Bateson, please.’ She escorted him to the door. ‘You’d have been welcome, any time at all.’ And to his complete, unmitigated astonishment, as he stepped over the threshold she patted his bottom gently.

‘So it can’t be him, sir,’ Terry said. ‘When he delivered the stuff, she was in Austria.’

‘You trust the old bird, do you?’ Churchill asked. ‘She knows what day it is, and so on?’

‘She’s as sharp as you or me, sir. Sharper, probably.’

He couldn’t prevent a silly grin from playing around the corners of his mouth. The day was starting out well. The pat on the bottom had been good; Churchill’s scowl of frustration was even better. It was a while since he’d felt so pleased about something at work.

The look on Tracy’s face was gratifying too. She had shown him up before; now the tables were reversed. She hadn’t checked the dates; he had.

A uniformed constable, PC Burrows, came in. ‘Fax for you, sir,’ he said to Churchill. ‘From the forensic lab. Sergeant Chisholm said you’d want to see it straight away.’

‘Yes, thank you.’ Churchill scanned the papers greedily. As he did so the expression on his face changed. The eager wolf-like grin faded. He frowned, flushed, and peered at the words more closely. Then he turned abruptly to