A Game of Proof

‘But if it’s all I’ve got, Terry?’

‘Then I wish you luck. If it leads to the truth, at least.’

And that, Sarah thought, was the difference between them. He, as a moderately decent policeman, had the moral luxury of an objective search for the truth, whatever it might turn out to be; she, on the other hand, was committed to Simon’s innocence.

There had been many moments over the past few weeks when she had doubted him; but as a lawyer she was used to that. You don’t ask clients if they’re innocent; you ask how they wish to plead. Then you present their case to the best of your ability. The search for truth is conducted by the court and the jury, the lawyer is supposed to be biased.

But when the lawyer is a mother too — well, that’s just more of the same. Simon may be a liar, she thought, violent, unstable, and downright stupid at times — but he’s not a murderer, he can’t be.

I couldn’t live with that.

The more Terry thought about his meeting with Ann Slingsby, the happier he felt. It wasn’t the exquisite tea or the pat on the bottom which cheered him, though both were welcome; it was the priceless jewel of information which had not only confounded Churchill but might also, with luck, solve the Clayton murder, all in one go.

There had been a second delivery driver — something that Tracy had missed! And not only had this man delivered tiles to Maria’s house when she was at home — unlike Simon Newby — but he had also, apparently, had sex with her and had a sexual problem! If that wasn’t a suspect, what was?

On the way to the builder’s merchant, Robsons, a second thought struck him. What if this same driver had delivered building materials to the university lodgings where Karen Whitaker lived? Might as well check those dates too.

The receptionist at Robsons was uncooperative. A burly girl with fat legs and a hint of a moustache, she kept him waiting for nearly five minutes while fiddling with some paperwork which she didn’t seem to understand. The employment clerk in the back office seemed brighter, but worried somehow. He checked the two addresses and sets of dates Terry gave him, and fished some delivery notes out of the files. He laid them before Terry reluctantly.

‘There you are, that’s them.’

The handwriting on each was identical. So it was the same driver, Terry noted with a pulse of excitement. ‘What’s this signature at the bottom? The driver’s name?’

The man inspected it in surprise, as though wondering why it was there. ‘Hard to read, isn’t it? Just a scrawl. Some of these lads are barely literate, you know.’

Terry had met this sort of response before. ‘Look, I’m not from the DSS or the Revenue, OK? This is a murder enquiry. So if you’re going to be obstructive …’

The scales seemed to lift from the man’s eyes. ‘Irish fellow — name of Sean … something.’

‘Sean what?’

‘Ah well, there’s the problem, see. He’ll have wanted to avoid tax, you see … we wouldn’t keep a record.’

‘I thought they had a special Irish card, for that?’

‘That was in the old days, before 1999. Most of them were forgeries but no one ever checked. But now the Revenue’s tightened up; it’s not just a card but a proper booklet with photo, name, address, everything. They need a passport and a driver’s licence to get it — and a utility bill, to prove their address over here, see?’

‘So? Didn’t this Sean fellow have one of these?’

‘Ah, well, no, that’s just it.’ The clerk gave him a wry, embarrassed grin. ‘The Revenue think they’ve solved this problem of the lump by making the paperwork hard to get, but it’s just driven them underground. Most of these lads can’t produce a utility bill even if they want to — either they share lodgings or they’re not over here long enough. Anyway why should they go to all this trouble just to pay tax? They just don’t bother with cards any more. But they’re still there, looking for work, and we’re short-handed So …’ He shrugged apologetically.

‘You pay them under the counter, no questions asked?’

‘Your words, not mine. No address, no phone number, nothing.’

‘But you let this man drive. You must have seen his licence!’

‘Oh, yes, of course, but …’ The man shrugged again. ‘I didn’t keep it, did I?’

Terry sighed. ‘Well, at least you can give me a description. Or I will tell the Revenue.’

The man held up his hands. ‘Look, in a murder case, no question. I’ll get some lads too. There’s several knew him. When he left us he worked for MacFarlane’s, I think.’

At MacFarlane’s he was embarrassed to meet the foreman, Graham Dewar, who had given evidence at Gary’s trial. It had been one of Terry’s lowest moments. Dewar had told the court that the man Gary had claimed to be with did exist after all. A man called Sean.

‘If you’d asked me at the time,’ Graham Dewar said reprovingly. ‘I’d have told you then.’

Terry sighed. ‘Yes, well … But he wasn’t on site even then, was he?’

Dewar shook his head. ‘Lads like him, they don’t stay long. We were well rid, at that.’

The reason for Dewar’s dislike of the man became clearer as he talked. Two other labourers also remembered him. Their information confirmed what Terry had learned at Robsons. Sean was a big man, everyone agreed, strong and exceptionally fit. He could carry a hod of bricks up ladders for eight hours a day, before going out in the evenings for a run. He had done some boxing, apparently, and had the face to show it.

But none of this accounted for the informants’ clear dislike of him, or the anxiety some showed when Terry’s questions began. One problem seemed to have been his unpredictable temper. He could be working equably one minute, in a violent rage the next. They’d seen this happen several times. Anything could set it off — someone who jostled him, perhaps, or an apparently harmless joke — but the result was frightening. Two men had left, rather than work alongside him. Sometimes he was backed up by Gary Harker, who had also worked there — the two appeared to have known each other before, possibly in prison.

The day Sean left MacFarlane’s, a number of tools went missing. This had been reported to the police and Sean’s name mentioned as a possible suspect, but the investigating officers, like Terry, found no address or surname. MacFarlane’s, like Robsons’, had no record.

So, what did this add up to, Terry wondered, as he drove home. On one level the man seemed just a petty thief. One of many casual Irish building workers avoiding tax, a situation which helped to avoid investigation for theft as well. A fitness fanatic with an unpleasant, somewhat obsessional character.

But this was also a man with a sexual problem which Maria Clayton had joked with her maid about. Something about an extension or erection that was no good — that would drive any man wild. What if she had laughed about it, told him to get lost — this ex-boxer, this fitness fanatic who perhaps trained to compensate for his sexual inadequacy, whatever it was? There was his motive all right — a hatred of women, a sudden violent loss of control.

And this same man had delivered building materials to Karen Whitaker’s lodgings. And, like her attacker, had fair hair. So, how to find him? The Irish passport office couldn’t help without a surname, passport number, or address in the Republic. Not even a record of a driving licence, for God’s sake — what if he’d had an accident driving Robsons’ lorry?

But he knew Gary Harker, an ex-convict. A friendship possibly made in prison. So this Sean, too, must have previous convictions. He could check the court and prison records — particularly where Harker had served — but without a definite surname, that would be difficult too.

Terry arranged for the building workers to come in to the station and create a photofit.

Chapter Thirty-One

Time passed. Summer faded into autumn. Simon played endless games of pool, and paced the prison landings. At night he dreamed of Jasmine’s face, cheek bruised, throat cut, her blackened lips opening silently. She