A Game of Proof

a run in the woods on the way back to Hull. So what was it? Coincidence? Copycat? Or false alarm?

Terry watched as she unsaddled her pony. She was a pretty girl in a grubby blouse and jodhpurs. How old was she? Fourteen, the report had said.

So if there had been an attack, what sort of pervert were they dealing with? A child abductor, a paedophile — or just a common lecher who fancied young girls in tight trousers? Or a monster the girl had made up? That was why he had come, to hear it from her own words.

In the farm living room, the four of them sat in faded brown armchairs grouped round an open fireplace. Terry smiled at Helen. ‘You told Constable Watson that you were riding in the woods at about half past seven when a man came up to you. Can you remember what he was wearing, Helen?’

‘A black sort of tracksuit thingy, trainers, and a black woolly hat.’

Not a hood, then. ‘So you could see his face, could you?’

‘Yes.’ She nodded, looking thoughtful, a little apprehensive perhaps.

‘And you have no idea who he was?’

‘No. I’ve never seen him before. And I do meet people quite often in those woods. I ride there most days.’

‘How old was he?’

‘I don’t know. Thirty, perhaps.’

‘I see. So what exactly happened when you met him?’

‘Well, I was just walking down the track on Toby at the time, and I saw him jogging towards me. Then he put his hand on my bridle and said something, like …’

She hesitated and looked down, and Terry saw tears in her eyes. Not such a big girl after all then. She had been frightened.

‘He said, “that’s a nice pony, darling,” something like that, and asked me how old Toby was. So I told him, and he said was he nice to ride, and I said he was brilliant but a bit lazy sometimes, and then he said could he have a ride. So I said no and he said, “oh come on,” something like that, and put his arm round my waist trying to pull me off, so then …’

Helen looked up at her mum, who nodded for her to go on.

‘… I screamed and hit him hard with my riding whip. He didn’t let go at first so I tried to kick him too and then Toby reared and we got away. Then I galloped home and told mum.’

Terry nodded. ‘You must have been very frightened.’

‘I was, yes. Course I was.’

‘Did you see what the man did when you got away?’

‘No. I looked back once and saw him running into the woods. Then he was gone. I didn’t want to see him.’

‘No, of course not.’ Terry watched her for a moment in silence. He was fairly convinced she was telling the truth; there seemed no reason not to. ‘How did he speak? Like someone from round here?’

‘No. It was a funny accent — not local.’

‘And you’re sure he tried to pull you off the horse? You couldn’t have made a mistake — he wasn’t just trying to be friendly?’

‘No! What do you mean, mistake? I can feel him doing it, now!’

‘All right, I’m sorry.’ He had really upset her now, he saw. She was crying, and her mother reached out to hug her. This was serious, he thought angrily. It could have been very serious indeed. But the great thing was, she had seen his face. And heard his voice.

He waited for a moment while the tears subsided, then, as gently as he could, said: ‘Listen to me, Helen. It’s important to catch this man, isn’t it? So I want you to do one more thing for me — in a while, when you’re feeling better. I want you to help us make a photofit picture of this man. We’ve got a lady officer who’s very good at that. Will you come and see her, please?’

She nodded, still with tears in her eyes but determined, too. Encouraged, Terry made the arrangements with her mother and left.

He sighed as Harry drove down the track, the collie streaking alongside. After Gary Harker’s arrest, this sort of thing should be over. Of course there were other men like Gary, but statistically, Terry knew, this sort of behaviour was odd. Most rapists were known to their victims; more rapes were committed by relatives in the home than by strangers in the woods.

He thought how angry he would feel if such a thing happened to his own girls. It would be insupportable. I’d kill the bastard, he thought, his hands tightening on his knees. Kill him and ask questions after.

Chapter Four

As Sarah wheeled the Kawasaki into the street something tugged at her memory. She glanced at her watch and swore. 7.40. Her daughter Emily had a school concert that night and she had promised to go. When did it begin — eight? Eight thirty? Pray God it was the latter. Quickly she fastened her helmet, settled herself in the saddle, and turned the key. The engine purred smoothly. I must be quick, she thought. Not so much freedom after all.

But as the bike wove its way swiftly down the street the old thrill returned. It was so powerful and free, compared to a car. Why shouldn’t she enjoy it, this daily adventure on the roads? It was her reward for long hours of work, for all the disasters of her childhood.

If Emily was late for the concert and threw a tantrum, so what? Secretly Sarah regarded her daughter as spoilt. What did Emily know of trouble or poverty? Nothing, compared to her mother.

Sarah had been fifteen when she met Kevin Mills, and he had been seventeen. She had been an ordinary conscientious working-class girl at her local grammar school, not particularly clever or pretty, five foot six with short dark hair. The first risk she had ever taken was to drink two halves of lager and lift her miniskirt for Kevin in the back of his parent’s yellow Ford Cortina; and that risk had ruined her life. She still remembered, almost every day, the lonely dread for weeks afterwards waiting for a period that never came. And then the morning sickness, and telling her mother.

And Kevin.

Kevin was of course a devil, a satyr to have seduced an underage schoolgirl, but he had great pride. He was shorter than other boys, but wiry and strong, able to command respect with a look or sharp word. Nobody put him down; he was too dangerous for that. He was also capable of great charm. She knew he’d had other girls but he’d chosen her. She had felt proud and excited to be with him. Not afraid, not then.

Not even when she told him she was carrying his baby.

At that moment, he had been brilliant. Or so she had thought at the time. She could remember how the angry pimple on his forehead flared red as the rest of his face went white with shock. But then, when the truth had sunk in, he had puffed out his chest like a little fighting cock — he had been proud! She was pregnant with his baby — he had done it before most other boys on the estate! So two days later he had stood in her front room with her hand in his and told her parents he was going to marry her. Not asked them, told them. At seventeen years old he said he loved her and wanted her children and they were going to get married.

Such fools they both were.

They were married when she was sixteen, and the social services found them a council house on the Seacroft estate in Leeds. It was a dreadful estate; their house had damp running down the walls so freely that they saw snails crawling above the cot. The wallpaper was peeling off, the window frames were rotting and the weeds were two feet high in the garden, growing out of the dog muck that the previous tenant’s three rottweilers had left.

But at first it didn’t matter. It was their own house and they were young and determined and it almost seemed like a game. They furnished it with second-hand carpets and a plastic three piece suite, a brand-new cot from social services for the baby and a mattress on the bedroom floor for themselves. In the kitchen they had a Baby Belling cooker with two electric rings only one of which worked when the oven was on. Her mother gave her a cookbook called Healthy Eating for Less Than a Pound a Day, and Sarah came to know all its recipes by heart. Often things were burnt or underdone but in those first few weeks it didn’t matter because