A Game of Proof

at all. Foolishly, she stood up, and instantly his old dark eyes swivelled to find her, like a thrush focussing on a worm.

‘Mr Mullen, you must have been watching this incident with great care.’

‘I saw what happened, right enough.’ The Adam’s apple in his leathery old throat bobbed sharply as he spoke.

‘I just want to get a picture of this,’ Sarah probed cautiously. ‘You were cleaning your teeth, when you heard a noise outside. A door slamming and people arguing, you said.’

‘Aye. Shouting at each other, like.’

‘So when you looked out of the window, the argument had already begun?’

‘Aye. Going at it hammer and tongs, they were.’

‘But you didn’t see the start of the argument, did you?’ This, really, was the only useful point Sarah had to make.

‘I saw best part of it. I saw him hit her, any road.’

‘Yes, I’m not disputing that. But you hadn’t been watching the street all evening, had you? You’d been watching television.’

‘True.’ The old man squinted at her suspiciously.

‘So when these two people slammed the door and started arguing, a minute or two passed before you started watching them. Isn’t that right?’

‘I saw him hit her,’ he insisted stubbornly. ‘You’ll not change me tale on that.’

‘Yes, but … Mr Mullen, which of these two slammed the door? Simon, or Jasmine?’

‘Him, likely.’

‘How do you know? Did you see him do it?’

‘No, but it’s his house, in’t it? Stands to reason.’

‘Women slam doors too, Mr Mullen.’

‘Aye, but she came out first. She were leaving, not him.’

‘But you didn’t see either of them slam the door, did you, Mr Mullen?’

‘I didn’t have to. It don’t really matter, anyhow, does it, lass?’

The jury probably agreed, Sarah realized. She was failing dismally to establish a rather unimportant point. She tried again. ‘What matters is how much of the argument you saw, and how much happened before you started watching. Which of them started shouting first?’

‘Nay, it were six of one and half a dozen of t’other. Both yelling at once, like.’

‘So the fact is, you were cleaning your teeth when you heard a door slam and people shouting at each other. You put down your toothbrush, walked to the window, and looked out to see what was happening. That’s right, isn’t it?’

‘Nay. I kept a good grip of me brush. Tha can watch a scrap and clean thi teeth at same time, lass.’ He made the point with such delight that several people in the public gallery exploded with suppressed laughter.

Sarah sighed. This was going nowhere. ‘I’m sure you can, Mr Mullen. The point I’m trying to establish, though, is this. You didn’t see all of the argument, although you did see the young man hit the girl. But it’s perfectly possible that she hit him first, before you started watching, isn’t it? Which would explain why he was angry, and hit her back.’

‘Nay lass, I saw what I saw, and it were none of that. Tha’ll not put words in me mouth.’

The old buzzard can go on like this all night, Sarah thought. With the jury happy to watch him, and no benefit at all to Simon. She sat down abruptly.

‘No more questions, my lord.’

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The man had been in the car for nearly two hours now. He sat and smoked and watched the windows. From time to time he ran the engine to keep warm. It was a cool night, and the streets were swept by showers of rain. The tarmac glistened under the street lamps, and he switched on the wipers, to maintain a clear view.

The woman would be out soon, he told himself. He had watched her go in, and identified her by the expensive camera round her neck, the jeans, the anorak. She was not the sort of visitor the house normally had. A young woman, he thought, about twenty-five, brisk, self-confident. Not the sort to worry about walking these streets late at night in the rain.

Someone who was used to big cities, who would not see York as dangerous. Someone who was here to get the story, make the most of it, and move on. Who would use people like himself as steps in the ladder of her career.

The door opened at last, a crack of reddish light in the darkness of the street. The woman came out, making her farewells, her short blonde hair framed for a second in the light from the doorway. Then she was coming down the street towards him.

She moved with a swift, jaunty, athletic step, her unzipped anorak folded across her chest by her arms against the sudden damp cold of the night air. She was within ten yards of him, five.

He thought, I could open the door now, shove it rudely across the narrow pavement to make her stop. And then in the same swift violent movement I could jump out and … what?

Nothing.

She had gone past his car, around the corner towards the light and safety of the main streets and the warmth of her hotel. And the man sat silent, his fingers tensing and loosening on his steering wheel. Thinking.

That’s what it must be like. That’s how it’s done.

He got out of the car and walked towards the door from which the woman had left.

‘You could come and watch,’ Sarah said from the bed. ‘Then I wouldn’t have to repeat it all for you.’

‘I’ve got a school to run, Sarah. Anyway, Emily and Larry tell me most of it.’ Bob took off his jacket and hung it up.

‘So why ask me now?’ Sarah stretched her legs under the duvet, feeling the muscles relax. ‘I’ve had enough, Bob. I’m tired.’

‘I’m not surprised. You woke me four times last night, muttering away to yourself.’

‘Go in the spare room then.’

‘The bed’s too small. It’s not comfortable.’

‘God!’ Sarah groaned, thumped her pillow, and sat up. ‘Look, Bob, I’m sorry, I can’t cope with this. I’ve got a murder trial to defend and tomorrow, I’m going to ruin some poor boy’s life in order to save Simon. So right now I’m going to sleep and if you can’t manage the spare bed, I can. Just don’t wake me before seven.’

She snatched up two pillows and stomped out of the room. Bob watched her go, listening to the lights snap on and off and the door slam along the corridor. Then he climbed into the warm, empty bed, alone.

‘Who the hell is it? Oh no, not you!’

‘Yes. I’ve got to come in, Sharon.’

‘Not now. For God’s sake, I’ve just put the kids to bed.’

‘Great. Perfect timing. Come on, shut the door, it’s cold out there.’

‘But I don’t want …’

‘I do, though.’ He was inside, pushing her back along the hall. ‘What you going to do, call the police?’

‘You miserable bastard …’

‘Compliments, compliments. Come on, Sharon, do you want to do it here or upstairs?’

She had her face averted but he was kissing her neck, her cheek, her throat. He could feel himself hard and her slender body trying to push him away, which only made him more eager. He pinned her against the wall, kissing and fondling her while he overpowered her with his weight. The scent of her neck and hair combined with the rank smell of fear to excite him. He felt her resistance weaken.

‘Here, then?’

‘No, come up, for Christ’s sake. The kids.’

She wriggled out from between him and the wall and led him upstairs, his hand firmly clasped around her