A Game of Proof (22 page)

‘It is a very remote possibility, sir. As it happens he was free six or eight hours before she was killed. But there’s no motive, no other connection.’

‘No?’ Churchill looked at him pityingly. ‘Then I suggest you concentrate on the facts. Do you have any leads?’

‘There is one, sir, yes. I was intending to talk to him later today.’

‘Who’s that then?’

‘A lad called Simon Newby. Jasmine Hurst’s ex-boyfriend. They quarrelled, apparently, and she left him.’

‘Newby ... Newby ...’ Churchill pondered. ‘Don’t I know that name?’

‘His mother, sir,’ Terry admitted reluctantly. ‘She happens to be the barrister who defended Gary Harker.’

Churchill’s mouth widened in a slow, incredulous grin. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘No sir, I’m not.’

‘Well, there you are then!’ Churchill laughed aloud. ‘What’s his address?’

Terry told him, and Churchill got swiftly into his car and drove away, still laughing. Terry sighed, thinking of Sarah trembling beside Jasmine’s body, and the words of Dr Jones, the forensic pathologist, in front of Churchill later.
Evidence conclusive - you find the wicked laddie gentlemen, and I’ll send him down. No room for doubt.

This was just the sort of case an ambitious Detective Chief Inspector would want, he thought, to make his mark in the media.

Chapter Sixteen

I
T WAS late afternoon when Terry located Jasmine Hurst’s mother. According to Sarah the father had left and gone to Australia; Jasmine had a one younger sister who lived with her mother in a small lodging house near the Minster. Terry met a tall handsome woman of about fifty, cooking in a large kitchen where a pretty dark-haired twelve-year-old was doing her homework with her feet resting on an ancient Alsatian under the table.

The woman welcomed him with a friendly smile.
I’m about to destroy your life,
Terry thought. ‘Mrs Miranda Hurst?’

‘Yes. Is it a room you’re after?’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’ He showed his card. ‘Are you the mother of Jasmine Hurst?’

‘Yes.’ The atmosphere of domestic happiness was jarring now. As though someone were screeching his fingernails down a blackboard slowly. ‘Is she in some sort of trouble?’

‘I’m afraid I have some bad news, Mrs Hurst. Perhaps you’d better sit down.’

In Terry’s mind, the screech grew louder.

Bob didn’t discuss it with Sarah. He knew it would create an impossible scene. She would want to prevent him and know that she shouldn’t; the conflict would tear her to shreds. The responsibility must be his alone; with luck she’d know nothing about it.

Nonetheless his fingers shook as he pressed the buttons on the phone.

‘Police. Can I help?’

‘Er - hello. I want to talk to ...
what was the name?
... the detective investigating the death of Jasmine Hurst, please.’

‘Hold the line.’

At least the police, thank God, did not play Vivaldi interspersed with recorded protestations about how all their detectives were busy right now. Just silence and the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears.

‘DCI Churchill. Hello.’

‘Er - hello.’ His fingers fumbling, Bob placed a tissue across the mouth of the receiver. This is stupid, his conscience screamed, you’re a grown man, a head teacher, you can’t play silly games like this. But it works, I’ve seen it on TV. With his voice muffled he said: ‘You’re investigating the murder of that girl, Jasmine Hurst, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Churchill sounded puzzled. ‘Do you know something about it?’

‘There’s a man you should ask. He’s called Archibald Mullen, number 17 Bramham Street. Have you got that?’

‘OK, but what can he tell us?’

‘Ask him if he saw Simon Newby yesterday. He’ll tell you.’

‘Can I have your name, please sir?’

‘No, sorry.’ Bob crashed the phone down, and used the tissue to mop his brow. What had he done? It felt awful. The image of Judas Iscariot came into his mind - Judas hanging himself in the garden. He understood why now.
He had betrayed his stepson!
He had done it and it couldn’t be undone. And it was worse to have done it secretively like this, not better. He could never explain his reasons or defend their morality,
because no one knew he’d done it.

He slumped at his desk with his head in his hands, groaning softly.

‘Bob?’ Sarah came in, and ran her hands lightly across his hair and shoulders. He could feel the tension in her fingers, too, but at least she was making an effort. ‘Come on. It’s been an awful couple of days, but at least we’ve got Emily back now. If we stick together we’ll come through all this.’

He said nothing. Surprised, she cradled the back of his head against her breasts. It was the sort of gesture he loved, that had become all too rare in their busy lives. He tried to relax, but his body was rigid, frozen.

‘Bob? What’s the matter? Talk to me.’

Now or never. But he couldn’t talk. He turned, put his arms around his wife, and held her silently. Feeling the soft feminine strength of her body. Seeing the image of Judas, swinging on a tree in the garden of Gethsamene, behind his closed eyelids.

Will Churchill was delighted. The informant’s voice had sounded odd but it confirmed Terry’s suspicion that the murder was connected with this boy Simon Newby. He collected Harry Easby, Tracy Litherland and Mike Candor and went straight round to Bramham Street. He pounded on Simon’s front door. No answer.

‘All right. Let’s find this neighbour at number 17.’

Archibald Mullen greeted them eagerly, his yellow teeth parted in a knowing smile. ‘You’re late, young man. The lad’s gone long since.’

‘Who do you mean, Mr Mullen?’

‘Simon Newby - him over’t road. His car’s not been here all day.’

‘Do you know where he’s gone?’

‘Me? No, lad. But he went out last night after he hit yon lass in the street, that I do know. He drove off after her. This morning his car were gone and I’ve not seen him since.’

After he hit yon lass in the street.
That was the key phrase. When Churchill and DS Litherland took his statement, the point became clearer. Simon had driven away in a blue Ford Escort about ten minutes after hitting the girl. When they presented Mullen with a photograph of the dead girl he unhesitatingly identified her as the one Simon had hit.

‘Grand looking lass - and she’s dead, you say? By, there’ll be a to-do about that, then. Pictures in the papers, no doubt!’

Outside in the street Will Churchill rapped orders as though he had a plane to catch.

‘Harry, get on to DVLC and trace this car. Blue Escort, registered keeper Simon Newby 23 Bramham Street. Got that? Mike, watch the house - if the lad turns up, pull him in. Tracy, get round to his parents’ home, see what you can pick up there. I’ll get a search warrant.’

After she had identified the body, Miranda Hurst sat on the green plastic sofa, pale and stunned. A WPC gave her tea.

‘Is there anyone who might want to do this to your daughter, Mrs Hurst?’ Terry asked.

‘No. Of course not! She doesn’t know anyone as monstrous as that, how could she?’

‘I believe she knew a young man called Simon Newby?’

She looked up, tears smudging her mascara. ‘Simon? Yes, she lived with him until perhaps ... six weeks ago, something like that. You don’t think
he
could have done this?’

‘We don’t think anything at the moment, Mrs Hurst, we’re just trying to find out. Did she quarrel with him at all, as far as you know?’

‘He did, yes. That’s why she left him.’

‘I see. And there was another boyfriend, later?’

‘Yes, David. Brodie I think his surname is ... I’m sorry, can I go now?’

‘Yes, of course, Mrs Hurst. If you just happen to have this David Brodie’s address?’

She wrote it down for him. Terry nodded at the WPC, who had seen him inflict a similar pain on Sarah Newby earlier that day. ‘Call a car to take Mrs Hurst home, will you?’

As the pair walked slowly out he ran his hands through his hair and thought:
how many more times? God. How many more?

‘Mrs Newby? DS Tracy Litherland, police. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may? About your son, Simon. It might be better if we went inside.’

So it had begun, already.
Grimly, Sarah led the way into the living room. ‘My husband’s asleep, I think. You may not know it, but we’ve had a hard couple of days.’

Bob was indeed asleep upstairs, and Emily had gone for a walk with Larry along the riverbank, of all places. But they weren’t worried about her now; she would come back. The four of them had spent the afternoon coming to an agreement which Sarah fervently hoped would work. Probably Emily and Larry were discussing it now.

The agreement was simple. If Emily would stay at home and complete her GCSEs, Larry could visit her as often as he wanted. He could help her with revision if he liked - but it had to be genuine revision, Bob had warned, with the bedroom door unlocked. Her mother is a real barrister and the law means what it says about girls under sixteen.

Sarah had winced, but to her relief Larry and Emily had agreed. It wasn’t that much of a threat because the GCSEs were only a few days away and Emily’s birthday a month later. But the great thing was that this Larry genuinely appeared to care for Emily and appreciate a little, at least, of their concern. Sarah rather liked him, too. He seemed naive and passionate but that is how the young are supposed to be. He wasn’t bad looking either; if she washed some of the dirt off, she could imagine how the lithe, skinny body under the ragged clothes could be quite appealing. Certainly Emily seemed to think so; but then she
knew
. And whatever she herself had done, Sarah had not wanted her own daughter to
know
boys in the biblical sense quite yet.

But if the boy stuck by Emily and gave her some emotional support, it might be the best thing that could happen. Neither she nor Bob had done enough of that recently; and now, with this disaster about Jasmine and Simon, it was going to be even harder. Sarah wasn’t surprised that Bob was asleep; she herself had been sitting in an armchair for the past hour, thinking.

This detective was unwelcome. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Did your son, Simon, have a relationship with Jasmine Hurst?’

‘Yes. He loved her. I was about to go and break the news to him, when you came.’

‘Well, I’ll try not to keep you long,’ Tracy said, diplomatically. ‘Would you tell me about their relationship, please?’

Slowly, choosing her words with care, Sarah described her son’s relationship with this young beautiful woman who now lay in the mortuary. Simon had met Jasmine a year ago, and brought her to this house several times. She had been a strikingly attractive girl, lithe, athletic, and Simon had been besotted with her. Sarah had been less impressed. The girl seemed to treat her son with quiet disdain, as though it amused her have him running around her like a puppy. But Simon loved the girl, she repeated; he worshipped everything she did.

‘Did they never quarrel?’

Sarah shrugged. ‘Yes, they split up, about six weeks ago. She moved out of his house, went off with another boy.’ She closed her mouth abruptly. She had no intention of telling this woman what Simon had confided in her, that Jasmine still visited him for occasional sex.

‘Do you know where your son is now?’

‘At his home, I suppose. I was going to see him. Some things you can’t say by phone.’

‘Before you go, Mrs Newby,’ Tracy Litherland said, ‘you should know that we have evidence that he was seen with a girl answering Jasmine’s description last night, and that later he left home and hasn’t been seen since.’ Tracy briefly explained what the old man had said. ‘Do you have any idea where he might have gone?’

‘No.’ This news shook Sarah considerably. ‘Who told you about this old man?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

‘You
are
treating him as a suspect, aren’t you? The poor boy probably doesn’t even know Jasmine’s dead yet!’

‘In that case we need to talk to him,’ said Tracy carefully. ‘He may have been the last person to see her alive, and he doesn’t seem to be at home. Does he have grandparents, relatives, friends that he sometimes visits?’

Reluctantly, Sarah gave Tracy her parents’ address, and a framed photograph of Simon. As she took it down she thought
first Emily, now Simon; I never knew it hurt so much.

‘I want that back when you’ve copied it, please. And - what did you say your name was?’

‘Detective Sergeant Tracy Litherland.’

‘Yes, well, DS Litherland, I hope you’re looking for other suspects too. Simon didn’t kill this girl. He couldn’t - he’s not a murderer.’

Tracy had heard all this before from parents, many times. She responded with a detached professional compassion that Sarah recognised only too well from her own work.

‘I hope you’re right, Mrs Newby. I hope you’re right.’

With a search warrant in his pocket, Churchill watched Mike Candor smash the lock.

Simon’s house had a kitchen and living room downstairs, two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. The sagging armchair and sofa were strewn with magazines, socks, and towels. There was a pyramid of empty beer cans in a corner, under a Manchester United poster and an old Pirelli calendar. The smell suggested that not all the beer cans had been empty when added to the decoration, if that was what it was. On some shelves in an alcove were a TV, video and CD player, all fairly new and in good order.

‘I thought this lad was a part-time brickie,’ said Churchill, staring at them in surprise. ‘Where’d he get all this stuff?’

Mike Candor shrugged. ‘His parents, maybe? They’re not short of a bob or two. Kids today, they take this stuff for granted, you know.’ He was exploring the kitchen when Harry Easby gave a shout from upstairs.

‘Sir! Come and have a look at these!’

He was in the smaller bedroom, not one dedicated to sleeping. The main piece of furniture was a padded exercise bench. Scattered around the floor were a weight-lifter’s bar, a selection of weights, a skipping rope, some elastic stretching gear, a crumpled tracksuit, socks and trainers.