A Game of Proof (27 page)

She glanced at Sarah, instantly regretting the question. What could Simons’ mother say but ...  ‘As a matter of fact, yes. He told me that before. He was besotted with her, and ... well, I shouldn’t say this now she’s dead, but she had him wrapped round her little finger. She liked teasing him; maybe she did the same to her new boyfriend too.’

‘Well, there we are then. So he’s given himself a chance, at least, with this story. The trouble is, they still insist she was raped.’

‘How can they prove that?’

‘Bruising to the vagina, according to young Winston in there. He went on and on - how did Simon account for that? Did he like to hurt her when they made love? When he said they made love did that mean rape? On and on until I said he was harassing my client. He’s a nasty piece of work, I tell you.’

‘I’ve met him. But did Simon admit rape?’

‘No. He was quite clear about that and I don’t think he’ll change it. And of course, if he’s telling the truth and she
was
raped, later, by someone else, the DNA analysis ought to show the real rapist’s semen too. In which case, with the story he’s told now, I’d say your boy might just be in the clear.’

‘Yes. Maybe.
If
... and if that blood is his or at least not hers.’ Sarah took a long, shuddering breath. ‘So I suppose all we’ve got to do is wait.’

Lucy smiled, touched Sarah’s shoulder gently. ‘When was it ever any different?’

‘It was always different, Lucy. Always, every time before this. Because before, it happened to other people. Not to me.’

Chapter Nineteen

S
ARAH HAD been to Hull prison many times before, but today it was a different place. The great black-studded gates seemed larger; the echoing corridors louder, filthier; the cat-calls and wolf-whistles more threatening. She had to queue with other visiting mothers; have her handbag searched by a contemptuous prison officer.

She came with Bob, too, which made it worse. As they were herded through the prison yard he shuddered at the packets of excrement thrown from cell windows overnight, and shrank from the other visitors.

Simon sat opposite them and looked down at the table, ashamed.

‘You came then.’

‘Of course we came, Simon,’ Sarah said. ‘As soon as we could.’

‘Him too?’ He nodded at Bob.

‘Me too,’ Bob agreed.

For a while none of them spoke. Simon resumed his nervous scrutiny of the table; Bob stared at his stepson coldly, as though at a delinquent he was being forced to accept into his school. In the end Simon began.

‘You’ve spoken to that solicitor woman?’

‘Lucy? Yes, I’ve talked to her, Simon. It ... doesn’t look brilliant.’

‘Not brilliant? They think I killed her, mum!’

‘And did you, Simon?’ Bob’s voice was hard, like a slap in the face.

‘What?’

‘Did you kill her?’

Simon began to shake his head, slowly at first, then faster and more violently.
‘No!’

‘Not rape her either?’

‘No, I bloody well did not!’ He got up abruptly, leaning over the table directly into Bob’s face. ‘How dare you come here, asking me questions like that? If you don’t believe me don’t come, you’re not bloody wanted!’

Heads turned in the room. A girl at the next table sniggered. The guard folded his arms.

‘You were the last one to see her, Simon,’ Bob persisted. ‘You hit her. A man saw you.’

‘What are you, a bloody policeman? Just shut up, will you!’

‘I need to know, Simon. We both do.’

Sarah thought
Bob’s going to get hit, and he’ll deserve it too;
but instead Simon pushed his face close to his stepfather’s and said: ‘Well I didn’t do it, OK? So now you know. If you don’t believe me you can go fuck yourself.’

Everyone was watching now. Here in a prison visiting room, my son swearing at my husband. From a deep well of sadness, Sarah spoke. ‘Simon, it’s all right. Sit down. Please.’

For a second he glared at her, as if trying to decide who she was and whether to spit in her face. Then the rage left him. He sat, running his hands through his hair. ‘I didn’t do it, mum, whatever he thinks. Whatever anyone ...’

‘It’s all right, Simon, I believe you.’

‘ ... I mean I don’t even know where it happened, so ...
you believe me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yeah, well. At least there’s one of you.’ He reached for her hand, across the table. She felt the tension in his fingers, and clasped his hand in hers, for comfort. He turned to Bob. ‘What about you then?’

‘I don’t know, Simon. I’d like to ...’

‘Oh yes, you’d
like
to believe me,’ Simon sneered. ‘Only you can’t manage it, right? You’d
like
to believe your stepson isn’t a filthy murderer who raped his girlfriend and cut her throat, only you’re not absolutely sure so you’d rather think about it first and check in the
Guardian
to see what their opinion is this week, is that it? Then maybe you’ll let me know!’

‘Simon, stop it!’ Sarah clung tightly to his hand, partly to comfort him but mostly because she feared he might seize Bob by the throat. She should never have brought Bob; he just provoked Simon. And he wasn’t finished yet.

‘Sneer if you like, Simon, but that girl was raped before she died and you admit you had sex with her.’

‘Yes, well, so I did, but it doesn’t mean I raped her!’

‘They’ve found her blood on your trainers.’

‘It’s not her blood. They may not be my trainers for all you know!’

‘Oh come on, Simon, give the police some credit!’

Simon shuddered. ‘So you think I did it, then, do you? That’s all the proof you need?’

Bob shook his head sadly. ‘What else could any reasonable person think?’

‘Well, you’re wrong, that’s all! I didn’t kill her and that’s it! It wasn’t me!’

For a moment none of them spoke. A tiny amount of Simon’s anger subsided and he said: ‘I loved that girl. You wouldn’t understand that - you hated her, both of you!’

‘
I
didn’t hate her, Simon,’ Sarah said.

‘Yes, you did! You drove her away! Not
educated
enough for you, was she?’ He snatched his hands away. Tears came into Sarah’s eyes.

‘This is hard for us all, Simon,’ said Bob. ‘Your mother had to identify her body, you know.’

Simon was shocked. ‘
You
had to do that? Mum? See Jasmine’s body?’

Sarah nodded. ‘In the mortuary.’

‘But ... why you?’

‘They thought it was Emily.’ Sarah explained, briefly, the events of that awful day, and how Emily had given Jasmine her jacket at the protest. ‘She must have been wearing it, Simon, when you saw her.’

‘Probably. I didn’t think.’ Simon looked down again at his hands, and for a while none of them spoke, an island of silence in the noisy, crowded room. ‘What did she look like?’ he asked at last. ‘Jasmine. When you saw her?’

How do I answer that, Sarah wondered. None of this is easy. When she thought back to the mortuary all she could remember was the fear, and the appalling flood of relief afterwards. The body’s appearance had mattered less than who it was. And who it wasn’t.

‘I only saw her face. It was very pale, I think. Pale, with a bruise on her cheek, and ... some marks of twigs on her skin. Her eyes were closed. She was ... a very beautiful girl, Simon.’

‘Oh, I know that. Too damn pretty for her own good.’ He brushed the tears away roughly with the back of his hand. ‘And I hit her.
God!
I didn’t know I’d never see her again, did I?’

‘Did you cut her cheek when you hit her?’ Bob intervened, in a more conciliatory tone.

‘Oh come on, what are you talking about now? It was just a slap. Why ...?’

‘I thought maybe that’s how her blood got on your trainers.’

‘No. Christ, what are you tormenting me with this for? How did you get blood on your shoes, all this! I don’t bloody know, is the answer!’

‘I’m only trying to help ...’

‘Well don’t. I don’t want you here, go home!’

Sarah grasped her son’s hands again, across the table. ‘Don’t give up, Simon.
I
believe you. I’m your mother.’
But mothers don’t really count.
She saw it in Simon’s eyes.

 ‘Yeah, but that’s just it, in’t it? It’s all these other bastards - Bob, the police ...’

‘We’ll convince them too. You’re innocent until proven guilty. Remember that.’

‘That’s just lawyers’ talk, mum. They don’t think like that.’

‘I
am
a lawyer, remember? And it
is
true. It’s a lawyer’s job to
make
it true.’

‘Well, I hope to Christ you’re right, because it doesn’t look like that from here. And that other lawyer, that Lucy woman, she’s no friggin’ good, is she?’

‘She’s a good solicitor, Simon. She’s doing her best for you.’

‘Why am I banged up in here then? All day with nowt to do, and no room to move.’

‘Because it’s a serious charge, Simon. You don’t get bail for murder.’

‘I could get locked up for life, couldn’t I?’

‘Not if they can’t prove it, Simon. If you’re not guilty they won’t be able to.’

As she answered, Sarah realized that people were getting to their feet. A prison officer was coming straight towards them.

‘That’s not true, mum - innocent people get locked up, all the time. You’ve told me!’

 The prison officer had his hand on Simon’s shoulder. ‘Time’s up, son.’

As Simon stood up, his eyes still fixed on his mother’s, she said: ‘Not this time, Simon. I won’t let it happen.’

She regretted those words all the long drive back to York. It was a promise too great to keep. She had meant to leave him some hope, but what hope was there, really? The evidence seemed  too strong. Simon had been the last person to see Jasmine alive, he’d had sex with her, quarreled with her and hit her. Then he’d run away to Scarborough. If the blood on his trainers and breadknife were hers too, there was enough evidence for any court to convict him.

But I don’t believe it. I
can’t
.

Don’t.
Can’t
. Don’t.
Can’t.

Well, which is it, she asked herself, as Bob drove the Volvo along the long undulating roads to York. Do I
believe
he’s innocent, or just
hope
he is because he’s my son?

I wouldn’t normally ask questions like these. If he maintained his innocence I would defend him, and what I believed wouldn’t matter. But I’m not his barrister now, I’m his mother.

Bob drove silently beside her. The tension in his manner had grown worse since they left the prison. Sarah ignored it, focusing her thoughts on Simon. Her son had always liked to be active, outdoors, involved in sports. What was there in the prison - a snooker table, perhaps, shared by a hundred young men? And most of the time shut up in a tiny cell. What would he do - press-ups on the floor, pace up and down, two paces north, two paces south, again and again ...

‘I shouldn’t have come,’ Bob said.

‘What?’

‘He didn’t want me; I only made things worse. Anyway if he is guilty as it seems then ...’

‘Bob? What are you saying?’

‘Just look at the evidence, Sarah. How could you say you believe him? He was the last person to see her, he hit her ...’

‘Listen, Bob, there’s still a case to defend. There must be. There’s no evidence that puts Simon anywhere near this crime. He hasn’t confessed, and your horrid old man only saw him hit her in the face, nothing else. And you may not be aware of it, but the police are searching for a serial rapist in the York area. You’re not telling me that’s Simon too, are you?’

‘Not so far as I know, no, but ...’

‘For Christ’s sake, Bob, what’s got into you?
Not so far as you know!’

‘I’m sorry, but he did lie, Sarah, like he’s lied to us, lots of times. Especially to me ...’

‘What about? Homework, drugs, pocket money? All teenagers do that, Bob. Look at your precious Emily, running off for days without a word! It doesn’t make her a murderer, does it?’

‘I’m just looking at the evidence straight, Sarah. We know he was the last to see her, we know he lies, we know he hit her ...’

And so it went on; Bob’s voice clanged like a relentless bell in her ear. As they entered their  drive she made a decision. ‘Look, Bob. You don’t believe Simon but I do. I have to. I need some time on my own to think this through, and get some rest.’

‘On your own where?’ Bob turned, puzzled, the front door key in his hand.

‘Simon’s house. I’ll spend tonight there - maybe two nights. You can look after Emily, and we won’t quarrel. It’ll be best for everyone.’

‘But you can think
here!
’

‘No, not with you in this mood. It’s serious, Bob - you think Simon’s guilty of murder!’

‘All I said was the evidence points that way. For God’s sake, Sarah! Emily needs you here, even if I don’t!’

‘She doesn’t need to hear us quarrel. Just a couple of nights, Bob. We’re under a lot of strain. I need space to think.’

‘Well ... if you’ll be all right?’

‘I’ll be fine, Bob. Just leave me alone, OK? That’s all I need, right now.’

And it was easy, really. When she explained to Emily, the girl simply shrugged and turned back to her books. So Sarah packed a few clothes and cosmetics into the motorcycle panniers, climbed into her leathers, and rode away. Feeling strangely lightheaded, as though her wheels didn’t touch the ground. Exhaustion, probably.

So easy to walk out of a marriage. Is that what I’m doing?

For a few nights. That’s all.

It was dark by the time she got there. She wheeled the motorbike into Simon’s back yard, a small area eight yards deep by five across, divided from the neighbours by brick walls seven feet high. A door at the back led into an alley, beside a substantial brick shed made of the old outside loo and coal store.

She pushed the bike into the cluttered darkness of the shed. The front wheel clashed against a paint can and a plastic bag fell across the saddle. Working by feel, she padlocked the rear wheel. Then she found her key to the second padlock - the one she had installed temporarily until the smashed front door was replaced - and went into the house, carrying the fish and chips she had bought on the way.