A Game of Proof (38 page)

‘Go on.’ She glared at him grimly. ‘I’ve heard so much already, I may as well hear the rest.’

‘Well, if you insist. I didn’t come here to say this, that wasn’t my idea ...’

‘Just say it, Terry. Get it over.’

‘All right.’ He stood up, and walked across the room, thinking.  If Churchill found out he’d been here, having this conversation, there’d be one hell of a row. But right now he didn’t care about Churchill. His theories were wrong, they had to be. He sat on the arm of a chair.

‘Look, I’m running a risk telling you this, you know. I wouldn’t do it if ... well, never mind. You asked if I thought your son raped Sharon and I said no. But that’s just my view, not everyone’s. You see, because of those hairs, there is now another, quite different theory about that rape. And it doesn’t just relate to Sharon, it relates to several other assaults as well.’

Briefly, Terry explained Churchill’s belief that Simon, not Gary, might have raped Sharon and assaulted Karen Whitaker and Helen Steersby. ‘... It’s not certain, of course, but that’s the way his enquiry is going. And the final possibility, for which we have no evidence so far, is that Simon may have murdered Maria Clayton as well.’

For the first few sentences Sarah tried to interrupt and argue, but as he went on she fell silent. She felt his words like repeated blows from a hammer, nailing her living body to a cross. She sat very still, on the edge of her seat, trembling slightly as each new detail was explained. When he had finished, silence fell. She sat like a woman of stone, her face lit by the single lamp to her right. He expected tears, but none came.

‘He thinks my son is a serial killer?’
Her voice was high, slightly strained.

‘It’s a theory. But he believes the evidence will support it. These hairs in particular.’

‘Hairs? My God.’ She lifted a hand to her face, then ran it slowly through her hair. She snapped one off, and held it before her eyes. ‘A hair, like this? Dear God in heaven, he thinks my son attacked all these women, because of this?’

She began to laugh, and he thought
I should never have told her, what’ll I do if she breaks down in hysterics now
? But she didn’t. The laughter choked in her throat as swiftly as it had come. ‘You said not
much
more. What other evidence has he got?’

‘Not a lot, so far. That’s why the DNA will be so crucial. If Simon’s sample matches the hair in the Whitaker case, then Churchill’s theory holds water. Especially if they both match the hairs he found in the hood. But if not, not.’

‘And how long do we have to wait to find this out?’

‘Three, four weeks at least. It depends on the backlog at the lab.’

‘A
month?
’ she said despairingly.

‘Yes, I’m sorry. But you know as well as I do, these results could prove him innocent as well as guilty. We just have to wait, that’s all.’

‘It’s like an exam result. For your life.’

‘I suppose so. I told you it wasn’t pleasant, but you had to know some time.’

He watched her in silence, as she sat sightlessly fiddling with her wedding ring. Then she looked up. ‘So this is Churchill’s theory, you say. What about you, Terry. Do you believe it, too?’

‘It’s not really a question of belief. The DNA evidence will prove it, one way or the other. And my opinion isn’t worth very much at the moment, in the service ...’

‘Come on, Terry! You can at least have the guts to tell me what you think!’

‘In this job, it isn’t very wise to give an opinion ...’

‘I thought you were more than just a job, Terry. You’re a man, too, aren’t you? A father, with kids?’

In her anguished, desperate face Terry recognized something of himself.
I
was like this, he thought, in those terrible days after Mary’s death. Everyone was fobbing me off with caution, procedures, platitudes, when all I wanted was to
know.
To make contact with what those people really felt, not what it was safe for them to say.

But all his training went against it, for good reasons. You could commit yourself and be so terribly wrong. He looked at her and thought the hell with it, maybe I
want
to commit myself.

‘All right, then. Well, for what my opinion is worth ....
No,
Sarah, I don’t think your son did commit all these crimes.’

‘You don’t?’

‘No. I still think most of them were committed by one person. I just don’t agree that it was your son.’

‘Despite these hairs?’

‘They may prove me wrong. I’ve been wrong before. I thought Gary attacked Karen Whitaker but he can’t have done. Nor Helen Steersby. But for the rest - Maria Clayton, Sharon Gilbert ... I still think he may be responsible for those. And they’re more serious. More like the death of Jasmine Hurst.’
Now I’ve said it
, he thought. Trouble will come of this. But it’s what I believe and if it’s true then this woman is a victim as surely as anyone else.

Hope can be as painful as despair. The cold distrustful anger evaporated from Sarah’s voice. ‘You’re saying you think
Gary
may have killed Jasmine?’

‘I’ve no evidence for it, you understand. None. But his record of petty crimes, theft, violence against women -  it fits the profile of someone building up to serious crimes like this. I’m sure he raped Sharon, despite the hairs in the hood - and we know he attacked you.’

‘That doesn’t prove he murdered Jasmine, though, does it? What proof is there of that?’

Terry swallowed, aware of how unprofessional this conversation had become.

‘None, I told you. Just a suspicion; the knowledge of what he’s like. The fact that he knew Jasmine through Simon, that he fancied her - he admitted that - and that when he fancied a woman he thought he could do what he liked. And he
was
free that night: he’d been released for several hours. He was watching football in a pub until ten - that part checks out. After that, he says he stayed on, drinking in a private room. It’s not clear when he left. His route home from the pub doesn’t exactly take him near the river, but it’s not far out of his way, either. He could have walked up there, for whatever reason, met Jasmine going home, talked to her - because he knew her, after all - and then ...’ Terry shrugged. ‘It could have gone on from there.’

‘He asked her for sex, she refused, so he pulled out a knife, raped her, and then cut her throat,’ said Sarah softly.

‘Exactly. It could have happened like that ...’

‘But there’s no evidence to support it.’

‘None.’ Terry shook his head. ‘And a lot to suggest it was your son.’

Silence fell between them again. Terry thought how little surprised she had seemed at what he was saying. Almost as though he were voicing her own thoughts.

A cocktail of emotions - relief, joy, terror, foreboding and guilt - effervesced inside Sarah. She smiled. ‘If you think like that no wonder you’re in the doghouse with your colleagues.’

‘They don’t listen; they’ve got their case.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe they’re right; I’ve lost the plot. I shouldn’t be talking to you like this; it’s not professional.’

‘It’s a comfort, though.’ Sarah tried to smile again, and failed. ‘I appreciate that. You must be the first ...’ She felt her voice falter, paused, took control of it. ‘You
are
the first person except for Lucy - you know, his solicitor - who has actually, in all these weeks, said anything to suggest Simon might not have done it. And you don’t even know him!’

‘I’ve met him once, but it’s not because of that,’ Terry admitted. ‘But I
do
know Gary, and I’ve got this obsession about these other cases. The only judgement I have about your son is that he wouldn’t have done all these things. He has no record and he didn’t strike me like that.’

‘Thank you, Terry.’

Terry met her eyes, wondering. Her tone was passionately sincere and ironic at the same time; sincere because he had expressed belief in Simon, ironic because he had felt it necessary to reassure her that her own son was not a serial murderer. He felt embarrassed, conscious that he had gone too far. But he was tired - tired of professional discretion, tired of the rules, tired of Churchill and being treated like a rookie cop. It would bring a little comfort after all, and do no harm that he could see.

She shuddered, looked up at him again. ‘There is another possibility, Terry.’

‘What’s that?’

For a while she didn’t answer. She looked down at her hands, fiddling with her ring.

‘Sarah?’

‘I’m sorry, Terry, I can’t say. There’s probably nothing in it anyway.’ She looked up. ‘You’ve been very honest with me and I appreciate it. Really. You’re the first person ...’

‘What is this other possibility, Sarah?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’m sorry.’

‘You do understand why I’ve told you all these things? To help you and Simon, if I can. I’m taking a risk for you, but if you’re going to hold out on me ...’

‘It’s my son’s life we’re talking about here, Terry.’ She got up from her chair, walked distractedly up and down the room a couple of times. She stopped in the corner furthest away from the single lamp, looking across at him from the shadows. 

‘All right, let me put it like this. Simon says he had nothing to do with Jasmine’s death and I ...’ She hesitated, then continued firmly. ‘I believe him. That will be his defence in court, if necessary. As for these other offences, no one’s even asked him about them yet, but I can’t believe he’s a serial rapist. That has to be absurd. But there’s a problem about these hairs, which may or not be his, and the fact that the hood and the other things were found in his shed. That’s what your boss Churchill is focussing on. Now all I can say is that if -
if
- those hairs are his, and there’s more to his relationship with this thug Harker than either of us know about, then, well ...’

She paused again, a catch in her voice, and for while he thought she wasn’t going to go on. But the voice from the semi-darkness resumed, cool, very controlled really for a woman under such monumental stress. But then that’s what she’s like, Terry thought. If someone ever presses the nuclear button this is the lady to have in the dugout with you.

‘... then what you have to realize is that he’s only a kid really, just nineteen, while Gary Harker is ten years older and as you say, steeped in violent crime up to his eyeballs. So if Simon did try on this hood - for a laugh maybe or to try and impress his new friend - it was only that and no more. He’ll have been following where the older man led.’

‘Not if he attacked Karen Whitaker,’ said Terry softly. ‘That was just one man on his own.’

‘I’m sure he didn’t, Terry. But
if
- just for the sake of the argument,
if
those hairs in the hood are not only his, but match those found in the Whitaker case, which they won’t do, then ... then it could only be that he was put up to it by someone like Gary. Simon may be stupid but he’s not cruel or misogynistic - he couldn’t even think of doing a thing like that on his own.’

When she finished Terry didn’t speak for a while. He let her words fall gently into his mind, wondering how they would settle on the suspicions already there. Hers was hardly an objective assessment - the words of a mother, spoken with the persuasive fluency of a barrister used to pleading in mitigation. But then how else could she speak, about her own son?

‘Have you asked him?’ he said at last. ‘About his relationship with Gary?’

‘Not yet. But I will.’

‘If you could tell me what he says, it might help.’

She considered this. ‘If it helps to convict Gary, then of course I will.’

I could hardly expect more, he thought. He stood up. ‘I think we’ve said all we can, for now. I should go.’

At the door she put her hand on his arm. ‘Terry, wait! Can I ask you one more thing?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Let me know the DNA results, as soon as they come in. I don’t want to wait, or hear it from that swine Churchill. Just give me a ring when you know. Please.’

‘I’ll do that, certainly. It probably isn’t him, Sarah.’

‘No,’ she agreed numbly. ‘It probably isn’t. But tell me anyway, will you, Terry?’

‘Yes.’ As he left, he looked back, and saw her standing, a slight woman in the doorway of a terraced house, and thought, that’s how she’ll be if this all goes wrong. She’ll grow old like that, no career, no family, all alone.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

‘I
’VE TOLD you all this,’ Simon growled sulkily. ‘I’ve told mum anyhow.’

‘Yes, but the answers weren’t good enough,’ said Sarah quietly. Lucy nudged her under the table to stop her saying more.

‘Tell
me
, Simon will you?’ Lucy asked, in a reassuring, businesslike voice. ‘We need to get all the facts straight before the police try to trip you up. Now, when did you first meet Gary?’

Simon stared at a spot on the wall that had just become hugely, cosmically fascinating. Lucy waited patiently. She was used to this sort of awkward behaviour from clients; the only difference today was the presence of the boy’s mother, who also happened to be her friend.

On the way to Hull they had discussed whether it was a good idea for Sarah to be present at this interview. Her presence might either embarrass Simon or reassure him, loosen him up. Finally they had decided that Sarah should be present, if Simon agreed, but say as little as possible. That way Lucy could preserve something of her normal client-lawyer relationship, while at the same time assuaging Sarah’s enormous emotional need to be involved.

But now, as Simon sat silent, Lucy wondered if this scheme was going to work.

‘Would you rather talk to me on your own, Simon?’ she asked at last. ‘Your mother doesn’t have to be here, if you find that difficult.’

Simon snorted scornfully. ‘It’s not her that’s difficult. It’s you and your daft questions. What’s it matter, whether I knew Gary or not?’

‘It matters because you may be asked about it in your trial,’ Lucy explained patiently. ‘And because his watch, and the ring and the hood, were found in your shed when he was there apparently looking for them. If I’m going to defend you, I need to know why those things were there. So let’s start at the beginning, shall we? When did you first meet him?’