A Game of Proof (39 page)

‘I dunno. A year ago, maybe. Year and a half?’

Reluctantly, with gentle prodding from Lucy, a picture began to emerge.

Two years ago, he had been at college gaining NVQs in building skills and bricklaying. When he left he joined a pool of semi-employed labourers, working as demand rose, unemployed when it fell. Gary had been an older man in a similar position. Simon had been impressed and intimidated by him. He used his undoubted strength to work hard at times, and his cunning to deceive or scare his employers at others.

‘You knew he was a criminal then?’ Lucy asked softly.

Simon shrugged. ‘He boasted about it. Said he’d been a right hard case in prison. Not many dared cross him. I tried to keep away.’

‘So how did he come to visit your house?’

Simon stared at her, surprised that she knew about this; but he didn’t deny it. ‘He just came, that’s all. Lots of lads did. I’d go to their place, they’d come to mine.’

‘They didn’t all use your shed though, did they?’

‘No.’ Simon looked down.

Lucy probed gently: ‘What did he use it for, Simon?’

‘To keep stuff he’d nicked.’ Simon’s voice was sharp and defiant, but he avoided Sarah’s eyes. Lucy pressed her friend’s hand under the table, to ensure she remained quiet.

‘How did that come about, Simon?’

Reluctantly, Simon explained. As she watched, Sarah felt he seemed more ashamed of this than about the much more serious matter of Jasmine’s death. Maybe that’s a good sign, she thought. He feels guilty about this because he did it; he doesn’t feel guilty about Jasmine because he didn’t kill her. Or is it all bluster, an act put on for my benefit?

At many building sites, Simon said, there was a problem of petty theft. Tools disappeared, building materials were siphoned off to the labourers’ own uses. It was more rife at the bigger companies because low paid workers, like himself, felt they were being ripped off. So it became a challenge to redress the balance by nicking something for yourself. Or so Simon had seen it.

He had taken a few things - a still saw, some carpenter’s tools. But he’d not known how to find a buyer, and asked Gary, showing him the tools in his shed, which had been a mistake. Gary had offered to find Simon a buyer if Simon helped him hide more stuff. At first Simon went along with it; then, when he tried to back out, Gary turned nasty.

Simon was caught in a classic piece of petty blackmail: if he refused to let Gary use the shed, Gary and his friends might beat him up, inform on him, or both. If he allowed Gary to carry on, he was paid a share of the proceeds. Simon took the money, and said nothing.

‘They stored stuff until they could sell it,’ he said. ‘I never looked in there.’ He glanced at his mother, embarrassed. ‘OK, it was wrong but it doesn’t mean I killed anyone, does it?’

Sarah shook her head, wordlessly.
It just means you were stupid, Simon. Again.
He read the message in her eyes.

‘So Gary used your shed to hide stolen property,’ Lucy confirmed. ‘So what about this balaclava your mother found there? And the watch and the ring?’

‘I told you, I was sick of it! I don’t know nowt about them!’

Sarah spoke for the first time. ‘You told me you might have made a hood, Simon. Don’t you remember?
For a laugh
, you said.’

‘I was just winding you up, mum. Forget it.’

‘Winding me up! For Christ’s sake, the police think that hood was used in a rape! And they say it’s got your hairs in it!’

‘What?’

Lucy squeezed Sarah’s arm hard under the table, but it was too late. The diplomatic approach had ended. Sarah explained what Terry had told her about the hairs. ‘They’re the same colour as yours - red-gold - short like yours is, and they were found in your shed. Can you blame them for thinking it
you
who wore that hood?’

Simon shook his head wordlessly, looking wildly around the room as if for exoneration from some invisible audience. Sarah continued, remorselessly. ‘So if you did make it and wear it as a
joke
, Simon, you’d better tell Lucy how it happened, because otherwise ...’

‘It was a stupid joke, Mum. I didn’t mean it.’

‘What was the joke? Wearing the hood or telling me you wore it?’

‘Telling you I did. It’s not true, OK? I didn’t even know the bloody thing was there!’

‘Oh, Simon, Simon.’ Sarah shook her head sadly. ‘How am I to believe you?’

‘If you don’t believe me, Mum, I don’t want you here. You just make it worse.’ He looked at Lucy. ‘Maybe she should go.’

Lucy compromised. ‘Your mum’s almost the only person who does believe you, Simon. Without her you’ll have no friends left. But you did promise to be quiet, Sarah. Remember?’

‘OK, OK.’ Sarah held up her hands. ‘Fine. You talk, I’ll listen. But remember, Simon, Lucy can only defend you if you tell her a story that makes sense, and is preferably true. So no more stupid jokes, for God’s sake, now.’

‘Do you see me laughing?’

‘Simon, just let me get this right,’ Lucy continued. ‘You’re telling us that you never wore the balaclava, so the hairs inside it can’t possibly be yours. Is that it?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. Well, the hairs have been sent for DNA tests, so we’ll know in a few weeks whether they’re yours or not. They can tell to within one probability in several hundred thousand, which makes it virtually certain. Do you still say they’re not yours?’

However gently put, it was a killer question, as both Sarah and Lucy knew. They watched keenly for his response. To their surprise it came swiftly. ‘Yes, sure. They can’t be mine, I never wore it.’ When they didn’t react immediately he looked at them in astonishment. ‘OK?’

Lucy recovered first. ‘Good. If you’re right then the test will prove you’re innocent of any crimes connected with the hood. That’s the great thing about DNA testing; it works both ways.’

A brief, nervous smile crossed Simon’s face. ‘Good news at last, then. So what are you two getting your knickers in such a twist for?’

‘Because we’re worried for you, Simon. The police are trying to use the evidence of this hood, and the things in your shed, to pin more crimes on you. It’s only because your mum found out what they’re thinking that we’re able to ask you these questions now, before they do.’

Simon looked dazed. ‘
More
crimes? Like what?’

‘Do you know Sharon Gilbert?’

‘Who?’

‘The woman who was raped. Your mum defended him. Remember?’

‘Oh, yes, her.’ Simon’s look of confusion turned to incredulity. ‘No, of course I don’t. I saw her in court, that’s all. Right slapper, I thought.’

‘So you’ve never met her or talked to her in any way?’

‘
No!’
He stared from one to the other in astonishment. ‘And I didn’t rape her either, for heaven’s sake! I thought Gary did it.’

‘He was acquitted.’ Lucy shifted in her chair, uncomfortably. ‘This all stems from the hairs in that hood, Simon, you see. If they’re yours, they may try to prove that you raped that woman. Whoever did it was masked, after all, with a hood like the one found in your shed. From their point of view it’ll clear another crime off their books. So if they
are
your hairs ...’

‘Well they’re not and I didn’t. For Christ’s sake! Isn’t it enough that I’m charged with murdering Jasmine?’

‘That’s not the end of the story, I’m afraid. About a year ago, did you do some building repairs at the university?’

Sarah studied the expression on shock and confusion on Simon’s face closely. It seemed genuine, but she no longer trusted her own judgement. Nothing seemed real any more. Was he really perplexed, or had he become, as so many people did, a consummate actor under the pressure of the fight to preserve his freedom?

If I no longer believe him,
what will I do then?

‘A bit, yeah. Some pointing, refixing window frames, and a wall to rebuild. Why?’

‘You remember the police coming round? About a student called Karen Whitaker?’

‘I remember the girl,’ said Simon slowly.

‘What do you remember, Simon?’

‘She was attacked in the woods - oh God!’ He stood up abruptly. ‘They’re not saying I did
that
too? This is bloody ridiculous!’

‘What the police say, Simon, is that Gary saw some nude pictures in her room, and showed them to his mates. Like you. You all had a laugh about them. Do you remember that?’

Simon’s face was flushed, there were beads of sweat on his forehead. ‘Yeah, OK, yeah, I remember some nudey pictures. They were all over her room. So what? It’s not a crime, is it?’

‘Not to look, no, Simon. But a few days later someone - maybe a man who saw those photos - attacked the girl and her boyfriend when they were taking some more pictures in the woods. And her attacker was wearing a black balaclava hood.’

‘Oh, I get it. So they think I attacked this girl as well, because this hood was found in my shed with these hairs inside. Is that it?’

‘Yes,’ said Lucy patiently. ‘And the main piece of evidence that they have is another hair. The attacker was trying to bind the girl with tape, and a hair from his arm got stuck on it. So they’re trying to match the DNA from that hair to the DNA from the ones in the hood. And then compare the results from both of these to the sample they took from you.’

‘My God.’ Simon dropped his head into his hands for a moment, then looked up, shaking his head slowly. ‘What’s it like, mum, to have a serial rapist for a son? Will they lock me in a cave with a glass wall, like in
Silence of the Lambs?
It couldn’t be much worse than this shit hole, could it? Jesus! The world’s gone mad! They don’t just think I murdered Jasmine, but ...’

He paused, tears in his eyes, unable to go on. ‘ ... God,
Jasmine
. As if that wasn’t enough. And now this! Rape this Sharon woman, attack this student what’s her name - Whitaker? All because of the hairs in a hood that Gary must have left in my shed, the bastard!’ An idea came to him suddenly. ‘They must be
his
hairs, mustn’t they? It’s
his
hood,
he
did it!’

‘No. His hair’s brown,’ said Lucy quietly. ‘Anyway his DNA doesn’t match Whitaker’s attacker. They’re not his.’

‘Well, they’re not bloody mine either!’ Simon stared at them both furiously, trying to pierce through the masks of concern and sympathy to what they really thought. ‘You’ve got to believe me, all right?
Mum?
Come on now, this is a load of crap, I didn’t do any of these things! They’re not
my
hairs in the hood, OK?’

‘OK, Simon,’ Sarah said quietly. ‘If that’s what you say, I believe you.’

‘Thank Christ for that.’ He held her gaze, trying to reassure himself that what she said was really true. She gazed back, trying to do the same in return. Both wanted to believe the other, but neither found that they could quite, completely, manage it.

Simon turned away first, to Lucy. ‘So, is that it, then? All my multiple crimes?’

Lucy sighed. ‘Not quite, Simon, I’m afraid. There are two more they’ll probably want to ask you about. Helen Steersby and Maria Clayton.’

Not for the first time, Churchill was castigating Terry. His ammunition had come to light during further investigations into Simon’s background. Tracy had discovered it, but Churchill latched onto it with delight. Terry sensed the atmosphere as soon as he entered the room.

‘At last! The man himself!’ Churchill was perched on a table, with one foot on a chair and the other swinging free, beaming. Harry Easby and Mike Candor seemed to share his mood, but Tracy looked flushed, embarrassed maybe. She flashed Terry a look which he was unable to interpret - a warning, or a hint of pity, perhaps?

‘You remember how convinced you were, Terence, that our Simon had no connection with any crime except the murder of his girlfriend? He couldn’t possibly be our phantom rapist, you said, he doesn’t have the right profile. No criminal record, and no connection with the first murder, Maria Clayton. Remember that, Terence old son?’

‘Yes. It’s true, isn’t it?’

‘Not any more it isn’t, no siree! Wrong on both counts. Tell me, when you made your list of possible contacts with Maria Clayton, you checked all her clients, right? And then the building workers, of whom friend Harker was one?’

‘Yes,’ Terry agreed cautiously.

‘But what you didn’t check, old son, was who
delivered things
to those building workers. They needed bricks, sand, cement, all that kind of stuff. And they didn’t collect it themselves, they had it delivered from a builders’ merchant called Robsons. Who just happened to employ, for a period of three weeks, guess who?’

A sick, empty feeling flooded Terry’s stomach. ‘Not Simon Newby?’

‘The very same, old son. The very same.’

‘But ... for three weeks, you say?’ Terry floundered feebly. ‘Was that the same period ...’ The triumph on Churchill’s face told him the answer before he had finished the question.

‘More or less, yes. We’ll come to that. But first, Tracy here has charmed their manager into showing her all his delivery notes, and - you guessed it - the driver who delivered two separate loads to Maria’s house was none other than Simon Newby. We’ve got the sheets, look, with his signature on both.’

Terry took the two pink sheets, stunned. The signature
S Newby
was quite plain at the bottom of each. He looked up, catching Tracy’s eye. He saw what the anguished expression her face meant now. It was an apology, and underneath that an expression of pity.
I didn’t mean to show you up,
her face was saying,
but what could I do? These are the facts, and we should have discovered them before.

Worse was to come.

‘You haven’t asked why he only worked for three weeks,’ Churchill prompted gloatingly.

But you’re going to tell me, Terry thought. ‘All right, why?’

Churchill nodded to Tracy. ‘Your discovery. You tell him.’

In a cool, neutral voice Tracy said: ‘He was dismissed after a complaint from a female employee. She says he felt her legs, and sexually harassed her.’