A Game of Proof (44 page)

On the way to the builder’s merchant, Robsons, a second thought struck him. What if this  same driver had delivered building materials to the university lodgings where Karen Whitaker lived? Might as well check those dates too.

The receptionist at Robsons was uncooperative. A burly girl with fat legs and a hint of a moustache, she kept him waiting for nearly five minutes while fiddling with some paperwork which she didn’t seem to understand. The employment clerk in the back office seemed brighter, but worried somehow. He checked the two addresses and  sets of dates Terry gave him, and fished some delivery notes out of the files. He laid them before Terry reluctantly.

‘There you are, that’s them.’

The handwriting on each was identical. So it
was
the same driver, Terry noted with a pulse of excitement. ‘What’s this signature at the bottom? The driver’s name?’

The man inspected it in surprise, as though wondering why it was there. ‘Hard to read, isn’t it? Just a scrawl. Some of these lads are barely literate, you know.’

Terry had met this sort of response before. ‘Look, I’m not from the DSS or the Revenue, OK? This is a murder enquiry. So if you’re going to be obstructive ...’

The scales seemed to lift from the man’s eyes. ‘Irish fellow - name of Sean ... something.’

‘Sean what?’

‘Ah well, there’s the problem, see. He’ll have wanted to avoid tax, you see ... we wouldn’t keep a record.’

‘I thought they had a special Irish card, for that?’

‘That was in the old days, before 1999. Most of them were forgeries but no one ever checked. But now the Revenue’s tightened up; it’s not just a card but a proper booklet with photo, name, address, everything. They need a passport and a driver’s licence to get it -
and
a utility bill, to prove their address over here, see?’

‘So? Didn’t this Sean fellow have one of these?’

‘Ah, well, no, that’s just it.’ The clerk gave him a wry, embarrassed grin. ‘The Revenue think they’ve solved this problem of the lump by making the paperwork hard to get, but it’s just driven them underground. Most of these lads can’t produce a utility bill even if they want to - either they share lodgings or they’re not over here long enough. Anyway why should they go to all this trouble just to pay tax? They just don’t bother with cards any more. But they’re still there, looking for work, and we’re short-handed So ...’ He shrugged apologetically.

‘You pay them under the counter, no questions asked?’

‘Your words, not mine. No address, no phone number, nothing.’

‘But you let this man drive. You must have seen his licence!’

‘Oh, yes, of course, but ...’ The man shrugged again. ‘I didn’t keep it, did I?’

Terry sighed. ‘Well, at least you can give me a description. Or I
will
tell the Revenue.’

The man held up his hands. ‘Look, in a murder case, no question. I’ll get some lads too. There’s several knew him. When he left us he worked for MacFarlane’s, I think.’

At MacFarlane’s he was embarrassed to meet the foreman, Graham Dewar, who had given evidence at Gary’s trial. It had been one of Terry’s lowest moments. Dewar had told the court that the man Gary had claimed to be with
did
exist after all. A man called Sean.

‘If you’d asked me at the time,’ Graham Dewar said reprovingly. ‘I’d have told you then.’

Terry sighed. ‘Yes, well ... But he wasn’t on site even then, was he?’

Dewar shook his head. ‘Lads like him, they don’t stay long. We were well rid, at that.’

The reason for Dewar’s dislike of the man became clearer as he talked. Two other labourers also remembered him. Their information confirmed what Terry had learned at Robsons. Sean was a big man, everyone agreed, strong and exceptionally fit. He could carry a hod of bricks up ladders for eight hours a day, before going out in the evenings for a run. He had done some boxing, apparently, and had the face to show it.

But none of this accounted for the informants’ clear dislike of him, or the anxiety some showed when Terry’s questions began. One problem seemed to have been his unpredictable temper. He could be working equably one minute, in a violent rage the next. They’d seen this happen several times. Anything could set it off - someone who jostled him, perhaps, or an apparently harmless joke - but the result was frightening. Two men had left, rather than work alongside him. Sometimes he was backed up by Gary Harker, who had also worked there - the two appeared to have known each other before, possibly in prison.

The day Sean left MacFarlane’s, a number of tools went missing. This had been reported to the police and Sean’s name mentioned as a possible suspect, but the investigating officers, like Terry, found no address or surname. MacFarlane’s, like Robsons’, had no record.

So, what did this add up to, Terry wondered, as he drove home. On one level the man seemed just a petty thief. One of many casual Irish building workers avoiding tax, a situation which helped to avoid investigation for theft as well. A fitness fanatic with an unpleasant, somewhat obsessional character.

But this was also a man with a sexual problem which Maria Clayton had joked with her maid about. Something about an extension or erection that was no good - that would drive any man wild. What if she had laughed about it, told him to get lost - this ex-boxer, this fitness fanatic who perhaps trained to compensate for his sexual inadequacy, whatever it was? There was his motive all right - a hatred of women, a sudden violent loss of control.

And this same man had delivered building materials to Karen Whitaker’s lodgings. And,  like her attacker, had fair hair. So, how to find him? The Irish passport office couldn’t help without a surname, passport number, or address in the Republic. Not even a record of a driving licence, for God’s sake - what if he’d had an accident driving Robsons’ lorry?

But he knew Gary Harker, an ex-convict. A friendship possibly made in prison. So this Sean, too, must have previous convictions. He could check the court and prison records - particularly where Harker had served - but without a definite surname, that would be difficult too.

Terry arranged for the building workers to come in to the station and create a photofit.

Chapter Thirty-One

T
IME PASSED. Summer faded into autumn. Simon played endless games of pool, and paced the prison landings.  At night he dreamed of Jasmine’s face, cheek bruised, throat cut, her blackened lips opening silently. She wanted to tell him something; but what, he never heard.

Sarah worked, defending shoplifters and petty thieves during the day. In the evenings she sat up late, poring over the details of Simon’s case. She talked to Bob when she could, and Lucy several times a week.

Emily’s GCSE results came through, and she began her A levels at the sixth form college. She and Larry spied on David Brodie, passing on snippets of information to Sarah.

Terry Bateson continued his slow, painstaking attempt to solve the Clayton and Whitaker cases. Forensics confirmed that the black trousers found in Simon’s shed were torn, and their fibres were consistent with those found in the mouth of Maria Clayton’s Yorkshire terrier; but there was nothing to show who had worn them. Terry’s attempts to trace the Irishman, Sean, were equally frustrating. No one had seen him for months; it seemed unlikely he was still in York.

A judge was chosen for Simon’s trial, a date set. Lucy received copies of the prosecution evidence and, in agreement with Sarah, chose a barrister. He was the best they could get, a highly respected criminal silk, Sir Richard Haverstock, QC.

She met him and his junior in Hull prison, two weeks before the trial. Sarah had wanted to come, but she was defending a car thief in Newcastle. It didn’t matter, Lucy had told her; things might go better without her. Sir Richard was a perfectionist, renowned for his analytical skills, but known to detest lawyers who became emotionally involved with a case. He was a great catch, but his status made it hard to arrange a meeting. He could manage today only because of an adjournment in the multi million pound drug smuggling trial he was defending.

The two barristers wore expensively tailored mohair suits with a casual assurance which suggested that they never wore anything else. Lucy was dressed in her semi-formal clothes - clean blouse, black jacket, long black skirt to conceal her generous lower body, and Doc Marten boots for comfort. They shook her hand patronizingly.

Simon had got thinner, Lucy thought as he walked in. The blue prison overalls hung off him loosely; she wondered if he was eating at all. He slumped into a chair and stared at the blue sky out of the window.

‘So, Mr Newby.’ Sir Richard began. ‘I’ve come to defend you. I need to hear your side of the story.’

‘Hasn’t Lucy told you that, already?’

‘Yes, of course. I have it all here in this file. But I need to hear it from your own lips, too.’

‘Why? To see if I’m lying?’

‘Not at all. Please understand, I’m not a policeman, Simon. I’m on your side. But I need to know what happened, exactly as you experienced it. It makes it easier for me to defend you.’

‘For the hundredth time.’ Simon sighed, and began to tell his story. But he wasn’t really concentrating. He kept gazing out of the window, away from the two elegant men who listened, making notes on their pads. What’s the matter with him, Lucy wondered. It’s as if he doesn’t care. Several times he missed out important details, and she had to prompt him.

Sir Richard asked questions, teasing out aspects that Simon had skimmed or forgotten. But still Simon ignored him, as though he were unimportant, an irrelevance compared to the sunlight streaming through the window. It was a particularly bright day, and a sunbeam reached the foot of Simon’s chair. It fascinated him. He dabbled his foot in the pool of brilliant light.

Sir Richard’s questions ended. He tapped his pencil thoughtfully against his notes, and  looked up. ‘It has to be said, Mrs Parsons, that the prosecution do have a strong case. In the circumstances I’d be failing in my duty if I didn’t warn our young client that at first blush, his hopes of outright acquittal are not particularly promising. Whereas for a plea of manslaughter, with diminished responsibility due to sexual jealousy, I could hold out far better hopes. But for that you would have to change your story, young man. Do you follow what I’m saying?’

‘No, sorry.’ Simon dragged his attention away from the sunbeam. ‘What do you mean, manslaughter?’

‘I mean, given the circumstances of your relationship with Jasmine Hurst, it would be easy to make a jury understand how upset and angry you were about her and this ...’ he checked his notes ‘... David Brodie. Especially given the way Jasmine kept coming back and, as it were, teasing you before going away again. I could play on the jury’s sympathy quite a lot with that. Then if you were to say, for instance, that you had an argument - that you asked her to come back but she refused, and as a result of that refusal you experienced an uncontrollable rush of emotion, a sudden violent loss of control in which you killed her without intending to do it or even knowing what you were doing, well ...’

He threw open his hands, as though the conclusion was obvious. ‘... I could plead  manslaughter, which carries a much lesser sentence than murder. In fact, the trial could be over in a day, with no jury at all. But that’s not possible with this story you’re telling at the moment, you see.’

‘What?’ Simon shook his head, bemused.

‘With the story you are telling now, I must warn you that our chances are not particularly good. And if you are convicted of murder you will go to prison for life. Whereas if, on reflection, you were to tell a different story, that you suffered a sudden loss of control and killed Jasmine in a moment of jealous passion, without meaning to, then everything changes. We can plead diminished responsibility. Do you see?’

‘But I didn’t kill her.’

‘I know you say that, Simon, I understand that fully, I assure you. But let me put this to you - I want you to think about this very carefully before we meet again, because it’s very important. There is such a thing as suppressed memory. There have been several cases recently where a psychological examination has established that a person who committed a terrible crime - a murder like, for example, this murder of Jasmine - remembered nothing about it at all. It was like a car accident, the shock erased the memory. Do you follow what I’m saying?’

Simon nodded slowly, his face sullen, hostile, confused.

‘So they could quite truthfully tell a story - as you have done - saying that they didn’t do it, when in fact they
had
done it but couldn’t remember. Often these people went wandering off after the crime just like you disappeared to Scarborough. But later when it was proved they had suffered such mental trauma it was easy to claim diminished responsibility. Their barrister explained that their earlier stories were not lies at all, but simply the truth as they saw it because part of their memory was missing. Now I know a number of eminent psychiatrists and what I would like ...’

‘Fuck off.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Fuck off, you slimy cunt.’ Simon leaned forward over the table, his face a few inches from Sir Richard’s. ‘Get the fuck out of here now, before I push your nose down your throat. Do you hear me?
Go!
’

‘Wait, just a minute, let’s calm things down ...’ Sir Richard sat back, waving his pen in Simon’s face. ‘OK, I see you don’t agree ...’

Simon knocked the pen, spinning, out of his hand. Then he pulled Sir Richard’s nose, so that the barrister fell sideways, onto the floor. Simon spat and the phlegm landed in his ear.

Then Lucy caught hold of Simon, wrapping both her arms around his so he couldn’t attack further, enfolding his slim hard trembling body in a massive soft motherly embrace. The junior barrister hit the alarm button and two warders came in. Simon was led away in handcuffs.

On the way to the car park Sir Richard, dusting down his expensive mohair suit, said little. He touched his keys and the lights of his Jaguar lit up like a faithful dog.  He favoured Lucy with what he hoped was a wry smile.