A Game of Proof (54 page)

T
HE MAN had been in the car for nearly two hours now.  He sat and smoked and watched the windows. From time to time he ran the engine to keep warm. It was a cool night, and the streets were swept by showers of rain. The tarmac glistened under the street lamps, and he switched on the wipers, to maintain a clear view.

The woman would be out soon, he told himself. He had watched her go in, and identified her by the expensive camera round her neck, the jeans, the anorak. She was not the sort of visitor the house normally had. A young woman, he thought, about twenty-five, brisk, self-confident. Not the sort to worry about walking these streets late at night in the rain.

Someone who was used to big cities, who would not see York as dangerous. Someone who was here to get the story, make the most of it, and move on. Who would use people like himself as steps in the ladder of her career.

The door opened at last, a crack of reddish light in the darkness of the street. The woman came out, making her farewells, her short blonde hair framed for a second in the light from the doorway. Then she was coming down the street towards him.

She moved with a swift, jaunty, athletic step, her unzipped anorak folded across her chest by her arms against the sudden damp cold of the night air. She was within ten yards of him, five.

He thought, I could open the door now, shove it rudely across the narrow pavement to make her stop. And then in the same swift violent movement I could jump out and ... what?

Nothing.

She had gone past his car, around the corner towards the light and safety of the main streets and the warmth of her hotel. And the man sat silent, his fingers tensing and loosening on his steering wheel. Thinking.

That’s what it must be like. That’s how it’s done.

He got out of the car and walked towards the door from which the woman had left.

‘You could come and watch,’ Sarah said from the bed. ‘Then I wouldn’t have to repeat it all for you.’

‘I’ve got a school to run, Sarah. Anyway, Emily and Larry tell me most of it.’ Bob took off his jacket and hung it up.

‘So why ask me now?’ Sarah stretched her legs under the duvet, feeling the muscles relax. ‘I’ve had enough, Bob. I’m tired.’

‘I’m not surprised. You woke me four times last night, muttering away to yourself.’

‘Go in the spare room then.’

‘The bed’s too small. It’s not comfortable.’

‘God!’ Sarah groaned, thumped her pillow, and sat up. ‘Look, Bob, I’m sorry, I can’t cope with this. I’ve got a murder trial to defend and tomorrow, I’m going to ruin some poor boy’s life in order to save Simon. So right now I’m going to sleep and if you can’t manage the spare bed, I can. Just don’t wake me before seven.’

She snatched up two pillows and stomped out of the room. Bob watched her go, listening to the lights snap on and off and the door slam along the corridor. Then he climbed into the warm, empty bed, alone.

‘Who the hell is it? Oh no, not you!’

‘Yes. I’ve got to come in, Sharon.’

‘Not now. For God’s sake, I’ve just put the kids to bed.’

‘Great. Perfect timing. Come on, shut the door, it’s cold out there.’

‘But I don’t want ...’

‘I do, though.’ He was inside, pushing her back along the hall. ‘What you going to do, call the police?’

‘You miserable bastard ...’

‘Compliments, compliments. Come on, Sharon, do you want to do it here or upstairs?’

She had her face averted but he was kissing her neck, her cheek, her throat. He could feel himself hard and her slender body trying to push him away, which only made him more eager. He pinned her against the wall, kissing and fondling her while he overpowered her with his weight. The scent of her neck and hair combined with the rank smell of fear to excite him. He felt her resistance weaken.

‘Here, then?’

‘No, come up, for Christ’s sake. The kids.’

She wriggled out from between him and the wall and led him upstairs, his hand firmly clasped around her wrist. A bedroom door was open and a child’s voice called from within.

‘Mum? Has that lady gone?’

Sharon poked her head around the door. ‘Yeah, it’s OK, Wayne. Everything’s fine.’ Then, without looking at him, she led the way into her own bedroom. Her workplace. As he shut the door softly behind him, she kicked off her shoes and began unbuttoning her blouse. Her face was hidden by her hair. He stood and watched.

When her blouse and bra were off he hadn’t moved. She looked up, questioning. ‘What?’

‘Go on. All of it. Then you can do me.’

‘Pig!’ She unzipped her skirt, stepped out of it and began to peel off her tights. There was nothing provocative about the way she did it. Her manner was sullen, angry, brusque. ‘What the fuck you doing here at this time of night anyhow?’

He laughed. ‘What the fuck is exactly it. I was working late so I thought you could too.’

When she was naked she began, sulkily, to unbutton his shirt. He ran his fingers down her back and sides as she did so. His caresses evoked no response. She undressed him as though she were changing a nappy. ‘You’re a right bastard you are, Harry Easby.’

‘Am I?’ When he, too, was naked he shoved her backwards onto the bed, and climbed on top of her. ‘Then let’s see just how much of a bastard I can be, shall we?’

Afterwards he lay on the bed beside her, watching the smoke from his cigarette drift upwards towards the ceiling. She was curled away from him on her side. He patted her rump.

‘At least you give value for money.’

‘What money? You pig, you don’t pay.’

‘No, but if I did.’ He fished a fag from his packet and tossed it over to her. ‘Here.’

Sullenly, she put on a dressing gown, and lit the cigarette. ‘You staying long?’

‘For a bit. I’ve got some questions to ask you.’

‘Oh yeah. Funny way you’ve got of going about it.’

‘It’s my job.’ He gestured towards his groin. ‘Don’t get cheeky, you’ll stir him up again.’

‘Fat chance.’ The first hint of a smile crossed her face. ‘What questions, then?’

‘How’d it go with the reporter?’

‘Her?’ Sharon took a long drag on her cigarette and looked away, warily. ‘All right. She asked her questions, I answered them.’

‘So? What happens next?’

‘She writes her story, I suppose. That’s what journalists do, isn’t it?’

‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve never had one.’ Harry laughed at his own coarse wit. ‘What about the telly though - did she talk about that?’

‘She said she’d have to talk to some people. Editors and such, I don’t know.’

‘And then what? They make a film of you and the kids? And your clients too?’

‘Don’t be stupid. They’re not interested in them.’

‘Aren’t they? I bet they are.’ He smoked thoughtfully, watching her. ‘I could be in it. As a star performer, I mean.’

‘Men!’ She flipped his limp penis derisively with the hand that held the burning cigarette. ‘Star bag of shit more like. Come on, what are these questions? Or is it just about the journalist and that’s it?’

‘No.’ He got out of bed, put on his underpants and trousers, and took an envelope from his jacket pocket. Inside the envelope were two photofits. He spread them out on the bed. ‘I wanted to ask you about these.’

She peered at them incuriously. ‘Yeah, what about them?’

‘Do you recognize the man in the picture?’

‘They’re the same feller then? Meant to be?’

‘The same lad, yeah.’

Sharon looked more closely, comparing the two, and her initial lack of interest began to fade. Harry watched her long blonde curls slide across her shoulder as she moved her head.

‘It is a bit like a feller I know, yeah.’

‘Oh yeah. Who’s that then?’

She considered him, cautiously. ‘I don’t know that I should say.’

He snatched her wrist swiftly, squeezing so that it hurt. ‘Ah, but you should, you see, Sharon. That’s why I’m asking.’

‘Let go me hand, then.’ She pulled, but his grip tightened.

‘Who is it? Tell me.’

‘A mate of Gary’s.’

The grip loosened. ‘Name?’

‘An Irish lad, calls himself Sean. Nasty piece of work.’

Harry let go her wrist, and sat watching her intently. ‘Good girl, got it in one. So tell me, Sharon. How do you know him?’

She laughed. ‘Same way I know you, as it happens. All’t bloody same, you men.’

‘He’s one of your clients?’

‘Was, yeah. Not any more.’

‘Why not? What happened?’

She got up, flicked her ash into a glass, and began to pace slowly by the window. ‘If I were a doctor, I couldn’t say, could I? They have
clients
, and they’re supposed to keep it all secret, aren’t they? Confidential.’

‘Yes, but you ...’

‘I have clients too, even if some don’t pay as they should.’ She glanced at him scornfully. ‘But anyhow, that feller in them pictures, I reckon he needed a doctor as much as he needed me.’

‘Why? He wasn’t diseased, was he?’ Harry squirmed, feeling his groin for any unaccustomed aches or itches.

‘No, not like that. But he couldn’t do it proper. Unlike you, it has to be said.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, there was something wrong with him. He could get it up, see, but he couldn’t do it. No sperm, nothing like that.’

‘He couldn’t produce sperm?’

‘No.’ She tossed her head, drawing deeply on her cigarette. ‘Believe me, I checked. He wore a condom, but it were empty. I gave him a hand job, and - nowt.’

Harry stared, then began to laugh. ‘But ... poor bugger!’

Sharon shuddered, and stubbed her out cigarette. ‘Yeah, well, it wasn’t so funny at the time, believe you me. That feller there ...’ she nodded at the photofits ‘... is built like Arnold bloody Schwarzennegger and he’s got the mind of a fucking terminator as well. He could put
you
through that wall with one hand. Only there’s one part of his body that don’t work so well, see - his dick! It’s just dry and hard and drives him mad. And guess who he blames for that?’

Harry was still laughing. ‘His mother? Tony Blair?’

‘It’s not funny, Harry. He blamed
me
. I tell you, I thought I wasn’t going to get out of this room alive. He’s a fucking psychopath, he is.’

‘He threatened you, you mean?’

‘Threatened me? He had his hands round my throat.’ She shook her head, upset by the memory. ‘Anyway, what you after him for?’

‘He’s ... a suspect in a murder case.’ Harry sobered. ‘So when did you last see this Sean?’

‘About a year ago now. Thank God. If I never see him again it’ll be too soon.’

Harry put on his shirt. ‘There you are, Sharon, you see. I knew you had something for me that couldn’t wait. That’s why I came.’

She watched him fumble for his socks and shoes. ‘Oh yeah. Why you came. Sure.’

He stuffed the photofits back into the envelope and put on his jacket, favouring her with what he imagined was a triumphant, sexy grin. ‘Thanks kid. You made my night.’

Sharon watched from the landing as he went downstairs and out of the front door. Then she switched out the light, leaned back against the wall, and slid slowly down it to the floor. She fumbled for a cigarette and lighter and sat there smoking, hunched, her arms around her knees, outside her children’s bedroom door.

David Brodie placed his hands on the edge of the witness box nervously, terrified to find himself the focus of so many pairs of eyes. Phil Turner began gently.

‘Mr Brodie, how well did you know Jasmine Hurst?’

‘Very well.’ Brodie smiled at some inner memory. ‘I was her boyfriend. I loved her.’

‘How long had you known each other?’

‘About ... three months, I suppose.’

‘And how did you meet?’

‘At a party. She looked lonely and we got talking. She’d had a quarrel with her boyfriend, and had nowhere to spend the night. I said she could use my spare room if she liked. So she did.’

Sarah watched intently. He was speaking to the gallery, she thought, like Hamlet on stage. He hardly looked at Phil Turner at all.

‘Who was the boyfriend she had quarreled with?’

‘Simon Newby.’

‘Did you see any evidence of this quarrel?’

‘She showed me a bruise on her arm where he’d hit her.’

‘How did you feel about this?’

‘Well, shocked. I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to hit her.’

‘So she stayed in your spare room?’

‘Yes.’ He blushed, aware of a possible misunderstanding. ‘I didn’t try anything on; I mean I wouldn’t. She just wanted someone to talk to, I think. I was a bit overawed, to tell the truth. She was a very beautiful girl.’

‘So how did your relationship develop?’

‘Well, next morning she went back to Simon to try to patch things up. I mean, they’d been living together for some time, and she had all her things there in his house. So I said fine, but if she needed to get away she was welcome to come back anytime. I showed her where I hide the key in case I wasn’t there. I’m a nurse, you see; I work late shifts at the hospital.’

‘And did she come back?’

‘Sure. One night, when I came home at 11 o’clock, there she was. She’d let herself in and had a meal ready for me in the oven, of all things. It was amazing. She said she’d quarreled with Simon again and was moving out, for good this time. She asked if she could stay for a few days till she found somewhere else to live.’

‘And you agreed?’

‘Too right I did. I said she could stay for as long as she liked and  she did. She ... she stayed for the rest of her life, in fact.’ His voice faltered, and his eyes strayed towards the jury to see if they understood what he meant. It’s all a performance, Sarah thought. He’s on stage.

‘And you became lovers?’

‘After a while, yes, we did.’ He looked down modestly.

‘Very well. Now during this time, did you ever meet the defendant, Simon Newby?’

‘Yes, I saw him several times. He found out where she lived, you see, and he used to spy on us and make our lives a misery. He hit me once.’

‘How did that happen?’

‘Well, Jasmine was going out of the house. I heard shouting, and when I came out he had his hand on her arm. So I told him to leave her alone and he yelled at me to, well, fuck off, he said. Then he hit me.’