A Game of Proof (The trials of Sarah Newby)

by Vicary, Tim

  She went back to her chambers where two young barristers were commiserating with Savendra over the conviction of his filthy farmer for polluting the borehole with his slurry pit.

  ‘My expert assured them that it takes twenty years to reach the water table,’ he said, gloomily watching the bubbles in a glass of mineral water instead of the champagne languishing in the fridge. ‘But that only made it worse. The applicants could see themselves drinking foul water for decades to come - you could see the steam coming out of their ears!’

  ‘Leaving the pollution in their minds, no doubt!’

  ‘Exactly. They got costs as well. My client may have to sell up ...’

  ‘Is there much money in slurry these days? Maybe you can bottle it and sell it as perfume for dogs ...’

  Sarah squeezed past into her room to write her speech for tomorrow. There were plenty of questions she could raise about the evidence; her real problem was how to appeal to the jury, to get them to feel good about acquitting a man who not only looked like a horrendous thug but probably was one. Particularly when the acquittal would be so devastating for Sharon. And for her children too.

  That was the problem. To question the evidence was easy, to gain the jury’s sympathy ... not so easy. Not even slightly easy. Impossible, probably.

  Well, that’s what I’m paid to do. Not the easy things, but the difficult ones. That’s the whole point of the challenge.

  For an hour she tried out phrase after phrase, rejecting one after another. All the time Gary’s words haunted her: ‘Keep me trap shut and tell no more lies.’ It was as close as she was likely to get to an admission of guilt. Gary was an old enough lag to know the game; a client must never admit guilt to his barrister. If the client did admit it, it was the barrister’s duty to advise a guilty plea, even at this late stage. If that advice was rejected the barrister could, as some did, withdraw from the case there and then, or more likely, offer only a token defence, questioning the evidence with a lack of conviction that clearly signalled to everyone in court - except the jury, who were new to the game - how little you believed in your task. Sarah had seen that done but always hated it. She wanted to do the job properly, go all out for victory.

  After all Gary, repulsive as he was, had consistently professed his innocence.

  Until now.

  ‘Keep me trap shut and tell no more lies.’ You sod, Gary - why didn’t you keep it shut with me! But of course he hadn’t admitted his guilt - she and Lucy had just inferred it from a couple of words. There was no ethical reason why she shouldn’t continue to defend him, and every practical reason - including a substantial fee from the legal aid fund - why she should. It was a good case, a step up in her career. If only it didn’t feel so tacky and sordid, suddenly.

  The phone rang and she picked it up.

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Bob. Hi.’ She’d meant to ring him earlier but got absorbed in her work. ‘How’s Emily?’

  ‘That’s just it. I don’t know.’

  ‘Don’t know? What do you mean? Where are you ringing from - school?’

  ‘No, I’m at home. But she’s not here.’

  ‘What time is it?’ She glanced at her watch. Half past six. ‘Did she leave a note?’

  ‘No, nothing. I got home at five and she wasn’t here. No plates or sign of lunch. I’ve rung her friends - Michelle and Sandra anyway - and they haven’t seen her either.’ There was a hint of anxiety in Bob’s voice - unusual for him.

  ‘Didn’t you ring this afternoon like I asked?’

  ‘Look, I’ve had two teachers sick and a football match to referee, for God’s sake! Anyway the answerphone was still on when I got here.’

  ‘Have you tried her mobile?’

  ‘It’s here in her bedroom. She told me this morning the card has run out.’

  ‘Well ...’ Sarah was nonplussed. ‘Have you tried her friend Joanne? She sometimes goes there.’

  ‘I haven’t got the number.’

  ‘Well, go round by car. You know where she lives.’

  ‘All right. But someone should be here in case she comes home. It’s not like her, Sarah - you know what a state she was in this morning.’

  ‘I’ll be back in an hour or so. I’ve got this speech to write ...’

  ‘The hell with your speech! Bring it home, Sarah, do it later - you should be here!’

  Sarah’s face tightened. She didn’t need this, not now. ‘Stop panicking, Bob. She’ll be OK. She’s probably gone for a walk to get her head together. There’s nothing we can do until she comes back anyway. If I get my speech out of the way I can talk to her later.’

  Silence came from the phone. Don’t play silly games with me, Bob Newby, not now. In a light voice intended to reassure, she said: ‘In about an hour. OK?.’ And put the phone down.

  Now - how to appeal to the jury’s emotions. The deadline would concentrate her mind, as it always did. She bent forward over her desk, and her mind closed down all thoughts of Bob and Emily.

  It would open again in an hour.

  She got home at eight to find Bob alone. He had tried Emily’s friend Joanne and two more without success, he said. The schoolgirls had phoned their network of friends - none of them had seen or heard from Emily today.

  Bob looked distraught. When Sarah came in he rushed downstairs, hoping it was Emily. One of the mothers had suggested he search her bedroom to find out what clothes she had been wearing, but he had no memory for girls’ clothes at the best of times. But the idea, the fear in the mind of the woman who had put him up to it, made Sarah shiver as she unzipped her black leather jacket.

  ‘Why do you want to know what she’s wearing?’

  ‘I don’t know ... well, in case, the police ...’

  ‘Bob ..’ She put a hand on his arm. ‘She’ll be all right.’

  ‘So you say. You haven’t been here - you’ve been writing your wretched speech to defend some rapist! Sarah, it’s eight o’clock in the evening and none of her friends have seen her all day. It’ll be dark in an hour.’

  ‘Well, maybe she’s gone for a walk.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Well, you know - where does she go? By the river.’

  Oh God no! The same thought struck them both at once. ‘I didn’t know she went by the river,’ Bob said.

  ‘She has done once or twice recently. She told me about it. She saw a heron ...’

  ‘We’d better go and look.’ He grabbed a coat and went to the back door. She followed. Outside in the garden he turned. ‘No, one of us ought to stay here, in case she comes back ...’

  ‘But if we both go, one can go upstream and one down. As you say, it’ll be dark soon.’

  ‘But what if she comes back?’ Bob’s panic was infectious. They stood there, indecisive, staring at each other on the carefully mown lawn, beside the weeping willow and the rose trees they had worked so hard to afford. This is absurd, Sarah thought. Nothing is going to happen.

  ‘We’ll leave a note,’ she said firmly. ‘Surely you left a note when you went out before?’

  ‘No. I didn’t think.’

  Christ! And you a head teacher! ‘All right, I’ll write one.’ She turned back to the house. ‘You go on. Which way will you go?’

  ‘Upstream.’

  ‘I’ll go down then. See you soon.’

  She wrote two large notes - GONE FOR A WALK BY THE RIVER, BACK SOON, MUM AND DAD - and left one on the fridge door and one on the stairs. If Emily came in she would either look for food or go to her room, surely. Then she put on her wellington boots and went out through the garden gate, across the field to the river bank. She set off downstream.

  She could hear birds singing in the trees, and a blackbird called out in alarm as she approached. A lawnmower hummed in the distance. But other than that the silence was eerie, empty as she often found it. The sound of her boots on the grass, the creak of her leather jacket, became large as they never were in the city. She could even hear the cows munching in the meadow. Th
e sudden croak of a moorhen startled her, and without warning two ducks skimmed round the bend and crash-landed on the river in front of her.

  I’m supposed to like this place, she thought. It’s luxury. Emily likes it anyway, that’s why she may be out here. But why so late? She noticed a tangle of green weed close under the bank and shuddered. God what am I looking for? She braced her shoulders resolutely and strode on. For Christ’s sake the child can swim well enough and anyway why would anyone be so crazy as to try swimming here when there are perfectly good swimming pools in town?

  But she might have slipped and fallen in. Then she would climb out and come home. The girl’s not an idiot.

  So where is she?

  A woman, a matronly figure in stout boots, tartan skirt and woolly hat, came along the path walking two labradors. ‘Hello,’ she said politely. ‘Lovely evening, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sarah said. ‘Er ... you haven’t seen - a girl, have you?’ A corpse, a drowned body floating up from under the water, her long hair drifting around her like water weed?

  ‘Girl? No, I don’t think so. Do you mean a small child?’

  ‘No - no, not a child, a teenager. She’s got long dark hair, looks a bit like me, about fifteen years old ...’

  ‘What was she wearing?’

  ‘I don’t know, I’m afraid. She’s my daughter, and she went out before I came back from work. I’m a bit worried - but you haven’t seen anyone?’

  ‘No one like that, dear, no, I’m sorry. They’re a worry, aren’t they, children? Specially at that age. I remember ...’

  ‘Yes - well, thanks anyway.’ Sarah moved on swiftly to avoid getting entangled in the woman’s reminiscences. But after fifty yards she thought: there’s no point, if that woman’s already been along here. I should have asked her how far she went. She looked back and saw the woman and the dogs in the distance. If I go back I’ll get involved in conversation and that’s pointless too. I’ll go half a mile further on and then back. Emily wouldn’t have gone further than that, she’s no great walker but she’s been gone all day and Bob’s right, it’s getting dark. Christ this is bloody absurd, she can’t have been abducted. She’s probably gone into town and run out of bus fare.

  Did I leave the answerphone on? I didn’t check it when I came in - surely Bob did that? What happens if she hasn’t got any money and she rings the operator for a reverse charge call and gets the answerphone?

  Nothing, probably. No message at all.

  Sarah walked another hundred yards, stared despairingly at the empty towpath winding through vacant fields beside the river in the gathering twilight, and turned back. I’m no good here, I’d be better in the house. I can organise things there.

  When she got back the house was empty and there were no messages on the answerphone. She dialled 1471. A flat mechanical voice said: ‘Telephone number 0 - 1 - 9 - 0 - 4 - 3 - 3 - 6 - 8 - 9 - 4 called today at ten twenty seven a.m. If you wish to return the call press 3.’

  Sarah pressed 3. The phone rang five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty five times. She put it down, dialled 1471 again and wrote the number down. That’s something, she thought. She looked at the number but didn’t recognise it. That’s where she must be. I can ring it again and if it doesn’t answer the police can find out where it is.

  The police. It isn’t going to come to that, is it?

  The back door opened. She turned with hope singing in her heart but it was Bob. He stood there in boots and anorak, breathing heavily as though he had been running.

  ‘Have you found her?’

  ‘No. You?’

  ‘No. There’s a number on the phone.’ She showed him. ‘I rang it but it didn’t answer.’

  ‘I don’t recognise it, do you?’

  ‘No. I thought ...’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The police could find out who it was if ...’ Sarah hesitated, not wanting to draw the conclusion. It seemed so ridiculous. Things like this didn’t happen to them. ‘... if she doesn’t come home soon,’ she finished more firmly.

  ‘Soon? She’s been gone over twelve hours! I’m going to ring them now. Give me that.’ Bob took the receiver out of her hand. For a moment she thought of resisting but then she looked out of the window and saw it was nearly dark. He was right. It was already far too long.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘SO WHEN they sing, they’re calling their families over hundreds of miles,’ Jessica explained earnestly. ‘They haven’t got ears, but they feel the sounds in their heads ... they’ve got, like ...’

  ‘Supersonic earsight,’ ventured Terry helpfully, spooning up his cornflakes.

  ‘We saw a whale in a museum once, didn’t we, Dad?’ Seven year old Esther was determined not to be left out. ‘It was as big as a bus.’

  ‘Two buses, actually. We measured it, remember?’ Jessica, two years older, was used to competition for her father’s affections.

  Diplomatically, Terry wiped the spilt milk from around his younger daughter’s plate while smiling encouragement at the elder one, whose enthusiasm continued unchecked. ‘A sperm whale is the biggest creature on the planet, and it doesn’t attack people at all, it just feeds off small planks ...’

  ‘Plankton.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it, millions and millions of them. Mr Jones said whales are like huge cows eating grass in the sea. They’re gi-normous ...’

  ‘Who’s ready for waffles? Esther?’ Trude, the nanny, came in bearing two hot waffles on a plate and wearing a t-shirt cut to display her exquisite belly-button to perfection. She flopped a steaming waffle onto Esther’s plate. ‘Strawberry jam or blackcurrant?’

  ‘Treacle.’

  ‘Oh no. Not before school,’ said Terry firmly. ‘Remember yesterday.’

  ‘But I like treacle!’

  ‘No one in Norway has treacle for breakfast,’ said Trude supportively. ‘It’s a law.’

  Esther gaped at her, then gave in and reached for the blackcurrant jam. Even without treacle, waffles for breakfast were an incredible luxury, one of Trude’s best introductions. The young nanny had been amazed to find herself in a family with no waffle-iron. Every Norwegian family had one, she said. She immediately sent for one and now it was in constant use, delighting Terry and his daughters equally.

  But a different aspect of their nanny’s culture was troubling Jessica.

  ‘Only two countries still hunt whales,’ she whispered solemnly, her big brown eyes fixed on her father as she folded her waffle. ‘Japan and - Norway.’ She grimaced towards the kitchen in a way intended, no doubt, to show an adult appreciation of a touchy problem. To Terry it conveyed something utterly different - a twinge of memory, sharp as toothache, of exactly the same expression on the face of the child’s mother.

  ‘Don’t you think it’s important?’ Jessica persisted.

  ‘What?’ Forget the pain, he told himself. It will pass. And Mary’s still here, her genes are alive in this child we made together. ‘What’s important, Jess?’

  ‘Dad! Norwegians killing whales, of course!’

  Trude, coming in from the kitchen, overheard. ‘I don’t kill them,’ she protested. ‘Though I did have whale meat once. It was good. Better than reindeer.’

  ‘Reindeer? Yuck!’ said Esther. ‘Trude, you can’t!’

  ‘Whales are intelligent animals, like us!’ Jessica protested. ‘You can’t eat them!’

  Trude looked amused and hurt at once. She sat down, sweeping her long fair hair back as she tried to explain. ‘Well, most Norwegians don’t kill them ...’

  The mobile in Terry’s pocket rang. Irritated, he answered it. ‘Yes?’

  It was Sergeant Rossiter at the station. ‘Sorry to trouble you at home, sir, but there’s been a flap overnight about a missing person out your way and I thought you might want to go straight there before you come in.’

  ‘A misper? Aren’t uniform dealing with it?’

  ‘Well, yes sir, they are, but like I say it’s out your way and one of the parents is some
one you know, as it happens. A Mrs Sarah Newby.’

  Terry groaned. ‘All right. But I’m having breakfast with my kids first. Okay?’

  ‘Sir.’ It was not a thing CID officers usually said. ‘I’ll tell them you’re on your way.’

  At the Newby house no one had slept.

  Bob had called the police at 8.30 p.m. but at first it had been hard to get them to take him seriously. A fifteen year old girl, still early in the evening - it didn’t seem urgent. Nonetheless they would send a car round.

  When the two PCs arrived Sarah and Bob were bemused by the uniforms and crackling radios in their own living room. They gave the details anxiously, submissively almost. No, Emily had no problems except her exams; no, there had been no family quarrel; yes, she was nearly sixteen; yes, she had been out at night before but always with friends; yes, she had a mobile but it was at home. Sarah gave them the number she had got from ringing 1471 and a constable wrote it down without comment. They checked Emily’s room, took a photograph that Sarah gave them, wrote down Sarah’s guess at the clothes her daughter had been wearing, and then - left.

  ‘They’re not bloody interested!’ she fumed after they had gone. ‘They think it’s just a family quarrel. They’re not going to do anything at all!’

  Bob frowned. ‘We did say she might turn up at any time, after all.’

  ‘If she does I’ll kill her, the spoilt brat.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why she went.’

  ‘Oh, it’s my fault now, is it?’

  ‘You didn’t show her much sympathy over her exams this morning, did you?’

  ‘I talked to her, didn’t I? You were still semi-conscious, as you are every morning. I said I’d phone her at lunchtime and I did, too. I can’t help a person who isn’t there!’

  ‘Maybe she thinks you’re never there when she wants you.’

  ‘Oh shut up, Bob, this is no time for pop psychology. The fact is the wretched girl has vanished and you’re quite right, it is out of character and it is late and the useless plods aren’t interested.’

  ‘They did take her photo.’

  ‘Yes.’ That was the thing that had shaken Sarah. It was a school portrait in a frame, of a slightly younger Emily smiling engagingly at the camera. The sort of photo of someone posed and pretty and full of bubbling happiness which the newspapers splash on their front pages when a girl has been stripped, raped, mutilated and murdered. Look at me, the photos always seem to say. I’m a star at last!