A Game of Proof (The trials of Sarah Newby)

by Vicary, Tim

  ‘I’m the forensic pathologist, Mrs Newby,’ Andrew Jones said. ‘We’d just like you to look at her face, that’s all, and tell us if you recognise the body. Let me know when you’re ready.’

  Sarah met his eyes, and nodded. Very gently, as though taking infinite care not to hurt the body any more, he pulled back the sheet as far as the chin. The great gaping wound in the throat, tactfully covered with a second sheet, remained hidden. But nothing could hide the bruise on the left cheek, or the marks of leaves and sticks in the rigid waxy pallor of the lifeless skin. Sarah shuddered, and almost fell. Terry and the WPC caught her elbows. Under his hands Terry could feel her trembling, trembling ...

  ‘Well,’ he said very softly. ‘Sarah, is it her?’

  The trembling was worse now. Sarah leaned forward and gripped the side of the trolley with both hands, shaking her head vigorously.

  ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘No, it isn’t Emily. No, no, no, it’s not! It’s not her, no, NO, NO!’ She turned to look up into Terry’s stunned eyes. Tears were flooding down her cheeks. ‘It isn’t her, Terry, it’s not Emily, oh thank God!’

  He put his arms round her and held her, and thought thank God too, the poor woman, but who is it? Over Sarah’s shoulder he caught Dr Jones’s raised eyebrows and after another age of sobbing she drew back from him and he asked what he had to ask, for formality’s sake only.

  ‘So if it’s not your daughter, Sarah, do you have any idea who this person is?’

  The difference between a smile of relief and the rictus of agony is not so very great, particularly when smudged by a storm of tears. ‘I’m sorry, it’s wicked of me to be so happy but it’s only because it’s not Emily. Not because of this poor girl here. Yes, I do know who she is.’

  Bob was on the phone to the police when the door bell rang. The duty sergeant at the other end was being oddly obtuse, as though he couldn’t fully take in what Bob was saying.

  ‘Look, it’s important, I want you to tell Inspector Bateson as soon as he gets in. The sooner he gets on to it, the sooner we’ll get my daughter home. And she may be hurt.’

  ‘Just one moment, sir. I’ll put you through to someone who’s dealing with this.’ There was the sound of another phone ringing at the end of the line. Bob was about to go and see who was at the door when a voice said: ‘Mr Newby? Detective Chief Inspector Churchill here. I understand DI Bateson hasn’t made contact with you yet?’

  ‘No. But I’ve found out something that may be very important. I went to my stepson’s house this morning you see, and ...’

  Before Bob could describe his discovery further the doorbell rang again and then, a few seconds later, he thought he heard the front door open and voices talking, as though they were actually coming in. He hesitated, wondering what to do, and DCI Churchill took advantage of the break in conversation to say: ‘Well, I’m very sorry to tell you this over the phone, Mr Newby, but there’s been a rather unfortunate development. Inspector Bateson found the body of a young girl in a wood near the river this morning and I believe he’s taken your wife in to identify ...’

  There were definitely voices in the hall. Then the kitchen door opened and Bob dropped the phone on the floor, where it continued prattling busily to itself.

  ‘Mr Newby? Are you there, sir? I’m really very sorry indeed to have to tell you this but there is a strong likelihood that the body may be that of your daughter ... Mr Newby? ... Mr Newby, sir, are you all right ...?’

  Churchill could hear screams and cries which sounded like hysterics at the other end of the line, and he thought, I shouldn’t have done it like this, I should have taken time to go round there and break it to him myself, but a man like a headmaster, I would have expected more self control, what the hell’s going on down there?

  ‘A girl’s body, is that what you said, Chief Inspector?’ Bob broke in on his thoughts, his voice sounding oddly inappropriate, much nearer laughter than tears.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m really very sorry I have to break it to you like this ...’

  ‘Oh that’s all right, don’t worry, no offence. You see it isn’t my daughter anyway, so it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Can you really be sure of that, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Oh yes. You see she’s standing right here in front of me. With the young man who took her away, I take it.’

  ‘He didn’t take me away, dad,’ said Emily earnestly. ‘I decided to go myself, and we both came back together. You see I haven’t run away or anything, and if you’d only listen we can explain it all.’

  Bob put the phone down and gave his daughter a second hug, to comfort himself as much as her. Then he looked, somewhat less fondly, at the young man with the ponytail and scrubby beard who stood beside her, calmly holding her hand.

  ‘Yes. I think you’d better do that. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, young lady.’

  ‘So who is it, then?’ Terry asked.

  ‘It’s my son’s girlfriend, Jasmine. Well, ex-girlfriend really. Oh God, I don’t mean it like that, I mean I don’t think he’s seen her for some time.’

  ‘But you’re quite certain? Positive?’

  ‘Yes. Oh yes. Oh God, now I suppose her poor parents will have to go through all this.’

  ‘I’m afraid they will. You don’t happen to have their address, do you?’

  ‘I’m not sure, I suppose I must have got it somewhere. Do you mind if we get out of this awful place now? I think I want to sit down.’

  ‘Of course.’

  On the grimy green sofa across the corridor Sarah began to recover her poise. The WPC brought her a cup of hot sweet tea while she fumbled in her diary and found an address for Jasmine’s mother. She took a deep draught of the tea, grimaced, and said: ‘The worst of it is I didn’t really like the girl. I never wanted this to happen, of course.’

  ‘But she was your son’s girlfriend for some time.’

  ‘Yes. For nearly a year, I suppose. We never got on. I was probably her idea of a mother-in-law from hell.’

  ‘Perhaps you can tell me all you know about her. I shall have to interview your son, of course.’

  ‘Oh. Of course.’ The shock must have made Sarah’s brain slow because this was the first time this idea had occurred to her. She saw the seriousness in Terry’s face, and underneath that, pity. Oh no, not Simon, she thought. ‘You don’t think he had anything to do with ... that?’

  ‘I’ve no idea at present,’ Terry said carefully. ‘But I’m going to have to ask him a few questions, at least.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘SO PERHAPS you’d better take it from the beginning. Where exactly have you been?’ Bob’s voice wavered between relief and harshness as he confronted the pair on the sofa, Emily clutching her bearded young man’s hand as though joined to it from birth. They were both, he noticed, as grubby as a street couple but there was a radiant glow in his daughter’s face that made his heart sink.

  ‘Well, we’ve been at the protest, you see - we spent two nights there, on a platform. It was fabulous, Dad, you could feel the tree creaking around you, and see all the birds and squirrels that depend on it too! The whole wood is like that and they’re cutting it down just for a tacky shopping centre ...’

  ‘No, hold on a moment.’ Bob raised both hands. ‘Who’s this young man, anyway?’

  ‘I’m Larry,’ the wispy beard and ponytail said. ‘You’re Bob, I guess.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bob admitted reluctantly, offended by the boy’s use of his first name. ‘Emily’s father, as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s because of me that it happened, you see. I mean about Emily coming.’

  ‘Coming where?’

  ‘To the protest, Dad!’ Emily burst in. ‘You’re not listening. You see, Larry phoned me, three days ago was it? - when I was pissed off with all this shit about the GCSEs ...’

  Bob registered the new foul language with shock. She had rarely used such words at home before, and never with such brutal new-found fluency. It was al
l of a piece with the dirt and the fleece-lined denim jacket which, he thought vaguely, was different, too. But then this glowing self-assured Emily was not someone he’d seen before, either.

  ‘ ... so he said why not come down to the protest and so I did, Dad, and it’s brilliant. I mean it’s so much more real than anything else - there are people who’ve actually got the guts to stand up and do something to stop the fucking meathead bastards tearing the place to shreds. I mean do you know what they do? Some of those trees are more than a hundred and fifty years old and they just go in there with bloody great chainsaws and cranes and tear them down in a few minutes. And nobody gives a toss! It opens your eyes, Dad, it really does!’

  ‘So you spent two nights there?’ Bob managed, as she paused for breath.

  ‘Yes, and I’m sorry I didn’t phone, Dad, I really am, only I didn’t have my mobile and you can see I’m OK now, can’t you ...?’

  ‘Have you any idea ...’ Bob began, but then the front door opened and Sarah walked in with the detective, Terry Bateson.

  When she saw Emily she stood quite still, trembling. To Bob’s surprise Bateson put an arm round her shoulder. Emily stood up, smiling nervously. ‘Hi, Mum.’

  What’s happened, Bob wondered, she’s struck dumb. This is having an impact on her, at last. Why doesn’t she move?

  Emily stepped forward, nervously, but Sarah stayed frozen and Bob thought oh no, it’s not relief or joy she’s feeling but anger. The cruel vindictive bitch - she’s going to punish the child for coming home! Then Sarah reached out and smothered the girl in an embrace that became a storm of tears. First no emotion and then too much, Bob thought. There were tears in Emily’s eyes, too, but her feelings seemed more like embarrassment and guilt.

  After almost two minutes of weeping Sarah stepped back, shaking her head slowly.

  ‘Where in hell have you been?’

  ‘At the tree protest, Mum. With Larry. This is Larry.’

  Sarah ignored the young man as though he were a log which Emily had dragged home and dumped on the sofa.

  ‘You have no idea, have you ...? We thought you were dead!’

  ‘Oh Mum, don’t exaggerate. I mean I know I didn’t phone but ...’

  ‘Why do you think I’m here with a policeman? I’ve just been to the mortuary, Emily. There was a body there. They thought it was you.’

  In the stunned silence a flush of increasing embarrassment mottled Emily’s face. ‘But that’s just stupid, Mum! How could it be me? I’m just fine ...’

  ‘It’s not stupid, Emily. The body was wearing your coat.’

  ‘My coat? Oh ... Oh no.’ Watching, Terry thought he’d never seen anyone’s face go from red to white so quickly. She swayed, and he stepped forward to catch the girl under her arms and lower her to the sofa as Sarah continued, looking at Bob for the first time.

  ‘It was Jasmine. Jasmine Hurst. She’s had her throat cut.’

  When Emily recovered Terry found out what he needed to know, for now. Numbly, with her new boyfriend’s arm around her shoulder, Emily explained how she had met Jasmine that first night, at the protest camp. They knew each other, of course, but according to Emily not particularly well; Jasmine had been Simon’s girlfriend, that was all. Emily didn’t see her brother often, didn’t get on with him that well. She shuddered and looked away.

  ‘Emily?’ Terry prompted gently. ‘Is there something else?’

  The words were too quiet at first, so he asked her to repeat them. ‘Neither did Jasmine,’ she murmured defiantly. ‘She didn’t get on with Simon either. They quarrelled. She told me.’

  ‘Emily, for heaven’s sake!’ Sarah whispered.

  ‘When was that, Emily?’ Terry asked.

  ‘A while ago, I think. That’s why she left him. She isn’t ... wasn’t his girlfriend any more. She had another bloke, one of the protesters. Dave, I think?’ She looked to Larry for confirmation.

  ‘Dave ... Brodie, his name is,’ Larry agreed. ‘He’s a nurse, I think.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘No, sorry.’ The young man scratched his wispy beard, then shook his head. Bob found himself having to suppress a deep, irrational hatred for this boy, as though all this were somehow his fault, and could be put right if he would leave now, and never come back.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find it.’ Terry turned back to Emily. ‘So why did she have your jacket?’

  ‘We swapped. This is hers.’ Emily looked at the grubby fleece-lined denim jacket she was wearing with sudden horror, and almost took it off before hugging it tightly round herself instead. ‘She said she wasn’t going to sleep out and if I was this’d be warmer, and anyway I never really liked that red and blue jacket. Sorry Mum, I know you gave it me but ...’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Sarah quietly.

  ‘When did you change the jackets, Emily?’ Terry persisted.

  ‘That same night. Wednesday, was it? Yes, Wednesday.’

  ‘And where was Jasmine going?’

  ‘Back to her boyfriend’s, I suppose. I can’t remember.’

  ‘Did you see her again?’

  ‘No.’ Emily began to cry and Terry got up. ‘That’s all for now,’ he said to Sarah and Bob. ‘I’ll need proper statements later, for the inquest, but that can wait. At least your daughter’s back. I’ll let myself out.’

  ‘So what have we got, doc?’

  To Terry’s irritation, Will Churchill was cleaning his teeth with a match. His very presence at the initial post-mortem report was an implied criticism, without that.

  ‘As you see the cause of death is obvious. Massive haemorrhage due to the fact that someone’s had a go at cutting her head clean off. Severed the neck right back to the vertebrae.’

  ‘Anything you can tell us about the weapon?’

  Dr Jones shrugged. ‘Big, sharp. Possibly serrated.’

  ‘Serrated? You can tell that?’ Terry asked.

  ‘Can’t be certain yet, but it’s a possibility. Look at these marks on the bone, here. I’ll know more when I’ve had them under a microscope. Maybe a bayonet, hunting knife, something like that. A long blade anyway, six inches at least.’

  ‘So he went prepared,’ Will Churchill said.

  ‘Unless he needed a six-inch knife for self-defence, by the river,’ Dr Jones said wryly. ‘Have you found a weapon yet?’

  Terry shook his head.

  ‘Well, if you do find one pop it in here. I’ll see if it matches the wounds. There’ll be bloodstains too unless it’s been thoroughly washed. On his clothes too almost certainly.’

  ‘What about the bruise on the face?’ Terry asked. ‘Did he beat her up beforehand?’

  Dr Jones frowned. ‘Some time before, if he did. That bruise is a few hours old. Didn’t happen at the time of death. This did, though - or just before.’

  He whisked away a sheet from the lower half of the girl’s body, and Terry looked at her hips and genital area, the focus of so much attraction in life, so waxen and meat-like in death. Once a lithe young woman, now a carcass on a butcher’s slab, defaced by their cuts and probes, prying into her most private place of all, sliced open now for ease of inspection.

  ‘Bruising to the external labia, here and here. Internal bruising too. These bruises aren’t very developed though. Must have been done within half an hour of death, I’d say.’

  ‘Any semen?’

  Dr Jones actually smiled, and produced a microscope slide with a triumphant flourish. ‘Taraaa! Just a trace, but quite conclusive nonetheless - you find the wicked laddie, gentlemen, and I’ll send him down. No room for doubt.’

  Churchill smiled. ‘That’ll make a nice change, at least. Now all we need is a suspect.’

  When Terry left, the four of them sat silent for a while, staring at nothing, like survivors of a bomb blast. Bob was still taking in the fact of Jasmine’s death, and the horror of what he alone knew. Simon hadn’t been quarrelling with Emily outside the old man’s house - it had been Jasmine, it must have been! A
nd that was hugely, horribly important. Why had hadn’t he told Terry Bateson just now?

  And what would Sarah say if he had? She had always been protective of Simon. She was protecting him now. ‘You shouldn’t have said that, about Simon quarrelling with Jasmine,’ she was saying to Emily.

  ‘But it’s true, mum. She told me.’

  ‘Yes, but don’t you see? They’ll think he killed her!’ Sarah started walking nervously up and down. ‘That’s how the police work - any little hint like that sends them rushing off in the wrong direction - towards Simon, for God’s sake!’

  ‘Don’t be silly, mum - of course he couldn’t kill her.’

  ‘Of course not, no - but you see how important it is what you say.’ Suddenly her attention was distracted by the sight of Emily’s young man. What’s he doing here, she thought. We don’t need him. She attempted a polite, hostess-type smile. ‘I think you’d better go.’

  ‘Er, yeah, okay.’ The young man began to get up. ‘It’s a bad time.’

  But Emily dragged him down again beside her. ‘No! I want him to stay. I’ve just come home and you’re thinking about Simon again, aren’t you, mum? At least Larry cares about me.’

  ‘And we don’t, I suppose? We’ve been looking for you for two days, Emily! And Jasmine’s dead!’

  ‘I do know that, Mum. It’s awful.’

  ‘You don’t know it, not really. I’ve just seen her body, wearing your jacket. Emily, I thought it was going to be you!’

  ‘So it’s all my fault now, is it?’ Emily shook her head furiously, tears in her eyes - of self-pity, Sarah thought coldly. Teenagers. As if she’s the one suffering here.

  The young man put one arm round Emily’s shoulder while he stroked her hair with the other. ‘It must have been terrible, seeing that body, Mrs Newby,’ he ventured, to Sarah’s surprise.