by Vicary, Tim
‘I don’t give a fucking toss ...’
‘Shut up and listen! Let me tell you what happened when she came into that shed, shall I? She saw you fumbling with that watch and hood and ring and all the rest of it, and she realised for certain that you were guilty, where before perhaps she’d given you the benefit of the doubt. And so maybe she did say get rid of it, I don’t know, but if so it was to save you, not her son! Or more likely she just said what she really thought of you, you filthy slob, and that’s what triggered your anger. What would you have done if we hadn’t turned up when we did, eh, Gary? When you’d finished your rape? Would you have strangled her and left her for dead like you did with Maria Clayton, is that it?’
Gary glowered at him, menacing, furious. ‘You weren’t there.’
‘I bloody well was, and so was DCI Churchill here. We saw exactly what you were doing to that woman ...’
‘Why don’t you charge me then?’
The question stopped Terry dead, like a glass door he’d walked into. It was the one answer they couldn’t give. Gary was going to get away again, and he knew it. Bitterly, Terry stared at Gary, so safe behind the glass door, and said: ‘You murdered Maria Clayton, didn’t you, Gary? You followed her onto Strensall Common and then you raped her and throttled her to death, just like you were doing with Sarah Newby. Isn’t that right?’
Gary shook his head, sneering and contemptuous. ‘Who?’
‘You know who. And for all I know you did the same to Jasmine Hurst as well!’
‘You’re a madman.’ Gary turned to Churchill for help. ‘Is that who you employ now, madmen like him? I don’t know who he’s talking about.’
Churchill spoke to the microphone on the wall. ‘Interview suspended at nine twenty seven. DCI Churchill and DI Bateson leave the room. Come on, Terence. I want a word. Now.’
‘My office!’ Churchill snapped, compelling Terry to follow his short, stocky, visibly furious superior upstairs to the room which he had once hoped would be his own.
‘Do you mind telling me what the bloody hell you think you’re playing at?’
‘I might ask the same of you, sir.’ Terry was six inches taller than Churchill and almost equally angry, though for a different reason.
‘Well you might but you bloody well won’t. Do you have a single shred of evidence that that man could have killed Jasmine Hurst?’
‘Not at the moment, sir, no, but ...’
‘No, of course you don’t! And the reason, as even a blind man in a box could see, is that Simon Newby did it. We have blood, semen, motive, opportunity, even the goddamn knife, for Christ’s sake! Where have you been all these days? Lost in a dream?’
‘Yes, OK, but you’ve seen what the guy’s like, haven’t you ...?’
‘Oh great, so we’re judging by appearances now, are we? Gary looks like a thug so he must be guilty, is that it? We’re back in Victorian times now?’
‘Well it’s more sense than saying Simon raped Sharon, anyway,’ Terry said furiously. ‘That’s just utter crap - surely even you could see that? Sir.’
The antagonism between them was open now. Churchill met Terry’s eyes coolly, making it clear that he, by virtue of his rank and the way he controlled his temper, was in the ascendant.
‘Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Where’s your interrogation technique, Terence? You’ll learn nothing by blurting out wild accusations like you did just now.’
Terry took a deep breath, trying to control himself. ‘In my view, sir, the only wild accusation is to suggest that Sarah Newby, who we saw being assaulted yesterday in front of our own eyes, would conspire with a thug like Harker to conceal evidence about her son. She’s got enough to deal with as it is, for God’s sake!’
‘Oh, I get it now.’ Churchill smiled knowingly. ‘So that’s why Harker was needling you - you’re soft on the woman, aren’t you? Even though she chewed you up in court you’re carrying a torch for her!’
Terry’s silence only confirmed Churchill’s suspicions, and as he rejoiced in his discovery his anger subsided. He had a new weapon to use now.
‘Well, well,’ he mocked. ‘Terence in love! Better watch out, old son, she looks a dangerous bird to me - married too. But try not to let your emotions cloud your judgement, eh? At least when you’re at work.’
‘I didn’t think I was, sir. I thought I was seeing things exceptionally clearly.’
‘That’s one of the delusions of love, old son. Come on - is it seeing things clearly to accuse Gary of killing Jasmine when we know Simon did it? And then accuse him of killing Maria Clayton, too - what’s the evidence for that?’
‘Only the evidence we’ve always had - he worked on her house, he’d boasted about having sex with her, he wore trainers similar to a footprint we found near the body, he has no alibi and a record of violence to women. It seemed like a good enough case to me ...’
‘But he CPS said it was too thin, right?’ A pitying look crossed Churchill’s face. ‘And they were right, Terence, it is. I’m sorry, if you’ve nothing stronger than that we’ll have to let him go.’
‘Again.’
‘Yes, again. However much you hate him, we follow the rules. If you think he did this Clayton murder, dig up the evidence and charge him. But until then ...’ He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘We let this violent rapist back onto the streets?’
‘If you choose to put it like that, yes.’
‘So he’s free, then?’ Bob asked.
‘Probably, by now.’ Sarah lay back in the armchair, an icepack over her face. Bob had bought it this afternoon; it relieved the throbbing slightly. ‘Things don’t always go to plan.’
‘But if you think he killed Jasmine, Sarah ...’
‘There’s no proof of it, none at all. It’s just that he was free and he’s like that. For all I know it could have been a wandering maniac from Outer Mongolia. I just don’t believe it was Simon, that’s all.’
Bob said nothing. The question lay between them, like a huge unbridgeable canyon. Since the assault he had been kindness itself, ringing her at work, having a meal and this icepack ready in the evening, her favourite CD on the hi-fi. He hadn’t questioned her decision not to give evidence against Gary. But he hadn’t expressed faith in Simon.
They could hear Emily and Larry talking quietly in the kitchen. A nightjar shrieked outside the window. The silence between them lengthened.
‘It makes me so angry, Bob,’ Sarah said at last. ‘Angry with Gary and the police but most of all angry with Simon for getting himself into such a stupid, stupid mess. When I asked him in prison he said the hood might have been used for a joke, for Christ’s sake! Either that or he was lying. And yet he expects me to wave some magic wand and get him out.’
‘You’re too involved, Sarah. For your own health you should back off, leave it to Lucy. She’s a professional ...’
‘And I’m not? Is that what you saying?’ She pulled off the icepack and sat up, irritably.
‘Not in this case, Sarah, you can’t be. You’re too emotionally involved.’
She got up and walked slowly across the room, resting her forehead against the cool glass of the window. ‘It’s for my own health that I am emotionally involved, Bob. If I don’t feel I’ve done the best for Simon, then I will crack up, really. And you wouldn’t want to know me then, Bob. No one would.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
NEXT MORNING Terry found himself back in front of Churchill’s desk. The animosity was still there, smouldering under the ashes of a night’s sleep.
‘No hard feelings, I hope, Terence? A few harsh words are natural in a job like this. I’ve always encouraged blokes on my team to speak their minds, you know.’
‘Sir.’
‘Listen, Terence, I didn’t get much sleep last night, I was thinking. It was one of your mistakes which set me off, matter of fact. But then nobody’s perfect. It sometimes takes fresh eyes to come in and see what was there all the time.’
It was years since Terry h
ad hated a senior officer so much. ‘I don’t understand, sir,’ he said woodenly. Except that you’re younger than me, and took my job.
‘No, I know.’ Churchill studied him with deep satisfaction. ‘But look at the evidence, old son. We’ve got six assaults on women - Clayton, Whitaker, Gilbert, Steersby, Hurst and now Sarah Newby. Your original idea was that they were all committed by the same lad - Gary Harker. But that won’t work. The DNA proves he didn’t attack Karen Whitaker. He couldn’t have attacked Helen Steersby because he was in custody at the time, and Jasmine Hurst was murdered by Simon Newby. So the only assault we know he committed was the one on Sarah Newby, because we saw it with our own eyes.’
‘And Sharon Gilbert, sir.’
Churchill nodded sagely. ‘I agree Sharon claims he raped her and there’s evidence to support her claim, but not all of it does, even now.’ He smiled enigmatically at Terry. ‘Unlike you I examined that hood, when I took it down to forensics. What do you think I found?’
Terry refused to answer. Churchill delighted in his hostility.
‘Fair hairs, Terence. With a tinge of red. Quite short ones ...’ He held his finger and thumb a millimetre apart. ‘... inside the hood, so they must have been left by the wearer. See what I mean now, about looking carefully at the evidence? Your friend Harker has brown hair. Whereas Simon Newby’s hair is - go on, tell me?’
‘Fair, sir,’ said Terry bitterly. ‘But ...’
‘And very short, too, as I recall. What my father used to call a crewcut, right?’
‘But he couldn’t have done it! All the evidence points to Harker ....’
‘Not this evidence, Terence ...’
‘Sharon identified him, for God’s sake! Her son did too!’
‘He was masked, Terence! Wearing a hood!’
‘But ...’ Terry stuttered, trying to put up reasons for something he thought was obvious. ‘... but Simon didn’t even know her!’
‘Didn’t he? All the rapist’s stuff was found in his shed.’
‘Yes, but the watch! The rapist took Gary’s watch.’
Churchill nodded. ‘I agree, that’s a key point. But even so, where was this watch found? In Simon’s shed, where Gary had gone to look for it. What does that tell you? Maybe he’d asked Simon to get it back for him, and Simon interpreted his instructions a little enthusiastically ...’
‘That’s absurd, sir, it has to be ...’
‘Is it? It’s only a possibility, true, but look what happens next. Gary has an argument with Simon’s mother, and assaults her - a serious assault that she won’t bring up in court. Why? Fear of what Gary might say about her son? About herself, perhaps? About what they both knew?’
Terry’s baffled silence seemed to gratify him.
‘You’ve always believed these attacks were the work of one man, haven’t you, Terence? The Hooded Killer, as the Evening Press called him. Well, maybe your idea was right, but you got the wrong villain, that’s all? What if our serial rapist isn’t Gary at all, but Simon Newby?’
Terry shook his head. ‘I just don’t see it, sir.’
‘Well, look more closely. I’ve sent Simon’s hair for DNA analysis, and asked forensics to compare it with the fair hairs in the hood, right? I’ve also asked them to compare the Whitaker hair with both of those. If all three match, then presto! We’ve got him for three of your five assaults - Sharon Gilbert, Karen Whitaker, and Jasmine Hurst!’
‘And if they don’t?’
Churchill shrugged. ‘If they don’t, we still prosecute Simon for Jasmine’s murder, and look again at the rest. But I think they will match, Terence old son. For two reasons. One, Whitaker’s attacker had fair hair too. Fair hair with a faint tinge of red, no less - under my pretty forensic scientist’s microscope they look exactly the same. And two, the photofit that Helen Steersby gave us. Remember that?’
Terry nodded glumly. He could see what was coming.
‘It didn’t look like Gary, did it? Of course not, he was locked up at the time. But it did look like Simon, remember? Especially about the nose. If Steersby picks him out at an ID parade, there’s another one crossed off our list. Which only leaves Maria Clayton.’
Churchill considered Terry thoughtfully. ‘Did Simon have any connection with her?’
‘None that I know of, no.’
‘But you’ve had no reason to look, have you? Well now you have. I want you to go through that file again. Check it carefully, piece by piece, for anything, anything at all, that links to Simon Newby. If there is something, then your original idea about a single attacker will begin to make sense again, won’t it?’
He smiled expansively. ‘You were just focussing on the wrong man, old son. Gary instead of Simon. So this last one, the murder of Jasmine Hurst, may not be the crime of passion it first appeared, but the work of a guy who’s been practising for some time.’
The door opened and a small boy peered out. Harry Easby smiled.
‘Hello, Wayne. Is your mother working now?’
‘No. She’s on’t loo.’
‘Oh, right.’ Harry hesitated, digesting this unusually frank admission. ‘Well, er ...’
‘Who is it, Wayne?’A woman’s voice called down the stairs, followed by the sound of a toilet flushing and feet descending.
‘A feller, mum. He’s ...’
Sharon Gilbert’s smile of welcome faded as she recognized Harry. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘Don’t be like that, now. I’ve brought your ring back. Can I have a word?’
‘If you must.’ In the living room, she sat down and Wayne climbed onto her lap, from where he glared at Harry suspiciously.
‘Where’s the little lass?’
‘Asleep, upstairs.’ She frowned at him. ‘How did it go then? Did you get him?’
‘Gary? We made him sweat.’ Harry passed her the gold ring with the letter S engraved on it. She looked insulted. ‘Won’t you be needing it for evidence?’
‘We had it dusted for prints but there weren’t any, I’m afraid.’
‘So what have you charged him with?’
‘Nothing, I’m afraid, love. He ...’
‘Nothing! But he raped me - I told you!’
‘We know that, Sharon ...’
‘And this ring and that watch prove it. The trial was all wrong.’
‘I know that, but the law says we can’t charge him with the same crime twice ...’
‘So he’s got away with it again, the bastard.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry.’
For a moment he thought she was going to cry. Wayne thought so too; he put his arms up and hugged her. She hugged him back, fiercely. Then they heard Katie grizzling upstairs. She put Wayne down.‘There’s a bottle of orange in the kitchen. Take it up to her, will you, Wayne.’
As he left the room Harry smiled. ‘He’s a little prince, that lad. How old is he, now?’
‘Seven. He always looks out for his sister. And me.’
Harry nodded, remembering her trial. ‘He does that, right enough.’
Sharon opened her handbag for a cigarette. Her hair hid her face as she lit it. When she looked up Harry noticed again how attractive she was. She was also, he realised, very angry.
‘So Gary’s walking round, free as a bird. What am I supposed to do if he comes here? He might, you know!’
‘Phone the station. Ask for me if you like.’
‘Oh aye.’ She gave him a brief, pitying glance. ‘Gary eats lads like you for breakfast.’
‘He didn’t look so tough earlier. Like I said, he was sweating.’
She took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘What are you, my personal bodyguard?’
That hadn’t been his idea, but Harry suddenly saw possibilities in it. After all, officers were encouraged to use their initiative. ‘Well, if you feel you need protection ...’
‘You’d offer it?’ She laughed, a mixture of anger and contempt. ‘And that’s it, is it? That’s all I get for being raped, screwed by the police and the bloody law
yers - you! What are you going to do, then, sunshine? Come round here on your night off?’
‘I could do,’ said Harry softly.
There was a silence. She sat down on the arm of a chair, crossing her legs slowly and flicking ash into the fireplace. A cool, knowing look came into her eyes. ‘Oh yes. Fancied what I told you last time, did you?’
‘I could be useful to you,’ Harry said.
She laughed again. ‘I can get plenty of fellers who are useful like that.’
‘I’m sure you can. I meant, other sorts of protection.’ He nodded towards the sound of the children’s voices upstairs. ‘From the social services, for instance. Someone gives a bad word to them, they’ll be round here like a shot. Place of safety orders, child protection, foster homes - you don’t want that.’
‘You rotten bastard! Get out of here - now!’
Harry stood. ‘I don’t want that either, Sharon. I think they’re fantastic kids. You’re not so bad yourself.’ He put his hand on her arm. She shook it roughly away.
‘Piss off!’
‘You don’t mean that, Sharon. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that about the kids. It was just an example, that’s all. I could be useful to you, you could be useful to me ...’
He touched her hair, very gently; ran a finger along the line of her jaw. There was still anger in her face, but also - resignation.
‘Just how could I be useful to you, you young bastard?’
He tilted her chin up towards him, savouring the thrill of power. ‘I think you know that well enough, darling. Don’t you?’
The work of a guy who’s been practising for some time. Churchill’s words echoed in Terry’s brain. He was shaking, not just with anger at his humiliation, but also at the awful possibility that Churchill might be right. Terry didn’t think he could bear that. If this wretched man could waltz in from outside, take a brief look at these cases and instantly see a truth which had eluded Terry for months - well, what did that say?
And his argument was quite persuasive. The evidence of the hairs and the DNA might implicate Simon in the Whitaker case and even, astonishingly, in Sharon Gilbert’s rape. Helen Steersby might pick him out in an identity parade too. Which would leave only the murder of Maria Clayton for Churchill to collect a full house. A glorious triumph for a newly appointed Detective Chief Inspector.
