by Vicary, Tim
And yet, and yet. The boy was the wrong type, Terry thought. Every serial killer he knew of had begun with minor crimes - burglary, petty theft, minor violence - building up gradually to something more evil. Gary Harker had a long profile like this on the police computer. Simon Newby had none. He was a criminal innocent.
Unless we’ve missed something. Go through it carefully, piece by piece ...
He felt an unexpected reluctance to touch the file on Maria Clayton. At first he couldn’t understand why; then it came to him. It brought the image of his wife, Mary, into his mind.
Mary, raising her face to kiss him as he left for work. That was the last time he’d seen her alive. Later that day two hooligan joyriders had mangled his wife and her hatchback into a screeching heap between their stolen Jaguar and a garden wall.
This was the first major crime he had worked on after Mary’s death. He’d forgotten how hard it had been to face. Several colleagues had suggested that he didn’t need to take on a murder enquiry so soon, but he’d been determined. He wanted to get revenge on Maria’s killer just as he hoped the courts would take revenge on the boys who had killed his wife.
But of course neither had happened. The boys got two years’ youth custody, and were out in less than a year. And Terry had failed to find Maria’s killer.
A few months later, he had been passed over for promotion, in favour of the outsider, Churchill. A man eight years younger than himself. A man with all the energy and ambition which he had lost. A man determined to humiliate him on the path to success.
He sighed, and opened the Clayton file. It doesn’t matter who catches the villains, he told himself, what matters is that they are caught. But he didn’t believe it.
He’s wrong, and you can prove it, a different voice inside him said. It was the voice of another, younger Terry; the man he had been before Mary died. The man who sometimes worked all night and weekends too, the man who, with only a couple of months’ practice, had run inside the first fifty in the Great North Run.
Begin at the beginning, the voice told him. Check everything. The answer’s in there somewhere. And if it isn’t, you’ve got to go out and find it.
As he read, it came back to him.
Maria Clayton had been found dead on Strensall Common in September last year. She had been bound, strangled, and raped. Her small dog, a Yorkshire terrier, was found with its throat cut a few yards away. She had been an up-market prostitute who lived in a pleasant detached house in Strensall. She was in her mid thirties, with a daughter at boarding school, which in itself proved how successful she was. Her business had been discreet and well organized. Her maid, Ann Slingsby, a widow in her fifites, had rung the police to report her missing.
One obvious group of suspects were Maria’s clients, who were recorded, with notes of their preferences, in Mrs Slingsby’s appointments book. Terry smiled wryly at the embarrassment he had caused to businessmen, social workers, airline pilots, even a headmaster and a sprightly old age pensioner, the customers of the service Maria advertised as ‘sexual therapy’. Many had appeared to be happily married; some, he feared, no longer were.
None, though, were as young as Simon Newby; all, unlike him, had good jobs which enabled them to afford her fees. Many had been with friends or family at the time of her death; none appeared to have any reason to wish to kill her.
So there we are, thought Terry. A woman leading a quiet life with no apparent enemies. There was no motive, nothing to explain why Maria had been murdered, rather than any other woman who had been walking alone at that time in that place. Which, of course, made the crime more frightening to the public and the press. And harder for the police to solve.
His team had interviewed everyone they could find who had been on Strensall Common that evening. Several people had seen Maria walking her dog, but she had been alone and seemed perfectly happy. No one had heard any screams or barks. One man had seen what might have been a masked figure running near where the body was found. But the figure had been 100 yards away, it might have been a black man rather than someone wearing a mask, it might even have been a woman.
With a sigh, Terry spread the photographs on his desk. They were horrific, as bad as those of Jasmine Hurst, as bad as those of any murder he had seen.
Maria had been bound, half-strangled, and raped before she was killed. The only puzzling thing was that there was no semen. Given her profession, Terry had expected to find some, but Ann Slingsby had told him that all her clients used condoms and indeed there were traces of lubricant in her vagina.
In addition to the bruising caused by strangulation, there was a small cut in her throat, to the left of the windpipe, possibly caused by someone seizing her from behind and threatening her with a knife. Jasmine’s throat had been cut, much deeper, in almost exactly the same place. But this woman had been strangled, and only her dog’s throat had been cut. Some black cotton fibres had been found in its mouth. Probably it had barked, and fought to protect its mistress. A brave animal, this tiny Yorkshire terrier, to attack a man twenty times its own size. But unfortunately, it had not drawn blood.
The other evidence was a footprint from a size 9 Nike trainer a yard from the body. Similar prints were found on a path fifty yards away, the pressure from toe and heel indicating that the wearer had been running.
And that was it. A man with a knife, wearing Nike running shoes and black cotton trousers. Probably a black top as well, and maybe a black hood. Did any of this point to Simon Newby? The shoes? Well, Simon had size 9 Nike trainers. So did Gary, and millions of other men. The hood? Well, it’s not certain there was a hood, so unless forensics find some trace of Maria on that balaclava from Simon’s shed, that’s out too. The tracksuit trousers from the shed, were they torn, bitten by a dog? That would make a difference. He made a note to ask forensics. Otherwise, there was nothing.
Reading all this, Terry remembered what Ann Slingsby had told him about the builders who extended the kitchen two months before Maria died. The five workmen had been amused to discover that Maria was a prostitute but most had been fine about it, accepting that she was a decent lady who was out of their class. One, however, had been awkward and boastful. Maria had told Ann she’d had sex with him, and regretted it. He was a yob, who didn’t know how to behave. His name was Gary Harker.
Terry had traced the other builders; all four remembered Gary’s boasts of having sex with Maria, and had seen her shut the door on him smartly when he asked for another session. Gary had been humiliated and angry, and they had avoided teasing him about it because that sort of joke could turn dangerous, with him.
Gary told Terry that she’d been too expensive. He agreed that he had asked for sex free next time but said it was a joke, claiming that she wasn’t worth the fifty pounds she charged. He admitted that he occasionally went running on Strensall Common, and had no convincing alibi for the night of Maria’s death. But when Terry searched his flat he found a blue Lycra tracksuit, not a black cotton one. His size nine Nike trainers were new, and there was no balaclava hood. So he had been released.
And then, three weeks later, Karen Whitaker had been attacked.
By a man with a knife, wearing a black tracksuit, black balaclava hood, and wearing size 9 Nike trainers, who had stolen her camera. Not only had Gary Harker had been one of a group of workmen employed to repair the student accommodation where Karen Whitaker lived, but he had also found nude photographs of her in her room and shown them to his workmates. Two of the photographs in her room had his fingerprints on them.
It was enough for Terry. Letters were appearing in the Evening Press accusing the police of failing to protect women. He arrested Gary and charged him with both crimes.
Then, four weeks later, the DNA report on the hair from the tape used to bind Whitaker came back. Terry groaned as he remembered that day. The charges in the Whitaker case were dropped. Three weeks later, the CPS refused to proceed against Gary in the Clayton case either.
Gary was released a
nd, Terry thought, immediately proceeded to rape Sharon Gilbert. As soon as he was acquitted of that, he assaulted his own barrister. And despite the compelling evidence against Simon Newby, Terry still suspected that Gary might have murdered Jasmine Hurst too. True, there were differences in method: Maria had been strangled, Jasmine’s throat had been cut. But everything about Gary’s character fitted this murder, just like Maria’s.
Gary had known both women were sexually promiscuous, after all. He could easily have thought, in his primitive way, that this meant they should be available to him. And then there was the footprint they’d found beside Jasmine’s body - size 9 Nike trainer.
Terry shook his head sadly. It isn’t enough, given the weight of evidence against Simon. Maybe Churchill’s right, I am obsessed. But then he hasn’t been on Gary’s trail as long as I have, he didn’t react like I did to the attack on Sarah Newby ...
He shuddered. Gary was going to get away with that, too. The thug seemed to lead a charmed life. Well, perhaps it’ll take a detective who’s obsessed to put him away.
Terry looked at his watch, and saw it was nearly six o’clock. Trude would have cooked for the children, and they would be asking her if he had rung, pestering to know if this was one of the nights they would see their dad. Well, they would. Today at least nothing need interfere with that precious time in the evening, when he could play with his girls, hear about their day, and read them a bedtime story. Perhaps that made him a less diligent detective than Churchill, who had nothing else to think about. But at least it gave him a life.
Afterwards, he thought, when they’re in bed, perhaps I’ll take another look at that shed, find something Churchill’s missed. Or read about these cases some more.
He stood up, stretched, and slipped a file into his briefcase to take home That’s my bedtime story, he thought. Perhaps I am getting obsessive again. Perhaps I have to. Whether it’s good for me, or not.
Chapter Twenty-Six
SARAH WAS in Simon’s kitchen, kneeling on the floor. The idea had struck her quite suddenly: if Simon’s story about Jasmine cutting herself was true, then there might still be some of her blood on the kitchen floor. Even a single drop would do.
But the floor seemed surprisingly clean. But Simon was so dirty, how could that be? Then the memory came, flowing from her arms and body into her mind, of the energy with which she herself had scrubbed this floor after the police raid. She’d been consumed by anger - at the policemen who had invaded her son’s house, and at Simon too, for letting his life get into such a chaotic mess. And so she’d compulsively scrubbed the floor, cleaning up after him.
Embarrassment flooded through her, closely followed by despair. Even if Jasmine’s blood had once been here to save him, she’d washed it away.
She got up and was dusting down her clothes when she froze. There was a sound outside - not from the street but nearer, in the back yard. What was it - a footstep, a door opening? Oh no. Not Gary, not again! She should never have come back here alone. She switched off the kitchen light and waited in the dark, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Cautiously, she peered out into the yard. Was that a torch inside the shed?
She leaned forward, clumsily, and a cup smashed onto the floor beside her.
Jesus Christ, what a fool I am! A car drove past, its engine echoing off the walls of the terraced houses; and underneath that sound, she thought she heard footsteps, moving out of the yard towards the street. Go away then, Gary, if it’s you, good riddance, leave me alone ...
The front door banged.
A scream rose in her throat; she swallowed it. Listened, waiting.
The door banged again. No, it didn’t bang, she told herself sternly, that’s not someone trying to smash it down, it’s a knock. People do that at doors. Yes, but Gary knows that too. I’m not opening it to him.
‘Hallo? Anyone there? I saw a light.’
Not Gary’s voice, unless he’s a mimic. Sarah went into the front room. ‘Who is it?’
‘Police. Come on, open up.’
This time she recognized the voice. Relieved, she opened the door. ‘Terry! Why on earth are you here?’
‘Let me in and I’ll tell you. Unless you want the whole world to hear.’ He nodded at the old man, who was watching from his window across the road. Sarah pulled a face before shutting it out with the door. Miserable ghoul, get lost.
‘So. My question remains. Was that you I heard outside in the yard?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. I must have made you nervous. Especially after the other night.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m a tough cookie, you know,’ she said, feeling anything but. ‘Take a seat.’
He chose the sofa, she sat beside the gas fire. An awkward silence followed. ‘Well?’
‘Why am I here? Looking for evidence, I suppose. Anything we forgot.’
Terry hadn’t expected to find her here, hadn’t planned what to say. In front of him now was the same attractive woman he had admired, and thought was his friend; the woman he had hoped might become something more. But then she had humiliated him in open court, and he had hated her, wanted her punished in every possible way. To his astonishment, his wish had come true. Troubles had fallen upon her in biblical proportions, as if there was a vengeful God, after all.
Yet she did not seem broken, repentant, or crushed. Nervous, perhaps, a little weary, her face bruised and yellow. But still that straight spine, that spark in the eyes, that defiant self-confidence that he had once so admired.
‘There are some unanswered questions about that shed,’ he began cautiously.
‘Such as?’ She raised an eyebrow, disguising a tremor of guilt. Did he know she had touched the hood, the ring?
‘Whether your son knew what was in there. What do you think?’
‘He says he didn’t. So I believe him.’ Sarah shrugged. But it was a key question, she knew.
‘When did you ask him?’
‘This morning. He ... rang me from prison.’ Damn! Already she was being forced to lie; the wretched man was sharper than she’d remembered. She had cleaned the ring too thoroughly for fingerprints, but they could check prison phone calls if they wanted to.
‘He knew nothing about the balaclava?’
‘No.’
‘Does he know Gary?’
‘I wish he didn’t, but yes, he does.’ She shook her head wearily, ventured a wry smile. ‘You wait until your kids are older, Terry, see if you like all the friends they bring home.’
‘He brought Gary to your house?’
‘Good God, no! Come on, Terry, what do you think I am? Mad?’
Terry shook his head. The suggestion came from Churchill’s suspicions, rather than his own. But how much of the truth was she really telling him? She seemed unusually defensive tonight, but perhaps that was natural, in the circumstances.
Once again silence fell between them, as each searched for a possible way forward.
‘This can’t be easy for you,’ Terry volunteered at last.
‘Tell me about it,’ she snapped; then relented slightly. ‘No, Terry, you’re right, it’s not easy. Every day someone like you accuses my son of murder, or rape, or some other barbarity, and I have to listen. None of it’s easy, and as far as I can see, it’s probably going to get worse.’
A lot of people think you deserve it, too, he thought. ‘I can understand that. And I’m afraid you may be right. Forensics have found hairs inside the balaclava.’
He paused, watching her reaction carefully. There was no obvious sign of worry.
‘Gary’s hairs, I suppose?’
‘Apparently not. They were a different colour.’
‘What colour?’ Her voice still sounded normal, but he thought an involuntary tremor passed through her, as indeed it did. Sarah was wondering they couldn’t be my hairs, could they? I didn’t try the hood on but I handled it, one of my hairs could have fallen onto it. Oh God.
‘Fair hairs. Like your son’s.’
Not mine then. Absurdly
, she felt a second’s relief, followed by an even stronger burst of swiftly suppressed panic, as she realized what he’d said. Like your son’s. Sarah was dark; she remembered how delighted she had been by the colour of her baby son’s hair, red-gold like his shiftless father’s. When he was a baby she had loved to brush it; as a boy he had worn it long and wavy; as a teenager he had trimmed it brutally short; and now that he was an adult a detective had found traces of it inside a rapist’s balaclava. Or hair very like it, at least.
‘You can’t prove it’s Simon’s just from the colour.’ The old combative Sarah.
‘No, of course not. It’s been sent for DNA analysis.’
‘Oh.’ For a moment she was struck dumb. This whole conversation was going the wrong way. She tried to recover some sense of initiative. ‘Even if Simon did wear this hood, what could he have used it for? You’re not suggesting he raped Sharon, are you?’
‘Not me, no,’ said Terry awkwardly. ‘But ...’
‘But someone is? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘There have been ... discussions. They’re not particularly pleasant, I have to warn you.’
‘Go on.’ She glared at him grimly. ‘I’ve heard so much already, I may as well hear the rest.’
‘Well, if you insist. I didn’t come here to say this, that wasn’t my idea ...’
‘Just say it, Terry. Get it over.’
‘All right.’ He stood up, and walked across the room, thinking. If Churchill found out he’d been here, having this conversation, there’d be one hell of a row. But right now he didn’t care about Churchill. His theories were wrong, they had to be. He sat on the arm of a chair.
‘Look, I’m running a risk telling you this, you know. I wouldn’t do it if ... well, never mind. You asked if I thought your son raped Sharon and I said no. But that’s just my view, not everyone’s. You see, because of those hairs, there is now another, quite different theory about that rape. And it doesn’t just relate to Sharon, it relates to several other assaults as well.’
