by Vicary, Tim
‘Yes,’ Helen said quietly. Her expression, Lucy noted, was anxious, determined, and deeply serious. If she does pick Simon out, she’ll make an impressive witness.
‘I want you to look at each man very carefully, at least twice. There’s no hurry, take as long as you want. It’s quite possible that the man who attacked you isn’t there at all. If he isn’t, just say so.’
‘OK.’
‘But if you do recognize him, tell me the number. Nothing else, just his number. OK?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right then. Mrs Parsons, are you satisfied?’
‘Yes.’ Lucy was here on Simon’s behalf to ensure that everything was done correctly. They went through the door, and saw a row of young men behind the glass, quite unaware of their presence. Each young man wore a black woolly hat. Several wore ear rings but not Simon; Lucy had persuaded him to remove his. Helen peered at them nervously.
Inspector Harvey spoke into a microphone. ‘Would you all stand up, please. Look straight ahead, until I tell you to move again.’
As Helen moved along the line Lucy recalled the photofit that she and Simon had been shown that morning. Only when he had put the woolly hat on, had the likeness become really close. She looked at him now and thought it’s the nose. That flat, prominent nose will give him away. She drove her fingernails into her palm and watched silently.
Helen paused at number two, Simon’s position. She studied him for a long, long time before moving on. It’s all over, Lucy thought, she’s recognized him. But the girl was very conscientious. She spent almost as much time on each one. When she reached the end she looked questioningly at Inspector Harvey.
‘Look again carefully, Helen. We’ve got all the time in the world.’
Helen walked slowly back along the line. She looked long and hard at Simon, but equally long and hard at number 7 who also had a large nose, and at two others whose noses were not prominent at all. Then she looked a third time, and turned to Inspector Harvey.
‘He’s not here.’
Lucy breathed a silent sigh of relief.
‘You can’t identify any of these men as the one who attacked you?’
‘No. I’m sorry, but you did say ...’ The girl looked crestfallen, on the verge of tears.
‘Yes, of course, Helen, that’s fine. It’s very sensible and honest of you.’ Despite himself, he sighed. ‘That’s it, then. If you’d like to come this way ...’
‘She didn’t pick any of them?’ Churchill asked incredulously.
‘Sorry, no.’ Inspector Harvey dropped his report on the desk. Churchill ignored it.
‘Oh well. You did your best, I suppose.’ He glowered out of the window.
‘I carried out the identification parade in the correct manner, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Of course that’s what I mean.’
There had been an edge to Harvey’s voice which Churchill didn’t care for. By rights Harvey, a uniformed Inspector, should have called the new DCI Sir, but he hadn’t. Churchill wondered whether to make a point of it. Harvey was a well respected officer old enough to be his father. He decided against insisting on his rank. Instead he snatched up the report from the desk and skimmed swiftly through it. A copy of the photofit was attached.
‘Was he wearing this?’ Churchill jabbed his finger at the earring in the photofit.
‘I didn’t notice one, no.’
‘So did you say anything about it? Offer him one?’
‘We’d have had to fit earrings to all ten in the line up. We can’t do that. They all wore black woolly hats, though.’
‘Yes, well. Did she even look at Simon Newby?’
‘Very carefully, three times. But she was quite definite. Her attacker wasn’t there.’
‘Oh well. She’s only a kid, I suppose.’ Churchill said dismissively. ‘Thanks, Bill.’ As Harvey left Terry Bateson came in. Churchill thrust the report into his hands.
‘Here. Look at that for a load of useless gibberish.’
Terry read it carefully. ‘I see.’
‘Total waste of time,’ Churchill muttered irritably. ‘I’ll bet Mrs solicitor Parsons told him to take his earring off, and Dixon of Dock Green there never noticed. It seems this city’s full of smartass lawyers and half-witted policemen. Tourist attraction, is it, Terence?’
The young woman had a thin face, no hair at all, and a line of studs like a scar in her right eyebrow. She wore baggy jeans and a purple teeshirt, and her hands, like her clothes, were strong, practical, and stained with dirt. A strong whiff of dope hung around her like a miasma. She draped herself luxuriously across Sarah’s armchair, her left leg dangling over the arm, her right hand waving in the air as though in search of a joint or cigar, and talked.
She explained how global capitalism was destroying the environment, not just the physical environment like trees and fields and rivers, but the social environment too and the way people related to each other, and how much of this was supported by the traditional family which was really just a nursery producing children to feed the educational factories and workplaces of the exploiting classes, and how if anything was going to change this would have to change too, which was why it was vital that people on the tree protest came together to form new and ever-changing kaleidoscopic forms of social evolution which the pigs of fascist repression could never get their heads around or quite focus on, when ...
Sarah finally interrupted her. ‘You came to tell me about Jasmine.’
Larry and Emily, who had brought this motormouth into her living room, watched from the sofa, nodding wisely as the diatribe continued. Had there been a twitch of amusement on Emily’s lips, Sarah wondered, or was she swallowing this tripe whole like medicine?
‘Yes, well I was coming to that, Sacha ...’
‘Sarah.’ Or Mrs Newby to you, child, Sarah thought irritably, without saying it.
‘Sarah, sorry. Well, I mean, like that’s what Jasmine was after, attempting to liberate herself, I mean free her whole psyche from the socio-economic forces of repression. She was working on herself through direct action against the chains of how she’d been brought up, and the way men - I’m sorry to say this but probably your son too, Sach - I mean Sarah, sorry - had dumped it all on her.’
‘What I’m really interested in,’ Sarah insisted tediously. ‘Is who might have killed her.’
It had been a long day, and what she really wanted was a glass of whisky and the chance to put her feet up on the chair as this girl was doing. The difference being that it was her whisky and her furniture; and her legs weren’t stained with mud.
‘You said someone was following her,’ Larry prompted. It was kind of him and Emily to find this potential witness, Sarah thought; but surely they could have found someone a touch more focussed, less of a jargonaut.
‘Yeah, she said. It seemed like a joke at first, but in her case ...’
‘Did she say who she thought was following her?’ Sarah asked.
‘Well again Sarah I’m sorry to say this but you’ve got to face that it might have been your own son. I mean like there were two of them but ...’
‘I’ve only got one son,’ Sarah pointed out.
‘Two men in her life that were serving her, but I only met one, that Dave Brodie. He came to the protest but more to follow her, the way I saw it, and also because he thought the trees were pretty rather than understand them. I mean he was a typically repressed, anally retentive little shit, God knows what she saw in him but what she didn’t see was the real anger in him too, I mean he could easily have been on the other side of the barricade with a helmet and a chainsaw, I dunno what he was doing with us really, probably just trying to get into Jasmine’s knickers. Which he did, matter of fact.’ She laughed, and swung both feet over the arm of the chair.
‘You said he was angry?’
‘Yeah, sure, jealous of the other guy, your son. Basic male hang-up, ownership thing.’
‘Did he ever threaten her, anything like that?’
‘They had rows, sure. Screaming matches in the camp. We watched. Liberation theatre, let it all hang out.’
‘When?’
‘Couple of times. Once ...’ she glanced at Emily. ‘The night before you came, it was.’
‘That would be what - the 11th?’ Sarah made a note. ‘What happened exactly?’
‘Just bitching and screaming. He asked her to come home and she wouldn’t. She said she was tired of him and the protest mattered more than his kitchen floor, and if she did go anywhere it’d be to her mum. He said he knew where she went because he followed her and it wasn’t to her mum, and if she ever went there again he’d do something.’
‘What do he say he’d do?’
‘That’s just it.’ The girl laughed. ‘She asked him straight out and he couldn’t say, could he? I mean he’s just a little nerd, really, a nice guy if you fancy that sort of thing but he couldn’t hurt anyone could he? He’s not big enough.’
‘So what happened?’
‘He went home and she stayed. Then next day you came, I think.’ The girl nodded at Emily. ‘You swapped coats with her, and ... I think she took pity on him and went back. Probably thought he’d be all over her with gratitude, poor little prick.’
‘On the 12th?’ Sarah said. ‘The day before she died. Did you see her again on the 13th?’
‘No, sorry. Saw him though.’
‘You saw David Brodie that day?’
The young woman frowned, the studs along her eyebrow writhing grotesquely. ‘I think it was then - yeah, right. I was having a wash that morning when he came in - cheeky devil, must go with working as a nurse - and asked where she was, was she back in camp. Seems they’d had another row at breakfast. So I said no, she’d probably gone to look for a real man in town. He’s such a little jerk, I couldn’t resist. Well, he marched off with steam coming out of his ears. But I dunno if he ever found her ...’
‘Did he say anything before he left?’
‘Just bullshit really - like he knew where she was, and if she wasn’t back that evening he’d sort her for good. It was a joke, really, macho crap like in the mouth of a wimp like him ...’
Her voice trailed away as the implication of what she had said became clear. Sarah made a hurried note. ‘In that case we may need you, Ms - what was your name again?’
‘Mandy. Mandy Kite.’
When at last Mandy had gone Sarah sat with Larry and Emily. Bob, who had refused to have anything to do with the woman, was making a curry in the kitchen.
‘Well,’ Emily said. ‘What do you think?’
Sarah looked up from her notes. ‘I think,’ she said slowly. ‘That it’s promising, but it may mean nothing at all.’
‘Mum? Emily frowned, puzzled. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Sarah chewed her lip thoughtfully. ‘What you want it to mean, is that this David Brodie killed Jasmine, not Simon.’
Emily nodded energetically. ‘Yes, exactly. You heard her, Mum - he had a row with her, he was furious, he marched off to look for her and sort things out ...’
‘But we don’t know if he found her, do we?’
‘Well, he was looking.’
‘According to Mandy. Not according to his statement to the police, though. I’ve seen it.’
‘So he’s lying!’ Emily burst out. ‘Of course he would if he killed her, wouldn’t he?’
Sarah studied her quietly. ‘It’s exactly what they say about Simon, isn’t it? That he killed her because he’s jealous, and then lied?’
Emily looked crestfallen. ‘Yes, but ...’
‘But like me, you don’t want to believe it. You want to blame someone else. But to do that we need proof. Look, Emily, I’ve made notes and we’ll get a proper statement from her in Lucy’s office tomorrow. Then Simon’s barrister can decide what to do with it. It may be useful but an allegation like that can also be very cruel.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, just think, Emily. What if this David didn’t do it and a lawyer says he did, how would that feel?’
‘It’s what your mother calls the game of proof,’ said Bob tactlessly from the kitchen door. ‘Other people call it lying to save your skin.’
‘Dad!’ Emily flared angrily. ‘We’re trying to save Simon!’
‘Which is all very well,’ said Bob gently. ‘If you don’t ruin other people’s lives in the process. We all want to save Simon if he’s innocent, but ...’ He paused. A silence, electric with bitter unspoken arguments, crackled between them.
Carefully, to avoid an explosion, Sarah said: ‘There’s a lot of evidence which seems to suggest Simon’s guilt, but when it’s examined in court it may look rather different. And apart from this David Brodie, there’s at least one other possible suspect. A man called Gary Harker.’
‘The man you defended?’ Emily asked.
Sarah nodded. Her eyes met Bob’s in an unspoken compact. Emily didn’t know that Garry had assaulted her. She’d explained her bruises as an accident with her bike - there were scratches on the petrol tank to prove it. She didn’t want Emily to know. Bob, for once, supported her.
‘That’s just a coincidence,’ he said. ‘Obviously when your mother defended him she had no idea he might do this, if he did. Now come on, sit up. I don’t often cook but when I do I expect it to be treated with some respect.’
‘Mum,’ Emily’s eyes were bright with anxious curiosity. ‘Why do you think Gary Harker might have done it?’
As they sat at the table Sarah met her daughter’s eyes, and sighed. This wasn’t going to be an easy evening, after all.
But then none of them ever were, any more.
Chapter Thirty
‘OH, HELLO. Mr ... Bates, isn’t it?’
‘Bateson. Detective Inspector.’
‘Ah yes. Well, come in.’ The slight frown that crossed the woman’s face, Terry thought, was nothing personal. It was to do with the painful memories he brought back.
Ann Slingsby, a well-dressed, motherly woman in her fifties, had been Maria Clayton’s maid until her death last year. Her duties had been to answer the phone, make appointments, clean the house, and when necessary make tea for Maria’s clients when they arrived early, like a receptionist at a private clinic. She showed him into a living room furnished with comfortable flowery armchairs, lovingly polished china ornaments, an array of family photographs and a widescreen television. She poured tea into bone china cups, chattering cheerfully about her recent trip to the United States.
‘But enough of my holiday stories. Have you caught that evil man yet?’
‘Not yet, no. So I’m checking every detail, to see if there’s anything we missed.’
‘Well, you’re lucky to find me, Inspector. Next week I start with an acupuncturist. He rang when I got back. One of Maria’s old clients, you know. Milk?’
‘Please.’ Terry sipped his tea appreciatively. Then he pulled a pink form out of his pocket, with the signature, S. Newby, at the bottom.
‘Now, I believe Maria had a delivery of building materials on 5th March last year ...’
An hour later, two things had become clear. In the first place, Ann Slingsby did remember the young man who had delivered building materials on 5th March. A fair-haired young man, she said, quite handsome but a bit uncouth in his manners. She remembered because there had been a problem about where to dump the materials. Maria had been away and left no instructions.
‘Away where?’ Terry asked.
‘Austria, skiing with her daughter. They came back on the 10th. Surely I told you before?’
‘No,’ said Terry, astonished. How could he have missed such a vital point? Presumably because no one had asked about these dates earlier; they hadn’t been important. But if Maria had been in Austria on the 5th, she couldn’t have met Simon. And he was sacked from his job on the 7th, three days before she returned. His connection with Maria’s death, so vital to Churchill’s suspicions, collapsed. So Sarah was hiding nothing after all, Terry thought. Simon neve
r met her.
The second discovery came when he showed Mrs Slingsby the entry in Maria’s diary.
S big promise, no result. Gets it up but can’t get it out. V frust for him, poor lamb, blames me. Outside? No way, Jose, I say.
‘The first part seems pretty clear ,’ Terry said. ‘A man with some kind of sexual problem, impotence of some kind. But she must have come across that more than once. It would be a speciality of hers, I suppose?’
‘Oh yes, she had her ways, dear.’ A friendly, knowing twinkle came into Ann Slingsby’s eyes. ‘And the last part probably means he asked her to do it outside and she wouldn’t. She had the neighbours to consider, after all.’
‘Yes, well, who do you think he could be, this S? It’s dated 18th May, after the builders left but about a month before she died. I’ve checked through the appointments book for that day but there’s no client whose name begins with S, or admits to a nickname that does, either.’
‘You asked them all, did you? Poor lambs.’ She took the diary and appointments book, poring over them carefully. ‘No, you’re right. Anyway ...’ she looked up, thinking hard. ‘It was around then that I was ill. Didn’t I tell you? Maria had to do all the reception for herself. Only a few days, but it could have been then.’
‘So you can’t guarantee who came on that day?’
‘No. I had tonsilitis, I was feverish. But I remember ... oh my goodness, I don’t think I told you this. That delivery driver.’
‘Who? Simon Newby?’
‘No. Not him, I mean the one who came later.’
‘There was another delivery driver? From the same firm?’
‘Yes. Robsons, wasn’t it? He brought the tiles for the roof.’
‘You don’t remember his name?’
‘Sorry, love, no.’ She clicked her lips. ‘Heavens, I should have mentioned him before, shouldn’t I? I never met him, you see, Maria dealt with him. But there was something she said.’
‘What was it?’ Terry asked patiently.
‘Let me think. She made some sort of joke about him. That’s all, really. I’m afraid we did that sometimes about the men, you understand. In a friendly way only.’
