A Game of Proof (The trials of Sarah Newby)

by Vicary, Tim

  ‘All right. When you are not questioning him in the car but you are describing to him how she was killed and simultaneously accusing him of her murder while driving him through the darkened countryside in his pyjamas with his hands cuffed, and according to you he appears to be upset, at that point he starts to lie and say he hasn’t seen her for weeks. Is that right?’

  ‘It’s your way of putting it, I suppose.’

  ‘Is any of it untrue?’

  He thought back over what she had said. ‘Not in detail, I suppose, but ...’

  ‘Very well, then. You then take him to a police station where he is allowed to see a lawyer and has a few moments to take in this appalling news without feeling that he is being kidnapped by two strangers who don’t believe a word he says, and at that point he immediately begins to co-operate and tell the truth. Is that right?’

  ‘Not all the truth, no. He told us he didn’t kill Jasmine.’

  ‘Apart from that, what else did he tell you in that interview that you don’t accept as true?’

  Churchill paused before answering, searching swiftly through his mind for a detail she had forgotten. Then he grinned.

  ‘He said he’d made love to her in the afternoon. I don’t believe that.’

  ‘You may not believe it but you’ve no way of knowing whether it’s true or not, have you? The pathologist has already confirmed that it’s possible.’

  Churchill shrugged dismissively, without answering.

  ‘You don’t believe he was genuinely upset to hear of her death, but it’s perfectly possible that he was, isn’t it? If he didn’t kill her?’

  ‘If he didn’t kill her, yes.’

  ‘So, if we accept that he didn’t kill her, Mr Churchill, everything that he did and said becomes perfectly comprehensible, doesn’t it? He was shocked, upset and terrified in your police car, when he panicked and told you a lie; but after that he recovered and everything he told you was completely one hundred per cent true. If we accept that he didn’t kill her, that is.’

  Churchill spread his hands in exasperation. ‘Well, if you accept that, Mrs Newby, yes. But I don’t accept it, you see, not for a moment. I think he killed her.’

  It was the best she could do. Quickly, to show she was not at a loss but was where she had wanted to be, Sarah smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr Churchill. That’s all I want to ask.’

  She folded her gown about her, and sat down.

  ‘You stitched him up, the sod.’

  ‘Did I? I hope so, Simon. He’s a difficult witness to shake.’

  ‘You made him look like a thug. He is too.’

  ‘Let’s hope the jury agree with you.’

  ‘They will. Anyone could see what a pig he is.’

  ‘That was the plan, certainly.’ Sarah paced the brief length of the cell and back again. The adrenaline was still flowing in her, making it hard to stay still. Churchill had shaken her as much as she had shaken him. ‘It must be hard, watching all this.’

  ‘Not when you’re doing so well. You’re brilliant, Mum - honest!’

  The enthusiasm, even the choice of words, reminded her of the small boy he had once been. Before all the teenage rebellion and hatred and ... this. The brief light in his face brought her a keen joy and regret for all that was gone. She squeezed his arm briefly.

  ‘I wish all my clients were so grateful. But we’ve a long way to go yet.’

  The cell door opened and a guard put a tray with pre-wrapped sandwiches, an apple, and coffee on the bench beside Simon.

  ‘Such luxury,’ Sarah said. ‘Lucy’ll be down to eat with you. I’ve got some notes to check in my chambers. See you this afternoon, OK?’

  Outside, there was the usual shock of sunshine, tourists, traffic and a warm autumn wind that caressed her face and played with her gown as she walked. It was always so strange to step out of the all-absorbing world of the trial into this sound, bustle and colour. Like stepping out of the program into the adverts. She walked past children climbing the grassy slopes of Clifford’s Tower, a French tour guide giving a lecture. She waited at the traffic lights, one hand clutching her wig to stop it blowing off in the wind. A man pressed the button beside her.

  ‘How’s it going, then?’

  ‘Who - oh, Terry. Hi.’ They crossed the road, squeezing through a line of German school children. ‘It’s, er ... OK so far.’

  ‘You had my boss on the stand this morning. He’s not your greatest fan.’

  Sarah grimaced. ‘Nor I his. But I made a little progress, I think.’

  ‘How’s your son bearing up? Simon.’

  ‘He thinks we’re doing well.’ She looked at Terry thoughtfully, wondering how far she could go. ‘But that’s probably because he knows he’s innocent. No one else does. What I really need, is to know who did kill her. David Brodie, for instance?’

  Terry met her gaze seriously, knowing he didn’t have the answer. ‘I’m sorry, Sarah. But I’m afraid at the moment ...’

  A hand touched her shoulder. ‘Excuse me, ma’am, but would you mind posing for a photo next to my wife here? We’re from Kansas, and we so admire your quaint British law dresses ...’

  Stifling a groan, Sarah posed next to the woman for a second. Then she hurried upstairs to her chambers where coffee and sandwiches were waiting. To prepare for the afternoon, and the next witness.

  The first witness after lunch was Simon’s neighbour, Archibald Mullen, who had dressed for the occasion. Instead of his old carpet slippers and cardigan he wore a jacket, shirt and tie. His sparse hair had been plastered to his scalp with Brylcreem. His pipe, which Sarah had seen him smoking in the foyer, had been extinguished and stuffed into his pocket.

  Phil Turner took him slowly through his evidence - how he had seen Simon and Jasmine often, and recognized them; how he’d seen them arguing in the street on the night she died; how Simon had hit her and she had run off, crying; how Simon had gone back into his house and then come out later to drive away in his car. It was a crucial, damning part of the case against Simon.

  Watching, Sarah thought, the old buzzard’s giving the performance of his life. He must have been standing in front of the mirror practising this for weeks.

  If Bob hadn’t met him, Simon might never have been arrested.

  When Turner sat down Sarah hesitated. She was debating with herself whether to ask the old crow anything at all. Foolishly, she stood up, and instantly his old dark eyes swivelled to find her, like a thrush focussing on a worm.

  ‘Mr Mullen, you must have been watching this incident with great care.’

  ‘I saw what happened, right enough.’ The Adam’s apple in his leathery old throat bobbed sharply as he spoke.

  ‘I just want to get a picture of this,’ Sarah probed cautiously. ‘You were cleaning your teeth, when you heard a noise outside. A door slamming and people arguing, you said.’

  ‘Aye. Shouting at each other, like.’

  ‘So when you looked out of the window, the argument had already begun?’

  ‘Aye. Going at it hammer and tongs, they were.’

  ‘But you didn’t see the start of the argument, did you?’ This, really, was the only useful point Sarah had to make.

  ‘I saw best part of it. I saw him hit her, any road.’

  ‘Yes, I’m not disputing that. But you hadn’t been watching the street all evening, had you? You’d been watching television.’

  ‘True.’ The old man squinted at her suspiciously.

  ‘So when these two people slammed the door and started arguing, a minute or two passed before you started watching them. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘I saw him hit her,’ he insisted stubbornly. ‘You’ll not change me tale on that.’

  ‘Yes, but ... Mr Mullen, which of these two slammed the door? Simon, or Jasmine?’

  ‘Him, likely.’

  ‘How do you know? Did you see him do it?’

  ‘No, but it’s his house, in’t it? Stands to reason.’

  ‘Women slam doors to
o, Mr Mullen.’

  ‘Aye, but she came out first. She were leaving, not him.’

  ‘But you didn’t see either of them slam the door, did you, Mr Mullen?’

  ‘I didn’t have to. It don’t really matter, anyhow, does it, lass?’

  The jury probably agreed, Sarah realized. She was failing dismally to establish a rather unimportant point. She tried again. ‘What matters is how much of the argument you saw, and how much happened before you started watching. Which of them started shouting first?’

  ‘Nay, it were six of one and half a dozen of t’other. Both yelling at once, like.’

  ‘So the fact is, you were cleaning your teeth when you heard a door slam and people shouting at each other. You put down your toothbrush, walked to the window, and looked out to see what was happening. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  ‘Nay. I kept a good grip of me brush. Tha can watch a scrap and clean thi teeth at same time, lass.’ He made the point with such delight that several people in the public gallery exploded with suppressed laughter.

  Sarah sighed. This was going nowhere. ‘I’m sure you can, Mr Mullen. The point I’m trying to establish, though, is this. You didn’t see all of the argument, although you did see the young man hit the girl. But it’s perfectly possible that she hit him first, before you started watching, isn’t it? Which would explain why he was angry, and hit her back.’

  ‘Nay lass, I saw what I saw, and it were none of that. Tha’ll not put words in me mouth.’

  The old buzzard can go on like this all night, Sarah thought. With the jury happy to watch him, and no benefit at all to Simon. She sat down abruptly.

  ‘No more questions, my lord.’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  THE MAN had been in the car for nearly two hours now. He sat and smoked and watched the windows. From time to time he ran the engine to keep warm. It was a cool night, and the streets were swept by showers of rain. The tarmac glistened under the street lamps, and he switched on the wipers, to maintain a clear view.

  The woman would be out soon, he told himself. He had watched her go in, and identified her by the expensive camera round her neck, the jeans, the anorak. She was not the sort of visitor the house normally had. A young woman, he thought, about twenty-five, brisk, self-confident. Not the sort to worry about walking these streets late at night in the rain.

  Someone who was used to big cities, who would not see York as dangerous. Someone who was here to get the story, make the most of it, and move on. Who would use people like himself as steps in the ladder of her career.

  The door opened at last, a crack of reddish light in the darkness of the street. The woman came out, making her farewells, her short blonde hair framed for a second in the light from the doorway. Then she was coming down the street towards him.

  She moved with a swift, jaunty, athletic step, her unzipped anorak folded across her chest by her arms against the sudden damp cold of the night air. She was within ten yards of him, five.

  He thought, I could open the door now, shove it rudely across the narrow pavement to make her stop. And then in the same swift violent movement I could jump out and ... what?

  Nothing.

  She had gone past his car, around the corner towards the light and safety of the main streets and the warmth of her hotel. And the man sat silent, his fingers tensing and loosening on his steering wheel. Thinking.

  That’s what it must be like. That’s how it’s done.

  He got out of the car and walked towards the door from which the woman had left.

  ‘You could come and watch,’ Sarah said from the bed. ‘Then I wouldn’t have to repeat it all for you.’

  ‘I’ve got a school to run, Sarah. Anyway, Emily and Larry tell me most of it.’ Bob took off his jacket and hung it up.

  ‘So why ask me now?’ Sarah stretched her legs under the duvet, feeling the muscles relax. ‘I’ve had enough, Bob. I’m tired.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. You woke me four times last night, muttering away to yourself.’

  ‘Go in the spare room then.’

  ‘The bed’s too small. It’s not comfortable.’

  ‘God!’ Sarah groaned, thumped her pillow, and sat up. ‘Look, Bob, I’m sorry, I can’t cope with this. I’ve got a murder trial to defend and tomorrow, I’m going to ruin some poor boy’s life in order to save Simon. So right now I’m going to sleep and if you can’t manage the spare bed, I can. Just don’t wake me before seven.’

  She snatched up two pillows and stomped out of the room. Bob watched her go, listening to the lights snap on and off and the door slam along the corridor. Then he climbed into the warm, empty bed, alone.

  ‘Who the hell is it? Oh no, not you!’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got to come in, Sharon.’

  ‘Not now. For God’s sake, I’ve just put the kids to bed.’

  ‘Great. Perfect timing. Come on, shut the door, it’s cold out there.’

  ‘But I don’t want ...’

  ‘I do, though.’ He was inside, pushing her back along the hall. ‘What you going to do, call the police?’

  ‘You miserable bastard ...’

  ‘Compliments, compliments. Come on, Sharon, do you want to do it here or upstairs?’

  She had her face averted but he was kissing her neck, her cheek, her throat. He could feel himself hard and her slender body trying to push him away, which only made him more eager. He pinned her against the wall, kissing and fondling her while he overpowered her with his weight. The scent of her neck and hair combined with the rank smell of fear to excite him. He felt her resistance weaken.

  ‘Here, then?’

  ‘No, come up, for Christ’s sake. The kids.’

  She wriggled out from between him and the wall and led him upstairs, his hand firmly clasped around her wrist. A bedroom door was open and a child’s voice called from within.

  ‘Mum? Has that lady gone?’

  Sharon poked her head around the door. ‘Yeah, it’s OK, Wayne. Everything’s fine.’ Then, without looking at him, she led the way into her own bedroom. Her workplace. As he shut the door softly behind him, she kicked off her shoes and began unbuttoning her blouse. Her face was hidden by her hair. He stood and watched.

  When her blouse and bra were off he hadn’t moved. She looked up, questioning. ‘What?’

  ‘Go on. All of it. Then you can do me.’

  ‘Pig!’ She unzipped her skirt, stepped out of it and began to peel off her tights. There was nothing provocative about the way she did it. Her manner was sullen, angry, brusque. ‘What the fuck you doing here at this time of night anyhow?’

  He laughed. ‘What the fuck is exactly it. I was working late so I thought you could too.’

  When she was naked she began, sulkily, to unbutton his shirt. He ran his fingers down her back and sides as she did so. His caresses evoked no response. She undressed him as though she were changing a nappy. ‘You’re a right bastard you are, Harry Easby.’

  ‘Am I?’ When he, too, was naked he shoved her backwards onto the bed, and climbed on top of her. ‘Then let’s see just how much of a bastard I can be, shall we?’

  Afterwards he lay on the bed beside her, watching the smoke from his cigarette drift upwards towards the ceiling. She was curled away from him on her side. He patted her rump.

  ‘At least you give value for money.’

  ‘What money? You pig, you don’t pay.’

  ‘No, but if I did.’ He fished a fag from his packet and tossed it over to her. ‘Here.’

  Sullenly, she put on a dressing gown, and lit the cigarette. ‘You staying long?’

  ‘For a bit. I’ve got some questions to ask you.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Funny way you’ve got of going about it.’

  ‘It’s my job.’ He gestured towards his groin. ‘Don’t get cheeky, you’ll stir him up again.’

  ‘Fat chance.’ The first hint of a smile crossed her face. ‘What questions, then?’

  ‘How’d it go with the reporter?’
/>
  ‘Her?’ Sharon took a long drag on her cigarette and looked away, warily. ‘All right. She asked her questions, I answered them.’

  ‘So? What happens next?’

  ‘She writes her story, I suppose. That’s what journalists do, isn’t it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve never had one.’ Harry laughed at his own coarse wit. ‘What about the telly though - did she talk about that?’

  ‘She said she’d have to talk to some people. Editors and such, I don’t know.’

  ‘And then what? They make a film of you and the kids? And your clients too?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. They’re not interested in them.’

  ‘Aren’t they? I bet they are.’ He smoked thoughtfully, watching her. ‘I could be in it. As a star performer, I mean.’

  ‘Men!’ She flipped his limp penis derisively with the hand that held the burning cigarette. ‘Star bag of shit more like. Come on, what are these questions? Or is it just about the journalist and that’s it?’

  ‘No.’ He got out of bed, put on his underpants and trousers, and took an envelope from his jacket pocket. Inside the envelope were two photofits. He spread them out on the bed. ‘I wanted to ask you about these.’

  She peered at them incuriously. ‘Yeah, what about them?’

  ‘Do you recognize the man in the picture?’

  ‘They’re the same feller then? Meant to be?’

  ‘The same lad, yeah.’

  Sharon looked more closely, comparing the two, and her initial lack of interest began to fade. Harry watched her long blonde curls slide across her shoulder as she moved her head.

  ‘It is a bit like a feller I know, yeah.’

  ‘Oh yeah. Who’s that then?’

  She considered him, cautiously. ‘I don’t know that I should say.’

  He snatched her wrist swiftly, squeezing so that it hurt. ‘Ah, but you should, you see, Sharon. That’s why I’m asking.’

  ‘Let go me hand, then.’ She pulled, but his grip tightened.

  ‘Who is it? Tell me.’

  ‘A mate of Gary’s.’

  The grip loosened. ‘Name?’

  ‘An Irish lad, calls himself Sean. Nasty piece of work.’