A Game of Proof (36 page)

N
EXT 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 had 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 lawyers -
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.

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.