‘Mrs Sampson? I’m the officer who arrested Simon Newby.’
Lucy nodded, ignoring the hand. ‘Then I’d like to see him straight away. And I’ll need the custody file.’
‘Certainly.’ Churchill showed her into a room with a table bolted to the floor, two chairs, and a buzzing neon light. As Simon came in she saw a tall, well-built young man with hazel eyes which reminded her irresistibly of his mother. His face was bewildered, sullen and defiant.
‘Did my mum send you?’
‘She did. She’s outside. We’ve worked together a lot, your mother and I.’
‘Well, you’d better be good. You’ve got to get me out of here.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ Lucy smiled cautiously.
‘I didn’t kill her, you know.’
‘Then that’s what matters. I’m on your side, Simon. That’s why I’m here.’
‘Thank Christ for that. Nobody else is. They don’t believe me.’
‘Have you said anything to them so far?’
‘I told them I haven’t seen Jasmine for weeks.’
Lucy frowned. ‘That’s not what your mother told me. She said you’d been seen quarrelling with Jasmine outside your house, the night she was killed.’
‘Oh, God.’ Simon sat down abruptly. ‘How did they know that?’
‘A neighbour saw you. An old man apparently.’ Lucy pulled a pad of paper from her briefcase. ‘So you’d better tell the truth about that, Simon. Come on, I can’t help you unless I know the full story. Let’s start from the beginning, hadn’t we? Tell me about you and Jasmine.’
Simon scowled and turned away, facing the wall. It was a response Lucy had seen many times before and it was not, she knew, a good sign.
‘Why do you need to know about that?’
She spoke very gently. ‘Because she’s dead, Simon, and if I’m going to help you I have to know your story. Will you tell me? Simon?’
After a long, sullen silence Simon sighed, leaned forward, and began to talk.
‘Right. It’s now eleven fifteen a.m.,’ said Churchill, with a meaningful glare at Lucy, who had delayed the interview for nearly two hours. ‘We are at Fulford Police Station in York. Present in the room are Simon Newby, his solicitor Mrs Lucy Sampson, DCI William Churchill and DC Harry Easby. This interview will be recorded and a copy of the tape will be made available to Mr Newby’s legal representative. Now then, Simon. Let me repeat the words of the caution ...’
As he did so Simon avoided his eyes. He seemed tired, nervous, jumpy, Churchill thought. Guilty, almost certainly.
‘Right. First I have to show you my notes of what you said in the car. If you agree they are a correct record, you should sign them at the bottom.’ He passed over a sheet of paper.
At 3.45 a.m. on Monday 31st May, DCI William Churchill of York police, accompanied by DC Harry Easby of York police and DS Conroy and DC Lane of Scarborough police, entered room 7 of Seaview Villas in Whitton Street, Scarborough where Simon Newby was found to be asleep in bed. DCI Churchill woke Mr Newby and informed him that he was being arrested on suspicion of the murder of Jasmine Hurst. He was cautioned that he need not say anything, but that it might harm his defence if he did not mention when questioned something which he later relied on in court, and that anything which he did say might be given in evidence. Mr Newby was then escorted to a police car and driven from Scarborough to York.
After being cautioned, Mr Newby stated that he had not killed Jasmine Hurst, and that he had not seen her for weeks. He repeated this statement several times.
Churchill passed Simon a pen. ‘Here. If it’s a true record sign at the bottom.’
‘No, wait ...’ The words terrified Simon. ‘No, I didn’t say that.’
‘You did, son. I heard you - we both did. Several times.’
Simon turned to Lucy in panic. ‘Well, I didn’t know what I was saying, I ...’
‘Mr Churchill, did you interview my client in the car?’
‘No, Mrs Sampson, of course we didn’t. This is a record of voluntary statements made under caution.’ He gave her a brief, dismissive glance, then focussed his attention back on Simon. ‘You told us you didn’t kill Jasmine, and you hadn’t seen her for weeks. Those were your own words, Simon. Are you now saying they aren’t true?’
‘Yes. No. No, it isn’t true.’
‘Which part isn’t true?’ Churchill asked silkily. ‘That you didn’t kill Jasmine?’
‘No! Of course not that.’ Simon hid his face in his hands, confused. ‘I ... I
had
seen her.’
‘When?’
‘The day before I went to Scarborough.’
‘Last Friday night?’
‘Yes.’ Simon glanced at Lucy. ‘Tell him.’
‘Before we go any further, Detective Chief Inspector,’ Lucy intervened, ‘my client has a statement to make.’ She passed a piece of paper across the table. ‘He wrote this a few minutes ago. I think it will help explain things.’
Will Churchill picked the paper up and began to read aloud.
‘
I met Jasmine Hurst a year ago and became very fond of her. In October she came to live with me at 23 Bramham Street and she stayed until March, when she left me. She said she was tired of me and had a new boyfriend. His name is David Brodie and he lives with her at 8a Stillingfleet Road. I went there once to ask Jasmine to come back and live with me but she wouldn’t. I’ve met her a few times since then but only briefly. On Thursday 13th May I met her by the river and she came back to my house for a meal. I asked her to come back and live with me but she wouldn’t. We argued about this and then she left. When she left I was upset so I decided to go to Scarborough for a holiday, to try to get over her. I drove to Scarborough that night and didn’t see Jasmine again. I had no idea Jasmine was dead until the police arrested me this morning. I did not kill her and I don’t know how she died. Simon Newby.’
Churchill looked at Harry and laughed. ‘That’s not what you said in the car, is it?’
‘No, well I was scared. I didn’t even know she was dead until you told me. What am I supposed to say?’
‘The truth, son.’
‘Well, I have now. That’s it, there on that paper.’
‘So if you have no evidence against my client,’ said Lucy, ‘I would ask you to drop this mistaken charge and release him now.’
‘Oh, you would, would you?’ Churchill put a plastic evidence bag on the table. Inside it were a pair of muddy trainers. ‘Well, we do have evidence, Mrs Sampson.’ He spoke clearly so the tape would catch his every word. ‘I’m showing Mr Newby a pair of men’s Nike trainers, size 9. Do you recognize these, Simon?’
‘No.’
‘They were found in your house. They’re yours, aren’t they?’
Simon shrugged. ‘Maybe. Lots of people have trainers like that.’
‘Well, these trainers were found in your house, and they have mud and grass on them similar to the mud and grass found near Jasmine’s body. There were also footprints there which appear to fit these trainers.’
‘So? Like I said, thousands of people have trainers like that.’
‘And the mud and grass?’
‘I go running. That’s what they’re for.’
‘Yes, sure.’ Churchill leaned forward, watching Simon intently. ‘And the blood?’
‘What blood?’ Simon’s face paled. ‘Where?’
Churchill pointed, to a group of faint, unremarkable brown stains on the toe just below the laces on the left shoe. Then he turned the shoe over and pointed with a pen at the indentations on the sole. ‘Here, and here. They don’t look much, but they’re going to send you to prison for a long time, my son. Because the forensic scientists have examined these stains, and they’re group AB negative, which is the same group as Jasmine Hurst. It’s her blood, Simon, isn’t it? You got it on your shoes when you killed her.’
‘But I didn’t kill her!’ Simon half rose to his feet, shouting. ‘Give me those shoes! They’re not mine!’
Churchill held the shoes away from him, smiling. ‘They
are
yours, Simon. They’re the shoes the murderer wore, and they were found in your house, in your bedroom, with her blood on. Does anyone else live in your house?’
‘No.’ Simon sat down slowly.
‘Anyone else keep their training shoes there?’
‘No. But ...’
‘Well then. What about this?’ Churchill produced another evidence bag. ‘I’m showing Mr Newby a breadknife with a black handle. We found this in your house too. Is this yours?’
‘No. How should I know?’
‘There are fingerprints on here, Simon. We’ll be matching them with yours later.’ He paused, savouring the moment, staring intently into the eyes of the boy and his silent solicitor. ‘This knife’s got Jasmine Hurst’s blood on, too!’
‘It can’t have! You’re lying! Look, the blade’s clean anyhow!’
‘I didn’t say it was on the blade, did I? No doubt you cleaned the blade after you killed her, and thought that was enough. But our cunning scientists have looked here, in the crack where the blade joins the handle, and they’ve found blood there, you see. Same blood group, AB negative. Jasmine Hurst’s blood group. Blood from when you cut her throat.’
‘I didn’t! Say that again, you bastard ...’ Once again Simon half rose, but Lucy put her hand on his arm and, to her great relief, he sat down.
‘Just listen to them, Simon,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to answer, if you don’t want to.’
‘But it can’t be her blood! I didn’t kill her, I tell you!’
‘Well, we’ll see.’ Churchill smiled patronizingly. ‘Ever heard of DNA, Simon? We’ve sent samples of this blood away for DNA analysis and then we’ll see for certain whose it is. That’ll prove it one way or the other.’
‘It’ll prove it’s not hers, then.’
‘Will it? We’ll see. You didn’t rape her either, I suppose?’
‘What? Of course not.’
Churchill gave a cold wolfish grin. ‘So you won’t mind giving a DNA sample, will you?’
Lucy could feel cold sweat trickling under her dress. ‘I’d like to consult with my client again ...’ she began, falteringly. But Churchill overrode her. ‘In a minute, in a minute. First let me tell your client what we need the sample for, OK? You see, Simon, the man who killed Jasmine - the man who wore these trainers and used that knife - he didn’t just kill her, he raped her first. And when he raped her, he left certain intimate body samples which will help us identify him. So if you don’t mind, we need to take a DNA sample from you to compare with the DNA that the murderer left in her body. If you’re innocent it may help to prove it. But if not ...’
Will Churchill paused, letting the silence hang heavy in the room. Simon had his head in his hands, sobbing quietly. In a quiet, relentless voice Churchill continued. ‘This means taking a swap from your mouth and a few hairs from your head. It won’t hurt. But I must warn you that if you don’t offer these samples voluntarily I can obtain them forcibly. Do you understand?’
Simon nodded, still weeping. The interview had lasted scarcely ten minutes but Churchill was sure the damage had been done. If the boy was going to confess, now was the time. Lucy Sampson tried to catch his eye. ‘I really must insist, Chief Inspector ...’
Simon muttered something which Churchill couldn’t hear. ‘What was that, lad?’
Simon looked up, his face, red, tear-stained. ‘I said the semen will be mine!’
‘Yours?’
Yes!
Churchill thought.
We’ve got him!
‘Simon, wait.’ Lucy touched his hand but he ignored her, looking directly at Churchill.
‘You heard. That’s what I said.’
Churchill tried to hide the surge of triumph singing through his veins. ‘All right. Do want to tell me about it, lad?’
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
This is where he convicts himself, Lucy thought. If he really wants to confess, nothing I can say will stop him. But what will I tell his mother, waiting outside?
When Lucy came out Sarah thought she looked shattered, as though she had walked into a wall in the dark. But when the big woman came closer she realized that the familiar fighting spirit, the determination, were still there beneath her exhaustion.
‘Well, what is it? Can I see him?’
‘No. They won’t let you, Sarah, I’m sorry. He’s been charged and remanded to Hull. You can see him there.’
‘But ...
charged?
They think he did it then?’
‘Obviously.’ Lucy looked at her friend and thought, what a question for a barrister! But this woman in front of her was no high-powered lawyer, she was a mother, anxious for news of her son. She took Sarah gently by the arm.
‘Come on, it’ll be easier outside. We’ll talk in my car.’
In the car Lucy went through the evidence slowly. First the footprints, the Nike trainers, the knife and the tiny stains of blood. ‘AB negative. That’s not Simon’s group, is it? He might have cut himself.’
‘I don’t think so. I think he’s O, like me. I’ll ring the doctor to check.’
‘They’re sending it for DNA analysis anyway, so that’ll prove it one way or the other. But Sarah, that’s not the worst thing.’ She looked at her friend sadly. ‘The big thing is the semen. That’s what we spent most of the time talking about.’
‘What? She was raped, you mean?’
Lucy nodded. ‘You didn’t know?’
Sarah shook her head, and groaned. ‘No. No, they never told me that. Trying to spare my feelings, I suppose.
Dear God!
Is there no end to this?’
‘I’m sorry, Sarah. I thought you knew.’
‘Yes, well, I had to know sometime. What are they saying? Simon did this too?’
‘Not necessarily. They’ve taken a DNA sample from him, of course. But Simon’s done himself a service there, thank God.’
‘What do you mean? How?’
To Sarah’s astonishment, a faint smile flickered on Lucy’s lips. She laughed - a soft appreciative chuckle that gave Sarah the first tiny ray of hope she’d had that day.
‘You should have seen that detective’s face! He was sure Simon was going to confess and so was I, believe me. Simon said
that semen’s mine
- I tried to stop him but I couldn’t, and I thought that’s it, it’s all over, but it wasn’t. Because his story is that he and Jasmine made love that afternoon, inside his house. No rape, just sex. That’s why she came there, according to him - that’s what she wanted. It wasn’t the first time, either - apparently she’s been back several times, since she left him, poor lad. Do you think that’s likely?’