‘But why isn’t this on the computer?’ Terry asked. ‘He hasn’t got a record - I checked.’
‘The manager didn’t want a fuss. He gave young Simon his cards the same day, and said if he ever came back he’d call the police. So that was that.’
‘My God.’ Terry sank down on a chair. ‘What day was that?’
‘March 7th. Two days before they started work on the extension. But it still gives him a link to Maria Clayton, doesn’t it?’
Terry nodded numbly. ‘Have you got this woman’s statement?’
Tracy passed him a sheet of paper. ‘Here.’ As Terry read, his nausea increased. The image of Sarah Newby came back to him, standing slim, upright and alone outside her son’s house, protesting his innocence. What had he thought, as he left?
She’ll grow old like that, no career, no family, all alone.
And then a second thought, worse than the first. Had she known about this, when they met? Had she already known her son had lost a job for - what did this statement say?
He touched my legs from behind when I was bent over picking something up, and when I protested he grabbed my wrists and asked if I’d let him fuck me.
Wonderful! And he’d told Sarah that in his - Terry’s - judgement her son couldn’t have committed these crimes, because he just wasn’t like that. How could his judgement be so wrong? Because - face it, Terry - you were infatuated by the boy’s mother, so you
wanted
it to be true. You were trying to please her. But if she knew about this, she must have been laughing up her sleeve as I spoke, taking me for a sucker all along.
Dear God, Terry thought. I can’t do this job any more. I’ve lost my touch.
With deep satisfaction, Churchill was watching Terry’s reaction. ‘Don’t take it personally, old son,’ he said, in his oiliest manner. ‘The world is full of surprises.’
‘I read about it in the paper, that’s all,’ said Simon firmly. ‘No more than that.’
‘You never met this woman, Maria Clayton, then?’ Lucy asked, patiently.
Simon shook his head. ‘Not that I remember, no.’
‘Never went to her house, worked on any buildings there?’
‘What’s the address again?’
‘47, Flaxton Gardens. It’s in Strensall.’
‘I’ve had that many jobs ... but no. No, I never worked there.’
‘And Gary didn’t talk to you about her?’
‘No.’
‘All right.’ Lucy made a brief note on her pad. ‘Well, as far as we know, that’s the only possible connection between you and Maria Clayton - the fact that you know Gary who did some building work there. It’s not much, so let’s forget it. But then there’s Helen Steersby.’
‘Another one?’ Simon shook his head wearily. ‘It’s daft, all this.’
‘DCI Churchill doesn’t think so. It seems that a schoolgirl, Helen Steersby, was accosted by a man when she was riding her pony in the woods, not far from the shopping development. He tried to pull her off her pony, but she hit him with her riding crop and rode away.’
‘What’s this got to do with me?’ Simon asked wearily.
‘Nothing, I hope. But the girl made a photofit of what she thought the man looked like. And since they claim it looks a bit like you, they want you to go in for an identity parade.’
‘They’re screwy,’ said Simon, putting a finger to his forehead and turning it like a screwdriver. ‘Totally screwless. If they lose any more their heads’ll drop off.’ He laughed manically, gratified to draw a faint smile from Lucy.
‘So you didn’t attack a young girl on a pony? On...’ She checked her notes. ‘9th March?’
‘As it happens, no, I didn’t. It was only little lasses on elephants that day. And giraffes.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘Look, can’t you just stop it, all of it? I didn’t even know any of these bloody women, let alone rape them or murder them or drag them off their stupid ponies. I didn’t hurt anyone except Jasmine. Christ!’
He got abruptly from his chair again and drummed his fists on the wall, hard, so that flakes of plaster floated down. Then he noticed that both women had fallen silent, staring at him.
‘What?’
Sarah drew a deep breath. ‘You said you hurt Jasmine, Simon.’
‘Oh. Yeah, well I mean I hit her, mum. In the street, you know that.’
‘And that’s all?’
‘Of course that’s all!
Jesus!’
He kicked the chair aside with a crash, and leaned forward, both hands on the table, glaring into his mother’s face. ‘You said you believed me, didn’t you?’
‘I’m trying to, Simon. You’re not making it easy.’
‘Well try harder, can’t you? I’ve got no one else.’
Once again their eyes locked. All Sarah could see was the face of an angry, hurt young man, thrust deliberately forward a few inches from her own. The smack of the chair hitting the wall still rang in her ears, and the sense of rage and injustice radiated from him so palpably that if she had not been his mother he would have terrified her.
She wondered how Jasmine would have coped with this level of fury from her lover. Was this why she left? Or had she - arrogant, beautiful, self-centred young woman that she was - actually
enjoyed
the reaction she could arouse? Maybe she even got a thrill out of his rage and the occasional slap or blow that she received, because it proved that she, not he, had emotional control. Was that why she had behaved as she did with David Brodie and Simon, playing games with the jealousy of both? Perhaps she enjoyed the game and wanted to see how much rage and jealousy she could provoke. That was very like the Jasmine Sarah remembered. Had she simply pushed the situation too far, tested Simon quite literally to destruction - the destruction of her own life?
Sarah had never articulated this fear to herself so clearly before. Now it came all at once. It was the best explanation so far. And his own words had led to it. She gazed back at him coldly.
Lucy tried again. ‘Sit down, Simon, please. We can’t discuss these things in a rage.’
‘I’m not in a bloody rage. I just want to be believed, that’s all.’ Slowly Simon withdrew from his aggressive crouch over the table, picked up the chair, and straddled it, still glowering at his mother.
‘Thank you. Now look, if we’re going to defend you, we have to do a number of things. Firstly, we have to be sure that you’re going to plead not guilty. Because if you
did
kill Jasmine, we can mount a completely different defence, claiming that she provoked you and you didn’t know what you were doing. You understand all that?’
‘What?’ Simon’s rage switched to Lucy. ‘
I didn’t bloody kill her
. How many times ...’
‘OK, OK ...’ Lucy raised her hands, but Simon was not propitiated.
‘No it’s not OK, Mrs Parsons! Either you accept that I didn’t kill her, understand?
I didn’t bloody do it!
Or you can piss off out that door and I’ll get someone else! Get it?’
‘OK, Simon ...’
‘I’ll defend myself! I could do it a sight better than you, any road ...’
‘Simon!’
Sarah didn’t move but there was something in her voice so sharp and hard that it stopped him short like a small boy. ‘If you want Lucy to help you you’ll keep a clean tongue in your head and listen to her, all right? Because you’ve got no one else, no one better. If you even try to defend yourself like that, they’ll give you life with a minimum tariff of twenty years, straight off. And make no mistake, that’s what you’re looking at, if this goes wrong. This is the most serious thing in your whole life. Believe me.’
‘You think I don’t know that?’
‘Well, treat it seriously then. Listen to Lucy,
think,
and get a grip. Flying into a rage will get you nowhere at all.’
Except here,
she told herself grimly.
Maybe his rage was the cause of it all.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
S
ARAH WAS in court. Lucy had suggested that she take a holiday, but Sarah found work therapeutic; after all, whatever happened to Simon, she told herself grimly, she would have a life afterwards, a daughter to support, and a career that she had struggled to achieve; she wasn’t going to abandon that now. Not even for Simon.
She could accept sympathy, from her colleagues. But not pity, not from anyone.
This morning’s case, however, had hardly boosted her confidence. The accused, a well-known thug, had been seen eating a chicken sandwich in a supermarket without paying for it. When the police arrested him they found, to their delight, a replica gun in his pocket. He was charged with going to the supermarket armed, intending to commit an offence. With his previous convictions for armed robbery, this was a serious matter.
Sarah, in defence, had argued that her client had been simply carrying the weapon, with no intention to use it. Her client had neither intended to commit armed robbery nor done so; he had simply eaten a chicken sandwich, and left the store peacefully. It was petty theft, no more.
The judge listened, smiled, and gave her client seven years for armed robbery.
She walked disconsolately back to her chambers, still in her gown, her wig in her hand. A group of foreign tourists photographed her as she waited to cross the road.
God help Simon if he gets a judge like that, she thought. Or a barrister like me. Seven years for stealing a sandwich! As she crossed the road she saw Terry coming towards her on the opposite pavement. She smiled as he approached.
‘Hello, Sarah. Can we talk?’
Something in his manner made her heart lurch unpleasantly. ‘What, here?’
He looked around. ‘Wherever. It won’t take long.’
‘There’s a bench free by the river. Let’s go there.’
They sat on the bench and watched a pleasure cruiser move upstream. Terry watched it briefly, then met her eyes. She saw no warmth, no sympathy.
‘Terry, what is it? What do you know?’
‘It’s more what I
don’t
know and what you
do,
’ he said harshly. ‘For instance about your son’s previous jobs and how he lost one of them.’
‘Terry, I don’t understand. What jobs?’
‘You really didn’t know, when you spoke to me the other night? That he worked as a delivery driver for Robsons, the builders’ merchants?’
‘So? He’s had dozens of jobs.’
‘He was sacked from this one.’ Terry studied her keenly. ‘You know why, don’t you?’
‘No! Terry,
what is this?’
‘He stuck his hand up the secretary’s skirt.’
‘Oh my God.’ A mother with a toddler frowned disapprovingly. ‘How do you know this?’
‘Tracy found out. And what’s worse, he delivered two loads of building materials to Maria Clayton, the prostitute who was murdered. So he did have a connection with her, after all.’
‘It doesn’t mean he killed her.’ Sarah’s voice was faint, little above a whisper.
‘Of course not, yet. But Churchill thinks it will. His theory is that Simon had sex with her, it went wrong somehow, and snap, something broke in his head and the first of these killings started. With the balaclava and the knife.’
He flew into a rage,
Sarah thought. Like yesterday in the prison.
‘All this because he delivered things to her house? Terry, really!’
‘I’m just telling you how he’s thinking.’ Terry heard the strain in her voice and saw her fingers shaking. ‘Sarah, are you really saying you didn’t know?’
‘I knew he had the job, yes, but not every delivery he made. Why should I?’
And why should did I believe what he told me yesterday?
She gazed unseeing at some tourists feeding a swan. ‘And certainly not how he was sacked.
Jesus,
Terry!’
In profile, he thought he saw tears in her eye. He got up.
‘Well, that’s it. I really shouldn’t tell you any of this. I have to go.’
She stood to detain him. ‘Terry. I thought we were friends.’
‘I saw Maria’s body, Sarah.’
‘And I saw Jasmine’s. You know that, you were there.’
‘Yes.’ He hesitated. ‘Look, there are still the DNA tests. I’ll let you know.’
Then he left, with that long, loping stride that would make it impossible for her to catch him without running and making herself look ridiculous.
She stood and stared after him while a tourist, an enormously fat man in blue shorts and orange teeshirt, took a photo of her with an expensive Japanese camera.
‘All right, let’s go through this again. You stuck your hand up this woman’s skirt.’
‘It was a
joke
, mum. She was a fat cow, she’d been giving everyone grief, and when she bent over she farted. The other drivers were pissing themselves.’
‘And so you got the sack for molesting her.’
‘She only had the job because she was the boss’s moron sister. She deserved it.’
‘Oh, Simon, Simon.’ Sarah shook her head in despair. ‘You realize what they’ll make of this, don’t you?’
‘Mum, the woman’s still alive ...’
‘But Maria Clayton isn’t, is she? And you delivered building materials to her house.’
‘I never met the woman, mum. Honest. She wasn’t there.’
‘Two days ago you told us
you’d
never been there.’ Sarah jabbed her finger at Lucy’s notes. ‘
Never worked there
, you said.
Never saw her.
’
‘Yeah, well. There were that many deliveries ...’
‘You lied to me, Simon. Again.’
‘I
forgot,
mum. That’s all.’
Sarah sighed, speechless. They had been in this dreary prison room for half an hour now. Simon gazed sulkily at the clouds outside the window. Sarah fiddled with the wedding ring on her finger. After a pause, Lucy resumed.
‘All right. Let’s leave that and concentrate on the murder of Jasmine, which is the only thing you’ve been charged with so far. We’ve agreed that you’re pleading not guilty. So we have to establish several things. First, what exactly did happen on that day, the last day you saw her, and whether you have any witnesses to prove it. Second, we have to examine all the evidence that the police produce, and in particular why your trainers and breadknife have Jasmine’s blood on.’
‘I told you. She cut her thumb in the kitchen.’
‘Yes. The pathologist’s report confirms there was a small cut on her thumb ...’