It was late afternoon when Terry located Jasmine Hurst’s mother. According to Sarah the father had left and gone to Australia; Jasmine had a one younger sister who lived with her mother in a small lodging house near the Minster. Terry met a tall handsome woman of about fifty, cooking in a large kitchen where a pretty dark-haired twelve-year-old was doing her homework with her feet resting on an ancient Alsatian under the table.
The woman welcomed him with a friendly smile. I’m about to destroy your life, Terry thought. ‘Mrs Miranda Hurst?’
‘Yes. Is it a room you’re after?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’ He showed his card. ‘Are you the mother of Jasmine Hurst?’
‘Yes.’ The atmosphere of domestic happiness was jarring now. As though someone were screeching his fingernails down a blackboard slowly. ‘Is she in some sort of trouble?’
‘I’m afraid I have some bad news, Mrs Hurst. Perhaps you’d better sit down.’
In Terry’s mind, the screech grew louder.
Bob didn’t discuss it with Sarah. He knew it would create an impossible scene. She would want to prevent him and know that she shouldn’t; the conflict would tear her to shreds. The responsibility must be his alone; with luck she’d know nothing about it.
Nonetheless his fingers shook as he pressed the buttons on the phone.
‘Police. Can I help?’
‘Er — hello. I want to talk to … what was the name? … the detective investigating the death of Jasmine Hurst, please.’
‘Hold the line.’
At least the police, thank God, did not play Vivaldi interspersed with recorded protestations about how all their detectives were busy right now. Just silence and the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears.
‘DCI Churchill. Hello.’
‘Er — hello.’ His fingers fumbling, Bob placed a tissue across the mouth of the receiver. This is stupid, his conscience screamed, you’re a grown man, a head teacher, you can’t play silly games like this. But it works, I’ve seen it on TV. With his voice muffled he said: ‘You’re investigating the murder of that girl, Jasmine Hurst, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Churchill sounded puzzled. ‘Do you know something about it?’
‘There’s a man you should ask. He’s called Archibald Mullen, number 17 Bramham Street. Have you got that?’
‘OK, but what can he tell us?’
‘Ask him if he saw Simon Newby yesterday. He’ll tell you.’
‘Can I have your name, please sir?’
‘No, sorry.’ Bob crashed the phone down, and used the tissue to mop his brow. What had he done? It felt awful. The image of Judas Iscariot came into his mind — Judas hanging himself in the garden. He understood why now. He had betrayed his stepson! He had done it and it couldn’t be undone. And it was worse to have done it secretively like this, not better. He could never explain his reasons or defend their morality, because no one knew he’d done it.
He slumped at his desk with his head in his hands, groaning softly.
‘Bob?’ Sarah came in, and ran her hands lightly across his hair and shoulders. He could feel the tension in her fingers, too, but at least she was making an effort. ‘Come on. It’s been an awful couple of days, but at least we’ve got Emily back now. If we stick together we’ll come through all this.’
He said nothing. Surprised, she cradled the back of his head against her breasts. It was the sort of gesture he loved, that had become all too rare in their busy lives. He tried to relax, but his body was rigid, frozen.
‘Bob? What’s the matter? Talk to me.’
Now or never. But he couldn’t talk. He turned, put his arms around his wife, and held her silently. Feeling the soft feminine strength of her body. Seeing the image of Judas, swinging on a tree in the garden of Gethsamene, behind his closed eyelids.
Will Churchill was delighted. The informant’s voice had sounded odd but it confirmed Terry’s suspicion that the murder was connected with this boy Simon Newby. He collected Harry Easby, Tracy Litherland and Mike Candor and went straight round to Bramham Street. He pounded on Simon’s front door. No answer.
‘All right. Let’s find this neighbour at number 17.’
Archibald Mullen greeted them eagerly, his yellow teeth parted in a knowing smile. ‘You’re late, young man. The lad’s gone long since.’
‘Who do you mean, Mr Mullen?’
‘Simon Newby — him over’t road. His car’s not been here all day.’
‘Do you know where he’s gone?’
‘Me? No, lad. But he went out last night after he hit yon lass in the street, that I do know. He drove off after her. This morning his car were gone and I’ve not seen him since.’
After he hit yon lass in the street. That was the key phrase. When Churchill and DS Litherland took his statement, the point became clearer. Simon had driven away in a blue Ford Escort about ten minutes after hitting the girl. When they presented Mullen with a photograph of the dead girl he unhesitatingly identified her as the one Simon had hit.
‘Grand looking lass — and she’s dead, you say? By, there’ll be a to-do about that, then. Pictures in the papers, no doubt!’
Outside in the street Will Churchill rapped orders as though he had a plane to catch.
‘Harry, get on to DVLC and trace this car. Blue Escort, registered keeper Simon Newby 23 Bramham Street. Got that? Mike, watch the house — if the lad turns up, pull him in. Tracy, get round to his parents’ home, see what you can pick up there. I’ll get a search warrant.’
After she had identified the body, Miranda Hurst sat on the green plastic sofa, pale and stunned. A WPC gave her tea.
‘Is there anyone who might want to do this to your daughter, Mrs Hurst?’ Terry asked.
‘No. Of course not! She doesn’t know anyone as monstrous as that, how could she?’
‘I believe she knew a young man called Simon Newby?’
She looked up, tears smudging her mascara. ‘Simon? Yes, she lived with him until perhaps … six weeks ago, something like that. You don’t think he could have done this?’
‘We don’t think anything at the moment, Mrs Hurst, we’re just trying to find out. Did she quarrel with him at all, as far as you know?’
‘He did, yes. That’s why she left him.’
‘I see. And there was another boyfriend, later?’
‘Yes, David. Brodie I think his surname is … I’m sorry, can I go now?’
‘Yes, of course, Mrs Hurst. If you just happen to have this David Brodie’s address?’
She wrote it down for him. Terry nodded at the WPC, who had seen him inflict a similar pain on Sarah Newby earlier that day. ‘Call a car to take Mrs Hurst home, will you?’
As the pair walked slowly out he ran his hands through his hair and thought: how many more times? God. How many more?
‘Mrs Newby? DS Tracy Litherland, police. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if I may? About your son, Simon. It might be better if we went inside.’
So it had begun, already. Grimly, Sarah led the way into the living room. ‘My husband’s asleep, I think. You may not know it, but we’ve had a hard couple of days.’
Bob was indeed asleep upstairs, and Emily had gone for a walk with Larry along the riverbank, of all places. But they weren’t worried about her now; she would come back. The four of them had spent the afternoon coming to an agreement which Sarah fervently hoped would work. Probably Emily and Larry were discussing it now.
The agreement was simple. If Emily would stay at home and complete her GCSEs, Larry could visit her as often as he wanted. He could help her with revision if he liked — but it had to be genuine revision, Bob had warned, with the bedroom door unlocked. Her mother is a real barrister and the law means what it says about girls under sixteen.
Sarah had winced, but to her relief Larry and Emily had agreed. It wasn’t that much of a threat because the GCSEs were only a few days away and Emily’s birthday a month later. But the great thing was that this Larry genuinely appeared to care for Emily and appreciate a little, at least, of their concern. Sarah rather liked him, too. He seemed naive and passionate but that is how the young are supposed to be. He wasn’t bad looking either; if she washed some of the dirt off, she could imagine how the lithe, skinny body under the ragged clothes could be quite appealing. Certainly Emily seemed to think so; but then she knew. And whatever she herself had done, Sarah had not wanted her own daughter to know boys in the biblical sense quite yet.
But if the boy stuck by Emily and gave her some emotional support, it might be the best thing that could happen. Neither she nor Bob had done enough of that recently; and now, with this disaster about Jasmine and Simon, it was going to be even harder. Sarah wasn’t surprised that Bob was asleep; she herself had been sitting in an armchair for the past hour, thinking.
This detective was unwelcome. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Did your son, Simon, have a relationship with Jasmine Hurst?’
‘Yes. He loved her. I was about to go and break the news to him, when you came.’
‘Well, I’ll try not to keep you long,’ Tracy said, diplomatically. ‘Would you tell me about their relationship, please?’
Slowly, choosing her words with care, Sarah described her son’s relationship with this young beautiful woman who now lay in the mortuary. Simon had met Jasmine a year ago, and brought her to this house several times. She had been a strikingly attractive girl, lithe, athletic, and Simon had been besotted with her. Sarah had been less impressed. The girl seemed to treat her son with quiet disdain, as though it amused her have him running around her like a puppy. But Simon loved the girl, she repeated; he worshipped everything she did.
‘Did they never quarrel?’
Sarah shrugged. ‘Yes, they split up, about six weeks ago. She moved out of his house, went off with another boy.’ She closed her mouth abruptly. She had no intention of telling this woman what Simon had confided in her, that Jasmine still visited him for occasional sex.
‘Do you know where your son is now?’
‘At his home, I suppose. I was going to see him. Some things you can’t say by phone.’
‘Before you go, Mrs Newby,’ Tracy Litherland said, ‘you should know that we have evidence that he was seen with a girl answering Jasmine’s description last night, and that later he left home and hasn’t been seen since.’ Tracy briefly explained what the old man had said. ‘Do you have any idea where he might have gone?’
‘No.’ This news shook Sarah considerably. ‘Who told you about this old man?’
‘I’m not at liberty to say.’
‘You are treating him as a suspect, aren’t you? The poor boy probably doesn’t even know Jasmine’s dead yet!’
‘In that case we need to talk to him,’ said Tracy carefully. ‘He may have been the last person to see her alive, and he doesn’t seem to be at home. Does he have grandparents, relatives, friends that he sometimes visits?’
Reluctantly, Sarah gave Tracy her parents’ address, and a framed photograph of Simon. As she took it down she thought first Emily, now Simon; I never knew it hurt so much.
‘I want that back when you’ve copied it, please. And — what did you say your name was?’
‘Detective Sergeant Tracy Litherland.’
‘Yes, well, DS Litherland, I hope you’re looking for other suspects too. Simon didn’t kill this girl. He couldn’t — he’s not a murderer.’
Tracy had heard all this before from parents, many times. She responded with a detached professional compassion that Sarah recognised only too well from her own work.
‘I hope you’re right, Mrs Newby. I hope you’re right.’
With a search warrant in his pocket, Churchill watched Mike Candor smash the lock.
Simon’s house had a kitchen and living room downstairs, two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. The sagging armchair and sofa were strewn with magazines, socks, and towels. There was a pyramid of empty beer cans in a corner, under a Manchester United poster and an old Pirelli calendar. The smell suggested that not all the beer cans had been empty when added to the decoration, if that was what it was. On some shelves in an alcove were a TV, video and CD player, all fairly new and in good order.
‘I thought this lad was a part-time brickie,’ said Churchill, staring at them in surprise. ‘Where’d he get all this stuff?’
Mike Candor shrugged. ‘His parents, maybe? They’re not short of a bob or two. Kids today, they take this stuff for granted, you know.’ He was exploring the kitchen when Harry Easby gave a shout from upstairs.
‘Sir! Come and have a look at these!’
He was in the smaller bedroom, not one dedicated to sleeping. The main piece of furniture was a padded exercise bench. Scattered around the floor were a weight-lifter’s bar, a selection of weights, a skipping rope, some elastic stretching gear, a crumpled tracksuit, socks and trainers.
‘Quite the fitness freak,’ said Churchill, admiringly. ‘So what’s suspicious, Harry?’
‘These, sir.’ Carefully, Harry picked up a trainer by its lace. Will Churchill looked, and saw what he meant. The trainer was old and scuffed and muddy. As it twirled slowly in the air they saw little bits of grit and mud embedded in the sole, and the top of the shoe was stained green and brown, from mud and grass. The tread on the sole looked familiar.
‘Weren’t there some footprints near the body, sir?’
A slow smile crossed Churchill’s face. ‘There were, Harry. There were indeed.’
‘Bob? Wake up, I’ve brought you something.’
He sat up in surprise. It was a long time since Sarah had done anything as domestic as bring him tea in bed. ‘Oh, thanks.’ He ran his hand through his tousled hair. ‘What time is it?’
‘Five thirty. In the afternoon.’ She put the cup on a bedside table. ‘Have a good sleep?’
‘I suppose so, yes.’ He had slept fully dressed — it was years since he had done that, either. He took his tea gratefully, then winced as memory flooded back. ‘God, what a mess.’
‘A policewoman came.’
‘Why?’
‘To get a photo of Simon, and ask about his relationship with Jasmine. They’re treating him as a suspect, Bob.’
Bob sipped his tea and avoided her eyes. ‘Why?’
‘A witness claims he saw Simon with a girl like Jasmine. He hit her, this man claims.’
‘Oh.’
She walked to the window. The wind was rustling the willow leaves in the garden. In the distance, she could see Emily and Larry, arm in arm on the river bank.
‘Yes, oh. God knows where they found that out.’
She doesn’t know I told them, Bob thought. Thank God. ‘Do you think it’s true?’
She hesitated. ‘She did go back to him, sometimes. He loved that girl, Bob. I wish he hadn’t, but he did. Maybe someone saw them together.’
‘But the old man says he hit her. People do kill for love, Sarah.’
‘Not Simon.’ She turned, blood draining from her face. ‘What are you talking about, the old man? Bob, do you know something about this?’
Nervously, Bob put down his cup. He felt ridiculous and vulnerable, sitting on the bed in his shirt and socks, with those bright hazel eyes glaring at him like a tigress. I should never have tried to deceive her, he thought, I have no gift for it.
‘Look, I met this old man outside Simon’s house when I was searching for Emily. He told me he’d seen Simon quarrel with a girl in the street. She was wearing Emily’s coat, remember! I thought it was her!’
‘So it was you who told them! For Christ’s sake, Bob! Have you any idea what the police will make of this? What have you done?’
‘The girl’s dead, Sarah, this is deadly serious.’
‘I know that — I saw her, damn it! But Simon’s our son!’
In Bob’s eyes Sarah read the cruel message: your son, not mine. Yours and Kevin’s.
‘That doesn’t mean he didn’t do it. How much longer can you blind your eyes to what he’s like? Get real, Sarah — he’s not your misunderstood little boy any more. He’s a grown man.’
‘You rang the police and told them, Bob? Without talking to me? He’s my son!’
‘That’s exactly why I didn’t discuss it with you. And because that poor girl Jasmine is somebody’s daughter too, Sarah. Was.’
‘Don’t preach to be, Bob, I’m not your school assembly.’ She paused, then continued relentlessly. ‘Would you have done this if he’d been your own son? If it had been Emily?’
‘I think so, yes.’ He wondered if it was true. ‘I have tried with him, Sarah. You know that.’
‘Over the years, yes.’ Her first flood of rage ebbed, leaving a grey meaningless silt of despair. Is this what my marriage has come to? ‘But we’ve given up, since he left home, haven’t we? Both of us.’
‘Maybe. He’s nineteen years old, Sarah. He’s a grown man.’
Sarah walked to the window, stared out unseeing at the willow tree and the river. She leaned her forehead against the glass to cool it. ‘I thought we’d succeeded, in a way,’ she said quietly, watching a heron lift itself laboriously into the air, long legs trailing over a river that sparkled pink and silver in the setting sun. What was the point of striving every hour God gave to live in an expensive environment like this if your son turned into a murderer, she wondered. And your husband a Judas.
‘You shit Bob!’ She whipped away from the window suddenly, slapping her palm against the wall in a second outburst of fury. ‘By Christ, I wish you’d never met that old man! What were you doing there anyway?’
‘Looking for Emily, I told you.’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Always Emily. Would you have gone to look for Simon if he’d run away at fifteen? Or is that when you began to give up?’
‘We both gave up …’ Bob began, but Sarah shook her head decisively.
‘No. Not me. Not now, not ever. Look, Bob, I’ve got to find him. Whether he did this or not he needs help now. You stay here with Emily, will you? Tell her where I’ve gone and why, if you can face it.’
‘But we’re supposed to be giving her support.’
‘You do it.’ She turned and was out of the bedroom door as she spoke.
‘When will you be back?’
‘When you see me.’
The words floated up from the hall below. The front door closed on her last word.
‘If.’
‘Yes, of course we have a search warrant, madam.’
Churchill held it out, and Sarah examined it meticulously, while he took in the incongruous sight of this slender woman in black motorcycle leathers, confronting him on the upstairs landing of Simon Newby’s house. With her neat black shoulder length hair, the leather jacket and trousers gave her an attractive boyish look, he thought, really quite fetching. But her brusque manner, the determination in her face and the tiny wrinkles around her keen cat-like eyes warned him that this was no child, no messenger girl to be brushed aside. This was the woman, after all, who had ruined Terry Bateson’s case against Gary Harker.
‘It’s less than twenty four hours since the girl was killed, isn’t it?’ she said sharply, handing the warrant back. ‘Isn’t that rather early to be smashing someone’s door and making all this mess? Who’s going to pay for it?’
‘This is a murder enquiry, madam. The sooner we interview all suspects the more likely we are to get a result.’
‘A result, yes, but maybe not the right one. This is my son you are talking about, Chief Inspector. He loved Jasmine Hurst, he’ll be devastated by the news of her death. He doesn’t need all this hassle as well.’
‘We need to find him, madam. Do you know where he is?’
‘No. I gave your detective the names and addresses of some relatives; have you enquired there yet? If he knows she’s dead, perhaps he’s gone away to grieve somewhere. He could be with friends, in a pub — how should I know?’
‘You’re his mother, wouldn’t he come to you, if he was unhappy?’
‘He might, but he hasn’t. That’s why I’m here.’ She pushed past him, into Simon’s bedroom where Harry Easby was indiscriminately throwing clothes onto the floor. ‘Great God Almighty, what the devil are you doing?’
‘Looking for evidence, madam,’ Harry said.
‘What evidence? Clean underwear? Who’s going to clear all this up when you’ve gone?’
‘It wasn’t exactly tidy when we arrived,’ said Churchill smoothly. ‘And as you will know since you’ve seen the body, the young lady’s throat was cut and there was a great deal of blood. So if we find bloodstains on your son’s clothes, for example …’
‘You’ll be very lucky. Unless she cut herself or had a period while she was living here. That won’t get you very far, will it?’
‘Would these be your son’s trainers?’ Churchill asked, holding the old, muddy shoes in a plastic evidence bag.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Sarah, looking at them scornfully. ‘Anyway, where’s the blood?’
‘We’ll leave that to forensics. All we’re doing is looking for evidence at the moment, madam. Now I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Sarah coolly. ‘This is my house.’
‘What?’
‘My husband and I paid the deposit on it, my son only pays the interest on the mortgage. So we’re joint owners, as you could have found out if you’d asked before smashing the door down. I even have a key.’ She took it out of her pocket and dangled it under his nose. ‘I believe I have a right to stay in my own house while it’s being searched?’
Churchill swore under his breath. ‘So long as you don’t impede our enquiries. But you may have a long wait. This is a serious investigation, we have to be thorough.’
‘I’ll survive. You get used to hanging around at the Bar. And perhaps you can tidy up and write out an acknowledgement for the damage to the door, before you go?’
She scored a few points but, after the other shocks of the day, it had an appalling emotional effect on her. When the police eventually left, making rudimentary attempts to stuff clothes back into drawers, an immense aching weariness flooded through her. She made herself a cup of strong coffee in the small, grubby kitchen and slumped on a stool to drink it.
It had been a dreadful few days — the disappearance of Emily, the death of Jasmine, and now this. Simon, what have you done?
She remembered the last time she had seen him, at court. He’d seemed angry then, but he was often like that. He felt he had failed in life, been betrayed by everyone. Abandoned by his father, Kevin, unable to live up to the expectations of herself and Bob. Christ! Was it her fault then, Bob’s fault? God knew they had both tried, but the boy was so difficult, always wanting to do everything his own way, and always making a mess of it — no wonder he was so full of rage and resentment.
Or at least he had been until he met Jasmine. Sarah had never liked the girl but she’d made Simon happy, and proud, too, for a while. For Jasmine had been a stunning, drop-dead beauty, the sort of girl who could cause a multiple car crash simply by crossing the road. She was a lad’s triumph, Sarah thought ruefully — her son had strutted beside her like a bantam cock with two tails; worshipped the girl like a slave.
And Jasmine had known it. Known she could leave him and still come back, whenever she chose.
Was that enough to make him kill her? Had he finally realised what a bitch the girl could be, and turned on her in a jealous fury? It was possible, Sarah supposed. But actually cut her throat with a knife — Simon? Her baby whom she had bred in her body, fed with her own milk, taught to smile and walk and laugh — could he do that?
She imagined Jasmine’s terror as she realised what was going to happen to her. Sarah remembered her own terror, when Kevin had beaten her before he left. Kevin, Simon’s natural father. It hadn’t been just the beating, the sense of betrayal; the really frightening part had been the way Kevin had seemed to enjoy her own fear. Like father, like son, she thought — is there a trait for murder in Simon’s genes?
But half his genes are mine, so what does he inherit from me? They say I’m aggressive, single-minded, intolerant of failure, desperate for success at all costs. It’s true; but those are virtues too. How else could a teenage single mum, a battered wife, progress from a run-down council estate to the Bar? It’s Simon who’s had the back hand of them; the neglect, the lack of time, the impatience, the impossible example to follow.
And so he left me for Jasmine — his living pin-up, his angel — and she betrayed him too. When he cut her throat, was it my memory that he was murdering?
If he murdered anyone.
I won’t believe it, she told herself, I can’t. Not my son.