Sarah had been to Hull prison many times before, but today it was a different place. The great black-studded gates seemed larger; the echoing corridors louder, filthier; the cat-calls and wolf-whistles more threatening. She had to queue with other visiting mothers; have her handbag searched by a contemptuous prison officer.
She came with Bob, too, which made it worse. As they were herded through the prison yard he shuddered at the packets of excrement thrown from cell windows overnight, and shrank from the other visitors.
Simon sat opposite them and looked down at the table, ashamed.
‘You came then.’
‘Of course we came, Simon,’ Sarah said. ‘As soon as we could.’
‘Him too?’ He nodded at Bob.
‘Me too,’ Bob agreed.
For a while none of them spoke. Simon resumed his nervous scrutiny of the table; Bob stared at his stepson coldly, as though at a delinquent he was being forced to accept into his school. In the end Simon began.
‘You’ve spoken to that solicitor woman?’
‘Lucy? Yes, I’ve talked to her, Simon. It … doesn’t look brilliant.’
‘Not brilliant? They think I killed her, mum!’
‘And did you, Simon?’ Bob’s voice was hard, like a slap in the face.
‘What?’
‘Did you kill her?’
Simon began to shake his head, slowly at first, then faster and more violently. ‘No!’
‘Not rape her either?’
‘No, I bloody well did not!’ He got up abruptly, leaning over the table directly into Bob’s face. ‘How dare you come here, asking me questions like that? If you don’t believe me don’t come, you’re not bloody wanted!’
Heads turned in the room. A girl at the next table sniggered. The guard folded his arms.
‘You were the last one to see her, Simon,’ Bob persisted. ‘You hit her. A man saw you.’
‘What are you, a bloody policeman? Just shut up, will you!’
‘I need to know, Simon. We both do.’
Sarah thought Bob’s going to get hit, and he’ll deserve it too; but instead Simon pushed his face close to his stepfather’s and said: ‘Well I didn’t do it, OK? So now you know. If you don’t believe me you can go fuck yourself.’
Everyone was watching now. Here in a prison visiting room, my son swearing at my husband. From a deep well of sadness, Sarah spoke. ‘Simon, it’s all right. Sit down. Please.’
For a second he glared at her, as if trying to decide who she was and whether to spit in her face. Then the rage left him. He sat, running his hands through his hair. ‘I didn’t do it, mum, whatever he thinks. Whatever anyone …’
‘It’s all right, Simon, I believe you.’
‘ … I mean I don’t even know where it happened, so … you believe me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yeah, well. At least there’s one of you.’ He reached for her hand, across the table. She felt the tension in his fingers, and clasped his hand in hers, for comfort. He turned to Bob. ‘What about you then?’
‘I don’t know, Simon. I’d like to …’
‘Oh yes, you’d like to believe me,’ Simon sneered. ‘Only you can’t manage it, right? You’d like to believe your stepson isn’t a filthy murderer who raped his girlfriend and cut her throat, only you’re not absolutely sure so you’d rather think about it first and check in the Guardian to see what their opinion is this week, is that it? Then maybe you’ll let me know!’
‘Simon, stop it!’ Sarah clung tightly to his hand, partly to comfort him but mostly because she feared he might seize Bob by the throat. She should never have brought Bob; he just provoked Simon. And he wasn’t finished yet.
‘Sneer if you like, Simon, but that girl was raped before she died and you admit you had sex with her.’
‘Yes, well, so I did, but it doesn’t mean I raped her!’
‘They’ve found her blood on your trainers.’
‘It’s not her blood. They may not be my trainers for all you know!’
‘Oh come on, Simon, give the police some credit!’
Simon shuddered. ‘So you think I did it, then, do you? That’s all the proof you need?’
Bob shook his head sadly. ‘What else could any reasonable person think?’
‘Well, you’re wrong, that’s all! I didn’t kill her and that’s it! It wasn’t me!’
For a moment none of them spoke. A tiny amount of Simon’s anger subsided and he said: ‘I loved that girl. You wouldn’t understand that — you hated her, both of you!’
‘I didn’t hate her, Simon,’ Sarah said.
‘Yes, you did! You drove her away! Not educated enough for you, was she?’ He snatched his hands away. Tears came into Sarah’s eyes.
‘This is hard for us all, Simon,’ said Bob. ‘Your mother had to identify her body, you know.’
Simon was shocked. ‘You had to do that? Mum? See Jasmine’s body?’
Sarah nodded. ‘In the mortuary.’
‘But … why you?’
‘They thought it was Emily.’ Sarah explained, briefly, the events of that awful day, and how Emily had given Jasmine her jacket at the protest. ‘She must have been wearing it, Simon, when you saw her.’
‘Probably. I didn’t think.’ Simon looked down again at his hands, and for a while none of them spoke, an island of silence in the noisy, crowded room. ‘What did she look like?’ he asked at last. ‘Jasmine. When you saw her?’
How do I answer that, Sarah wondered. None of this is easy. When she thought back to the mortuary all she could remember was the fear, and the appalling flood of relief afterwards. The body’s appearance had mattered less than who it was. And who it wasn’t.
‘I only saw her face. It was very pale, I think. Pale, with a bruise on her cheek, and … some marks of twigs on her skin. Her eyes were closed. She was … a very beautiful girl, Simon.’
‘Oh, I know that. Too damn pretty for her own good.’ He brushed the tears away roughly with the back of his hand. ‘And I hit her. God! I didn’t know I’d never see her again, did I?’
‘Did you cut her cheek when you hit her?’ Bob intervened, in a more conciliatory tone.
‘Oh come on, what are you talking about now? It was just a slap. Why …?’
‘I thought maybe that’s how her blood got on your trainers.’
‘No. Christ, what are you tormenting me with this for? How did you get blood on your shoes, all this! I don’t bloody know, is the answer!’
‘I’m only trying to help …’
‘Well don’t. I don’t want you here, go home!’
Sarah grasped her son’s hands again, across the table. ‘Don’t give up, Simon. I believe you. I’m your mother.’ But mothers don’t really count. She saw it in Simon’s eyes.
‘Yeah, but that’s just it, in’t it? It’s all these other bastards — Bob, the police …’
‘We’ll convince them too. You’re innocent until proven guilty. Remember that.’
‘That’s just lawyers’ talk, mum. They don’t think like that.’
‘I am a lawyer, remember? And it is true. It’s a lawyer’s job to make it true.’
‘Well, I hope to Christ you’re right, because it doesn’t look like that from here. And that other lawyer, that Lucy woman, she’s no friggin’ good, is she?’
‘She’s a good solicitor, Simon. She’s doing her best for you.’
‘Why am I banged up in here then? All day with nowt to do, and no room to move.’
‘Because it’s a serious charge, Simon. You don’t get bail for murder.’
‘I could get locked up for life, couldn’t I?’
‘Not if they can’t prove it, Simon. If you’re not guilty they won’t be able to.’
As she answered, Sarah realized that people were getting to their feet. A prison officer was coming straight towards them.
‘That’s not true, mum — innocent people get locked up, all the time. You’ve told me!’
The prison officer had his hand on Simon’s shoulder. ‘Time’s up, son.’
As Simon stood up, his eyes still fixed on his mother’s, she said: ‘Not this time, Simon. I won’t let it happen.’
She regretted those words all the long drive back to York. It was a promise too great to keep. She had meant to leave him some hope, but what hope was there, really? The evidence seemed too strong. Simon had been the last person to see Jasmine alive, he’d had sex with her, quarreled with her and hit her. Then he’d run away to Scarborough. If the blood on his trainers and breadknife were hers too, there was enough evidence for any court to convict him.
But I don’t believe it. I can’t.
Don’t. Can’t. Don’t. Can’t.
Well, which is it, she asked herself, as Bob drove the Volvo along the long undulating roads to York. Do I believe he’s innocent, or just hope he is because he’s my son?
I wouldn’t normally ask questions like these. If he maintained his innocence I would defend him, and what I believed wouldn’t matter. But I’m not his barrister now, I’m his mother.
Bob drove silently beside her. The tension in his manner had grown worse since they left the prison. Sarah ignored it, focusing her thoughts on Simon. Her son had always liked to be active, outdoors, involved in sports. What was there in the prison — a snooker table, perhaps, shared by a hundred young men? And most of the time shut up in a tiny cell. What would he do — press-ups on the floor, pace up and down, two paces north, two paces south, again and again …
‘I shouldn’t have come,’ Bob said.
‘What?’
‘He didn’t want me; I only made things worse. Anyway if he is guilty as it seems then …’
‘Bob? What are you saying?’
‘Just look at the evidence, Sarah. How could you say you believe him? He was the last person to see her, he hit her …’
‘Listen, Bob, there’s still a case to defend. There must be. There’s no evidence that puts Simon anywhere near this crime. He hasn’t confessed, and your horrid old man only saw him hit her in the face, nothing else. And you may not be aware of it, but the police are searching for a serial rapist in the York area. You’re not telling me that’s Simon too, are you?’
‘Not so far as I know, no, but …’
‘For Christ’s sake, Bob, what’s got into you? Not so far as you know!’
‘I’m sorry, but he did lie, Sarah, like he’s lied to us, lots of times. Especially to me …’
‘What about? Homework, drugs, pocket money? All teenagers do that, Bob. Look at your precious Emily, running off for days without a word! It doesn’t make her a murderer, does it?’
‘I’m just looking at the evidence straight, Sarah. We know he was the last to see her, we know he lies, we know he hit her …’
And so it went on; Bob’s voice clanged like a relentless bell in her ear. As they entered their drive she made a decision. ‘Look, Bob. You don’t believe Simon but I do. I have to. I need some time on my own to think this through, and get some rest.’
‘On your own where?’ Bob turned, puzzled, the front door key in his hand.
‘Simon’s house. I’ll spend tonight there — maybe two nights. You can look after Emily, and we won’t quarrel. It’ll be best for everyone.’
‘But you can think here!’
‘No, not with you in this mood. It’s serious, Bob — you think Simon’s guilty of murder!’
‘All I said was the evidence points that way. For God’s sake, Sarah! Emily needs you here, even if I don’t!’
‘She doesn’t need to hear us quarrel. Just a couple of nights, Bob. We’re under a lot of strain. I need space to think.’
‘Well … if you’ll be all right?’
‘I’ll be fine, Bob. Just leave me alone, OK? That’s all I need, right now.’
And it was easy, really. When she explained to Emily, the girl simply shrugged and turned back to her books. So Sarah packed a few clothes and cosmetics into the motorcycle panniers, climbed into her leathers, and rode away. Feeling strangely lightheaded, as though her wheels didn’t touch the ground. Exhaustion, probably.
So easy to walk out of a marriage. Is that what I’m doing?
For a few nights. That’s all.
It was dark by the time she got there. She wheeled the motorbike into Simon’s back yard, a small area eight yards deep by five across, divided from the neighbours by brick walls seven feet high. A door at the back led into an alley, beside a substantial brick shed made of the old outside loo and coal store.
She pushed the bike into the cluttered darkness of the shed. The front wheel clashed against a paint can and a plastic bag fell across the saddle. Working by feel, she padlocked the rear wheel. Then she found her key to the second padlock — the one she had installed temporarily until the smashed front door was replaced — and went into the house, carrying the fish and chips she had bought on the way.
The house was cold, dirty, and untidy. It reminded her of the council house she and Kevin had moved into nineteen years ago, before Simon was born. Basic, battered, grimy, but a home for all that. Somewhere you could make a start. Which was what Simon had tried to do, she supposed. When he’d met her outside court he’d talked of wallpaper and new shelves and decent furniture … and now this. A half painted wall, a heap of beer cans in the corner, Loaded and GQ magazines on the floor, a mouldy curry container beside the CD player.
No wonder Jasmine hadn’t wanted to stay. They surely had something to argue about, if he asked her to live in a tip like this. But that doesn’t mean he murdered her, though.
She put the fish and chips in the oven to warm up. Then she slung the curry container into the bin with the magazines and hoovered the carpet. She found a mop, bucket and unused bottle of bleach in a cupboard, and got rid of a series of stains on the floor and worktop. Then she sat at the kitchen table, eating the fish and chips while the floor dried around her.
He is like his father Kevin, she thought. Our house in Seacroft had a chance because we both moved in together with our baby, Simon. And so Kevin expected me to start nest-building, to make it neat and tidy and a proper home. That was my role, and he had a place in it too, the wage-earner and handyman. So he played along, until the baby got too demanding and I was too boring and we were too poor, every day scrimp and save without end.
And we were both too young — he was anyway. He wanted to be out with the lads, spending his money on himself instead of me and the baby.
Now what? Sarah washed up her plate and sat in the battered, filthy armchair, staring at the video and expensive CD player underneath. Simon’s priorities. Several of the videotape covers, she saw, were quite blatantly pornographic.
Like father, like son. Kevin would have fitted in here well, she thought. The Kevin she remembered, the nineteen year old boy with the beautiful silky hard body, the best lover she’d ever had, the toughest little gamecock on the street, the most selfish bastard she’d ever shared a house with. If he’d lived alone, his house would have been a tip like this. And if I’d come later and tried to clean it up he’d have hit me; he was like that.
But he would never have killed me, surely?
In her mind she replayed the times Kevin had hit her. She remembered her fear, the sudden explosion of his anger, the sadistic pleasure in his eyes. And then it had been over: a minute or two of horror, then done. Perhaps, if he’d gone on … but he never had. His rage had died, he’d flung her contemptuously on the floor, and left. The last time, for good.
The memory frightened her. In the corner, she saw a bottle of whisky. It’s been a terrible day, she thought; I need some comfort. She found a tumbler in the kitchen and half-filled it. I came here to think, she remembered, that’s what I told Bob. What is there to think about?
Is my son a killer?
The whisky burned its way down her throat and she thought No, of course not, it can’t be true. I didn’t carry a killer in my body for nine months. Things like that can’t happen. Not to me.
It’s true his father was a sadist, but that doesn’t make him a murderer, does it?
You wouldn’t want to tell a jury about that, would you?
No. Nor would you want a jury to think about the pain and jealousy which must have consumed this violent, unpredictable youth after this exquisitely beautiful girl had lived with him, rejected him, come tantalizingly back into his life, and then rejected him all over again. That’s the oldest motive in the world.
Yes, maybe, but it’s all circumstantial. To convict him we need evidence, hard irrefutable evidence that it was really Simon who cut her throat, raped her and left her there for the insects and dogs to eat. Not someone else.
His semen was in her vagina.
Did he rape her here and then murder her later? Is that what happened?
The police think it all happened on the path by the river.
She could picture that more clearly. In her mind she saw a girl walking alone on the river path, a dark figure following a short distance behind her. Suddenly the girl saw him and tried to run — but it was too late, he knocked her down, pinned her beneath him. She fought, but he twisted her arm, and a knife blade gleamed in the moonlight, paralyzing her with fear. He shoved her in front of him into the trees, her arm twisted behind her, the knife at her throat.
And then in her imagination they were gone, mercifully hidden from sight, and she didn’t want to see what happened next, what he did to her, how long it took, how it hurt. But later in her mind she saw him come out onto the path, a black figure in the moonlight, and she tried to see his face, to see if this monster could be her son — but the face was invisible, black as the night.
Sarah shuddered, and groped for the bottle. She seldom drank much but tonight the whisky seemed essential. Could it have happened like that? The vision had seemed so real, until the crucial moment when she’d been unable to see the murderer’s face. Could the murderer have sat in this grubby armchair like me? Been in my body as a baby?
She stared at her empty glass solemnly. Then poured herself another.
In the morning she was woken by bright sunlight pouring though the bedroom curtains. She sat up, and a lump of pig iron lurched sideways inside her skull. She fell back, stunned, and for a while — a few seconds, half an hour, a week — watched the birth of the universe, from big bang to supernova, unroll behind her eyelids. Then she became urgently aware that her stomach wished to leave her body and reached the loo just in time to help it on its way. Sometime later she gazed with horror at the pale, trembling face of a sick woman in the mirror on the wall.
She hadn’t felt this bad since she was pregnant. Not even then. Slowly, taking several aeons to complete the task, she opened a bottle of paracetamol, crawled to the kitchen to whisk up an egg in warm milk, then crept upstairs on her hands and knees, and went back to sleep.
Hours later she awoke to discover that the pig iron in her head had shrunk to a musket ball behind her right eye. Cautiously, so as not to dislodge it, she sat up, swallowed some more paracetamol, and crept to the bathroom for a cold wash. By twelve o’clock she was dressed, and eighty per cent conscious. Disgusted with herself, she slung the empty whisky bottle into the bin.
So this is how I behave when I try to sort myself out. Bob would be appalled. I’m appalled. I’m a mother, a wife, a barrister. Get a grip, woman. Get out of here.
She went out to the Kawasaki in the shed. The bike gleamed comfortingly. She patted its saddle and looked around. She was not surprised by the mess; if Simon couldn’t tidy his own bedroom he was unlikely to make a fetish of an outside shed. There was a battered table under the window, a broken chair, a pile of half-empty paint tins, brushes with rock-hard heads jammed into a saucepan, some plastic chairs, several bin bags, and a pot with a brown, dead plant in it.
She picked up the bin bag which had fallen as she wheeled the bike in last night. A woolly hat dropped out, and something clattered down the side of the bike and lodged between the exhaust and the chain.
Cautiously, trying not to revive her headache, Sarah searched for it with her fingers. What was it — a coin, a metal washer perhaps? Whatever it was, if she left it there it would jam up the chain somehow and wreck the bike; that always happened with her and machines.
After several attempts the thing fell out. She picked it up and brushed off the dirt. It was a small golden ring, set with tiny stones in the shape of a snake, or an S. Sarah held it up to the light. A woman’s ring, an engagement ring perhaps. S for what?
Simon?
She slipped it on her finger. Who would have a ring with S for Simon on it? Jasmine, obviously. She had been a tall girl, strong, athletic as well as beautiful. But why was it here, in a bag in this shed? Another of Simon’s failures, perhaps — he’d proposed to her with it and she’d dumped him. Or … what else was in the bag?
She picked up the other thing, the black woolly hat which had fallen out at the same time, and laid it carefully on the table. It wasn’t a woolly hat, as she had thought. Not quite. As she unfolded it she saw the two holes cut in it for eyes. Nothing for the mouth. The sort used by terrorists. And robbers. And rapists.
The sort of hood that Sharon Gilbert had described. Here — in Simon’s shed. Why?
Sarah’s knees felt suddenly weak. She grasped the edge of the table and stared down at the repulsive thing. The blank eye slits gazed back up at her. What did it mean?
Jasmine’s ring. A hood. What else was in this bag? Trembling, she fumbled inside. A pair of black jeans, a jumper. Nothing else. She put on her motorcycle gauntlets and examined the clothes more closely. Would there be blood — please no. So far as she could see there was none but forensics, she knew, could trace specks invisible to the naked eye. The police should have searched this shed but they obviously hadn’t. What did it all mean?
Her head was still fuddled with the hangover. She found it hard to think clearly. But one thing seemed obvious. This balaclava was found in Simon’s shed with Jasmine’s ring. It must be his. The police may say he wore it when he killed Jasmine.
No one said anything about Jasmine’s murderer wearing a balaclava.
How could they? There were no witnesses. Only Jasmine, and she’s dead.
It’s not Simon’s, this thing. I’ve never seen him wear one. Why would he?
It’s here in his shed. At the very least it’s evidence.
If the police want evidence they must find it for themselves. That’s their job.
It doesn’t matter, it’s my duty to give it to the police. I have no choice.
No!!
But it’s evidence, isn’t it? And I’ve found it. If I’m caught concealing evidence I’ll be struck off, I’ll never practise as a barrister again. I’ll just be a mother.
You’re a mother first and last.
The lawyer’s voice in her head was firm, insistent, rational, but the mother’s was more persuasive. Sarah gripped the edge of the table, staring at the wretched balaclava and ring. Why did I ever come in here? If I hadn’t looked I would never have found them. No one would.
If Adam hadn’t eaten the apple he’d never have known good and evil. But he ate and I looked so we both know something, though God knows what it means. Probably Adam was confused, too. Who did he talk to? Eve? I know who I’ve got to discuss this with right now.
Sarah stuffed the hood into her saddle bag, unlocked her bike, and rode towards Hull.
It’s not a question of being just a mother, she told the lawyer’s voice in her mind. That’s not a role or a career choice you can try out for a while. It’s a life sentence.
The prison was as depressing, the queues and searches as long and humiliating as before. She left the balaclava with the bike, to avoid the search; the ring was on her finger.
‘You came without him then?’ Simon glanced at her warily.
‘Without Bob? Yes. He’s teaching today.’
‘Yeah, well.’ Simon shrugged. ‘I doubt he wanted to come anyway.’
‘It’s difficult for him, Simon. He’s not used to places like this.’
‘You think I am? Christ, Mum! Do you know how small the cells are? They lock you in all night with a stranger and this stinking bucket. It’s gross. It’s fucking medieval.’
‘I know, Simon, and I’m sorry. But there’s nothing I can do about it. Really.’
He took a deep breath, to control himself. ‘Look. I’ve been thinking … about that blood.’
Something in his eyes made her shiver. It was a look she had seen so often before — the infinitely cunning look of a rat caught in a trap, a criminal about to change his story because his life depended on it. ‘The blood on the shoe and the knife, you mean?’
‘Yeah. Look, if it’s hers — they don’t know for certain, do they?’
‘Not yet, no.’
‘Then I’ve remembered. There’s a way it might have happened.’
She waited, a well of infinite sadness rising inside her.
‘You see, it wasn’t that day, it was earlier in the week. We spent most of that afternoon in bed too, making love. But one time she got up, to make tea and toast. Well, she wore my shirt — she often did that, she looked good in it. She wore my trainers too. You know, like slippers. Well, when she came upstairs she’d wrapped a tissue round her thumb because she’d cut it. It wasn’t a big cut but it was bleeding. So I got her a plaster and put it on. That’s it.’
He stopped. His mother said nothing.
‘Don’t you see? Maybe she cut herself with the breadknife and some blood fell on my shoes. That’s why it’s there!’
It was a remote possibility, Sarah thought. Either that or a good lie — hard to prove either way. ‘Just a few days before? So the cut on her thumb must still be there?’
‘Yeah.’ He nodded earnestly. ‘With a plaster on it. I put it there myself.’
‘Well, I can check. We’re not even sure it’s her blood yet. All these things take time.’
‘How much time? Until the trial?’
‘Six months, at least. Maybe more.’
‘Six months, in here? No!’
She sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Simon, it’s out of my hands. Look, there’s something I came to say. I’ve … got some questions.’ She glanced around cautiously, lowering her voice to ensure they were not overheard. ‘This morning I found two things in your shed which I can’t explain. One was a black balaclava hood. You know, the sort terrorists wear, that you can pull over your face, with two holes for eyes.’
‘So?’
‘So? Don’t be stupid, Simon Is it yours?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Simon! This was in a bag in your shed! How did it get there?’
‘God knows. I haven’t been in that shed for months, Mum.’ He gazed at her, a puzzled frown on his face. ‘You said there were two things. What else?’
‘This ring. On my finger. Just look at it quickly, Simon,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Don’t let the screws see. Do you recognize it?’
‘No. Never seen it before.’
‘It’s not Jasmine’s? It’s got an S for Simon on it.’
‘No. She didn’t like rings. I told you, I never saw it before.’
‘So how did it get in the bag with this balaclava hood, then?’
‘Well, as to the balaclava, lots of blokes have ‘em. Bit of a laugh, like, you can make your own with a pair of scissors, pull it down and give folk a shock.’
‘Simon! Do you do that?’
‘May have done, once or twice. For a laugh.’
A laugh, she thought. God save us all from young men. ‘So it could be yours?’
‘No. I’ve not done it myself, like.’
‘There were jeans and a jumper in the bag too, Simon. What about them?’
‘I dunno. Maybe old ones that I slung out.’
There was something very wrong here. Something he was not telling her. ‘Look, how can these things be in your shed if they’re not yours? Don’t say you don’t know — the police won’t believe that!’
‘The police? What’s this got to do with them? What is this, Mum?’
‘Simon, are you completely stupid? Don’t you know there’ve been other attacks on women apart from Jasmine?’
His face paled. ‘What attacks, Mum? Has someone else been killed?’
‘No, no one else has been killed recently. But there was the murder of that Clayton woman last year, and that rape case I defended, and another attack on a woman called Whitaker. Surely you must have read about them?’
‘I don’t read that stuff. What’s it to do with me, anyhow?’
‘The police are looking for what they call a serial rapist. And now that they think you killed Jasmine …’
‘They think I did these others too?’ His eyes widened, he clutched his head between his hands. ‘Oh come on, they can’t be that desperate!’
‘The police are desperate, Simon, that’s exactly what they are. But so far they’ve got nothing that fits. Until you. So if they find this hood in your shed …’
‘You’re not going to show it to them, Mum? You can’t!’
‘No, I can’t. But Simon, I need to understand …’
‘Time’s up, everyone! Come on now, hurry along!’ The warder was coming towards them. Only a few seconds left. Simon leaned forward earnestly.
‘You chuck those things away, Mum, right? Get rid of ‘em quick!’
‘Yes, Simon, but …’ The warder had his hand on Simon’s shoulder.
‘You sort it, Mum, please. I trust you. You’re a lawyer, you know what to do.’
No I don’t, Sarah thought, watching him led away. I haven’t got the first idea.