Sarah was in Simon’s kitchen, kneeling on the floor. The idea had struck her quite suddenly: if Simon’s story about Jasmine cutting herself was true, then there might still be some of her blood on the kitchen floor. Even a single drop would do.
But the floor seemed surprisingly clean. But Simon was so dirty, how could that be? Then the memory came, flowing from her arms and body into her mind, of the energy with which she herself had scrubbed this floor after the police raid. She’d been consumed by anger — at the policemen who had invaded her son’s house, and at Simon too, for letting his life get into such a chaotic mess. And so she’d compulsively scrubbed the floor, cleaning up after him.
Embarrassment flooded through her, closely followed by despair. Even if Jasmine’s blood had once been here to save him, she’d washed it away.
She got up and was dusting down her clothes when she froze. There was a sound outside — not from the street but nearer, in the back yard. What was it — a footstep, a door opening? Oh no. Not Gary, not again! She should never have come back here alone. She switched off the kitchen light and waited in the dark, as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Cautiously, she peered out into the yard. Was that a torch inside the shed?
She leaned forward, clumsily, and a cup smashed onto the floor beside her.
Jesus Christ, what a fool I am! A car drove past, its engine echoing off the walls of the terraced houses; and underneath that sound, she thought she heard footsteps, moving out of the yard towards the street. Go away then, Gary, if it’s you, good riddance, leave me alone …
The front door banged.
A scream rose in her throat; she swallowed it. Listened, waiting.
The door banged again. No, it didn’t bang, she told herself sternly, that’s not someone trying to smash it down, it’s a knock. People do that at doors. Yes, but Gary knows that too. I’m not opening it to him.
‘Hallo? Anyone there? I saw a light.’
Not Gary’s voice, unless he’s a mimic. Sarah went into the front room. ‘Who is it?’
‘Police. Come on, open up.’
This time she recognized the voice. Relieved, she opened the door. ‘Terry! Why on earth are you here?’
‘Let me in and I’ll tell you. Unless you want the whole world to hear.’ He nodded at the old man, who was watching from his window across the road. Sarah pulled a face before shutting it out with the door. Miserable ghoul, get lost.
‘So. My question remains. Was that you I heard outside in the yard?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry. I must have made you nervous. Especially after the other night.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m a tough cookie, you know,’ she said, feeling anything but. ‘Take a seat.’
He chose the sofa, she sat beside the gas fire. An awkward silence followed. ‘Well?’
‘Why am I here? Looking for evidence, I suppose. Anything we forgot.’
Terry hadn’t expected to find her here, hadn’t planned what to say. In front of him now was the same attractive woman he had admired, and thought was his friend; the woman he had hoped might become something more. But then she had humiliated him in open court, and he had hated her, wanted her punished in every possible way. To his astonishment, his wish had come true. Troubles had fallen upon her in biblical proportions, as if there was a vengeful God, after all.
Yet she did not seem broken, repentant, or crushed. Nervous, perhaps, a little weary, her face bruised and yellow. But still that straight spine, that spark in the eyes, that defiant self-confidence that he had once so admired.
‘There are some unanswered questions about that shed,’ he began cautiously.
‘Such as?’ She raised an eyebrow, disguising a tremor of guilt. Did he know she had touched the hood, the ring?
‘Whether your son knew what was in there. What do you think?’
‘He says he didn’t. So I believe him.’ Sarah shrugged. But it was a key question, she knew.
‘When did you ask him?’
‘This morning. He … rang me from prison.’ Damn! Already she was being forced to lie; the wretched man was sharper than she’d remembered. She had cleaned the ring too thoroughly for fingerprints, but they could check prison phone calls if they wanted to.
‘He knew nothing about the balaclava?’
‘No.’
‘Does he know Gary?’
‘I wish he didn’t, but yes, he does.’ She shook her head wearily, ventured a wry smile. ‘You wait until your kids are older, Terry, see if you like all the friends they bring home.’
‘He brought Gary to your house?’
‘Good God, no! Come on, Terry, what do you think I am? Mad?’
Terry shook his head. The suggestion came from Churchill’s suspicions, rather than his own. But how much of the truth was she really telling him? She seemed unusually defensive tonight, but perhaps that was natural, in the circumstances.
Once again silence fell between them, as each searched for a possible way forward.
‘This can’t be easy for you,’ Terry volunteered at last.
‘Tell me about it,’ she snapped; then relented slightly. ‘No, Terry, you’re right, it’s not easy. Every day someone like you accuses my son of murder, or rape, or some other barbarity, and I have to listen. None of it’s easy, and as far as I can see, it’s probably going to get worse.’
A lot of people think you deserve it, too, he thought. ‘I can understand that. And I’m afraid you may be right. Forensics have found hairs inside the balaclava.’
He paused, watching her reaction carefully. There was no obvious sign of worry.
‘Gary’s hairs, I suppose?’
‘Apparently not. They were a different colour.’
‘What colour?’ Her voice still sounded normal, but he thought an involuntary tremor passed through her, as indeed it did. Sarah was wondering they couldn’t be my hairs, could they? I didn’t try the hood on but I handled it, one of my hairs could have fallen onto it. Oh God.
‘Fair hairs. Like your son’s.’
Not mine then. Absurdly, she felt a second’s relief, followed by an even stronger burst of swiftly suppressed panic, as she realized what he’d said. Like your son’s. Sarah was dark; she remembered how delighted she had been by the colour of her baby son’s hair, red-gold like his shiftless father’s. When he was a baby she had loved to brush it; as a boy he had worn it long and wavy; as a teenager he had trimmed it brutally short; and now that he was an adult a detective had found traces of it inside a rapist’s balaclava. Or hair very like it, at least.
‘You can’t prove it’s Simon’s just from the colour.’ The old combative Sarah.
‘No, of course not. It’s been sent for DNA analysis.’
‘Oh.’ For a moment she was struck dumb. This whole conversation was going the wrong way. She tried to recover some sense of initiative. ‘Even if Simon did wear this hood, what could he have used it for? You’re not suggesting he raped Sharon, are you?’
‘Not me, no,’ said Terry awkwardly. ‘But …’
‘But someone is? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘There have been … discussions. They’re not particularly pleasant, I have to warn you.’
‘Go on.’ She glared at him grimly. ‘I’ve heard so much already, I may as well hear the rest.’
‘Well, if you insist. I didn’t come here to say this, that wasn’t my idea …’
‘Just say it, Terry. Get it over.’
‘All right.’ He stood up, and walked across the room, thinking. If Churchill found out he’d been here, having this conversation, there’d be one hell of a row. But right now he didn’t care about Churchill. His theories were wrong, they had to be. He sat on the arm of a chair.
‘Look, I’m running a risk telling you this, you know. I wouldn’t do it if … well, never mind. You asked if I thought your son raped Sharon and I said no. But that’s just my view, not everyone’s. You see, because of those hairs, there is now another, quite different theory about that rape. And it doesn’t just relate to Sharon, it relates to several other assaults as well.’
Briefly, Terry explained Churchill’s belief that Simon, not Gary, might have raped Sharon and assaulted Karen Whitaker and Helen Steersby. ‘… It’s not certain, of course, but that’s the way his enquiry is going. And the final possibility, for which we have no evidence so far, is that Simon may have murdered Maria Clayton as well.’
For the first few sentences Sarah tried to interrupt and argue, but as he went on she fell silent. She felt his words like repeated blows from a hammer, nailing her living body to a cross. She sat very still, on the edge of her seat, trembling slightly as each new detail was explained. When he had finished, silence fell. She sat like a woman of stone, her face lit by the single lamp to her right. He expected tears, but none came.
‘He thinks my son is a serial killer?’ Her voice was high, slightly strained.
‘It’s a theory. But he believes the evidence will support it. These hairs in particular.’
‘Hairs? My God.’ She lifted a hand to her face, then ran it slowly through her hair. She snapped one off, and held it before her eyes. ‘A hair, like this? Dear God in heaven, he thinks my son attacked all these women, because of this?’
She began to laugh, and he thought I should never have told her, what’ll I do if she breaks down in hysterics now? But she didn’t. The laughter choked in her throat as swiftly as it had come. ‘You said not much more. What other evidence has he got?’
‘Not a lot, so far. That’s why the DNA will be so crucial. If Simon’s sample matches the hair in the Whitaker case, then Churchill’s theory holds water. Especially if they both match the hairs he found in the hood. But if not, not.’
‘And how long do we have to wait to find this out?’
‘Three, four weeks at least. It depends on the backlog at the lab.’
‘A month?’ she said despairingly.
‘Yes, I’m sorry. But you know as well as I do, these results could prove him innocent as well as guilty. We just have to wait, that’s all.’
‘It’s like an exam result. For your life.’
‘I suppose so. I told you it wasn’t pleasant, but you had to know some time.’
He watched her in silence, as she sat sightlessly fiddling with her wedding ring. Then she looked up. ‘So this is Churchill’s theory, you say. What about you, Terry. Do you believe it, too?’
‘It’s not really a question of belief. The DNA evidence will prove it, one way or the other. And my opinion isn’t worth very much at the moment, in the service …’
‘Come on, Terry! You can at least have the guts to tell me what you think!’
‘In this job, it isn’t very wise to give an opinion …’
‘I thought you were more than just a job, Terry. You’re a man, too, aren’t you? A father, with kids?’
In her anguished, desperate face Terry recognized something of himself. I was like this, he thought, in those terrible days after Mary’s death. Everyone was fobbing me off with caution, procedures, platitudes, when all I wanted was to know. To make contact with what those people really felt, not what it was safe for them to say.
But all his training went against it, for good reasons. You could commit yourself and be so terribly wrong. He looked at her and thought the hell with it, maybe I want to commit myself.
‘All right, then. Well, for what my opinion is worth …. No, Sarah, I don’t think your son did commit all these crimes.’
‘You don’t?’
‘No. I still think most of them were committed by one person. I just don’t agree that it was your son.’
‘Despite these hairs?’
‘They may prove me wrong. I’ve been wrong before. I thought Gary attacked Karen Whitaker but he can’t have done. Nor Helen Steersby. But for the rest — Maria Clayton, Sharon Gilbert … I still think he may be responsible for those. And they’re more serious. More like the death of Jasmine Hurst.’ Now I’ve said it, he thought. Trouble will come of this. But it’s what I believe and if it’s true then this woman is a victim as surely as anyone else.
Hope can be as painful as despair. The cold distrustful anger evaporated from Sarah’s voice. ‘You’re saying you think Gary may have killed Jasmine?’
‘I’ve no evidence for it, you understand. None. But his record of petty crimes, theft, violence against women — it fits the profile of someone building up to serious crimes like this. I’m sure he raped Sharon, despite the hairs in the hood — and we know he attacked you.’
‘That doesn’t prove he murdered Jasmine, though, does it? What proof is there of that?’
Terry swallowed, aware of how unprofessional this conversation had become.
‘None, I told you. Just a suspicion; the knowledge of what he’s like. The fact that he knew Jasmine through Simon, that he fancied her — he admitted that — and that when he fancied a woman he thought he could do what he liked. And he was free that night: he’d been released for several hours. He was watching football in a pub until ten — that part checks out. After that, he says he stayed on, drinking in a private room. It’s not clear when he left. His route home from the pub doesn’t exactly take him near the river, but it’s not far out of his way, either. He could have walked up there, for whatever reason, met Jasmine going home, talked to her — because he knew her, after all — and then …’ Terry shrugged. ‘It could have gone on from there.’
‘He asked her for sex, she refused, so he pulled out a knife, raped her, and then cut her throat,’ said Sarah softly.
‘Exactly. It could have happened like that …’
‘But there’s no evidence to support it.’
‘None.’ Terry shook his head. ‘And a lot to suggest it was your son.’
Silence fell between them again. Terry thought how little surprised she had seemed at what he was saying. Almost as though he were voicing her own thoughts.
A cocktail of emotions — relief, joy, terror, foreboding and guilt — effervesced inside Sarah. She smiled. ‘If you think like that no wonder you’re in the doghouse with your colleagues.’
‘They don’t listen; they’ve got their case.’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe they’re right; I’ve lost the plot. I shouldn’t be talking to you like this; it’s not professional.’
‘It’s a comfort, though.’ Sarah tried to smile again, and failed. ‘I appreciate that. You must be the first …’ She felt her voice falter, paused, took control of it. ‘You are the first person except for Lucy — you know, his solicitor — who has actually, in all these weeks, said anything to suggest Simon might not have done it. And you don’t even know him!’
‘I’ve met him once, but it’s not because of that,’ Terry admitted. ‘But I do know Gary, and I’ve got this obsession about these other cases. The only judgement I have about your son is that he wouldn’t have done all these things. He has no record and he didn’t strike me like that.’
‘Thank you, Terry.’
Terry met her eyes, wondering. Her tone was passionately sincere and ironic at the same time; sincere because he had expressed belief in Simon, ironic because he had felt it necessary to reassure her that her own son was not a serial murderer. He felt embarrassed, conscious that he had gone too far. But he was tired — tired of professional discretion, tired of the rules, tired of Churchill and being treated like a rookie cop. It would bring a little comfort after all, and do no harm that he could see.
She shuddered, looked up at him again. ‘There is another possibility, Terry.’
‘What’s that?’
For a while she didn’t answer. She looked down at her hands, fiddling with her ring.
‘Sarah?’
‘I’m sorry, Terry, I can’t say. There’s probably nothing in it anyway.’ She looked up. ‘You’ve been very honest with me and I appreciate it. Really. You’re the first person …’
‘What is this other possibility, Sarah?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘You do understand why I’ve told you all these things? To help you and Simon, if I can. I’m taking a risk for you, but if you’re going to hold out on me …’
‘It’s my son’s life we’re talking about here, Terry.’ She got up from her chair, walked distractedly up and down the room a couple of times. She stopped in the corner furthest away from the single lamp, looking across at him from the shadows.
‘All right, let me put it like this. Simon says he had nothing to do with Jasmine’s death and I …’ She hesitated, then continued firmly. ‘I believe him. That will be his defence in court, if necessary. As for these other offences, no one’s even asked him about them yet, but I can’t believe he’s a serial rapist. That has to be absurd. But there’s a problem about these hairs, which may or not be his, and the fact that the hood and the other things were found in his shed. That’s what your boss Churchill is focussing on. Now all I can say is that if — if — those hairs are his, and there’s more to his relationship with this thug Harker than either of us know about, then, well …’
She paused again, a catch in her voice, and for while he thought she wasn’t going to go on. But the voice from the semi-darkness resumed, cool, very controlled really for a woman under such monumental stress. But then that’s what she’s like, Terry thought. If someone ever presses the nuclear button this is the lady to have in the dugout with you.
‘… then what you have to realize is that he’s only a kid really, just nineteen, while Gary Harker is ten years older and as you say, steeped in violent crime up to his eyeballs. So if Simon did try on this hood — for a laugh maybe or to try and impress his new friend — it was only that and no more. He’ll have been following where the older man led.’
‘Not if he attacked Karen Whitaker,’ said Terry softly. ‘That was just one man on his own.’
‘I’m sure he didn’t, Terry. But if — just for the sake of the argument, if those hairs in the hood are not only his, but match those found in the Whitaker case, which they won’t do, then … then it could only be that he was put up to it by someone like Gary. Simon may be stupid but he’s not cruel or misogynistic — he couldn’t even think of doing a thing like that on his own.’
When she finished Terry didn’t speak for a while. He let her words fall gently into his mind, wondering how they would settle on the suspicions already there. Hers was hardly an objective assessment — the words of a mother, spoken with the persuasive fluency of a barrister used to pleading in mitigation. But then how else could she speak, about her own son?
‘Have you asked him?’ he said at last. ‘About his relationship with Gary?’
‘Not yet. But I will.’
‘If you could tell me what he says, it might help.’
She considered this. ‘If it helps to convict Gary, then of course I will.’
I could hardly expect more, he thought. He stood up. ‘I think we’ve said all we can, for now. I should go.’
At the door she put her hand on his arm. ‘Terry, wait! Can I ask you one more thing?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Let me know the DNA results, as soon as they come in. I don’t want to wait, or hear it from that swine Churchill. Just give me a ring when you know. Please.’
‘I’ll do that, certainly. It probably isn’t him, Sarah.’
‘No,’ she agreed numbly. ‘It probably isn’t. But tell me anyway, will you, Terry?’
‘Yes.’ As he left, he looked back, and saw her standing, a slight woman in the doorway of a terraced house, and thought, that’s how she’ll be if this all goes wrong. She’ll grow old like that, no career, no family, all alone.