Sarah shrivelled inside. ‘But there is evidence, My Lord. The evidence of these witnesses and his own cross-examination …’
Judge Mookerjee waved a hand to silence her. ‘We’ve been through all that, Mrs Newby. And I agree with the prosecution. The evidence of these two witnesses sheds no light whatsoever on the actions and culpability of the accused, Simon Newby. So I shall exclude them.’
There was no more Sarah could do. She rose, and walked across the street to her chambers. Where she met Lucy, with a pen in one hand and a cheese sandwich in the other.
‘Any luck?’ she queried.
‘No.’ Sarah flung her wig down in disgust. ‘We just lost half the defence before I’ve even started.’
Terry and Harry were in the car outside Gary’s flat. When he arrived, they got out and followed him to his door. He turned and saw them. ‘Oh no, not you again.’
‘This isn’t an arrest,’ Terry said. ‘For once. Just a few questions. Can we come in?’
‘What if I say no?’
‘We’ll do it down the station.’ Terry smiled. ‘You choose.’
Gary scowled, and led them into a room decorated with beer cans and old plates of curry. ‘That cow Sharon been complaining again, has she?’
‘No,’ Terry chose a seat carefully. ‘It’s about those pictures I showed you in the station. Of your mate Sean.’
‘He’s not my mate.’ Gary opened the fridge for a can of export. ‘Who says he is?’
‘Well, quite a lot of people, as a matter of fact. Sharon, for one.’
‘What does she know about him?’ He supped his beer truculently
‘More than you’d think.’ Terry studied the man’s face, on which he thought he detected a sheen of anxious sweat.. ‘Oh come, on Gary, don’t mess me about. This lad was your so-called alibi the night you raped Sharon. Remember?’
‘I were found not guilty, copper.’ Gary slammed the can down on his chair, bringing froth through its top. ‘Christ, how many times? I did not rape Sharon. OK?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Terry sighed. ‘And you weren’t in prison with Sean either, I suppose?’
‘I were locked up with five hundred and odd lads. Doesn’t mean I knew ‘em all, does it?’
‘You shared a cell with this one. Sean Patrick Murphy. It says so here — look, on the prison records.’ Terry held out a paper which Gary ignored. ‘With his photo.’
‘All right, so I did. What’s that to do with you?’
‘I need to talk to him, Gary. About some serious sexual assaults. That’s why we’re here.’
‘We need your help to find him,’ Harry put in.
‘You must be bloody daft, the pair of you.’ Gary shook his head in derision ‘You couldn’t pin owt on me, so now you want to pin it on him. That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘We’d remember your help,’ Harry offered. ‘Next time you were in trouble.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Gary took a long swig of his beer. ‘As if I’m a stinking snitch. Which crimes, for instance?’
Was he going to bite, Terry wondered. As neutrally as he could, he said: ‘You remember that woman who was murdered? Maria Clayton? You did some building work on her house.’
‘And you thought I killed her, didn’t you, Mr Bateson? Only I didn’t, see.’
‘Yes, well.’ Terry looked at his hands. ‘Sean delivered some tiles there, for Robsons.’
‘So?’
‘And he screwed her too, Gary. Same as you did. Almost.’
‘She’d screw anyone, for money. Except you, maybe.’
Behind the routine insolence the man was interested now, Terry could see.
‘It doesn’t surprise you, that?’
‘No. Why should it? That’s what tarts are for.’ There was no sign of surprise, Terry noted, no apparent awareness of Sean’s sexual disability.
‘And he delivered some more building materials to the student lodgings where Karen Whitaker lived. Remember her, Gary?’
‘Her with the nudey pics? Yeah — you thought I chased her in’t woods, didn’t you? Prat!’
‘Sean delivered on the day you found those pictures, Gary. Did you show them to him?’
‘Might have done. So?’ A look of devious cunning spread across Gary’s face. ‘Oh, I get it. You’re after him for that, too, are yer? And the murder — is that it?’
‘Maybe,’ Terry admitted cautiously. ‘Some evidence points that way.’
‘Like the evidence that said I did it, eh?’ He laughed bitterly. ‘Where’s that now, then?’
Terry hesitated. There was no easy answer. But if he had nothing to say Gary suddenly had plenty. His face flushed with anger as he realised what Terry was admitting.
‘All these months you’ve been after me for them two and now you change your mind, just like that? What about a fucking apology then, Inspector Shitarse Bateson? The word’s sorry — ever heard of it? And while you’re about it you can drag that bitch Sharon in here to apologize too, instead of scratching me fucking face when I go to buy her a bloody drink!’
‘Oh, come on, Gary, you did rape her! I’ve not changed my mind on that, no one has!’
Gary glared at him. ‘You daft pillock! You don’t know shit, do yer?’
This was going as badly as Terry had feared it might. He was glad he had Harry with him. ‘Look, Gary, all I want is a bit of help to find this lad Sean. These are serious crimes we’re investigating. If he’s innocent, he’s got nothing to fear.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Gary spat into the fireplace. ‘You say that, after the shit you’ve given me.’
Terry sighed. ‘Where is he, Gary? Is he in York now?’
‘Even if I knew, which I don’t, you’re the last person I’d bloody tell.’ Gary supped his beer contemptuously. ‘So if that’s it, Mr Bateson, I suggest you take yon poodle and clear out of here. All right?’
Sarah’s spare bedroom overlooked the drive, where Larry’s old hatchback was parked. She could hear music in Emily’s bedroom. The judge’s ruling had upset the young people badly. They had found Ian Jinks and Mandy Kite, and believed that Brodie was Jasmine’s killer. Sarah knew she should spend time talking through their disappointment. But time was something she didn’t have, any more. Tomorrow she would put her only witness, Simon, on the stand. They had only one chance. If they messed it up, they would lose, for certain.
This room had once been Simon’s. She sat at the desk they had bought for him to do his homework, checking her questions for tomorrow, imagining his answers, puzzling over the most effective way to present his case. She made notes, pressing the pencil hard into the paper.
Annoyingly, the lead snapped. She searched the desk drawers for a sharpener. Nothing useful, of course. The first drawer was empty, the second contained motorcycle magazines — the sort where the female riders wore boots and nothing else — the third contained an old brown envelope. Idly, she emptied the contents onto the desk.
It was full of old photographs. Surprised, she spread them out. They were almost all of Simon as a child. Simon aged five, going to school; Simon playing football in the park at Seacroft; Simon with bucket and spade in Blackpool, on a rare family holiday; Simon in Bob’s mother’s kitchen with his face covered with chocolate, trying to bake a cake. They were photographs she hadn’t seen for years.
The door opened softly behind her and Bob came in. ‘What are you doing?’
She sighed. ‘I was writing my notes. Then I found these.’
‘What are they?’ He came to look, over her shoulder.
‘They were in Simon’s drawer. He must have put them there, once upon a time.’