A Game of Proof (19 page)

‘If that’s what you want. I’ll give you a ring if anything happens.’

‘Of course.’

But in the event, that was precisely what she was unable to do.

Terry’s phone rang as he was entering the school playground. Jessica had skipped away with a bright wave and a kiss; but Esther was miserable that morning. It was something about some boys who had torn her book; he had promised to speak to her teacher about it, and her seven-year-old hand gripped his forefinger tightly as they made their way through the screaming, jostling crowd of tiny figures.

Then his mobile rang.

Terry cursed silently. He had told them time and again not to do this unless it was an emergency. He fumbled the phone from his inside pocket. ‘Bateson.’

‘Sir, there’s been a development in that missing child case of yours. They’ve found a body.’

‘Oh no.’
Terry stopped in the middle of the playground. ‘Where?’

‘In some bushes near the river, sir. Not far from where they’re building the new designer outlet. A man walking his dog found it this morning.’

‘What makes you think it’s connected with the Newby case?’

‘Clothing, sir. There’s a car there now. Says it’s a teenage girl with a  blue and red jacket like the one in the description you’ve circulated. She’s had her throat cut.’

‘Mr Bateson, good morning! Hello, Esther, how are you today?’ A friendly, motherly woman in a cream blouse and tartan skirt - Esther’s class teacher - approached them, and noticing the anxious look in Esther’s eyes, squatted down to smile at her. ‘Have you come to see me?’

‘OK, I’ll go straight there.’ Terry clicked the phone off and nodded vaguely at the woman. ‘Er, yes, we were, but there’s been a bit of an emergency ...’

‘Dad!’
Esther’s grip tightened round his finger and her other hand clutched his wrist. ‘You promised!’

‘Yeah ... yeah, OK love.’ He looked down, saw his daughter was near to tears, and scooped her up onto his hip. ‘Can we go inside for a moment?’

‘Of course, follow me.’

In the light, airy classroom decorated with beautifully mounted children’s drawings and stories, hanging mobiles of fish and whales and perfectly arranged exhibits about the sea and the natural world - the topic for this half term - Terry found it hard to concentrate on Esther’s problem of the torn book, and the petty dispute which had led the boys to tear it. But thank goodness the teacher, Mrs Thomson, seemed to have a clear grasp not only of the crime but also, more importantly, of a solution to make everything better. Five minutes later Terry left Esther comfortably ensconced on Mrs Thompson’s knee, and waded out through a cloakroom full of small chattering bodies hanging up their coats and bags.

What a thing it must be to have a job that can make things better, he thought, crossing the playground to his car. What will I tell Sarah Newby, later today? I’m sorry, love, but that child you brought up for fifteen years - she’s lying by the river with her throat cut.

Christ.

The body, like all bodies, looked pathetic. It was only the second corpse Terry had seen since his wife, Mary, was killed and he coped with it by concentrating on the way it was no longer a real living person but something essentially, fundamentally different. Something not just dumped here by the murderer but also discarded by the original occupant; a wrapping, no longer required on the journey. There has to be some sort of afterlife, he thought. Otherwise - this is it.

The body lay twisted, half on its back and half on its side, the limbs asprawl, the face wrenched sideways, half buried in brambles and nettles. The uppermost side of the face, the left side, was discoloured by mud and a bruise on the cheekbone just under the eye. The other side, which he gingerly lifted with a latex gloved finger before letting it fall, was imprinted with twigs and mud and leaves, among which ants and worms crawled industriously. But it was not the face or the white, stiffening limbs which caught the eye the most. It was the red gash in the throat, wide enough for a man’s hand and so deep he thought he could see bone and cut sinew inside it, from which the blood had gushed out and dried all over the girl’s blouse and arms and onto the trampled grass around.

Terry stepped carefully, where the Scenes of Crime Officer, Jack Middleton, showed him. The body was in a group of bushes a few yards from the river path down which, presumably, a man had come walking his dog early this morning to meet this unwelcome surprise.

‘Looks like your misper, doesn’t it, Terry?’ Jack Middleton said. He wore white overalls, and in one latex gloved hand he held the print of a proud, smiling Emily Newby that Terry had copied from the school photo on Sarah’s mantelpiece. Underneath was a brief description of the clothes she was believed to be wearing.

‘Probably,’ Terry agreed gloomily. ‘Can’t be sure from the face, but the hair colour and jacket are the same. Poor kid. When was she found?’

‘About seven thirty, I think. But she’s been dead for hours before that. Arms and legs are pretty much rigid.’

‘When’s the doc coming?’

‘Any minute now.’ As they spoke a slim young man in a suit came up the track, carrying a doctor’s bag. Terry went to meet him.

‘Dr Jones?’

‘Yep. Where’s the patient?’

‘Over there. This officer will show you where to walk. We don’t want to spoil any footprints.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll keep out of the mud as much as I can. I only bought these shoes last week. Hand sewn.’

Terry had worked with Andrew Jones before and knew he was precise, thorough, and very acute. The down sides were his vanity, and the defensive callousness he affected towards human corpses, approaching them with as much emotional involvement as a master chef contemplating a prime side of beef.

His initial examination did not last long. Death was obvious, and the cause equally apparent. While the SOCO took photographs Terry asked: ‘When did it happen, roughly?’

‘Ten to twelve hours ago, I should say, judging by the stiffness of the limbs.’

‘Late last night then, an hour or so before midnight, you’d say?’

‘Yep. Can’t really be more precise than that.’

‘Anything else you can be precise about before you get her in the lab?’

‘Clearly she died from the throat wound - carotid artery severed, arterial blood everywhere. Presumably a knife, probably inflicted from behind. A right-handed assailant - probably held her head up by the hair, baring the throat, and then slashed from left to right. Hell of a big sharp knife too - machete maybe - he’s cut right through to the vertebrae. I’ll be able to tell you more after a closer examination.’

‘Any other obvious injuries? There’s a bruise on the face, isn’t there?’

‘Mm, yes - not sure when that was inflicted. She’s also been raped.’

‘What?’ Dear God, how much worse can it get, Terry thought. Dr Jones flashed him a mocking, clinical smile.

‘Didn’t you lift her skirt? No doubt about it, I’m afraid. No knickers, bloodstains on her thighs and vaginal bruising. That’s good news, at least.’

‘Good news? How do you make that out?’

‘We’ll almost certainly find semen. Then if your budget can stretch to it we’ll do a DNA profile and snap! You’ve got him. Open and shut, no argument.’

‘We’ve got to find him, first, doc. And her knickers, it seems. Are they lying about somewhere?’ He glanced at Jack Middleton, who shook his head.

Dr Jones shrugged. ‘Probably took them home, as a souvenir. His version of a teddy, to keep on the pillow at night.’  The disgust on Terry’s face stopped him from going further. ‘Sorry. It’s a filthy murder, I know. When that photographer’s finished we’ll get the body down to the lab. I’ll start the PM as soon as she’s identified. Have you any idea who she is?’

Terry sighed. It was the task he was dreading. ‘Oh yes. That’s one thing we
can
be sure of, I think.’

‘Is your husband at home?’

‘He went to school. It’s my turn by the phone today. Punishment for yesterday.’ Sarah attempted a wry smile, conscious she must look a mess to Terry. Only a couple of hours’ sleep for the second night running, on a diet of coffee and arguments - hardly the best beauty regime. As Terry frowned she thought, he’s furious with me about the Harker case. No doubt he was, but his face showed a far deeper worry, a more profound concern which she didn’t want to acknowledge. She shivered. ‘Can I offer you coffee?’

‘No, thank you. Mrs Newby ...’

‘
Sarah
, please. We are still colleagues, aren’t we? In a sense, anyway - or haven’t you forgiven me for ...’ Keep chattering and he won’t say it.

‘We’ve found a body.’

‘What?
Oh.
’ She sat down quite suddenly on a chair, as though the strings in her legs had been cut. ‘Oh my God.’ Her hand over her mouth.

Terry sat opposite her, waiting for the shock to sink in. It’s like wounding a person, he thought. I might as well walk in here with a gun and shoot her. If a gun could stun and not kill, that is. The reaction is the same. The shock, often numbness before the pain.

She drew a deep shuddering breath, and looked up at him. There was a mute appeal in her eyes but she didn’t ask.

‘I’m very sorry. We think it’s Emily but we can’t be sure. It’s a girl of her age and appearance wearing the jacket you described to us. Blue and red leather.’

‘Dead?’ A tiny hope, a plea.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh.
Oh God!’
The tears came suddenly, in a rush, and she would have collapsed altogether on the floor if Terry hadn’t caught and held her. For a while they stayed like that, he kneeling awkwardly in front of her armchair, she sobbing with her arms around his neck. He held her, patted her back. ‘I’m so sorry, love. So very very sorry.’

After a few minutes, an age, she scrambled awkwardly to her feet. Terry found a pack of tissues in his pocket - he had come prepared. But they were the devil to unwrap.

‘Thanks.’ She wiped her eyes, mascara all smudged, blew her nose. ‘Terry, it
is
her, is it?’

‘We think so but we can’t be absolutely sure. We need you - or your husband - to identify her, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh God, no.
Emily!
Is she badly - injured?’

‘I’m afraid so, yes. But you’ll only have to see her face.’

‘Tell me.’ The hazel eyes stared straight into his, like a wildcat defending her kitten.

Terry didn’t want to go into this. ‘Her throat was cut. But you do need to identify the body, Sarah, I’m sorry. Or your husband can do it if you prefer.’

‘I’ll ring Bob.’ She fumbled her way to the phone. The school secretary answered. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Newby, he’s gone out. He didn’t say when he’d be back. Can I take a message?’

Tell him his daughter’s had her throat cut.
‘No. Ask him to ring home, will you? It’s important.’ She turned to Terry. ‘He’s not there.’

‘Would you like to wait until he comes home?’

Sarah drew a deep breath. ‘No.’ She sobbed, put her hand over her mouth, swayed, stood up straight. ‘No. I want to see her, Terry. I want to see her
now
.’

Visiting his school had brought Bob little relief. His secretary, a motherly talkative woman, had told everyone why he had been away yesterday, so he had to accept sympathy from each colleague he met. For a while he hid in his office, signing the school reports, but by mid-morning the restlessness, so strong that it was akin to panic, caught up with him.

‘I’m going out, Mrs Daggett. Anything you can’t deal with ask Mrs Yeo.’

‘Yes, of course. Don’t you worry about us. I’m so sorry ...’

In the car his suspicions about Simon returned. The boy had sounded shifty the other night, he thought. Why hadn’t he been in touch yet to ask if they’d found her? After all, she was his half-sister, even if they didn’t get on so well. And it would be just like Simon to delight in turning Emily against him if he had the chance.

He drove straight to Simon’s house, parking in the street outside. But although he knocked several times, and peered through the window, there was no answer. He called through the letterbox. ‘Simon? Simon, are you there? ... Emily? EMILEEEE! It’s me, Dad!’

‘Reckon he’s bogged off, mate. Good riddance, too, I say.’

‘What?’ Bob whirled round and stood up from his cramped, embarrassing position with his mouth to the letter box. A wizened old man in a flat cap, ancient cardigan and carpet slippers stood on the pavement behind him. ‘Who are you?’

‘Archibald Mullen, number 17, ’cross the road.’ The man jerked his thumb. ‘You from t’landlord, are you?’

‘No. I’m ... Simon’s stepfather.’

‘Oh. Well, you won’t want to hear what I say then.’ The old man shuffled away.

‘No, wait!’ Bob grabbed his arm. ‘What do you want to say?’

The man stood in the gutter in his carpet slippers, considering. Then he pulled an ancient, smelly pipe out of his cardigan pocket, turned the bowl upside down, and began to scrape ash out if it with a nicotine stained little finger. ‘Well, about all’t rows, that’s all.’

‘What rows? Tell me. Please - it might be important!’

The old man inspected him quizzically. ‘Don’t know as I should, you being his stepdad.’ He sucked his pipe experimentally.

‘Look, I really need to know. My daughter’s missing and I’m trying to find her. Was there a girl here last night? Do you know?’

‘Girl? Aye, there might have been. What’s your daughter look like then?’

Bob began to describe her, while the old man found a tobacco pouch in his pocket and began filling the bowl of the pipe. He looked down, absorbed in the task, and Bob suppressed a rising tide of rage as he was forced to describe the most precious thing in his life to the top of the old bastard’s greasy flat cap. But when he mentioned Emily’s red and blue leather coat the narrow, wizened face looked up sharply.

‘Aye, that’s it. That’s what she was wearing.’

Hope flashed through him, like a knife. ‘What
who
was wearing? Tell me - what did you see?’

‘Well ...’ He had the wretched pipe full now, and proceeded to put it in his mouth, strike a match, cup his wrinkled hands around the bowl, and draw slow measured puffs of smoke for what seemed like an age. ‘It was last night about half ten, summat like that. I were off to bed when late
News
came on, I don’t watch that, seen it all earlier like, and I were in me nightshirt just coming out o’t bathroom after doing me teeth - that’s my bedroom over there, just over’t yellow door, so I’ve got a clear view ...’ The pipe, it appeared, was going out. A second match was struck, held between cupped hands over the bowl, the flame ducked downwards.