Looking back later, she wondered whether she would have had the strength to finish with Mike in the way that she had without Paul’s support. Somehow she rather doubted it. Paul had played an important part just by being there and being someone to talk to. Someone trustworthy, someone who never seemed to tire of listening.
It was not until a month or so after she split with Mike that he made any kind of move on her.
He suggested they go to dinner at the Ivy to celebrate his recent appointment to assistant editor. She had agreed readily enough. She loved the Ivy and she had been very pleased for Paul about his promotion. It had become apparent to her that the career of this quiet yet very talented man was beginning to take off, and Joanna found that she was delighted. The more senior a position he managed to achieve the better, she thought. She reckoned it would make a pleasant change from the old-fashioned bulldozer sort to have a man who was cleverly thoughtful and imaginative at the helm.
They had an excellent dinner and yet again she thought how much she enjoyed his company and how entertaining he was. Indeed, she barely remembered Fielding all evening.
Outside the Ivy he asked her if she could manage one more drink.
She was beginning to get the taste and said she was sure she could.
He hailed a taxi and gave an address in Kennington, which she assumed was his home. ‘I have a rather good bottle in the fridge,’ he said.
He lived in a beautifully restored four-storey house in one of those lovely Kennington squares. Not all the houses were renovated to the standard of Paul’s home, though.
‘It was falling down when I bought it and I got it for a song,’ he told her. ‘I think it’s quite nice now, don’t you?’
She told him that was an understatement. The house was drop-dead gorgeous. Paul’s taste was impeccable. It was simply decorated and furnished, and some very striking abstract originals by Clive Gunnell, one of the few artists whose work she recognised immediately, hung on the plain cream walls.
The more you got to know this man the better he seemed, she thought. But he was something of a dark horse.
He produced a bottle of vintage Bollinger and only when they had almost finished it did he make a very gentle pass at her, kissing her lightly on the lips. It was in stark contrast to the impassioned first clinch with Mike, Joanna thought, but perhaps this was just what she needed in life. Certainly she could do with a sexual encounter again, that was for sure. Even a month seemed like a long period of abstinence, coming after the intense eroticism of her relationship with Mike.
As she had expected, sex with Paul Potter did not live up to that. Not straight away, at any rate. But Paul was a man who worked at what he did, whatever it was. The more she was with him, the better the sex became as he grew more aware of what she wanted, what she needed.
After that first night together their relationship moved very fast. Perhaps because she was unused to living alone and to being single, before she realised quite what was going on they were spending just about every night together either in his house or her apartment.
And suddenly, and she had little idea how that happened either, they began to talk about marriage. She found herself agreeing that it would be a rather nice idea. One evening he turned up at the Barbican with a beautiful diamond ring, which she allowed him to slide on to the third finger of her left hand. He helped her rush through her divorce and arranged for them to be married in the City with just a handful of friends present.
It was only later that she realised how much work he’d put into all the plans and all the arrangements, for the divorce, the forthcoming wedding and a honeymoon in New York. There was little doubt that for Joanna her marriage was something that happened on the rebound.
But Paul made absolutely no secret of the fact that it was something he had longed for and always hoped might happen one day if he were patient.
She had yet to learn how determined and focused her husband-to-be was, beneath his quiet and unassuming exterior. But as their wedding day loomed – December 1982, two weeks before Christmas and just three months after they first slept together, Paul said there was no point in hanging around at their age, after all he was quite sure of his own mind and she hoped she was of hers too now – she began to realise that she felt happy and content for the first time in almost as long as she could remember. There were no longer these huge tensions and uncertainties hanging over her. She didn’t have to sit around waiting for the phone to ring, wondering if the man she loved could get away to be with her and how long he could stay. Her life was suddenly completely stress-free. Paul made absolutely sure of that and it was a very pleasant change to be looked after in this way.
However, the knives remained out for her in the office. The small but powerful coterie of male journalists who disliked and resented her so much, led as ever by Manners, were apparently out to get her with a vengeance still, their resentment no doubt fuelled by her projected marriage to a man now fairly obviously destined for big things in the newspaper world. Their continual comments in the office, to each other but clearly meant to be overheard by her, were getting extremely tedious. Particularly as they were using that familiar old trick. She could not really defend herself because she could never be absolutely sure that the snatches of barbed comment, more often than not obscene, were indeed directed at her. She was pretty damned sure, though. And it infuriated her.
‘He’s hung like a donkey, of course, that’s what she likes …’
‘… lets him give it her up the arse …’
‘No wonder there’s a fucking queue for her.’
Jo had no choice except to pretend she did not hear. But boy, did it make her mad. She did not repeat any of this to Paul. There was no point. She did not want to stir things up any more and she feared any intervention by him would just make matters worse. She just tried not to think about it.
But three days before their wedding she returned to the Kennington house they now shared, unusually a couple of hours later than her fiancé, to find Paul oddly angry. ‘I’ve just had a phone call from your old friend,’ he told her at once.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, taken completely unaware.
‘The same perverted creep who plagued you and Chris, I assume,’ he said. Paul’s lips curled in distaste. ‘You can guess the sort of thing, “Do you know how your girlfriend gets her stories? She just takes her knickers off.” More and worse. I don’t even intend to repeat it. It’s just sick.’
She was horrified. ‘Oh, my God, now the bastard’s starting on you,’ she blurted out. ‘I am so sorry. I promise you, Paul, I’ve not even seen Mike since you and I have been together.’
‘Don’t worry, I know that, darling,’ said Paul. He glanced at her with concern. ‘Jo, you didn’t think I was angry at you, did you? Absolutely not, I can assure you. If you think for one moment that I would let some twisted creep harm our relationship then you don’t know me very well.’
Jo thought he might still be right about that, but the more she did get to know him the more she was coming to like and respect him. And love, too, she supposed. He was some man, that was for certain. Paul was treating the kind of incident that could rock long-term marriages with cool disdain. He was angry. Yes. But he was also calm and thoughtful. She studied him with open admiration.
‘I have the advantage over poor Chris,’ he said. ‘In the first place I believe in you and trust you absolutely. In the second place I know that bastard Manners and, in spite of his somewhat pathetic attempts to muffle his voice, talking into a handkerchief or whatever, I am absolutely sure it was him on the phone. In the third place, I am in a unique position to deal with him.’ He smiled his enigmatic smile. ‘Now come here and have a cuddle,’ he commanded. Gratefully she went into his arms. Paul’s strength was such a comfort. His certainty such a relief. With him there seemed to be no problems that couldn’t be overcome with extraordinary ease. She felt the worries that had been beginning to settle on her shoulders again lift once more. Wi
th Paul she never seemed to have anything to worry about. To her annoyance she started to cry into his shoulder. But her tears came from relief and happiness.
‘That’s it, my darling. Cry as much as you want. You’re safe now. I’ll sort it out.’
*
Joanna was in the press room at the Yard the next day when a call came through on the Comet phone – a direct link with the news desk – summoning Manners back to the office for a sudden meeting with the editor. Later Tom Mitchell phoned Jo personally, as head of the crime department, to tell her that the older man had been offered, and had accepted, a redundancy package. He had been asked to clear his desk at once. Joanna knew perfectly well that early retirement would never have entered Manners’s head. He was the kind of old hack who would try to hang on by his fingertips long after his sell-by date because – one of the reasons Joanna’s appointment as chief crime correspondent had so incensed him – his job had always been his life. Actually, she wouldn’t knock him for that. It was true of some of the best. ‘What happened?’
‘I’m afraid that’s between me and Frank,’ said the editor.
‘There must have been a reason …’ her voice tailed off.
‘Private reasons, isn’t that what they say?’ said Tom and she realised she was getting nowhere.
For once the office gossip network got nothing either. She confronted Paul, of course, but as usual, he gave little away. ‘Now what could I possibly have had to do with it?’ he remarked. But the wide smile he treated her to was not as enigmatic as usual. In fact, it was decidedly self-satisfied. And the next time he made love to her he held her very tightly and told her that there was something she must always remember. ‘For as long as you and I are together nobody will ever harm you, Jo,’ he said. ‘I will always make sure of that, I promise you.’
She was beginning to realise that she was marrying a quite exceptional man.
Fielding only found out that Joanna had married again when he rang her office, for the umpteenth time, in yet another fruitless attempt to speak to her. Until that fateful moment he had been quite unable to believe that he would not be able to persuade her to see him again eventually. The secretary who answered the phone told him casually that she was on her honeymoon. Very carefully he replaced the telephone receiver. He was in love with Joanna Bartlett. He had really meant to leave his wife for her and still did not quite know why he had been unable to.
Joanna had been right about him. His feelings for her had been, still were, entirely genuine. And he had always intended to fulfil his promises to her. It was simply that somehow, when push came to shove, he just couldn’t. Joanna had been right in another way too. He had indeed never even told his wife about her. He didn’t know why he had not managed to do that either. He had meant to. And, more important, he did not know why he had lied to Joanna continually. The excuses – the distraught daughter, the dying mother-in-law – had been the easy way, of course, a method of smoothing his path, keeping Jo sweet. He had been unable to bring himself to face the upheaval required in order to commit himself properly to her and he had been terrified of losing her. So he had lied. Maybe if he had been honest with her he might have been able to keep her.
She had known he had lied, he was sure of it, known he had continually deceived her. And in the end she wouldn’t stand for it. He had respected her for that – more than he respected himself, that was for sure.
His life was becoming a complete mess. The internal investigation into Jimbo O’Donnell’s evidence-planting allegation against him had petered out, as Fielding had predicted it would, and he’d never even been suspended from duty. But he was quite sure that his high-flying career had been dealt an almost fatal blow. The word was always going to be that at best he was flawed and couldn’t be trusted, at worst he was bent. Certainly there had been no sign of his previously expected promotion coming through. Nor, he felt, was there likely to be for a very long time.
Now, with Joanna irrevocably out of his life, he could not imagine that he’d ever again be half the man he had once been. Not in any way.
Jo was married again. He was so stunned he had not even asked to whom. It was extraordinary. They had only been apart for four months and she was married already, and he didn’t even know who her new husband was.
All he knew was that he’d lost her. Really lost her. For ever.
Fielding did what he usually did. He reached for the whisky bottle.
PART TWO
Eight
Twenty years after the murder of Angela Phillips, the whole chain of events still seemed so vivid to Joanna at her desk in Canary Wharf. It had been the most important time of her life, really, in many different ways. And yet it was a part of her past she was not sure she wanted to delve into again.
Hearing Mike Fielding’s voice had somehow not been the surprise it should have been after so long. Maybe it was just that she had always half expected that one day their paths would cross once more.
He hadn’t said his name. He would have known he didn’t need to. Not to her. Not even after almost two decades.
‘Hello, Mike.’
It seemed a long time before he spoke again. Perhaps he was hoping she would continue. But he had phoned her. He could take the lead.
‘How are you?’ he asked eventually.
‘Fine. How are you?’
‘Oh. I’m fine too.’
Awkwardly polite, what a way for them to be after all that had happened between them, she thought. But then, eighteen years or so was a big chunk out of your life.
‘Something’s happened, though, something I thought you might want to know about, maybe help with …’
‘So you phone after all this time because you want my help, do you? Bloody typical!’ She wasn’t sure if she was angry or amused, or maybe just exasperated. He didn’t seem to have changed much, that was for certain.
He didn’t respond to her remark, but continued as if she had not spoken. ‘The Beast of Dartmoor – we’ve got a DNA match,’ he told her flatly. ‘And it’s O’Donnell.’
‘Ah!’ Again she wasn’t surprised. Like Mike she’d always believed in O’Donnell’s guilt and had never been able quite to forget the case, however much she pretended to herself that she had. She had been almost as involved in it as Mike had, perhaps always believed it would one day come back into her life again.
He told her all he knew, about the drink-driving arrest, the routine DNA swab, the computer picking it up.
‘Bang to rights, but I can do bugger all about it,’ he finished. ‘I don’t need to tell you about double jeopardy. The bastard can’t be tried again.’
‘No, but why don’t you guys do what you usually do in these situations?’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked sharply, instinctively on the defensive, even with her, perhaps particularly with her.
She gave a small tut of irritation. ‘Get him for something else, of course. He can’t stand trial for murder again, but what about rape and kidnap? If O’Donnell’s guilty of murder he’s certainly guilty of both of those, and he’s never actually been charged with either.’
‘Doesn’t work, Jo,’ he said. ‘We tried. Put just that to the CPS and they threw it out. Still part of the original circumstances. Abuse of process. Not in the public interest after twenty years. Prospect of a conviction unlikely. Usual crap.
‘You’ve no idea how tough it is to get the Crown Prosecution Service to accept that kind of sidestepping nowadays. And the mess the law’s in over DNA doesn’t help. If they don’t have a precedent to look up in some dusty old book, lawyers don’t have a clue.
‘Apart from double jeopardy the biggest snag with O’Donnell is that you can’t use DNA obtained during one case, a drink-driving offence or anything else, come to that, as evidence in any other unrelated investigation. Section 64 of PACE. Bloody daft, if you ask me and high time it was changed – but there it is.’
Joanna leaned back in her chair. PACE. The Police and Criminal Evidence Act. Of course.
She’d kind of known that part of what he had told her. But he was right. It was complex. ‘Presumably you haven’t still got the blood and urine samples taken when he was originally arrested for murder?’ she asked.
‘Destroyed on his lawyers’ instructions right after the case. Acquitted man’s right, as you know. And, God knows, he had the kind of legal team who weren’t going to miss that.’
‘You’ve checked, I suppose? It’s not unknown for those forensic boys to keep samples they should have destroyed, is it?’
‘No, it’s not. It’s a lottery, though. In fact it’s always a lottery whether or not samples from a twenty-year-old case are still in store. But if they had been we would have had a match come up before the drink-driving thing, because we went through every outstanding murder and rape on our books about three years ago and did DNA checks on all the suspects whenever there were samples still available – I think every force in the country has done it now. That’s why O’Donnell’s DNA, taken from Angela Phillips’s body, was already logged.’
‘And you can’t make him give a new DNA sample because the CPS won’t let you charge him with anything?’ She was beginning to remember now. PACE again. The police had the power to take non intimate-samples – like head hair or a buccal swab – without a suspect’s permission only under quite precise conditions, basically if he is charged with a recordable offence or is being held in police custody on the authority of a court.
‘Exactly.’
‘Of course, you could pop round and ask the wanker if he’d like to give a voluntary sample, to clear the matter up once and for all, as it were,’ continued Joanna.
Fielding’s laugh was mirthless.
‘You mean you don’t think there’s much chance of him co-operating?’ she queried ironically.
‘I’ve been round, actually … well, I just happened to be in his neighbourhood.’ Fielding paused. ‘Only it was unofficial, if you see what I mean …’
A Kind Of Wild Justice Page 15
