by Vicary, Tim
‘Not at the moment, sir, no,’ said Terry blandly. ‘These builders, they can confirm you were with them, can they?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Terry noted down the names and phone numbers of the builders and the restaurant. ‘Thank you, sir. Now, since you were in the house, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come down to the station to give your fingerprints, if you wouldn’t mind. They’re bound to be all over the radiators, at least.’ He got to his feet.
For the first time Michael Parker let his irritation surface. ‘Does it have to be today? I really am busy, inspector!’
Terry studied him thoughtfully. Still the memory wouldn’t quite come. The man was less calm than he’d been a few moments ago, he noticed, sweating slightly under the veneer of assurance. Was it the question about the scarf, was that it? Or it is me? Perhaps he remembers where we met before, and is hoping I don’t? Where was it?
‘As soon as possible, sir, if you don’t mind. If you’re busy now, this afternoon or this evening will do, or tomorrow morning at the latest. Just explain at the desk when you come. They’ll know what it’s about.’
‘What if I can’t make it by tomorrow morning?’
‘Then I’ll send a car to pick you up. That would be an awkward start to Christmas, sir, wouldn’t it?’
‘No need for threats, inspector. I’ll come. After all, the sooner you get this cleared up, the sooner I get the house back. Look at it that way.’
‘How do you mean, sir?’
‘Well, I am in the property business, you know. It’s a terrible tragedy about this woman’s death, but since she is dead, I’ll have to decide what to do with the house. Get a new tenant, or put it on the market, whatever. How much longer will you guys need it?’
‘It’s a crime scene, sir. I really couldn’t say.’
‘Well, give me a rough idea. A few days, maybe? A week? I can spare it over Christmas, but in the New Year ...’
‘I’ll let you know when we’re finished, sir. That’s all I can say.’ Terry turned back at the door. The mystery of their former meeting was still bothering him. ‘Do you have a family, sir, or children?’
‘No, I’m lucky. I’m divorced. Which spares me all the tantrums round the Christmas tree. Been there, done that, got the teeshirt. I’m visiting my mother, then off to France skiing for a few days. You should try it, inspector. No kids, no packdrill. Breath of fresh air.’
He smiled conspiratorially, and as he did so, the memory flooded back into Terry’s brain at last, as if a dam had burst. Of course! This was the man he had seen with Sarah Newby on the quay by the King’s Arms. He’d been jogging, and seen Sarah walking towards him with this man’s arm round her shoulder, her face looking up at him, flushed with laughter and excitement. Then she’d seen Terry and like a fool he’d stopped to talk, standing there puffing in his woolly hat and tracksuit, while she smiled at him happily.
With the memory came the emotions - rage, jealousy, embarrassment - which had flooded through his mind at the time. He’d deliberately suppressed the incident, locking it in a drawer in his mind, which was why he’d taken so long to recognize this man now, he supposed. No wonder I loathed him from the start, Terry thought, even before I remembered why.
That’s probably why he looked guilty just now. Nothing to do with this murder. He’s jealous of me just as I am of him.
And now the wretched man is boasting about being divorced, and going away skiing after Christmas. Leaving his kids with his ex-wife to care for, no doubt. If he had any. Terry thought grimly about his own efforts to organize Christmas for his two daughters. He’d had to arrange the whole thing around the demands of the duty roster. Trude was going home to Norway, Mary’s mother was coming over for the two nights of Christmas itself, and after that the girls were going to stay with Terry’s sister in Leeds - a visit virtually certain to end in tears.
But for all that, Terry thought, Christmas matters, particularly for family and kids. Particularly if those kids have lost their mother. You can’t just swan off skiing on your own. At least I can’t.
And then the second thought came. Maybe this man isn’t going on his own. Maybe he’s going with Sarah Newby. What if she’s left her family too? For a man like this!
The thought hurt, much more than it should.
After all, she was nothing to him.
‘Make sure you come in for those fingerprints today, sir,’ he said coldly, as he turned to go out. ‘Unless you want us to fetch you from the ski slopes in handcuffs, that is.’
Now there’s a thought.
He smiled grimly as he went down the stairs.
40. Grandmother
AS CHRISTMAS approached Sarah’s workload, perversely, seemed to increase. She dealt with a residue of cases committed in summer, months ago. Court staff, huddled beside ancient, clanking radiators, tried crimes committed at seaside resorts and open-air swimming pools. Sarah led snuffling witnesses in scarves through evidence about events which occurred when they’d been wearing nothing but factor 30 and the briefest of beachwear.
She met Michael for a meal the week after Cambridge, and again for a trip to the theatre; but neither date ended in bed. She wasn’t sure whose decision this was - he seemed busy, polite, a little nervous. She wondered if it was her - if she had been unsatisfactory, somehow - but he seemed anxious for the relationship to continue.
‘It’s just ... I have moods,’ he said, when she challenged him about it. ‘It’s not you - I get these depressions sometimes. They soon go; I just ignore them. And I’ve been having a tough time at work. Being interviewed by the police didn’t help.’
‘The police? What do you mean?’
‘Oh, it was nothing really.’ He shook his head, as though pestered by some annoying thought that wouldn’t leave him. ‘Just that one of my tenants died - you may have read about it in the paper. A teacher called Alison Grey. I thought it was suicide at first - that’s what it said in the Press - but it seems they’re treating it as murder.’
‘And they came to see you?’
‘Yes, well of course they did. I was her landlord, wasn’t I? Nice lady; I even talked to her two days before. It’s horrible to think of something like that. But I suppose in your work you meet it all the time.’ His eyes met Sarah’s briefly, then looked away. There was a hint of tears in them, almost. ‘Anyway, the police have a job to do, but it doesn’t help, does it? People dying on your property. That’s part of the reason I’m so grumpy, just now. All the same ...’ He reached across the table for her hand. ‘That weekend in Cambridge was so good, I don’t want to spoil it. I need a little space for a while, that’s all.’
Not the best response, Sarah thought, but what had she been expecting? She wasn’t sure; she had too little experience of such situations. Part of her - the physical, emotional part - longed for a repeat performance. Physical memories, the feel of him inside her, his hands on her breasts, her bottom, invaded her mind at the most inappropriate moments - when she was speaking in court, or talking to a solicitor on the phone. But the other part of Sarah - the rational, logical part - told her to back off. You’ll destroy yourself, her mind warned. You could throw away everything, career, respect, self-control, for a man you still know little about. If you can’t control what’s happening, don’t do it at all.
Nonetheless, she was disappointed, and wondered how long his depression would last. He was spending Christmas with his mother, she knew, and then skiing with friends in France. He’d asked Sarah to go; she’d considered it, but decided against. It was a step too soon, too far. She liked him, but not that much. She doubted if she could spend a fortnight with any man, just at present. And the risk of embarrassment was high. She had never learned to ski, so she imagined herself stumbling clumsily around the nursery slopes while he went off laughing with his friends, people she’d never met and might not like if she did.
So she stayed at home, preparing for a two-week fraud trial scheduled to start in the New Year. And she w
ent shopping for a Christmas tree and presents for Emily and Simon.
Three days before Christmas, the estate agent phoned Sarah to ask if he could bring some prospective buyers round to view the house. ‘They’re very keen,’ he said. ‘It’s usually dead this time of year, but the husband’s starting a new job in York in January and they’re not part of a chain, so ...’
‘Yes, of course, bring them round,’ Sarah said. But it came like a splash of cold water. She stayed up until midnight the evening before, hoovering, dusting, polishing, and resenting every minute. What right did these people have to turn her into a skivvy, cleaning her home for their inspection? And yet she couldn’t leave it grubby, it had to be perfect.
They came on Saturday morning, a few hours before she was due to meet Emily at the station. They were a young couple, in their late twenties. The wife was pregnant, the husband carried a toddler in his arms. Their faces were smooth - to Sarah they looked scarcely older than her children. ‘Are you sure they can afford this?’ she whispered to the agent as they stood in the hall while the couple explored upstairs. ‘They have seen the asking price?’
‘Must have,’ the man shrugged. ‘He’s an insurance manager, I believe, quite a high-flier. She has her own business, too. Baby clothes.’
‘But they look like they’re just out of school.’ Sarah met the man’s eyes and realised that he, too, was in his twenties, and found the young couple’s affluence perfectly natural. The world doesn’t belong to me any more, she thought grimly. I struggled for years to afford a home like this, and now it’s going to be sold off to children. When the couple came downstairs she smiled at them brightly.
‘Would you like to see the garden?’
The young woman had already inspected the kitchen and spoken openly, in front of Sarah, about the need to replace the oven, hob, and units with something more ‘contemporary’, as she put it. Now Sarah led them across the patio to the garden at the back of the house. There was a large lawn surrounded by silver birch and weeping willow trees in what the brochure described as a ‘mature, well-tended shrubbery.’ It was a place, Sarah recalled, where she and Bob had been proud to entertain their friends. Now the toddler ran in circles while the young couple peered anxiously over the small rustic gate at the end.
‘There are cows out there,’ the young man said, almost accusingly.
‘Yes,’ Sarah agreed. ‘They’re quite sweet really, they’re no bother. You can walk through the field to that stile on the far side, do you see? That takes you onto the footpath beside the river. It goes all the way into York, I believe.’
Sarah was no country girl herself and had never walked that far, but it had seemed an attractive idea when they had bought the house, and she’d always felt proud simply to own the possibility. Perhaps it was a selling point now?
‘We see herons sometimes,’ she added temptingly. ‘I watch them from my bedroom window.’
The young woman turned away, her face frowning. ‘There’ve been stories,’ she said. ‘In the local paper.’
‘What sort of stories?’ Sarah asked, surprised.
‘Women getting mugged, assaulted, something like that. By some perv on a footpath like that. Wasn’t there a murder, too?’
‘Oh, that was to the south of the city,’ Sarah said lightly. ‘Nowhere near here.’
But the couple drove away soon afterwards. Sarah stood with the estate agent, gazing miserably after them. ‘Not much hope there, then.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ the man said. ‘I thought they seemed quite keen.’
‘What, with my kitchen dating from the stone age, and rapists on the riverbank? I don’t think so.’
‘Don’t take it to heart. Some people are like that,’ the agent insisted. ‘It could mean they like the house, funnily enough. They’re just talking it down so when they put in a lower offer you’ll feel pressured to accept.’
‘I hope they don’t,’ she said grimly. ‘The thought of those two living here gives me the creeps.’
‘You won’t see it.’ The young man smiled reassuringly, as if he’d met this resentment many times before. ‘You’ll be starting a new life, miles away.’
The new life, however - or at least a striking aspect of it - turned up on her doorstep on Christmas Day. Emily was home, happy and exhausted after her trips to London and Birmingham, and to Sarah’s delight her son Simon and his girlfriend Lorraine had also accepted her invitation. So the house had a family celebration after all. Sarah, never a great cook, enlisted Emily’s help in the kitchen, and the pair of them were working hard when the doorbell rang.
‘I’ll get it,’ Emily said, and a moment later Simon appeared in the kitchen with Lorraine clinging tightly to his arm. Sarah poured some sherry, and the girl sipped it nervously, Simon preferring beer. This was the first time Lorraine had been to this house, Sarah realised; she hoped it wouldn’t go wrong. A slim, dark-haired girl, she had seemed cheerful and friendly enough when Sarah met her before. But today she blushed and stammered when spoken to. Perhaps it’s the house, Sarah thought; too imposing and wealthy. If so, that’s ironic; it won’t be mine much longer.
The meal, however, was a success. The despised oven turned out a joint of roast pork with all the trimmings and crackling as crisp as any they could remember, and the young people attacked it hungrily. Emily was determined to be a good hostess, and for once Simon seemed ready to reciprocate. So many times we have quarrelled round this table, Sarah thought, looking at the flushed faces under the paper hats - please don’t let it happen today. But there was no sign of that. Emily and Simon talked happily, about her play and her band in Cambridge, nightclubs in Leeds they had visited, music and stars and old schoolfriends they knew. Soon Lorraine joined in, and by the time they sat back, red-faced and replete, with even the Christmas pud nearly gone, Sarah knew it had worked. She opened a small bottle of brandy she had bought for the occasion, and poured four glasses.
‘To us all,’ she said smiling. ‘And may next year be happier than this.’
‘To the future,’ Simon added. As he raised his glass he met Lorraine’s eye, and when they had drunk the toast he turned to face Sarah. ‘And now, Mum, Lorraine and I have an announcement to make.’
‘What?’ Sarah smiled, surprised. ‘You’re not getting married, are you?’
‘No, not that exactly.’ Simon flushed, and Sarah instantly wished her words unsaid. So often she’d done this - spoken quickly, let her tongue run away with her while her son struggled to find the right words. His brain was connected to his fists, not his mouth, she’d said once - that’s why he was always in trouble at school. Now here he was trying to say something important and what was she doing? Teasing him before he could start.
‘What is it then, Simon?’ she said as gently as she could.
‘It’s that - well, Mum, I’m 21 now and I’ve got a good job, so - me and Lorraine, we’re not kids, we can look after ourselves, you know.’
He reached for Lorraine’s hand, and she smiled at him encouragingly. The girl looked flushed, Sarah thought, and there was an attractive bloom of health to her skin. Youth, or - perhaps something else. A new suspicion entered Sarah’s mind.
‘... and so, we decided a few weeks ago, I mean we’ve got the spare bedroom, we never use it, and ... well, Lorraine’s pregnant. I mean, we’re starting a family.’
Simon’s eyes met his mother’s. He looked nervous, awkward, scared of her reaction. Sarah glanced from him to Lorraine, who stared back at her, proud, defiant, but anxious too.
So I was right, she thought. ‘How many weeks?’
‘Nearly eight, now,’ Lorraine said softly.
My God, Sarah thought, they’re just kids! This girl’s hardly left school - she’s younger than Emily, for Christ’s sake! But then her mind flashed back to the memory of herself, much younger than this, in a similar situation, only worse. She’d been 15 when she’d stood, proud and defiant in front of her own parents, with Kevin, Simon’s 17-year-old father, holdi
ng her hand beside her, just as Simon held Lorraine’s here now. She could still see every line of the shock and disapproval on her own mother’s face, after all these years - so deeply engraved had the memory become. And suddenly she realised what a formidable, frightening figure she must seem to this young girl. No wonder she had felt nervous about coming here.
Don’t make the same mistake, she told herself. But there was no need. Unbidden, a smile spread across her face like sunshine. She saw its reflection in the eyes of Simon and Lorraine. Relief, and pride too.
‘Simon, that’s tremendous!’ She got up, and went round the table to embrace them both. ‘Are you feeling well?’ she asked Lorraine.
‘A bit sick in the mornings, and I get tired.’
‘Of course. But the sickness will go.’ She looked at Emily, relieved to see her smiling too. ‘Well, this is a Christmas present and no mistake! Simon, you’ll really have to grow up now! Do you think you can manage to look after a child?’
‘Of course, Mum. You did, after all. We’re going to this evening course in, well, baby stuff. But if we get tired, we thought we’d just bring the baby to court and dump it on you.’
‘That will give the judges a heart attack.’
They were all standing now, at the end of the table. She looked up at her son, smiling. This was the baby she had borne so long ago, when she was just a child herself. Now here he was a tall young man, starting the same risky journey. She felt quite frail in front of him.
‘Almost forty years old, about to be divorced and become a grandmother,’ she thought. ‘What else has life got in store?’
41. Terry’s Christmas
CHRISTMAS FOR Terry Bateson was bitter-sweet. He looked forward to spending time with his daughters - Jessica and Esther - how could he not? But somehow, since Mary’s death, the importance of such family events - birthdays, Christmas, Easter - made them as much a burden as a delight, for all three of them. The day needed to go well, Terry felt - the meal, the tree, the presents, the Queen’s broadcast - they had to go through these rituals, to prove they were a family. To show he was a good - or at least adequate - parent. There must be no quarrels, no tears - no sign, when his sister or his parents came to visit, that they weren’t coping.
