Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby)

by Vicary, Tim

  Jennifer Barlow flushed. ‘They may have done, yes. He sounded quite adventurous, and Alison ... well, I think she enjoyed it. We had a few laughs at the time.’ Her face darkened suddenly. ‘Why? What’s this got to do with her murder? I thought she was hanged.’

  ‘She was. But how that happened exactly, we don’t know. So we have to explore every avenue until we find out, I’m afraid. So if you do remember the name of this doctor ...’

  ‘I’ll tell you, of course. But it was a long time ago, and on the other side of the world. I think it ended when his wife found out.’

  ‘A long shot, then.’ Terry shook his head. ‘Do you know what happened to this old boyfriend of hers? The one from York?’

  ‘Sorry, no, she didn’t say. She was always very secretive about him. But it’s always possible that was the reason she chose this part of the country to settle, I suppose, when she came back to England. Or it could just have been happy memories.’

  44. Homeless Person

  THE SALE of Sarah’s house went through quicker than she had expected. The young buyers had expensive, efficient lawyers, probably provided free by the man’s employers. They made it clear that any unreasonable delay on Sarah’s part could cancel the deal. And she felt pressure from the other side by Bob, who was eager for his share of the equity.

  Sarah herself was gripped by an uncharacteristic mood of fatalism. She felt swept downstream in a torrent, by events that she couldn’t control. Normally she would have fought back, straining against the current, but for once she didn’t care. She felt a perverse pleasure in letting go, in feeling all the ties of her former life washed away, so much flotsam on the surface of the stream.

  Two furniture vans came on the day of the move. One hired by Bob, to take his share of the furniture, or what they had agreed he could have. An antique writing desk and sideboard he had inherited from his mother, the books, bookcases, filing cabinet and computer equipment from the room he used as a study, and the king-sized double bed which he insisted he had bought in their former house, before she started earning.

  They had nearly come to blows about that. It wasn’t that Sarah wanted the bed, particularly - it had memories, after all, of their married life together, of the hundreds, probably thousands, of times they had made love, or simply lain together, reading, talking, sleeping, cuddling, caring for each other in sickness and in health. Trusting each other, taking each other for granted, the way married couples do. Knowing and accepting all the intimate embarrassing details about each other - the way Bob snored, grew his toenails longer than she liked, and had hair on his back as well as his chest. All those things, together with the deep-chested, helpless way he’d laughed when she’d tickled him, and the soft scratchy feel of his beard on the top of her head as she’d snuggled up to him at night - all that would come with the bed if she took it. All those memories would surround her at night, like small colourful dreams of the past. Dreams poisoned by his betrayal, turning green, bitter and choking in her sleeping brain.

  So for that reason she was glad to be rid of it. Better to buy a new bed of her own, she told herself. Start life afresh, on clean virgin sheets. But ...

  Try as she might, she could not rid herself of rage at Bob’s reasoning. He’d been quite open about it. ‘Sonya’s bed is old,’ he’d said. ‘It sags, she’s never had a decent one. And since this is mine, after all, and still has a few years of use left in it ...’

  It was that callous phrase that set Sarah’s teeth on edge. Her mouth felt sticky when she thought of it, as though she’d sucked rhubarb. It was that few years of use that enraged her. Not use by Bob alone, of course, but by him and Sonya. As well as her wretched children, too, no doubt, from time to time. Even a baby, God forbid, if Bob gave her one.

  There was the rub. He wanted to sleep with Sonya, make love to her, cuddle her, talk to her, laugh with her probably, share his new bloody life with her in this same bed they’d shared for most of their married life. And he didn’t seem to care, damn him! All those memories and associations that came back to her almost every time she lay in the bed - did they mean nothing to him? Had he just deleted them from his memory? Was the bed just a thing - wood and fabric and springs cunningly constructed into a machine for sleeping - and nothing more? Apparently so, in his mind.

  There must be something wrong with the man, she told herself.

  Well, there is. That’s why he left me. So good riddance, that’s the best attitude. I’m better off without him, if that’s the way he thinks.

  Only it hurts. It hurts all the time.

  It hurt especially to see the bed being dismantled, lugged downstairs by two beefy men, and stowed in a van beside the rest of Bob’s furniture, bound for his new life in Harrogate. New wife in Harrogate, too, it seemed. Last time they’d met, quarrelling tetchily about the bed and other items as they toured the house and ticked them one by one off a joint list, he’d let slip that he intended to marry Sonya as soon as the divorce came through. He’d meant it as some sort of justification - a consolation for Sarah, perhaps - to convince her that this wasn’t just an affair, but a definite new direction in his life, a permanent commitment. But it felt like a slap in the face. When he persisted, saying he hoped one day she and Sonya might meet, even become friends, she turned her back on him and walked smartly away.

  Since then they’d spoken only through lawyers.

  When Bob’s van was packed and driven away, the van she had hired for her own furniture took all the rest. Annoyingly, there was more than she’d anticipated. All the stuff that neither of them wanted - books, clothes and papers from the loft, old curtains she’d stored in the hope of using them some time, Emily and Simon’s old school reports, toys and clothes they’d grown out of - all these had to be cleared out of the house before the buyers moved in, and since Bob didn’t want them she was lumbered with them. I’ve paid too little attention to this, she realised, watching the furniture van fill up with alarming quantities of junk, I’ve been too busy working to deal with it. She had nowhere to put it either. All her furniture was going into store, at a cost which had already seemed to her exorbitant, even before the amount of stuff had started to multiply before her eyes.

  I’ll have to find somewhere to live, she thought. More spacious than I’d thought. And sooner, too.

  The move had come upon her so suddenly, in the middle of her complicated fraud trial, that she’d had almost no time to look for suitable lodgings. It was only because the move took place on a Saturday that she was able to be here at all, supervising her life’s possessions being lugged out of the front door. A few days ago she’d contacted a letting agency, who’d taken her to see a couple of flats one evening, but they’d looked so battered and dreary to her, so lacking in hope, cleanliness, or even basic modern amenities, that the thought of taking either for a six month let, which was the minimum offered, made her feel suicidal. Is this what I’ve come to, she thought - after all my work, all my study, all my commitment to career and family? A one bedroom flat in a narrow side street, with grimy carpets, grubby shower, and a view over a vehicle spraying business? I can’t bear it.

  The alternative was to live with Michael Parker. He’d made that offer as soon as she told him the sale was going through, and she’d smiled and said she’d consider it. That was the other reason she’d delayed so long, and been so dilatory about renting a flat. She was tempted. It tickled her fancy, the idea of living with this man in his house - and such an unusual house, too, a windmill. That would show Bob she wasn’t on the shelf, abandoned at forty! She was a still a desirable woman, she had a lover already!

  But as the time grew nearer, doubts crept in. It wasn’t that she disliked Michael, not at all; their lovemaking, that second time, had been as exciting and satisfactory as the first - even more so, in some ways, with less anxiety and guilt. But somehow, the more she thought about it, the more she feared that these events, dramatic as they were, might deteriorate into routine and domesticity. Michael was a good lov
er, she thought, but it had been the excitement and rarity of their lovemaking, in a strange bed with a strange man, that had made the sex truly thrilling. The thought of it kept her warm for days.

  But, perhaps because of her age, she felt she didn’t need it too often. The secret inward pleasure of the memory, the anticipation that in due course it could be repeated - if she chose, when she chose - were as delightful as the event itself. And the effect on Michael too was important. Coquettish it might be, but she’d enjoyed it when he’d rung her, asking for a date, and she’d had to turn him down, pleading pressure of work. The keener he was, she thought, the better balanced their relationship would be. If she moved in now, all that might change. She might start to seem stale to him, he could take her for granted.

  Take her for granted, just as Bob had. No, forget Bob. But how could she? She’d had a warning, one of the harshest of her whole life. The man she’d relied on, shared her life with, had got bored with her and left. It was as heartless and terrible as that.

  If it happened once, it could happen again.

  She’d mentioned her fears to Michael, and he’d been the perfect gentleman, in understanding. Not only that, but he’d come up with a practical solution. Rather than move in with him, he suggested, why didn’t she move into the house he’d just left - the miller’s house, next to the windmill? That way they’d each have their own space. It was standing empty - it needed someone keep it warm. It was a decent house, with three bedrooms, much more spacious than the windmill, where they’d be bumping into each other all the time, especially on those stairs.

  This way she could have her own privacy, but they could meet when she wanted. Of course they wouldn’t have to sleep together every night, he’d promised - not at all if she didn’t want to. Anyway, he travelled a lot, just as she did, was often tired in the evenings, was too old to be a constant stud.

  ‘We’ll eat out, if you like, once a week - put it in our diaries, make it special. Then if we both agree, ok,’ he grinned. ‘Otherwise not. For the rest of the time we’ll walk around each other like strangers. Neighbours, that’s all. No touching. Keep up the tension. How’s that?’

  She laughed. It was tempting. A game she could play with this man. She wasn’t sure how well it would work, but after all, she told herself, I can always move out if it doesn’t. And it sounds worth a try. Better than these grubby flats I’ve seen, anyway.

  He showed her round the house. It was clean, in need of some modernisation, but decent enough. There was a practical farmhouse style kitchen with an Aga, a spacious living room with a view over the windmill and a small dining room which Michael had been using as an office. It was still cluttered with a desk, books, papers and a filing cabinet.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ll move these out as soon as I can,’ he said. ‘It’s just time and ...’

  ‘Leave it, it doesn’t matter. I can work in one of the bedrooms upstairs. There’s only me, after all.’

  The main bedroom, in fact, was lovely. It only had a single bed at the moment but there was a thick blue carpet, fitted wardrobes, and magnificent view across the short hilltop grass beside the windmill to the valley beyond. She could see the clouds drifting towards her from the distant horizon. She could just pick out York Minster, a tiny white building twenty miles away. Sarah gazed out, enraptured.

  ‘I could sit here all day,’ she said. ‘I probably will. It could make me late for work.’

  ‘I doubt that, somehow, knowing you.’ Michael smiled. ‘Let me show you the bathroom.’

  This, it seemed, was the one room he had modernized. ‘It really needed it,’ he said defensively. ‘It was one of those terrible English disasters with a carpet round the bath and the loo, soaked with urine, no doubt, paper peeling from the walls because of the steam. But now ...’

  Now it was immaculately tiled from floor to ceiling, with a large luxurious bath with taps along the side, cabinet with power shower, low level loo, and a six foot mirror stretching all along one wall over the basin and splashtop. It reminded Sarah of a hotel - her hotel bathroom in Cambridge, in fact, where he had insisted on showering that first time, before they made love.

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ she said. ‘But I’m not sure I could afford it.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You’re my friend. There’s no question of paying rent.’

  ‘Of course I’ll pay rent,’ Sarah said. ‘I’m not your kept woman.’

  For a moment she stared at him, there in the bathroom, and the deal nearly fell through. What do I really know of this man, after all, she wondered? What am I letting myself in for? But Michael seemed genuinely hurt.

  ‘No, no, I didn’t mean it like that, please, don’t misunderstand me. I’m just trying to help. And since we’re, well ...’

  ‘Michael, I’ll pay rent,’ she insisted. ‘I wouldn’t consider it otherwise. Even so, it’ll seem strange.’

  ‘It won’t be strange at all,’ he smiled. ‘It’ll be nice.’

  And with that, for the moment, she decided to settle.

  45. Burnout

  THE CAR was a blackened shell. The windows were smashed, and the tyres and upholstery had vaporized, leaving only the springs, metal frame, and tracery of steel wires behind. Most of the paintwork had burnt off too, so that it was hard to tell what colour it had been. The number plates had been removed. All that could be said for certain was that it was a three year old Nissan Primera.

  ‘You said that’s what you were looking for, so here it is.’ The mechanic in charge of the Leeds police vehicle recovery workshop stood calmly beside the car, waiting for Jane Carter’s response. ‘We’ll keep it till Wednesday, then it’s going for scrap. Unless it’s needed for evidence, which I doubt.’

  Jane walked around the car, examining it from different angles. ‘You’re sure it was red? How can you tell?’

  ‘Here, look.’ He crouched down to show her a place under the wheel arch which hadn’t been burnt. ‘A few spots under the bonnet too. Typical Nissan red.’

  ‘They made a thorough job of burning it.’

  ‘You’re right there. Whoever torched this had a guilty conscience, for sure. Either that or he just liked the flames.’

  Jane poked her head through the window, examining the blackened mess inside. ‘Not much you can gather from this, is there?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so. Not unless we put a thorough forensic team on it and even then you’d be lucky. Never justify the cost.’ He shook his head dourly. ‘Not unless your guvnor’s going to pay. Serious crime is it, you’re after?’

  ‘Murder,’ Jane said shortly. ‘Where did you say it was found?’

  ‘Off the edge of a by-pass, at the bottom of the slope. Needed a crane to lift it up, that’s why we waited until the New Year. Didn’t seem any particular rush. We get dozens of these every month. Joyriders, mostly, young lads. Or robbers using them as getaway vehicles.’

  ‘So far as you know,’ Jane said. ‘How many do you catch?’

  ‘Not many. Not when they’re burned out like this,’ the man admitted. ‘It’s a professional job, I’ll give the lad that.’

  ‘He took the number plates too, to make it harder to trace,’ she said. ‘What about the engine markings?’

  ‘Still there, I think.’ The mechanic wrenched up the buckled bonnet. ‘I can do a search, if you like. But we know whose it is, without that.’

  ‘How?’

  The mechanic shrugged. ‘It’s a Primera, isn’t it? Not the most popular car. There’s only one been reported stolen in this manor all year. Red, just like this - stolen three weeks before Christmas. Belonged to a little old lady - her pride and joy, she said. I had her on the phone in tears.’

  An idea sparked in Jane’s mind. ‘Do you have the dates exactly?’

  ‘It’ll be on the computer. Through here.’ The man set off across the workshop, a vast booming barn of a place, and Jane followed. They wove their way through a maze of similar car wrecks, some burnt out like the Primera, others mangled and t
wisted by accidents. In a separate barn at the far end, carefully shielded behind plastic screens, were a group of vehicles being meticulously examined for forensic clues. She followed him into a small office, where he tapped away on a computer.

  ‘Here we are. Car reported stolen Monday 5th December. Burnt-out vehicle found by patrol car Saturday 3rd December. There - what does that tell you?’

  Jane’s spirits sank. ‘It was burned out two days before it was reported stolen.’

  ‘Looks like that, doesn’t it? But wait a mo, I think I remember ... yes, there we are.’ He scrolled down to a report. The old dear, Mrs Hamilton, she’d been up in Edinburgh visiting her grandson. Didn’t like to drive, she said, the motorways scared her, so she took the train instead. Left the car parked in her drive and when she came back on Monday, oh dear me, it wasn’t there.’

  ‘So how long was she away?’

  ‘Let me see, does it say? Yes, here we are. ‘I took the train from Leeds on Wednesday 30th November at 9.45 a.m, arriving Edinburgh at ..’ bla bla - Christ, too much bloody information, these rooky cops can’t see the wood for the trees. It’s all here, though, sergeant, every last detail. Is that any use?’

  It might be, Jane thought hopefully. And then again it might be nothing at all, like so many leads she had checked out already. ‘Can I have a print out of that?’

  ‘Sure. Free of charge.’

  While he was fetching the paper from the printer she went through the dates in her head. Alison Grey had been murdered near York on the night of Friday 2nd December. The Nissan Primera had been left standing in the old lady’s drive since the morning of Wednesday 30th - ample time, presumably, for whoever stole it to realise the house was empty, take the car, and - possibly - drive it to York, park it near Alison Grey’s house, murder her, drive back to Leeds, and set fire to the car the next day. She sighed. It did fit, in a way. But it seemed a long shot, even to her.

  ‘What time was the car found, exactly?’