by Vicary, Tim
‘He’s ... a landlord, isn’t he, this Michael Parker? Property developer, that sort of thing.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘I met him. It’s his house this woman was killed in.’
‘I know that, Terry. He told me.’
‘Yes, well. We’re still looking for her killer.’
‘Well, I hope you nail the bastard,’ Sarah said. ‘He’s one of the reasons I moved. Not the main one, of course, but he contributed.’
‘What?’
‘Well, I was living alone in a house backing onto a public footpath, wasn’t I? Just like all these women who got attacked. It’s not a great feeling.’
‘That doesn’t sound like you,’ Terry said. ‘I thought you were tougher than that.’
‘Tough? Well, maybe, but we all have our limits. Who knows, perhaps this woman who was murdered was tough as well. Or thought she was. Anyway, how’s your case going?’
‘Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’ Cautiously, he began to fill her in on the details of the case - the way Alison had been found hanged, apparently after taking a bath; the early suspicions of suicide, disproved by the tape marks on her wrists discovered by the forensic pathologist; the frustrating search for Peter Barton; the bruises on her buttocks; and the two remaining leads: the red Nissan, and the possibility that Alison might have been murdered by a lover.
‘It sounds intriguing,’ Sarah said. ‘Which do you think it is?’
‘Well, I keep an open mind, of course ...’
Sarah laughed. ‘Oh come on, Terry, this isn’t a public statement for the press. What do you think?’
Terry frowned. ‘I think it was her lover.’
‘And? What are you looking at me like that for? Terry?’ Sarah smiled, perplexed. So far the conversation had seemed to her to be going well. ‘Come on, we’re still friends aren’t we? Spill the beans.’
Terry drew a deep breath. ‘You’re not going to like this, Sarah, but ... there’s something you should know.’
‘Which is?’
‘It’s not completely impossible that her lover was Michael Parker.’
‘What?’ The friendly atmosphere froze. Sarah felt as if an icy waterfall had fallen on her head out of a clear blue sky. She stared at Terry in shocked disbelief. ‘Michael? You can’t be serious!’
‘It’s only a possibility, you understand. One we can’t exclude.’
‘But you must have proof. Evidence. What is it?’
‘Well ...’ Her face was sharp, as intent as he had ever seen it. Those clear hazel eyes bored into his like lasers. Carefully, he began to count off the points. ‘... firstly, of course, he’s her landlord. So he knew her. In fact he was there two days before she died. He admits that himself.’
‘Why was he there?’ Sarah’s voice was cold, hard, intimidating - the tone she kept for a hostile witness in court.
‘To fix the central heating, he says. And his prints are all over the house.’
‘Well, they would be. It’s his house.’
‘Yes. On the radiators certainly. But they’re in the bathroom too. And on her bedside table.’
‘He might have used the bathroom. Touched the table when he furnished the house.’
‘He might. But it would have been smudged over time, or dusted off when she cleaned. This looked fairly recent.’
‘What else have you got?’
‘Well, he drives a black car, I believe ...’
‘A BMW, yes ...’
‘... and one was seen there quite often. And then, there’s the absence of any other plausible lovers. And the question of why she came to York in the first place. She spent most of her life abroad, you see, teaching, until she started writing school textbooks. She needed a house to rent but she could have found one in Spain or Morocco or anywhere if she’d wanted, somewhere sunny and warm. So why come to York? Her editor thinks it had something to do with an old boyfriend from her student days.’
‘Where was she a student?’
‘In York. She studied foreign languages.’
‘Well, there you are then. That’s why she came.’
‘Michael Parker did a postgraduate course here too, in 1991. That was Alison Grey’s final year. He didn’t mention her to you, did he, by any chance?’
‘Only as his tenant, the woman who was murdered.’ Sarah stared at Terry coldly. For some strange reason the memory of the file she had found in Michael’s study the other night flashed briefly into her mind, confusing her. But that was about the murder of Brenda Stokes, 18 years ago. Nothing to do with this, surely.
‘Have you got any evidence whatsoever to suggest that this old boyfriend, if he actually existed, was Michael Parker? That she even met him here in York?’
‘Not so far, no. But ...’
‘You’ve tested the body for DNA, have you? Pubic hairs, semen, that sort of thing?’
‘Of course. But she’d had a bath. Quite a luxurious one, in fact, with bath salts and candles and so on, before she died. So if he did have sex with her he didn’t leave a trace. Just these whip marks on her buttocks.’
‘You found the whip, then?’
‘No. We looked, of course.’ Terry shrugged.
‘And that’s it?’
‘All we have so far, yes.’ Terry lowered his gaze for a moment, glancing down at the table to avoid the furious accusation in those blazing hazel eyes; then looked up again doggedly. ‘I have spoken to your friend Michael.’
‘And?’
‘He denies anything other than a purely business relationship. He last saw her two days before she died, he says. On the actual day of her death he spent the afternoon and most of the evening with building workers at a housing development near Scarborough. I checked. He was there. Till about ten in the evening.’
Sarah thought back. That was the night he cancelled their date, she remembered. The day before she met him in Cambridge. And took him to bed.
‘So that puts him out of the frame, does it?’
‘Not completely, no. The pathologist puts the time of death anywhere between about eight at night and one in the morning. So if he’d hurried back from Scarborough, he might just have had time. You don’t happen to know when he got back, do you?’
‘No. I was still in my old house then.’
‘Pity.’
‘But you’ve no proof. No one saw his car, for instance? Just this red Nissan?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Michael doesn’t drive a red Nissan, Terry, not his style. Anyway, how would he have got into the house?’
Terry described the downstairs loo window. ‘Could have been that way, who knows? But since he was her landlord, he probably had a key. Especially if he was her lover. He could have opened the front door, done the deed, locked it again on the way out.’
‘No burglar alarm?’
‘No.’
Sarah shuddered. Terry’s use of the word lover hurt her deep inside, as though she’d been punched just below the heart. ‘But why, Terry? What possible reason could Michael have for doing a thing like this?’
Terry shook his head. ‘Lover’s quarrel, perhaps. You know this man better than me, Sarah. Would he be capable of it?’
‘Oh come on, now!’ Sarah stared at him for a second, trembling. Then her fury flared up, like a vixen defending her cub. ‘Terry, you don’t like Michael, do you? Have you considered you might have got this totally, horribly wrong? That you might be accusing an innocent man of murder? You’re stretching this much, much too far. For a start he’s not a sadist - I think I’d know about that. Let’s look at it, shall we? What evidence have you got? A few easily explained fingerprints, and the occasional sighting of a black car - is that it? No DNA, no other forensic evidence of any kind. No proof that he ever had any relationship other than a business one with this woman apart from the fact that they once studied in York together, along with 5,000 other students. A pretty good alibi, and nothing to put him anywhere near the scene of th
e crime. Are you even sure it wasn’t suicide?’
‘Her wrists were taped together, Sarah ...’
‘Were they? Where’s the tape? You haven’t got that either, have you? Or any proof that her wrists were taped at the same time - the same day even - that she died? What if she was wrapping up a parcel, and she stuck the sellotape to her wrist while she was folding the paper - have you never done that?’
‘Don’t think so. Not to both wrists, certainly. Anyway, where’s the parcel?’
‘With her publisher, maybe, I don’t know. Maybe she posted a manuscript or something ...’
‘She’d use a Jiffy bag ...’
‘Perhaps, who knows.’ Sarah shook her head furiously, feeling rage overpower her judgement. ‘Look, I haven’t studied the case, you may be right about the tape. The point is, Terry, I’m living in this man’s house, I like him, I’ve trusted him up to now, and just because you’re jealous, you come to me and throw these accusations around, on evidence that wouldn’t stand up for a second in court, not if I had anything to do with it anyway ...’
‘Who says I’m jealous?’
They paused, staring at each other. Sarah’s face was flushed, her eyes blazing with anger. She breathed deeply, forcing her emotions to die down.
‘Well, I don’t know, I thought maybe ...’
‘You’re right, I am.’
‘Really?’ She shook her head, still flushed and angry. She didn’t care how he felt.
‘Yes, of course. To see you with a man like him ...’
‘He’s got a lot of good points, Terry. He’s been very kind to me. Helpful, understanding.’
‘Has he.’ Terry spoke flatly. It wasn’t really a question.
‘Yes, actually, he has.’ Sarah flicked her hair from her eyes, facing him coolly, realising the focus of the argument had shifted. She had no reason to want to hurt him. But this - this was intolerable. She watched him struggle for a response.
‘Well, I suppose I should be glad to hear it, but if we’re speaking the honest truth here, Sarah, I’m not. Because ... well, okay, I admit I haven’t got a lot of proof, but I’m still trying to eliminate possibilities. Detectives do that, it’s what we’re paid for. And for another thing ...’ Terry hesitated, searching for words.
‘Well?’
‘I do care about you, as it happens. You should know that. I thought you did know that, as a matter of fact. Clearly I was wrong.’
‘No, you weren’t wrong, Terry. You just ... presume too much.’
‘About Michael or you?’
‘Both, I suppose.’ She shook her head. My bubble is bursting, she thought. How can it ever survive this? ‘Look, Terry, this is a difficult time for me. I’m going through a divorce, I’m selling my house, I’m trying to keep my head together, and now you come and tell me the man I’m having a relationship with may be a sadist and a murderer. It’s not easy, you know.’
‘Since when was life easy?’
‘I don’t know, but it should be. Easier than this, at least. Look, if you are right, then I suppose I should be glad you told me. Well, maybe not glad, no, not that. Grateful at any rate.’ She looked at him regretfully. ‘Even if you are jealous.’
‘Better to know before than after.’
‘Yes. What do you suggest I should do?’
He hesitated. ‘Well, there are two answers to that, I’m afraid. The cautious one, and the bold one.’
‘Really? You’ve thought this out then?’
‘To an extent. The cautious answer, the sensible thing for you to do, is to get out now. Leave him, move into a hotel if you haven’t got anywhere to go, come and sleep on my sofa if you like ...’
A bitter, ironic smile flickered briefly on Sarah’s lips. ‘This is objective advice you’re giving me, is it?’
‘A friendly offer, that’s all. Or I sleep on the sofa and you have the bed. Whatever ...’
‘And the bold option?’
‘ ... is that you weigh up the risks, and if you feel safe enough, you check things out. Ask a few questions, look around his house, do a few things that I couldn’t do without a warrant. If he’s innocent, there’ll be nothing to find, he’ll have good explanations. If it doesn’t look so innocent, let me know. I’ll give you the number of my mobile, in case you need help. It’s always with me, day and night.’
Sarah shook her head, astonished. ‘You’re suggesting I spy on my ...’ she suppressed the word lover ‘ ... landlord?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, I know it’s difficult. But ...’ Terry watched her face closely. ‘I’m afraid I am. I’ll understand if you refuse.’
‘Too right you will.’ Sarah thought about it furiously, thoughts chasing each other around her brain like demented rats. I can’t spy on Michael, that’s awful. But then, if he has nothing to hide, there’ll be nothing to find, he won’t know. And what if he was having an affair with this murdered woman, this Alison - what the hell am I doing renting a house off him? Alone, out there in the country. I should run, leave now. Or is this a ploy of Terry’s, to turn me against him? He’s jealous, remember? Christ, men! If I leave, and Michael’s innocent, I’ll ruin my relationship for nothing. But I have to check to prove he’s innocent. Otherwise there’ll always be this suspicion, now Terry’s raised it. Damn, I wish I hadn’t met him. I don’t want this choice. I can’t escape it now.
The memory of the file she had found the other night came unwanted into her mind. Why was it there? Why did he collect all those old cuttings? Why was he so cool to my questions? What year did Brenda Stokes die?
1991. When Michael and Alison Grey were both here in York.
Just a coincidence, surely. I can’t tell Terry that yet.
But her bubble of love was bursting. In the warm sunlight, she shivered.
Watching, Terry saw her frown, and then that unconscious lift of her chin. She was angry, all right. But she wasn’t going to run away. Not now. Not Sarah Newby.
That didn’t happen.
‘Okay. What exactly do you think I should look for?’
51. Local Bobby
MURDER IN a country village is a rare event. The local community constable had little experience of it. Most of his time was taken up with community relations - maintaining the neighbourhood watch scheme, getting to know local people. The farms, hamlets and villages between York and Selby were a low crime area, and the residents wanted to keep it like that. They were pleased to see their constable, in his blue and white Range Rover, but they didn’t expect to see him every day, or indeed every week. The area was too large, the villages scattered. Much of the crime he dealt with was minor - quarrels between teenage youths, thefts of garden equipment or farm machinery. The most dangerous offenders he faced were lampers - poachers shooting deer and rabbits at night in the glare of high-powered headlights. These men were armed and well organised - the constable needed back-up to deal with them, and tried to catch them as they were leaving, with the carcases in the back of a van, rather than risk pursuing them through the midnight woods.
But murder, of a woman alone in her cottage, was a different category of crime altogether. It sent a ripple of horror through the countryside. Community Constable George Graham, driving around the farms and villages, found people talked of little else. Who could it be, they wondered - a local or a stranger? Where would he strike next? How could anyone feel safe in their beds until he was caught? What were the police doing? Did the dead woman know her killer, or not? What was she doing, all alone in the country? Was she a wholly innocent victim, as it appeared? Or had she somehow brought her death on herself?
Constable Graham could answer none of these questions, however often he was asked. To his immense chagrin, he’d been off duty on the day Alison Grey’s body had been found, visiting his mother in Scarborough. When he returned, two days later, he felt he’d been sidelined. His local knowledge was ignored by CID, who seemed to feel they already had the answer. All they asked was where the killer might be hiding - a question which seemed
to him preposterous, in the dark days of midwinter. It was damp in the country, and cold - surely no one in their right mind would hide in the fields and woods at this time of year.
But then no one in their right mind would break into a middle-aged woman’s house to kill her.
So Constable Graham spent days searching fields, barns and copses where there was a slight chance the killer might be hiding. It was futile, frustrating work, especially since he scarcely believed in it. But he did it diligently nonetheless, partly to cover his back, but also in the faint hope of success - the sort of dogged defiance of the odds which leads people to buy a lottery ticket each week. And also, it meant he could talk to his wife and kids about the murder enquiry he was involved in, however slightly.
His other link with the investigation was the visit he made most days to the crime scene - the house in Crockey Hill.
The house was empty, so the landlord had asked him to keep an eye on it. All he usually did was drive his Range Rover down the potholed track to the house, get out, and look around. Most days he strolled around the building, checking that the doors were still locked, peering in at the windows to see nothing had been disturbed. He sometimes imagined going inside to see if he could find some evidence that had been overlooked; though what that could be, after the SOCOs had spent two whole days lifting every fingerprint, vacuuming up each fibre and speck of dust, he had no idea. Anyway he had no key.
Most days he stood there for a while, thinking, seeking answers to the same questions the locals asked him. Who could have done this, and why? What was the dead woman like, to choose to live here? Constable Graham could see the attraction. For someone who loved peace and quiet, it was ideal. Set back a hundred yards from the road, surrounded by fields and woods, with views in each direction. Perfect for a woman alone with her cat and computer. It would be lovely in the spring, he thought, though she would never see it. Even now, the first tips of daffodil shoots were making a tiny, tentative showing around the edge of the lawn. Later they would be beautiful.
Alison Grey must have liked birds, the constable concluded. All around the house there were bird-feeders, hung high in the branches away from her cat. But they were empty now, the nuts all eaten. He watched a bluetit land on a bird feeder outside the study window and cling there, swinging for a second, before flying off. A pity, he thought, to abandon the birds now, with the cold on its way. He took a sack of peanuts from the boot of his car, bought earlier at the request of his wife. Would it do any harm to feed the birds? Surely not, he decided. After all, since he’d been asked to make these pointless visits, he could at least get some pleasure from them.
