by Vicary, Tim
She shrugged. But they didn’t, so now I have this situation to deal with. Tonight Michael’s going to cook for me and make some kind of proposal - God knows what that can be - and I have to decide what to do about all these suspicions. At the very least I have to ask him about that file I found in his drawer and what his real relationship was with that woman who was murdered - Alison Grey.
They certainly looked like close friends 18 years ago, at that memorial service for Brenda Stokes. Were they lovers then? Possibly, but that doesn’t matter much. It’s none of my business really. But what if Terry’s right, and they were lovers here in York, right up until the time she was murdered? And Michael never mentioned it, not even to me?
That would be a little harder to swallow.
‘So what do you think now?’ Jane asked, queuing in the station canteen for lunch before interviewing Peter again. ‘He’s admitted all that - it’s got to be him who murdered Alison Grey as well, hasn’t it?’
‘It certainly looks that way,’ Terry agreed. ‘But we still need evidence. He would never have admitted assaulting Elizabeth Bolan if you hadn’t confronted him with the fingerprint, and the DNA from the mask.’
‘If only FSS hadn’t lost that scrap of cloth, the halfwits - I could have used that in the same way.’
‘I’ll ring them again before we go in. That’s all I can do, short of mounting a dawn raid on their wretched laboratories.’
Sitting together in a corner to eat, they discussed tactics for the next interrogation. ‘So what do we do now?’ Jane asked. ‘It has to be him, everything points that way. But without evidence he’ll just sit there and deny it.’
‘There may be another way,’ Terry said thoughtfully. ‘You saw how proud he was of that awful shed. In his own mind, he’s a hero. We may have to flatter his ego a bit.’
Jane shoved her sandwich away, a look of disgust on her stolid face. ‘That’s all very well, but he’s a brutal young pervert, this lad. Every time I see him I want to be sick.’
‘Well, keep your mouth shut then,’ Terry smiled. ‘Let me do the talking.’
‘All right. But if had my way I’d cut his balls off and feed ‘em to the pigs.’
‘Leave it to me, will you? You’ve seen how he hates women, poor sap, that’s his problem. So he’s more likely to confide in me, as a man. He thinks I understand his anxieties.’
‘Ok, guv, my lips are sealed.’ Jane rolled her eyes in ironic acceptance. ‘But if you really do understand him, that only goes to show one thing. Which I suspected all along.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You’re all sick bastards. The whole hopeless gender, the lot of you. You could all be replaced by a syringe; that would make this world a better place. That’s what we need - no more perverts, just pure female perfection.’
56. Windmills in Spain
BY THE time Sarah got home it was already dark. The Kawasaki followed the beam of its headlight up along the quiet, empty road at the top of the Wolds. Wind blustered around her, the occasional stronger gust cuffing the bike sideways. Dark treetops swayed overhead as she turned off the road into the woods, and dead leaves skittered across her path.
Halfway through the woods she saw headlights coming towards her. She slowed the bike and pulled in to the side to let the vehicle pass. Then, as it came closer she recognised the number plate and raised a gloved hand in greeting. A battered white van slowed to a stop beside her and her son Simon wound down the window.
‘Hi, Mum, how’re you doing?’
Sarah tugged off her helmet, and was immediately assailed by the roaring of the woods all around her, like the surf of the sea. The wind whipped her hair across her face.
She raised her voice to be heard.
‘All right, Simon. Glad to be home. Has this storm been blowing all day?’
‘No, it just blew up in the last hour or so. I could see it coming across the valley before it got dark.’ He grinned. ‘Hell of a place to live.’
‘Yes, but it has its points. How’s the patio going?’
‘Good. I’ve got most of it done now. Another couple of days’ work at the most. I was hoping to finish it tomorrow before this blew up.’
‘It may blow over.’ Sarah smiled. ‘How’s Lorraine?’
‘Great. In fact she looks lovelier than ever. I never knew pregnancy did that to girls. She sort of glows when I look at her.’
‘Lucky her - and you. Well, look after her, Simon - that’s my first grandchild she’s carrying, you know.’
Simon laughed. ‘I’ll do my best, Mum. Why don’t you come round and see us sometime? We’ll have a celebration when I’m paid for this patio.’
‘I’d love to, Simon. Just send me a text.’
She rode the last hundred yards to the mill with a smile on her face. Whatever else had happened in the last few months, her relationship with Simon was improving. His affair with Lorraine, and her pregnancy, seemed to have matured him. Out of his surly, resentful teenage chrysalis was emerging a friendly, trustworthy young man, with shoulders broad enough to bear his new responsibilities.
Or so, at least, Sarah hoped. She wished her husband Bob could have seen it. But then, it was really only since Bob left her that Simon had begun to take up the role of the man of the family.
Coming out of the woods, she had another surprise. Lights were blazing in every room of the windmill. But that wasn’t the surprise - something was moving on the far side of the tower. It was hard to see at first, but whatever it was it was it was huge and powerful. Sarah stopped the bike and stood, peering into the darkness beyond the glare of the lights. What on earth could it be? Above the tower, a quarter moon appeared briefly from behind racing dark clouds, and then, almost immediately, a huge dark shape crossed in front of it, blotting it out for a second. Then another, and another, in a swift steady rhythm, and Sarah understood. Of course - it was the sails! Michael must have released the brake, and in this high wind they were turning, faster than she had ever seen them before. Perhaps that accounted for the unusual glare of lights; they must be generating a phenomenal amount of electricity. But was it safe? Well, he must have studied it. He’d had engineers here most of last week. She hoped he knew what he was doing.
She watched for a moment longer, then wheeled her bike across to the house. She could see Michael moving around in the windmill kitchen. He didn’t seem concerned about the storm. She imagined him working hard in the irritable, nervous frenzy which seemed to characterise his cooking, and checked her watch as she went indoors. 6.30 - just time to shower, change, and make it without annoying him unnecessarily by being late.
As she crossed to the mill later the wind whipped her skirt around her legs, but it seemed gentler than before. She glanced across the valley and saw stars appearing in the far west, beyond the clouds. There was a flurry of rain, and she stepped carefully across Simon’s patio, to avoid tripping over a pile of bricks or putting her foot in a pool of damp mortar. To her relief, the work looked good, as far as she could tell. She asked Michael about it in the warmth of the kitchen.
‘Yes, it’s coming along fine. He’s a grafter, your son, I’ll give him that. When he manages to turn up, that is.’
‘Well, he’s got other jobs, as well as this. I suppose he fits it in when he can.’
‘Don’t they all?’ Michael was busy chopping herbs on the side. He glanced at her briefly, and changed his dismissive tone. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. He’s doing fine, really. Doesn’t talk to me much, but then that’s not what I’m paying him for. Sherry? Wine? Juice? What d’you fancy?’
‘Juice, to start with, anyway.’ Sarah wanted to keep a cool head, if she could. She was only half convinced that she was wise, to be here at all. But then, what she really needed was to resolve her doubts. If Terry Bateson was right and there really was something suspicious about Michael, then the sooner she found out about it the better. Then, if necessary, she could make the decision to leave - find another place to liv
e and cut him out of her life altogether. But if Terry was wrong, as she hoped, and this man was as decent as he seemed, then well - he was the best thing that happened to her for ages. Ever since things went so badly wrong with Bob. The last thing she wanted to do was to shipwreck a friendship that had so recently been launched.
But how could she decide, without revealing her suspicions? How would Michael react, if she told him she had been speaking to Terry, or that she had been examining the file of newspaper clippings in his study in her house? He’d be angry, she felt sure. Hurt, angry and betrayed. Even if he had a perfectly reasonable answer to her questions, he’d still feel she’d been spying on him behind his back, discussing him with the police as though he were some sort of criminal. No man would react to that kindly, she felt sure - certainly not a man like Michael who, for all his good points, had already shown several frightening flashes of temper in the short time she’d known him.
But if she didn’t reveal the reasons for her suspicions, how could she get answers to her questions? Sarah had puzzled over this all afternoon, ever since Michael had rung her from Scarborough. She had never been good at feminine wiles; she was more used to cross-examination in the courtroom, with precise, detailed, questioning based on evidence that was out in the open for all to see.
This time, she thought, she would have to try something different. Get answers, if possible, without asking too many obvious questions. She was far from certain that she would succeed.
She asked him about the sails, and he smiled. ‘Yes, stunning, aren’t they? I thought I’d test them in a moderately strong wind, and they’re holding up well, just as the guys told me they would. We must be generating enough electricity to light up a whole village - and we will do, too, once the grid people pull their fingers out and get us connected properly.’
‘It’s like a giant propellor. I’m surprised the building doesn’t take off.’
‘No wings, or it would. Don’t worry, the wind’s forecast to die down this evening. Anyway, it’s been here three hundred years, it’s seen worse than this before now. Though it’s probably a good idea the grindstones aren’t connected any more. I read about a hurricane one year - 1750 or sometime like that - when several mills spun so fast for so long that they caught fire. I guess the friction made the stones red hot.’
‘That can’t happen to us, can it?’
‘Let’s hope not. Anyway it would be a spectacular way to go, don’t you think?’
He seemed in a good mood, Sarah thought. Slightly tense, perhaps, but then he was often like that, when he was cooking. No hint of the guilt or anxiety she might have expected if Terry’s suspicions had been true. But then, how well did she really know him? There’d been several times before when he’d started out like this, then changed suddenly for no apparent reason.
The sea bass, at least, was a success. Light, fresh, steamed on a bed of green beans with a white wine, vanilla, cream and garlic sauce, with new potatoes and sprinkled with celery leaves, set off with a crisp dry Chablis.
‘Your best so far,’ Sarah said appreciatively. ‘You’re becoming a chef.’
‘Not me - Jamie Oliver. I’m glad you like it.’ He sipped his wine, watching her thoughtfully. ‘I hope you like my next idea too.’
‘Which is?’
‘Tell you in a minute. Let me fetch the sweet first.’
They were eating on the second floor tonight, at the circular dining table with the two redundant millwheels underneath. While Michael went downstairs Sarah strolled to the glass door leading onto the balcony, and watched the sails revolving steadily between her and the stars. Were they going a bit slower now? Their power unsettled her. But the night sky looked a little clearer. She could see stars around the Moon. What was this idea he seemed so keen about? She had a miserable feeling she was about to disappoint him, even before she probed for information. And she still had no idea how to do that.
Michael came up from the kitchen with a tray carrying apple pie, whipped cream, and a cafetiere with coffee cups and saucers.
‘My idea,’ he said slowly, putting the tray on the table, ‘is quite simple really. I’m thinking of moving to Spain.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve a friend who’s into property there, and I’ve been talking to him. He’s been there for years now, already made a fortune, and says there are plenty of opportunities left - not on the coast where the lager louts go, but inland, the more select areas where smaller operators like me might move in. For expats looking for the real Spain, in villages and old farmhouses like I’ve been converting here. He’s even found several old windmills, believe it or not.’
‘But why would you want to do that?’
‘Oh, I’ve been thinking about it for some time ...’ Sarah listened in wonder, putting a few questions here and there, while he developed his idea. It was nothing like what she’d been expecting. He seemed enthusiastic, she thought, but nervous too. As though he was trying to convince himself as well as her. The crux came over coffee. ‘... if I really put my mind to it, I reckon I could sell up here in about six months, a year at most, and begin again over there. We’d have plenty to live on, you wouldn’t have to work, only ...’
‘We?’ She put her cup down, with a clatter.
‘Yes. I’m sorry, I’m not explaining this well. The reason I’m telling you this is that I ... well, I was hoping you’d want to come with me.’
From where he sat, with his back to a spotlight in the wall, half his face was in shadow, but the eye she could see watched her eagerly. There was a shy smile on his lips.
‘Michael, I have a career.’
‘Yes, I know, but they have lawyers in Spain, don’t they?’
‘I’m not qualified to practise in Spain. I don’t know the law or the language.’
‘You could learn. Anyway, as I say, you wouldn’t need to work. I could earn enough for us both.’ He reached forward across the table for her hand. ‘Sarah, I’m asking you to come with me.’
She let him take her hand for a moment, but then withdrew it. ‘I’m very flattered, Michael, but ... I’ve never thought about leaving this country. Or my career.’
‘Well, I’m asking you to think about it now. Of course it comes as a surprise, I understand that. You don’t have to decide today. I’m just laying out my plans, and saying, I suppose, that I’d like you to be part of them. I really would. That’s all.’
There’s no way, snapped a little imp in Sarah’s mind, no way in hell that I would ever give up my career and put my life in the hands of a man, not this man or any other, not while I have breath in my body. But she didn’t say it. She gagged the imp swiftly as other, contradictory thoughts came rushing in. He is a nice man after all, a good lover, and this is the best offer I’m likely to get, at my time of life; I should consider it at least. And then, more subtly: this is my opportunity, this is my way in, if I was to think of going with him, it would be natural to know more about his past, wouldn’t it? If I turn him down flat I never will.
So she said, very cautiously: ‘It is a surprise, Michael, let me think about it. I can’t decide on a thing like this, to change my life, in a day.’
‘So let’s go over it again,’ Terry said, when they had got Peter in an interview room. ‘Why did you go to Crockey Hill?’
‘I went out for a walk.’
‘What, in the middle of the night?’
‘Yeah, why not? It’s the best time. Nobody sees you.’
‘Why would it matter if people saw you?’
A look of deep cunning crossed Peter Barton’s face. ‘Well, you know that, don’t you? I were on the run.’ He made it sound glamorous, like Robin Hood or Bonnie and Clyde.
‘I see. So it was exciting, was it?’ Terry kept his tone as neutral as he could. As he’d explained to Jane over lunch, he didn’t want to antagonise Peter by pointing out the evil of his ways; what Terry wanted was his co-operation. If that meant pandering to the boy’s fantasies, even seeming to understand and a
pprove them, then that’s what he would do. He needed to build up a bond of trust with him.
So far, Terry thought, so good. The first really difficult hurdle for Peter had been his confession to the sexual assault on Lizzie Bolan. When he’d finally completed his statement he’d been sweating and trembling so much he could hardly hold the pen to sign his name. His solicitor had even called a break for medical attention. Part of Peter’s problem seemed to be that he expected punishment to follow immediately - he would be locked up in some cold dark cell, tortured, chastised. When none of that happened - he was given a decent meal, a night’s rest, even a congratulatory half-smile from Terry - a tide of relief flooded through him. He relaxed, seeming to regard the three of them - Terry, Jane, and his solicitor - if not as his friends, then at least as his audience, witnesses to what he had done. Perhaps he deluded himself that they approved, even applauded his achievements, who knows? At any rate, this mood had lasted long enough for him to agree to show them his hideout; and that, Terry had to admit, was a triumph, of sorts - for Peter to have eluded the search efforts of the whole York and Selby division for so long. Local farmers had been on the lookout for him, too; but not the owners of the airfield, who were legendary for their lack of co-operation with the local community.
Jane sat silent, her chair pushed back a little from the table, while Terry leaned forward encouragingly to Peter. What interested him was the proximity of Peter’s hideout to Alison’s house in Crockey Hill. No more than a couple of miles cross-country at most - much of it through woods and open scrubland, far from the nearest farmhouse.
‘It must be quite interesting, walking in the country at night.’
‘It is. You get to see things.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Owls. Deer. I saw a fox once. And badgers.’
‘What about people?’
