Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby)

by Vicary, Tim

  He sat at his desk, thinking over the day. Jane Carter, he thought, had done well. Like him, she’d been appalled and disgusted by the lingering pleasure, almost pride, in Peter’s voice as he’d relived the details of his crime. But she seemed satisfied too. After all, she’d always suspected Peter, and now, it seemed, she was right.

  Or was she? Terry leaned back in his chair, thinking. Most of the details of the confession were right, but not all - she hadn’t been raped, for instance. A defence barrister would make a great deal of that. But it wasn’t just that. Even though most of the boy’s story was accurate, there was something it that Terry found hard to believe. He closed his eyes, trying to pinpoint what it was. He thought back to the previous crimes the boy had confessed to - knicker theft, molesting a jogger on the cyclepath, the attempted rape of Elizabeth Bolan. They all seemed so muddled, so incompetent, in comparison. In each case Peter had fled, at the first sign of trouble. Whereas here, if he was to be believed, he had dominated Alison Grey from the start. She’d been terrified; well, that was understandable, but surely at some point she’d have realised she was about to die, and tried to escape. At which point Peter, if he was true to form, would have fumbled the knot, dropped the knife, knocked something over, run ....

  None of which had happened.

  But then, if Peter was lying, how did he know so much? An idea formed in Terry’s mind. What if only the first part of Peter’s tale was really true - the part where he sneaked out of his hut, late at night, to spy on women through their uncurtained windows? Terry could believe that. Was it possible that Peter had been there, outside Alison’s house, and seen someone else commit the murder in the way he’d described? And that he was now confessing to it out of the perverted sense of bravado that Terry had detected in the interview room? Because he’d seen another man do something that he, Peter, was not brave enough to do himself?

  That would explain why he’d gone back later, to imagine what it might have been like. That would be when he’d seen the mirror, and the bathroom. It was all possible, Terry thought, but far fetched. Jane would be annoyed when he suggested it. But he’d put it to Peter nonetheless, Terry decided, when they interviewed him tomorrow morning before deciding whether to charge him. A confession alone, after all, wasn’t enough to secure a conviction. They needed evidence, to back it up. And there was still the issue of the red Nissan, and the scrap of cloth on the fence, to be cleared up.

  It was too late to ring the forensic services now. Terry switched on his computer, and sent an angry e-mail for them to find first thing in the morning. Then he went downstairs and got into his car.

  Driving home, he thought briefly about Sarah Newby. She’d been cold and distant with him last time they’d met. But that was hardly surprising, given the suspicion he’d tried to plant in her mind. He wondered if she’d found anything. She probably didn’t bother to look, he thought, given how besotted she is with that man.

  Ah well, I was probably wrong about him. If she had found something, she’d have rung by now. Anyway, I’ll probably know more in the morning.

  Sarah stared at the phone in horror. This was Alison Grey, it had to be. And here was a photo of her dead body on Michael’s phone! Terry Bateson had been right all along, she thought - more right than he knew. What had he said, that day in the coffee bar, when she’d asked him who killed this woman? ‘I think it was her lover,’ he’d said. ‘And it’s not completely impossible that her lover was Michael Parker.’

  But I refused to believe him, Sarah thought. I gave Terry such a hard time. I accused him of being jealous and having no evidence, all because I wanted to take this man to bed, as I have done, to let him run his hands all over my body, inside my body, let him run warm baths for me and stand there smiling while he wrapped me in a towel just as he must have helped this poor woman out of a bath and - what did he do then?

  Tied a scarf round her neck and hanged her from the banisters till she was dead.

  Jesus Christ! And he’s out there in the darkness right now. If he sees me with this phone he’ll ...

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘What? No, I ...’ Sarah leaped involuntarily backwards.

  ‘Give me that phone!’

  ‘No! Get away!’

  But he was too quick. Even as Sarah backed away Michael grabbed her wrist, and yanked the phone out of her hand. ‘You mustn’t see - oh my God. No.’

  He released her wrist and stood there, staring at the picture on the phone. As soon as he let her go Sarah backed further away, as far from him as she could. But there was nowhere obvious to go. He was standing between her and the open doorway, and the bathroom door was only a couple of paces to his left. No point going into the bathroom anyway, that’s just a trap. I might make it to the stairs, she thought, but how would that help? I’d be going up into the tower. He could just follow me up and up to the roof and what would I do then? Jump?

  My only hope is get past him somehow, run out into the night, and either hide in the woods or get onto the bike. But how? The bike keys are in my house, on a hook inside the front door - I’d have to sprint over there, grab them, run back to the bike, climb on, and start it, all before he follows me and knocks me down. I can’t do it. I’ll have to use cunning.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw a knife block by the fridge, a yard to her right. She began to edge her way towards it, watching Michael all the way.

  He looked up from the phone. ‘I’m so sorry you saw this.’

  ‘Yes. You must be.’

  ‘You know who it is, don’t you?’

  ‘Alison Grey.’ She inched another foot to her right. ‘Your tenant. The woman you had an affair with. The one before me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Michael. She was your lover, wasn’t she? Your tenant, your mistress, your victim - just like me. What happened - did you get tired of her?’

  ‘What are you talking about, Sarah? She was nothing like you.’

  ‘Because I’m alive and she’s dead. That’s the only real difference, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sarah, please! Let me explain ...’

  He took a step towards her and she lunged wildly to her right. Her right hand seized the handle of the largest knife in the block and dragged it free so roughly that the rest of the block flew across the room, scattering knives over the floor. Sarah pointed the carving knife at Michael’s chest.

  ‘Stay away from me!’

  ‘All right, all right.’ He backed away, raising his hands with the palms towards her. One of them still held the phone, with the dreadful picture on the screen. ‘Look, this isn’t what you think.’

  ‘I know what it is, it’s a picture of a dead woman. A woman you murdered, and then took a photo of with your phone. Stay away from me, Michael. I’m not going to be your next victim. I’ll kill you first.’

  Sarah hadn’t been in a fight since she was ten, and that was only screaming and pulling another girl’s hair. Her first husband Kevin had bruised her face and nearly broken her arm, but that wasn’t really a fight, just a beating, all over in a few seconds, which convinced Sarah of two things: men were far stronger than women, and speed is as lethal as strength. So if I’m to have any chance I must stab him first, she thought, before he grabs me. Which is the best place - the throat, or the stomach? Maybe the thigh - that’s a big target.

  The blade trembled in her hand as the adrenalin coursed through her.

  ‘Sarah, I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘Don’t lie, Michael.’ He was backing away from the knife, she realised with relief - three more yards and she could reach the front door and run.

  ‘I’m not lying, for Christ’s sake! How do you think that photo got on the phone?’

  ‘Because you took it.’ Another step back. Two yards to safety.

  ‘No. It’s a picture message. It was sent to me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have a look if you don’t believe me. Here.’ He bent down, and slid the phone a
cross the floor to her feet. ‘Pick it up. I’m not going to hurt you.’

  Carefully, keeping her eyes on him all the time, she bent down and picked up the phone. It’s a trick, she thought. He thinks I can’t look at him and the phone at the same time. When I stop looking at him he’ll rush me.

  ‘Look, I’ll sit down, okay? I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.’

  Michael sat on a chair at the kitchen table. Cautiously, Sarah moved to the open doorway, and stood with her back to it, looking in. I can run any time I want, she thought. Slam the door in his face and sprint for safety. With the knife in her right hand, she held the phone in her left and pressed buttons with her thumb.

  ‘Look. It’s not saved on the phone as it would be if I’d taken it, is it? It’s in a text message I’ve received.’

  Grudgingly, she realised that he was right. Her racing heartbeat slowed, from a wild gallop to a canter. ‘A text from Alison? But she’s dead.’

  ‘Yes, obviously. She didn’t take it.’

  ‘So who did?’

  ‘The man who killed her. Don’t you see? He must have taken it with her phone.’

  ‘And then sent it to you? But why would he do that?’

  Michael sighed. ‘Because he hates me. Look, it’s a long story and I ... I can’t tell you, I’m sorry. It’s private, between me and Alison.’

  ‘But Alison’s dead, Michael. She was murdered.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but I still can’t tell you.’

  Sarah stared at him, as coolly as she could. Her pulse was throbbing in her throat, like a drummer boy going to war, but she could see he was nervous too. His face was pale, his eyes sunken, shadowed, gazing at some distant, dreadful memory. I have to understand this now, Sarah thought; he can’t just shut me out and pretend this doesn’t matter.

  She picked up the knife and phone and got to her feet. ‘If you don’t tell me what all this is about, Michael, I’ll take this to the police. I’ve no choice, really - it’s evidence of murder.’

  ‘But I didn’t do it, Sarah - I swear to you!’

  ‘Then who did? Explain it to me, Michael, or I’m going.’ She stepped towards the door, pointing the knife boldly at him in case he should rush her.

  But Michael looked defeated, diminished, rather than violent. He spread his hands in appeal. ‘All right, all right. Don’t go, please. I’ll tell you if ... if I can find the words. It won’t be easy. You deserve an explanation, but you won’t like it much. Look, Sarah, you’re scaring me with that knife. I didn’t kill Alison, I promise - I’ve never killed anyone in my life. Why don’t you just sit down, and I’ll try to explain what’s happened. Or what I think has happened, anyway.’

  60. Midnight Story

  IT WAS cold in the kitchen. The door was still open to the night air and all Sarah had on was Michael’s shirt, which she had picked up when she got out of bed, a hundred years ago it seemed. She stood with the carving knife in one hand, the mobile phone in the other.

  ‘Sit down, please,’ Michael said, indicating the chair opposite him at the kitchen table. ‘I can’t talk if you stand there like that.’

  ‘You stay there then.’ Cautiously she crossed the room and sat down, the knife on the table in front of her. ‘All right, I’m listening.’

  Michael looked haggard, his eyes sunken, his face pale and lined. He met her eyes briefly, then looked down at his hands. Twice he seemed about to speak, then stopped.

  ‘It’s very difficult, Sarah. I don’t know how to say this.’

  ‘You could start by telling me why you had this phone, and why Alison sent you messages on it.’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s not so easy, you see.’

  ‘She was your girlfriend, your mistress, wasn’t she? Just like me.’

  ‘Nothing like you, Sarah! Nothing at all!’

  ‘Really? What was the difference?’

  ‘Well, for a start, I’d known her a long time ...’

  ‘Since you were students in York, right?’ The photo from the Yorkshire Post came into Sarah’s mind, the one she had found in the file in the other house. Young Alison clinging onto a younger Michael at the memorial service for Brenda Stokes.

  ‘Yes, since then. She was my girlfriend once, back then. And ... it never really ended, so when I got married, she used to come back to see me, write letters, make phone calls, and ... of course my wife didn’t like it, so ... I bought that phone.’ He pointed to the phone on the table in front of her. ‘I told her she could only ring me on that. It’s pay as you go, you see - no account, no phone records, nothing. So Kate wouldn’t know how often she rang. No one would. Or that’s what I hoped.’ He looked up to see if he was making sense to her.

  ‘You had a separate mobile, just to ring Alison? So your wife wouldn’t know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But Michael, you’re divorced! So the only person you’re deceiving now is - me!’

  ‘Not just you. Not you at all, really.’ A faint smile crossed his lips.

  ‘It’s not funny, Michael. It’s bloody deceitful ...’

  He shook his head wearily. ‘It’s nothing to do with you, Sarah. Really. At least it wasn’t until now. This has been going on for years. We just ... got into the habit of it. It seemed wise, in the circumstances.’

  ‘What circumstances?’

  ‘That’s ... just it.’ There was a long silence, so long that Sarah thought the conversation was over. She shivered in the draught from the door, and hunched her arms across her breasts for warmth. An owl hooted outside in the woods. Michael stared down at the table, so lost in thought that she wondered if he remembered she was there at all. At last he sighed and looked up.

  ‘I’ve never told anyone this, Sarah. No one. If you hadn’t found that photo on that phone I never would. Look, if I tell you, will you keep it secret?’

  ‘I can’t do that, Michael. It’s evidence in a murder case.’

  He stared at her earnestly. ‘Please. You do care for me, Sarah, don’t you? A little, at least?’

  I did, Sarah thought. Until all this happened. Now, she wasn’t so sure. A few moments ago she’d been terrified of him, now he was pleading with her. The respect and gratitude she’d felt for him was leaking away. But she had to know the truth about that photo. So she said: ‘Yes, of course. You know I do.’

  ‘Then I’ll trust you. If I tell you, perhaps you’ll understand. And if not, well ... all life ends sometime.’

  Sarah didn’t like the sound of that. Not my life, she thought. Not yet. Not if I can help it anyway. Her fingers touched the handle of the knife.

  ‘What I need to know, Michael, is why that photo is on your phone. You say the killer sent it to you as a picture message. Who is he? And why?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m going to tell you.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘You see, it’s all to do with me, and Alison, and Brenda Stokes - you know, the girl whose body they found beside the ring road before Christmas. You see, I know how it got there.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You asked me before if I knew Brenda. And I told you I’d met her and your client, Jason Barnes, when we were students here in York. Well, Alison was my girlfriend then, as you’ve guessed. We were a couple, though she was fonder of me than I was of her - it happens like that, sometimes. Anyway, nothing would have come of it, probably - we’d have split up, met other people, and led perfectly normal lives, if it hadn’t been for this one terrible day which changed everything.’

  He gazed past Sarah at the window, his eyes focussed on the memory he was about to describe.

  ‘You see, our affair was coming to an end, and I’d met this girl Brenda, who was very sexy, in a busty, provocative sort of way. Anyway, I fell for her - she was exciting, after Alison, and I was flattered that a stunner like her could fancy me, even for a moment. I didn’t realise what a bitch she was, I was blind to that, at first. So I made my big mistake. One day she told me it was her birthday, which turned out to be a lie, I only found that out later. But I
panicked, and thought I have to give her something decent, so she’ll like me. And the only thing I could think of was a silk scarf, which I’d already bought for Alison, who really did have a birthday later that month. Brenda probably knew that, about Alison’s birthday, that’s why she lied about her own. That’s the sort of bitch she was. She’d pull guys just for the hell of it, to rub their girlfriends’ noses in it. Then dump the boys after.’

  Michael sighed. ‘Anyway, I was too naive and besotted to understand all this, so I gave her the wretched scarf, which cost me a lot of money in those days, it was a good one. But what I didn’t realise was, Alison had already seen it - she’d found it in a drawer in my bedroom, and guessed I was saving it for her birthday. So when we went to that party, the day that changed all our lives, that scarf was at the heart of everything.’

  Michael ran his hands through his hair. ‘You see, I went to this party with Brenda, proud as a little peacock, with about as much brain as a peacock as well - and she was wearing this scarf I gave her. But when Alison saw it, all hell broke loose. They had a catfight in the ladies’ loo - God knows what happened, but Alison came out with the scarf in her hand, and Brenda came out with a face like thunder and wouldn’t speak to me. By the end of the evening she was totally pissed and when I tried to talk to her she spat in my face and drove off with a young thug called Jason Barnes. Who you know.’

  Michael spread his hands on the table, looking down. ‘So I slouched off home, full of self-pity, and that would have been that, just another teenage tragedy, if only ...’

  An owl hooted outside, a gust of wind blew in through the door. Sarah shivered as she sat there in the shirt.

  ‘... if only things had been slightly different. I’ve thought about this so often. Only one thing had to be different, and none of our lives would have been blighted. Brenda would never have died, Jason wouldn’t have gone to prison, and Alison and I wouldn’t have tormented each other for the next eighteen years. That photo would never have appeared on that phone.