by Vicary, Tim
She was draining sprouts when she glanced out of the window to see their collie barking at a woman who was closing the gate at the end of the track behind a car which had just come through. There was something disturbingly familiar about the woman which set Kathryn’s heart beating anxiously. She watched as the woman got back into the car, which drove swiftly down the track, the collie streaking exuberantly alongside.
‘Someone coming, Andy,’ she called to her husband. ‘Can you see who it is?’
‘All right.’ As the car pulled up outside the front door Andrew stepped outside and called the dog to heel. The young woman got out, followed a man in a suit, and a uniformed police constable. They came towards him, their faces grim but polite.
‘Mr Walters? DS Tracy Litherland. We met before, you may remember ...’
‘On the night Shelley died. Yes, of course.’
‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Churchill. Is your wife at home?’
‘Yes, she’s inside. Why?’ A pulse beat uncomfortably in Andrew’s throat. Not more bad news, surely?
‘Could we come in? We have a few questions.’
‘About what? She’s had a lot of strain recently, you know. We both have.’
Will Churchill spoke for the first time. ‘It would be easier to explain inside, sir. If you don’t mind.’
‘Oh, all right.’ Reluctantly, Andrew led them through to the farm kitchen. Kathryn’s eyes darkened as she saw it was the police. ‘What now, for heavens sake? Not that gun again, surely? Is this my official warning?’
‘I’m afraid not, no, madam,’ Churchill said solemnly. ‘If you’d like to take a seat? A few days ago we found a body. In the woods, a couple of miles from here.’
‘Oh, that.’ Paradoxically, the announcement came as relief to Kathryn. She had read about the incident and dismissed it as a tragedy that, for once, had nothing to do with her. The name of the dead man had not been released. ‘Yes, it was in the Press. A man in a car, wasn’t it? You must be busy.’
‘We are.’ Churchill studied her coldly. ‘We thought you might be able to help with our enquiries. The dead man’s name, you see, was David Kidd.’
‘Good God!’ Kathryn stared at them unseeing, as a stream of emotions swirled through her mind - shock, horror, joy, relief. ‘David’s dead?’ she said, her voice croaking hoarsely. ‘Really? Are you sure?’
‘He appears to have drowned in his car, in a pit on a disused airfield in woods two miles south of this house.’
‘Thank God!’ Andrew squeezed Kathryn’s hand in warning, but the relief in her voice was plain. ‘Did he kill himself, then, is that it? Out of guilt?’
‘No. We believe he was murdered.’
‘Oh. Well, whoever did it should be given a medal.’ She brushed away tears, meeting their cold, disapproving eyes with a bleak smile of delight. ‘You don’t expect me to be sorry, do you? That bastard killed my daughter.’ She laughed, a high, shrill laugh half out of control. Andrew squeezed her hand tighter.
‘Not according to the court, he didn’t,’ said Churchill coolly. ‘He was acquitted, as you know very well. And you told the world how wrong it was on prime time TV. Shortly after which, Mrs Walters, you were arrested outside his flat with a shotgun registered to your husband. Now David Kidd has been found dead, a few miles from your house.’ He took out his notebook. ‘So perhaps you could tell me where you were on the night of Wednesday 16th October. Both you and your husband. From say, six in the evening till six the next day.’
Kathryn shook her head, dazed. This was all crazy, and it was happening too fast. David was dead - she wanted to savour the wonderful news, not account for herself to this obnoxious young man with his questions and notebook. Where had she been, anyway, and what did it matter? The Valium made it hard to remember. ‘I got home from the pharmacy at about seven, I think, and then I was here, all evening.’
‘Was anyone with you?’
‘I’m not sure ... I don’t know ...’ Something was knocking at the back of her mind, a terrible, shocking question wanting to come in.
‘I was here, all the time.’ Andrew answered smoothly before she could say any more. ‘All evening, don’t you remember, Kath? I came home shortly after you. We had a meal, watched TV for a while, and went to bed.’ His hand tightened on hers as she turned to him in surprise. What the devil is he saying that for, she wondered. He didn’t come home at all on Wednesday, did he? Or have I got the days mixed up?
‘Is that true, Mrs Walters?’ Churchill’s eyes were focussed intently on her, as though he could see inside her mind. She glared back, hating him. Surely Andrew can’t have done this? But if he has, my husband’s been a hero, for once. Rashly, she decided to agree.
‘Yes, I think so. It was just like tonight, only we weren’t interrupted by policemen.’ She smiled again, more vacantly this time. ‘We didn’t kill him, much as we might have liked to. How did he die, exactly?’
‘He drowned,’ Churchill answered shortly. ‘His car was found in a fuel pit. You didn’t go anywhere that evening, then? Not out for a walk, for instance, with the dog?’
‘It’s not necessary,’ said Andrew. ‘She exercises herself, as you saw.’
‘So you were both here. What did you eat?’
Andrew glanced hesitantly at his wife, who answered coolly for them both. ‘Shepherd’s pie. Followed by apple crumble. And cream. Oh, and coffee of course. With mints.’
‘A lot to cook after a long day at work.’
‘I like to cook. As you see.’ Kathryn nodded at the Aga, where the chicken was roasting in the oven. Potatoes were steaming on the side, sprouts ready drained in the sink. ‘I was just about to serve up. Unfortunately we can’t ask you to stay.’
‘Can anyone confirm this story?’ said Churchill, ignoring the hint. ‘Your other daughter, Miranda, perhaps? Where was she?’
A door opened at the back of Kathryn’s mind, and the terrible question crept in. Why wasn’t Miranda at home when I phoned? Three days after she left here?
‘In America,’ said Andrew, coming to the rescue again. ‘I drove her to Manchester airport myself, on Monday. Even watched her get on the plane, as it happens.’ He smiled with obvious relief. ‘So you won’t be bothering her, I hope.’
‘You don’t happen to remember the flight number, do you sir?’
‘I can tell you the time. 08.37, British Airways. Good enough?’
Churchill wrote it down. ‘We’ll check. After all, she had a motive too.’
‘A motive? So you’re saying one of us killed him, are you?’ Kathryn glared at the officious little detective, real hatred in her eyes. The threat was out in the open now. ‘Look, we’re glad to hear he’s dead, of course we are, both of us. That may not be Christian, but it’s true. That man killed our daughter, whatever the jury said, and he deserved to die. But that doesn’t mean we killed him. My husband and I were here together in this house and Miranda was thousands of miles away in America. So if he was murdered it must have been someone else. A nasty little sod like that must have dozens of enemies. Why don’t you go out and find them instead of wasting our time?’
‘We’re pursuing several lines of enquiries, madam.’
‘Are you? It doesn’t look like it. What makes you so sure it wasn’t an accident, anyway? Or suicide - he had enough to feel guilty about.’
Churchill put down his pen and looked at her carefully. ‘Well, for one thing, Mrs Walters, the post mortem. He didn’t just drive into that pit in the darkness, you see. He was drugged. We had the laboratory results today. And you’re a pharmacist, I believe.’
Kathryn shook her head slowly. She felt sick. ‘That’s a serious accusation.’
‘It’s a serious matter, Mrs Walters. I have a warrant here to search your pharmacy. So if you don’t mind, I must ask you for the keys.’
‘The keys to my business? What on earth for?’
‘As I say, Mr Kidd’s body was drugged, and we need to determine whether the drugs came from yo
ur pharmacy. We could do it now but it’s late and I imagine you’re tired. So if you give me the keys we can start in the morning. Don’t worry, you can hand out prescriptions while we search.’
This is nonsense, Kathryn thought. How could David Kidd have taken drugs from my pharmacy? Even if he did, how would he get up there in the woods, in a car? It doesn’t make sense. But if it’s got nothing to do with me, it can’t have anything to do with Miranda or Andrew either, can it? Stunned, she handed over her keys. ‘What about my partner, Cheryl Wolman?’
‘Someone’s calling on her at the moment.’ Churchill got his feet. ‘I’ve a warrant to search this house, too. We’ll begin straight away, if you don’t mind.’ He strolled out into the hall, pausing by a rack of coats, shoes and boots in the porch. He picked up a shoe, turning it over in his hand and peering at the sole. ‘This yours, is it?’
‘Well it’s obviously not my husband’s.’
Churchill nodded. ‘Size six, I see.’ He dropped the shoe and its pair into a plastic evidence bag. ‘If you stay down here with this officer, I’ll take a look upstairs.’ He waved casually at the Aga as he left the room. ‘Eat, if you want to. It’s going to be a long night.’
It was the shoes which upset Kathryn the most. They were a pair of black trainers which she wore sometimes for running or walking the dog. They were stronger, more waterproof than those she used in the gym. But the most important thing was how she had got them. They were a gift from Miranda. She’d seen her daughter with a pair like that and liked them so much that Miranda had bought her some for Christmas. She remembered them running together, mother and daughter dressed alike, a perfect match. They both took the same shoe size, six.
So why had the policeman taken them? Not to match with a shoe he’d found, surely - that wouldn’t make sense. So what else did shoes leave? Footprints! If he’d found a size six footprint matching those trainers in the woods near where Kidd had died then ... of course he would think it was her. Especially since she probably had been in those woods wearing those trainers with the dog some time in the past month - and she almost never cleaned them, so the bits of mud and leaves in the soles or trapped between the laces might easily be the same as those on the feet of whoever had killed him.
Someone else who hated him as much as she did. Well, there must be plenty of those. But not so many who wore size six trainers.
Why wasn’t Miranda at home in Wisconsin, four days after she’d left? What could she possibly have to do with drugs from my pharmacy?
For an hour she and Andrew sat silent together in the kitchen, watched by a young constable. Neither of them felt like eating, so she took the chicken out of the oven and put it in the warmer with the vegetables. When the police eventually left Andrew fumbled for the mobile in his pocket.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ll ring Carole now.’
‘What?’ Kathryn stared at him, dazed. ‘What are you talking about - ring Carole now?’
‘To tell her what story to tell. Don’t worry, she’ll do it for me. She does care, you know.’
‘You mean - it was you and Carole who did this? My God, Andy - how?’
‘Did what?’ He frowned, his fingers paused above the mobile.
‘Killed David, of course. Drowned him in that pit.’
For a moment, hope sang in her heart. Above the fear and horror she felt pride, that her faithless husband had done something for once, had cared enough about Shelley’s death to wreak the revenge she herself had failed to do. If his mistress had helped him, well at least for once she had done something good. But the frown on his face killed her hope.
‘Kill him? No, of course I didn’t, Kath. I thought you did. That’s why I told them I was here.’
Kathryn groaned. This nightmare was just getting worse. ‘You mean, you were with Carole that night, and you want her to lie and say you were here with me? Andrew, you idiot, you don’t think I actually killed him, do you?’
The lack of an instant answer made her want to laugh and scream at the same time. What was the matter with the man, to tangle things up so badly? But then, she scarcely understood him at all these days. ‘Oh Andy, don’t be so stupid, how could I possibly have drowned him in a pit in the woods? What am I - Superwoman?’
‘It’s not me who suspects you - it’s them.’ Andrew persisted stubbornly. ‘After all, you had a motive, you took my shotgun into York - and now they say he was drugged. What are they likely to find in your pharmacy, anyway?’
‘God knows. It’s been in the hands of that wretched locum for the past month. I’m still trying to sort out the mess. It would help if I knew what drug they were looking for.’
‘Yes, well, maybe you should phone Cheryl now, to let her know what’s happening. After all ...’ He looked at her carefully. ‘You were here that night, weren’t you?’
‘Of course I was. Andy, I didn’t kill him.’
‘That’s why you need an alibi. I’ll ring Carole now, before it’s too late.’ Holding his mobile, he walked out into the study.
Kathryn sat down, her heart beating wildly. So now I’m to be rescued by my husband’s mistress, she thought. Or more likely, convicted by her when this stupid alibi fails. But it’s too late now, and anyway, that’s not what matters, not really. What really matters is that policeman, and what he makes of that shoe. If it wasn’t me who killed David, who did? Andrew says he took Miranda to the airport and saw her get onto the plane. But what if she gave him the slip somehow - it’s not impossible, she’s run rings round her dad since she was eight. What if she didn’t get on that plane, and came back?
47. Arrest
THE SEARCH of the pharmacy went a long way to ruining Kathryn’s business. Neither she nor Cheryl Wolman, students together at Imperial College, London, had inherited or married wealth; they had saved and borrowed on their own, remortgaging their family homes when their children were small and the venture far from certain to succeed. They had worked hard, building up an appreciative clientele in a town not short of aggressive competition; and their efforts had paid off, making them prosperous and well respected amongst the discerning elderly population of Harrogate.
All this was threatened by the intrusive presence of four detectives inside next morning. By eleven the news was all over the town: those nice ladies at Walters and Wolman’s were being busted by the drug squad. Even people with no business at the chemist’s took a diversion down the street to see for themselves, and those who came at lunchtime were particularly rewarded to see computers and bags full of ledgers being carried out to a waiting van, while the pharmacists watched, white as sheets.
‘How long are you going to keep this stuff?’ Kathryn asked. ‘We can’t run a business without records.’
But Churchill was unsympathetic. This was a murder enquiry, he insisted; his warrant empowered him to impound any evidence he deemed relevant. To him, as he explained to Tracy and the rest of the team that morning, the situation already seemed quite clear. Kathryn Walters had both motive and means to dispose of David Kidd; now, as the evidence began to fall into place, it was clear that she had had the opportunity as well. A witness had seen a woman with Kidd getting into his car; a partial footprint found in the mud matched Kathryn’s trainer; and there were several packs of rohypnol unaccounted for in the pharmacy records as well.
The arrest came at six the next morning. Kathryn was in her dressing gown feeding the dog, when two cars drew up outside. Churchill got out, three other detectives behind him.
‘Kathryn Walters,’ he said. ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of David Kidd. You don’t have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’ He nodded at Tracy behind him. ‘This officer will stay with you while you get dressed. Is your husband at home?’
‘Yes. He’s still in bed.’
‘Well, he’d better get up, smartish. I want a word with him.’
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Tracy followed Kathryn upstairs, and Andrew came down, red-faced and blustering. ‘What the devil do you think you’re doing? It’s six o’clock, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Justice never sleeps,’ said Churchill smoothly. ‘Though you do, sir, it seems. At your mistress’s flat, most often.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t you? You told me that you spent the night of the 16th with your wife, a lie that she confirmed. We checked with your mistress Carole Robinson, who claimed that she was alone that night. The trouble is, sir, times being what they are, her apartment building has CCTV cameras installed to protect female residents from harm, and guess what? We checked the film of that night and who should we see on it but you, sir - arriving at seven in the evening and not leaving until eight the following morning.’
‘There must be a mistake ...’
‘Yes, sir. The mistake of a liar who got found out. But a mistake which gives you an alibi too, as it happens. You can hardly have been murdering Mr Kidd if you were rogering Miss Robinson in her flat all night, can you? The details of which she is probably confirming to a woman PC about now. I’m afraid your wife is coming with us.’
In the interview room Will Churchill sat with Tracy Litherland facing Kathryn and Lucy Parsons, the solicitor Sarah Newby had recommended, across the table. He switched on the tape, and repeated the caution. ‘Mrs Walters, on Thursday the body of a man, David Kidd, was recovered from a disused wartime drainage tank in woods two miles from your house. How do you feel about that?’
Kathryn glanced at Lucy Parsons, whom she had met for half an hour before the interview began. Say as little as possible, the lawyer had advised her. If you’re innocent, keep telling them that. If you don’t want to answer a question, say nothing. If you’re glad about Kidd’s death, don’t emphasize it.
‘Shocked, I suppose.’
‘Just shocked? You said you were glad yesterday, at your house.’
‘Yes, well. You and I both know he killed my daughter.’
