Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) (36 page)

‘Often? No - very rarely.’ Something - either the questions or more likely Terry’s cold relentless stare - seemed to be getting under the man’s skin. He flushed, his initial bonhomie fading. ‘She was just a tenant, that’s all. She paid her rent on time, contacted Maggie occasionally about repairs, and ... got on with her life. Look, I’m sorry if that sounds callous. Her death is a tragedy, of course, a terrible thing, but we have about thirty tenants here, and three major building projects ongoing. It’s the tenants who cause me trouble who take up my time, not ladies who sit at home writing books. Not until they kill themselves, anyway.’

So he thinks it’s suicide as well, Terry thought. That
Evening Press
article has a lot to answer for.

‘Did she have any friends, do you know? Boyfriends, perhaps?’

The flush faded, to be replaced by a look of cold irritation. ‘Look, inspector whatever your name is, I don’t wish to be rude but I hardly see it as part of my role to pry into the private lives of my tenants. If they pay the rent, and keep the house clean and tidy, then that’s all I ask. This lady Alison Grey, she was a mature person and I’m sure she had friends and romantic attachments like everyone else. But how many and who they were, it’s none of my business to know.’

‘I understand,’ Terry said. ‘But she was murdered, you see. So we need to find out.’

‘Murdered?’ Michael Parker sat back, shocked, in his chair. ‘But ... that can’t be right. The
Evening Press
article said she was found hanged. I’ve got it somewhere ...’ He fumbled among the papers on his desk, found a newspaper cutting, stared at it numbly ‘I thought that meant ... suicide. Doesn’t it?’

‘No sir,’ Terry said briskly, ‘I’m afraid not. We did suspect suicide at first, when we spoke to the press. But after the post mortem, we’re treating this case as murder.’

‘But - how?’ The man had gone quite pale, Terry noted. Clearly this meant more to him than at first appeared. ‘I mean, what makes you think that?’

‘I’m not at liberty to go into details, sir, I’m afraid. But since this is a murder enquiry, I really do need to know what you can tell us about this lady’s friends and acquaintances.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ Michael Parker leaned forwards, his fingers nervously massaging his forehead. ‘Poor Alison. What an awful way to go.’ He rubbed his brow for a moment in silence, then looked up, meeting Terry’s eyes in surprise, as if he had forgotten he was there. ‘That was her name, wasn’t it?’ He forced a wry smile. ‘It’s surprising how news like this affects you, isn’t it? I’d quite convinced myself it was suicide, but this - it makes it all so much worse somehow. Though I don’t see why it should. I mean, a death is a death.’

‘Murder is a shocking thing,’ Terry said quietly.

‘Yes, yes it is. I mean, I didn’t know her well, as I said, but the fact is I was in this woman’s house only what? A day or so before she died. Talking to her quite normally. So of course I wondered why she’d hanged herself but somehow this - it’s a second shock.’

Terry studied him coolly, his senses on alert. ‘You were in the house, sir? When was this exactly?’

‘I’d have to check my diary.’ He pulled a small, handheld computer from his jacket pocket. ‘Yes, it was a Wednesday. Wednesday afternoon.’

‘And why was that?’

‘She’d rung Maggie to complain about a problem with the central heating. It wasn’t working properly, she said. So I went to check it out. I went all over the house bleeding the radiators and it worked much better. A simple thing but she’d been living in hot countries for years and had forgotten how they worked. She was very grateful. I thought I’d solved her problem.’

‘How long did you stay there, exactly?’

Michael hesitated, thinking deeply. ‘Oh, about an hour or so, maybe more. However long it takes to check the central heating and drink a cup of tea.’

‘So you talked to Alison, did you?’

‘Yes. She seemed quite happy. Especially when the house warmed up.’

‘What did you talk about, apart from the central heating?’

‘Oh, how her work was going - quite well, she said. How strange she found it living in England again after all the places she’d been.’

‘Did she say anything about her health?’

‘Her health? No, I don’t think so.’ He frowned, as if puzzled by the question. ‘Why, was there anything wrong with it?’

‘She’d been recently diagnosed with cancer.’

‘Really? How terrible. Poor woman, her luck was really out, wasn’t it?’

‘She said nothing about that to you?’

‘No, she didn’t. But that’s hardly surprising, is it? It’s not something you would discuss with ... just anyone.’

‘No,’ Terry agreed. ‘I suppose not. And you were just her landlord, were you? You didn’t have any other sort of relationship with her? A sexual relationship, perhaps?’

Terry watched the man closely as the implications of his question sank in. He faced Terry coolly, not moving a muscle. ‘No,’ he said simply. ‘Nothing like that.’

No strong reaction, no exaggerated protestations of innocence. Was he lying? Terry wondered. It was impossible to tell. Just a simple, blank denial. And those eyes staring at him coolly - the eyes of a man who understood the question, acknowledged it was reasonable, but had answered it and wanted to move on. Terry, however, was not quite ready to drop it just yet.

‘So you wouldn’t, for instance, have given her an expensive silk scarf?’

‘Scarf?’

‘Yes, sir. That’s what she was hanged with, didn’t you know? A Jacques Rocher silk scarf. I’m told they cost around £50.’

‘No, of course not. I never gave her anything.’ The face didn’t move a muscle, but was there the slightest flicker of shock, panic - something anyway - in the eyes? Terry let the silence build, waiting for a further response. To his surprise, none came.

‘Very well, sir, since you knew the lady, I have to ask you this. Where were you on that Friday night, 2nd December, from seven in the evening until three the following morning?’

‘That’s easy.’ Michael relaxed slightly, turning back to his handheld diary. ‘I was at a farmhouse development we have near Scarborough. There was a crisis there - I’d set up a meeting with the builders to sort things out. I was going to Cambridge next day so it was urgent. I set out from here at about two in the afternoon and was there all evening until about ten. Then I had a meal in Scarborough, walked on the beach for a while, and drove home.’

‘Getting home when?’ Terry asked, noting this down.

‘Oh, I don’t know, about one maybe - pretty late anyway, I know that. For heaven’s sake, you’re not treating me as a suspect, are you?’

‘Not at the moment, sir, no,’ said Terry blandly. ‘These builders, they can confirm you were with them, can they?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Terry noted down the names and phone numbers of the builders and the restaurant. ‘Thank you, sir. Now, since you were in the house, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come down to the station to give your fingerprints, if you wouldn’t mind. They’re bound to be all over the radiators, at least.’ He got to his feet.

For the first time Michael Parker let his irritation surface. ‘Does it have to be today? I really am busy, inspector!’

Terry studied him thoughtfully. Still the memory wouldn’t quite come. The man was less calm than he’d been a few moments ago, he noticed, sweating slightly under the veneer of assurance. Was it the question about the scarf, was that it? Or it is me? Perhaps he remembers where we met before, and is hoping I don’t?
Where was it?

‘As soon as possible, sir, if you don’t mind. If you’re busy now, this afternoon or this evening will do, or tomorrow morning at the latest. Just explain at the desk when you come. They’ll know what it’s about.’

‘What if I can’t make it by tomorrow morning?’

‘Then I’ll send a car to pick you up. That would be an awkward start to Christmas, sir, wouldn’t it?’

‘No need for threats, inspector. I’ll come. After all, the sooner you get this cleared up, the sooner I get the house back. Look at it that way.’

‘How do you mean, sir?’

‘Well, I
am
in the property business, you know. It’s a terrible tragedy about this woman’s death, but since she
is
dead, I’ll have to decide what to do with the house. Get a new tenant, or put it on the market, whatever. How much longer will you guys need it?’

‘It’s a crime scene, sir. I really couldn’t say.’

‘Well, give me a rough idea. A few days, maybe? A week? I can spare it over Christmas, but in the New Year ...’

‘I’ll let you know when we’re finished, sir. That’s all I can say.’ Terry turned back at the door. The mystery of their former meeting was still bothering him. ‘Do you have a family, sir, or children?’

‘No, I’m lucky. I’m divorced. Which spares me all the tantrums round the Christmas tree. Been there, done that, got the teeshirt. I’m visiting my mother, then off to France skiing for a few days. You should try it, inspector. No kids, no packdrill. Breath of fresh air.’

He smiled conspiratorially, and as he did so, the memory flooded back into Terry’s brain at last, as if a dam had burst. Of course! This was the man he had seen with Sarah Newby on the quay by the King’s Arms. He’d been jogging, and seen Sarah walking towards him with this man’s arm round her shoulder, her face looking up at him, flushed with laughter and excitement. Then she’d seen Terry and like a fool he’d stopped to talk, standing there puffing in his woolly hat and tracksuit, while she smiled at him happily.

With the memory came the emotions - rage, jealousy, embarrassment - which had flooded through his mind at the time. He’d deliberately suppressed the incident, locking it in a drawer in his mind, which was why he’d taken so long to recognize this man now, he supposed. No wonder I loathed him from the start, Terry thought, even before I remembered why.

That’s probably why he looked guilty just now. Nothing to do with this murder. He’s jealous of me just as I am of him.

And now the wretched man is boasting about being divorced, and going away skiing after Christmas. Leaving his kids with his ex-wife to care for, no doubt. If he had any. Terry thought grimly about his own efforts to organize Christmas for his two daughters. He’d had to arrange the whole thing around the demands of the duty roster. Trude was going home to Norway, Mary’s mother was coming over for the two nights of Christmas itself, and after that the girls were going to stay with Terry’s sister in Leeds - a visit virtually certain to end in tears.

But for all that, Terry thought, Christmas
matters
, particularly for family and kids. Particularly if those kids have lost their mother. You can’t just swan off skiing on your own. At least
I
can’t.

And then the second thought came. Maybe this man isn’t going on his own. Maybe he’s going with Sarah Newby. What if she’s left her family too? For a man like this!

The thought hurt, much more than it should.

After all, she was nothing to him.

‘Make sure you come in for those fingerprints today, sir,’ he said coldly, as he turned to go out. ‘Unless you want us to fetch you from the ski slopes in handcuffs, that is.’

Now there’s a thought.

He smiled grimly as he went down the stairs.

40. Grandmother

A
S CHRISTMAS approached Sarah’s workload, perversely, seemed to increase. She dealt with a residue of cases committed in summer, months ago. Court staff, huddled beside ancient, clanking radiators, tried crimes committed at seaside resorts and open-air swimming pools. Sarah led snuffling witnesses in scarves through evidence about events which occurred when they’d been wearing nothing but factor 30 and the briefest of beachwear.

She met Michael for a meal the week after Cambridge, and again for a trip to the theatre; but neither date ended in bed. She wasn’t sure whose decision this was - he seemed busy, polite, a little nervous. She wondered if it was her - if she had been unsatisfactory, somehow - but he seemed anxious for the relationship to continue.

‘It’s just ... I have moods,’ he said, when she challenged him about it. ‘It’s not you - I get these depressions sometimes. They soon go; I just ignore them. And I’ve been having a tough time at work. Being interviewed by the police didn’t help.’

‘The police? What do you mean?’

‘Oh, it was nothing really.’ He shook his head, as though pestered by some annoying thought that wouldn’t leave him. ‘Just that one of my tenants died - you may have read about it in the paper. A teacher called Alison Grey. I thought it was suicide at first - that’s what it said in the
Press -
but it seems they’re treating it as murder
.’

‘And they came to see you?’

‘Yes, well of course they did. I was her landlord, wasn’t I? Nice lady; I even talked to her two days before. It’s horrible to think of something like that. But I suppose in your work you meet it all the time.’ His eyes met Sarah’s briefly, then looked away. There was a hint of tears in them, almost. ‘Anyway, the police have a job to do, but it doesn’t help, does it? People dying on your property. That’s part of the reason I’m so grumpy, just now. All the same ...’ He reached across the table for her hand. ‘That weekend in Cambridge was so good, I don’t want to spoil it. I need a little space for a while, that’s all.’

Not the best response, Sarah thought, but what had she been expecting? She wasn’t sure; she had too little experience of such situations. Part of her - the physical, emotional part - longed for a repeat performance. Physical memories, the feel of him inside her, his hands on her breasts, her bottom, invaded her mind at the most inappropriate moments - when she was speaking in court, or talking to a solicitor on the phone. But the other part of Sarah - the rational, logical part - told her to back off. You’ll destroy yourself, her mind warned. You could throw away everything, career, respect, self-control, for a man you still know little about. If you can’t control what’s happening, don’t do it at all.

Nonetheless, she was disappointed, and wondered how long his depression would last. He was spending Christmas with his mother, she knew, and then skiing with friends in France. He’d asked Sarah to go; she’d considered it, but decided against. It was a step too soon, too far. She liked him, but not that much. She doubted if she could spend a fortnight with any man, just at present. And the risk of embarrassment was high. She had never learned to ski, so she imagined herself stumbling clumsily around the nursery slopes while he went off laughing with his friends, people she’d never met and might not like if she did.