Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) (48 page)

How’s he going to get out of the house?

From the downstairs loo window, the one the dead woman left open for her cat. That’s how he got in, that’s how he’ll get out.

Even as this thought came to him Constable Graham was turning the corner to the back of the house where the window was. And he saw what he should have seen earlier.

The window had been pushed up, wider than before.

Wide enough to let a man climb in.

Or out.

He stood there, hesitating. Had the man - or woman - already climbed out, and got away? He didn’t think so. There hadn’t been time, and anyway, the window looked out across open fields, and there was no one there. No one running, no one trying to hide. The intruder must still be inside.

What’s best to do, Constable Graham asked himself? Wait here until he comes out? Call for back up from the car? Or go in after him?

If I go to the car he may run off while I’m doing it. If he sees me waiting here he may smash a window and get out somewhere else. I could stay here all day, just waiting. That might be wise, but ...

Constable Graham’s blood was up. If the intruder was connected to the murder, this could be the most important arrest of his career. He decided to climb in through the window.

It was a small window and he was a big man. But it was hinged from the top, and if he pushed it right up there was room. He swung his feet through onto the toilet, then stepped down to the floor. He was straightening himself up, and moving into the house, when he heard a sound. It was only a small sound, just a click. But Constable Graham recognised it. It was a sound he heard every day. It was the sound of a Yale lock, being opened from inside.

The intruder was leaving by the front door.

Sarah went back into court for the afternoon, wondering if she’d made the right decision. The case she was involved in was a minor shoplifting one, but she was so absorbed in her thoughts that at one point the judge had to reprimand her. What is going on here? she thought. First I lose my husband, then my house, and now I’m involved in this crossfire between two men vieing for my favours. Except that I’ve already granted them to one to the extent that now I’m almost a hostage in his house.

What if Terry’s suspicions are right? Could Michael really have killed this woman Alison Grey? Why would he do it? The one thing Terry didn’t come up with in our conversation was a motive. After all what could that possibly be? A man doesn’t just go round killing women for no reason. Not unless he’s a psychopath. And Michael isn’t like that.

Is he?

No, of course not. He’s a charming, polite man - friendly, helpful, rather too neat, obsessive and controlling perhaps, but nobody’s perfect, not even me. I probably seem like some sort of messy disorganised tomboy to him, but he doesn’t complain, not all that much.

Why did Terry say that woman was naked? Because she’d been having a bath, he said. A bubble bath, apparently, they found traces of scented oils in the tub. So if she was killed by an intruder he broke in and surprised her while she was in the bath.

Yes, but what if it wasn’t an intruder? What if Terry’s right and she was killed by her lover who was in the house all the time - a man who knew she was in the bath, watched her, maybe even ran the water and poured the bath oil for her? She would have trusted him, felt safe, even happy to have him fussing around her. And then, what? He asks her to get out of the bath, holds up a towel for her perhaps, with a roll of tape in his pocket to wrap round her wrists when they’re dry - is that how it happened? Was the scarf already tied round the banisters, the chair in place in the hall? Did he prepare all this while she was relaxing comfortably in the bath?

Sarah shuddered as she tried to imagine it. She couldn’t quite make the details fit, the sequence slipped from moment to moment. Sometimes the man was naked, sometimes he was fully dressed. Sometimes the woman in the bath was nervous, other times she was unsuspecting and relaxed, enjoying the warm water, the cossetting, the comfort. But one thing was constant - the face of the man holding the towel, smiling as she stepped out of the bath. It was Michael.
He’d done the same thing for her.

This is nonsense, she told herself. Michael has no motive, concentrate on that. Why would he do such a thing? Surely he wouldn’t whip her, I can’t imagine that. Terry Bateson’s wrong, he has to be. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s got things wrong and it won’t be the last. He’s jealous, he’s just trying to scare me so I’ll run off to him instead. I could sleep on his sofa, didn’t he say? As if ...

Come on, Sarah, you’re a rational woman, a professional lawyer, focus on the facts, not the fantasies.

The snag is there are some important facts. Facts that require an explanation.

Fact 1. Michael knew this woman. He was her landlord and he’d visited her a couple of days before. His fingerprints are in the bedroom and bathroom as well as on the radiators.

Fact 2. On the night she was killed, he cancelled a date with me at short notice. Why? Because of a building crisis at Scarborough, he said. But couldn’t he have dealt with that next day? On the other hand he did go there. Terry said he’d checked.

Fact 3. Alison Grey was a student in York, at the same time as Michael. Well, what does that prove? Nothing, if they never met. But then there’s this other thing ...

Fact 4. Michael keeps a file in his study about the case of Brenda Stokes and Jason Barnes. I found it. And several times he’s asked me about Jason’s appeal. Why is that? Simple curiosity, or something deeper?

Sitting in her office that evening she turned over these facts in her mind. The one possible connection, she realised, was that all these people - Alison, Jason, Brenda and Michael - had been in York at the same time, 18 years ago. Michael admitted that he’d known Brenda slightly, and was convinced Jason was guilty of her murder. And Alison Grey would have known about this murder too, if she was a student at the university then. It would have been a big story.

But did she know Michael, or Jason, or Brenda? Sarah didn’t know.

She remembered how touchy Michael had been when she started to question him about these things the other night. Why was that?

What if Michael
had
met Alison in York when they were students, and was lying to Terry about his relationship with her now?

Sarah shook her head, bemused. Why would he do that?

She had no idea. Anyway, that didn’t make him a murderer, did it?

52. Gotcha!

T
HE DOWNSTAIRS loo was at the back of the house, in an extension built onto the kitchen. Community Constable George Graham stepped out of it into a utility room, with a washing machine and tumble dryer. From there he went directly into the kitchen. The click he had heard was very quiet; if there had been any background noise - the hum of traffic, a radio or TV playing - he wouldn’t have heard it. But out here in the country there was nothing. No tractors, no traffic, not even birdsong just then. His own footsteps, the breath in his lungs, sounded clear. So the intruder in the house would have heard him, for certain, as he scrambled clumsily through the window, breathing heavily and trying not to tear his trousers on the window catch. The intruder knew he was there anyway. He would have seen him drive up, fuss with the bird feeder, and walk round the house peering in the windows when he saw a movement inside. His thoughts would have mirrored Constable Graham’s. What’s he going to do now? Stay outside, call for help, or climb in? When George Graham started to haul his heavy body through the window, the listening intruder would have made his own decision. Time to go. So he’d clicked open the Yale lock and opened the front door.

The constable rushed into the kitchen, his boots slapping on the tiled floor. He dodged round the table, knocked over a chair, and hurried into the hall. It was a short, tiled hall, perhaps four yards long, and the front door hung open at the end of it. Outside the door, in the cold winter light, was a man in black tracksuit and trainers. A youngish man with long dark hair.

All this George Graham saw in the first second. But what surprised him, as he sprinted along the hall, was the young man’s hesitation. Instead of sprinting away down the drive, he turned to his left, out of sight. George thought,
why’s he going there?
A microsecond of thought, and the answer was plain.

He’s seen my car. With the keys still in it!

As he ran out of the front door a cry came from his chest. The fierce shout he intended came out like a groan - of horror and apprehension.
Don’t touch that car!
If he drives off in a state of the art Range Rover worth what - £30,000? - my career will be ruined. I’ll never live it down - George Graham the car salesman, stop me and get one free.

He turned the corner of the house and saw the nightmare happening. The man was in the driver’s seat, turning the ignition. The engine started. The constable sprinted up to the car just as the man reached out to pull the driver’s door shut. But George was there, his arm inside. The door slammed on his shoulder, hurting like hell, but it didn’t shut. With his other arm George wrenched it open, reached in, and grabbed the driver round the neck. At the same moment the man let the car into gear, and it lurched forward, dragging George off his feet.

Off his feet, but only for a moment. His legs took huge, lunging strides to keep up, while his arms refused to let go. George was a strong man, fit, he played rugby at weekends, he knew how to grip his man round the upper body and drag him to the ground, though not usually from a car. The young man fought back. He pushed his elbow into George’s neck, forcing his head back, so that his spine above his lungeing legs was arched like a bow. But the young man was half out of the car too. He pulled hard on the steering wheel to save himself, and at the same time his foot went down on the accelerator. The Range Rover leapt forward, in a long wild swerve to the right. Gravel sprayed in the air.

George lost his footing altogether; he felt his legs dragged backwards across the ground. Any moment now I’ll be under the wheels, he thought. But I’ll take this bastard with me. He had the young man by the neck, the hair, they were both leaning right out of the car, which turned faster, wheels on full lock, engine roaring ...

… and crunched straight into the wall of the house.

The impact threw George and the driver hard against the open driver’s door, which was wrenched off its hinges. They collapsed on the ground and lay there, stunned, a tangle of legs, arms and trunks. But George, luckily for him, had fallen on top of the young man, and he got his elbow across the wriggling youth’s throat and pressed his full body weight down. The face beneath him darkened with blood, eyes opened wide with fear.

‘Stay fucking still lad, you’re nicked!’

He kept up the pressure, just this side of throttling the boy, adjusting his weight to keep the lad pinned down. His own arms and legs, he was glad to find, still worked. When the resistance beneath him lessened he released the pressure from his elbow. The young man drew in deep, rasping breaths of air. George turned him roughly onto his face and jabbed his knees into the small of his back. He reached for the handcuffs at his belt, pulled the boy’s arms behind him and cuffed his wrists together. Then he looked at the car.

It was wrecked. Less than three months old and the bonnet and driver’s side wing were half their normal length, concertinaed like cardboard. The driver’s door hung off at a crazy angle. Air hissed from one of the tyres. The engine had stalled with the impact but the ignition lights were still on.

George got cautiously to his feet. He kept his right foot firmly in between the young man’s shoulders, pressing him flat into the gravel.

‘You stay right there, son,’ he said. ‘Don’t move a muscle.’

He reached into the car with his left hand for the radio microphone. To his delight, it still worked. He recognized the voice on the other end.

‘Dave,’ he said. ‘This is 791 George Graham. Backup required, Crockey Hill. I think I may have arrested a murder suspect.’

53. Holding Hands

W
HEN SARAH got back that evening Michael’s car was already there. She saw his light on in the study on the third floor of the windmill. She parked the bike, went into her house, and cooked herself some pasta and salad which she ate at the kitchen table while watching TV. Just as the ten o’clock news came on, there was a knock on the door. Before she could get up Michael opened it and looked in, a friendly smile on his face.

‘Mind if I come in?’

‘No ... I mean yes, of course. Just for a few minutes, that’s all.’

As he came in she got up nervously and took a glass out of a cupboard. ‘I was just going to have a whisky. Would you like one?’

‘Why not? Just what the doctor ordered.’

Sarah poured him a drink and they sat down opposite each at the kitchen table. He looks a lot less anxious than he ought to be, Sarah thought, if Terry’s theory has anything in it. But there can’t be, this is all nonsense, I wish I’d cut the wretched detective dead in the first place. Then I’d never have had coffee with him and he wouldn’t have planted this worm of doubt in my brain. I’d be calm and relaxed here with Michael instead of ... what?

Nervous. Angry. Afraid.

‘Cheers.’ She raised her glass. ‘Have a good day?’

‘Busy. A few complications. How about you?’

‘Oh. I got a shoplifter sent down for six months. Out in three. Total cost to the taxpayer - including legal aid, police time, prison accommodation and transport - of about fifty grand, at a guess. My good deed for the day.’

Michael winced. ‘Someone has to do it, I suppose.’

‘So they tell me.’ She smiled. ‘It pays the bills. Mine, at least.’

He sipped his drink, and looked at her thoughtfully. ‘You look tired.’

‘I am, a bit.’ She muted the TV and leaned back. ‘Early night.’

‘Good idea.’ He raised his glass, then looked pointedly at her rumpled work clothes. ‘The water’s hot. Why don’t you slip out of those while I run you a bath. I discovered a new massage oil in Fenwick’s today. Relieve your tensions, ease your troubles.’