Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) Read online

  Whereas if he could spare the time to help the York police - quite voluntarily, of course, his public duty as a citizen - then the search of the car could be postponed to a later date. Before which he might have found time to tax and insure it, possibly even wash and valet it as well.

  Put like that, Gary found himself convinced. So now he stood on this dreary slip road outside York, looking for the place where Sean and Declan had discovered the hand. The two detectives assigned to this task were, in Gary’s view, distinctly unfriendly and not very bright. Nonetheless, a good report from them, it seemed, was his best chance of continuing as a permanent occupant of Sharon’s bed. So he did his best.

  After half an hour they found the fox. Or at least a fox - it was impossible to be sure it was the right one. But there it was, on the hard shoulder where, he remembered, Sharon had flung it a second after Sean had wrapped it round her neck, saying it was a fur scarf - there were even skid marks where a truck had braked to avoid the Orion as it swerved erratically during their hysterical argument.

  But if it was the right fox it was a lot worse for wear. Cars had flattened it, crows had pecked out its guts and eyes, and dust and insects were ruining the rest. Only the teeth still snarled, bitterly defying death. A detective snapped on latex gloves and gingerly lifted the thing by the gritty remains of its once glorious brush into an evidence bag.

  ‘Make some pathologist’s day, that will,’ he said morosely.

  ‘At least they get to work indoors,’ muttered his companion. He nodded at an ominous dark cloud looming in the west. ‘Let’s get this finished while we can.’

  Gary led them back along the slip road to the point where he thought the boys had originally found the animal. He wished they hadn’t, now, but who could foresee the future? If little Wayne’s bladder hadn’t been about to burst he’d be safe in Leeds now, instead of trudging towards the mother and father of all rainstorms with two miserable coppers ...

  ‘It was here,’ he said, picking a spot at random. ‘They hid behind that bush and sprang out at me. With the fox, and the hand.’

  A wagon roared past, the wind rocking the three men on their feet. ‘You let your kids play here?’ The detective gazed at him in disgust.

  ‘Not mine. Sharon’s,’ Gary said, as if that explained everything. Which it did, in a way. Even to the detectives, who shrugged and began a desultory search around the bush and the grass near the road.

  When that yielded nothing, except a few cigarette packets and coke cans, they glanced at the approaching storm and decided to retreat to the car until it had passed. They sat and ate sandwiches while rain lashed the windscreen and wind rocked the car. Gary, who had brought nothing, was given a crust and a packet of crisps. When the sky finally cleared the detectives put on rubber boots and squelched around in the long grass while Gary stood on the hard shoulder, shivering and bored. An hour’s search yielded nothing more significant than some windblown supermarket bags and a few rabbit holes.

  ‘What did you expect?’ Gary asked as they drove him back to the railway station. ‘A skeleton, hopping about? A bagful of bones?’

  ‘It’s not funny, son,’ one answered, leaning towards Gary with a face as blank as a killer whale. ‘That hand belonged to a person, a human like you and me. It didn’t just fall from the sky, as you and your kids - oh, sorry, Sharon’s kids, are they? - seem to think. It’s evidence, so we need to know where the rest of that evidence is - i.e. the body that hand came from. That person may be dead, a victim of an accident, or even murdered for all we know. Did that thought never occur to you, when you were letting your - I mean Sharon’s - kids use it like a toy? Never think of taking it to the police, did you?’

  He stared at Gary for a moment, waiting for an answer. Then he shook his head.

  ‘No, of course not. Never crossed your mind, did it, Gary old son? Well, not to worry. We know where to find you. So if that body turns up, and it turns out to be someone you knew, well, we may just invite you back to answer a few more questions. That ok with you, Gary, is it?’

  15. Michael Parker

  SARAH SPENT the following day with Emily, meeting some of her friends, and taking her shopping in town. They seldom agreed on style - Emily despised her mother’s weakness for designer labels as a sell-out to capitalism - but they did agree that Cambridge, with an icy east wind blasting across the fens from the North Sea, was one of the coldest places in the world. Sarah bought Emily some fingerless woolly mittens like those the market traders wore, and an Afghan sheepskin coat which the Irish salesman swore he had imported directly from a village in Tora Bora flattened by US marines. Neither of them totally believed him, but the warmth of the fleece around her neck, and the attractive ethnic embroidery, persuaded Emily to give him the benefit of the doubt. It really suited her, too.

  ‘Thanks, Mum,’ she said, hands thrust deep into the luxurious pockets as they battled the wind. ‘At least we were supporting small traders against monopoly superstores, even if he has kissed the Blarney stone too often.’

  ‘Take it as an early Christmas present,’ said Sarah. ‘I’ll know you’re warm now, not dying of some romantic chill as you crouch over your books in the library.’

  The mention of study made Emily frown. She had an essay due on Tuesday which she had scarcely begun. So on Sunday morning Sarah worked in her hotel room until midday. Then she met Emily for lunch and caught a train in mid afternoon.

  That went quite well, she thought, settling back into her seat and waving as Emily and the platform moved backwards. The train was full; even in first class most seats were taken. She unzipped her boots and was about to put her feet up on the seat opposite when a man came through the sliding doors. He surveyed the carriage for a moment, swaying slightly with the motion of the train. Then he glanced apologetically at Sarah.

  ‘Is this seat taken?’

  ‘No, it’s free.’ Regretfully, she pulled her feet back under the table, and watched as he slung his bag on the rack and sat down. He was tall, about her own age, clean shaven, with a pleasant lined face and dark hair greying at the temples. He wore a red and yellow anorak which he unzipped as he settled in his seat.

  ‘Not many seats,’ he said. ‘Parents going home after the weekend, I suppose.’

  ‘Probably.’ She gazed out of the window at the darkening fields, then picked up a folder from her briefcase. But she’d read most of it already this morning; she only needed to check a few points. She was aware of the man’s eyes watching her. ‘Is that what you’re doing then, too?’

  ‘Me?’ He seemed surprised and pleased that she’d asked him. ‘No - well, yes, in a way. I’m sorry, that sounds like a politician. I mean, I don’t have a child at the university, if that’s what you meant. I’ve been visiting my daughter - she’s at school here, in Cambridge.’

  ‘I see.’ It was a safe enough subject, Sarah thought. ‘At boarding school, then?’

  ‘No, she’s at the Perse - a day girl. She lives with her mother.’ The man hesitated, looking embarrassed. ‘We’re, um, you know, not together any more, you see. Hence my weekend visit.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ It’s happening everywhere, Sarah thought. ‘How old is your daughter?’

  ‘Thirteen. It’s a difficult age. She’s grown a foot in the past six months, cares passionately about her appearance, and her emotions are as stable as a mine field.’

  ‘I remember,’ Sarah smiled. ‘That was a difficult age with my daughter too. They grow out of it, as the hormones settle down.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Sometimes I wonder if it’s all because of me leaving home. But what can you do?’ He chewed on his lower lip, as though at some memory which haunted him. ‘What about your daughter? How old is she?’

  ‘Nineteen. An undergraduate at the university. Just as you guessed.’

  ‘Settling in well?’

  ‘Well enough.’ For the next few minutes Sarah talked about Emily - just the easy bits for public consumption - how well she’d done
in the sixth form, the anxieties of the Cambridge interview, the trauma of leaving your daughter in a strange city for the first time, the relief at seeing her make new friends. The man listened courteously, relaxed in his seat, giving her his full attention.

  ‘This is the first time you’ve visited her then? Since the start of term?’

  ‘Yes. Which shows how well she’s managing without us, I suppose.’

  Us, she reflected sadly. So little relevance that word had to her now. And how well would Emily manage now, really - now that there was no us any more? She studied the man opposite. Were those lines around his mouth caused by the pain of divorce, or some other battering life had given him? Perhaps she could milk him for advice.

  ‘How about your daughter?’ she asked. ‘Do you always come to her, or does she visit you sometimes?’

  ‘In York, you mean? That’s where I live. No. She came once, and didn’t like it. I’d made her a nice room - got her a music centre, you know, toys and wallpaper I thought she’d like, but it wasn’t any good. She has her social life in Cambridge, and that’s what matters to them at that age, isn’t it? So it’s easier if I just fit in.’

  ‘I see.’ Sarah probed gently. ‘You’re divorced, then?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’ He smiled - a rather winning smile, Sarah thought, doing interesting things to the lines around his eyes and mouth. ‘But there are compensations, I’m glad to say. Freedom, especially.’

  ‘Freedom?’ That scarey word again. All her life, Sarah had been part of a family. It was within that family - her own, since she was sixteen - that she had created her own space, the only freedom she knew. Now she was alone.

  ‘Yes, you know - at my time of life, to be free to come and go as you choose, do what you like, whenever you like. With whoever you choose.’ He smiled again. He had green eyes, she noticed - an unusual colour in a man. ‘It takes a bit of getting used to, but it’s worth having when you do. Believe me.’

  ‘Isn’t it very lonely?’ It was a bald, intimate question to ask a stranger, but Sarah really wanted to know.

  ‘Lonely? Well, sometimes, yes. But then there are so many people in the same boat these days that - well, you get to recognize each other. And seek mutual comfort.’

  Belatedly, Sarah saw that the conversation was leading her down an alley where she didn’t feel safe. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, retracing her steps. ‘It’s none of my business. What do you do, anyway, in York?’

  ‘Property developer.’

  Emily wouldn’t like that, Sarah thought. But then the man who sold her the Afghan coat is a capitalist too, of a sort. ‘What, you mean you build shopping malls, things like that?’

  ‘I wish. No, strictly small-time, I’m afraid. Most of the time I buy derelict houses and do them up for a profit. I did one housing estate, but it nearly drove me into an early grave. Property rental, as well. That brings in steady cash.’

  ‘Renting to students, you mean?’

  ‘Students, single people, families caught in a chain - anyone who needs it, really.’ He studied her for a minute. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Me? I’m a barrister.’ Sarah smiled faintly, wondering which of the many familiar responses this announcement would elicit. Most people, if they first met her away from court, were surprised; the stereotype of a barrister still seemed to be a middle aged man in a pinstriped suit. Some were intimidated, and backed away; others were embarrassed, as though it were not a nice job to mention in polite society. Others became aggressive, haranguing her with tales of their bad experiences with the law, and the excessive fees they had been charged. A few - the ones she liked - were intrigued or simply curious.

  ‘Really? How interesting! What sort of cases do you do?’

  ‘Criminal, mostly. I’ve just come from the Court of Appeal.’ It was a boast, but so what? She enjoyed saying it, and this man wouldn’t realise how much it meant.

  ‘Did you win?’

  ‘Yes.’ And before she knew it, she was describing the case, which had appeared in the Sunday papers this morning. He was a good listener, this stranger, and reasonably good looking too. As she talked, she remembered with sly amusement the advice Emily had offered the other night. ‘Make the most of yourself, Mum, tell people what you do, and how you got there. It’s interesting, and people like that. Bright men will, at least, unless they’re intimidated by an intelligent woman, and you don’t want that type anyway. You know, your eyes light up when you talk about your work - because you love it, I suppose. And you really look quite pretty at times.’

  A compliment of sorts, from a critical daughter. She wondered what she looked like now. The man seemed interested, certainly, those green eyes watching as she talked. But there was something wary, too in his expression - something he disliked about the story. Or was it her? She cut the tale short with a shrug.

  ‘And so that’s it. He’s free. To begin life again after 18 years, if he can.’

  The man looked out of the window - that’s not in Emily’s plan, surely? - and frowned

  ‘But was he really innocent, do you think?’

  Sarah sighed. So that was it. He must be one of those people who trust the police implicitly, so anyone who challenges them must be wrong. ‘That’s not my job to determine. The judges rejected his conviction as unsafe, which is what matters. So he’s a free man at last. Great triumph for me. And him. Not so good for the police, of course.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ He continued to gaze out of the window, as if the conversation was over. Thanks for the advice, Emily, Sarah thought wryly. But it doesn’t seem to work. Better stick to the day job.

  With an effort, the man turned back. ‘So, where did you stay, in Cambridge?’

  Oh well, perhaps he wanted to talk to her in spite of her job, rather than because of it. ‘At the Garden Court Hotel. What about you?’

  ‘Oh, at my old college, St John’s. I got a grotty room, but it’s cheap, and less anonymous than a hotel. Helps me remember my youth.’ He smiled again, briefly.

  ‘So you were a student there too?’

  ‘Yes, many years ago. It’s where I met my wife. Happy memories, you see. And sad ones too, of course.’

  Sarah felt sorry for him. Perhaps that was what he’d been thinking about while she was boasting about her triumph in court. If he’d suffered anything like the pain she’d suffered over the past few nights, he might well still be scarred by it. It occurred to her suddenly that this was the first divorced person she had actually met since that traumatic night with Bob.

  ‘How long have you been divorced?’ she asked.

  ‘Three years,’ he said sadly. ‘In some ways it seems like yesterday. Then when I look at Sandra - that’s my daughter - and compare her to the photos of when we were together I see how much I’ve missed.’

  Maybe I’m probing too much, Sarah thought. Especially in a chance encounter with a stranger. She gazed out of the window, remembering her own photo albums at home, and for a while they didn’t speak.

  ‘So what about your husband?’ he resumed, breaking the silence. ‘Does he come to Cambridge sometimes?’

  ‘Bob?’ A dry laugh, like a sob, escaped her. ‘No, I’m afraid not. He, er ...’ She drew a deep breath. ‘He came down that first time, to settle Emily in, but ... I’m sorry, you weren’t to know, but I ... I came to Cambridge partly to tell my daughter her father’s asking for a divorce. So you see I’m joining the club.’

  She fumbled for some tissues in her handbag. This is becoming a habit, she told herself grimly. But it’s my own fault, for starting to talk about it.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ She blew her nose and smiled brightly. ‘I’ll have to get used to this, I suppose.’

  ‘How did she take it, your daughter?’

  ‘Badly, at first. She thinks we’ll have to sell the house and she’ll lose her home. But you must remember what it’s like. It’s new to me, you see.’

  ‘Yes, well
, Kate didn’t sell the house. I just left, and started again. Your daughter’s how old?’

  ‘Nineteen.’

  ‘She’ll get over it. Young people do, you know. Youth has terrible resilience. Think back to when you were her age. Did you care, really, about what your parents got up to? I’ll bet you were more bound up in your own emotional traumas.’

  Sarah laughed. ‘You can say that again. But then my life was pretty traumatic.’ She looked up as the drinks trolley arrived. He ordered beer, she a small cocktail. Sarah smiled. This was a good way to travel; drinks, pleasant conversation with a good looking man. She leaned back in her seat and relaxed, watching some horses galloping in a field outside the window.

  ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Tell me. What were you like at nineteen? Committed to social justice, I’ll bet. Smashed out of your mind on dope and arguing with your parents about capitalist oppression.’

  ‘Hardly.’ Sarah smiled reflectively. ‘I was wheeling a buggy round a slum in Leeds and going to evening classes.’ For the next hour, as the light outside the window gradually faded to dusk, she told him the tale of her catastrophic teenage years. It was therapy for her, in a way. ‘So Bob was my white knight, you see. He rescued me from failure. Only now I’m such a success he’s lost interest, it seems. So he’s found another young mother to save.’

  The man listened with sympathy and interest. ‘It’s a great story,’ he said at last. ‘I’d no idea. I mean, I often make quick judgements about people but I’d never have guessed any of this.’

  ‘No? What would you have guessed?’

  ‘Oh, you know, working class girl makes good, goes to redbrick university, takes up the law to do what? Make money?’