Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) Read online

  His mother had seemed angry, but not surprised, that the police had arrested her son. If he’d been molesting girls, she said, that was what all young men did, wasn’t it? There was no real harm in the lad. If he’d had a pair of female knickers in his pocket, what did that prove? Probably the police had planted them on him, to make things look worse.

  ‘But they were identical to the ones stolen from Mrs Whitley in Naburn,’ Jane said. ‘Same size, same design, same everything. She’d just washed them, so there’s no DNA trace, but - where else did they come from?’

  Next day she arranged an identity parade. A uniformed inspector supervised the parade, but Jane Carter and Terry Bateson came to watch. The first to go was Sally McFee, the yoga-practising housewife. She seemed to have dressed for the occasion. She wore a smart navy blue trouser suit and heels, with an expensive gold crucifix round her neck. Her hair and make-up were immaculate, and a light musky scent floated around her as she walked nervously into the room. As if she’s put all her warpaint on to protect her from the grime of real life, Terry thought.

  The grime stood behind the one way window. A line of eight young men in various stages of fashionable dishevelment. Four had longish hair, three short, one had his head shaven altogether. It’s the fashion, the inspector told the defending solicitor apologetically, you’re lucky to find anyone with hair at all nowadays. Each man faced the glass holding a card with a number on it. Peter Barton was number seven, second from the end.

  Sally McFee walked slowly along the row twice, as she had been told. She looked long at Peter Barton, then at a shorter boy with curly hair. But she didn’t seem satisfied. She walked along the line again before stopping in front of the shorter boy.

  ‘It might be him,’ she said. ‘None are exactly right but he’s the closest.’

  The inspector bowed politely and showed her out. He returned with Melanie Thorpe, the jogger who had been pestered about her underwear. She wore jeans, teeshirt, and leather jacket, but seemed more nervous than Sally McFee. She turned her back to the window.

  ‘They can see me,’ she said, ‘that one’s staring at me.’

  ‘It’s just an illusion, love,’ the inspector assured her. ‘He can’t see a thing. Wave at them if you like, or stick your tongue out. It won’t make any difference.’

  Reassured, she walked slowly along the line. She paused in front of Peter Barton, moved on, then came back for a second look. ‘Can you ask him to say something, please?’

  ‘What would like him to say?’

  ‘Ask him to say “You look sweaty. Are you hot?”. Is that possible?’

  ‘It is.’ The inspector spoke into a microphone, and after a moment’s awkward pause, Peter Barton spoke the words. They came out surly, reluctant, like a teenager obeying a teacher. But it convinced Melanie Thorpe.

  ‘That’s him,’ she said. ‘That’s the cyclist who pestered me.’

  ‘Sure of that, are you?’

  ‘Quite sure.’ She smiled in triumph, as though she had passed a test, and turned to Jane Carter. ‘Was it you that caught him? Well done. What’ll happen to him now?’

  ‘We charge him,’ Jane said. ‘Then it’s up to the court.’

  Peter Barton was charged with the theft of a pair of knickers, two cases of assault, one of indecent exposure and one of actual bodily harm - the result of a small bruise on Julie Thompson’s left breast. The charge of assault against Melanie Thorpe was justified by her claim that his behaviour had put her in fear of imminent attack, even though he hadn’t actually touched her.

  Melanie had been shown Peter’s bike. It looked like her assailant’s, she confirmed. The hunting knives from his bedroom were like the one she had seen on his belt.

  ‘And that’s about it,’ Jane said to Terry reluctantly. Peter’s fingerprints and a DNA sample were taken, and he was released on police bail. ‘With luck he’ll get probation, which may teach him to behave. But if not, we’ll know where to look next time.’

  ‘Good work,’ Terry said. ‘You may have nipped this in the bud.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ Jane said. ‘OK, he may be just a sad harmless moron in search of a girlfriend, but what about those knives in his bedroom? I didn’t like that. And the smirk on his face when I asked about those stolen knickers? I bet he’s got more hidden somewhere.’

  ‘What if he has? It’s hardly the crime of the century.’

  ‘Not yet it isn’t, no. But what if he takes it further next time? He needs locking up now. But the courts won’t do it, will they?’

  22. Body Search

  WILL CHURCHILL had detailed thirty officers to search the scrub near the ring road. The announcement did not make him popular; the weather was cold and the opportunity of spending all day crawling on hands and knees through frozen grass, pizza cartons and coke cans did not appeal to everyone. Churchill himself did not have time to supervise the search. He had an important meeting at police HQ in Northallerton, on investigative procedures. ‘But I’ll be there to kick things off,’ he told Terry Bateson breezily. ‘Point things in the right direction, motivate the troops. Then I can leave it in your capable hands, Terence, I’m sure. Make sure there aren’t too many cock-ups.’

  It wasn’t the first time, Terry thought gloomily, and it wouldn’t be the last. Will Churchill’s distaste for routine spadework - which was what this threatened to be - was only matched by his energy in claiming the results of any success that spadework might bring. No doubt he would be boasting to the Chief Constable in Northallerton about his energy in setting up this investigation, even while Terry was knee deep in mud.

  But then where would I rather be, Terry asked himself sternly, as the day dawned bright and clear. Out in the fresh air, or in some meeting in an overheated office? That’s the difference between Churchill and me. Why he’ll reach the top and I won’t.

  Enthusiasm revived as the party clambered out of their minibus, their breath steaming in the frosty air. They stamped their feet and clapped their gloved hands together for warmth as they gathered for instructions. Will Churchill parked his Porsche on the hard shoulder and bounced out to give his speech.

  ‘Good morning, lads and lasses,’ he began, ‘and thanks for coming. I know it’s cold, but you’ve got an important task ahead of you today.’ He noted the envious glances at his car with satisfaction, before continuing.

  ‘Now, for the benefit of those of you who missed my PowerPoint presentation on Monday,’ he grinned. ‘A human hand was found in this vicinity a few weeks ago. It was the hand of a young woman, and it was found in the jaws of a fox which was killed on this slip road. So the probability is that the rest of her body, or parts of it, at any rate, are in this area. So that’s what we’re looking for, team. It may be a whole body, or just a few bones; it could be on the surface, or buried underground. Not a nice task, I know, but a necessary one. DI Bateson will be in charge, and keep in close contact with me as and when necessary. And I’ve ordered hot bacon sarnies at eleven, so you’ve that to look forward to. Double for anyone who finds her - if he’s still got an appetite, that is. Right then - that’s it. Sooner started, sooner done. Chop chop, then, lads! Let’s go!’

  As the Porsche drove away, the line spread out under Terry’s more detailed direction. There were a few murmurs, but most of them were used to Churchill’s behaviour and resigned to it. They began to move slowly through the area, quartering each inch of ground. There was a lot of long grass, small trees and bushes. They found surprising amounts of litter, some dog shit, dead birds, the skeleton of a cat, several used needles and a couple of deep frozen condoms, but no body.

  Time passed. They were blowing on their hands and glancing eagerly down the road for the promised sandwich van when a young woman constable at the end of the line almost fell into a fox hole.

  ‘Careful there, Lindy,’ her friend said, ‘you’ll end up in Narnia.’

  ‘This is what we’re looking for, though, isn’t it?’ Lindy said, testing her ankle to see if she
’d sprained it. ‘If the fox was down here, the body might be down here too.’

  Terry Bateson agreed, and after refreshing themselves with bacon sarnies and coffee a group were given picks and spades to excavate the foxhole. The earth was hard and frozen on the surface, but soft as they got further down. They were digging just under the bridge linking the A64 to the ring road. A few feet away was the dual carriageway, whose traffic thundered constantly beside them. After half an hour they were three feet down, and had found nothing. Their spades jarred on the concrete foundations of the bridge.

  ‘We’ll get nothing here,’ one of them said, wiping his sweating brow with a muddy glove. This is just rabbit skulls and shit. Nothing human.’

  ‘Dig a bit deeper,’ Terry insisted. ‘We need to be sure.’

  ‘You’ll dig to bloody Australia if you need to, young man,’ a voice growled behind him. The retired superintendent, Robert Baxter, had turned up at ten on Churchill’s invitation, and begun treating the operation as if he was in charge. But the old man was right to crack the whip, Terry thought; half of these young constables were treating this as a joke.

  Ten minutes later they found it. Not a whole body, not yet - just an arm. Or rather, the bones of an arm. Broken bones, as far as Terry - squatting in the bottom of the hole and brushing away the soil like an archaeologist - could make out. Bones that might possibly have been chewed. But even to a layman, they didn’t like those of a fox or a sheep. Too big, too long and straight.

  The bones were protruding from concrete. If there was a body there it was buried under the foundations of the bridge, Terry thought. And what is that going to cost to get out? Nonetheless, he turned in triumph to Robert Baxter squatting beside him.

  ‘I think this is it, sir. We’ve found your missing girl at last.’

  23. First Date

  SARAH STOOD in front of the mirror in her bedroom. She was wearing the silk camisole she had bought in Cambridge. It suits me, she thought, pulling her stomach in and turning sideways to study the effect. Not that anyone else is going to see it but me. Probably.

  Definitely. She frowned sternly at her reflection, which only a moment before had sent her a secret, mischievous smile. Definitely not; not yet anyway. But it was nice, in a way, to entertain even the thought of such mischief. She was going out on a date with a man - Michael Parker, the stranger she had met in the train. It made her feel young and giggly, like - well, like what, exactly? Like a schoolgirl, a teenager, a girl in her twenties? For Sarah, none of these really fitted: she’d scarcely had this experience of dating before. Once briefly, as a schoolgirl, with Kevin, a first date which had swiftly led to the loss of her knickers, her innocence, and her school career in the back of his father’s Ford Cortina; and then later, again briefly, with Bob, when she was seventeen and already a mother, with more interest in nappies, colic, social workers, and evening classes than romance. Her desire to marry Bob had been based far more on a longing for a home and security than for sex. Sex, after all, was what had betrayed her so disastrously with Kevin.

  Nonetheless, just the thought of Kevin strutting towards her made her feel damp and weak at the knees, as no man had since. Sarah smiled, smoothing her hands down the silk camisole as she remembered their bedroom in that council house in Seacroft. They’d had nothing then, except a baby; just wooden floorboards, a mattress, and a rail to hang their clothes on; yet when baby Simon was asleep, a red candle and their two lustful bodies had made that bare room seem like a cave in the Arabian Nights. Whereas here ...

  She sat at the ornate dressing table Bob had bought her four birthdays ago and looked around her bedroom. King-sized bed, woollen carpet, fitted wardrobe, recessed lighting, full-length mirror, ensuite bathroom with power shower and heated towel rail. They’d even discussed whether to install a jacuzzi in the ensuite or a hot tub in the garden. All the luxury she could need.

  And no husband. Well, so now I can go out on a date. She glanced at the clock on her side of the bed - the whole bed was hers now - and saw she had twenty minutes before Michael was due to arrive. Time for decisions. It mattered what impression she gave. She laid a skirt and jacket on her bed; it suited her figure, she knew, but ... maybe too formal, for an evening meal? It reminded her too much of case conferences, parents’ evenings, interviews with clients. A dress? That would be more feminine, but the ones she liked were light, and the weather was too cold.

  She opted for a smart grey trouser suit and a frilly pink blouse over the camisole. Formal, but feminine as well. Her hips were slim enough for the suit and the blouse displayed her cleavage quite well. She leaned forward at the dressing table, studying her face as she did her make-up. Not a bad face, she thought, though hardly a young girl any more. There were little wrinkles around the corners of her eyes and her mouth - wrinkles that would only deepen, she supposed, with age. But her skin was clear, and her bone structure good - one decent thing I inherited from my mother, she thought wryly. She lifted her chin, wondering whether to hide her neck with a scarf, but decided there was no need.

  It’s a perfectly adequate face, she told herself firmly, brushing her dark hair. Anyway, he had two hours to look at it on the train; if he didn’t like what he saw he wouldn’t have asked me out on a date.

  It was that word - date - that kept troubling her. Simon had seemed deeply amused when, somewhat shyly, she’d told him, and she’d been puzzling about it ever since. Well, it was a date, wasn’t it? A man had asked her out for a meal. The problem was, how to deal with it. She’d been married so long, she hadn’t learnt the skills. It wasn’t that she hadn’t had admirers - there’d been Terry Bateson, for example, the detective whom Emily had teased her about. He’d come closest to Kevin in arousing her desire, and she was almost certain - well, she was certain - that he fancied her too. But Terry had always known she was married, and so that night at Savendra’s wedding when they had danced and so nearly gone further had been entangled, for her at least, with so much guilt and anger and betrayal that she scarcely knew what she was doing. If they had carried on, their relationship would have had to have been hidden, an explosive, guilty secret which, if it had been discovered, could easily have destroyed both her career and his.

  And since nothing came between Sarah and her career, she had backed off. Attractive as Terry Bateson undoubtedly was.

  But then, so was this Michael Parker. Tall, handsome, broad-shouldered - she remembered the way his face had crinkled when he smiled on the train. Lines like that were all right in a man - it made him look experienced, mature, worldly wise. He was an adult like her, with no ties. So there was no need for guilt or deceit. Bob’s empty closets, the fact that she was alone in this house, were proof enough of that.

  She put on her shoes, went downstairs, and checked the locks on the windows and back door. She’d become more careful about that since Simon’s warning. After he’d left she’d been washing up in her kitchen when she’d seen a man, a jogger, running along the riverside path in the field at the foot of her garden. The man had stopped at the stile by the willow tree, and stood there for three or four minutes. He’d drunk something from a bottle, but he’d been there quite a while, staring at the backs of the houses. She’d even wondered if he’d noticed her, standing at the sink with the light on. It had been an uncomfortable feeling, like a centipede crawling up her neck - the fear that he might guess she was here alone, slept here alone all night ...

  The doorbell rang and she started, then relaxed. No need to worry now, of course not - this was her date! She went to the front door and opened it.

  The restaurant he had chosen - an expensive Indian one on the quay overlooking the river Ouse - was one Sarah knew and liked. She wondered if any of her colleagues would see her there and what she should say if they did. It doesn’t matter, she told herself firmly. I’m not deceiving anyone - I’m free to do what I like. It’s Bob who should provide the explanations.

  Michael picked her up at 7.30, in a smart new BMW with only 8,000 miles on th
e clock. The engine purred, the leather seats creaked when she leaned back. He wore chinos, a blue woollen blazer over a light fawn polo-necked jumper, and a camel hair coat. It looked good, Sarah thought, and went with the car, and yet ... it was not quite the sort of looks she was used to. Too casual, too cool perhaps?

  Oh stop being fussy, woman, she told herself sternly. Relax and enjoy yourself.

  He parked in the Castle car park near the court. It had rained during the day, but the skies had cleared and the temperature fallen. There was a sickle moon and a few bright stars in the sky.

  ‘There’ll be frost before morning,’ Michael said. ‘Fog too, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘You’ll be warm enough in that car.’

  ‘Yep. That’s why I bought it. As a hot water bottle with wheels.’

  Sarah laughed. ‘A hot water bottle that does 160 miles per hour.’

  ‘Oh no, that’s illegal. Only duvets can go that fast.’

  They laughed together. Not the greatest jokes in the world, perhaps, but something to break the ice. There was an ice-rink too, she saw suddenly, looking to her left - a real floodlit ice rink under the old Norman castle, between the Castle Museum and the law courts. She’d noticed them erecting it the other day when she was in court, but this was the first time she’d seen it in action.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘I’ve got to see this. We’ve got time, haven’t we?’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘I booked for nine, so we’ve got a while yet. Why not?’

  They stood side by side in the crowd, mesmerised like everyone else by the skaters swishing round in front of them. One or two were clearly expert, turning, pirouetting and even dancing arm in arm - but most tottered along uneasily trying to keep their balance. A teenage boy attempted a turn right in front of them. He almost made it, grinning proudly, then staggered backwards, arms flailing, and crashed on his bum.