Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) Page 17

  ‘Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Baxter said irritably. ‘He left the party at the uni, drove her down here to get his leg over, and when she turned him down he lost his rag and smacked her over the head with the torch. Then he flung the torch away, dragged her into the car, drove along the A64 to Copmanthorpe where they were building the ring road, and buried her in a ditch hoping she’d be concreted over next day. Which she was. All but her hand, that is.’

  ‘Which didn’t turn up for eighteen years,’ Jane said. ‘Almost the perfect crime.’

  ‘Except,’ Baxter pointed out, ‘that he boasted about it in jail to Brian Winnick.’ He fixed Terry with a grim stare. ‘And the jury, who unlike the sodding court of appeal actually saw Winnick cross-examined in front of them, believed him. Just as they disbelieved Jason Barnes. So why that verdict isn’t allowed to stand, I’m at a loss to say.’

  Because you bribed Winnick to lie in court, Terry thought. You dropped the drug-dealing charges against him in return for an invented story that sent a man to prison for 18 years. You didn’t have enough evidence to prove your case, so you manufactured some. And now you’ve been found out.

  But he didn’t bother to say it. There was no point. Over the past few days he and Jane Carter had read through the files of the original investigation and the transcript of the appeal in London. He’d seen, with pain and admiration, how Sarah Newby had shredded Baxter’s reputation, and left him with a retirement full of bitterness and shame instead of pride and contentment. The conviction of Jason Barnes, in a case where the body had never been found, had quite probably been the highlight of this man’s career. Now Barnes walked free, while his captor was reviled.

  It was harsh, Terry thought. Thirty years service in protection of the community, trashed in a moment. But Baxter deserved it. If he’d bullied, cut corners and cheated in this case, he’d probably done it before, many times. It was people like him who got the police a bad name.

  And Sarah Newby, of all people, had exposed him. But that’s what she’s like, Terry told himself grimly. Turns people’s lives upside down. All well and good, if they deserve it, like Baxter. But what if they don’t?

  And what if the man’s right after all?

  ‘I still think he’s guilty,’ Bob Baxter said firmly. ‘Whatever those judges say, sitting on their arses in court. I knew the lad, I interviewed him, stared into his eyes. Believe me, he’s a killer, he did it. And now we’ve found the body, at last, it’s your job to prove it.’

  Later that week, Terry had a conference with his boss, DCI Will Churchill. Churchill had just returned from his management training course, brimfull of new ideas. ‘We’re way behind the times here, Terence, way behind the times,’ he announced, bustling into Terry’s office and using the version of his name that he knew Terry hated. ‘New technology, slicker management, mini systems and micro peer review. That’s the way forward!’

  One of the advances, Terry noted wryly, appeared to be sartorial. Churchill was wearing a soft new woollen suit, exquisitely tailored to flatter his short, slightly pudgy physique. Underneath it was an expensive shirt with cufflinks and a gaudy silk tie. He noticed Terry looking at it and smoothed it with his fingers proudly.

  ‘Smart, don’t you think? We had a few hours in town, and I thought why not? Appearances matter these days, and good clothes last a lifetime. Ought to try it yourself, Terence old lad,’ he said, with a pitying glance at Terry’s worn, double-breasted suit, which hung loosely on his lean body like an ancient tracksuit. Terry had an uncomfortable feeling that traces of scrambled egg, the result of a collision with Jessica in the kitchen this morning, might be visible on his sleeve. Maybe that’s why Sarah Newby’s not interested in me.

  Churchill smiled. ‘Just say the word, and I’ll mention you to Nigel, my tailor. Only too delighted. Now, how far have you got with this case of the girl under the motorway, eh? Have we got enough evidence to put her killer back behind bars?’

  ‘Jason Barnes, you mean?’

  ‘That’s the man. Who else?’

  Terry shook his head slowly. ‘Hardly. Given the evidence we have so far. Nothing much fits.’

  Will Churchill’s face darkened. He strolled to the window moodily, lifting the blind to peer out a pair of young female constables crossing the car park. ‘Really? Why not?’

  ‘Well sir, you were at the appeal, so you probably know this. Barnes was originally convicted on the grounds that he drove her to Landing Lane by the river, attempted to rape her, bashed her head in with the torch, and then disposed of the body somewhere. Either in the river or a slurry pit.’

  ‘Yes, well we know it wasn’t a slurry pit now. It was under the ring road. In a trench just about to be concreted over.’

  ‘Which proves that the evidence of this informer - what was his name, Brian Winnick - was a lie, just as Barnes said it was,’ Terry said. ‘Robert Baxter suborned him.’

  ‘Yes, well, maybe.’ Churchill turned back from the window, frowning. ‘Doesn’t mean Barnes didn’t do it though, does it? Maybe he’s the one who buried her.’

  ‘There’s no real evidence that it was him, though, is there?’ Terry insisted. ‘No more than before anyway. I mean, we can’t even say for certain how she died. There are the crush injuries to her skull, which could possibly have been caused by this torch, I suppose. But they could have been caused by anything - a stone, a brick, whatever - and we don’t even know for certain it was those injuries that killed her. Maybe she was throttled by that silk scarf, and her skull was damaged later, when he buried her in the trench.’

  ‘Or maybe he throttled her with the scarf and then bashed her skull in with the torch to make sure. I don’t see that it matters all that much.’ Churchill began to count off points with the fingers of his left hand. ‘The real point, Terence, is that Barnes was the last person seen with her, right? He admits they had a quarrel and he tried to rape her. His fingerprint was found in blood on the torch. He set fire to the car afterwards to hide the evidence. He had ample opportunity to get rid of her body in the middle of the night. Copmanthorpe is on the way to Leeds. And he was a nasty little shite with a record of violence. So, he probably did it.’

  ‘Which is exactly what Bob Baxter thought,’ Terry said wearily. ‘So when he realised he hadn’t got quite enough evidence, he asked his tame informer to manufacture some.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Will Churchill sighed. He didn’t like Bob Baxter, but the memory of the man’s humiliation in court by Sarah Newby needled him. He’d give a lot to put that bitch in her place. ‘But he didn’t have the body. We have.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but what does it tell us? We know she was throttled and her skull crushed, but not in which order. We also know her right wrist was broken - how did that happen?’ Terry shook his head. ‘Questions, but no answers. And to add to that, we have her in four separate locations that night, all quite different.’ He pointed to a map on the wall, which he had illustrated with pins. ‘Firstly, a student party at Goodricke College on campus, here. She’s seen driving away from there with Jason Barnes at about 1.45 a.m. Next thing, Landing Lane in Fulford where the torch was found. It’s about five minutes’ drive from the party so let’s say they arrive about 1.50. How long are they there? We don’t know. Anywhere between five minutes and half an hour for a row to develop when she refuses to have sex with him ...’

  ‘More like five minutes, I should think,’ Churchill said smartly. He met Terry’s eyes and grinned conspiratorially. ‘I mean, with kids that age.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Terry turned back to the map. ‘Anyway, sometime about 4 a.m. a nurse, Amanda Carr, sees a girl in school uniform walking down Naburn Lane, near the old Maternity Hospital. Just here.’ Terry pointed to a small flag on the map. ‘She only catches a fleeting glimpse of the girl, and when she tells the police later they take no notice.’ Terry sighed. ‘But what if was Brenda she saw? That would mean she was still alive nearly two hours after Jason Barnes claims she flounced off into the night. A
nd Jason was in Leeds, torching the car he’d nicked.’

  ‘If it was her,’ Will Churchill said. ‘Bob Baxter never believed it was.’

  ‘Quite,’ Terry said contemptuously. ‘So he failed to disclose it to the defence.’

  ‘Which was wrong, obviously,’ Churchill agreed. ‘But standards were different back then. We’ve improved. You may sneer, but we have. And to be fair to the man, he had his reasons. He was convinced this Amanda - what’s her name? Carr - was a fantasist, longing to see her name in print. She may have seen no one, just a shadow in the moonlight, anything. She’d been to a party, she was drunk, should never have been driving in the first place ...’

  ‘Even so ...’

  ‘Baxter should have disclosed it, agreed. But he didn’t because he thought the girl was a nutter. Which she probably was - I saw her in the witness box, remember? Our QC made mincemeat of her.’

  ‘Nonetheless, Mrs Newby won the appeal.’

  ‘Quite. On a technicality, in my view.’ Will Churchill sucked his teeth, as he’d tasted something bitter. ‘Even if this Amanda woman was telling the truth, how does that help us?’

  ‘Well.’ Terry traced a route across the map. ‘Brenda lived in Bishopthorpe, so she was probably trying to walk home. She could have crossed the river at Naburn by the old railway bridge. So somewhere between the Designer Outlet - where the Maternity Hospital used to be - and her home, someone must have picked her up and killed her.’

  Churchill studied Terry pityingly. ‘Who exactly? We know one lad’s tried to rape her, but instead of going after him, you’re suggesting someone else, some unknown psychopath from Mars maybe, just happened along that road a while later, sees the girl, picks her up, throttles her with a scarf, breaks her wrist, bashes her head in, and buries her in a trench by the ring road near Copmanthorpe? Just like that? Come on, Terence, get a grip. Why would anyone do that?’

  ‘Who knows? All I’m saying is, it might have been someone else who killed her. Not Jason.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just saying it’s a possibility we shouldn’t dismiss.’

  Churchill sighed. ‘Look at the map, Terence, and consider the facts. Two right turns from Landing Lane, and Jason could be on that same road himself.’

  ‘Not after 4 a.m., surely,’ Terry insisted. ‘That would mean he’d hung about for nearly an hour an a half. Why would he do that?’

  ‘Looking for the girl, perhaps. We know he did that, he says so himself. Stumbled around with the torch, that’s his story ...’

  ‘After he’d hit her with it?’ Terry asked. ‘With those cracks in her skull? Surely she’d be unconscious.’

  ‘Which is why, Terence, I don’t believe the evidence of this nurse.’ Churchill moved nearer, deliberately invading Terry’s space, and stared directly into his eyes. ‘If you believe her, I grant you, Jason would have been pushed for time. But if what she says is just some drunken fantasy, then everything falls back into place. Jason tried to rape her, and when she fought back he killed her. With the torch, or with the scarf, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is he’s got a dead girl on his hands, and plenty of time to hide her body. He had time, motive and opportunity. He was actually on the scene, he existed, unlike your wandering psychopath from Mars. And then he lied about dumping her body in a slurry pit, to take the piss out of friend Baxter and put him off the track.’

  Terry nodded. ‘True. But all that was the original prosecution case. It wasn’t strong enough then, which was why our friend Baxter manufactured a false confession, to strengthen it.’

  ‘If it was false, yes.’ Will Churchill’s eyes met Terry’s. ‘This Winnick was a crackhead, a lowlife, just like Jason Barnes. Maybe young Jason did spin him a tale in prison, telling him everything that happened except where he’d buried the body. Then Winnick told the truth in court, but decided to lie to his lawyer before he died, to get his own back on Baxter. Ever thought of that?’

  Churchill grinned, looking pleased with himself. Terry shook his head slowly.

  ‘The Court of Appeal decided otherwise.’

  ‘I know that - I was there! With that fancy knickers Newby woman smirking all over her face.’ Churchill paced across the room irritably. ‘Well, they didn’t have the body, and we do. So now we can find out who really committed this crime, and bring him to justice. And if it turns out to be Jason Barnes after all, I for one will be delighted.’

  Terry frowned. ‘Even if it is him, sir, we can’t prosecute him again, can we? Not twice, for the same crime - that’s double jeopardy, surely.’

  A grin of pure, superior delight crossed Will Churchill’s face. He put a hand on Terry’s shoulder. ‘That’s what I love about you, Terence. Always a step behind the times. Our beloved former Prime Minister altered that - didn’t you notice? In cases where there’s exceptional new evidence, double jeopardy no longer applies. The first case came up a few months ago; this could be the second.’ He strode to the door.

  ‘What I’d like - what I’d really like - is for this department, just once, to be vindicated, and see that Newby woman stand up in court with egg on her face, admitting she’s wrong. It would help that poor bastard Bob Baxter, too - show that his life chasing villains wasn’t wasted.’ He smiled. ‘So go out and find the evidence, Terence, why don’t you?’

  26. Mask and Mirror

  THE CALL came in the early afternoon. A woman had made a 999 call from a house on the Bishopthorpe road. An area car was on its way but DI Terry Bateson had asked to be informed immediately of any reported assaults on women, and this sounded like one. Within minutes he had set out. DS Jane Carter sat in the car beside him.

  The house was on an estate between the Bishopthorpe Road and the A64. It was a pleasant area - several large Edwardian villas, and plenty of smaller modern detached houses with their own gardens and integral garages. The call had come from one of these. It was at the end of the street near a small area of woodland, lovingly preserved by the Woodland Trust. There were footpaths where local residents walked their dogs and children rode bikes. On the far side of the woods was the Knavesmire, York’s racecourse, which was also traversed by footpaths and cycletracks.

  The front garden contained a few shrubs, a silver birch tree and a drive just wide enough for an ambulance, which stood there now. A small crowd of people who looked like neighbours stood nearby. Terry and Jane pushed past them and went into the house.

  Inside, the paramedics were talking to a white-faced young woman in a dressing gown. She sat with her arms round a two-year-old boy, perched on the edge of the sofa in her living room. Her hair was tousled, her eyes huge and terrified. Her hands trembled as she clung to her child, and her voice shook as she spoke.

  ‘He didn’t touch him. He didn’t touch you, Davy, did he? It’s all right. The nasty man’s gone now. You’re all right darling, you’re safe.’

  The boy looked as shocked as his mother. At first it was hard to see his face because it was buried in her chest, his hands clinging tight around her neck. But a female paramedic was talking to him softly, gently touching his arm, and once or twice he looked round swiftly to check who she was, before turning back for comfort to his mother.

  ‘What’s happened here?’ Terry asked a constable from the area car.

  ‘Burglary, sir, it seems, and attempted rape. We’re not too sure of the details yet, but the woman was surprised by a masked intruder in her bedroom. He tried to assault her but she fought back, I believe, and then he was disturbed by a neighbour bringing the child back from playschool. He rode off on a bike in the direction of the Knavesmire. We’ve got cars out there searching for him now.’

  ‘My God,’ Terry said softly. ‘No wonder she’s shocked. Where’s this neighbour?’

  The neighbour, Muriel Jarrett, looked as shocked as the mother. She confirmed that she had picked up little Davy with her own daughter as she often did. When she’d brought him into the house she’d heard banging and screaming upstairs. Then a
man had run downstairs past her and out of the back door. She hadn’t seen his face - it was covered by a mask which scared her rigid. She’d seen him get on a bike and cycle away, through the woods towards the Knavesmire. She’d followed little Davy upstairs to find his mother shaking and trembling on her bed, with her dressing gown loosely pulled round her and a pair of hairdressing scissors in her hand.

  Leaving Jane with the victim, Terry went upstairs. In the main bedroom was a pine double bed, with elaborately carved wooden headboard and posts at the foot. The duvet was twisted and rumpled, hanging half off the bed. There was a damp towel on the floor, and an overpowering sweet musky smell. After a moment he realised this was coming from a dark stain on the wallpaper near the door. Under the stain, on the floor, was a smashed perfume spray. The bedroom carpet was littered with several other feminine items - a jar of moisturising cream, a silver-backed hairbrush, a broken vase. A small jewel case lay in the middle of the floor with rings and necklaces spilling out it. There was a pair of running shoes too, one by the bed, one near the door as if it had just been flung there.

  The bedroom window looked out across the garden to the woods, where a squirrel was scurrying up a tree. Looking back into the room Terry caught sight of himself in a full length wall mirror. Beside the mirror was a washbasket with a pair of jogging pants hanging over the edge. On the other side was a door leading to an ensuite bathroom whose floor was still wet, as if someone had been taking a shower. The top drawer of the chest of drawers was open, and female underwear spilled over the side.

  He was about to leave when he noticed something half-hidden under the rumpled duvet. It looked like a rope of some kind. He pulled the duvet back carefully and saw it was a pink dressing gown cord.

  Terry went downstairs to where Jane was talking to the woman. She wore a long loose pink dressing gown, he saw, clutched around her waist where the cord was missing. The paramedics were insisting she go to hospital, and Jane wanted to accompany her. To the crucial question: ‘Did he rape you, love?’ the woman vehemently shook her head, but she was still so clearly in shock that she could scarcely speak.