Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) Page 19

  ‘Find anything useful?’

  ‘One or two things. The dressing gown cord, obviously, we’ll send that for DNA testing. And then, it’s possible our lad didn’t wear gloves. Or not all the time, as the victim thought. There’s strong clear fingerprints - not in the bedroom, but on the garage window sill outside, where he parked his bike.’

  ‘What? How do you know he left the bike out there?’

  ‘It’s the obvious place. Between the kitchen door and the garage - there’s a little passage along the side of the house. It’s out of sight from the street, and that’s where the neighbour says he came out when she brought the kid home. He pushed past her just as she was going in.’

  Terry already had the description of the man the neighbour had seen. Six foot tall, quite strongly built, in a dark tracksuit, with a Scream mask hiding his face. Naturally she’d focussed on the mask; she’d screamed herself. He’d ridden away through the little wood towards the Knavesmire, and the SOCO team had found distinctive mountain bike tyre tracks on the path through the woods. Uniformed officers had been stopping cyclists and dog walkers on the Knavesmire all day, asking if anyone had noticed a man of that description hurrying away. No one had seen a man in a Scream mask, but Sergeant Tanner was able to explain why.

  He took a plastic evidence bag from the back of his van. Inside it, stained with leafmould and mud, was a plastic Scream face mask.

  ‘Olé!’ He grinned triumphantly at Terry. ‘Seems our lad didn’t fancy scaring half the population of York as he cycled away, so he dumped the mask in a ditch in the woods. A little kiddy brought it in this afternoon. So even though it’s pretty mucky from the ditch, chances are he’s left some DNA inside this somewhere, what with all the heavy breathing that must have been going on.’

  ‘And possibly fingerprints too,’ Jane said. ‘If you’re saying he put his gloves on at the last minute.’

  ‘That’s how it looks to me,’ Sergeant Tanner agreed. ‘He cycles up to the house all quiet and peaceful, obviously not wearing the mask so as not to draw attention to himself, and maybe not wearing latex gloves either because that looks weird too, not normal cycling kit. Then he parks his bike in the little passage beside the garage, steadies himself with a hand on the window sill, leaving three beautiful prints, and then he puts on his mask and gloves and bursts into the house. So yes, if a print on this mask matches those on the window sill, that ties the two together.’

  ‘And if they match Peter Barton’s,’ Jane said. ‘We’ve got him!’

  ‘Except,’ Terry pointed out gloomily. ‘We don’t know where he is.’

  28. On the Edge

  SARAH STOOD on the steps of York Crown Court, enjoying the light breeze which ruffled her hair and lifted the skirts of her gown. She had spent most of the day getting an eviction order against a surly youth who had been selling drugs from his council flat, attracting a steady stream of addicts into the building at all hours, playing loud music, and swearing at his neighbours when they complained. It had been a slow, tedious business, but as a civil case it paid Sarah’s own rent rather better than crime, so she was happy to take such work when she could.

  She walked around the court, filling her lungs with the crisp, cool afternoon air. It was nearly dusk, and just below her was the illuminated skating rink, where a steady flow of skaters swished around a tree decorated with Christmas lights in the middle. Her legs were still sore; there was a yellowing bruise on one buttock where she had fallen heavily. But she had enjoyed it all the same; she wondered if Michael had, and whether she would hear from him again.

  Que sera, sera, she told herself, crossing the road under the castle to her chambers. It was fun, and if it leads to anything more, well and good. If not, it still shows that even at my age I can - what does Emily call it? - pull a man for one date anyway. Why do they make the language so crude? Ah, well, it’s a basic urge - I guess they’re honest, that’s all.

  Swiftly suppressing thoughts of what Bob might be doing with Sonya later that night, she mounted the stairs to her room, and began a stream of phone calls she had to make before the end of the day. The first two were to solicitors for next week’s cases, the third to Lucy Sampson about the body found near Copmanthorpe.

  ‘So what did they say, Luce? Have they found anything more?’

  ‘Hard to say. They weren’t exactly keen to talk to me, surprise surprise. But they’ve completed the post mortem and are waiting for some bits of forensic evidence, apparently.’

  ‘What sort of forensic evidence?’

  ‘That they wouldn’t tell me. What they did say was that they’re 99% sure it’s Brenda Stokes, and that she suffered a pretty horrendous assault. Throttled with a silk scarf, skull crushed in several places, and her arm broken at the wrist. I think they wanted me to feel guilty for getting Jason Barnes released.’

  ‘No doubt. But is there any proof he did it?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘I kept asking that and they wouldn’t say. My guess is they’re asking themselves the same question. But if it was Jason he was a busy lad that night, must have been. Not only did he have a huge fight with her - crushing her skull and breaking her arm as well as throttling her with this scarf - but then he somehow managed to bury her under the ring road ...’

  ‘Was it being built at the time of the murder then?’

  ‘Yes, it was. Sorry, I should have said. I checked that too. The dates tally pretty well. The contractors were pouring concrete on that junction the summer Brenda disappeared. The police confirm that too.’

  ‘So what are they saying? Jason crushed her skull, broke her wrist, throttled her with a scarf and then drove her to the ring road to bury her body. All in one evening?’

  ‘That’s what they’ll say if they still claim it’s him. My guess is it’s going to be quite hard to prove. I mean, the car was found burnt out in Leeds by when? Five thirty wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, yes. So he would have had to have done all this before then. Seems unlikely to me. But they won’t give up easily. They’ve got their reputation to salvage, after all. They’ve got that retired superintendent Baxter in there. I heard him in the background.’

  ‘Charming man,’ said Sarah thoughtfully, kicking off her shoes and flexing her cramped toes under her desk. ‘What about our even more charming client, Luce? What does he make of all this?’

  ‘Ah, well, there’s a mystery,’ Lucy answered. ‘I rang that cousin Jason went to stay with after the appeal and guess what? He’s done a bunk. Left with no forwarding address.’

  ‘Great. When was this?’

  ‘The day after the TV news, when do you think? No one’s seen or heard from him since. The police’ll take that as a sign of guilt, won’t they, for sure.’

  ‘Obviously. But then if you’d been in prison for 18 years, and you thought they were coming after you again, what would you do? Whether you were guilty or not.’ Sarah sighed. ‘Okay, Lucy love, keep in touch. And thanks for the other thing, too.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You know, the name of the divorce specialist you sent me.’ Sarah spoke the words with distaste. ‘I’ll deal with that in the next few days, probably. Steel myself to give him a ring.’

  ‘He’s quite personable, I’m told. Sympathetic bedside manner.’

  ‘He probably needs one. I feel like biting someone’s head off every time I think about it. Which is highly unusual for me, as you know.’

  Lucy laughed. ‘You’re a pussycat, Sarah. Soft as silk. Got to rush, I’ve got a client at the door. Keep in touch.’

  ‘Bye.’ Sarah put the phone down and thought, that’s it for this week. Just these files to take home and prepare, ring Emily and Simon. And then, well, that’s it really. Watch TV, read a book. It’s a while since I did that. Maybe call in at Waterstone’s on the way home, choose something. Something long, light and frothy.

  The phone rang. She picked it up.

  ‘Is that Sarah?’ A man’s voice. ‘Michael Parker. Remember me?’<
br />
  ‘Oh yes. Yes, of course. Hi - hello.’

  ‘How’re you doing?’

  ‘Fine. I’m just finishing up for the week. How about you?’

  ‘Same here. End of the week. I was wondering, erm - you know that development I told you about, the barn conversions out on the moors towards Whitby?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’m going out there tomorrow and I just wondered if you might, er, like to come along. We could have lunch somewhere, stroll on the beach perhaps, and then on the way back I could show you my windmill. If you’re not doing anything else, that is.’

  Visiting Waterstone’s, Sarah thought. Checking the TV schedules. Wondering whether to sell the house. Preparing my files.

  Trying not to sound too eager, she said: ‘Yes, that would be nice. I’d love to.’

  ‘That’s it!’ Terry said jubilantly. ‘We have a match.’

  The fingerprints taken from the window sill on Lizzie Bolan’s garage matched Peter Barton’s perfectly. Sixteen points of similarity was the required standard; these reached that easily. Looking at the prints side by side on the computer screen, there was no room for doubt.

  ‘So it was him,’ Jane said, peering over his shoulder.

  ‘Yep. Not much chance of prints from the mask, unfortunately, but they reckon they can get a DNA trace, despite all the gunk from the ditch. So if - when - we catch him we should be able to tie him to that as well. So now the only question is, where is he?’

  It was a question that was proving frustratingly hard to answer. The more they probed, the more they found that his workmates’ analysis was true - Peter Barton was a loner. If he had any friends, no one knew who they were. They tried his school, but they got the same answer: he’d been a quiet, lonely boy with few social skills and no friends. Girls had shunned him, boys mostly steered clear. A few recalled his interest in military and survival skills, but it hadn’t been something he’d wanted to share. He’d joined the voluntary cadet force, but left after one term, not liking the discipline. He’d been a poor student in class, getting only two grade D GCSEs. For a while he’d worked in the school garden, but his interest faded after a row with the master in charge. ‘He was big, scarey, even then,’ the man told Jane. ‘Not someone you’d want to trade punches with. You felt he didn’t know his own strength. That’s what saved him from bullies, I think. He was a prime target, a slow learner, awkward, not good with words, physically unprepossessing. But you wouldn’t want to provoke him. It would be like poking a stick at a bear.’

  ‘How about girls?’ Jane asked. ‘Did he have any luck with them?’

  ‘I doubt it. I think they avoided him. Probably scared.’

  ‘Were there any incidents, any other trouble he was in?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. But it’s a long time ago, and we have so many boys.’

  ‘So you’ve no idea of where he might be hiding now?’

  ‘No, sorry. None.’

  The answer was the same whereever they asked. Peter had no friends, no-one knew where he was, or was much interested. He was a person people shunned. There was an air of menace, of unpredictability, which put people off. And it wasn’t as though he sought people out or tried to ingratiate himself with them. He seemed to enjoy being alone.

  The photofit of Peter was printed in the Evening Press, with a story saying that police needed to find him to eliminate him from their enquiries. But no leads came forward.

  ‘You know, it’s all very well mocking the lad for his interest in all this survival business,’ Jane said a week later. ‘But he’s doing a good job at the moment. It’s eight days since that assault on Lizzie Bolan and no one’s seen hide nor hair of the lad.’

  ‘Maybe he’s enjoying it,’ Terry suggested. ‘His big moment’s come at last. His photo in the paper, his crime described in detail. And he’s laughing, like bin Laden. The man whom no one can trace.’

  ‘He may not be in York at all,’ Jane said. ‘If I’d done a thing like that, I’d go to London, Birmingham, Glasgow - somewhere I could hide in the crowds.’

  Terry shook his head. ‘This lad doesn’t like crowds. People scare him, I guess cities do too. I doubt he’s travelled further than Leeds in his life. No, I reckon he’s still local, hiding somewhere he knows. Somewhere he’s been preparing for a while. Watching us hunt him. Waiting. For his next opportunity.’

  The BMW purred into Sarah’s drive at nine the next morning. During the night she’d had a brief fantasy of ringing to offer to take him pillion on her motorbike, but in the end she hadn’t dared. She had no spare helmet or leathers, and anyway she wasn’t certain she could manage the bike safely with a man’s weight behind her. The BMW seemed more inviting on a cold winter’s day.

  The farm development was more interesting than she’d expected. He showed her photos of the old farmhouse and crumbling stone barns which he’d bought a year ago. They looked like something abandoned after a war. Now, the three half finished dwellings were full of clean new wooden rafters, several ancient oak beams which had been salvaged from other sites, tiled kitchen floors, newly installed Agas, gravel drives and feature ponds. A lot of work had gone into finding old bricks and tiles that exactly matched the originals, and Michael was full of tales of his battles with planners, the Environment Agency, building inspectors, plumbers, electricians and tilers. The houses were half finished, but he had already sold one, and had glossy sales brochures prepared for the others. He gave her one. She glanced at the price and laughed.

  ‘I’d never afford this, Michael. Not in a million years.’

  ‘You never know. You can always dream.’

  They ate at a fish and chip restaurant overlooking the sea. He asked what she had been doing since they last met. She described her cases, and he listened sympathetically. Thinking it would interest him, she told him what Lucy had told her about the police deliberations since the discovery of Brenda Stokes’ body, and Jason Barnes’ disappearance. The police had released a photograph of a fragment of the silk scarf, and Sarah showed it to him in this morning’s Times. He peered at it and frowned.

  ‘I don’t see how that helps,’ he said. ‘I always thought Barnes was guilty. Let’s hope they catch him. It would be terrible if he killed someone else.’

  ‘You’re assuming he did it,’ Sarah said. ‘But the evidence seems to suggest ...’

  He lifted a hand. ‘I’m sorry. D’you mind if we talk about something else? Such a nice day, and murder, you know - it’s not really my thing. Let me show you where my dad taught me to scuba dive. Best beach on the east coast. I’ve loved this place since I was a kid.’

  After lunch they strolled along the beach and then drove back across the Wolds towards Pocklington. Just before the high chalk hills dipped towards the Vale of York, they turned down a narrow country road outside a village. After a couple of miles of twists and turns Michael sighed with satisfaction. ‘Here we are,’ he said. He turned left through a gate and drove slowly down an unmade road through a small wood of larch trees and birches. The track wound gently downhill for about a quarter of a mile, the car bouncing gently over potholes covered with a carpet of fallen leaves and pine needles. They turned a last corner and Michael stopped the car. He switched off the engine, turned to her, and smiled.

  ‘There. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s magnificent.’

  Twenty yards in front of them was a circular stone tower. It was about four stories high - at least twice the height of a normal house - and was built on a slight mound, which made it seem even higher. The tower was widest at the bottom, tapering towards the top, and had a number of small windows at different levels. At the height of the first floor a wooden balcony ran right around the tower. Further up, the weathered stone was capped with a small green roof with what looked like a smaller balcony round it. And just below the roof, on the right of the tower looking out over the valley, was a central hub, to which were attached four huge lattice work sails. They looked to Sarah like the
blades of an enormous propellor. Opposite them, on the side of the tower nearest the wood, was a smaller vertical propellor set at right angles to the roof.

  Her eyes were almost immediately drawn to the view beyond them which made it instantly clear why the windmill had been built in the position where it stood. They were on the western edge of the Wolds. Beyond the mound on which the windmill stood was a soft grassy slope about twenty or thirty yards wide, after which the ground simply disappeared. From where Sarah sat in the car it seemed to swoop away into nothingness - and beyond, far, far below, was a valley of villages and farmland extending to the western horizon, which was barred with rosy clouds behind which the sun was already beginning to sink.

  ‘Would you like a closer look?’ Michael asked.

  ‘Yes please.’

  They got out of the car and walked over to the tower. As they came closer Sarah saw that the sails, which had seemed so stunning on first appearance, looked rather tatty and in need of attention. But the front door was painted bright red, with a new brass door handle and letter box. A white van was parked nearer to the tower, and as Sarah watched, a man in white overalls took something out of the back and went in through the front door.

  ‘Is this really where you live, then?’ she asked.

  ‘It will be, as soon as those guys have finished tiling the bathroom. At the moment I’m living over there.’ He pointed to her left, and she saw a cottage that she hadn’t noticed before, behind the windmill on the edge of the woods. ‘That’s the miller’s house. Basic, but adequate. I’ll modernise that later, when the mill itself is finished..’

  ‘Didn’t the miller live in the mill, then?’

  ‘No, none of them did. They couldn’t because it was full of machinery. A windmill was a factory, really, for one man. But I’m changing all that. In the teeth of opposition from the conservationists, of course. Let me show you how it’s going.’