Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) Page 2

  It was such a shocking cruel statement from husband to wife that she couldn’t quite believe she’d heard it at first. She stared at him, stunned. His face had assumed an expression she had seldom seen, but which fitted him perfectly, without effort. It was the face of a head teacher dealing with a difficult pupil, someone caught bringing drugs into school, perhaps. A bubble of laughter rose in her mind - did he see her as a naughty pupil, a schoolgirl who’d farted in assembly? She bit her lip to keep down the hysteria.

  ‘Better than me, you said?’

  ‘I mean it, Sarah. I think - we’ve changed.’

  ‘You said you want someone better than me?’ Her hysteria was changing to anger.

  ‘Someone who cooks meals for me, who has time for me, who talks to me when I get home from work, who doesn’t spend all day keeping druggies and lowlifes and murderers out of jail, yes! Someone who understands that running a large school isn’t some sort of rest cure but something difficult and challenging and worth doing well. Yes, I need someone like that.’

  ‘And I don’t do those things?’

  ‘You know perfectly well you don’t. Look at this, for example!’ He got up, scooped the curry into the bin, and dumped the plate in the sink. ‘Why do we eat this crap? Why don’t we have something decent for a change?’

  ‘You could go to Tesco if you want. They’re open all night. Get something different.’

  ‘I could go to Tesco! Not you?’

  ‘I’ve got work to do. Anyway, I’m happy with this.’ She indicated her food with her fork. ‘Bob, what do you mean, someone better?’

  She stared at him coolly, fear trickling down her spine. Fear, and a sort of misery she had hoped she’d never feel again. She’d felt it last year when Bob had taken up with his secretary, an ambitious young woman half his age who’d led him on for months before dumping him for someone younger. Sarah’s misery and humiliation had felt like a disease, a sort of rust inside her, as though her energy and confidence were being corroded from within. Sometimes she had felt like collapsing in despair, sometimes like exploding with anger.

  ‘Bob, are you having an affair?’

  The pause before he spoke was an answer in itself. He strode to the window, then turned back to face her.

  ‘It’s not an affair exactly. That sounds so cheap ...’

  ‘So you are!’

  ‘It’s more than that, Sarah. Let me explain...’

  ‘Explain? I don’t want your explanations, Bob! You’re cheating on me - again! That’s it, isn’t it? All this crap about meals and home cooking and having a little wife to darn your socks and listen to your troubles - you’re having an affair! Who is it this time? Another school secretary?’

  ‘We haven’t had sex yet, exactly, so it’s not really an affair. It’s ... different.’

  ‘Don’t patronise me, Bob Newby. Who is it this time?’

  The pain she felt was sudden and intense. Her fury did something to her chest that made it hard to breathe. She could cope with that, she knew, she always did. But the pain was a wound that had struck deep. It would never go away. It would be there for ever.

  ‘She ... was a supply teacher at my school. She has a couple of young kids. Their father left her. I ... she’s had a tough time. She needs my support.’

  ‘Her name, Bob.’

  ‘Sonya. She knows I’m talking to you, I promised her I would. Look, the point is, Sarah, I’m sorry, I haven’t started this very well, but I’ve had this on my mind for days, weeks even. I mean ...’

  ‘How long has this been going on?’

  ‘Since ... the start of this term, more or less. I mean, we’ve known each other for longer, but ...’

  ‘So when we took Emily down to Cambridge, you were thinking about her, were you? This - what’s her name? - Sonya. That’s who you rang from the restaurant.’

  ‘Yes, maybe, but - look, Sarah, the point is, I’m being honest with you, trying to face facts. And the really important fact is that we’ve changed, you and I. It started with Simon’s case and it hasn’t got better since. You know it as well as I do. We’re not the same people we once were.’

  ‘Nobody is, Bob. People change, they get older. They don’t all go off and have affairs, for Christ’s sake! With secretaries and supply teachers!’

  ‘It’s not like you to be a snob, Sarah. Just because Sonya’s a single parent. After all ...’ He didn’t need to remind Sarah of what she’d been like when they first met. A sixteen year old girl weeping on her desk in his evening class because her mother had insisted she put up her baby for adoption. A baby whose teenage father had left after nearly breaking her arm and giving her a black eye. A school dropout with no future, whose parents despised her. Sarah’s next step, had the lanky, idealistic young teacher not fallen in love with her, might have been to snatch her baby from the clutches of the Social Services and the adoption agency, and try to support him by earning money on the street corners of Leeds. Instead of which, here she was, with a successful career at the Bar, a luxury home in a country village by the river, two grown up children, her daughter a student at Cambridge ...

  And a husband who wanted someone better.

  ‘It’s not just an affair, it’s something more. Look, Sarah, we’ve grown apart, that’s all. It’s not so strange, it’s normal these days. Simon and Emily are grown up, they don’t need us like they did. We had what we had, Sarah, and it was good - twenty years is a long time to stay married, more than most people manage. But that doesn’t mean we should cling to the husk of a relationship when that’s all it is. Something whose time has passed.’

  ‘A husk? That’s what you call our marriage now - a husk?’

  ‘It’s just a way of describing it. The shell of a seed that has flowered and grown ...’

  ‘I know what a husk is, Bob.’

  They stared at each other, speechless for a moment. Sarah was oddly aware of the humming of the freezer in the silence. Keeping the ready meals cold.

  ‘And you feel something ... better ... for this Sonya, is that it?’

  ‘Better in the sense of more real, more alive, yes.’

  ‘Not a husk.’

  ‘No. I’m sorry, Sarah.’

  ‘Don’t!’ Her voice was sharp, like a whipcrack. ‘Don’t apologize to me, Bob! Not now, not ever! Don’t you dare demean us both like that.’ She drew a deep breath. The tears were there, not far behind, but something - shock or rage or both - was blocking them. The one thing she’d always been able to control was her voice. Speaking slowly, she relied on it now.

  ‘You came home tonight to tell me this, did you? Not that you wanted a decent meal but that you wanted to leave me. Is that what you’re saying?’

  He nodded slowly.

  ‘To live with this woman Sonya. You really mean that?’

  He nodded again.

  ‘It know it’s painful, Sarah, but it may be for the best. You know things haven’t really been right between us for a couple of years now. You can’t deny it, surely. You don’t want me, you want someone from the world you live in - some lawyer, policeman, someone like that. If we divorce, you could marry again. It’s not too late. Think of it as a difficult decision that has to be made. In a year from now it may look different.’

  ‘You’re not just leaving then, you want a divorce?’

  ‘It seems the best way. Then we’ll both be free.’

  The hypocrisy of this suddenly overwhelmed her. He was setting her free so he could go to this Sonya of his, with her home cooked meals and understanding! While she could do what? Live alone, look for someone else. For a second she felt an impulse to throw something at him - a plate, a cup, a saucepan - or rush upstairs and shred all his clothes with scissors, throw paint over his Volvo. But the essence of Sarah’s character, the one thing that had brought her success, was ferocious determination and titanium self-control. She might not be physically strong, but there was little that could break her. And much as she hated to admit it, part of her - the cool analytic
al brain she relied on in court - saw some truth in Bob’s words. She didn’t really love him as she once had - she tolerated him like an old skirt or jacket too comfortable to throw away, but which, when examined critically in the mirror, was no longer fashionable or a even particularly good fit.

  But it was one thing to throw away a jacket, quite another when the jacket rejected you. With a huge effort she controlled her rage and spoke. Her voice was husky with tears that must come - but not yet! Not until he’s gone and can’t see me.

  ‘If that’s how you see it, Bob, then I think you should go. Now, tonight, straight away. Go to this Sonya of yours and tell her I sent you.’

  He looked shocked. Whatever response he’d expected, this wasn’t the one.

  ‘Only promise me one thing, Bob, will you - for all the years we’ve had together. When she throws you out, as she probably will one day, don’t come crawling back to me. Don’t demean yourself like that.’

  3. Jason Barnes

  ‘SO YOU threw him out, just like that?’

  The solicitor, Lucy Parsons, settled back in her seat opposite Sarah Newby, as their train pulled out of York station. A comfortable, round woman with a vast fund of Yorkshire shrewdness, Lucy had spotted the signs of strain when Sarah arrived at the station. Her skin looked pale and lined, the bounce was gone from her normal brisk stride. She’d explained as the train came in, heaving her bag into the first class carriage with a defiant shrug.

  ‘Bob’s having an affair. I told him to leave.’

  Lucy gazed at her friend with concern. She was one of Sarah’s closest friends and colleagues. She had been the first to entrust her with a steady stream of cases without which a young barrister becomes simply a highly qualified member of the unemployed. When they first met, Sarah had just completed her pupillage. As an ‘elderly’ novice in her mid thirties, she was exactly the type whom many solicitors avoided. But Lucy had seen something in the clear hazel eyes and determined face that others had missed. This one’s like me, she’d thought. She deserves a chance, at least.

  So she’d sent her a few cases and her trust had been amply repaid. Lucy’s clients began to experience an unexpected run of success. Sarah’s sharp eye for detail and incisive courtroom manner left lying witnesses exposed and badly prepared counsel humiliated. The two women - Lucy short, cheery, and circular, Sarah slender, smart and brisk - began to appear regularly around the courts in York, Leeds and the North-East. Their cases became more challenging, their successes more satisfying. Two years ago their relationship had been tested in the fire of Sarah’s controversial defence of her own son, a case which Lucy feared might end her friend’s career for good, in a blaze of tabloid publicity and professional disapproval. But they had come out stronger than ever.

  Since then they had prospered. Lucy was now a partner in a firm of solicitors in Leeds, and thus able to send a stream of increasingly complex - and lucrative - criminal cases Sarah’s way. Hence now, these first class seats, an extravagance they would once have shunned. The comparative comfort made it easier for them to spread out their papers in relative privacy.

  But Lucy had no intention of starting work without hearing the full story of Sarah’s quarrel with Bob. Sarah gazed out of the window for a while, as the train picked up speed. Then she turned back to Lucy. Her smile was strained, she wore more makeup around the eyes than usual. The sharp lift of her chin, though, was as defiant as ever.

  ‘Well, yes. I told him to get out, and leave me to mourn in peace. Which he did, somewhat to my surprise. Perhaps it’s me, I look fiercer than I feel.’

  Sarah attempted an ironic, self-deprecating smile. It worked quite well for a second. Then an unwanted, renegade tear trickled out of the corner of her eye. She stared out of the window, and fumbled for a tissue in her bag.

  ‘And this happened when?’

  ‘Monday. Two days ago.’

  ‘And you haven’t heard from him since?’

  ‘He sent me a text - for Christ’s sake - to say he’d be seeing a lawyer about the divorce, and when could he come round for his clothes?’

  ‘Did you answer?’

  ‘I sent him one word - Wednesday. Today, while we’re in London. Anything left when I get back is going to Oxfam. Every last sock.’

  ‘I’d have done that already. Or cut off the sleeves and shredded his Y-fronts.’

  A faint smile crossed Sarah’s face. ‘I was tempted, Lucy, believe me. But I’ve had enough publicity. I didn’t want to end up in the News of the World. Again.’

  Their eyes met, remembering the press pack that had pursued them up the steps of York’s Crown Court every day of her son’s trial. Sarah shook her head slowly.

  ‘I’d no idea of the depths of rage it would rouse. My hands shake when I think of him. It’s the betrayal, Lucy. After all these years. The callous self-centred betrayal.’

  Her voice, usually so controlled, shook slightly. She attempted another smile.

  ‘So I’m a free woman, for the first time in my life. Or about to be. Kids gone, no pets, now no husband either. It’s a new experience. I’ll have to learn to enjoy it.’

  It was true, Lucy realised. Sarah had left school at fifteen to have a baby, been married and divorced within a year. She’d married Bob and had her second child, Emily, the year after that. While her contemporaries had been finding their independence, Sarah had been battling with the relentless details of motherhood - nappies, ear infections, vaccinations – and simultaneously struggling to catch up with the studies she had missed - GCSEs, A levels, university, finally the Bar exams and Inns of Court School that had qualified her, in her early thirties, as a barrister.

  Supported all the way by her faithful husband Bob.

  ‘Were there no signs?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘Well, yes, looking back, of course there were signs. For a start, when he believed Simon was guilty, remember? That was hard.’

  Simon was Sarah’s son by her first husband, Kevin - a randy little gamecock of a lad who had got her pregnant, married her, and lived with her for a year before punching her in the face and running off with an older woman. Bob had tried to be a good stepfather to the boy, but had had little success. Simon hated school and teachers. When he dropped out of school to work on building sites, Bob washed his hands of him. Since Simon’s friends were thugs and petty criminals, Bob was shocked but not surprised when his girlfriend was found dead and the lad was charged with her murder. While Sarah had fiercely defended her son, Bob had urged her to stand back and let the law take its course.

  ‘We never really recovered from that,’ Sarah said ruefully. ‘It’s not the sort of thing you can easily forgive or forget. And then of course, there was his affair with that wretched Stephanie. I should have slung him out then, looking back on it. Only he looked so hurt and pathetic when she dumped him. I thought he’d learned his lesson. And after all, I wasn’t entirely free of blame.’

  ‘Terry Bateson, you mean?’ Lucy raised an eyebrow quizzically. She had often wondered about Sarah and the handsome, widowed detective. There was a certain chemistry between them; maybe Bob had seen that too.

  ‘Mm. There was a moment ... but if I’d let it go further, who knows where we’d be now? My reputation in the trashcan, I suppose, for starters.’

  Lucy smiled. Despite the shocks Sarah had endured in her life, her attitudes could be surprisingly conventional. But she had learned early how harshly the world could condemn.

  ‘That was then, this is now. He’s a widower, Sarah. Needs someone to look after him.’

  ‘With two little girls who’ll soon be teenagers. You think I’m looking for that sort of burden? Anyway, I don’t need a man, Lucy, do I? Look at all the trouble they cause. This is our time, the women’s century - you read about it in all the papers. It’s men who find loneliness difficult, not women. Look here, I read it yesterday.’

  She pulled a newspaper clipping from her briefcase and thrust it across the table. It looked odd, Lucy thought. Sarah usually kept
her papers clean and neat; this was folded and crumpled, as though it had got wet and been dried.

  ‘See? I’m bang up to date.’ She smiled brightly and stared out of the window while Lucy read quickly. Men, the feminist writer suggested, were surplus to female requirements. Happiness meant independence and freedom. ‘The trouble is,’ she continued as Lucy looked up. ‘It may take a while to get used to. But then, there’s always work to keep me going.’

  ‘Yes. Including this,’ Lucy said, looking at the bundle of papers on the table between them. ‘The appeal of Jason Barnes.’

  For the next two hours they worked diligently through the case they were travelling to London to present. It was an exciting opportunity - their first case before the Court of Criminal Appeal. It had come to Lucy out of age and desperation. Jason Barnes had been convicted of murder 18 years ago, and his original appeal had been dismissed. Despite that, Barnes had stubbornly persisted in maintaining his innocence, making it impossible for him to be released on parole. His original legal team had retired, holding out little hope of success. And so the case had come to Lucy, the newest partner in her firm, no one else expressing any interest.

  Jason Barnes had been convicted of the murder of a girl called Brenda Stokes, a student at York university. Brenda had been 20, Jason a year older. It was an unusual case because Brenda’s body had never been never found. But she was last seen driving away from a party in a car with Jason. Jason had been quite drunk and aggressive at the party, and Brenda had a reputation for being promiscuous.

  When Brenda’s flatmate reported her missing the police interviewed Jason, who claimed he’d dropped her off near her lodgings in Bishopthorpe. They saw some scratches on his face which he said were caused by a fight with a cat. They asked whose car he’d been driving. ‘My mate’s,’ he said. ‘He lent it to me for the night.’ He gave the name of a friend who’d initially lied to support him. The police had examined the friend’s car and found nothing suspicious.

  But unfortunately for Jason, he’d knocked over a motorbike in the university car park as he left the party. When the owner saw him, he’d laughed and given him the finger. The furious owner had noted the car’s number and told the police. It matched, not the car Jason said he’d been driving, but a stolen car which had been found torched near Jason’s house in Leeds, that same night.