‘If you say so. Yes.’
Terry sighed with relief. That’s it then, he thought. I’ve done it. God knows what will come of this in the future but for the moment, this woman can go home. And if I play my cards carefully that’s all it will ever be; I’ll have made some small atonement at least for the terrible wrong she’s suffered. That she suffered because of me.
‘Very well. Kathryn Walters, I am charging you with threatening behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace. Details of this charge will be forwarded to the Crown Prosecution Service. In the meantime I am impounding this shotgun as evidence, and I advise you to stay well away from David Kidd, however you may feel about him. That’s it. Interview terminated at ten forty seven.’ He switched off the tape. ‘I’ll type up your statement and when you’ve signed it you’ll be free to go.’
‘That’s all?’ Kathryn said in astonishment. ‘I can go home?’
‘When you’ve signed your statement, yes. If you plead guilty the most likely outcome is either a fine, a caution, or both. Do you have any previous convictions?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Well then.’ He leaned forward across the table, his eyes looking directly into hers, trying to look as stern and intimidating as he could
. ‘Don’t do it again
, Kathryn, that’s my advice to you. You may not be so lucky next time. Go home, and don’t let me catch you anywhere near David Kidd again, okay?’
Kathryn stared at him in bemusement. ‘But you know what happened ...’
Terry took the papers and got to his feet. ‘Not another word, okay? Or I’ll be charging you with wasting police time.’ He glanced at Sarah, wondering if it would ever be possible to explain this to her. Probably not; certainly not now. But maybe she’ll appreciate the justice of what I’m doing, even if she doesn’t understand exactly why. He picked up the shotgun and left the room.
Sarah watched him go, shaking her head in surprise.
33. Mother’s little helpers
Kathryn came home from the police station to an empty house. Andrew, she assumed, was with his mistress Carole. She’d thought Miranda would be home, but there was a note from her on the table, something about visiting her friend Lizzie and not to wait up, she might stay the night. Dazed as she was, Kathryn was more grateful than worried. She’d made a fool of herself, and failed; she didn’t relish the thought of explaining to either of them. Exhausted, she collapsed on her bed for a few hours’ fitful sleep, then drove to Harrogate next morning determined to hide her troubles in work.
The burden of running the pharmacy in recent months had fallen heavily on her partner, Cheryl Wolman, but Cheryl had been in London for the past week with her dying mother. As a result they’d called in a locum, a young man with a reputation for chasing girls who’d already upset several of their elderly customers, and Kathryn sensed the relief when she entered the shop. She was certainly needed: the staff were harassed, customers crotchety, stock control all over the place. Kathryn felt like screaming at the lot of them, slamming the door and running away down the street. Instead she went into the stock cupboard and helped herself to some Valium. Then she floated through the rest of the day like a hologram, empty of feelings. She took some more before she drove home, to find Andrew waiting in the kitchen.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he asked anxiously.
‘At work. Sorting things out. That young locum’s a disaster.’
‘Your mobile was switched off. I was worried.’
‘Were you? Why? Has Carole found someone else?’
‘Oh come on, Kath, that’s not fair.’
‘Isn’t it?’ She took off her coat. ‘Look, you may as well know. I was arrested last night.’
‘What?’ She made herself a coffee, sat at the table and explained. The Valium made her feel cool, lighthearted, calm. Everything mattered, and yet it didn’t. She watched everything from the kitchen ceiling, encouraged by the performance of her body below.
‘You meant to kill him, you mean!’
‘I couldn’t, could I? That detective lost the cartridges for me.’ Andrew’s horror amused her. Kathryn giggled, and fumbled in the pockets of her coat. ‘There are still some gentlemen left in the world.’ She pulled out some cartridges and lined them up, one by one, on the table. ‘How many does it take to kill a man? One, two, three ...’ She flicked the cartridges down with her finger, one by one like toy soldiers.
As she did so a taxi drew up outside and Miranda came in. At least, it was someone who looked like Miranda, but with her shoulder length brown hair cut brutally short to a two inch length all round, teased into little curls and spikes, stiffened with gel and dyed blonde, with red and orange highlights. Miranda had expected a strong reaction, but to her surprise, her mother contemplated her with disconcerting calm.
‘Ah, here’s another one. What happened to your hair?’
‘I saw it in a fashion magazine. Thought it would cheer me up.’
‘Well, I hope it does. Bruce will get a shock.’
‘Yes.’ Miranda’s husband’s conservative tastes were well known. ‘I’ll manage him.’
‘You were out last night, were you? Just got home?’
Miranda nodded. ‘I stayed over at Lizzie’s. I did phone, but you weren’t here. And then we spent the day in town.’
‘That’s all right. I saw your note. Anyway, I was out last night, too. At the police station.’
‘What?’
Astonished, Miranda collapsed in a chair, as Kathryn explained it all over again. She even made it sound funny at times, with the new chemical grin on her face. You want irony, take the irony tablets. Kathryn was so distant from her real feelings, that she could observe Miranda’s shock with pride. Her daughter’s startling new hairstyle just seemed to fit in with the dreamlike mood of the evening.
‘But Mum, what if he’d opened the door and come out?’
‘I’d have blown a hole in him, to let the truth out.’
‘My God.’ Her mother’s words sounded surreal, insane. And yet similar hazy thoughts of vengeance had been circling in Miranda’s own mind; nothing as violent as this, but the search for a way to make David Kidd pay for his crime. She had one half formed idea, which had been the reason for getting her hair cut. ‘Did you ... look? See him inside?’
‘I saw a man moving. If that detective hadn’t come, I’d have done it.’
‘And then what? Mum, it would have been murder!’
‘Yes, well.’ Kathryn picked up a cartridge from the table. ‘I’d have still had these left, wouldn’t I?’
They stared at her in horror. ‘Kathryn love,’ Andrew said. ‘Are you all right?’
From an immense distance, Kathryn considered the question. ‘No, probably not. But don’t worry, life goes on. That’s what they say, isn’t it?’
‘But what about this charge, the police?’
‘They let me go, with a warning. Don’t shoot people, the man said, it’s wrong. I must remember that. It’s good advice, don’t you think?’ Kathryn laughed - a short, nervous laugh that threatened to run out of control.
‘You’re not well, love. You need a doctor.’
‘No I don’t. I need a daughter.’ With a dizzying jolt, Kathryn fell from the ceiling back into her body, and slumped forward, head in her arms on the table.
No, please, not again, the pain’s coming back. Where are those pills, I’ll take some more.
She felt Miranda’s arm round her shoulders.
‘You’ve still got me, Mum. For a few more days, anyway.’
‘Yes, that’s good.’
‘Maybe, love,’ Andrew said hesitantly. ‘With your mother in this state, you could stay a few more days.’
Miranda considered. She had an open ticket, but before the trial she’d been planning to go back this week, soon after the verdict which should have seen David Kidd locked away for life. Now, everything was changed. Her mother was clearly unbalanced and if she was to do anything about this plan which she had been hatching all day she would need a little more time. But this wasn’t something she wanted to discuss with her parents. They needed care, she thought, and freedom from further worry.
‘Yes, of course I can, Dad. I’ll give Bruce a ring tonight. Sophie won’t be pleased but ...’
‘Don’t stay just for me, darling,’ Kathryn said. ‘I mean, it’s lovely to have you but I’ll manage. I always have before.’
‘You’ve never had this before, though, Mum, have you? None of us have.’
‘No. But don’t worry, I’m not mad. I just thought - it was perfectly rational - that man deserves to die. Unfortunately I failed and ...’ She shook her head wearily. ‘I don’t think I could do it again.’
Andrew reached across the table for her hand. ‘It’s not normal to think like that, love. You’ve been under a lot of stress, of course you have. See Doctor Pegg, he’ll give you something for it, he’ll understand.’
And bring Shelley back, too, will he? Kathryn thought, hazily. I don’t need a doctor, I’ve got the pills in my bag. What I want now is to be left alone. She smiled at Andrew through her tears. ‘Yes, all right. I’ll ring doctor Pegg in the morning.’
‘Good. And no more shooting, okay?’
‘I can’t, can I? They’ve got your gun.’ Kathryn smiled and hauled herself to her feet. The pills were working again. She felt a blissful ease, an exhaustion. ‘You’re right, I do feel strange. Tired, more than anything else. Find something in the freezer, if you’re hungry. Right now, I’m going to bed.’
Terry, too, was feeling strange - depressed, and light-headed, both at once. The depression was fairly easy to account for - it came from guilt, and the shock of not only failing to secure David Kidd’s conviction, but of having betrayed his own principles. Now he too, had tampered with evidence. Naturally he felt depressed. Yet since the arrest of Kathryn Walters, he’d also felt light-headed - infected by an absurd, almost cheerful fever which overlaid the guilty gloom beneath. At least he’d been able to put matters partly right, he thought. If anyone else had arrested Kathryn Walters she’d have been charged with attempted murder; as it was, she’d been released on bail.
I’m becoming a gambler with the truth, Terry thought, as he knocked on Will Churchill’s door - a high wire artist. If I slip, I’ll lose my job.
Will Churchill, looking up from Terry’s report, was incredulous. ‘Threatening behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace? Are you mad? The woman had a shotgun!’
‘An unloaded shotgun, sir.’
‘Well, she must be mad, too. How d’you know it wasn’t loaded?’
‘First thing I did, sir, was break it open.’ Terry spread his hands wide. ‘Zilch.’
‘What about her pockets? Did you find any cartridges there?’
Terry shook his head, using the eye furthest from Churchill to wink at a photo of a nubile young woman in a wetsuit to the right of his boss’s head. ‘I found no cartridges there either, sir,’ he said, which was true, since he had deliberately avoided searching Kathryn’s clothing. The two cartridges he had extracted from the gun were now in the bin outside his house.
‘Well, what the hell did she think she was doing?’
‘In my view, sir, she was overwrought, and possibly hallucinating from stress and lack of sleep. The main thing is she didn’t cause any harm.’
‘You could have charged her with attempted murder.’
‘She admitted she wanted to scare him, sir, and that’s what she’s charged with.’
Churchill sat back in his leather chair, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘No wonder you don’t get any convictions, Terence. First Kidd, now this. Ever think of joining the social services? They’d take you like a shot.’
There was no answer to this, so Terry studied the young woman in the wetsuit instead. Churchill glanced back at the report. ‘She had a lawyer, of course. Who was it? My God, Mrs Newby! I thought barristers didn’t lower themselves to this sort of thing.’
‘They don’t normally, sir, but she was, er, available at the time, and Mrs Walters requested her services.’
‘Available at the time?’ Churchill smirked. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Not what I think it means, surely?’
‘She was at a restaurant in town, and I reached her on her mobile.’
‘The number of which just happens to be saved on yours.’ Churchill’s grin broadened. ‘Give it up, Terence, you haven’t got a hope with a bird like that. Go on, get out of here, now.’
He waved a pencil imperiously. Then, as Terry reached the door, he laughed. ‘You’d never afford her anyway, on a social worker’s salary.’
34. Travel writer
When Sarah got home from the police station, Bob was already asleep. Next morning he listened sourly to her explanation, before driving off grumpily to his school. The following two evenings were no better; Sarah worked late in her chambers, Bob at the rehearsal of a school play. They snapped at each other in passing; the flowers he had bought her wilted and died. Waking the following morning, Friday, Sarah found Bob’s suitcase neatly packed in the hall. For a moment she stared at it stupidly, wondering if things were even worse than she’d thought, and he was really intending to leave. Then she remembered; he’d said something about a conference this weekend, which clashed with Savendra’s wedding. She’d meant to discuss it with him but the turmoil of the last few days had driven it out of her mind.
As usual, Sarah was up at six, ready to catch the early train for a committal hearing in Newcastle. Bob was still comatose, his tousled head under the duvet to avoid the noise she made showering and drying her hair. Normally, she let him sleep, but today there was no time. Doing her face in the mirror, she began to talk.
‘I see you’ve got your suitcase packed. Is that for this conference in Harrogate?’
‘Mmn.’ He groaned and turned over. ‘Told you about it last week.’
‘What is it, three days?’
‘What? Yeah. Shut up, love, I’m asleep.’
‘I’m sorry, but if you’re leaving today I won’t see you, will I? When do you get back?’
‘Sunday evening, I think. Sarah, it’s six fifteen.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Sarah brushed her eyelashes with mascara, peering into the mirror at the tousled creature hunched like some huge chrysalis under the duvet. ‘The point is we’re going to Savendra’s wedding tomorrow afternoon. Saturday. Remember?’
‘What?’
‘I did mention it, Bob. You just didn’t listen.’
‘Well, I can’t go. Obviously. I’ll be at this conference.’
‘Where is it? Harrogate? It’s only an hour away, max. Look, surely you can skip a few seminars and come to the ceremony at least, can’t you? They’re expecting us both, after all, and he is one of my closest colleagues.’
‘I thought that copper was. The one you were with the other night.’
‘What?’ She swung round, hairbrush in hand, to stare at him. He had emerged from the duvet now and was lying slumped against the pillows, unshaven and grumpy. ‘You mean Terry Bateson? Bob, for Christ’s sake, I’ve told you about that. It was work.’
‘Since when do you go out with detectives investigating crimes? You’re a barrister.’
There was no obvious answer to this. He was right, of course, but it had eased her conscience to help Kathryn, and as for Terry, well ...
‘This was different, that’s all.’ She turned back to the mirror, brushing her hair vigorously. ‘Anyway, what about this wedding? I don’t want to go on my own, it’ll look bad. Surely you can spare a few hours?’
‘Maybe. I’ll look at the programme and give you a ring.’
‘Do that, Bob.’ She put down the hairbrush and pulled on her motorcycling leathers over jeans and teeshirt. She had her smart trouser suit neatly folded in a briefcase; she would change in the ladies’ room at the station. Having gained her point she felt a little more conciliatory. ‘What’s the conference about, anyway?’
‘Administering larger schools. That’s why I’m going. It’ll help with this job application.’
‘I see. Not teaching then.’ A cold thought struck her. ‘Is Stephanie going?’
‘Yes, it’s for secretaries too. They help with administration, after all - in fact half of them are called administrators now.’ A defensive look crossed his face. ‘It’s just a conference, Sarah.’
‘Is it?’ She strode smartly to the door. ‘I hope so. Well, do one thing for me, Bob, will you? Me, your wife. Find time for Savendra’s wedding. You’ve got all the rest of the weekend to work with Stephanie.’
Her mother’s action strengthened the idea that had begun to germinate in Miranda’s mind. If David Kidd had killed her sister, then since the justice system had failed there must be some other way of making him pay. There simply had to be. There could be no forgiving what David Kidd had done, not ever. Over the next few days, she developed the details of her plan.
Miranda worked as a freelance journalist, mostly local stuff in Wisconsin, but she’d seen enough exposés of serious crime to know that a not guilty verdict was sometimes just the necessary opening gambit in a series of conspiracy articles that could run and run, exposing police corruption, the incompetence of lawyers, blackmailing of witnesses and the hounding of those who’d been acquitted, often for the rest of their lives. All that was needed was a little evidence; not as much, at first, as was needed in a court of law, but enough to give the story legs so the public would read it. Then dozens of journalists would come pouring out of the woods to follow the scent that one had started. Often, Miranda had felt cynical about this business, which was more about the selling of newspapers than the pursuit of justice, but in this case, she was convinced, David was guilty, so an injustice had been committed. If she could convince the press of this, he wouldn’t have got away with it after all.
And then there had been those words in Sarah’s office. The law might change one day, she’d said. So if she could just find proof of David’s guilt, there could be an appeal sometime in the future. Maybe five, ten years later - it didn’t matter how long, if David knew that justice would reach him one day.
What sort of evidence had Mrs Newby mentioned? DNA was no good here - but what about a confession? That was it, surely! If David could be induced to confess to the crime - and to Miranda he looked exactly the sort of cocky little loudmouth jerk who might do just that - then there’s your newspaper scandal, there’s your grounds for appeal!
But first, she had to get in touch with him. Without, of course, letting him know who she was. That was her plan for today. David, she knew, was a tour guide for an adventure travel company. Among the sad clutter of Shelley’s things, stored in her parents’ house, she had found a brochure with the company’s name, and an address in South London. She fingered it now, remembering Shelley’s excitement about the promised holiday in Kenya. It was this that had given her her plan.
With the brochure on the table in front of her, she cleared her throat nervously. She would have to do this in a good American accent, the sort she heard all around her at home. She dialled the number on the front. A young woman answered.
‘Sunline Tours, Sandy speaking. How can I help?’
‘Oh, hi. My name’s Martha Cookson, I’m a journalist for the Washington Star. You may have seen my stuff, it gets syndicated in English language papers worldwide.’
‘Maybe, I’m not sure ...’
‘You probably have without noting the name. See, I write for the travel supplements mainly, and I’m in England just now, saw one of your brochures, looks real cool, so I thought I might do a piece on you if you like.’
‘You need to speak to our manager. Hold the line please.’
Miranda relaxed. The American accent made it seem like a game. Her friend, Martha Cookson, was indeed a travel journalist for the Washington Star, far grander than Miranda’s local paper. But Sunline Tours would never know the difference, and anyway they deserved all they got for hiring a lowlife like David Kidd.
‘Nick Tranter here, Miss Cookson. What can I do for you?’
Miranda repeated her spiel, which the man swallowed hook line and sinker. ‘But of course. Come round tomorrow and we’ll show you everything you want - videos, references, the works. Guarantee a big spread and we’ll fix you a free holiday.’
‘Sure, but I’m in Yorkshire right now. You don’t have anyone in this part of England that I could visit with, do you? Someone who’s been on the trips, knows what he’s talking about?’
‘Er, not sure. Let me think. There is one guy, matter of fact, in York - would he do?’
‘Sure.’ Miranda grinned in delight. ‘York’s not far.’
‘OK. He hasn’t worked for a bit but he knows his stuff. Give me your number and I’ll see what I can do.’
Half an hour later the man rang back. He sounded a little more cautious. It was only tourism she was interested in, wasn’t it? Yes, of course, she laughed innocently. What else? In that case their representative David Kidd would meet her at the Slug and Lettuce in York on Saturday at eight o’clock.
Where she could try to worm her way into his confidence. And find out, perhaps, what really happened to Shelley. In which case, she really would have an article to write.