35. Wedding invitation
When Terry had first been invited to Savendra Bhose’s wedding he had been surprised and flattered. Although he’d met the young barrister professionally and at a few social occasions, he didn’t count him as a close friend. And then, of course, Savendra had been defending David Kidd, in a case which Terry, at the time he received the invitation, fully expected to win. It showed the young man in a good light, he thought, magnanimous even in the face of defeat. It was not often a defence lawyer extended the hand of friendship to the police, so Terry had responded in kind. He penned a gracious letter of acceptance, and bought a handsome cut glass bowl as a wedding present.
Now Savendra had won his case and it was for Terry to display magnanimity. He no longer wanted to go, but it seemed graceless to refuse at the last moment. So he pinned a carnation to his buttonhole, put the cut glass bowl in the back of his car, and set out.
Savendra’s family, although Indian, were Catholics, one of the few good things about them as far as Belinda’s parents were concerned. A Hindu or Sikh for a son-in-law would have strained her father’s tolerance to the extreme - it was bad enough that his daughter was marrying a boy who defended murderers for pay. But at least he been educated at Ampleforth, the top Catholic school in the north of England. So the wedding was in York’s Catholic church, and there was a fine show on either side of the aisle.
Terry crept alone into a pew at the back, and was relieved when Sarah Newby joined him with her husband Bob. She greeted him with a tight little smile; her husband nodded genially. Yet something jarred; the couple seemed ill at ease. I probably ruined their wedding anniversary, Terry thought sourly; well, they should be grateful they still have one.
The wedding couple looked stunning, Savendra dark and suave in morning dress, Belinda in a white wedding dress styled like an Indian sari, with a veil and long floating scarf fringed with flowers of pink and cornflower blue. As she walked up the aisle, the church pulsating with organ music, Terry recalled the cheap cassette recorder in the registrar’s offices where he’d married his wife, Mary. So young they had been, so long ago.
One fine day in heaven, he promised her silently, we’ll do it again, like this.
Afterwards, at a hotel by the river, they sat at round tables for eight. Terry, a solitary male, found himself next to a long-nosed stick-like spinster aunt of Belinda’s in a low cut dress which revealed skin and bones and nothing much between. Sarah and Bob were there too, with a clutch of jolly Indians, but Terry could find little to say to anyone. By the main course he had consumed most of a bottle of wine and was calling for more to dull his desperation. After the speeches a spat erupted between Sarah and Bob, about what he couldn’t tell. When they drifted out later onto the lawn, Sarah’s husband was nowhere to be seen. Seeing Terry, she smiled at him brightly.
‘Staying for the dance?’
‘That was the intention, but now ...’ He swayed on his feet. ‘I don’t know.’
‘If you do, I’m short of an escort.’ She shrugged. ‘Bob’s gone, I’m afraid. Family row.’
‘Oh. Well, in that case, who could refuse?’ Together they found a table on the lawn, overlooking the river. Terry fetched drinks from the bar. They sat in companionable silence, watching ducks pick up crumbs round their feet.
‘Remind you of your own wedding?’ Sarah asked, twirling her glass between her fingers.
‘A bit. This is ten times more posh. Makes me feel like a failure.’
‘Me too, especially when my husband’s not here.’
He studied her thoughtfully, wondering whether to probe. ‘Major argument?’
‘Fairly major. It’s been going on for some time, I suppose ... ever since last year, when he thought Simon was guilty, nothing’s quite been the same. And the other night didn’t help.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, we all have bad patches, but thanks.’ She sighed, and sipped her drink. ‘I’ve been wondering. Was that true what you said, the other night, in the station?’
‘About the shotgun, you mean? And Kathryn Walters?’
‘Mmm.’ She studied him carefully. ‘I shouldn’t ask, I suppose. Can you tell?’
‘Not sure if I should.’ He stared across the river, thinking. What would she think, if he admitted he had tampered with the evidence? Understand his reasons, or despise him for betraying his principles? She had probably guessed already, but part of him longed to confess. ‘Well, the woman deserved a break, didn’t she? It was the least I ...’
‘Hey!’ A hand slapped his shoulder. ‘So glad you could make it! Parents both. Dragged you away from the kids, have I?’
The groom, Savendra, collapsed into a seat beside them, groaning with happy exhaustion. His collar was loose, his hair mussed by the fingers of bridesmaids. ‘Enjoying yourselves?’
‘How could we fail, Savvy? Seeing you reach your heart’s desire!’ Sarah smiled, and Terry remembered how these two, professional rivals, were nonetheless good friends. It was hard for a policeman to imagine - that someone on the opposite team could be your closest pal.
‘Belinda looked beautiful, didn’t she?’ Savendra beamed, a smile of flashing white teeth. ‘Not as lovely as you, Sarah, of course, but I got the next best thing.’
‘Of course you did, Savvy, and she’ll be much more fertile than me too. You have told her your plans?’
‘For the family of eight? I’m saving that up for later. I mean, that’s what you do, isn’t it, on the wedding night? Tell me.’ He leaned forward, drawing them close together in conference. ‘You both know about kids, don’t you? What’s the best and the worst of it?’
And so Terry’s chance to confess was gone, lost in an hour of pleasant banter, during which they were joined by Belinda’s mother and then the bride herself and several Indian cousins, and the subject of children and weddings was tossed around with cheerful laughter. It was already early evening. As the sun set behind the trees a maitre d’hotel advised them that the dancing would start soon, and the hotel’s facilities were available for those who felt the need to freshen up. Sarah took Terry’s arm.
‘Just what I need. Look, I’d better phone Bob, try and smooth things over. But I still want to dance. Will you wait?’
‘Of course,’ Terry said. ‘So long as there’s no crisis at home. I’ll ring the girls while you’re changing.’
‘Fine. See you here at what? Seven then.’
‘It’s a date.’
Terry waited until she’d gone, then picked up his mobile.
Arriving for the interview just after eight, Miranda felt her heart pounding faster than normal. What if David recognised her, what would he do? He won’t, she told herself firmly, he’s only seen me a couple of times in court and each time he looked right through me as if I wasn’t there. Anyway I looked quite different then. Each time she looked in the mirror her new punk hairstyle gave her a fright. In court she’d worn a sober navy suit; now she wore jeans and a black leather jacket with straps and zips, in the lining of which she’d sewn a mini tape recorder, which she’d bought last year for an investigative radio program. She also wore two large hooped ear rings and black wraparound shades. In other circumstances she would have enjoyed the disguise; now she chewed gum to still her nerves.
Entering the restaurant she saw him immediately, at a table near the window. She walked to the counter, ordered a coffee and pastry, and looked around as if searching for someone. Another young man was sitting alone in a corner. She took her tray over to him.
‘Excuse me, I’m looking for a David Kidd. Would that be you?’
The man grinned. ‘No, sorry, love. But I could be. Why not sit down and wait?’
Miranda smiled. ‘Some other time, maybe.’ Appearing to notice David by the window, she approached him in the same way. ‘David Kidd?’
‘Yeah, that’s me.’ He waved her to a chair. ‘You’re the journalist, are you? Martha Cookson?’
‘That’s right.’ Miranda held out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
The handshake nearly betrayed her. Bile rose in her throat as his soft, moist palm, her sister’s murderer’s flesh, touched hers. She pulled back instinctively, sending a subliminal signal of distaste. ‘So. You’re the intrepid explorer?’
‘I’m a tour guide, yeah.’ He lounged in his chair, resting one boot on his knee in the arrogant pose she remembered from court. It’s all right, she thought, he just wants to impress me, the jerk. She took the gum from her mouth, and sipped coffee. ‘Where do you guide, exactly?’
For the next half hour he described his safari tours, while Miranda made occasional notes. Much of it matched what she’d heard from Shelley, although David spoke as if he was the safari leader rather than a hired help. But he was funny, in a slightly snide way, telling stories of his rich, elderly clients - the American lady who’d feared that vampire bats might nest in her hair at night; a Dutchman who had climbed a tree to escape a rabid hyena. Not the best way to recruit my readers, Miranda thought. But she didn’t care; her mind was focussed on the next stage of her scheme, winning his confidence so he would talk about Shelley.
‘So, what d’you do when you’re not saving rich ladies from scorpions?’ she asked, with what she hoped was a friendly, inviting smile. ‘Can you have a good time in York?’
‘York, Leeds, Sheffield. Sure, there’s plenty of action if you know where to look.’
‘That’s my problem, see. I’m staying with friends of my parents, so ...’ She shrugged expressively. ‘Not much of a guide to the night life.’
Will he take the bait, she wondered. He studied her coolly, trying to pierce her shades with his eyes. Cocky little bastard, a voice murmured inside her head. As if he’d have a chance with me normally. But to her relief, David’s cold scrutiny relaxed into a calculating smile. ‘What sort of night life are you interested in?’ he asked at last. ‘Maybe I can help you there.’
‘Hi there! Come and join us.’
Sarah waved to Terry from the bar, where she stood with the newlyweds and several other couples whom he took to be lawyers or family friends. The room was large and noisy; a band was tuning up at one end, and the guests stood in groups shouting in each other’s ears to be heard. Sarah, he noticed, had changed; the formal dress and hat she had worn for the afternoon ceremony had been replaced by a low-cut black evening gown which clung to her figure like a sheath. The plunging neckline left no room for a bra, and he saw no hint of a panty line either. She noticed his stare and blushed, mocking her own embarrassment with a shy pirouette.
‘My birthday present. What do you think?’
‘It’s lovely. Stunning, in fact.’
‘Don’t flatter me, Terry, or I won’t believe you. I had to wear it soon before I collapse into middle age. Kids okay?’
‘Fine. They’re watching Harry Potter with Trude. Esther told me the whole story on the phone.’
‘They’re sweet, your girls. Want a drink?’ She passed him a glass of champagne.
‘Just the one. I’ve brought the car.’
‘Leave it here. Take a taxi.’
‘Maybe.’ He sipped the drink and smiled at her. The flush had not entirely faded from her cheeks, and the sparkle in her eyes suggested that she was several glasses ahead of him. ‘Did you make things up with Bob?’
‘Not really. He’s at a conference. I think his phone’s switched off.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ The suggestion of a rift was obvious. ‘So he doesn’t get to see you in his birthday gift?’
Sarah shook her head. ‘It’s not his gift anyway. Simon gave it to me - my son, remember? With grateful thanks to his mum for keeping him out of prison.’
‘Good lord!’ Terry thought back to the surly young bricklayer who had stood in the dock, with his feisty mother defending him. His fingers brushed the soft satin gown. ‘I’d never have thought ...’
‘That an oaf like him could buy such a thing? Neither could I. It brought tears to my eyes, Terry, I can tell you. Nice ones, for a change.’ She bit her lip, and put her glass down on the bar. ‘Come on. That’s a waltz they’re playing, isn’t it? Let’s dance to celebrate his freedom.’
Terry had danced with Sarah once before, he remembered as he pressed his hand against the small of her back, at a ball in the Judges’ Lodgings. Only one dance then, for Bob, her husband, had scowled possessively beside her that evening like a sullen bear; but tonight, it seemed, the fool had absented himself. Sarah was light, easy on her feet. She smiled up at him brightly, shy, a little nervous.
‘You’ve done this before, I see.’
‘I took lessons at uni. Hoping to meet girls. How I met Mary, matter of fact.’
After several dances they sat down for a rest, at a table on a patio outside. Sarah drank a third glass of champagne. Terry stuck to orange juice. She studied him, the thrill of the dance in her eyes, but a touch of sadness underneath.
‘You were going to tell me something earlier, weren’t you?’
‘Was I?’ Terry’s eyes lingered for a second on the decolleté of her dress, where a hint of perspiration beaded the outline of her breasts. ‘Oh yes. About Kathryn Walters, and her shotgun. You don’t want to talk about that now, do you?’