A Fatal Verdict (33 page)

Part Five

The Choice

44. Tyre marks

The farmer, Arthur Dixon, had had a restless night. Several times the dog had woken him, and once he had seen lights in the woods. Men out lamping for rabbits or deer, he guessed, and considered chasing them off. But if it was deer they were after, they’d be a gang from Bradford or Barnsley, equipped with rifles and poaching to order. Too much for an old man of sixty four. So even when the dog barked the third time he contented himself with a tour of the byres. All quiet there; cows munching contentedly. It was not until the following morning, when his son arrived for work, that the two of them drove out to search the woods.

Dan saw the tyre marks first, in a patch of mud near the concrete of the old airfield. Nothing too dramatic; just a track suggesting someone had driven through the brambles near the old fuel pit. Several long thorny runners had been snapped off or crushed.

‘Why drive through here?’ Dan asked. ‘Not the best place for lamping, is it? Too many brambles, for a start.’

They stopped at the old fuel pit and got out. No sign of cartridges anywhere, but then Arthur hadn’t heard any shots. Just an engine, and lights in the night. He looked at the old pit uneasily. He’d felt guilty about it ever since that day, ten years before, when the little girl and her pony had nearly drowned it it. He’d seen her sister galloping and known at once something was wrong; no one would ride like that across the winter wheat straight towards the farmer who owned it without good reason. When he’d seen what had happened he’d felt cold all over; not just because the child might have drowned but for the insurance claim that could have resulted. But the parents had been decent, and hadn’t blamed him though he owned the land. So he’d praised the children’s courage, and erected a fence with a sign saying ‘Danger - Keep Out.’ He looked for the sign now and saw it, rotting on the ground. He hadn’t been here for ages. It was a place he preferred to forget.

So what had a car been doing here last night?

‘Dad? Here, look at this.’ Dan had wandered behind the pickup and was looking a pine tree at the edge of the concrete. A foot from the ground there was a gash in its bark, partly covered with mud. Dan ran his fingers over the gash, picked up some mud and spread it on his palm. ‘That’s paint, isn’t it? Grey metallic paint from some vehicle.’

Arthur nodded. ‘What d’you think? They got stuck and smashed the truck into a tree?’

‘If it was a truck.’ Dan, who loved everything mechanical, was more of an expert than his father. ‘Looks like car paint to me. There, see? Gun metal grey.’

‘All right, a car. So where did it go from here?’

‘Same way they came in, I reckon. No other choice.’

Immediately beyond the fuel pit the brambles had grown into an impenetrable thicket - a better defence than anything health and safety could have devised, in Arthur’s view. He’d hoped it was like that on the western side too, but clearly not.

‘So what were they looking for here?’ Dan asked, gazing around the clearing.

‘Lost, probably. Turned round and went back.’ Impelled perhaps by guilt, or the desire to look in the pit which he hadn’t seen for so long, Arthur wandered across the fence, and tested a post with his thick, gnarled hand. To his disgust it was loose, the bottom snapped off, just hanging there supported by wire. He tried another the same. The whole fence was basically rotten. Well, posts did rot; maybe he should put in some new ones. Then, as he turned away, he saw it.

A glove, floating on the water.

He stared, chewing his lip, an unpleasant taste in his throat. That shouldn’t be there, that didn’t look good. He grunted, stepped over the fence, and hauled the glove in with a stick.

‘What you got there, Dad?’

He held the dripping glove up to show his son. Not a working glove or one that would keep you warm. Not the sort of glove a lamper would use on a night out for deer. Not unless he was some kind of pansy. It was a man’s driving glove with decorative holes in the back. They studied it in silence.

‘See anything else?’ said Dan at last. ‘What about this?’

He pointed to the edge of the pit, and the old man sucked his teeth. Something had scraped away the concrete lip above the water, tearing away moss and leaving a clear white scar. There was another mark, too - a large cushion of moss near the edge had been flattened, a tyre print clear in its surface.

Dan frowned at his father. ‘Looks like they tipped something in.’

Arthur nodded, feeling queasy. The excitement of the search vied in his mind with fear of the consequences. ‘They’ve ripped out the fence there and put it back after.’

‘For what?’ Dan looked at the glove. ‘Maybe hiding drugs, Dad, cocaine and that?’

‘In the water? Don’t be daft.’

‘They could be, though. In sealed containers.’ Dan had seen more films than his father. ‘Worth millions, that sort of stuff. We’d get a reward. Here, give me that stick.’

He crouched, and began to poke down into the depths. ‘Fifteen foot deep, this, isn’t it? Maybe more. I remember you warning us about it when we were kids. Here, what’s this?’

Five feet long, with Dan’s arm extended to the elbow into the water, the branch snagged on something. Dan hauled it out, measured the length, and tried again. ‘That’s not fifteen foot, nothing like. There’s something down there, all right.’ He prodded slowly to the left with the branch. After about a yard, he couldn’t find bottom any more. One arm dripping with water, he confronted his father triumphantly.

‘Something there all right. Come on, let’s haul her out!’

‘How’re you going to do that?’

‘We’ve got a towrope, haven’t we, and a hook. You lay the fence down, Dad, I’ll back up to the edge and snag it with the hook. If the pickup won’t lift her, a tractor will.’

45. Regrets and dreams

They met in an Italian restaurant opposite the Judge’s Lodgings in Lendal. It was a place popular with lawyers, and Sarah wished he had chosen somewhere else. Twice she considered ringing to ask Terry change it, then put down her mobile in frustration. She’d made enough of a fool of herself in front of him already. Anyway, what did it matter if she was seen lunching with him? Lawyers entertained clients, police and solicitors all the time; it was part of the job.

So why feel so guilty - so girlish - approaching this restaurant now?

The reason, she knew very well, lay not in the act itself, but the intention behind it. It was a point she argued regularly in court. When my client took the watch out of the shop into the street, my lord, he didn’t intend to steal it as the prosecution say, he simply meant to examine it more clearly in natural daylight. It was intent which distinguished between a naive, innocent act and one which was infected with
mens rea
- a guilty and criminal mind.

Sarah, entering the restaurant and looking round for Terry Bateson, felt guilty. As he smiled at her from a quiet table in a corner she noted with relief that no one else she knew was there. It was absurd, really - she’d known Terry for years, and never thought of him as anything but a friend; a charming, handsome, occasionally infuriating detective, whom she sometimes worked with in court. He’d helped her in her son’s case and she’d been grateful, but that was it; there’d never been anything more. Not until that stupid, drunken, wonderfully embarrassing night at Savendra’s wedding.

When she thought back now she found it hard to believe that it had really been her, that woman dancing barefoot on the grass, drinking glass after glass of champagne before taking him up to her room with such embarrassing results; but that memory was real, just as real as the flowers and the card Terry had sent her afterwards, and her unresolved quarrel with Bob.

So even though nothing had actually happened between them, she’d intended it to happen, and so had he. The context of their meetings was changed. She could see it in his eyes, the way he stood up to pull out her chair, his smile as she sat down. There was hope in that smile, and an intimacy that had not been there before.

Well, that will have to end, Sarah thought. That’s what I came here to tell him. Only ...

Only she didn’t really want to.

Normally, Sarah was a decisive woman; it was the defining feature of her character. She identified her goals and set out to attain them, overcoming every obstacle in her way as swiftly as possible. She believed you should never, ever, make a mistake, particularly in love or sex, because, as she knew only too well from her teenage years, that could destroy you utterly.

And yet that was what she had so nearly done with Terry Bateson. Something which could have destroyed both her marriage and her reputation. I was insane, she thought; I lost control. So it has to be brought to an end: here, now, today.

The dominant, logical part of her mind knew that and accepted it. The trouble was that there was another annoying, emotional part of her which didn’t accept it at all. A part of her which for years she had managed to subdue, and which now wanted - intended - this meeting not to be a brisk businesslike end to their flirtation at all, but the beginning of something new.

‘Hi. How are you?’

She sat nervously opposite him, fending off his smile with the first cliché that came to mind. ‘Busy, as always. Rushed off my feet.’

‘Tell me about it. Crime never stops.’

‘No. Look, Terry, maybe we should order. I haven’t got long.’

‘Fine. Waiter! Over here.’

The words, brisk, meaningless, batted between them like ping-pong balls, kept them apart. But it was the look in the eyes, the unspoken thought behind them, that mattered. When the waiter had gone Sarah leaned forward, keeping the talk on neutral, serious, ground.

‘So. Lots of crime, you say?’

‘Yes. Burglaries, shoplifting, theft. The usual round. But I’ve been demoted, it seems.  There’s a suspicious death over towards Wetherby, and slick Willie’s told me to keep away.’

‘Will Churchill, you mean?’

‘Yes. He’s taking charge of all murder enquires from now on. After you and I cocked up the last one, he says.’

Sarah frowned irritably. ‘But that’s absurd. How does he get away with it?’

‘You know why we call him slick Willie? Because his ego’s made of Teflon. Nothing sticks. So if he says we cocked up the trial, that’s what people believe. And then, that business with Kathryn Walters the other day was the last straw.’

Sarah studied him thoughtfully, noting the lines of pain on his face. Once, a couple of years ago, she remembered boasting cynically to this man about how every trial was just a game of proof, in which a lawyer could argue either side without caring about the truth. She’d learned humility since then, and looked back on that moment with embarrassment. Terry had argued passionately for the work of the police, saying that society would only be really safe if burglars and murderers and rapists were locked up. Yet only a few days ago, he had risked his own career to protect a woman who was, undoubtedly, intent upon vengeful murder.

‘None of this is simple, is it?’ She stretched her hand impulsively across the table. ‘You’re a good man, Terry. You don’t deserve this.’

‘Don’t I? Who knows?’ Terry took her hand in both of his, stroking her fingers gently, touching the wedding ring. ‘Anyway, Sarah, how are you? You’ve made things up with Bob, you said.’

‘Yes, just a family quarrel, you know. They happen from time to time.’ She flexed her fingers in his, delighting in the touch, knowing she should take her hand away. ‘You must have ... well, quarrelled with Mary sometimes?’

As soon as the words were out she realized how thoughtless they were. But she was no good at these situations. Look what happened last time, for heaven’s sake! I came here to end this. But ...

‘Yes, once or twice, I suppose.’ He released her hand, sooner than she wanted. ‘A long time ago ...’

‘I’m sorry, Terry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘No, it’s all right, it brings it back to me.’ He looked away out of the window, then back to her. ‘I’d have hated it if anyone had come between us. No doubt Bob feels that way too.’

‘Yes, but he ...’
He deserves it
, the emotional rebel within her almost blurted out. Swiftly, her rational self regained control. ‘... he doesn’t have anything to worry about,’ Sarah continued firmly. ‘I mean, nothing’s going to come between him and me, really. We’ve been married for eighteen years and that’s how it’s going to stay.’

There, she’d said it, the thing she came here intending to say. She met his eyes coolly, her rational ego standing with its foot firmly planted on the dissident teenage emotional id, which lay bound and gagged on the floor of her heart, kicking wildly to be let out. She was surprised Terry couldn’t hear the knocking on her rib cage.

‘Yes, of course.’

She saw the disappointment in his eyes, and his mind wondering exactly what she was trying to tell him. As if she hadn’t made it clear.

‘But then ... there are other possibilities. A long way short of divorce, I mean.’

She gazed at him for a long moment, to be certain she understood what he meant. Slowly, she shook her head.

‘No, Terry.’ She looked down, partly to avoid his eyes, partly to still the pain in her chest. ‘No, no, it’s sweet of you, of course, don’t think I haven’t thought of it, but it wouldn’t work. I don’t think I could manage deceit. Could you?’

The question, she saw as soon as she’d asked it, was a mistake. For herself, because it left the door open which she was trying to close. The prisoner in her chest twisted violently, trying to get free. But also for Terry, because it gave him hope.

He smiled ruefully. ‘I think everyone can manage deceit, if they want to enough. Just as everyone can change their mind.’

‘I have changed my mind, Terry. I’m staying with Bob. You must understand that, surely?’

‘Of course I understand. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it, does it?’

‘No. We can’t always have what we like.’

‘Can’t we?’ He leaned forward, looking directly into her eyes. The pain in his eyes faded into amusement. ‘I can still keep asking the question, though.’

‘Oh Terry, please!’ Again she looked round the half-empty restaurant.

‘Please what?’ He laughed softly. ‘Please ask me again?’

‘No!
One more crack like that, Terry, and I’m out of here. I mean it!’

‘Sure you do.’

The trouble was the smile in her eyes, responding to his. It was not the expression she intended to have, nor did she intend to let him reach forward and take her hand again across the table.  She dug her nails into his palm, to make him let go. But not very hard. Despite herself she was laughing. With an effort she sat back in her chair.

‘Look, Terry, I like you very much, and I admit that the other night I nearly did something I shouldn’t have, but today ...’ She shook her head.

‘You’re not going to do it.’

‘No.’

‘How about tomorrow?’

‘Not tomorrow either, or the day after that. Or any day in the foreseeable ...’

‘Sssssh!’ Terry put his finger to his lips to silence her. ‘Don’t say that, life’s too short. Things can change. Leave me some hope, at least.’

This is ridiculous, Sarah thought. I’m trying to be serious and he’s making it into a game. The trouble is it’s such fun. So long as nothing happens. ‘Hope ...’ she began hopelessly.

‘... is what we all live for. Where would we be without it?’

‘Terry, you talked about deceit. Well, you can deceive yourself if it makes you happy, but that’s all it is, it’s never going to happen, okay? If you want to call that hope, go ahead.’

‘Okay, it’s a start.’ Terry grinned. ‘I’ll live in hope, then.’

‘Much good may it do you.’

‘And memories, of course. You can’t take those away.’

‘No, please!’ Sarah closed her eyes and shuddered. ‘Don’t think about that!’

‘Why not? You were charming. Still are.’

‘Okay, that’s it.’ Sarah glanced at her watch and stood up, trying to regain some of the rags of her dignity. The trouble was she was still smiling. ‘I’ve got to go, I’ll be late for court. I’ve said what I’ve said.  If you want to sit here and dream, that’s up to you. That’s all it is, just a delusion.’

‘Sure,’ Terry called after her. ‘In your dreams.’