Pinpoint

by Sheila Mary Taylor

  ‘I know, sweetheart. Well, you know what Mummy’s job is like.’

  ‘I know. I suppose you have to go to court.’

  ‘No, darling, not today, but there are urgent things I must do.’

  She had not told Nicky about the suspected break-in. All she had said was that Duke had gone walkies by himself and hadn’t come home yet.

  She looked at the sad little face trying so hard to smile. She knew how important it was for children to show off their skills to someone. Someone to give them that necessary reassurance to make them want to go on achieving. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for more time with Nicky. She was so like Simon. Not only because of the good nature and the ready smile, but in a host of ways that every day brought him close to her, even though she had long since stopped crying for him. How weird that human beings can inherit character traits even though the person passing on the genes is not even around, has never been around, to exemplify the finer points of those inherited qualities.

  Environment versus inheritance. The argument intrigued her. In her professional experience it seemed painfully clear that environment played the bigger part in a person’s make-up. But inheritance also fascinated her. Was she like her mother, or her father?

  Or like her twin brother.

  Over the years she had tried to build up a picture of her brother, working backwards from her own set of physical and mental characteristics. The results were tantalisingly elusive, in spite of the imagined face she sometimes conjured up next to hers.

  Nicky broke into her thoughts. ‘Will Duke be back when I get home, Mummy?’

  She nodded, just as a smiling Sonya Lake appeared at the door.

  ‘Will we see you later, Mrs Grant? I’d like a word.’

  ‘I’ll be here at eleven-thirty, unless I’m called out.’

  She glanced at Sonya’s svelte, leotarded figure. If that’s what ballet does for you, maybe I should join an adult class after all, she thought. But they probably don’t accept thirty-six year olds, so maybe I’ll just settle for the self-defence course Paul is always urging me to take. Last night, if I’d come face to face with an intruder, I wouldn’t have had a clue what to do.

  She said goodbye and walked away without looking back. A few moments later she felt soft little hands wrap tightly round her waist.

  ‘I love you, Mummy.’

  ‘I love you too, darling. Now run back quickly or you’ll be late.’

  One day I’ll make it up to her, she told herself as she unlocked the car.

  She drew the belt across her chest and snapped it in position, grateful when the driver of an old blue Volvo kindly stopped to let her into the solid stream of Cheadle High Street’s Saturday morning traffic.

  Her mind switched to the tasks before her. Number one priority ─ find Duke. Then get that old-fashioned lock replaced with a fitting he couldn’t open. After a frantic search in the immediate neighbourhood, there’d still been no sign of the dog, and she had left Wendy looking even further afield. ‘Shall I ring the police?’ were Wendy’s last words before Julia had left for Cheadle.

  ‘Not unless we find something missing,’ Julia had told her. She was reluctant to call PCs away from more important assignments if it turned out that she had left the door unlocked. It wouldn’t be the first time Duke had pawed successfully at a door handle when a bitch was on heat. ‘I’d hate them to waste time on fingerprints that turn out to be ours. Or Ben’s and Paul’s,’ she had said. ‘Anyway, the Wilmslow Express said last week that two-thirds of all crimes in this area remain undetected. I’ll report it myself later, but only when I’m certain there really was a break-in.’

  Turning left onto the A34 she reminded herself that she had a client on the loose, and when he was re-arrested she would have to go to whatever police station they took him to, whether she liked it or not.

  Smith. She mumbled his name under her breath. Paul will make sure he’s back in Strangeways in under forty-eight hours, and that will be that. End of story. Out of my hands and not a thing I can do about it. So forget it, Julia. Go back to living your life.

  Not easy, she thought. She might not even be the person she believed she was, so how could anything in her life be the same again? Had Smith really meant what he said from the dock? And when he was re-arrested, would he still be the avenger he had become after his verdict was pronounced? Or the docile repentant seeking a way out from the violence he had resorted to?

  There was no way of knowing.

  Coming off the bypass she wondered if she should tell Paul about last night. He would insist on contacting the Wilmslow police. They would send over a couple of PCs and it might turn out to be nothing more than her own stupidity. No, all in all it would be better to wait.

  Passing the Blue Bell garage she remembered Nicky’s promised treat. Right now shopping was the last thing she needed, but the ice cream was a must.

  Turning left after the Water Lane traffic lights she glanced at Hooper’s elegant shop windows. It was months since she’d been into a shop to buy anything for herself. Both she and Nicky could do with some new summer clothes, and this year’s colours in the windows seemed brighter and more attractive than ever. Coral pink, turquoise, lavender . . . What a refreshing change they’d be from the drab black she wore wear every day to court. If only there was time.

  She found a parking space outside the library. She could never look at that library without thinking of Simon. It was where they had first met, one Saturday morning when the scent of spring was in the air. He had looked at her and she had thought she’d never seen such kind eyes. After that he was there every Saturday morning, and they’d discovered they were both students at Manchester University, Julia a late starter and Simon in his final post-grad year. And finally, on the day when it had rained and he’d given her a lift home to David and Jessie’s little semi in Lacey Green, she’d been sure he had engineered his position in the queue. From then on they still met every Saturday even if they didn’t need to change a book. He always had a lot to talk to her about. He told her about his voluntary work for the homeless, work she felt was akin to what she strove to do for those wrongly accused. Then one day he kissed her and everything began to change. She would run up the stairs to the panelled exhibition room with its neatly stacked square tables and red plastic chairs. He would be waiting for her near the window. He would smile and take her in his arms. She would try to pull away. He would hold her, gently. She would be confused, wanting the closeness and the warmth, yet afraid, wanting to love him but not knowing how; desperate to be loved by him, but still afraid. It wasn’t sex she wanted ─ far from it ─ but she had this underlying need to belong to somebody. He would wipe away her tears and reassure her. Over the weeks and months she learned to trust him. The fear would still be there but she would reciprocate, wanting to show how much she cared, but unable to express her feelings. And she would lie awake at night wondering what was wrong with her, longing to know how to respond without pretending. The lifts home progressed to drinks at the King William. Then lunch at Hillside House to meet his parents, Natalie and Charles. And finally to the hills. The hills she grew to love, for it was there in a valley, hidden in the trees, that in spite of pain and fear, the long process of discovering the joy of giving had begun. Giving, that would finally lead to the greatest gift of all, a child, that she could love, unreservedly. And who would love her.

  Sainsbury’s was packed, the queues at the tills infuriatingly slow, and she was glad to get out with the ice cream and a few other essentials for the weekend that Wendy might have forgotten to buy. The Water Lane lights were red again, and she wished the pale blue Volvo behind her would keep his distance.

  A few minutes later it was still behind her. Glancing in her rear-view mirror she could see the driver’s sun glasses but could not make out through the grimy windscreen whether it was anyone she knew. It was the same kind of car that had let her into Cheadle High Street. She drew in her breath sharply. Surely it couldn’t have been behin
d me all this time -

  She turned left. The Volvo turned left too. She slowed down, giving it a chance to overtake. It stayed behind her. I’ll begin to worry if it follows me to Hillside House, she thought. I hope the men on obs are wide awake. The world is full of cranks and sometimes we lawyers have to be careful.

  The gate was open, which was strange. As she turned in she noted that the Volvo drove past and that the driver was quite clearly not interested in her since he didn’t even glance her way. Pull yourself together, Julia, she told herself. That break-in, if that’s what it was, seems to have unnerved you more than you realised.

  She closed the gate, then drove slowly round the cobbled driveway. The house was partly hidden by the huge cedar tree, but even as she approached she had a feeling that something dreadful had happened.

  - 23 -

  Julia had never touched a dead dog before. It was strange how like a stuffed animal he felt, like those in a museum you’re not supposed to touch and give you a strange feeling when you do. But not only was this fur hard and cold, it was covered with blood from a bullet wound in the head, dark congealed blood that filled Julia’s nostrils with its sickly iron odour.

  Droplets of sweat broke out on her skin. The beech trees swayed towards her. Feeling Wendy’s strong arms steadying her from behind, she remembered the advice the doctor had given her if she felt a panic attack coming on. She took a long, slow, deep breath. Blood or no blood, this was no time to be passing out.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked, forcing back the images that were persisting:

  footsteps in the night . . . the brass lamp by the bed . . . the blood . . .

  Tears streamed down Wendy’s cheeks. ‘I found him behind the garage. I carried him here in case he was still . . . I mean . . . I thought that just maybe . . . ’

  ‘So there was an intruder. And he must have used a silencer. I wonder what he’s stolen.’

  She steeled herself to look at Duke, lying so still on the lawn. She gazed into his wide-open brown eyes that once had brimmed over with devotion and were now cold and glassy with surprise. Her hands were drawn again to the matted golden fur, stiff and spiky like an uncut lawn on a frosty morning.

  ‘Wendy,’ she whispered. ‘This is our beloved Duke. Simon’s dog. My dog. Nicky’s dog. Our man of the house. What will we tell Nicky? She adores Duke.’

  Wendy wiped her eyes and blew her nose. ‘Old Margaret next door. Poodle’s just had pups. Sure she’ll give you one. Bit of a mixture, I think. But soft and white and cuddly.’

  Julia stood up and held Wendy’s shaking shoulders. ‘Thanks,’ she whispered. But inside she was trembling with the thought of never having Duke lying on her feet again. Of Nicky never patting his head again. Never holding him tight. And strangely it made her think of her brother, of never touching him again and never feeling his arms around her again. Never seeing his face again. The more I search my memory, she thought, the more it seems to recede, almost within my reach, like when I’m on the mountain and the mist surrounds him and he vanishes, dark, nameless . . .

  She looked at Duke and back again at Wendy.

  ‘It’s all right, Julia,’ Wendy said, taking a deep breath and standing erect again like the little warrior she was. ‘I’ll bury him at the bottom of the garden. Before Nicky gets home.’

  ‘We should really wait for the police to examine the bullet,’ Julia said, making an effort to hold herself together.

  Just then the portable phone rang in Wendy’s pocket. ‘Hello. Yes? Hold on, please. I’ll see if she’s here. Who shall I say is calling?’ She shook her head, then pressed the mute button. ‘It’s for you. Shall I say you’re in?’

  Right now Julia didn’t want to talk to anyone if she could help it. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘Shall I ask again?’ Wendy knew the voices of Julia’s few friends and many of her legal colleagues. She looked annoyed that this one’s identity eluded her.

  ‘No. It’s all right,’ Julia said. ‘My job comes first. I might have to attend a remand court or see a client in cells. It could be anything.’

  Or perhaps, she thought, perhaps they have already apprehended Smith. ‘I’ll take it in my study. Ask him to hold on, please.’

  She hurried away, rubbing her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket. From the big gold-rimmed mirror in the hall a wild blotchy-faced woman with red swollen eyes and hair awry flashed a look at her as she ran up to her study in the attic. She wondered who was calling. Any one of my clients might be in trouble, she thought. Smith might have given himself up at a police station if he’s sunk into one of his manic-depressive moods. I would have to drop everything and go. The weekends were notorious for that, but she had a feeling that this call had nothing to do with her job. It wouldn’t be Ben, unless there was an emergency. After last night she doubted he would ever approach her again. Paul? No, that was wishful thinking. He was far too preoccupied with recapturing Smith, especially after the sergeant’s tragic murder.

  She flopped down at her desk. Her hand hovered over her new state-of-the-art cream telephone-cum-answering machine-cum-everything else, that Paul had persuaded her she should have. Gazing out at the lawn that swept down towards the river, she held back her tears. She lifted the receiver.

  ‘Julia Grant speaking.’

  Silence.

  ‘Hello?’

  And then she heard it. Not exactly heavy breathing but loud enough to tell that someone was there. Almost certainly what the police would describe as “a malicious call.”

  She cursed her stupidity. Last time she had spoken to the Crime Prevention Officer at Wilmslow Police Station, they’d briefly discussed the advantage of single women simply saying 'Hello' rather than giving their name to a potential malicious caller. But old habits die hard.

  The voice was barely audible. ‘You sound different on the phone, Julia.’

  Smith?

  ‘Your accent sounds not quite so posh. More like mine. Why is that, Julia?’

  Never answer any questions, no matter how innocent they may seem, unless the caller is known to you. That’s what the CPO had said. But she couldn’t help herself.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she demanded. ‘Who is this?’

  It can’t be Smith. I’d have recognised his voice.

  ‘You mean you don’t know?’ The voice was muffled. An old trick often resorted to by the likes of her clientèle. She pressed the two-way record button.

  ‘Listen carefully, Julia.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Never mind that now. Just listen.’

  She searched for a telltale word, a familiar vowel, but was unable to connect the flat, smothered tones with any of her clients. ‘I’m going to put this phone down unless you tell me who you are,’ she said.

  ‘You’re wasting precious time, Julia.’

  ‘Stop calling me Julia.’ Most of her long-standing clients called her Julia. In fact everyone she knew, apart from judges, called her Julia. Smith? And if it was, why would he disguise his voice? ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

  ‘You’ll know soon enough,’ the voice answered, the tonelessness adding a degree of menace to the implied intimidation.

  ‘In that case, why the secrecy?’

  ‘No secret, Julia.’

  She gripped the receiver. Either he is crazy or he is deliberately trying to frighten me. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘That’s better. That’s much better. What do I want? Well now, that’s quite simple. And no bloody trouble for you.’

  ‘Oh? Really?’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty grand wouldn’t even cause a ripple in your fucking bank account, would it now, Julia?’

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  She slammed down the receiver, breathed in, then quickly let the air out through her nostrils, as though to close the episode for good. She’d had her fair share of ex-convicts phoning her at the office, playing on what they assumed was her feminine weakn
ess when they thought she owed them for not winning their cases. Most criminal lawyers had the same problem.

  She had often argued with Paul that in her experience long prison sentences were not always more effective than short ones, that prison works for dangerous prisoners, but not as well for less serious offenders. That often when they came out they were more of a threat than when they went in. Certainly when many of them came out they were unemployable, and two of her clients had told her recently that there was nothing in life for them now but to go on being criminals. But a quarter of a million pounds! Anyway, she had successfully got rid of this one, so that was that.

  She glanced at her watch. Ten-thirty. Probably too late now on a Saturday morning to find any locksmiths in, but she ought to give it a try. Duke would never open that door again, poor darling, but someone else might. Silly to take any chances. Change the locks if you’re in doubt, the Crime Prevention leaflet said.

  Fighting back a renewed stream of tears she opened the left-hand bottom desk drawer and hauled out the yellow pages, found a Wilmslow locksmith and scribbled the number on her pad. She dialled and was lucky. The man said he’d call later and quickly she emailed his details to DS Bennett at the Wilmslow police so that he would have no trouble getting in.

  She decided she had better phone Paul now and tell him about Duke’s violent death. He was fond of Duke too. She would have to tell him some time, and then he would wonder why she hadn’t told him sooner. Especially as Duke had been killed with a firearm.

  She pulled the phone list towards her and found the number of his flat in Didsbury. Moxon. Paul. 0161 - 445 . . .

  Then she remembered he was on duty this weekend and he’d be in his office. She was about to look up his direct number when through the window she saw Wendy walk across the lawn. Over her shoulder she carried a heavily laden sack. Julia gazed unbelievingly at the shape in the sack. Duke. My beloved Duke is in that sack.