A Fatal Verdict (The Trials of Sarah Newby)

by Vicary, Tim

  ‘Well, yes, about their relationship and ... if we could sit down here? It won’t take long.’

  ‘He killed her, that’s what you need to know.’ Kathryn looked at Tracy, almost beseeching her as though she was a saviour. ‘Please, tell me you’ll make him pay! You will, won’t you?’

  ‘If a crime has been committed, Mrs Walters, of course ...’

  To her consternation the woman began to laugh. Not a healthy laugh but a weird ironic laugh on the verge of hysteria. Or perhaps over the verge. ‘If ...’ she said. ‘Oh, that’s wonderful, isn’t it, if a crime has been committed! Look in there, what do you think has happened? Isn’t it obvious? He murdered her!’

  The tears came then and Jane Miller tried to take control. ‘This really isn’t the right time. I’m sorry, officer, but ...’ She beckoned the doctor, who was hovering nearby.

  ‘Yes, I understand.’ Tracy sat back, shutting her notebook. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’

  ‘How will that make things any better?’ Kathryn was still focussed on Tracy, ignoring her friend’s ministrations. ‘It’ll never be better now, will it - ever? He stole our daughter away from us and now he’s killed her - that’s what he’s done!’ She put her hand on Tracy’s knee, gripping it so tightly that it hurt. ‘You’ve got to punish him, please - for Shelley’s sake, for all of us! He’s a monster, that man - he’ll do it again if you don’t! Promise me!’

  ‘Mrs Walters, I think ...’ The young doctor was with them now, frowning firmly at Tracy. ‘She’s in no fit state ...’

  ‘I want him punished! I want you to lock him up and throw away the key! He killed her, I tell you! She was fine only a few days ago - she came home, she was happy, she was going to leave him, she told me! That’s why he did it, don’t you see? He couldn’t let her get away. She would never have hurt herself, she had so much to live for!’

  ‘I understand, Mrs Walters.’ Tracy put her own hand on Kathryn’s and squeezed it, trying to comfort but also, tactfully, to release the grip on her leg. It was as though the woman was drowning and her knee was a floating branch that might save her. ‘I’ll talk to you later, I promise, when you’re feeling a little calmer. Does her father know what’s happened yet?’

  Kathryn shook her head bitterly. ‘No. Oh God, not yet, no. I’ll have to tell him, won’t I?’

  ‘I can do that for you if you like, Mrs Walters,’ said Tracy grimly. ‘If you’d just give me a few details, so that I can find him ...’

  7. Interviews

  AT THE station Nick Newbolt took David Kidd into an interview room, and Terry rang Trude’s mobile.

  ‘Hi, it’s me. Have you got the children?’

  ‘Yes, they’re both fine. Tired out and finishing up Mrs Newby’s picnic.’ The reassuring words from the young Norwegian nanny went through him like a soothing draught. His own daughters, at least, were safe.

  ‘Is Esther okay?’ The memory of the tear-stained, ice-cream covered face came into his mind.

  ‘She’s fine, do you want to talk to her? Here, Esther, it’s your Dad.’

  ‘Hi, Daddy. Did you catch the burglars? Mrs Newby says you’re the best catcher.’

  ‘Does she? Well, she’s the best lawyer too - you tell her that. I’ve got a burglar here now so I’ll be late home, pet. Be a good girl for Trude now, won’t you?’

  ‘All right, Daddy - hey, Jess, give it here, that’s my sandwich!’ He heard a scuffle, then Jessica came on.

  ‘Dad? We went for a walk by the river and saw some ducks and a kingfisher.’

  ‘A kingfisher? Lucky you.’

  ‘It was blue and very fast but Emily knows where it lives in a hole. Emily knows about whales too and the environment. She went on a protest, she told me about it. Dad, can I go?’

  Sarah’s teenage daughter, it seemed, was a hit with his girls. ‘When you’re bigger, Jess. You tell me about it tonight. Look after Esther for me, now.’ He clicked the phone off, smiling with relief. Family life, it seemed, was going on peacefully without him.

  He squared his shoulders, and opened the door of the interview room.

  ‘Right, Mr Kidd. You’re here to give a voluntary statement, that’s all.’ Terry switched on the tape recorder, and explained that PC Newbolt would make notes and type them up into a statement afterwards. ‘Do you want a lawyer present?’

  ‘Why would I want a lawyer? I’ve done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  Terry studied the young man in front of him. How old was he - twenty-five, twenty-eight? Older than most students, anyway. His skin was smooth and tanned a faint honey colour, but a twist at the corners of the mouth hinted at arrogance, cruelty perhaps. Something else caught his eye. Apart from the blood, the young man’s teeshirt and jeans were normal enough, but the belt in the faded jeans was of tooled, expensive leather, and his shoes were not trainers, but genuine cowboy boots, with pointed toes and raised heels. Without these heels, David wouldn’t be even average height; he’d be a genuine shortie, a mighty midget trying desperately to project himself as man size. And often, in Terry’s experience, such overcompensation shaped a man’s character as well. Size mattered. Will Churchill, his boss, was often aggressive and sarcastic towards women, many of whom could look him in the eye; this lad might be the same.

  ‘This afternoon, you assaulted your girlfriend’s mother in the hospital.’

  ‘I did not!’

  ‘Oh come on, son, I saw you. You threw her to the ground. Do you deny that?’

  David Kidd sighed extravagantly, as though it was a deliberately unnecessary point. ‘Okay, I may have touched her, so what? Big deal - my girlfriend’s just died, copper, killed herself in the bath. I was upset, okay? So what if lost my temper, you don’t know what her mother’s like, do you?’

  ‘Okay then, David, why don’t you tell me. What is she like?’

  ‘A repressed middle-class bitch, that’s what she is. Mother from hell. If Shelley killed herself she’s the reason behind it, for sure. She never let the poor kid alone. Shelley told me. GCSEs, A levels, all that shit - write this, read that, study all day and night or you’ll end up stacking shelves in Tesco. Poor kid, she never wanted to go to university, her parents forced her. Well I hope they’re pleased with the result, that’s all!’

  Terry listened to this diatribe curiously, trying to reconcile it with his picture of the mother, the woman in the tracksuit he had met so briefly in the hospital. To him she had looked quite normal, but then he had only seen her for thirty seconds before this young man had knocked her to the floor. But had this girl really killed herself because of parental pressure, a few bad essay marks? He doubted it, somehow.

  ‘All right, David, let’s get a few facts straight, shall we? Shelley was your girlfriend, was she? How long had you been together, then?’

  ‘Three, four months, maybe.’

  ‘She was a lot younger than you, wasn’t she? Just a student.’

  ‘So? I liked her. She liked me too, obviously.’

  Liked, Terry noticed, not loved. ‘And so she came to live with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Didn’t she have a room at the university? I thought most students did.’

  ‘Yeah, well, she had both, didn’t she? A room at the uni and a place with me.’

  ‘I see. But you’re not a student, are you, David?’

  ‘Hardly. I ditched that crap as soon as I could. University of life’s where I studied.’

  Terry groaned inwardly. It was a phrase he’d heard too often in his job. The university’s graduates seldom chose the straight and narrow. ‘So what do you do?’

  ‘I work abroad now and then, as a tour guide. Activity holidays, safaris, that sort of thing. Mostly in Kenya, sometimes in Turkey. I was going to take Shelley on one, next month. Poor kid, she was looking forward to it.’

  So that accounted for the soft tan on his skin, Terry thought, and maybe the boots and belt as well. He imagined rich Americans sipping sundowners in a spacious campsite in the
African bush, and David Kidd regaling them with tales of the lions and snakes he’d killed or photographed, or whatever he did. Trophies of the hunt. But if he was planning to take Shelley on such a trip, her suicide seemed even stranger.

  ‘I see. Well, tell me what happened today. From your point of view. Take all the time you need.’

  Terry watched the boy keenly as he spoke, noting the way his eyes continued to rove as he gathered his thoughts, the strength with which the hands gripped his knee before he shifted position. Was that sweat glinting on his forehead, or hair oil?

  ‘Well, I hadn’t seen Shelley for a while; she had essays to do, books and shit. I was missing her, to tell you the truth. But then she left a message that she was coming over, so I thought I’d get a meal together, to cheer her up, for Christ’s sake. And now this.’

  Terry remembered the tape on the answerphone at the flat. What had it said? Something like ‘I’m coming over, but don’t get your hopes up’ - the sort of thing a girl might say when she didn’t want to make love; did that fit this story? He dug a little further.

  ‘What time did she come round to your flat?’

  ‘About ... I don’t know, two, three o’clock.’

  ‘Was she alone?’

  ‘Alone? Yeah, alone.’

  ‘And what sort of mood was she in? Depressed, or fairly cheerful?’

  ‘Well, that’s just it.’ David paused for a moment, frowning. Trying to remember, or invent, Terry wondered. ‘You could never really tell with her. It was up one minute, down the next. That’s why ... I mean, if I’d thought she was going to do anything like this, I wouldn’t have gone out to the shop like I did, would I?’

  It was a clever answer. Terry remembered this alibi Bill Rankin had mentioned earlier. If David wasn’t in the flat, he couldn’t have killed her.

  ‘Let’s take this step by step, it’s easier for me to understand. You say she arrived at your flat and you talked to her, right? What sort of things did you talk about?’

  David sighed. ‘She was moaning about her work, like I said. So I tried to calm her down, didn’t I? I told her she could give it up and live with me, if she liked. Come with me to Kenya and give the uni the boot.’ He leaned forward on the table, rubbing his knuckles in his eyes. When he looked up his eyes were red-rimmed, flooded with tears. ‘That’s what she should have done. That’s what she needed. I’d have taken care of her. Christ.’

  Terry watched, wondering how much of this emotion was genuine. One moment the boy seemed sullen, aggressive; the next he turned on the tears. Was this a murderer in front of him, or not? He wondered how Tracy was getting on at the hospital, with her mother. The girl’s father would have to be contacted too, as soon as possible. He didn’t envy Tracy that task.

  ‘Dr Walters’ room? Yes, up the stairs over there, along the corridor, turn left at the end.’

  Tracy made her way along a grey functional first floor corridor with occasional notice boards featuring examination schedules, essay deadlines, and faded posters about historical excursions to Florence. Other than that the walls were largely bare. Tracy found it oddly depressing, like a school with all the life sucked out of it - no colour, no display of the students’ work. But university life is supposed to take place in the mind, she told herself. This isn’t a primary school.

  At the end the corridor turned to a landing with a window which looked out onto a willow tree and an offshoot of the lake crossed by a wooden footbridge. There was a battered coffee table and a couple of ancient Scandinavian armchairs in front of the window, and a door on the right with the name Professor Andrew Walters. No cartoons, no tutorial schedule. Tracy knocked.

  There was no answer, but she thought she heard a sound from inside. She looked down, and saw a thin line of lamplight under the door. She knocked again.

  ‘Professor Walters? Are you there?’

  ‘Yes, who is it?’ A man’s voice answered but the door, oddly, stayed shut.

  ‘York police, professor. I need to talk to you urgently.’

  ‘Good God. All right, just a minute.’

  What was he doing in there? Tracy wondered. Please don’t play the eccentric professor on me, not now; this is too serious, too painful. She had done this sort of thing several times before but it never got any easier; several times on the way here she had regretted her impulse in offering to come. But it was part of the job, it had to be done. Tracy just hoped this man wouldn’t go to pieces as his wife had done. She’d considered phoning him from her car, but decided it was best to break the news in person, if possible.

  The door opened and a man stood there in shirt, trousers and shoes which, oddly, were unlaced. He was quite tall, thin, with wavy grey hair which looked as though he had forgotten to brush it properly. His face was seamed and handsome in a battered sort of way, with pale blue eyes under thick bushy eyebrows which, just now, were drawn together in a line of irritation.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘It’s about your daughter, sir. If I could come inside ...’

  ‘Is that necessary? What’s she been up to now? Drugs?’

  ‘It’s ... a little more serious than that, sir, I’m afraid. If I could come in ...’

  Reluctantly, the man stood back to let her in. The room inside was large and surprisingly comfortable, furnished from floor to ceiling on two walls with rows of brightly coloured history books and on the third with a desk which looked out through a picture window onto the lake, the footbridge, and a selection of willow and silver birch trees. The room was warm, and the bright blue speckled carpet, like the desk and chair, looked new and modern. The perks of seniority, Tracy thought fleetingly. But the real surprise was on the fourth wall, which gave into a little bay where there was a comfortable lemon-coloured sofa and an armchair arranged around a coffee table spread with more papers and a bowl of fruit. Sitting with her long legs stretched out comfortably on the cushions of the sofa, was a young black woman.

  Tracy hesitated, as the girl stared coolly back at her. She was in her early thirties, Tracy guessed, about her own age, with a very black, aristocratic African looking face, long delicate limbs and hands, and neatly plaited hair. She was wearing a short skirt, a pale blue man’s shirt, and, so far as Tracy could see, not much else. No tights or shoes on the long legs with the elegant pink toenails. No sign, in fact, of tights or shoes on the comfortable carpet either. Having once or twice been disturbed in such situations herself, Tracy guessed they could be found, together with several other intimate items, hurriedly stuffed behind the sofa. She groaned inwardly as the girl watched her, a cool, amused expression twinkling around her eyes.

  ‘This is, er, Carole Williams, a colleague of mine. We were working ...’ At least the man had the grace to blush, Tracy thought, as she turned her attention back to him. ‘Now, what’s up with my daughter this time?’

  ‘If you’d take a seat, sir.’ Tracy indicated the armchair, and waited until he sat down. ‘It’s ... bad news, I’m afraid. Very bad news indeed. I’ve just come from the hospital ...’

  8. Alibi

  THE LONGER Terry questioned the young man, the less he believed he was telling the truth. Some facts seemed clear, and chimed with what he had found in the flat: Shelley had left a message on David’s answerphone, she had come over to see him, he had let her in, they had talked, he had been preparing a meal, she had taken her clothes off and got into the bath, and he had gone out to the local shop to buy flowers and olive oil. And someone - either Shelley herself or David, surely - had cut her wrists so she bled to death in the bath.

  But the order these things happened in, and the meaning behind them, was less clear. As were David’s real emotions about his girlfriend’s death. At times he showed tears, then anger, irritation and even boredom - how could he be bored, Terry wondered, in a situation like this? Insistently, Terry probed at the parts of the story that puzzled him.

  ‘We found a bag in your bedroom, David, a black holdall. With women’s clothes in it, and books a
nd magazines. Was that her bag, or yours?’

  ‘Oh yeah, I forgot.’ David glared across the table. ‘You’ve been in there snooping, haven’t you, without my permission. Like a bunch of burglars, you are. Isn’t that against the law?’

  ‘Not when we’re investigating a suspicious death, son. We have a duty to find out what happened. Now, tell me about this bag. Is it hers, or not?’

  David turned away, staring irritably at the wall. ‘Yeah, yeah, course it’s hers. She always used it.’

  ‘Did she bring that stuff with her, or was she packing it up to take it away?’

  ‘What?’ He shook his head, as if the question were irrelevant.

  ‘You heard. Shelley’s bag was full of clothes and books. So what was she planning to do? Spend the night with you, or go back to her room on campus?’

  ‘Spend the night with me, of course. That was the whole idea. I was going to make her a meal, and we’d spend the night together. That’s what we always did. Anyhow, it was a celebration.’

  ‘A celebration? What were you celebrating?’

  ‘Nothing much.’ David scowled, as if he’d been caught out somehow. ‘I hadn’t seen her for a few days, that’s all. I’d missed her.’

  ‘All right, so she brought the bag with her and took it into the bedroom, then you sat and talked, and had a glass of wine while you were preparing the meal. At what point did she decide to have a bath?’

  David drew a deep breath, trying to calm himself. ‘Well, I said the meal would be half an hour, and she said ... she needed to relax, chill some more, so she’d have a bath while I did the cooking. That was it, really.’ He glared at Terry resentfully. ‘Okay?’

  ‘And so she got undressed in the living room.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, that’s where her clothes were, anyway. On the floor by the sofa. So where were you exactly, while she was doing this?’

  ‘In the kitchen, I suppose. I don’t remember.’ There was a look on his face of anxiety mixed with contempt.

  ‘Is that all that happened?’