by Vicary, Tim
‘Well, I can’t.’ Kathryn got up and rested her face on the window, feeling the glass cold on her forehead. ‘Why didn’t they convict him? It’s so obvious he did it.’
‘They didn’t know Shelley, mum, that’s why.’ Miranda put her arm round her mother’s waist, staring out at the rain on the lawn. ‘We knew she wouldn’t kill herself, but they didn’t.’
‘And so one day he’ll do it again. I should never have listened to that Newby woman, I should have given evidence myself and told them what she was like.’
‘It wouldn’t have helped, Mum. She’s a good lawyer, she did her best. There were guys in that jury who looked worse than David, even. I saw one in the rest room. Whenever the police went by he’d give them the finger behind his back.’
‘Then you should report it. We could get them disqualified, have another trial.’
‘I doubt it. We’re on our own now, Mum.’ Miranda gathered her mother in her arms, in a hug that reminded them both of how close they had been in years gone by. She stretched out a hand to her father, who patted his wife’s shoulder gently while the TV chattered about football.
It was a strange moment for Miranda. Her parents seemed small, diminished, as if they were the children, not her. They were at a cusp in their lives, all three. She was an adult now, with a husband and child and career of her own; they were at the peak of their journey, with the long downhill slope ahead to old age, dependence, and death. Already her mother felt frail, for all her exercising.
‘Come on,’ she said, after an age. ‘Life goes on, we’ve got to eat.’ She marched into the kitchen and started grimly slicing onions, seeing David Kidd’s head in every blow. Something will have to be done, she thought. He can’t just get away scot free.
Sarah was watching the same scenes on the television news in her living room. She felt shattered, depressed, exhausted. It was the first major prosecution she had lost, and it hurt more than she had expected. Terry rang her after the 6 o’clock news. He blamed himself, it seemed, not her. And, of course, his boss.
‘I spoke to that bastard Churchill just now,’ he said, his voice, hard, bitter, angry.
‘What did he say?’
‘What do you expect? He tried to blame you.’
‘Me?’ Sarah sighed. ‘What did I do wrong?’
‘Nothing specific, just everything from start to finish. Not enough experience, should have done better with the psychiatrist, antagonising the jury - it’s all rubbish, Sarah, it doesn’t mean a thing.’
‘You think so? Wait until he starts gossiping with his friends. This could be my last big case for the CPS for quite a while.’
‘It’s his fault, Sarah, for overcooking the timing with that shopkeeper. I tried to tell him that, but it’s like talking to a horse’s arse.’
Sarah smiled, briefly, at the image. ‘Is that what you told him?’
‘Not in so many words, no. But he must know I’m right, though he’ll never admit it. Too keen to get promotion, cutting corners to meet his crime figure targets, and bugger the truth. It’s him all over, Sarah. I should have seen it coming and I didn’t. I should have checked that statement myself.’
Sarah searched for some comfort to give him. The trouble was, she agreed with what he was saying. And this wasn’t just a simple matter that could be brushed aside and forgotten. The failed prosecution was devastating for all concerned.
‘Well, don’t beat yourself up too much, Terry. Learn from the experience instead. Your boss is just a menace. Everything he touches turns sour. So keep him out of your cases in future. And if you can’t, check everything he does.’
Terry groaned. ‘It’s all right for you - you’re self-employed. You forget, he’s my boss. I’ll probably be dealing with parking offences in future, while he does the murder trials. God help the victims, that’s what I say.’
‘Amen,’ thought Sarah, putting the phone down sadly. She was sorry for Terry, but not inclined to excuse him completely. It was too important for that. The local news came on ITV, and she suffered through Kathryn’s rage all over again. Sarah looked at Emily, sitting on the floor with Larry’s arm round her shoulder, and imagined how she’d feel if it had been Emily who had died, Emily’s murderer who had walked free.
It would hurt all over my body, she thought, I’d be a walking wound.
The football came on and Emily pressed the mute button. ‘What went wrong, Mum? Why did you lose?’
Sarah explained, briefly, about the devastating effect of the shopkeeper’s evidence, and the psychiatrist who she had tried to get excluded. The young people listened seriously. ‘I failed, that’s all.’
‘It wasn’t your fault, Mum,’ Emily said. ‘You did your best, you always do.’
‘Did I? Maybe, but it wasn’t good enough. Not for the poor girl’s family, anyway.’
‘Surely, Mrs Newby,’ Larry asked thoughtfully, ‘even if he didn’t actually kill her, he still must be guilty of something. I mean, he caused her suicide, didn’t he?’
Sarah smiled sadly. The question was typical of him - thoughtful and straight to the point. Over the past year she had come to regard Larry not as the gypsy who came to steal her daughter away, but as Emily’s greatest discovery.
‘That’s what her counsel argued, Larry - that her boyfriend was such a nasty piece of work that he drove her to suicide without, perhaps, intending to. So he’s not guilty of anything.’
‘But that’s not justice is it? I mean, surely ...’
‘It’s how the law works, I’m afraid. Unless I could prove he intended to drive her to suicide, he’s guilty of nothing. And I wasn’t even trying to do that, because the evidence suggests it was murder. Most of it, anyway.’
‘Poor Mum.’ Emily reached up a hand to her mother. ‘You must feel rotten.’
‘Yes. Not one of my greatest triumphs, I’m afraid.’ Sarah took the hand in her own and squeezed it. ‘And tomorrow I’m going to meet that girl’s family in my office. What do you think I should say?’
What Sarah actually did say, when Kathryn and Miranda climbed the stairs to her room, was simple and obvious. ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Walters. In my opinion there was enough evidence to convict, but we didn’t convince the jury. It happens sometimes.’
Both women looked nervous. Sarah had warned Savendra to be out, so there were no distressing confrontations in the corridors. The two women entered grimly, the clerk closing the door softly behind them. Kathryn was still wearing black; Miranda wore jeans, trainers, and a fleece. Sarah seated them in front of her desk.
‘Your husband’s not coming?’
‘No. He has a lot of work.’
As if that could be more important than this, Sarah thought, remembering how Bob had monopolized yesterday evening with a discussion of whether he should apply to become an inspector if he didn’t get the new headship. ‘The verdict must be very painful for you both.’
‘Yes, it is. Obviously.’ Kathryn’s mouth was set in a grim, bitter line. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry in all my life.’
‘That’s very natural,’ Sarah said. ‘I understand.’ She wasn’t sure she had the skills or vocabulary to handle an interview like this, with such a justified sense of outrage.
‘Can’t we appeal? To a higher court?’
‘I’m afraid not, no. Not in the present state of the law. We could appeal against an unreasonable ruling by the judge, but it’s the jury we’re unhappy with here. The government have talked about changing the law to allow the prosecution to appeal against the verdict but that’s all it is so far, talk. And even if they did change the law it would only be for cases where substantial new evidence has been found.’
‘Such as what, exactly?’ Miranda asked. She, like her mother, looked pale, but lacked the bruised eyes, the sense of sleep-walking through nightmare, that her mother conveyed. Perhaps that was just the resilience of youth. The anguish, the barely controlled fury, was much the same.
‘Such as for example new DNA ev
idence, or convincing photographs, a confession, something like that. But even then it’s difficult to see how a retrial would work.’ Sarah checked herself, realising that the last thing these people wanted to hear was a discussion about how the very statement that compelling new evidence had been found might unfairly prejudice any new jury against the defendant. ‘Anyway, it’s not something to build your hopes on. The sad fact is that he’s been acquitted and there’s nothing more we can do.’
‘So why did you lose?’ Kathryn asked bitterly. She leaned forward on the edge of her seat, anger in every line of her body. ‘Everyone knows he did it.’
Sarah kept her voice as calm as she could. ‘Because of the psychiatrist, I suppose, and the shopkeeper changing his evidence. Both of those things damaged us badly.’
There was real fury in Miranda’s voice. ‘That psychiatrist didn’t know my sister. He had no idea what she was like. She’d never kill herself, it would never have entered her head.’
‘He did say she’d talked of suicide ...’
‘He’s full of shit! He only met her - what? Half a dozen times in her whole life. Whereas I ...’ Tears prickled in Miranda’s eyes. She brushed them away irritably. ‘I can’t believe he was allowed to get away with stuff like that.’
‘I did try to point that out,’ Sarah said cautiously.
‘Yes. Yes, you did, I suppose. I can’t blame you for that, only ... why weren’t we allowed to speak? Tell the jury what she was really like? My mum wanted to and you stopped her!’
This, Sarah thought, was the crucial point. It was the one big error she could be blamed for - certainly the one Shelley’s family would be most aware of. She had spent several hours last night, lying beside a gently snoring Bob, reviewing her decision about it.
‘Yes, I know. I’ve asked myself that, of course - whether the advice I gave you was wrong. But each time I come up with the same answer. I doubt it would have made much difference, truly, Mrs Walters. Except to your feelings.’
‘And my Mum’s feelings don’t matter?’ Miranda persisted. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
‘Not at all, no. Of course not.’ If the interview went on like this, Sarah thought, she would have to end it. ‘I think Mr Bhose would have humiliated your mother, as I said at the time ...’ Sarah turned back to Kathryn. ‘He would have tried to make it look as if you drove Shelley to suicide. He would have had to.’
Kathryn shook her head, grimly. ‘He works here just like you, doesn’t he?’
‘Mr Bhose? Yes. He’s in court at the moment, though.’
‘How can he live with himself, doing a thing like that?’
‘It’s part of the job.’ Sarah shrugged. ‘You develop a tough skin.’ It was not the most tactful remark; she regretted it instantly. Kathryn stiffened as Sarah’s words sank in.
‘This is over for you now, isn’t it? You just go on to the next case and forget all about it.’
‘I’m sorry, I put that badly. Anyway my skin isn’t as tough as all that. This is the first major prosecution case I’ve lost, and it hurts me too, though not as much as you, obviously.’ Sarah leaned forward, shaking her head sadly. ‘I probably shouldn’t say this, but I did want to win this case, truly, because, just like you, I believe the man’s guilty. Unfortunately, the jury thought otherwise, and the justice system has let you down. I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t help much.’
‘Not while that man’s walking free, no, it doesn’t.’ With cold dignity, Kathryn got to her feet. ‘It was good of you to see us, but it’s just a formality really, isn’t it? There’s nothing more you can do. We’ll just have to deal with this on our own.’
31. Wedding Anniversary
RIDING HOME two days later, Sarah eased the black Kawasaki 500 through a line of blocked traffic on the way out of York, and gunned it into the outside lane of the A64, opening the throttle to somewhere near its limits. She crouched low against the oncoming wind, watching the speedometer creep up towards 90 as she swayed in the sudden alarming swirls of slipstream from the vans and lorries that she passed.
She didn’t care if she crashed; she needed this recklessness to purge her of the anger she still felt about losing the case against David Kidd. It had left a particularly nasty taste in her mouth: however Shelley had died, Kidd was the cause of it. Yet the toad was free as a bird, while Shelley’s family drank the poison of failure. If I was that girl’s mother, Sarah thought, I wouldn’t let things rest as they are. If I saw David Kidd in front of this motorbike I’d ...
She swerved, nearly losing control in the backwash from a large van, and slowed at the exit for home. Don’t be stupid, she told herself, you could lose everything like that, in a single moment of madness. It’s not worth it, not for me or the Walters. But then if the courts, the criminal justice system, have failed them, where else can they go?
Savendra looks sick, too. He knows something, and it isn’t making him happy. Out of professional etiquette Sarah had refrained from discussing the trial with Savendra, but she needed to discuss it with someone who understood. Terry Bateson, she thought, I’ll ring him.
But when she got home there was no time. She opened the front door, still in her leathers, and stumbled over a vast bouquet of gift-wrapped flowers. Behind it stood her husband, Bob, an anxious, triumphant grin on his face.
‘Happy anniversary, darling.’
She stared, astonished. ‘Bob! Are these for me?’
‘Well, maybe.’ He affected to consider the question. ‘Yes, I suppose they are.’
It was an unprecedented event. Sarah usually remembered their wedding anniversary, but Bob, until now, had always forgotten. This used to cause rows, until Sarah decided to back off, thinking what the hell, it’s the fact of being married that matters, not the ritual, and anyway we’re both too busy to make anything special of it. But now, after a fortnight when they’d prowled round each other like bears ...
‘What is this, a peace offering?’
‘Call it that if you like. It’s a gift.’
She bent down to read the card. Eighteen happy years. With all my love, Bob. No actual apology then, for the way he’d treated her. But then, her own words hadn’t been the kindest. She gathered the colourful crinkly package in her arms. ‘I’d better put them in water then. Have we got a vase?’
‘All ready, in the kitchen. I’ll do it, you get changed. I’ve booked a table at eight.’
‘What? In a restaurant, you mean?’
‘Yes, of course in a restaurant. That new French place near the castle.’
‘Oh Bob, this is lovely, but I can’t, not tonight. I’ve got a brief to read through.’
‘Nonsense. You’ve always got briefs and trials. This is about us.’
‘Bob, I can’t. I ...’
‘Come on, Sarah. I don’t often do this.’ His face, the tone of his voice, made her pause. What am I doing, she thought, making him plead? All these years I complain that he takes me for granted, and then when he offers flowers, a meal, I reject it?
‘All right, I suppose I’ve got to eat somewhere,’ she said, with less grace than she meant. ‘What time did you say - eight?’
‘Yes.’ He looked wary but eager, like a dog who hopes to escape whipping. Should I admire or despise him for this, she wondered? This is the husband I chose, after all. Shared half my life with.
‘Right. Just so long as we don’t stay too late.’ Halfway up the stairs, she thought no, that’s not the right tone either. She leaned over the banisters, flashed him a smile. ‘Thanks, Bob. It’s a lovely surprise.’
Every year since it was built, York Minster has attracted thousands, sometimes hundreds of thousands of visitors, and not all of them are honest. Many come each day to pray for forgiveness of their sins, others - a small but significant minority - come in the hope of committing more. The cathedral attracts tourists, many of them rich, some of them careless, and from time to time the police are called out to investigate crimes committed against such people.
&nbs
p; Terry had spent the afternoon taking statements from an American lady who, as her tour party confirmed, had the unfortunate habit of carrying her open handbag slung over her shoulder, and as a result found herself burdened with considerably fewer worldly possessions when she left the house of God than when she had entered it. After taking the statement, Terry lingered for a while, sitting quietly in a side chapel, listening to the chant of evensong, and the silence of the vast building in the pauses between the psalms. There was peace in here, and comfort: the murmur of voices floated up, indistinctly, between the pillars of the vast stone forest above his head, the sounds losing all clarity and individuality the higher they rose. Perhaps it’s like that with prayers, Terry thought; so many millions must have been uttered here, some sincere, some frivolous, all rising and mingling together like smoke joining clouds.
Such faith they must have had, such certainty, those who spent hundreds of years building this ancient cathedral! Raw as he was with the failure of the prosecution, Terry found himself wishing he’d been brought up a Catholic, with the option of anonymous, confidential confession. Would that ease this pain? He’d seen Will Churchill manipulate the truth before, yet failed to check up on him this time. So in that sense, at least, Kidd’s acquittal was his own fault, and the pain of the Walters family was on his head. Silently, he slipped to his knees in the empty chapel, rested his hand on his bowed forehead, and tried to remember the formula for prayer. It was so long since he’d tried ...
‘Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned ...’
The muttered words seemed appropriate, but unnecessary, somehow. If there was a God, then He knew the whole story already; and if there wasn’t, well, it was a waste of breath. He stayed for a few moments nonetheless, the ache in his knees and his back a minor penance of sorts, then looked up to see a priest approaching with a sympathetic smile on his face.
Terry got to his feet swiftly, but he was too late. To his dismay he recognised Canon Rowlands, the priest from David Kidd’s trial. Escape was impossible without blatant rudeness, so he nodded: ‘Good afternoon, father.’