by Vicary, Tim
‘Mr Kidd was acquitted, I hear.’ Close to, the man’s face looked strained and pale; the smile not sympathetic but anxious. ‘I’ve had to move out of my flat.’
‘Really? Why is that?’
‘Well, I gave evidence, and he’s a violent man ... I still wonder, you know, whether I did the right thing. It’s so hard to sleep, but I pray ... I mean, when I heard them quarrel that day, if I’d just gone in. Do you think I would have saved her?’
‘It’s impossible to say, father. He might have cut her wrists already ...’
‘Nonetheless, if I’d done something, I might have saved her!’
The little man was trembling with the intensity of his emotion. Terry put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Listen, father, it’s not your fault. We all make mistakes, each one of us. It’s part of being human. Surely your God ...’ He looked up at the forest of stone pillars, bathed in gentle colours as the evening sunlight flowed in through the stained glass windows. ‘... our God, I mean, He understands that. He won’t blame you.’
‘That’s what the Dean said, when I confessed to him. But though I pray, it’s not easy.’
‘You did the right thing, father. You gave evidence, you couldn’t do more.’
Even as he spoke, Terry was backing away, and with a brief encouraging smile he was off, his long legs carrying him swiftly down the aisle to the exit. As he left he was fuming, muttering to himself. Who the hell do you think you are to give absolution? God? After all if He exists He knows why Kidd was let off and it wasn’t that priest’s fault, it was Will Churchill’s and mine. What the hell happened back there anyway? Did I pray and God send me that priest for an answer? What kind of a sick joke is that? Christ Almighty!
Still blaspheming, he got into his car, and began to move off, crawling slowly through the crowds behind a horse-drawn taxi whose guide was pointing out the sites to the last tourists of the day. Terry turned right into St Leonard’s, sitting in a queue behind two large coaches. As he waited, a message on the police radio caught his attention.
‘All units, urgent response to Gillygate. Suspicious female reported in gardens under city walls. Any units available to respond?’
Terry snatched the microphone from the dashboard. ‘DI Bateson here. I’m in St Leonard’s. I’ll take that. How far along Gillygate exactly?’
‘Just past the pub, sir, under the city walls. Passing through gardens from Lord Mayor’s Walk. Woman believed suspicious.’
‘OK, I’ll check it out. On way.’
Terry looked at the blocked traffic ahead of him and thought, quicker on foot. He pulled the car over onto the cobbled square outside the Art Gallery, leapt out, and ran. But which way? The entrances to the gardens along Gillygate were awkward, often locked, difficult of access. Probably just a burglar or false alarm, but it was a relief to have something to do.
Directly across the road in front of him was the ancient fortified medieval gate of Bootham Bar, a popular site of access to the city walls. Terry sprinted across the road, and ran up the stone staircase, through the medieval gate tower, and out along the narrow footpath behind the crenellated fortifications of the city wall. On his right was the Minster, on his left the backs of the houses, flats and shops in Gillygate. At first, near the Bar, they were only a few metres from the wall, but further along long narrow gardens appeared, partly shielded from view by tall spindly trees, growing in profusion at the end of the gardens, directly under the wall.
Muttering excuses, Terry pushed past some tourists busily photographing the Minster in the rosy glow of the evening sunlight, and climbed a few steps onto a watch tower, where he had a better view. He called control on his mobile phone.
‘DI Bateson. I’m on the wall behind Gillygate. Which house exactly?’
‘She was reported moving along the wilderness area directly under the city wall, sir. Past the old folks’ homes at Lord Mayor’s Walk end. Isn’t there an acquaintance of yours who lives along there? A David Kidd?’
Kidd? Of course! His flat backed onto the city walls. Terry peered down, between two trees, and sure enough, there was the first floor roof garden which he’d seen when he’d examined the flat after Shelley Walters’ death. A light was on in the window too, so maybe David was in.
Bastard, Terry thought. What’s he doing in there? Watching TV? Making himself a meal? Cutting meat with the knife we found on the bathroom floor? I could show him what to cut with it, Terry thought. And it wouldn’t be steak.
But for the moment, there was this female burglar, or whatever she was. As he looked, something stirred in the undergrowth below. It was shadowy down there; the wall and trees blocked out most of the daylight. But something - or someone - was moving. His pulse began to race with the joy of the chase.
There she was! A woman in a long dark coat, creeping furtively between the trees. She was approaching from the Lord Mayor’s Walk end, where no walls divided the gardens from each other. Her attention seemed focussed on the backs of the houses, not on the wall above. Opposite David Kidd’s flat she began to step down, cautiously, through the wilderness towards the garden. For a moment she stood behind a tree, studying the windows ahead.
The last rays of the sun vanished and a cold breeze crept along the wall. Goose pimples rose along Terry’s arms. What is this, Terry wondered? Why is she approaching Kidd’s flat?
A man’s figure passed across the lighted window of the flat and as it did so the woman reached the last tree before the wilderness ended, took something long out from under her coat, and bent it with a movement that was suddenly, shockingly familiar. She straightened it with a click, and stepped out onto the lawn with a shotgun in her hands.
For a second, Terry hesitated, wondering what to do. If this woman intended to kill Kidd, why not just watch and arrest her later? But he couldn’t do that, of course not, this was a real murder about to happen before his eyes. He looked down from the tower and saw to his right, on the wall itself, the drop was less. He ran back down the steps, climbed onto the wall, pushing through a swarm of Japanese schoolgirls - each mouth a perfect O of astonishment, covered with a hand - and jumped.
He fell ten feet, landing in soft leafmould and pitching forward off balance. Half running, half falling, he lurched down the slope until he managed to wrap both arms round a tree and swing himself to a halt. The woman, it seemed, hadn’t noticed. Intent on her own purpose, she had reached the stone steps leading up to the patio outside Kidd’s flat. Terry let go of the tree and stepped down onto the lawn.
How do you deal with an armed assailant? Not like this. The pages of correct, cautious procedure flashed through his mind and were gone. No time for that now. And anyway there was something personal here, a mystery that had to be solved. He had only seen the back of the woman, her figure obscured by the long dark coat, but there was something terribly familiar about her. If he knew her they could talk, he felt sure.
She reached the top of the steps and stood with her back to him, staring at the lighted door. He walked towards her, girlish Japanese voices twittering like starlings in the air behind him.
As he reached the foot of the steps she raised the shotgun to her shoulder. The voices behind him rose to shrieks and cries. Hearing them, the woman turned and saw him.
Terry stopped, halfway up the steps. The shotgun was pointing towards him, wavering like a branch in a breeze. Her face was still shadowed but he recognized her, at last.
‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘Kathryn Walters, isn’t it? I’m a police officer. Terry Bateson.’
She stared at him for a long, anxious moment. She said something, but the voices on the wall, chattering and shrieking in a crescendo of girlish excitement, made it difficult to hear. Slowly, he climbed the steps towards her.
‘Go away.’ He was close enough to hear now. Kathryn’s voice was low and intense and trance-like. ‘I don’t need you, go away. Come back when I’ve finished.’
‘Put the gun down, Mrs Walters. Please. You don’t want to hurt anyone
.’
‘Don’t I? Why not? You hurt me.’ The gun waved unsteadily. ‘You got it wrong, didn’t you? You failed.’
‘I’m sorry about the verdict, Mrs Walters. But this isn’t the way to solve it.’
‘Go away.’ Her voice rose to a sob. ‘Just go! There’s something I’ve got to do.’
This is why the procedures insist you call back-up, Terry told himself. I need marksmen to cover me, someone to warn the victim and keep him out of the way. The victim - David Kidd, of all people! And this woman a possible murderer. This is what happens when we get things wrong.
‘Mrs Walters. Put the gun down for me, please.’
‘I can’t sleep, you see. If he was dead I could sleep.’
‘I understand. Really. But it wouldn’t help, you know. You’d only feel worse.’
‘How do you know? Has anyone killed your daughter?’
Her voice had risen, and the Japanese were still twittering in the background. Don’t be a hero, son, that’s what the manuals say. Terry glanced anxiously at the lighted door to his left. Any moment now David Kidd might hear the noise and step out, and then what do I do? Jump on this woman before she has time to shoot, or wait until she’s blown his guts across the wall?
‘Is that your husband’s gun, Kathryn?’
She nodded. ‘He should be doing this, not me.’
‘Have you fired it before?’
‘I know how it works, if that’s what you mean. Go away.’
‘If you put it down now, the courts will understand, anyone would. Nothing has happened yet, nobody’s hurt. Give me the gun, Kathryn. Please.’
The gun barrel, he noticed, was drooping. For a while she didn’t reply. She was breathing heavily, tears trickling down her face. ‘Why are you here? You shouldn’t have come.’
‘Put it down, Kathryn. Please.’
She put the gun on the patio wall beside her and turned away, her arms crossed across her chest. There were shrieks of excitement from the wall behind. Terry took the gun quickly, broke it open, and slipped the cartridges into his pocket. Then he put his hand on her elbow. ‘Let’s go, love, shall we? Before he comes out and finds us. That would just make everything worse.’
32. Gunwoman
AT FIRST the evening went well. The restaurant was good, the food excellent. Bob talked with amusement of the antics of a group of children rehearsing a school play, and with pride of some others who had won a music prize. His wretched secretary Stephanie did not get a mention. Sarah’s gloom about the trial faded, and the quiet murmur of his voice took her back to the days when they had first met; the primitive flat in Leeds, the enormous effort Bob had made with her little son Simon, his joy at the birth of Emily, the way they had scrimped and saved on his teacher’s salary while she stole every spare moment she could from childcare to study, ever more books and essays, ever higher grades and new challenges, with nothing but encouragement and support from this man who sat opposite, smiling at her as he used to when they were young.
In those days a visit to an expensive restaurant like this was inconceivable. Yet, Sarah thought sadly, sipping her wine, they had laughed more then, been more easy together. There’d been nothing false about their conversation, nothing strained as there was tonight.
She wondered if she should apologise for her words the other evening, and began to try out phrases in her head that might suit. And yet it was he, after all, who’d betrayed her, not she him. Twice, in fact. Once, eighteen months ago, when he’d believed her son Simon guilty of murder; that wound which would never quite heal. And now, this flirtation with Stephanie. He hadn’t actually apologised for that yet, she realised. Flowers and food were fine, but where were the words, and the promise to change his behaviour? After all - the dreadful thought entered her head - this celebration, this meal, was the very thing an efficient secretary would think of, might even suggest to her lover.
Suppressing the unwelcome idea, she reached across the table, intending to take Bob’s hand. Then her phone rang. She reached for her handbag instead.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d switched it off.’
‘Well, switch it off now, why don’t you? Whoever it is it can wait.’
‘Yes, okay, I ... just a minute.’ She saw the name on the screen. ‘Hi. Terry - what is it?’
She saw Bob frown as Terry answered. ‘Sarah, I’m sorry to disturb you, but something’s come up. It’s Kathryn Walters, I’ve arrested her.’
‘What? Terry, you’re mad.’
‘No, I had to. Listen, this is what happened.’ Briefly, to her astonishment, he described what he’d seen from the wall, what he’d done. ‘So I had to arrest her, of course, but the reason I’m ringing is, she wants a lawyer, and she’s talking about you. So I don’t know what you’re doing but if there’s any way you can get down to Fulford in the next hour or so ...’
‘Terry, I don’t do police station work. That’s for solicitors.’
‘I know it is normally, but in this case you’re involved, aren’t you? I mean we both are. This would never have happened if Kidd had been convicted, and she’s asking for you ...’
Bob, Sarah saw, was getting disturbed and angry. ‘Terry, I don’t know the procedures. You’d be better off with someone like Lucy ...’
‘Please, Sarah.’ Terry’s voice on the phone became more insistent. ‘Look, I know this looks bad, but in the circumstances I want to make as little of it as possible, and you’re the only one who really understands why. You’re not actually prohibited from doing this, are you?’
‘No, I don’t think so, but ... I’m in a restaurant, Terry, it’s my wedding anniversary.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry then, but ... Look, it’s a mistake, I’ll get someone else. Who did you say?’
‘Lucy Parsons. But - Terry, is she really asking for me?’
‘Yes, of course. And you do understand this. But ...’
‘Okay, look, I’m just round the corner. Bob can drive me. I’ll be there in what - fifteen minutes?’
Their arrival at the police station was not harmonious. Bob was furious, and sulked bitterly all the way there. ‘This was supposed to be our special evening, Sarah, I made a big effort. You don’t like it when I mess you around like this’
‘I know you did, Bob, and I’m sorry. But I wouldn’t go if it wasn’t important.’
‘What exactly is so important about this woman - and this detective - that it can’t wait till the morning?’
‘I’ll explain later, Bob, when I get home. I’ll take a taxi back.’
‘If I’m still awake. I’ve got an early start tomorrow. Inspectors - big day, lots of stress.’
Yeah, sure, Sarah thought, getting out of the car. Your pupils don’t murder each other, do they, when you get things wrong? She imagined him dialling Stephanie to complain how hard done by he was, then shrugged and strode into the station, still in her smart heels.
Terry Bateson led her down a corridor to a small interview room with a buzzing light. Kathryn Walters sat the table, staring dully at her hands as though she’d forgotten what they were for. She looked exhausted, Sarah thought, and bewildered too, as though all her efforts had gone into getting herself onto that roof garden with the shotgun, and none into what might come after. This is what happens when the justice system lets people down, she thought gloomily. People seek their own revenge.
‘Mrs Walters? I understand that you’ve asked me to accompany you in this interview. As a barrister I don’t usually do this sort of thing, but in the circumstances ...’
Kathryn gazed at her bleakly. ‘You understand, don’t you? You know why I had to do it.’
Sarah glanced quickly to ensure that Terry had closed the door behind him. ‘If it was about Shelley, yes, of course. I’ve been told you were arrested outside David Kidd’s flat with a shotgun. Is that true?’
Kathryn nodded dully. ‘But that detective came. God knows how.’
Sarah sat down quietly opposite her. ‘Do you want to
tell me what happened? Don’t worry, this is quite confidential.’
‘I went there to kill him, didn’t I?’ Kathryn turned her hand over and peered at her ring. ‘I would have done it too, if that man hadn’t come. The lights were on in that monster’s flat, I know he was in there somewhere.’ She looked up, staring straight into Sarah’s eyes. ‘I told you before, that’s what I believe in. An eye for an eye. He killed her, and they let him go.’
‘I know, Mrs Walters, and I’m sorry. But ... it might be better not to say that, when the detective interviews you. Not if you want to stay out of prison.’
‘Why not? It’s true, isn’t it? That’s what I meant to do.’
The woman’s lost touch with reality, Sarah thought. Or at least, what we normally think of as real. ‘You can tell the truth to me, of course, but you don’t need to say anything to the police. You’ve a right to stay silent, and that must be better than admitting to attempted murder. Let them prove it if they can.’
‘Of course they can prove it. He caught me outside the flat with a gun.’
‘Yes, well.’ Sarah sighed. This wasn’t a situation she was used to. They used solicitors for these early stages. But Terry was right - if she, and he, hadn’t got things wrong in court, this woman would never be here. ‘Maybe you just went there to frighten him,’ she suggested tentatively. ‘Did you? Think about that. Remember, it’s your intention that counts as much as the facts.’
Kathryn stared at her dully, and Sarah floundered on, wondering how far she could ethically go. ‘I’m not suggesting you lie, of course, but you may have been confused, with all sorts of contradictory emotions going through your head, and so to say you intended to do one thing rather than another may not be the whole truth, do you see?’ I shouldn’t be here, she thought, listening to her voice gabbling, I’m out of my depth. ‘So it’s far better to say nothing at all. Let them prove your intention, if they can. Otherwise ...’
‘I’ll go to prison and he’ll stay free?’