by Vicary, Tim
He waved a pencil imperiously. Then, as Terry reached the door, he laughed. ‘You’d never afford her anyway, on a social worker’s salary.’
34. Travel Writer
WHEN SARAH got home from the police station, Bob was already asleep. Next morning he listened sourly to her explanation, before driving off grumpily to his school. The following two evenings were no better; Sarah worked late in her chambers, Bob at the rehearsal of a school play. They snapped at each other in passing; the flowers he had bought her wilted and died. Waking the following morning, Friday, Sarah found Bob’s suitcase neatly packed in the hall. For a moment she stared at it stupidly, wondering if things were even worse than she’d thought, and he was really intending to leave. Then she remembered; he’d said something about a conference this weekend, which clashed with Savendra’s wedding. She’d meant to discuss it with him but the turmoil of the last few days had driven it out of her mind.
As usual, Sarah was up at six, ready to catch the early train for a committal hearing in Newcastle. Bob was still comatose, his tousled head under the duvet to avoid the noise she made showering and drying her hair. Normally, she let him sleep, but today there was no time. Doing her face in the mirror, she began to talk.
‘I see you’ve got your suitcase packed. Is that for this conference in Harrogate?’
‘Mmn.’ He groaned and turned over. ‘Told you about it last week.’
‘What is it, three days?’
‘What? Yeah. Shut up, love, I’m asleep.’
‘I’m sorry, but if you’re leaving today I won’t see you, will I? When do you get back?’
‘Sunday evening, I think. Sarah, it’s six fifteen.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Sarah brushed her eyelashes with mascara, peering into the mirror at the tousled creature hunched like some huge chrysalis under the duvet. ‘The point is we’re going to Savendra’s wedding tomorrow afternoon. Saturday. Remember?’
‘What?’
‘I did mention it, Bob. You just didn’t listen.’
‘Well, I can’t go. Obviously. I’ll be at this conference.’
‘Where is it? Harrogate? It’s only an hour away, max. Look, surely you can skip a few seminars and come to the ceremony at least, can’t you? They’re expecting us both, after all, and he is one of my closest colleagues.’
‘I thought that copper was. The one you were with the other night.’
‘What?’ She swung round, hairbrush in hand, to stare at him. He had emerged from the duvet now and was lying slumped against the pillows, unshaven and grumpy. ‘You mean Terry Bateson? Bob, for Christ’s sake, I’ve told you about that. It was work.’
‘Since when do you go out with detectives investigating crimes? You’re a barrister.’
There was no obvious answer to this. He was right, of course, but it had eased her conscience to help Kathryn, and as for Terry, well ...
‘This was different, that’s all.’ She turned back to the mirror, brushing her hair vigorously. ‘Anyway, what about this wedding? I don’t want to go on my own, it’ll look bad. Surely you can spare a few hours?’
‘Maybe. I’ll look at the programme and give you a ring.’
‘Do that, Bob.’ She put down the hairbrush and pulled on her motorcycling leathers over jeans and teeshirt. She had her smart trouser suit neatly folded in a briefcase; she would change in the ladies’ room at the station. Having gained her point she felt a little more conciliatory. ‘What’s the conference about, anyway?’
‘Administering larger schools. That’s why I’m going. It’ll help with this job application.’
‘I see. Not teaching then.’ A cold thought struck her. ‘Is Stephanie going?’
‘Yes, it’s for secretaries too. They help with administration, after all - in fact half of them are called administrators now.’ A defensive look crossed his face. ‘It’s just a conference, Sarah.’
‘Is it?’ She strode smartly to the door. ‘I hope so. Well, do one thing for me, Bob, will you? Me, your wife. Find time for Savendra’s wedding. You’ve got all the rest of the weekend to work with Stephanie.’
Her mother’s action strengthened the idea that had begun to germinate in Miranda’s mind. If David Kidd had killed her sister, then since the justice system had failed there must be some other way of making him pay. There simply had to be. There could be no forgiving what David Kidd had done, not ever. Over the next few days, she developed the details of her plan.
Miranda worked as a freelance journalist, mostly local stuff in Wisconsin, but she’d seen enough exposés of serious crime to know that a not guilty verdict was sometimes just the necessary opening gambit in a series of conspiracy articles that could run and run, exposing police corruption, the incompetence of lawyers, blackmailing of witnesses and the hounding of those who’d been acquitted, often for the rest of their lives. All that was needed was a little evidence; not as much, at first, as was needed in a court of law, but enough to give the story legs so the public would read it. Then dozens of journalists would come pouring out of the woods to follow the scent that one had started. Often, Miranda had felt cynical about this business, which was more about the selling of newspapers than the pursuit of justice, but in this case, she was convinced, David was guilty, so an injustice had been committed. If she could convince the press of this, he wouldn’t have got away with it after all.
And then there had been those words in Sarah’s office. The law might change one day, she’d said. So if she could just find proof of David’s guilt, there could be an appeal sometime in the future. Maybe five, ten years later - it didn’t matter how long, if David knew that justice would reach him one day.
What sort of evidence had Mrs Newby mentioned? DNA was no good here - but what about a confession? That was it, surely! If David could be induced to confess to the crime - and to Miranda he looked exactly the sort of cocky little loudmouth jerk who might do just that - then there’s your newspaper scandal, there’s your grounds for appeal!
But first, she had to get in touch with him. Without, of course, letting him know who she was. That was her plan for today. David, she knew, was a tour guide for an adventure travel company. Among the sad clutter of Shelley’s things, stored in her parents’ house, she had found a brochure with the company’s name, and an address in South London. She fingered it now, remembering Shelley’s excitement about the promised holiday in Kenya. It was this that had given her her plan.
With the brochure on the table in front of her, she cleared her throat nervously. She would have to do this in a good American accent, the sort she heard all around her at home. She dialled the number on the front. A young woman answered.
‘Sunline Tours, Sandy speaking. How can I help?’
‘Oh, hi. My name’s Martha Cookson, I’m a journalist for the Washington Star. You may have seen my stuff, it gets syndicated in English language papers worldwide.’
‘Maybe, I’m not sure ...’
‘You probably have without noting the name. See, I write for the travel supplements mainly, and I’m in England just now, saw one of your brochures, looks real cool, so I thought I might do a piece on you if you like.’
‘You need to speak to our manager. Hold the line please.’
Miranda relaxed. The American accent made it seem like a game. Her friend, Martha Cookson, was indeed a travel journalist for the Washington Star, far grander than Miranda’s local paper. But Sunline Tours would never know the difference, and anyway they deserved all they got for hiring a lowlife like David Kidd.
‘Nick Tranter here, Miss Cookson. What can I do for you?’
Miranda repeated her spiel, which the man swallowed hook line and sinker. ‘But of course. Come round tomorrow and we’ll show you everything you want - videos, references, the works. Guarantee a big spread and we’ll fix you a free holiday.’
‘Sure, but I’m in Yorkshire right now. You don’t have anyone in this part of England that I could visit with, do you? Someone who’s been on the trips, knows wh
at he’s talking about?’
‘Er, not sure. Let me think. There is one guy, matter of fact, in York - would he do?’
‘Sure.’ Miranda grinned in delight. ‘York’s not far.’
‘OK. He hasn’t worked for a bit but he knows his stuff. Give me your number and I’ll see what I can do.’
Half an hour later the man rang back. He sounded a little more cautious. It was only tourism she was interested in, wasn’t it? Yes, of course, she laughed innocently. What else? In that case their representative David Kidd would meet her at the Slug and Lettuce in York on Saturday at eight o’clock.
Where she could try to worm her way into his confidence. And find out, perhaps, what really happened to Shelley. In which case, she really would have an article to write.
35. Wedding Invitation
WHEN TERRY had first been invited to Savendra Bhose’s wedding he had been surprised and flattered. Although he’d met the young barrister professionally and at a few social occasions, he didn’t count him as a close friend. And then, of course, Savendra had been defending David Kidd, in a case which Terry, at the time he received the invitation, fully expected to win. It showed the young man in a good light, he thought, magnanimous even in the face of defeat. It was not often a defence lawyer extended the hand of friendship to the police, so Terry had responded in kind. He penned a gracious letter of acceptance, and bought a handsome cut glass bowl as a wedding present.
Now Savendra had won his case and it was for Terry to display magnanimity. He no longer wanted to go, but it seemed graceless to refuse at the last moment. So he pinned a carnation to his buttonhole, put the cut glass bowl in the back of his car, and set out.
Savendra’s family, although Indian, were Catholics, one of the few good things about them as far as Belinda’s parents were concerned. A Hindu or Sikh for a son-in-law would have strained her father’s tolerance to the extreme - it was bad enough that his daughter was marrying a boy who defended murderers for pay. But at least he been educated at Ampleforth, the top Catholic school in the north of England. So the wedding was in York’s Catholic church, and there was a fine show on either side of the aisle.
Terry crept alone into a pew at the back, and was relieved when Sarah Newby joined him with her husband Bob. She greeted him with a tight little smile; her husband nodded genially. Yet something jarred; the couple seemed ill at ease. I probably ruined their wedding anniversary, Terry thought sourly; well, they should be grateful they still have one.
The wedding couple looked stunning, Savendra dark and suave in morning dress, Belinda in a white wedding dress styled like an Indian sari, with a veil and long floating scarf fringed with flowers of pink and cornflower blue. As she walked up the aisle, the church pulsating with organ music, Terry recalled the cheap cassette recorder in the registrar’s offices where he’d married his wife, Mary. So young they had been, so long ago.
One fine day in heaven, he promised her silently, we’ll do it again, like this.
Afterwards, at a hotel by the river, they sat at round tables for eight. Terry, a solitary male, found himself next to a long-nosed stick-like spinster aunt of Belinda’s in a low cut dress which revealed skin and bones and nothing much between. Sarah and Bob were there too, with a clutch of jolly Indians, but Terry could find little to say to anyone. By the main course he had consumed most of a bottle of wine and was calling for more to dull his desperation. After the speeches a spat erupted between Sarah and Bob, about what he couldn’t tell. When they drifted out later onto the lawn, Sarah’s husband was nowhere to be seen. Seeing Terry, she smiled at him brightly.
‘Staying for the dance?’
‘That was the intention, but now ...’ He swayed on his feet. ‘I don’t know.’
‘If you do, I’m short of an escort.’ She shrugged. ‘Bob’s gone, I’m afraid. Family row.’
‘Oh. Well, in that case, who could refuse?’ Together they found a table on the lawn, overlooking the river. Terry fetched drinks from the bar. They sat in companionable silence, watching ducks pick up crumbs round their feet.
‘Remind you of your own wedding?’ Sarah asked, twirling her glass between her fingers.
‘A bit. This is ten times more posh. Makes me feel like a failure.’
‘Me too, especially when my husband’s not here.’
He studied her thoughtfully, wondering whether to probe. ‘Major argument?’
‘Fairly major. It’s been going on for some time, I suppose ... ever since last year, when he thought Simon was guilty, nothing’s quite been the same. And the other night didn’t help.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, we all have bad patches, but thanks.’ She sighed, and sipped her drink. ‘I’ve been wondering. Was that true what you said, the other night, in the station?’
‘About the shotgun, you mean? And Kathryn Walters?’
‘Mmm.’ She studied him carefully. ‘I shouldn’t ask, I suppose. Can you tell?’
‘Not sure if I should.’ He stared across the river, thinking. What would she think, if he admitted he had tampered with the evidence? Understand his reasons, or despise him for betraying his principles? She had probably guessed already, but part of him longed to confess. ‘Well, the woman deserved a break, didn’t she? It was the least I ...’
‘Hey!’ A hand slapped his shoulder. ‘So glad you could make it! Parents both. Dragged you away from the kids, have I?’
The groom, Savendra, collapsed into a seat beside them, groaning with happy exhaustion. His collar was loose, his hair mussed by the fingers of bridesmaids. ‘Enjoying yourselves?’
‘How could we fail, Savvy? Seeing you reach your heart’s desire!’ Sarah smiled, and Terry remembered how these two, professional rivals, were nonetheless good friends. It was hard for a policeman to imagine - that someone on the opposite team could be your closest pal.
‘Belinda looked beautiful, didn’t she?’ Savendra beamed, a smile of flashing white teeth. ‘Not as lovely as you, Sarah, of course, but I got the next best thing.’
‘Of course you did, Savvy, and she’ll be much more fertile than me too. You have told her your plans?’
‘For the family of eight? I’m saving that up for later. I mean, that’s what you do, isn’t it, on the wedding night? Tell me.’ He leaned forward, drawing them close together in conference. ‘You both know about kids, don’t you? What’s the best and the worst of it?’
And so Terry’s chance to confess was gone, lost in an hour of pleasant banter, during which they were joined by Belinda’s mother and then the bride herself and several Indian cousins, and the subject of children and weddings was tossed around with cheerful laughter. It was already early evening. As the sun set behind the trees a maitre d’hotel advised them that the dancing would start soon, and the hotel’s facilities were available for those who felt the need to freshen up. Sarah took Terry’s arm.
‘Just what I need. Look, I’d better phone Bob, try and smooth things over. But I still want to dance. Will you wait?’
‘Of course,’ Terry said. ‘So long as there’s no crisis at home. I’ll ring the girls while you’re changing.’
‘Fine. See you here at what? Seven then.’
‘It’s a date.’
Terry waited until she’d gone, then picked up his mobile.
Arriving for the interview just after eight, Miranda felt her heart pounding faster than normal. What if David recognised her, what would he do? He won’t, she told herself firmly, he’s only seen me a couple of times in court and each time he looked right through me as if I wasn’t there. Anyway I looked quite different then. Each time she looked in the mirror her new punk hairstyle gave her a fright. In court she’d worn a sober navy suit; now she wore jeans and a black leather jacket with straps and zips, in the lining of which she’d sewn a mini tape recorder, which she’d bought last year for an investigative radio program. She also wore two large hooped ear rings and black wraparound shades. In other circumstances she would have enjoyed the disgui
se; now she chewed gum to still her nerves.
Entering the restaurant she saw him immediately, at a table near the window. She walked to the counter, ordered a coffee and pastry, and looked around as if searching for someone. Another young man was sitting alone in a corner. She took her tray over to him.
‘Excuse me, I’m looking for a David Kidd. Would that be you?’
The man grinned. ‘No, sorry, love. But I could be. Why not sit down and wait?’
Miranda smiled. ‘Some other time, maybe.’ Appearing to notice David by the window, she approached him in the same way. ‘David Kidd?’
‘Yeah, that’s me.’ He waved her to a chair. ‘You’re the journalist, are you? Martha Cookson?’
‘That’s right.’ Miranda held out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
The handshake nearly betrayed her. Bile rose in her throat as his soft, moist palm, her sister’s murderer’s flesh, touched hers. She pulled back instinctively, sending a subliminal signal of distaste. ‘So. You’re the intrepid explorer?’
‘I’m a tour guide, yeah.’ He lounged in his chair, resting one boot on his knee in the arrogant pose she remembered from court. It’s all right, she thought, he just wants to impress me, the jerk. She took the gum from her mouth, and sipped coffee. ‘Where do you guide, exactly?’
For the next half hour he described his safari tours, while Miranda made occasional notes. Much of it matched what she’d heard from Shelley, although David spoke as if he was the safari leader rather than a hired help. But he was funny, in a slightly snide way, telling stories of his rich, elderly clients - the American lady who’d feared that vampire bats might nest in her hair at night; a Dutchman who had climbed a tree to escape a rabid hyena. Not the best way to recruit my readers, Miranda thought. But she didn’t care; her mind was focussed on the next stage of her scheme, winning his confidence so he would talk about Shelley.
‘So, what d’you do when you’re not saving rich ladies from scorpions?’ she asked, with what she hoped was a friendly, inviting smile. ‘Can you have a good time in York?’