A Fatal Verdict (The Trials of Sarah Newby)

Home > Other > A Fatal Verdict (The Trials of Sarah Newby) > Page 34
A Fatal Verdict (The Trials of Sarah Newby) Page 34

by Vicary, Tim


  ‘He was acquitted, Mrs Walters, by the court.’

  ‘The court got it wrong. I said that after the trial.’

  ‘You did, yes.’ Churchill read from a paper on his desk. ‘”This isn’t justice, it’s a farce. The jury got it wrong. That man’s going to walk free and if he isn’t stopped he’ll do it again. Another mother will go through all this pain.” Do you remember saying those words?’

  ‘I remember it, yes. I was upset.’

  ‘If he isn’t stopped. That sounds like a threat to me.’

  ‘Does it?’

  ‘Yes. Come on, Kathryn. We both know you were arrested with a shotgun outside David Kidd’s flat. You went there to kill him, didn’t you?’

  ‘How could I? I didn’t have any cartridges.’

  ‘So you say.’ Churchill gazed at her coldly. He had confronted Terry Bateson again about that incident earlier this week. Terry had stuck to his story but Will Churchill didn’t believe a word of it. The man was a sentimental fool. ‘What was the point of taking a gun then, if you didn’t intend to use it?’

  ‘I was upset. I wanted to frighten him, I suppose. Show how badly he’d hurt me.’

  ‘Are you pleased that he’s dead?’

  ‘I’m not sorry.’ Kathryn felt Lucy’s fingers on her arm. ‘How could I be?’

  ‘So you admit you had a motive for his death?’

  Kathryn felt tears welling in her eyes and brushed one away from her cheek. She didn’t want to be here, she didn’t want any of this. If Andrew had done this, I’d be proud of him. But he didn’t, he’s not man enough to. So that leaves Miranda. And if she was here instead of me, that would be ten times, a hundred times worse. I couldn’t bear it. Overnight her suspicions about Miranda’s involvement had grown stronger, together with her desire to protect her. Miranda must have done it: how, Kathryn didn’t know and didn’t want to. All that mattered was that this policeman didn’t find out.

  A picture came into her mind of the lapwings who nested in the fields near their home in the spring. When she went out with the children or the dog the mother bird would appear ahead of them, screeching, trailing a wing as if it were broken, flapping and falling to the ground again, risking its life in front of the dog’s jaws, but always drawing it a few yards further away from its chick. That’s what a mother is supposed to do, she thought. That’s what I’m doing now.

  ‘All right.’ Churchill turned to another subject. ‘Where were you on the night of the 16th?’

  ‘At home with my husband.’

  A cool grin stretched Churchill’s lips. ‘You’re sure about that, are you?’

  ‘Yes. Why, don’t you believe me?’

  ‘As it happens, no, I don’t. You see, we have CCTV pictures of your husband entering the flat of a Miss Carole Robinson at about seven that night, when you say he was at home with you. We also have pictures of him emerging from the flat at eight the next morning.’

  ‘Oh.’ Things could always get worse, Kathryn realised. It was bad enough guessing - knowing - where Andrew had been that night, but to have this man salivating as he twisted the bruise was a new form of torture altogether. She looked at the two detectives sadly. ‘I must have got the night wrong.’

  ‘You admit he has a mistress?’

  ‘He has graduate students who he does research with. I think she’s one of those.’

  ‘Research. Is that what he calls it?’ Churchill smirked. ‘So you were alone that night?’

  ‘I must have been, yes.’

  ‘And you lied about your husband being home.’

  ‘I made a mistake about the day, that’s all. So did my husband.’

  ‘All right.’ Churchill reached beneath the table and produced a pair of black trainers in an evidence bag. ‘Do you recognize these shoes?’

  Kathryn shuddered. She examined the shoes through the plastic. ‘I have a pair like this, certainly. Where did you find them?’

  ‘In your house, yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The scenes of crime officers have found several partial footprints around the tank where David Kidd’s body was found. They appear to match the tread on those shoes exactly.’

  ‘It doesn’t prove it’s me.’ Hundreds of women must have shoes like these, Kathryn thought. But she didn’t say it, because she guessed whose shoe had left the footprints. And she felt with a sudden, urgent panic that if she did say that, Churchill would instantly realize his mistake and start looking for the real murderer, which would never do. The lapwing flapped its wings in her mind. She shook her head, confused.

  ‘Kathryn? How do you account for that?’

  ‘I don’t. I have no idea.’

  ‘The tread on your shoes matches the footprints found at the scene of the crime. So you were there, weren’t you?’

  Kathryn shook her head, wordlessly. Churchill persisted, his voice louder. ‘You were there, weren’t you? Wearing these shoes? I need an answer, Kathryn.’

  Lucy Walters put her hand on Kathryn’s arm, facing Churchill firmly. ‘Inspector, my client is distressed. She needs a break.’

  ‘In a minute. Let her answer first. Were you there, wearing these shoes?’

  Kathryn looked up, meeting his eyes, so close to her own. If she confessed, Miranda would be safe for ever. But she couldn’t do that either, it seemed. Not yet, anyway. Maybe a time would come ... it was so hard to think what was right, in this cold, impersonal room, with this man firing the same question again and again. All she wanted to do was escape. Shaking her head, she whispered: ‘No. I wasn’t there.’

  Churchill sighed, as if tired of all this pretence. ‘Why not confess now, Kathryn, and make it easy for yourself? You have a motive for this crime, you have previously threatened the victim with a shotgun, you have conspired with your husband to lie about your whereabouts on the night of the murder, and your footprints were found near the crime scene. In addition to which you’re a chemist with a pharmacy in Harrogate. We searched your shop yesterday, as you know. We were particularly interested in the drug rohypnol. Do you know what that is?’

  ‘Yes. It’s occasionally prescribed as a sleeping pill. Flunitrazepam.’

  ‘Do you stock it in your pharmacy?’

  ‘We usually have a few packs, yes. For private prescription.’

  ‘You know it has illegal uses, too, don’t you?’

  ‘As a date rape drug? Yes, that’s why it’s strictly controlled.’ Kathryn frowned. ‘Why are you asking about this?’

  ‘The pathologist found significant traces of this drug, rohypnol, in David Kidd’s blood.’ Churchill studied her reaction carefully. ‘Perhaps you could tell us what the effects of this drug are, Mrs Walters.’

  ‘It makes people dizzy and confused, unable to control their body properly. They lose all inhibitions, like someone who’s drunk, but still look as if they’re awake although they don’t know what’s going on. Normally they don’t remember anything afterwards, which is why rapists love it, I suppose. How could David Kidd have taken it?’

  ‘That’s what I hoped you might tell me.’ The two detectives, watching Kathryn, both saw a shudder, tightening of the lips. In Kathryn’s mind the answer to the question was clear; of course, what better way for someone like Miranda to disable a man than slip him some roofies. The perfect feminist’s revenge. She shook her head slowly.

  ‘You see, I did a little research on this,’ Churchill resumed grimly. ‘It seems that this drug, fluni ...’ he looked down at his notes. ‘Flunitrazepam, is subject to strict record keeping by the World Health Organization, no less, as well as the UK government. Yet when we checked your records, Mrs Walters, we found no less than two packs of this drug unaccounted for. Not covered by any prescription. Can you explain that?’

  Kathryn stared at him, stunned. ‘No, I can’t. Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure, Kathryn. We checked very thoroughly.’

  ‘I’d have to look at the records myself to explain it.’

  �
�You’ll have plenty of time for that, before the trial.’ Churchill leaned forward across the table, a wolfish grin on his lips. ‘How did you do it, Kathryn? Trail him to a pub and slip the pills in his beer, is that it? They dissolve in a couple of minutes, I’m told. Tasteless, odourless, invisible. Then what? You steered him out to his car, and drove him to the woods near your home while he lolled in the seat like a dummy? Was it difficult to drive, a Lotus? Had you driven one before?’

  Kathryn stared at him, like a rabbit watching a stoat. She could deny all this, even his description of the drug, which in its legal version released a blue chemical dye, but she didn’t want to. Not now, not yet. In the horror of his mistaken accusation, she thought, lay some safety. For herself, because she was innocent; for Miranda, because she was unsuspected. There was another possible reason why this drug might be missing from her pharmacy; a fortnight ago her partner Cheryl had sacked a young male locum who had harassed the female staff. But she said nothing of this now.

  ‘Then what? You drove him to the woods where this awful pit was, got out, moved the fence, heaved him into the driving seat, put the car in gear and stepped back, is that it? The perfect crime, except that you made too much noise and the farmer heard you. Otherwise he’d still be down in the mud today.’ Churchill studied her, his eyes a few inches from hers. ‘That’s what you did, isn’t it, Kathryn? You stopped him, just as you said you would outside the court. You killed him because he killed your daughter.’

  ‘No.’ She spoke so softly that Churchill doubted it would record.

  ‘No? For the benefit of the tape, Mrs Walters is shaking her head. But you’re glad he’s dead, aren’t you? You told me that earlier.’

  ‘If anyone deserved to die, he did.’ This time the words were clear, quite clear enough for the recording. Lucy squeezed Kathryn’s arm in warning.

  ‘So you don’t regret killing him?’

  Kathryn stared into Churchill’s eyes, a cauldron of emotions bubbling inside her. There was only one thing she was certain of, in all this horror and chaos. She was not going to lose another daughter.

  ‘I regret nothing.’

  The cold smile of triumph on Will Churchill’s face broadened slightly. ‘Very well. Kathryn Walters, I am charging you with the murder of David Kidd. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.’

  48. Personality Clash

  TERRY BATESON and Will Churchill were like oil and water, unable to mix. They had clashed the moment Churchill was appointed, parachuted in from Essex while Terry was disabled by the shock of Mary’s death. Since then, despite initial attempts to get on, the conflict between them had become personal. Churchill grated on Terry every time they met. Brash, cocky, ambitious, unencumbered by wife, children, or self-doubt, he focussed relentlessly on his own career when on duty, and his personal enjoyment when free. Nothing else mattered. And yet, it seemed to Terry, the future was with men like Churchill, not himself. The younger officers admired him for his mastery of buzz words, his skill at jumping through the promotion hoops. Targets mattered more to him than the crimes themselves, or their victims. For him, the failure of Kidd’s prosecution was a catastrophe not because of the pain suffered by the Walters, but because of the damage suffered by the crime figures.

  Terry’s own reputation was damaged too, perhaps terminally. Crossing the canteen, he imagined muttered conversations: ‘past it’, ‘too much time with the kids’, ‘can’t hack it any more’. He’d seen it happen before, to an old DI with a legendary string of convictions to his name. Suddenly, in his fifties, the fire had gone out of the man. The younger detectives saw not a star but an old buffer who didn’t understand new procedures or technology. He was shifted sideways into administration, and when he retired, there were more balloons in the canteen than colleagues.

  That could be his future too, he thought sadly. Kathryn Walters’ arrest had brought a buzz to the department, as the arrest of a murder suspect always did; but most of Churchill’s team looked at him with eyes that were pitying, embarrassed rather than friendly. It wasn’t his case any more; it was his mess they were clearing up.

  Yet he was desperate to know what was going on. The arrest of Kathryn, of all people, was a dreadful blow to him. After all, she was the original victim, not David Kidd. None of this would have happened if Kidd had been convicted, as he should have been. And that, of course, was largely Churchill’s fault, although no one else saw it like that. Terry had been in charge of the case, so its failure gave Churchill an opportunity to crow over him once again.

  Grimly, he squared his shoulders and knocked on his boss’s door.

  ‘Come.’

  Terry entered and stood before the broad desk, noting the mocking surprise on the younger man’s face as he looked up from in the comfortable leather office chair. ‘Ah, Terence. What can I do you for?’

  ‘It’s about the Kidd case, sir. I understand you’ve made an arrest.’

  ‘Yes. Kathryn Walters. She was charged this morning.’

  ‘I ... wondered what the evidence is, sir.’

  ‘Oh, you wondered, did you? Well, it’s not your case now, is it?’

  ‘No sir, but it was, and ... obviously I feel some concern.’

  ‘So you bloody well should, too! For Christ’s sake, man, if you’d thrown the book at Kathryn Walters when she was arrested with a shotgun outside his flat, then Kidd would probably be alive today. And that woman wouldn’t be facing life imprisonment, either. You’ve got a lot to answer for, old son.’

  The accusation, as Terry had expected, was brutal and directly on target. He’d reflected on it long and bitterly last night. He’d destroyed evidence to spare Kathryn, and now it seemed she might be guilty of a murder. If she had committed that crime it was largely his fault, first for failing in the prosecution and then for hiding those cartridges. And yet he still could not fully believe she was guilty. But if she hadn’t killed Kidd, who had? These questions consumed him like a fever, the more insistent for the fact that they had no answer. Certainly he could expect no sympathy from Churchill.

  ‘We discussed that fully at the time, sir. The shotgun was unloaded; I had no reason to suppose that it was anything but a futile gesture.’

  ‘Well, it’s not so futile now, is it? The man’s dead, at the bottom of a stinking pit. You know, if I wasn’t so soft, I’d send you back to traffic duty. Might be a good idea, at that. The shift patterns would be easier for your kids, and the decisions less taxing for your brain.’

  Terry drew a deep breath, driving his fingernails into his palm to control his temper. Churchill loved to goad him; an outburst of temper would make the wretched man’s day. And he deserved something like that, after all; that was the worst of it.

  ‘What I wanted to know, sir, was whether you’re sure Mrs Walters is guilty.’

  ‘Sure?’ Churchill sat back in his chair and laughed. He spoke in a tone adapted to the understanding of a three year old. ‘Well, yes, Terence, as a matter of fact I am. That’s why I’ve charged her with murder, do you see? Because of the evidence, and so on. It’s what policemen do.’

  ‘And that evidence is what, exactly?’

  For a moment Terry thought his boss wouldn’t answer. The idea of telling him to get lost flitted across the younger man’s face. But the opportunities for mockery, for rubbing his subordinate’s face in it, proved too strong. Churchill leaned forward, counting out each point on his fingers. Terry listened numbly - the motive, the threats Kathryn had made outside court, the shotgun attempt, her husband’s failed alibi, the rohypnol in Kidd’s body, the missing drugs from Kathryn’s pharmacy, the partial footprints which matched a pair of her trainers, and a witness who had seen a woman answering Kathryn’s description getting into Kidd’s car the night before he died. Churchill smiled grimly.

  ‘Good enough for you yet? To say nothing of the fact that it ha
ppened in woods a few miles from her house, in a place she knew well. Oh yes, and in case you’re wondering, the only other obvious suspects, her husband and daughter, have rock solid alibis for the night of his death. Hubby was tucked up in bed with his mistress, and daughter flew home to the US of A two days before. I checked, you see. That’s what detectives do.’

  Terry thought about what he had been told. ‘This witness, where did she live?’

  ‘It was a he, actually. An old colonel who lives off Lord Mayor’s Walk. Knew Kidd, had had several conversations with him. His window overlooks the garage where Kidd kept his car.’

  ‘How far away is it?’

  ‘About forty yards. He didn’t claim he recognised Mrs Walters directly, of course. But he saw her face briefly under a street lamp and picked her out from a list of possibles we showed him. Same height, same age, same colour hair. What more do you want?’

  ‘And his eyesight’s all right, is it?’

  Churchill shrugged. ‘Seventy years old, wears glasses. But he’s still got his marbles, the old boy. Commanded a battalion in Korea.’

  Terry shook his head doubtfully. ‘So what was she doing in the car with Kidd?’

  ‘Planning to kill him, I presume. She’d probably doped him already. You’re too soft on this woman, Terence. You don’t understand how devious the female can be, when she plans a crime like this.’

  There was a case, Terry could see that. But he didn’t want to accept it; it didn’t fit the Kathryn Walters he knew. Something was wrong here, somewhere. ‘It’s not good enough, it’s all circumstantial. Even those footprints, they could be anyone’s. You haven’t got anything which puts her at the scene of the crime.’

  Churchill looked up at him, the smile cool, controlled, devoid of doubt. ‘Not yet, Terence, no, but we will. Don’t worry, SOCO are still working on it. I’ve sent them back to scour the site for another day, or as long as it takes. If she was there - and take my word for it, she was - they’ll find something, you know. They always do.’

 

‹ Prev