by Vicary, Tim
But then her mother had phoned from prison - a three minute call, probably recorded by the authorities and made in a public corridor to judge from the background echoes. Kathryn had been adamant: ‘It’s all for the best, darling. He’s dead and I’m glad of it. Proud. If I met the person who did it I’d hug them to my heart and ... well, never mind. I’d love that person forever. The main thing is not to worry. They can’t prove I’m guilty because I didn’t do it, and the best thing you can do for me is to stay in America with Bruce and Sophie, and not come here. Do you understand? I love you deeply, darling, more deeply than ever before, but I don’t want you to come back here until it’s over. Promise me, please darling, promise me that.’
So Miranda had promised. What else could she do? Letters had followed in similar vein, all of them circumspect because of the prison censor, but it was clear, without saying it, that her mother guessed who had done it and was prepared to sacrifice herself, if necessary, for her daughter’s happiness.
Only Miranda wasn’t happy, not at all. She couldn’t say anything, even to Bruce, without incriminating herself. She hid from him behind a wall of silence. Once allow a trickle of truth to escape, she thought, and it would prize the floodgates open and drown them all. Her mother was right - she would lose Bruce and Sophie - all would be drowned, torn away from her for ever.
But the secret consumed her like a cancer. If only there was someone she could tell! She went for long walks alone in the forest, whispering her confession to beavers in dams, screaming it aloud to eagles on hilltops, throwing stones disconsolately into lakes. Nothing helped for long; no one understood. There were weeks when she scarcely spoke to Bruce at all; their marriage seemed drying up for lack of love. From her, at least; he remained kind and considerate, ascribing her snappish moods to the strain she had been through in England. He rocked her in his arms, his big hands holding her like a child, until she shoved him away, tears starting again in her eyes.
If it had not been for Sophie she would have gone back. But the little girl needed her now, it seemed, more than ever. In the first few weeks after Miranda’s return the child had been a nightmare, alternately clinging to her mother’s jeans or slapping her face and running to hide in her bedroom. To Miranda it seemed as if the child was fey, smelt the mud and oil of the drainage pit on the hands that reached out to embrace her, saw the ferocity of a killer in her mother’s eyes. But it wasn’t so, she told herself, it couldn’t be true; Sophie had been upset the first time she’d gone to England, for Shelley’s funeral; this was the same effect magnified, an attempt to punish her mother for going away. All her friends said the same: her long absence had damaged her daughter’s security, it was to be expected. All she had to do was stay patient and calm, and her daughter’s trust would return.
So Miranda tried, and slowly, grimly, it worked. Gradually, Sophie settled, until, occasionally, a whole day would pass without a tantrum, a week without a damp little girl coming in to her at midnight from sodden sheets. But it was not straightforward, and with Bruce often working late, most of the burden fell on her. Once it became so bad she took the child to a therapist, but that was awful; after conducting various tests on her daughter the man turned his gaze on Miranda, asking increasingly probing questions about her emotional state, her behaviour, her relationship with her husband and parents. Miranda met his eyes with a blank, non-committal stare, while the panic-stricken truth burrowed away to hide in a cave deep in her brain. It was too early, the man said, for Sophie to be exhibiting the symptoms of bi-polar disorder; the best thing by far would be consistent, patient parenting, in a secure environment shielded from the pressures of the outside world.
But to do that Miranda had to grow a shell to shield herself. She became adept at deflecting all talk about events in England; friendly enquiries from friends and her husband’s family slid off her like water from a duck’s wings. Perhaps she seemed cold to them, indifferent; she didn’t care. To her the subject was so sensitive that part of her mind thought about nothing else; and yet, to survive at all, to get through the day, above all to care for Sophie, she had encysted her secret within her, so that it lived in its own little world like a globe, a cherished disease. A monster whose existence she could acknowledge to no one.
It was hardest, of course, for Bruce. As things with Sophie improved, he wanted to try for a second child. Miranda shuddered and shrank from him in bed.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Not yet. I’m not ready.’
‘So when will you be? After your Mom’s trial?’
‘Maybe. I can’t say. I’ll let you know.’
‘You’ll let me know? This is a thing for us both, honey. Not just you.’
‘I know, love. But not yet. I just can’t.’
As the trial approached the cyst within her threatened to burst. Her mother’s letters insisted that she should stay away, but Miranda knew, more and more clearly, that it would be impossible. She had to go back, even if meant abandoning Sophie yet again, just at the time when the little girl was really settling down. But the thought of allowing Bruce to put another baby inside her, another responsibility to grow alongside the monster of guilt she kept hidden, made her feel sick. She hadn’t dared discuss this with him yet, let alone tell her daughter she was leaving. But she had to go back, she couldn’t leave her mother to face this alone. Even if it meant abandoning her family for ever.
‘Sophie’s nearly three now,’ he persisted. ‘We agreed that would be the best time, you know we did. A little brother or sister for her to grow up with might be just what she needs.’
And a mother in prison, if things go wrong, Miranda thought. Yes, terrific. With an enormous effort she turned in the bed to smile at him.
‘Maybe you’re right, love. After Mum’s trial. I’ll feel better about things then.’
‘Is that it? I know it’s a lot of strain for you, honey. But you never talk about it. Maybe it would be better if you did.’
‘Nothing to talk about. She didn’t do it, she’s not guilty. I’m tired, Bruce, I’m sorry. I’ve got a headache.’
It was not the first or the fortieth time he’d been brushed off like this. Tonight, with the trial less than a month away, he was determined to pursue it further. Bruce admired his mother in law, regarding her as a tough old bird, but he didn’t regard her guilt as totally impossible. She had a clear enough motive, after all. It might be wrong but he could understand someone killing for revenge.
‘Have you never thought she might have done it?’ he asked. ‘After all she had good reason, didn’t she? If anyone did that to Sophie, I’d probably do the same.’
‘You’re a man, Bruce. She’s a woman in her fifties.’ Miranda turned away, feigning sleep.
‘Even so, Shelley was her daughter. You’d do it too, wouldn’t you, love?’ he persisted. ‘Fight to protect your children, if there was no other way?’
Miranda shook her head numbly, feeling the tears prickle at the back of her eyes. For a moment she was tempted to confess; if he really felt like that perhaps he would understand her, even forgive. But she didn’t trust him; the burden was too great. He might have broad shoulders but she’d been married to him long enough to know that his opinions changed according to the people he was with, and his mother in particular had powerful religious views that saw the world clearly in terms of the ten commandments. Once her secret was out, she could never call it back. Bruce would be shocked, appalled, uncertain what to think; he would seek advice from his family and friends, and soon the whole world would know.
She loved him so much; she was killing everything she loved.
‘Maybe you should go back for this trial after all,’ he said thoughtfully, after a pause. ‘You’re no good here, just worrying. You should give your mom support, not just shrivel into yourself like this.’
‘I do give her support!’ she snapped, so loud that their dog barked in the garden. ‘Haven’t you seen all the letters I send her, the cards? What more can I do, Bruce, if she doesn’t
want me there?’
‘I know she says that, honey, I’ve seen the letters too.’
‘And what about Sophie? Just when she’s doing so well at last.’
‘I’ll manage. I managed before.’
‘Until I came back, yes. You know what she was like then.’ Abandoning the pretence of sleep, Miranda sat up in bed. He was only advocating what she knew she had to do anyway.
‘You needn’t be away long. If your Mom’s acquitted, you could even bring her back here for a holiday. She likes Sophie; that might help.’
‘Yes, sure.’ Miranda stared numbly out of the window, watching the moon rising over the trees at the end of the garden. Why was it so red tonight, of all nights?
‘If it was my mom, I’d be there no matter what. Christ, Mandy, what can go wrong?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ Gratefully, Miranda watched a cloud darken the blood red moon. ‘Nothing at all, Bruce.’ She mouthed the words emptily, grateful that he’d made the decision himself. It might be the last burden he’d ever take from her. That, and a lifetimes’s care of Sophie, if things went wrong.
Miranda shuddered, exhausted by the months of struggle. She’d borne her secret for so long, but it just grew stronger. Bruce was right, she belonged in England, not here. She’d done her best with Sophie, but she was no good to her husband any more; she was a husk, a ghost of the wife he deserved. To hide here with him while her mother was locked up for life would be intolerable.
Her only hope now was that Kathryn would be acquitted. And I have to be there to see it, Miranda thought. There’s no other way.
They sat silent in the dark, their minds as distant as continents. The first red rays of the moon emerged from the far side of the cloud.
‘You’re right,’ she said at last. ‘I do have to go.’
51. New Trial
ANOTHER DAY, another trial. Sarah Newby placed the red ribboned brief on the ancient oak table in the centre of York Crown Court, and sat down to await the entrance of the judge. Beside her, counsel for the prosecution, Matthew Clayton QC, a short, dapper man with the spare physique of a long distance runner, smiled at her politely. She had not met him before, but he came with a formidable reputation. He surveyed the court with interest.
The public gallery was full, the air humming with the buzz of eager whispered conversation and feet hurrying over wooden floors. The jury were on Sarah’s right, the clerk and ushers ahead of her, the security guard and shorthand writers all in place.
The talk hushed as the accused came up from the cells between two security guards. Sarah turned to smile encouragement to her client as she entered the dock. Kathryn looked pale, calm and composed. She wore a blue two piece suit, with a brooch and a scarf at her neck. She looked what she was - a respectable educated woman in her early forties - except that she was thinner now than when they’d first met. So thin and pale, that Sarah had wondered if she might have cancer. But the stress of losing a daughter could do that to anyone - not to mention being tried for murder. Kathryn stepped forward to the edge of the dock and looked around her - a tense, frail figure surrounded by eyes - like Joan of Arc at the stake, a martyr to the mob.
The judge, his Lordship Robert McNair QC, entered, bowed, and took his seat, resplendent in red robes, sash and wig. The clerk read the charge:
‘Kathryn Elizabeth Walters, you are hereby charged that on the night of 16th October last, you did kill David William Kidd, contrary to Section 1 of the Homicide Act 1957. How say you? Are you guilty, or not guilty, of that charge?’
‘Not ... I’m sorry.’ Kathryn coughed to clear her dry throat. ‘Not guilty.’
‘Very well. You may be seated.’
So that’s over at least, Sarah thought. Throughout their pre-trial conferences Kathryn had been so withdrawn, tense, and uncommunicative, that Sarah had sometimes wondered if she wanted to be convicted, and would surrender at the first challenge. Sarah dreaded putting her on the stand. Any competent prosecutor could make that sort of behaviour look like guilt; it was not a chance that Matthew Clayton QC was likely to miss.
He rose now to outline his case. Addressing the jury with a clear, resonant voice, his pleasant everyday tone somehow emphasized the horror of how David Kidd had died.
‘The pathologist will tell you that the cause of his death was drowning. Not surprising, you may think, for a man trapped inside a car under six feet of dirty water. Physical examination shows how he clawed at the roof and doors of that car, trying to get out, but failed. His lungs filled with water and he drowned.’
He explained how the presence of copious quantities of rohypnol in David’s blood made it impossible that this was an accident, since he would have been incapable of driving a car or performing any normal actions, let alone escaping from a car when he suddenly found himself trapped in it under water. And the car was far from the road, in the middle of lonely woods.
‘So, a suspicious death, at the very least. But what led the police to treat this as murder, and crucially for us, to identify Kathryn Walters as the murderer? Well, as in the best detective stories, a number of small clues led inescapably, so the prosecution say, to Mrs Walters’ door. The police witnesses will lay this evidence before you.’
The best detective stories! Sarah snorted, just loud enough for Matthew Clayton to hear. He looked, she thought, faintly abashed. This was a serious matter, after all, not an entertainment, and he must know that the tightrope of logic he was about to lead the jurors across was painfully thin. One weak thread and they would fall into an abyss of doubt.
Glancing over her shoulder, Sarah saw Will Churchill sitting at the back of the court, so sure of himself, so smug - a man on the make, who needed convictions to rise to the top. He was the man she would have to challenge, if she was to have any chance at all of winning this case. And so far, the prospects looked far from good.
‘The first of these clues, from careful examination of the crime scene, showed a number of marks, on trees and the concrete around the tank, to suggest that the driver of the car - not Mr Kidd - had got out to move a fence, before driving the car over it. Then the fence had been replaced to make it look as though nothing had happened. Mr Kidd couldn’t have done that, clearly. Then secondly, footprints - or partial footprints - were found in the area, made by a size six training shoe - the same size and style as trainers found in Kathryn Walters’ house. And most conclusively of all, you may think ...’
Matthew Clayton paused, milking the moment like an impresario, meeting the eyes of each of the jurors in turn to ensure he had their full attention.
‘Several hairs were discovered, a cluster of female hairs, on a blue elastic hair bobble near the fence. And these hairs, when subjected to DNA analysis, proved to be identical to hairs taken from the accused, Kathryn Walters. Proof positive, you may think. How could Kathryn Walters’ hair possibly be near this abandoned fuel pit, unless Kathryn Walters had something to do with the murder of David Kidd?’
There was a soft intake of breath, and the eyes of the jurors, all twelve at once, turned towards Kathryn, where she sat pale and defiant in the dock. She must feel it, Sarah thought, like heat burning into her - or cold, perhaps, sucking her life away.
It was a lethal question, all right. That hair bobble might lock Kathryn away for life. And Clayton had introduced it in just the right way - as the killer clue in his detective story. The jurors would love that, just as Churchill would. After her conferences with Kathryn, Sarah had rung Terry Bateson to ask his opinion about the case. They’d met on a bench by the river. Over the past few months Sarah’s conflict with Bob had died down as he threw himself with apparent enthusiasm into his new job, and her relationship with Terry had reverted, more or less, to the professional friendship they had had before. Slightly to her regret, he had made few attempts to progress it further. He seemed too depressed to try.
The failure of David Kidd’s trial, followed by the arrest and prosecution of Kathryn Walters for his murder, had undermined Terry’s faith:
both in the police service, as an organisation devoted to justice, and in himself, as a canny, successful detective. If Kathryn Walters had killed David Kidd, then a significant part of that was his fault; but if she was innocent, then someone, somehow, had fabricated the evidence against her.
‘I never believed it was her, perfect motive or not,’ he’d told Sarah when they met. ‘I mean, a woman of her age, how could she get near him, for a start? He loathed her, he’d have crossed the street to avoid her. If it had been Shelley’s father or daughter, perhaps. But he was with his mistress and she was in the States. So ...’
‘It has to be Kathryn?’
‘That’s what Churchill thinks, yes. But there could easily be someone else, couldn’t there? That’s what I told him. Some junkie or hooker like Lindsay Miller, the girl Shelley found him in bed with; some boyfriend or business associate he’d cheated - anyone really. This lad was one of nature’s pondlife - he was under every stone you could find. But I’m off the case, and slick Willie, he doesn’t want to know. It would take time, energy and resources to track down someone like that. Whereas if you can build a case against Kathryn Walters - bang! You’ve got it in one. With lots of choice headlines as well.’
‘But apart from these hairs, the evidence doesn’t stand up.’
‘Exactly. The day after she was arrested, SOCO wanted to close the crime scene down. But little Willy’s not satisfied. All they’d found was a few footprints, so they had to go over it again. Much moaning and strong words, but they do it because he’s the boss. And guess what? He was right all along. Next day they find these hairs, on an elastic bobble, that they missed before. Hairs with roots, that can be tested for DNA. And that’s it, done and dusted. Kathryn Walters, placed at the scene of the crime.’
Sarah studied him carefully. There was a bitterness in his face that she hadn’t seen before, a resentful, frustrated cynicism. ‘You think he planted the hairs?’