A Fatal Verdict (28 page)

‘Don’t you trust me? Promise, I won’t tell.’

He sighed. ‘All right, yes, it was loaded.’

‘You lied, you mean? Concealed evidence?’ Without meaning to, she’d switched to her courtroom voice, sharp and concise. Their eyes met; hers bright, his anxious.

‘If you want to put it like that, yes. So you hold my career in your hands.’

‘Hardly, unless I want to damage my client.’ Sarah watched his face, regretting the impression she had given. There was no need to be cruel; this man hadn’t hurt her, like Bob. Softening her tone deliberately, she said: ‘That was a kind thing to do, Terry. And brave, too - I couldn’t have done it. Any more than I could have arrested her in the first place.’

‘More foolish than brave, if it goes wrong. But I doubt if she’ll try it again.’

A cool breeze blew off the river, fingering its way along Sarah’s bare shoulders. She shivered. ‘She feels very bitter, you know. Anyone would, in a situation like hers.’

Terry thought back, to the moment when he had confronted Kathryn on the roof garden outside David Kidd’s flat. Would she have fired that shotgun, if he had handled it differently? Or had it all been just a bluff, a scream for help? ‘Anyone can lose their mind, under pressure. But they don’t always mean what they say.’

‘Don’t they? Who can tell?’ That applies to so many things, Sarah thought, not just this. They fell silent for a moment, staring at the dark water flowing by. ‘These are strange careers we pursue, in our different ways,’ she resumed pensively. ‘Look at the happy bridegroom in there, winning his first murder trial. You’d think he’d be proud, wouldn’t you? But he’s not. I think he’s disgusted with the whole business.’

‘Does he think Kidd was innocent?’

‘No, that’s just it, I don’t think he does. Judging by the way he behaved in court, he thought his client was guilty as sin. But unless the man actually confessed to him, he had to defend him to the best of his ability. You hate us for it, I know, but that’s our job.’

‘Even policemen stretch the truth sometimes,’ said Terry reflectively. ‘Nobody’s perfect.’

‘No one except you and me, eh?’ said Sarah lightly. ‘And even you’re a bit tarnished.’ She glanced back into the ballroom where Savendra, flushed with pride, stood hand in hand with Belinda about make an announcement.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, while the band take some well-needed refreshment, we are pleased to announce an addition to the programme. The groom’s sister and cousins will treat us to an exhibition of Indian dancing, after which you are all invited to follow their lead in a simple Indian folkdance.’

Three girls in saris came to the front of the stage, and a tape recorder began to play Indian music. Sarah got up and took Terry’s hand. ‘Come on. No more shop, for this night at least. Let’s watch this, and then you can squire me for the rest of the evening.’

‘My pleasure.’ That word - ‘squire’ -  intrigued him; he wondered what she had in mind. She had always been a woman of surprises, able to switch moods in a moment. Her sideways mischievous glance for his reaction as she dragged him with her bare arms towards the ballroom might have been just a parody of the Indian dance, but on the other hand ...

She tugged his hand and he followed, his heart pounding strangely.

36. Wedding night

The club David took Miranda to was all very well, and the music and the dancing made it easy enough to hide her revulsion for him. But it was impossible to talk except by yelling in your partner’s ear, so after a while she pleaded hunger, and David suggested an Indian restaurant. Here, as they nibbled at the tray of yoghurts, pickles and popadums, she was able to begin the conversation which she really wanted to have.

‘So, Dave, what do you do with yourself when you’re not on safari? Sunline Tours said you hadn’t been out with them for a while.’

‘Oh, this and that. Import and export. African art, mostly.’

‘Really? What about a regular girlfriend? Am I treading on someone’s toes here?’

‘Getting nosy, are we?’ He dipped a piece of popadum in the yoghurt, popped it in his mouth, and stared at her coolly.

‘Just interested. If I meet a guy I like to know where I stand.’ She had pushed the shades to the top of her head now; they might look cool but she couldn’t really see with them on.

‘I had a girlfriend, yeah, but she’s dead.’

‘Oh? I’m sorry. What happened?’

‘She killed herself. And I was tried for her murder.’

So it had started, at last. Miranda clicked the button in her pocket to start the mini recorder, and stretched her right arm, the one with the microphone sewn into her jacket sleeve, towards him across the table. David was watching her closely, perhaps wondering if she would get up and leave. Or maybe - she shuddered at the thought - he was proud of what he had done.

‘What - you mean a real trial?’ she asked, in fake astonishment. ‘With lawyers and all that jazz?’

‘With lawyers and all that jazz, yeah. Are you sure you want to hear this? I might be a murderer for all you know. She even looked a bit like you.’

No, don’t say that, Miranda thought. I’m just a tourist journo from the States. ‘Tell me about it,’ she said, faintly. He was grinning at her, for Christ’s sake, as if he fancied himself as Hannibal Lecter. Dammit, the slime bag’s enjoying this!

‘You really want to know?’

‘Sure, if it’s a good story.’

So he began, while Miranda acted her role, and hoped the tape was working. It was okay to seem shocked, she thought, and even a little nervous and afraid - after all, what girl wouldn’t be nervous of a man who’d been tried for murder? His words burned into her memory.

‘Shelley was a sweet kid, but all messed up. She told me, night after night - how her Dad had these affairs, and her Mum kept on at her all the time to study like her sister, go to uni and get those exams which - you know, they’re all crap really. All those dead poets and novelists and crap - I mean who gives a shit, really? If you want a book buy one, but don’t write essays about it - what’s the point? That’s why she was coming to Kenya - to get away from it all.’

The half truths hurt, more than Miranda had expected. Shelley had been difficult at school - but in Miranda’s view it was brilliance, not stupidity, that had caused her problems. Where Miranda had been diligent, industrious, well-organized, Shelley had been the opposite - impatient, chaotic, insolent. She cheeked the teachers and refused to do homework, but often it was because the task was boring, too tedious for her to dignify it with her attention. And then, just when everyone was exasperated with her, she would redeem herself with an essay or presentation that was brilliant - rainbow coloured where everyone else’s was grey.

It was her illness that caused it: Miranda understood that now. But it was an illness that she shared with William Blake, Sylvia Plath, Winston Churchill. It wasn’t an excuse for failure, as this moron seemed to believe, it was a spur to genius. That was why their mum had worked so hard with Shelley - because she’d really believed she was someone special.

‘So what happened then?’

As they began the curry David elaborated on how Shelley had adored him. ‘I was opening her eyes to things she’d never dreamed about,’ he said. ‘Stuff that really turned her on. I thought we were going places together.’

Miranda choked, and took a drink of water to cool her throat. Bastard, she thought. If only I’d been here, to protect her from this boasting!

David described the quarrel the week before Shelley’s death, but to Miranda’s disappointment it was the same tale he’d told in court. At the end of the meal she was no further on than before.

When he asked her back to his flat she had a further decision to make. The way he phrased it was cunning. ‘I know what you think when a guy says this, but really, it would mean a lot to me. Not for sex, but for someone to trust me again, you know, not be afraid. Just to treat me like a normal human again. Have a cup of coffee and go.’

It was quite the creepiest proposal she had ever had, and in any normal situation ten alarm bells would have been ringing in her head at once. But this wasn’t a normal situation: she was stalking him, after all, and so far she had nothing to show. Perhaps in the flat he would tell a different story, provide the evidence she wanted. And it was where Shelley had died: irrespective of this little jerk before her, something inside Miranda needed to see it. Once, at least.

So she took the risk. He was a runt, after all - not half the size of her husband. She could manage him if necessary, she thought. They walked the short distance to his flat, and she climbed the stairs to the door where, she remembered from the trial, a priest had found this man bending at the keyhole, listening for something inside. Was that priest upstairs now? Would he hear if she screamed? Miranda shivered, and followed David in.

It was a long time since Terry had had the undivided attention of a woman his own age, and he felt uncertain how to handle it. Ever since he had first met Sarah Newby he had fantasized about her, wondering what she would be like to kiss, to undress ... now it seemed he might be about to find out. As the evening wore on she danced closely with him, hung on his arm as though they were a couple, drank two more glasses of champagne ...

Several times over the past year he had made gauche, unsuccessful attempts to take their relationship further, arranging pre-trial meetings in pub gardens or by the river rather than in her chambers or his battered, overcrowded office. On these occasions their conversations would extend into their family circumstances and history, the way they had reached the present stage in their lives, he through university and police college, she by fighting her way up from the slums after leaving school pregnant at fifteen. They had become friends as well as colleagues, comfortable in each other’s company, gradually learning more about each other’s separate lives.

But that was how they had remained until now: quite separate. She had a career which she cherished; a husband whose support had made it possible; two children; and a pleasant home which she loved for its contrast with where she’d begun - in a damp, drug infested slum on the outskirts of Leeds. She had climbed a ladder out of that abyss; she had no intention of falling back down.

Sometimes he kidded himself that she fancied him, but his occasional clumsy attempts at flirtation had always been briskly knocked on the head. The idea of an affair, if it entered her mind at all, was rejected as a threat, something that would sweep away the pillars of marriage, career, and reputation that kept her safely above the chaos of the world she had left.

But tonight, it seemed, something had changed. For once it was not he hunting her, but she him. She touched his arm, hugged him close in the slow movements of the dance, smiled up at him seductively. Perversely, it made him uneasy. He knew she had quarrelled with her husband, but not the details of it. She was drinking steadily, too. The glasses of champagne came and went, her face was flushed, she pulled him energetically into wild, noisy line dances with the younger guests, while the older ones looked on indulgently, or made their excuses and left.

Midnight came, and bride and groom were escorted boisterously to their suite. As the band played something slow and romantic, Terry circled the floor with Sarah resting her head on his shoulder. He bent his head closer to hear what she said.

‘You’re a good friend,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a great time.’

‘Me too.’ He smiled, then, thinking perhaps she expected it, attempted a kiss. She turned away, so his lips brushed her cheek.

‘Not here, Terry. Everyone’s looking.’

As the band began to pack up, she led him out onto the lawn by the river. A waiter moved around picking up glasses, the moon peeped through clouds above the trees, the grass was damp with dew. She stumbled and clung to him, hobbling, then bent to adjust the strap of her shoe.

‘Damn!’ she swore. ‘Look at that!’ She held up the dangling broken heel in disgust. ‘To think how much these things cost!’

‘You can get it repaired, can’t you?’

‘Maybe. But for now ...’ She bent to unfasten the other, and stood barefoot, both shoes hanging from her finger. She squirmed her toes in the moist grass. ‘There! Back to nature. Emily would love it.’

They walked away from the windows, Sarah taking little skipping steps on the grass. Suddenly she ran round him in a circle, three times, as if he were a maypole. Then she stood, panting, and slid her arms slowly round his neck.

‘Come here, my tall policeman.’

She reached up on tiptoe, and this time they kissed. They were tentative at first, her lips hot and warm, his nervous and firm. He felt big and clumsy in his shoes and suit, holding this woman barefoot, light and frail and suddenly passionate. She pulled back, and laughed.

‘You don’t mind, do you?’

For answer he kissed her again, this time for longer. The sound of the music ending, the clatter of the waiter putting glasses on his tray, did not disturb them, but as a group of other guests came out on to the lawn they drew apart. She twined her arm around his waist, still holding her shoes.

‘Party’s over, it seems,’ he said. ‘What now? Back to real life?’

‘If you like. Or ... we could have one more drink. In my room.’

‘What room?’

 Seeing the expression on his face, she laughed, and squeezed his arm. ‘I booked one, to avoid going home. Why shouldn’t I? Emily’s in London, Bob’s away at his conference, and I’m too sozzled to drive. So, a night in a hotel. Come on, Terry. Why not?’

Sometimes, alone in bed at night, Terry had imagined things like this, but they never happened, not in reality. He was too busy with work and the children, and for years his mind had been filled with memories of his wife Mary. But she was dead, he told himself firmly, as they embraced once more in the lift. Long gone, never to return in this life. If Mary was watching surely she’d understand, and wouldn’t begrudge him this - sex with a woman he’d admired and respected for years. A professional, mature woman who had chosen him because ... well, that was just it, it didn’t bear thinking about too closely.

Because she fancied him, he wanted to believe - because ever since she’d met him she’d dreamed it was him making love to her, not that bearded lummox Bob. But of course Bob was the problem behind all of this. She’s a married woman, she’s drunk, she’s using me for revenge on her husband. Added to which all her professional colleagues have seen us together. What if I screw not just her but her reputation too - will she thank me for that tomorrow?

He went to her room nonetheless. The temptation was strong and it was, after all, her choice. The feel of her body pressed against his, naked under the satin gown, drove all thought from his mind.

In her room she broke away, smiling, and opened the door of the mini bar. ‘Vodka, whisky, gin - all at a thousand pounds a bottle. What do you fancy?’

‘You,’ he smiled. ‘If you mean it.’

‘In a minute. We’ve got all night, after all. And it seems perhaps I do need something ...’ She poured herself a vodka and drank, the laughter in her eyes slightly shaded, as if scared of what she planned to do. ‘You don’t want one too?’

‘No. Don’t drink that. Sarah, come here.’

She knocked back the drink, and stepped unsteadily towards him. ‘I need courage, you see.’

‘I never thought you were short of that.’ They kissed on the sofa, and somehow the straps on her gown came down over her shoulders exposing her breasts. He buried his face in them, kissing and fondling while she stroked his hair like a child. As he fumbled for the zip in the back of her dress, she suddenly pulled away. ‘I’m sorry, I - don’t feel quite ...’

‘What’s the matter?’

She stumbled to her feet in search of something - the bathroom. She collapsed to her knees in front of the toilet and the bowl echoed to the sound of her retching. She was crouched on her knees, her gown round her waist, her head in the toilet. He put one hand on her bare back, and stroked the hair out of her eyes with the other as the puking continued. Vodka, countless glasses of champagne, wine, wedding feast, all on their way to the sewage works at Naburn. He felt the cold sweat on her back under his hand.

‘Oh God. I’m ... so sorry.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Yes it does. I feel awful.’ She reached up to flush the loo, and slumped on the tiles beside it, her hair hanging bedraggled round her face. ‘Christ. What a mess.’

‘You had too much to drink. Don’t worry. It happens.’