A Fatal Verdict (31 page)

But if I want to, I will. Next time. If there is a next time.

‘Ooops, sorry!’ Emily poked her head into the kitchen, saw her parents holding hands across the table, staring earnestly into each other’s eyes. ‘I’m just going into town for a while with Larry, okay? Be back before ten.’

‘All right,’ Sarah said. ‘Take care.’

‘Will do, Mum, Dad. Aged parents.’ Emily beamed at them, Larry’s arm draped carelessly round her shoulder. ‘Behave yourselves now, while we’re out.’

‘We’ll try,’ said Bob. ‘We’ll try really hard.’

40. Flight Plan

‘It’s a pity you had to leave so soon,’ Andrew Walters said.

‘I know, Dad, but I have to think of Bruce as well. And Sophie. Look, Dad, I’ve been here a week longer than I expected, but I have to go home some time and ... I can’t bring Shelley back to life, can I?’

‘No. No one can do that, sadly. Or get revenge, as your mother seems to want.’

Miranda looked out of the car window as the high, bare hills of the Pennines flashed by in the early morning light. It wasn’t a line of conversation she wanted to encourage, and besides, her father needed all his attention for the driving. Since the trial he had been sunk in gloom, sitting alone in his study when he was at home, but frequently out of the house, either walking the dog or God knows where - most likely with the mistress her mother had told her about. Well, she was welcome to him, Miranda thought; he was the shadow of the father she remembered, a broken, exhausted, incommunicative man barely able to stumble through everyday tasks, let alone give support to his wife and daughter. And her mother was little better. Since her arrest she had seemed defeated, more like a child than the forceful mother she had once been. The verdict had diminished both parents, kicking them violently down the slippery slope towards second childhood. The only responsible adult left in the family was Miranda herself.

Responsible. Miranda smiled bitterly to herself. The plan that obsessed her now was the opposite of that. I’m a mother with a child and a husband - those are my responsibilities. Not this, not ...

But it was a perfect plan, and it filled her mind, to the exclusion of everything else. It had come to her like that, clear and simple and deadly, at four o’clock in the morning. For hours she had tossed and turned, consumed by fury and frustration, knowing what she wanted to do but unable to work out how. And then suddenly there it was, all the details exact and precise, the result beautifully satisfying, the escape route certain, the revenge - if it all worked out as it surely must - so sweet she could taste it on her tongue.

It was risky, surely, but possible - more than possible, certain, if only she made no mistake - and if she achieved it, as she surely would if she kept her nerve, then no one else need ever know. And that would make it perfect.

But first she had to attend to each detail, one by one. And this trip with her father was the first.

In the car park at Manchester airport she hunted up a trolley while he lifted her suitcase from the boot. At the check-in desk she turned to wish him goodbye. ‘I’ll send you a text when I get there, Dad, all right? And if you want to ring me use the mobile, all right, or better still, send a text, it’s easier. You know how you and Mum are always getting the time difference wrong and waking us up in the middle of the night. I’ll be jet-lagged, I’ll need my sleep.’

‘All right, love. Just so long as we know you’re safe.’

‘I will be. But I may be in a hotel in New York, if the flights are all full to Wisconsin. If you ring too soon you’ll upset Bruce, you know what he’s like.’

‘Okay, love. Take care. You’re all we have now, you know.’

‘I know, Dad.’ He hugged her tightly, tears in his eyes. Then she walked away, through the security check, into the international lounge. Her father went for a coffee until the flight was called, then went outside onto the viewing platform to wave as the plane took off.

Entering Gillygate two days later, David Kidd crossed to the sunny side of the street. It was only a hundred yards to his flat, but after so many months locked up on remand, the warmth of the sun on his skin was important to him. Every little sensation - the roar of a bus, the scent of bread from a bakery, the chime of the Minster clock - helped him to savour his freedom. It was a freedom he didn’t intend to lose; prison and the trial had scared him, and the rational part of him knew that next time - and there was bound to be a next time - he might not be so lucky.

Entering his flat, he saw the little red light flashing, which meant he had a message. He picked up the phone and dialled 1571. To his surprise, he recognized the voice of the American girl who’d come to his flat the other night. He hadn’t expected to hear from her again, but here she was  - speaking from a train station or airport, to judge by the background noise.

‘Hi. It’s me. David, it was sweet of you to make me breakfast that morning and I left rather suddenly, I’m afraid, without thanking you properly. I think I was a bit woozed probably, had too much to drink. Anyway, I enjoyed our evening together and I’ve got a draft of my article to show you. So wondered if we could go out again, maybe in that fancy car you mentioned. If you’re free, that is. My mobile number is  ...’

He was pleased. It seemed the roofies had worked this time, wiped the girl’s memory clean so that she had no idea what had gone on under the influence. Either that or she’d enjoyed it. Anyway he’d liked the girl, and why not? She’d be going back to the States in few days so there’d be no ties. All he had to do was be careful, not let himself get out of control.

So he rang back, and made a date to meet that evening.

David went into the bathroom to wash his hands, glancing casually at the bath to his left as he did so.

41. Lotus

‘So you came?’

‘Sure, why not? I brought the article.’ Miranda pulled two sheets of folded paper from her bag.

‘I’ll read it later. Over a meal.’ David stood in the door of his flat, devouring her with his eyes. He seemed to have dressed for the occasion - pressed jeans, snakeskin boots, a soft silk shirt. But he looked flushed and nervous, too, more than Miranda had expected. Was some part of his strange perverted mind worried about the impression he was creating, perhaps? Hoping she would love him while he abused her, was that it? Too late for that now, sonny boy.

Miranda had dressed carefully too, in a way that she hoped would give her control. She wore tight black trousers, a short white top showing her belly, and a soft suede jacket of her mother’s. Enough, she hoped, to give him the message that she was respectable, persuade him to take her out somewhere decent. At least make him pause before he jumped her.

She wasn’t wearing heels though, but old black trainers. She carried a small handbag slung over her left shoulder. All the rest of her luggage she’d left in New York two days ago. ‘It’s my last night,’ she said with an attempt at a smile. ‘I’ve got to fly home tomorrow. I thought maybe you could drive me to the station.’

‘What, you’re not staying?’

‘In the morning,’ she said as sweetly as she could. ‘The train leaves at nine.’

‘Oh yeah? You’re hoping to be up by then?’

‘It doesn’t matter. I can take a taxi. I just thought ...’

‘Don’t worry. Where you flying from? Heathrow?’

‘Manchester. At 12.30.’

‘Okay. No worries - I’ll drive you. It’s quicker in the Lotus.’

It was the reaction she had hoped for. Her plan hinged around the boasts he had made about his Lotus last time they had met. It was his biggest toy, it seemed; he had to show it to her. ‘What about tonight?’

‘Well ...’ He slid one hand round her waist and pulled her to him, urging her lips apart with his own and forcing his tongue into her mouth while his other hand squeezed her bottom. This was the worst part; she was expecting something like this but still she tensed, every part of her rigid with fear and rage. He laughed, pressing her hard against him. But it was no use fighting; she had to go through this, or her plan would fail. She forced herself to relax, closing her eyes and letting her muscles go limp as though she was in a yoga session and not here at all, jammed up against the wall with his thumb inside her knickers and ...

‘No! No, wait.’

‘What for? Come on, now, darling.’

‘I’ve got a better idea. Let’s do it in the Lotus.’

‘What?’

‘That’s what I’ve been thinking about ever since you told me you had a car like that, I ...’

‘Are you crazy?’ He paused, considering the idea. ‘There’s no room.’

‘I’ll make room. It’s speed that does it for me. Please, David. It’ll be ...’ Words failed her for a second. ‘Like nothing you’ve ever had in your life. I promise.’

‘All right.’ He pulled back, grinning, while she adjusted her clothing. ‘It better be good though.’

‘It will. Ever since I was a kid I’ve liked screwing in cars. Come on, let me see it.’

Somehow she had regained the initiative. He was only an overgrown boy, after all, she had managed enough of those in her youth. Not half as strong as Bruce - God if he was here, this jerk would be a pile of bones on the floor. Well, he will be.

‘Where do you keep this car?’

‘In a lock-up at the end of the road. I’ll show you.’

They walked along Gillygate to Lord Mayor’s Walk, the little man swaggering assertively beside her. Two ivy covered garages nestled under the city wall behind the houses. ‘How did you get this?’ Miranda asked as they approached the one on the left.

David jerked his thumb at one of the houses on the right, where an elderly man was watching them through a window. ‘Old guy over there can’t drive, lets me have it for a tenner a week. It’s worth it, you’ll see. Car like this left outside, the wheels’d be gone in five minutes.’

The door slid up smoothly. David flicked a switch and a covered shape appeared. That’s him, she thought, fussy bastard. A brick garage isn’t enough, he needs a dust cover too. As he pulled back the cover the nose of the gleaming grey Lotus Elise emerged. David touched it with his fingertips gently.

She was glad it was grey. She’d feared it might be bright yellow or red, the sort of car no one could easily forget. A Lotus was conspicuous enough, but she didn’t get to choose. For her plan to work, she had to use whatever car he owned. A Mini would have done just as well.

She waited while he drove it out and opened the driver’s door. ‘Come on, get in.’

He locked the garage door, then climbed back in beside her. ‘There, what do you think?’

‘You’re right, it’s quite snug.’

‘All the power’s in the engine.’ He put his hand on her knee, squeezing it roughly. ‘I’ll put her through her paces on the way to the coast. Then I’ll put you through yours.’

As Terry sat at his desk, gloomily considering his situation, his phone rang. A woman’s voice - light, husky, slightly nervous.

‘Hi, Terry. It’s Sarah. Not interrupting anything, am I?’

‘No, not at all.’

‘Just rang to thank you for the flowers. That was a nice gesture, Terry. I appreciated it.’

Flowers? He struggled to remember what she was talking about. ‘Oh, good. I’m glad you liked them.’

‘Exactly what I needed to restore my confidence after the fiasco of the night before. I do apologize for that, Terry, really.’

‘Nothing to apologize for.’ He smiled at the memory. Sarah’s voice, however, sounded embarrassed.

‘I, er, felt pretty silly next morning. I hope you don’t think too badly of me for it.’

‘Sarah, don’t torture yourself. I was flattered, really.’ Terry struggled to find the right words. ‘I’ve always ... I mean, perhaps we can meet for dinner sometime.’

‘I’d like that but ...’ she hesitated awkwardly. ‘You should know I’ve patched things up with Bob, a bit, anyway, and er ....’

Don’t get your hopes up.
Terry sighed. No luck here, then. The gods seemed set to crush him again. In the calmest voice he could manage, he said: ‘I understand. But we’re still friends, I hope. I mean, that’s all we were ...’ No, that’s not quite right. ‘ ... good friends, I mean?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Sarah sounded relieved. ‘Terry, you’re sweet, really. I’d like to meet for lunch. You can tell me how things are going since David Kidd’s acquittal.’

‘All right then. How about Thursday at one. In Marzanos?’

She leafed through her diary. ‘It looks free at the moment. Okay, it’s a date - you’re on.’

‘Fine. I’ll look forward to it.’ So that’s it, Terry thought gloomily as he put the phone down. A lunch date, not with a lover, but a friend, who’s patched things up with her husband. A bit, anyway.

What does that mean?

42. Lovers’ Lane

The pub he chose was larger than Miranda would have liked, with a dozen cars parked outside. That was probably why David chose it; other customers would see the Lotus and be impressed - exactly the opposite of what she wanted. But she had no choice. 

Everything, so far, had gone exactly his way. He had taken the car out onto the long empty roads on the Wolds towards Bridlington, where there were no speed cameras and the road lifted and fell like the waves of the sea. The little car with its light, fibreglass body took off at times like a speedboat. For him it was exhilarating, for her terrifying - he was not a particularly skilful driver and several times almost lost the back of the car on corners. On a blind bend he missed an oncoming tractor by inches. She could do nothing about it - he was fondling her leg most of the way and when they finally stopped on a ridge overlooking the sea she had no choice but to give him the blow job he wanted, while he lay back and revved the engine in ecstasy.

In the pub she sat opposite him, trembling, sick and furious. She picked at her meal while he sawed at a steak, trying to impress her with tales of travel which she guessed were mostly fictitious. If I don’t do it now, she thought, I never will. She had never hated a man more but her fear was disabling her. Two young men had been watching them since they came in; surely they would remember? And the barman too. But she had no other plan and in twenty four hours she would be four thousand miles away.

When he went to the gents she slipped two of the pills in his lager.

She watched, fascinated, as they fell to the bottom of the glass. Two white tablets beaded with bubbles. She stared, willing them to dissolve. Slowly, before her eyes, their texture began to crumble, the shape become less distinct. Soon ...

‘All right? Ready for the drive home?’

‘Sure.’ She picked up her gin and lemon, drank deep for courage. ‘Let’s finish these first.’

She watched him swallow the lager, fascinated. The beer looked darker - would it taste foul, would he spit it out in disgust? No, no more than she had with the coffee in his flat. Half of it was gone already. Would he see the pills in the bottom? No, they’d dissolved now.

‘What you staring at?’

‘Nothing. Just thinking.’

‘I bet you are. We’ll do it again on the way back. Maybe I’ll show you another trick.’ He hesitated, grinning oddly as if he’d forgotten what he meant to say next, and slouched slightly in his seat.

‘Drink up then, if that’s what you want.’

He looked at the glass in surprise as if he’d not seen it before, then lifted it and swallowed the rest. That’s it, she thought, it’s inside him now. Now to get him to the car before it takes full effect.

She stood up, hitched her bag on her shoulder, and touched his left arm. ‘Come on then, Shumacher, let’s go.’

‘What?’ He got up, stumbled, and started to laugh. ‘Schumacher, yeah, that’s right, I ...’

The sentence dissolved into a stupid, high pitched giggle. He stood, swaying on his feet, then lunged for her shoulder. Christ, I’ve given him too much, Miranda thought. She took his weight, wrapped his arm round her shoulders, and propelled him towards the door.

To get there they had to pass a table with four young men. As they approached it David, still giggling, raised his free arm in mock salute, then swung it wildly, sending a bottle of beer spinning on the table, spraying its contents in all directions.

‘Hey! Watch what you’re doing, stupid bastard!’

‘Look at my trousers!’

‘Come here and I’ll smack your stupid face!’

Just what she didn’t need. She was surrounded by four angry young men while David leaned across her shoulder, giving them the finger. His body was growing heavier and floppier by the minute. It took all her strength to keep him upright. She urged him towards the door, his feet wandering haphazardly beside hers.

‘I’m sorry, he’s drunk,’ she said, desperately wishing they’d go away. ‘He can’t help it, it’s an illness he gets sometimes.’

‘What, too much beer? Give over, love - we all get that!’

‘Stupid prat! What’s so bloody funny?’

‘You’re not going to let him drive like that, are you, love?’

‘No, of course not.’ She reached the door, turned to smile at the least aggressive man of the four. ‘I’ll drive him home, it gets him like this sometimes. It’s a sort of allergy.’

‘Shall I call a doctor?’ The young man held the door while his mates resumed their seats, ostentatiously brushing beer off their damp trousers. He followed her into the car park. ‘He looks pretty sick to me.’

‘He’ll be okay. A cold shower and a sleep and he’ll be right as rain.’ She propped David against the Lotus, slumped with his face between his arms on the roof, chuckling to himself at some incomprehensible joke, and searched his pockets for the keys. They must be here somewhere, dammit, try the other pocket, yes here we are. She pressed the button on the fob, watched the lights flash and opened the passenger door. Her good Samaritan was still there, watching every move.

‘If you can just help me get him in the seat...’

‘Yeah, sure. He’s really gone, isn’t he? You sure he’s okay?’

‘He’ll be fine, really.’ She strapped David in. ‘I’ll take care of him now.  I’m sorry about the beer.’ She fished in her bag for a fiver. ‘Here, buy your mates a drink.’

‘No need for that.’ He took the money anyway, but didn’t go. Just my luck to meet a nice guy now when I don’t need one. ‘You sure you can drive that thing?’

‘I’ll manage. Look, thanks for your help, but I’m fine.’

She got in the car and searched for the ignition while he stood there, watching. Where is the damn slot? Okay, here. Shall I move the seat forward? No, David’s not tall. He looks like an idiot, slumped there, dribbling. Maybe I’ve killed him already. How does this work? Standard H shift, three pedals like any other car. She started the engine, touched the accelerator slightly, felt a deep throated purr. Okay, where are the lights? Pull, twist, what the hell do you do - ah, that’s it, full, dipped, fine. She let in the clutch. The car jerked forward and stalled. The young man stepped helpfully towards her.

Oh no, please no more help, don’t watch me any more! She restarted the ignition, let in the clutch more gently, and waved her thanks to the young man. Just don’t take the number, please don’t take the number. She turned smartly out onto the road and drove away. Thank God. He knows it’s a Lotus but that’s all, I hope. I really hope.

What now?

As she reached for the gearstick David’s hand seized hers, pressing it down so that she ground the gears, making a horrendous noise that her Samaritan might easily hear at the pub.

‘Get off!’ She flung his hand away. So he wasn’t completely out after all. He stared at her, a manic grin on his face, then reached across and grabbed her hair.

‘Christ, David, let go!’ His fingers were clenched in her hair and he was leaning forward, trying to paw at her breasts. As they approached a bend the car swerved wildly and she dragged it back to the left just in time to avoid a van going in the opposite direction. She heard its horn fading in the distance as she dragged her head loose from his hand and shoved him back into his seat. ‘Get off me, you maniac!’

‘You want it, don’t you?’

‘No!’ This bloody drug was supposed to subdue him, not turn him on. Maybe this is why I did those things in his flat, it wasn’t just him, it was the drug as well. But I can’t drive like this. As he fumbled feebly towards her like some sort of randy jellyfish, she fended him off with one hand while peering ahead for somewhere to pull in and deal with him properly. Why is this road so straight and full of cars? Several passed in the opposite direction and then at last there was a turning to the left down a country lane. She drove half a mile and pulled onto a layby by a heap of stone chippings. She switched on the inside light. ‘Now then, you bastard.’

‘Fuck me, baby.’ He giggled and stroked her leg.

‘I’ll fuck you all right.’ She reached in her bag and pulled out a syringe. It was filled with whisky in which she had dissolved three more tablets before she left home. With the syringe in her right hand, she climbed out of her seat on top of him, letting him paw her breasts and fumble his hands in her hair. ‘Come here, puke face.’

She kissed him, pressing his head back against the seat rest and forcing her tongue into his sloppy mouth until his jaw was open and his head tilted back beneath her. Then she slipped the syringe into the side of his mouth and pressed the plunger. It was a technique she’d learnt, without kissing, when worming horses.

‘Aaaagh!’ He gagged and spluttered, spraying some in her face but most of it, she thought, went down. She shoved one hand under his chin, clamping his jaw shut, and stroked his throat until he swallowed. Then she pulled his nose and jerked his head from side to side beneath her until his eyes wobbled in their sockets.

‘You’re going to die, little fart. Do you know that? Die like Shelley died. In a place where no one will find you.’

He was still partly conscious, and in the dim passenger light she saw his eyes watching her and thought she detected fear. He struggled feebly, but she had her full weight on top of him, and with that and the drug there was no way he could get her off now. She gripped both hands in his hair and stared down at him, waiting for the new dose to take effect.

‘You’re scum, you are. A nasty evil excrescence. You don’t deserve to live and you won’t.’

His eyes closed and he began snoring. She climbed off carefully, switched off the inside light and got out of the car. The night air was cool, quiet, refreshing. She had the appalling thought that someone might have been outside the car watching everything she did but there was no one here, no one it seemed for miles. Occasional car lights passed along the road she had left half a mile back, and there was a single light from a house on a hill two miles away, but apart from that, nothing. Just a munching sound which might be cows in a field, and the screech of an owl hunting somewhere ahead. The silence and the darkness comforted her. It was what she had grown up with at home.

She got back into the car and turned it round. David lay snoring in his seat, long streaks of dribble falling from his mouth. She was getting used to the little car now and her thoughts came easier, but a hint of drowsiness began to set in. She opened the window to get more air and a police car passed, going the other way. She wished she hadn’t drunk the gin, but she’d needed it for courage. But how much had she drunk? It would be ironic to be breathalysed now.   

She drove back to York and round the ring road, keeping carefully to the speed limit. Several drivers  zipped past, proud to be overtaking a Lotus, one or two passengers giving her admiring, envious looks. If only it wasn’t such a conspicuous car. But it was his personal pride and joy, that was what made it such a fitting place for him to die. In a fancy fibreglass coffin.

As she approached Wetherby she came nearer to her parents’ home. A brief rain shower spattered the windscreen, then stopped. The countryside was dark but familiar; the roads narrower, quieter, more remote. It was after eleven now. There were no cars and few lights in the houses. She turned down another lane into a forest.

It was a dirt road, with potholes and grass growing in the middle. It was used by walkers and horse riders and the occasional tractor, but very few cars - especially ones slung as low as the Lotus. Twice she felt a nasty scrape underneath. She laughed softly to herself.

‘New exhaust, David, maybe a new sump. Cost thousands, that will.’

Deeper in the forest she came to the abandoned airfield. All overgrown now, covered with moss and birch, pussy willow and elder, leading nowhere in the night. A dog fox stared for a second, eyes glowing in the headlights, before loping away into the dark.

A few yards further on the road forked, just as she had remembered. The main track went on to a farm about two miles distant. The track to the left was where she had walked the other day. Brambles scraped the paintwork as the car forced its way through. One particularly loud screech seemed to pierce the fog in David’s brain. He sat bolt upright, staring around in alarm. Miranda drove on grimly. Only a few more yards. Slowly, like a deflated tyre, David slumped back to unconsciousness. Thank God.

Here it is.

Right in front of them was the concrete tank, dark water glistening in the headlights behind the flimsy barbed wire fence. She switched the engine off, got out and stood for a moment, listening. Small insects fluttered and swirled in the headlights’ beam, and a dog barked far away near the farm. Shut up, dog, don’t wake anyone now. She turned off the lights; the barking continued for a while, then subsided to a few puzzled yips, and silence.

She put her bag on the ground beside the car and took out a torch. She shone the torch on the fence posts which she had loosened the other day, tugged hard and in a couple of minutes had all three on the ground. But the barbed wire refused to lie flat as she wanted it to. It rose in awkward loops and whorls between the horizontal posts, ready to snag a wheel or a bumper or number plate. She needed something to hold it down. Stones, that would do, or logs - there must be some around here.