A Fatal Verdict (39 page)

Sarah switched off while he described the events of the previous trial, Kathryn’s outburst on the steps of this court, her arrest with a shotgun outside David’s flat. There was no doubt whatsoever that Kathryn wanted him dead; she’d been quite clear about that in their last pre-trial conference. It was the one point she’d been really animated about in their conversations.

‘I don’t hold with Christian forgiveness. Not now. I doubt if I ever did. That man took my daughter away from me, exploited her, and killed her. There’s nothing worse you can do to a parent, nothing. He didn’t deserve to live after that. You tried to send him to prison, Mrs Newby, and failed, so somebody killed him. I’m glad he’s dead; I hope he rots in hell. If there is a hell. There should be, for people like him.’

It was a line of argument unlikely to benefit her in the witness box. Yet despite Sarah’s warnings, Kathryn seemed determined to stick to it. Sarah shook her head glumly. If six months on remand hadn’t purged Kathryn of her bitterness, she doubted if the shock of finding herself in court would do it. Sarah glanced over her shoulder at her client, sitting pale and intense in the dock, then let her gaze rise upwards to the public gallery, where, to her surprise, she thought she recognized another face.

A young woman in her mid twenties, with wavy brown shoulder length hair, a dark blue coat, and a striking resemblance to her mother sitting below in the dock. Kathryn’s daughter Miranda, Sarah thought after a moment - the sister of Shelley who died. I thought she was staying in America, that’s what Kathryn said. Well, good for her. Perhaps she can talk some sense into her mother. Someone needs to, if she isn’t going to go down.

Sarah turned to the front, to listen with increasing gloom as the prosecutor outlined the final part of his case, the faulty stock control procedures at Kathryn’s pharmacy which could have allowed her to obtain rohypnol without anyone tracing it. She pondered the options open to her in defence.

They seemed less encouraging than ever.

52. Mother and daughter

The first day of the trial passed in a haze for Kathryn. She hadn’t anticipated how lonely she would feel, isolated in the dock at the back of the court. The lawyers, clerks, ushers and jury  busied themselves in the well of the court below her, leaving her raised on high in this strange wooden tower, conspicuous, alone.  Behind her sat her guard, a dour burly woman in grey uniform with handcuffs, keys and sturdy sensible shoes; directly in front of her, across the valley where the lawyers toiled, sat the judge in his wig and red robes. His eyes were the only ones on a level with hers and once, when she caught his gaze resting on her, she had nodded at him out of reflex politeness, but met no response. She was here to be judged, after all, not acknowledged.

She had met Sarah Newby, of course, in the morning, but all she saw of her barrister for most of the day was her black gown and the wig at the back of her head. A succession of witnesses came and went: the farmer who had found the body, the pathologist, the scenes of crime officer, a forensic scientist, the old colonel who had seen a woman resembling Kathryn get into David Kidd’s car. With the first two there was little to say, but Sarah worked hard with the last three, chipping away at crucial details: why exactly had the SOCOs not found the hair bobble on their first examination of the site? Wasn’t it possible that the mud and leaves on her trainers came from the fields near her house, or indeed other fields and woods twenty miles away? Did the seventy five year old colonel, wearing strong glasses in poor light late in the evening, really recall the face of the passenger who got into David Kidd’s car? Could he really be sure of her age, or even remember the date?

Kathryn followed the legal battle with the surface of her mind only. Isolated at the back of the court, it scarcely seemed to concern her. Her lawyer was doing well enough, but it didn’t matter any more to Kathryn.

What mattered, was that she had seen Miranda.

She had told her daughter not to come so many times, in carefully guarded phone calls and letters from the prison. The whole basis of her sanity was that Miranda was safe, four thousand miles away, out of reach. She had promised to stay away. But this morning, when Kathryn had looked up to the public gallery, she had seen her. All morning she had thought about that, and then, at lunch time, her cell door had opened, and there she was. Smiling anxiously.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Mum, I had to come.’

‘No, you didn’t. I told you to stay away. Go home, back to your family.’

‘Mum, you don’t know how it feels. I can’t just leave you here alone. If you’re convicted - I couldn’t live with that.’

‘Look, I’ve got a good defence team, a good barrister, she thinks she can get me off. So there’s no need for you to worry. I’ll be free soon.’

‘It’s not worry, Mum, I’ve got something to tell you. I have to say this ...’

‘I don’t want to hear it. Please, darling,
no!
’

‘What I did ...’

‘
I don’t want to know
what you did, or how you did it, or anything at all. Look, it’s
my
trial, I’m the one locked up in here, and for all we know these walls have ears. Tape recorders, hidden microphones, anything. So
keep your mouth shut
, Miranda, please, and listen to me. Listen, all right, please? If you love me.’

‘All right.’

‘Right. Now I’ve lost one daughter already, and you’ve lost a sister. We both know how badly it hurts. That man killed her for certain, so whoever killed him, Mandy, did a good thing, a right thing. Because he was a monster - if he hadn’t been stopped he would have gone on to do it again and again. He was a killer, and the world’s a better place without him.’

‘Mum, I know, I know, but that’s not how it
feels
. Promise me, if it looks like you’re going to lose, let me confess. It would be the right thing, you know it would. It would bring me peace.’

‘No, it wouldn’t. Look, just wait a few more days and I may be acquitted. Then we’ll both be free. I’ve been thinking about that, what I might do if that happens.’

‘What, Mum?’

‘Well, they have pharmacies in Wisconsin, don’t they? Maybe I could sell up and come out to join you. Start again. If you’d have me, that is.’

‘Oh, Mum!’

‘I wouldn’t live too close, don’t worry. It’s a big country, they say.’

‘Mum, that would be lovely. But ...’

‘Good. So go out of here, fly home, and stay there until this is all over. Then if it’s the right verdict I’ll put the business on the market and start things rolling.’

‘Mum, I’m not going. I can’t. Not unless I can take you with me.’

‘Well, you will, love, if I’m acquitted. I’ll be out of here in a couple of days anyway.’

‘Yes, that’s right, Mum, that’s what I’ve come to see. I’m not going now until it happens. Don’t you understand? I can’t. I’ve got to see it through with my own eyes.’

‘Then ... just sit somewhere quiet out of the way and keep your mouth shut, darling. Promise me that at least. I don’t want anyone here thinking about you. Not for a second.’

‘I’ll talk to Dad. He’s here too, you know. I’ve got to talk to him.’

‘Of course you must. But you haven’t told him, have you? I never breathed a word.’

‘Neither did I. Oh Mum, I’ve never told anyone, not even you, not properly. It’s so hard - sometimes I think my brain will burst. But you
know
, don’t you?’

‘Sssssh. Darling,
don’t say it
, not here. Not anywhere. Not until I’m free and we’re alone on a mountain somewhere. Just a few more days now, that’s all. You can manage that, can’t you?  You can be strong, for me?’

‘I’ll try, Mum. But I can’t let you be convicted. I won’t.’

‘Then we’ll just have to make sure I’m not, won’t we? Hope that lawyer of mine does her job.’

But all that long afternoon, as she watched Sarah Newby battling with the prosecution witnesses, trying to build a shaky platform for reasonable doubt, Kathryn thought
it’s not going well enough, she’s coming off second best.
From time to time a juror would look up at her thoughtfully, trying to gauge her guilt from the expression, the tension in her limbs, her body language. And each time Kathryn had the impression she’d sent the wrong message; the juror would turn away dissatisfied, disapproving, no hint of sympathy on their face.

Sarah, coming down to see her at the end of the day, remained ebullient, forceful, combative. ‘No guarantees yet,’ she said, ‘but it went about as well as expected. The old colonel was good - very honest, decent man, I thought. No attempt to bluster or make his evidence better than it was; he admitted it could have been a woman of any age he saw.’

‘He said it could have been me, though.’

‘Yes. That was a smart trick for the prosecution to pull.’ A frown crossed Sarah’s face as she remembered the moment when Matthew Clayton QC had persuaded the judge to ask Kathryn to stand up while the witness confirmed that she looked
not unlike
the woman he had seen with David Kidd all those months ago.
Not unlike
in terms of identification meant virtually nothing, as Sarah had sought to establish at length in her cross-examination, but before she had a chance to do that Matthew Clayton had ensured that every single member of the jury had studied Kathryn carefully, standing nervous and alone in the public dock. ‘I’m sorry the judge allowed that to happen. It must have felt awful.’

‘It did. But I’m getting used to bad things, by now.’

‘Tomorrow will be better. That scenes of crime officer, Nick Bryant, was difficult, but he admitted enough in the end. So did forensics. The case isn’t proved yet, not by a long way. If I can just manage to shake their boss tomorrow - DCI Churchill - then we’ve got a good chance.’

‘A chance?’

‘Yes. You know I’ve always tried to be honest with you, Kathryn, I can’t put it higher than that. But it all comes down to him and you, in the end. If I can make the jury distrust him - and he’s the sort of man jurors
can
be suspicious of, with good reason - then all you have to do is go on the stand and not alienate them, like I said. Win their sympathy without saying you’re glad Kidd is dead, then the seeds of doubt are sown. All of their case rests on those hairs; if they doubt those, then the case ought to be withdrawn, and I’ll do my best to get the judge to do that. But otherwise, it’s going to turn on who the jurors trust most; DCI Churchill, or you. Just tell the truth, as clearly as you can, and it’ll be no contest.’

The two women stood silent for a moment, each assessing the sincerity of Sarah’s words. Both knew Sarah was trying hard to be encouraging; both knew there was more to the truth than Kathryn, so far, had told. But only Kathryn knew what that was.

‘I saw your daughter in court today,’ Sarah said. ‘Sitting with your husband.’

‘Yes. She came to see me.’

‘That must have been a comfort. Flew in from America, didn’t she?’

‘Yes. I wish ...’ They heard men’s voices in the corridor outside, the rattle of a large bunch of keys. Kathryn stopped abruptly, turned her head aside.

‘It would be nice to see her in better circumstances. I know,’ Sarah said, standing aside as the cell door opened and the wardress came in, and handcuffed herself to Kathryn’s left wrist. ‘But it’s good that’s she’s here, to give you support.’ Sarah put her hand on Kathryn’s arm as she was led past. ‘Get a good sleep, if you can. I’ll do my best for you tomorrow, I promise.’

All I need now, Sarah thought, as she walked slowly upstairs to the robing room, is to find out who really did kill David Kidd. That would save Kathryn, for sure.      

53. Martha Cookson

It proved harder than Terry had expected to make contact with the American journalist, Martha Cookson. She had left the
Washington Star
three months ago, it seemed, either to go freelance or join another paper; their personnel department wasn’t sure. Several calls to the answering machine at her home address brought no reply. It was not obvious to Terry what else he could do, or indeed how relevant an American journalist, gathering material for a travel article, was anyway. A second call to
Sunline Tours
confirmed their impression that the woman had not asked for David Kidd when she called, or appeared to know that he even existed until they suggested she call on him. The chances of Kidd so offending a perfect stranger that she murdered him three days after they met, seemed highly remote. If they had in fact met at all. After some grumbling, the archivist at the
Washington Star
rang back to confirm that no story by Martha Cookson about
Sunline Tours
had ever been filed.

Terry’s other leads also led nowhere. He tracked down and interviewed Lindsay Miller, the girl Shelley had found in David’s bed. But she not only had a perfect alibi for the night of David’s death - she was being visited by an educational welfare officer who was concerned about her son’s behaviour at nursery - but also failed to come up with any suggestions about other women who might wish David dead. Yes, he had other girls, she admitted that, but he wasn’t the monster Terry seemed to believe. Shelley Walters had committed suicide because she knew that David would come back to her, Lindsay, and his kid. And if Shelley’s mother had accepted that, she wouldn’t be on trial for murder now. In Lindsay’s view, she deserved all she got.

So it was not until Martha Cookson rang him, two days after the start of the trial, that Terry got the first scent of a trail. She rang late in the afternoon, when he was putting together a burglary file to send to the CPS, and at first he couldn’t work out who she was. The American accent seemed out of place.

‘That is Detective Bateson, isn’t it? You left several messages on my answering service.’

‘Cookson, you say? Oh yes, you’re the journalist. From the - what was it? -
Washington Star.’

‘Got it at last. But you’re behind the times - I left there months ago. Anyway, how can I help the British police?’

‘Well, I understand you were here in England six months ago. Staying in Harrogate, I believe. While you were here you contacted a company called
Sunline Tours
to write a feature article about their safari holidays, and they sent you to an employee of theirs called David Kidd. Well ...’

‘Are you crazy?’ Even over the international phone line there was no mistaking her tone of amazement. ‘Hold on there, detective, you’ve got me confused with someone else.’

‘You
are
Martha Cookson? The Martha Cookson who writes feature articles for travel supplements?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you were in Yorkshire last .....’

‘Yorkshire, England, right? That’s where you’re speaking from now?’

‘I’m in York, yes.’

‘Well, that’s great for you, sir, but I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’ve never been to Yorkshire in my life. London, sure, several times, Scotland once, the south west of England a couple of times, that place up in the north west where they have those dinky little lakes, but Yorkshire, no sir, I’ve never had the pleasure.’

‘What about
Sunline Tours
, a travel company in London? Do you recall talking to them?’

‘I talk to so many companies. What did you say their specialty was?’

‘Safari trips to Africa. You rang them from Harrogate, they say, and they put you in touch with a tour leader who lives - lived - in York.’

‘Well, I can assure you that wasn’t me. I wasn’t in Europe at all last year, as it happens.  I was in New Zealand, and before that the Himalayas. There has to be some mistake.’

‘Can you think of anyone who might want to impersonate you?’

The woman laughed. ‘Hardly. I’m not a film star, you know.’

‘Maybe not, but - just borrow your name, perhaps?’

‘Anyone could do that. Just buy a paper and read it.’

‘Yes, I suppose so, but ... You say you’ve never been to Yorkshire. You don’t know anyone who lives here, do you?’

‘Detective, I meet hundreds of people in my job. Probably thousands. Anyone could steal my name. What’s this all about, anyway?’

‘It’s a serious matter, Ms Cookson. The man that you met - were alleged to meet, that is - has been murdered. So if there’s any way you can help us find out who did it ...’

Terry could almost hear the woman thinking in the silence that followed. ‘Murdered, you say? How, exactly? Who killed him?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. All we know is that a woman was seen getting into this man’s car with him, and a few days later he was found drowned inside the car at the bottom of a drainage tank in some woods.’

‘And this happened shortly after someone impersonating me went to see him?’

‘So it seems, yes.’

‘Then I understand your concern. But whether I can help or not ...’ Again the phone fell silent, Martha Cookson apparently deep in thought. ‘I do know someone from that part of the world, as it happens. She was one of my students on a course I taught at college once. But she wouldn’t hurt anybody. Matter of fact her sister was killed last year, poor kid.’

Terry waited, conscious suddenly of a pulse beating in his throat. When nothing further was said he asked: ‘You wouldn’t happen to recall her name, would you?’

Again the silence. Followed, surprisingly, by a flat, flustered denial. ‘No. I’m sorry, detective, I don’t. It was a long time ago, and names have never been my strong point, anyhow.’

‘Think harder,’ Terry prompted urgently, not believing a word. ‘It’s really very important, Ms Cookson ...’

But to his surprise, after a further silence, the phone went dead. And when he tried to ring back, the caller’s number was hidden.