Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) (19 page)

‘You’ll sue me, I guess. So I’ll take care it doesn’t happen.’

He helped her to her feet and out onto the ice. Almost immediately her right foot slid out from under her and she clutched his arm to avoid falling. He put his other arm round her until she recovered that foot, then the other slid off in an unlikely direction. Slowly, awkwardly, feeling that she was either drunk or walking on marbles, she tried to move forwards. She clung desperately to Michael; without his arm round her she would have fallen for certain. But it was clear that he knew what he was doing. Somehow - she had no idea how - he not only kept his balance but managed to propel them both forwards, out on the ice with the rest.

‘Bend your knees slightly, and push with one foot at a time,’ he said in her ear. ‘That’s it, good! Now the other one. See, you’re skating!’

Watching her feet carefully, she managed three steps - she thought it was three - before a teenager turned suddenly in front of her, sending up a crunching spray of ice which distracted Sarah totally. She lost control of both feet and sat down hard on her bottom, dragging Michael down across her legs.

‘Ow!’ she said. ‘That hurt. I told you I couldn’t do this!’

‘Everyone falls a few times,’ he said, laughing. ‘Come on - get up and try it again.’

He stood with one skate either side of her and hauled her to her feet, and for the next age - probably a quarter of an hour but it seemed to Sarah like a week - he dragged her around the rink like a rag doll, trying to teach her the basics. Mostly he kept his arm around her, but she managed a few steps on her own, holding tightly to his outstretched hand, and once, before she knew what was happening, he turned her to face him and pushed her gently backwards, holding on to her arms with his. She fell twice more, and when they finished she collapsed, bruised and breathless, onto the bench.

‘There! How was that?’ he asked grinning, as he unlaced his skates.

‘Terrible. I feel like I’ve been run over by a herd of buffalo - twice!’

His grin faded slightly. ‘But wasn’t it fun?’

‘Yes, of course. It’s just not something I’m very good at, quite yet.’

‘We’ll have another go sometime.’ He bent to unlace her boots. ‘If you’d like to, that is.’

The cold air and exercise had made her face tingle, as if it were bombarded with thousands of tiny ice crystals. She drew a deep breath. ‘Yes, maybe. After I come out of intensive care.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t bully you into it, did I?’

‘Well yes, you did rather.’

She frowned down at him and he looked worried, like a little boy who has made a fool of himself. Then she smiled, and relented. ‘But it
was
fun, Michael, really. Even if my bottom feels like it’s been hit by a pile driver. I enjoyed it, honestly. Thanks.’

‘Good. I’m glad. Now we’ve worked up an appetite, too.’

On the way to the restaurant Sarah’s bruises made her limp slightly, and she leaned against him, putting her arm round him for support as she had on the rink. They were laughing together like old friends, recalling the various falls and incidents, when a jogger ran towards them along the quay. As he came nearer he caught Sarah’s eye. Surely I know that man, she thought. But how?

Then, as they came closer, she saw that the jogger recognized her too. He wore tracksuit trousers, long sleeved teeshirt, and woolly hat.
Why is he staring at me?
she wondered.
Is it that man on the riverbank, come out of nowhere to haunt me?
She shivered, and clung to Michael tighter for protection.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked, looking down at her solicitously. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘No, it’s just ...’

‘Hi, Sarah!’ The jogger raised his hand, and in the same moment Sarah recognized him. Not a phantom prowler after all, but

Oh God no! Terry Bateson.

‘Hi.’ She released herself slightly from Michael’s grip, and smiled. An awkward, embarrassed smile. ‘Out for a run?’ Silly question.

‘Yes.’ He stopped for a moment, breathing deeply and glancing curiously at Michael.

‘This is Michael Parker,’ Sarah said, with an embarrassed laugh. ‘He’s been teaching me to skate.’

‘I see,’ Terry said. ‘Sounds fun.’

And then for a moment no one said anything. Michael smiled politely, his arm firmly round Sarah’s waist, and Terry just stood, his warm breath steaming in the frosty air. He assessed Michael with a long, steady gaze, then looked back at Sarah, his eyes shaded, inscrutable in the semi darkness.

‘Well, have a good evening,’ he said, after a moment that seemed to Sarah to last several hours. And then he was gone, padding away lightly into the night.

‘Friend of yours, is he?’ Michael asked casually after the waiter had shown them to their table in the restaurant. ‘The jogger outside, I mean?’

‘Yes, well, an acquaintance really. He’s a detective - we’ve worked together a bit.’ She buried herself in the menu - this wasn’t a conversation she wanted to prolong. Why did it have to be Terry - just there, at that moment, when she was arm in arm with this man? What must he have thought? Presumably he didn’t know - how could he? - of her break-up with Bob. So it must have looked like - what? - that she was out with a stranger, a man who was clearly not her husband but whom she was nonetheless happy to wrap her arms round as she walked down the street, a man with whom she might well be having an affair. Damn! Which had been precisely the reason why she had
not
had an affair with Terry last year – to avoid ruining her reputation. So what must he think now? That she was not prepared to commit adultery with him, but she
was
prepared to do so with someone else.

Great. Wonderful. What a slut he must think me. Especially after that time in the hotel bedroom, when I was so sorely, sorely tempted. Oh God, hell and damnation! Why did Terry have to come along just then?

He’d looked embarrassed; as though he’d have liked to stop and talk if Michael hadn’t hadn’t been there. I don’t think he approved of Michael. Well, what’s it to do with him? Nothing, of course. If I choose to go out on a date it’s my business and no one else’s. Certainly not his.

Only she suddenly wished, so strongly that she almost ran out of the restaurant, that she could be out there in the night jogging alongside Terry Bateson, while Michael went into the restaurant to eat by himself.

But she banished the emotion as swiftly as it had come. That’s not fair, she told herself firmly. Michael’s a perfectly decent man and we were having fun - good fun - until Terry came and ruined it. Grimly, she set herself to recovering her good spirits. She liked Indian food, and the chef’s speciality was one of her favourites. By the time they had ordered, and were nibbling on a selection of chapatis, pickles and sauces, the atmosphere between them had revived.

Michael talked briefly about his day at work, visiting a farmhouse and barn conversion near Whitby, and then began to describe his home, a converted windmill on the Wolds.

‘It’s been my main project for the best part of a year,’ he said, ‘and it’s nowhere near finished. Have you ever been inside a windmill?’

Sarah hadn’t, but she prompted him with generous questions, and was rewarded by the obvious enthusiasm shining in his eyes. ‘You must come out and see it,’ he said. ‘I want to convert it to a house, but keep the sails to generate electricity. I’ve got the planning permission, now it’s all a matter of time, energy and craftsmanship.’

‘Do you work on it yourself?’ she asked.

‘No, sadly. Only a few basic things, that I’m sure I can manage. I leave the rest to the experts. My job is to provide the vision, keep them up to the mark, and provide them with cups of tea and money. Lots of money, unfortunately. But I enjoy it, so why not?’

The talk, together with the subtle spices in the curry, revived Sarah’s spirits, and by the time the waiter brought the sweets menu she was relaxed and comfortable again. Their table was in a quiet corner close to the bar, and as the waiter left she glanced idly at the small TV behind the barman’s head. The ten o’clock news was on, showing pictures of a car bomb in Baghdad. Then the newscaster returned to the screen, and in a sudden lull in the conversation Sarah caught a few words.

‘Unusual police discovery ... body near York ... murder ... Jason Barnes.’

‘What’s that?’ She called the barman. ‘Excuse me, could you turn that up for a moment? I’d like to hear what they’re saying.’

The barman turned up the volume just as the programme switched to a reporter standing under floodlights beside a motorway. Behind him was an area of grass and scrub, with chequered blue and white crime scene tapes fluttering in the breeze.

‘Yes, thank you, Natasha,’ the reporter was saying. ‘Well, this has been a most remarkable discovery. The North Yorkshire police have found some human remains, buried under concrete on a ring road outside York. So far they have only uncovered an arm, but they believe the rest of the body may be there. They were led to search this area after a family stopped on the hard shoulder for a child to relieve himself, and his brother found a human hand in the mouth of a dead fox. Surprisingly enough, the parents allowed the child to take the hand home, and it wasn’t until he took it to school that his teacher showed it to the police. Which led to this search here today.’

‘A strange story indeed,’ the newscaster said. ‘So James, does that mean that the arm found today was missing a hand?’

‘Yes, Natasha, the police confirmed that a few minutes ago. Chief Inspector Churchill, the man in charge of this search, said it was far too early to establish who these remains belong to, but one possibility they are considering is that they might be those of a young woman called Brenda Stokes, who disappeared in this area 18 years ago. If so, that will give the police quite a problem. You may remember a recent report on this programme about a man called Jason Barnes, who was convicted of Brenda’s murder and sentenced to life imprisonment. Well, Jason Barnes always protested his innocence, and last month the Court of Appeal set aside his conviction as unsafe. A decision which, I think it’s fair to say, was greeted with dismay by the detectives in the original enquiry. But one of the points made in his appeal, of course, was that no body had ever been never found. So if they do manage to excavate this body and it does turn out to be Brenda Stokes, that will raise quite a lot of interesting questions, Natasha.’

‘Yes, indeed, James,’ the newscaster said. ‘Well, we look forward to future developments. Now, the Chancellor of the Exchequer said today ...’

‘That’s enough, thank you,’ Sarah said, as the barman turned the volume down. She sat down and stared at Michael, stunned. ‘Did you hear all that?’

‘Some of it, yes. It was about your case in the Court of Appeal, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, Jason Barnes. They may have found the body of the girl.’

Michael looked at her strangely. ‘They can’t be certain yet, can they? I mean, after all these years.’

‘Not yet, no but ... oh, excuse me.’ Sarah’s mobile was chirruping in her bag. When she took it out, she saw the call was from Lucy.

‘Did you see the TV news?’ Lucy asked without preamble.

‘Yes. They’ve found an arm. Maybe Brenda Stokes’ body.’

‘It doesn’t mean that Jason killed her, of course. I mean, how would he have buried her there, under the motorway?’

‘God knows. But they’re going to want to ask him, aren’t they? Especially that retired Inspector Bob Baxter, after what I did to him in court.’

‘And DCI Churchill. He’s no friend of yours, is he?’

‘Not exactly. If it is really is Brenda, Luce, they’ll be crawling all over the scene for evidence to link it to Jason. And if they find any ...’

‘We’ll be back in court with egg all over our faces.’

‘Yes. Look, Lucy love, I’m in court for three days. Can you keep an eye on this, check with the police, see what they say? Maybe talk to Jason too, if you can.’

‘Will do. Anyway, apart from all this excitement, honey, how are things with you?’

‘Oh, not too bad,’ Sarah said, aware of Michael listening across the table. ‘I can’t talk now, I’m out at a restaurant with a - friend.’

‘Oh, I see.’ The slight hesitation tipped Lucy off. ‘A
man
friend, you mean? Sarah? What’s he like? A dish?’

‘Talk to you later, Lucy. Bye.’ She clicked the phone off and looked apologetically at Michael. ‘Sorry about that. Work. It’s always interfering.’

‘Tell me about it. I switched mine off before I came.’ He looked distracted, she thought, oddly unhappy. God, I wonder if he heard Lucy’s last remark, Sarah thought. Well, what of it? He
is
quite a dish.

But Michael was thinking about the TV newscast. ‘That man, Jason something ...’

‘Jason Barnes.’

‘Yes, the one you defended. Will he be re-arrested now, do you think?’

‘Hard to say. It depends what evidence they find. If this
is
Brenda Stokes’ body, of course.’

‘It will be, I’m sure it will.’

Sarah smiled. ‘What are you, psychic? How can you possibly know?’

He looked confused. ‘Oh no, of course I can’t, really. But it seems quite likely, doesn’t it? I mean, there aren’t very many murders in York, and this was a particularly horrid one. I remember how shocked everyone was.’

‘You remember it?’ said Sarah, surprised. ‘Why, were you here at the time?’

‘Yes, after Cambridge I did a postgraduate year in York. That was the year it happened. Everyone talked about it. And I have to say, most people were glad when Jason was convicted. The evidence seemed pretty strong, I remember. That’s why I was surprised when he was released. If he does turn out to be guilty after all, you’ll feel pretty bad, won’t you?’

Sarah shook her head. ‘Not really. I conducted the appeal on the evidence available at the time. The court decided that he’d spent 18 years in prison for something he didn’t do. That’s a pretty bad miscarriage of justice.’

‘Yes, but if he
did
do it and you’ve got him off, what then? That’s a miscarriage of justice too, isn’t it? He can’t be convicted for the same offence twice.’