Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) (22 page)

‘
If
it was her,’ Will Churchill said. ‘Bob Baxter never believed it was.’

‘Quite,’ Terry said contemptuously. ‘So he failed to disclose it to the defence.’

‘Which was wrong, obviously,’ Churchill agreed. ‘But standards were different back then. We’ve improved. You may sneer, but we have. And to be fair to the man, he had his reasons. He was convinced this Amanda - what’s her name? Carr - was a fantasist, longing to see her name in print. She may have seen no one, just a shadow in the moonlight, anything. She’d been to a party, she was drunk, should never have been driving in the first place ...’

‘Even so ...’

‘Baxter should have disclosed it, agreed. But he didn’t because he thought the girl was a nutter. Which she probably was - I saw her in the witness box, remember? Our QC made mincemeat of her.’

‘Nonetheless, Mrs Newby won the appeal.’

‘Quite. On a technicality, in my view.’ Will Churchill sucked his teeth, as he’d tasted something bitter. ‘Even if this Amanda woman was telling the truth, how does that help us?’

‘Well.’ Terry traced a route across the map. ‘Brenda lived in Bishopthorpe, so she was probably trying to walk home. She could have crossed the river at Naburn by the old railway bridge. So somewhere between the Designer Outlet - where the Maternity Hospital used to be - and her home, someone must have picked her up and killed her.’

Churchill studied Terry pityingly. ‘Who exactly? We know one lad’s tried to rape her, but instead of going after him, you’re suggesting someone else, some unknown psychopath from Mars maybe, just happened along that road a while later, sees the girl, picks her up, throttles her with a scarf, breaks her wrist, bashes her head in, and buries her in a trench by the ring road near Copmanthorpe? Just like that? Come on, Terence, get a grip.
Why
would anyone do that?’

‘Who knows? All I’m saying is, it might have been someone else who killed her. Not Jason.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. I’m just saying it’s a possibility we shouldn’t dismiss.’

Churchill sighed. ‘Look at the map, Terence, and consider the facts. Two right turns from Landing Lane, and Jason could be on that same road himself.’

‘Not after 4 a.m., surely,’ Terry insisted. ‘That would mean he’d hung about for nearly an hour an a half. Why would he do that?’

‘Looking for the girl, perhaps. We know he did that, he says so himself. Stumbled around with the torch, that’s his story ...’

‘After he’d hit her with it?’ Terry asked. ‘With those cracks in her skull? Surely she’d be unconscious.’

‘Which is why, Terence, I don’t believe the evidence of this nurse.’ Churchill moved nearer, deliberately invading Terry’s space, and stared directly into his eyes. ‘If you believe her, I grant you, Jason would have been pushed for time. But if what she says is just some drunken fantasy, then everything falls back into place. Jason tried to rape her, and when she fought back he killed her. With the torch, or with the scarf, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is he’s got a dead girl on his hands, and plenty of time to hide her body. He had time, motive and opportunity. He was actually on the scene, he existed, unlike your wandering psychopath from Mars. And then he lied about dumping her body in a slurry pit, to take the piss out of friend Baxter and put him off the track.’

Terry nodded. ‘True. But all that was the original prosecution case. It wasn’t strong enough then, which was why our friend Baxter manufactured a false confession, to strengthen it.’

‘If it
was
false, yes.’ Will Churchill’s eyes met Terry’s. ‘This Winnick was a crackhead, a lowlife, just like Jason Barnes. Maybe young Jason did spin him a tale in prison, telling him everything that happened except where he’d buried the body. Then Winnick told the truth in court, but decided to lie to his lawyer before he died, to get his own back on Baxter. Ever thought of that?’

Churchill grinned, looking pleased with himself. Terry shook his head slowly.

‘The Court of Appeal decided otherwise.’

‘I know that - I was there! With that fancy knickers Newby woman smirking all over her face.’ Churchill paced across the room irritably. ‘Well, they didn’t have the body, and we do. So now we can find out who really committed this crime, and bring him to justice. And if it turns out to be Jason Barnes after all, I for one will be delighted.’

Terry frowned. ‘Even if it is him, sir, we can’t prosecute him again, can we? Not twice, for the same crime - that’s double jeopardy, surely.’

A grin of pure, superior delight crossed Will Churchill’s face. He put a hand on Terry’s shoulder. ‘That’s what I love about you, Terence. Always a step behind the times. Our beloved former Prime Minister altered that - didn’t you notice? In cases where there’s exceptional new evidence, double jeopardy no longer applies. The first case came up a few months ago; this could be the second.’ He strode to the door.

‘What I’d like - what I’d really like - is for this department, just once, to be vindicated, and see that Newby woman stand up in court with egg on her face, admitting she’s wrong. It would help that poor bastard Bob Baxter, too - show that his life chasing villains wasn’t wasted.’ He smiled. ‘So go out and find the evidence, Terence, why don’t you?’

26. Mask and Mirror

T
HE CALL came in the early afternoon. A woman had made a 999 call from a house on the Bishopthorpe road. An area car was on its way but DI Terry Bateson had asked to be informed immediately of any reported assaults on women, and this sounded like one. Within minutes he had set out. DS Jane Carter sat in the car beside him.

The house was on an estate between the Bishopthorpe Road and the A64. It was a pleasant area - several large Edwardian villas, and plenty of smaller modern detached houses with their own gardens and integral garages. The call had come from one of these. It was at the end of the street near a small area of woodland, lovingly preserved by the Woodland Trust. There were footpaths where local residents walked their dogs and children rode bikes. On the far side of the woods was the Knavesmire, York’s racecourse, which was also traversed by footpaths and cycletracks.

The front garden contained a few shrubs, a silver birch tree and a drive just wide enough for an ambulance, which stood there now. A small crowd of people who looked like neighbours stood nearby. Terry and Jane pushed past them and went into the house.

Inside, the paramedics were talking to a white-faced young woman in a dressing gown. She sat with her arms round a two-year-old boy, perched on the edge of the sofa in her living room. Her hair was tousled, her eyes huge and terrified. Her hands trembled as she clung to her child, and her voice shook as she spoke.

‘He didn’t touch him. He didn’t touch you, Davy, did he? It’s all right. The nasty man’s gone now. You’re all right darling, you’re safe.’

The boy looked as shocked as his mother. At first it was hard to see his face because it was buried in her chest, his hands clinging tight around her neck. But a female paramedic was talking to him softly, gently touching his arm, and once or twice he looked round swiftly to check who she was, before turning back for comfort to his mother.

‘What’s happened here?’ Terry asked a constable from the area car.

‘Burglary, sir, it seems, and attempted rape. We’re not too sure of the details yet, but the woman was surprised by a masked intruder in her bedroom. He tried to assault her but she fought back, I believe, and then he was disturbed by a neighbour bringing the child back from playschool. He rode off on a bike in the direction of the Knavesmire. We’ve got cars out there searching for him now.’

‘My God,’ Terry said softly. ‘No wonder she’s shocked. Where’s this neighbour?’

The neighbour, Muriel Jarrett, looked as shocked as the mother. She confirmed that she had picked up little Davy with her own daughter as she often did. When she’d brought him into the house she’d heard banging and screaming upstairs. Then a man had run downstairs past her and out of the back door. She hadn’t seen his face - it was covered by a mask which scared her rigid. She’d seen him get on a bike and cycle away, through the woods towards the Knavesmire. She’d followed little Davy upstairs to find his mother shaking and trembling on her bed, with her dressing gown loosely pulled round her and a pair of hairdressing scissors in her hand.

Leaving Jane with the victim, Terry went upstairs. In the main bedroom was a pine double bed, with elaborately carved wooden headboard and posts at the foot. The duvet was twisted and rumpled, hanging half off the bed. There was a damp towel on the floor, and an overpowering sweet musky smell. After a moment he realised this was coming from a dark stain on the wallpaper near the door. Under the stain, on the floor, was a smashed perfume spray. The bedroom carpet was littered with several other feminine items - a jar of moisturising cream, a silver-backed hairbrush, a broken vase. A small jewel case lay in the middle of the floor with rings and necklaces spilling out it. There was a pair of running shoes too, one by the bed, one near the door as if it had just been flung there.

The bedroom window looked out across the garden to the woods, where a squirrel was scurrying up a tree. Looking back into the room Terry caught sight of himself in a full length wall mirror. Beside the mirror was a washbasket with a pair of jogging pants hanging over the edge. On the other side was a door leading to an ensuite bathroom whose floor was still wet, as if someone had been taking a shower. The top drawer of the chest of drawers was open, and female underwear spilled over the side.

He was about to leave when he noticed something half-hidden under the rumpled duvet. It looked like a rope of some kind. He pulled the duvet back carefully and saw it was a pink dressing gown cord.

Terry went downstairs to where Jane was talking to the woman. She wore a long loose pink dressing gown, he saw, clutched around her waist where the cord was missing. The paramedics were insisting she go to hospital, and Jane wanted to accompany her. To the crucial question: ‘Did he rape you, love?’ the woman vehemently shook her head, but she was still so clearly in shock that she could scarcely speak.

‘I’d have killed him,’ she whispered. ‘I’d have killed him if he’d touched my little boy.’

Jane Carter took the female paramedic aside. ‘We have a rape suite at the station with a doctor,’ she said softly. ‘She’ll get full medical attention there but also, if she has been assaulted, it’s the best place to hear her story and gather evidence. It’s completely private and all the doctors are female.’

The paramedic nodded. ‘Can she take the child?’

‘Of course. We’ve got female constables trained in this sort of thing. I’ll call one now.’

‘All right. But we’ll stay with her until the doctor arrives.’ The paramedic turned back to the woman, who still sat clutching her child, her arms trembling with shock. She held out a blanket. ‘Lizzie, my love, we’re going to take you to a doctor, all right? She’ll check you over and see you’re all right. You can bring your son too - have a ride in the ambulance, ok? Look out of our special windows - would you like that, Davy? Just like on TV. And this policewoman’s coming with us to keep us all safe.’

Several hours later, DS Jane Carter briefed Terry Bateson on what she had learned at the rape suite. Jane looked tired, but fired with a grim determination that gave her energy. She paced up and down as she spoke.

‘The good news first, if there is any in a crime like this. She wasn’t raped or badly beaten in any way. Just a few bruises on her neck and arms from the struggle. And the shock, of course. That’s what’s really going to take time to get over. If she ever does, that is.’

‘And the little boy?’

‘He wasn’t touched as far as we know. His name’s Davy, his mum’s Lizzie - Elizabeth Bolan. She’s a single mum, apparently; Davy’s dad left a couple of years ago. Lizzie’s an accountant - works from home on her computer, she says. Anyway, this afternoon she’d been for a run on the Knavesmire - despite all the warnings we’ve issued over the past week - then came back in time for a shower before the neighbour brought her kid back from playschool. They take it in turns, apparently, alternate days. She was drying herself in front of the mirror when she saw a face peering over her shoulder. Not a normal face - something awful. She spun round and saw a man in her bedroom, near the door. He was wearing a sort of thin black anorak with the hood pulled up, and under the hood was a mask - the
Scream!
mask, she says, from that painting by Munch.’

‘My God,’ Terry said softly. ‘No wonder she was shocked.’

‘He wasn’t just wearing a mask - he was wearing gloves as well. And he had a sort of rope or cord in his hands. She thinks it was her dressing gown cord. He came round the bed towards her, holding it out. She was petrified, poor woman.’

‘I’m not surprised. What happened then? He didn’t rape her, you say?’

‘No. He told her to strip - she was only wearing a towel anyway - and wrapped the cord round her neck. He twisted it tight so she couldn’t breathe and held her in front of the mirror like that. His face in the mask leering over her shoulder, hers going red as she struggled for breath. She thought she was going to die. But then he pulled her back towards the bed, and she panicked and started fighting to get away. She clawed at the cord with her hands, and grabbed his mask as well by mistake, pulling it sideways so he couldn’t see. She didn’t mean to do that, but that’s probably what saved her, she thinks.’

‘She didn’t get a look at his face?’

‘No. But he loosened his grip on the cord to try and get the mask straight, so he could see probably, and she wriggled free and started throwing things at him, anything she could lay her hands on, she says - perfume, pictures, whatever. Then she snatched a pair of scissors from her chest of drawers. She held them in front of her and said she’d stab him if he touched her again.’

‘Brave woman,’ Terry said. ‘Did it work?’

‘Well, it stopped him for a second, apparently, and she thought she might escape out the door, but he was standing in front of it. Then she realised he had a sort of hunting knife in a sheath at his waist and he was just about to pull it out when she heard the door open and her little boy calling from downstairs. And that scared her more than anything, she says, because she thought he might harm her little Davy. So she screamed at Davy to watch out, and then her neighbour shouted back up the stairs to ask if everything was all right. That’s when the intruder took flight and ran. That’s the last she saw of him. He went straight downstairs and out of the house. Then the neighbour came upstairs with Davy, she put on her dressing gown, and they rang 999.’