Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) (29 page)

‘You’re going skiing with this Adrian and the others after Christmas, are you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is Larry coming too?’

‘I hope so. We’re going to practise on the indoor ski slope in Birmingham. We’ve booked some lessons.’

‘What does he think about this Adrian? Isn’t that a bit difficult?’

Emily gawped at her mother in astonishment, then laughed.
‘Adrian?
No, Mum, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick entirely there. Adrian’s gay - about as gay as you can get - so’s Brian. That’s why they’re such fun to be with, probably. All the girls love them because they’re no threat, and they keep the other guys from pestering us. So you don’t have to worry about me and Larry - not because of that.’ She smiled. ‘What about you?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. Last time you were here I gave you a few tips, Mum, remember. Have you met anyone yet? Tried them out?’

There was an anxious silence. Emily’s smile faded, as she thought no, I shouldn’t have said that, it was tactless, Mum’s only just left Dad after all, she’s still grieving.

Sarah looked down at her hands, thinking what will she think if I tell her about Michael? Well, is there anything to tell? Not really, but he
is
here in Cambridge. How would Emily react if I introduced them? Bad idea, or brave new world?

She looked up, a shy smile on her face.

‘Well, as a matter of fact, darling, yes. There
is
someone.’

32. Alison Grey

C
ROCKEY HILL was a small hamlet which had grown up around a busy road junction. There were no pubs or shops, just half a dozen houses, a garage, a pine furniture warehouse, and a small roadside café. The dead woman’s house was near none of these, but set back a hundred yards from the road, near some woods. Nonetheless, by lunch time Terry had found a neighbour to perform the grim duty of identifying the body. The dead woman’s name was Alison Grey, the neighbour confirmed faintly, trembling with shock at the swollen, purple face. She had lived alone in this house with her cat for eight or nine months.

‘What did she do?’ Terry asked. ‘For a living, I mean?’

‘She wrote school books, she said. She didn’t have a regular job, anyway. She spent most of her time at home with that cat. Poor Kitty - who’s going to look after her now?’

‘Perhaps you would,’ said Terry hopefully. ‘Otherwise it’s going to a cattery.’

‘Yes, perhaps I can. I’ll feed it anyway, see how it goes.’

‘Tell me about this Alison Grey,’ Terry continued. ‘What was she like?’

‘Very quiet, really; kept herself to herself. Friendly enough when you met her, but not seeking company, if you know what I mean. Bit posh for round here.’

‘Did she have any friends, regular visitors, people like that?’

‘Men friends, you mean?’

‘Any kind of friends. People we might ask.’

‘Well, I suppose she must have - I mean everyone has
some
friends, don’t they? But no one I know of. We’re not in each other’s pockets round here, you know, twitching net curtains and such, if that’s what you’re asking. I can’t even see her house from my kitchen - not that I’d want to. Live and let live’s my motto - always has been, always will.’

‘No one’s accusing you of spying,’ Terry persisted, wondering what secrets the woman herself had to conceal. ‘It’s just that now she’s dead ...’

‘Killed herself, didn’t she?’

‘It’s possible, but we have to investigate. So anything unusual you noticed, anything at all ...’

‘Well, I didn’t see her that much, to be honest with you. I doubt if anyone did. There’s no shop here, you see, so if you don’t use the bus ... we all use the car. Last time I spoke to her was in the surgery in Escrick.’

‘Really? When was that?’

‘Oh, about a fortnight ago. She looked quite white, as it happens, quite faint. I didn’t ask her what was wrong; well you don’t, do you? But I did wonder. I wish I had now. Perhaps if I’d said something then ...’

‘Thank you, Mrs Phillips. You’ve been most helpful.’

The house was a crime scene, surrounded with blue and white tape. Jane and Terry donned protective gloves and overalls and walked carefully in covered boots to protect the floor. The house looked like the home of a single woman. There was a glass, a plate and a few mugs drying beside the sink. One comfortable armchair in the living room had newspapers, books, and a TV Times spread around it. There were three bedrooms upstairs - one full of suitcases and boxes piled on a single bed with a bare mattress; a study, with a desk, computer, and bookshelves; and the third, comfortably furnished with wardrobes and a large double bed.

They looked in the study first. The desk was littered with files and papers, some of which spread onto the floor. The computer was on, humming quietly to itself as it waited for its owner to return. Jane sat at the desk and clicked the mouse. A text appeared on the screen: half a dozen short paragraphs about two young tourists visiting York. They went to the Minster, walked on the walls, visited the Jorvik Viking centre and took a boat down river to the Archbishop’s Palace. The text was followed by a number of questions and vocabulary exercises about the events in the story. While Jane was reading them Terry picked up a book. It was glossy, colourful, expensively produced.

‘This is her, isn’t it?’ he said, pointing at the cover. ‘
First Class,
by Alison Grey.
An English language course for beginners, with listening cassettes and video clips on DVD.
Look, here’s a photo of her on the back.’

They studied the photo of a smiling young woman. The text under the photo read:
Alison Grey is an experienced teacher who has taught English in many countries around the world.
She is now a professional writer who lives in the north of England.

‘That’s her,’ Jane said. ‘Who’s it published by?’

‘Oxford University Press.’

‘She’ll have an editor there, then. Probably communicates with her by e-mail. Yes, here we go.’ She clicked on the computer’s inbox and found five unread e-mails. One from Marks and Spencer, two from clothing companies, one from a bookclub, and one from a woman called Jennifer Barlow. It was a long, cheerful, encouraging e-mail full of detailed comments about a previous chapter of the book
.

‘That’s someone to get in touch with, then,’ Terry said, reading the e-mail over Jane’s shoulder. ‘But it sounds as though her work was going well. No reason to kill herself for that, then. We’ll take this computer in as soon as the SOCOs have dusted it.’

‘I’ll e-mail this stuff to the station, shall I?’ Jane said, smiling at Terry’s look of surprise. ‘Saves time, and it won’t hamper the SOCOs.’

While Jane was doing that Terry browsed through some of the letters on the desk. ‘Look at this, sergeant,’ he said, holding up one. ‘Here’s a motive.’

The letter was on headed hospital notepaper. It was dated two days ago, and came from the radiology and oncology department.
Dear Ms Grey,
it read.
Following your consultation with Dr Chandra last week, we write to confirm that your first appointment for chemotherapy will be at 10.30 a.m. on Thursday 4th December.
There followed instructions about not eating anything for six hours beforehand, and directions as to how to find the department. Terry’s eyes met Jane’s.

‘So she had cancer, poor woman. And if this is her first appointment she can only have found out about it when? A week ago - maybe two? Probably when that neighbour, Mrs Phillips, saw her in the doctor’s surgery. She said her face was white as a sheet. She’d probably just got the bad news. Maybe that’s why she did it.’

‘Surely not, sir,’ Jane said. ‘The whole point of chemotherapy is to make you better.’

‘You say that, young woman, but think what it means. Your hair falls out, you get bloated, you feel sick, and even then it doesn’t always work. To some people, chemotherapy can be as scarey as the disease. Particularly if you’re a single woman on your own, with no one to care whether you live or die. Maybe she just sat here, scared, lonely, and depressed, and took the quick way out.’

‘You don’t know she was lonely,’ Jane said. ‘You’re just guessing.’

‘True,’ Terry said. ‘But look around this place. What do you see?’

‘I live alone too, sir,’ Jane insisted stubbornly. ‘But I’m not lonely. Maybe she liked it like this. A peaceful country cottage, a quiet place to write.’

‘Until someone tells you you’ve got cancer, yes. That would change everything, wouldn’t it? Then you’d need friends, emotional support. Maybe she didn’t have any.’

‘Maybe. We don’t know. Her e-mails may tell us.’

‘That and her phone bills,’ Terry agreed. ‘We’ll check those, of course. See who she phoned and how often.’

As they were talking, the cat strolled into the room, its tail erect like a flag. It rubbed itself against Jane’s leg. She picked it up and stroked it.

‘That’s another thing,’ she said. ‘What about this cat?’

Terry looked at her, surprised. ‘The cat?’

‘Yes. Maybe she
was
lonely, as you say, but she had this cat for company, at least. And she was probably fond of it, most women are. Especially single women who spend a lot of time at home. So what did she think would happen to the animal if she topped herself? I mean, I know it’s a trivial thing, but if I was going to kill myself, I’d make arrangements for kitty first. You know, have a word with a neighbour, mention the cat in her will, leave a note with a supply of Whiskas. Why didn’t she do that?’

‘Perhaps she thought it could fend for itself,’ Terry suggested. ‘Cats do.’

Jane looked sceptical, slightly offended. ‘
You
may think that, sir, but a woman wouldn’t. Not most women, anyway.’ She put the cat on the floor and let it run downstairs.

Terry shrugged. ‘It’s a point. Let’s check out the rest of the house.’

They moved on to the main bedroom. It was a large, comfortable room with a double bed facing the window. The bed was neatly made, covered by a dark red flowery duvet with matching pillowcases and sheets. Thick pink curtains were drawn across the window, and a bedside lamp was still on. There were small pine bedside cabinets either side of the bed, and a pine wardrobe and chest of drawers, one either side of the window. The top drawer of the chest of drawers was open, showing a selection of female underwear. There was a full length mirror on one wall, and a smaller one on top of the chest of drawers, where there was a jewellery box, hairbrush, and a number of items of make-up. There was a dark grey carpet on the floor, and a wicker clothes basket heaped with dirty washing in the corner. There was a wooden chair next to it, piled with jeans, cardigan, teeshirts, and bras, and on the carpet between it and the bed lay a flowery cotton nightie, as if it had been dropped.

‘No sign of a struggle, is there?’ Terry said. ‘I mean, if someone did break in and surprise her, you’d think there’d be a fight. Things would get knocked over.’

They stood, studying the room. It looked peaceful, quiet, lived-in, as if the owner might return at any time. Jane picked up a book from the bedside table.

‘What’s that?’ Terry asked.

‘Alex Comfort,’ she said. ‘
The Joy of Sex
.’ She turned the pages, frowning at the drawings of a bearded man and a woman in a variety of complicated positions.

Terry smiled. ‘The classic bible of free love. Before your time, probably, sergeant.’ He opened one of the drawers of the bedside cabinet, and there, amongst a litter of tampons, tissues and panty liners, was a packet of ribbed condoms. Two of the three were missing. ‘Well, well. Maybe she wasn’t so lonely, after all.’

He crossed the room and pulled back the curtains ‘I wish I had a view like this.’

‘Yes sir, but think what you’re looking at,’ Jane said, pointing to the woods. They were on the far side of the field, about seventy yards away. ‘Someone could be watching us right now from amongst those trees, and we wouldn’t know he was there. And there’s a bridleway in those woods. People run or cycle through it from Fulford. You can cross the A19 and go down to Naburn and the cycle track.’

‘You’re thinking of Peter Barton, aren’t you?’ Terry said. ‘Coming here, breaking in. Doing what you’ve always worried he might do.’

‘It’s has to be a possibility, doesn’t it, sir?’ Jane said grimly. ‘This might be the next in our series - the disaster we’ve been trying to avoid.’

‘Bit of a step up for the lad, wouldn’t you say? From stealing knickers to murder? Anyway, it may be suicide, just as it seems. But even if not ...’

‘A woman on her own, living near a bridleway. Biggish coincidence, sir, isn’t it? Who else could have done it? If it
is
murder, that is.’

‘Well, it looks like she had a lover, for a start,’ Terry said. ‘The fellow who read that book with her, and wore those condoms.’

‘You think he killed her?’

Terry shrugged. ‘We don’t know anyone did, yet. What if she had a row with this lover - he dumped her perhaps? She already knew she had cancer, remember? Maybe that was the last straw. She felt scared and abandoned, so she hanged herself.’

‘If this guy existed at all.’

‘Quite. We’ll have to find out. Maybe he didn’t dump her - he just wasn’t here when she needed him. That could have done it.’

‘You’d leave a note, wouldn’t you?’ Jane said. ‘If you wanted to blame someone?’

‘Yes, probably. Perhaps we’ll find something on the computer when we check it.’

Terry walked into the bathroom, and stood silently for a moment, looking round. ‘Do you notice anything about this room?’ he asked.

‘Make-up remover,’ Jane said slowly, looking at the splash top beside the sink. ‘She hasn’t put it away.’

‘Would you normally do that?’ Terry asked.

‘Depends how tidy you are. The rest of the room looks fairly neat, though. Maybe she was interrupted before she finished.’

‘Which means she was wearing make-up in the first place. No doubt the pathologist will be able to confirm that.’ Terry shuddered, shocked by the grotesque image of mascara, rouge and lipstick on that purple swollen face and bulging eyes. ‘Which adds to the possibility that she might have been entertaining a male visitor.’