Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) (31 page)

‘Why did she say it was your fault?’

Michael watched her keenly, as if realising the significance of the question for her. ‘Because,’ he said carefully, ‘I’d been spending some time with an old friend, a woman, from university days. It wasn’t an affair, we were just good friends, really. But Kate didn’t see it like that.’

‘So what happened to the old friend?’

‘She went to live in Indonesia. That’s what she does, she travels the world.’ Michael paused, as the waiter brought the bill. ‘Shall we take our coffee over there?’ He indicated a bar adjacent to the restaurant, where a small band was playing dance music. ‘We can watch other people take exercise.’

‘Or do it ourselves,’ Sarah said, as they entered the bar, where two couples were attempting to jive.

He looked at her quizzically. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘Can’t you? I can,’ she said cheerfully, taking his coffee and putting it on a table beside hers. ‘One of my few skills. Come on. I’ll teach you.’

‘Oh no.’ He pulled back. ‘I really can’t, you know. I’ve got two left feet.’

‘Nonsense. All the man has to do is stand still and let the woman spin round him. You’re not scared, are you?’

‘Only of looking stupid.’ He let her pull him reluctantly to the floor. It was true, she discovered, he had little idea of the jive, but Sarah pushed and pulled him into place and spun round energetically, enjoying herself in a way she had once done with Kevin. He’d been a real live wire, though, not wooden and clumsy like Michael, who accompanied her as best as he could with amused embarrassment.

The dance ended, and they sat down to get their breath and finish their coffee. After another jive, the music changed to a waltz. ‘Now this, perhaps I
can
manage,’ Michael said. He stood up, holding out his hand. To the relief of both of them, he was right. They danced cautiously but competently around the small floor. He held her more firmly than Bob used to do. She found it exciting and reassuring.

Sarah’s mind, as they danced, was alive with excitement. The happiness she had felt earlier in the evening was still with her, enhanced by the wine. This man may have been a bastard to his wife, she thought, but nonetheless he’s good company, intelligent, amusing, and physically attractive. So how far could she -
should she
- let this go? She thought back over the men she had known: Kevin, her violent, impetuous first husband; Bob, so kind and supportive but well, a little dull in situations like this; Terry Bateson, the tall, lean detective, the last man she had danced alone with in a hotel. That wasn’t such a great memory, though. Sarah recalled ruefully how it had turned out. She’d drunk too much, and made a fool of herself in front of him in a hotel bedroom. Not really something to be proud of. Terry had been a perfect gentleman about it, but Sarah had felt utterly humiliated. Sadly, she doubted if he would ever be able to think of her in that way again - certainly she’d never dared give him the chance.

That mustn’t happen this time. If anything does happen, that is.

After the waltz they sat in the bar. Sarah ordered a cocktail and drank it slowly, with the intention of making it last. She’d already drunk enough to loosen her inhibitions - any more and disaster might follow. After a while they danced again, closer this time. And Sarah knew that the choice was hers. If she wanted something to happen, it would. When they sat down again he asked her what sort of a room she had.

Her eyes met his, answering the question he hadn’t asked. ‘Oh, just an ordinary hotel bedroom. All very neat and compact. Ensuite bathroom, minibar, immaculate desk with hotel notepaper on it. Double bed.’

‘Ah. Does it have a view?’

‘What, the bed?’

‘No, the room. Mine looks out onto a brick wall and a row of dustbins, you see. And the shower doesn’t work.’

‘Poor you. Mine has a view over the river and a sort of park. And a nice powerful shower.’ The tingle in her spine was more electric now; a pulse was throbbing in her throat. She drew a deep breath, and smiled. ‘Perhaps you’d like to try it?’

34. Doctor and Priest

‘Y
ES, I spoke to her about eight days ago, something like that.’ Doctor Clarey clicked the mouse on his computer. ‘Here we are, 26th November. I called her in personally to explain the results of the tests to her. We always do that, you know, with something serious like this.’

‘So how serious was it, doctor?’ Terry asked.

The doctor peered at him over his half moon spectacles. He had a rather pleasant, caring face, Terry thought - lined and crumpled somehow in a way that matched his old linen jacket and baggy cord trousers. He seemed out of place in this modern, purpose built surgery, with its fitted carpets, airport chimes, and computerised waiting list. But all the more reassuring for that. If there’s a nice way to tell someone they have cancer, this man probably knows what it is.

‘Fairly serious, I’m afraid. She had ovarian cancer, and it rather looked as though it had spread to the lymph glands.’

‘Could that have been cured?’

‘I told her it could, of course. There’d be no point in the chemotherapy otherwise. But she was an intelligent woman - very nice lady, in fact. She asked questions. And so ... well, I told her the truth. Most of the truth, anyway. As much as I thought she could bear.’

‘And that truth was?’

‘Well, it’s a matter of statistics, really. Probabilities - what she could reasonably anticipate, in terms of life expectancy, recurrence of the disease, and so on. It’s much harder, you see, when the disease has spread beyond the original site. You can’t just cut it out by surgery, you have to subject the whole body to a pretty unpleasant, poisonous regime, in order to kill the cancer wherever it is. And for a woman of her age, in her condition ...’ Dr Carey spread his hands apologetically. ‘The chances of a complete cure are about 50-50. I told her 60-40, I think - we always err on the side of optimism, where we can. It’s psychologically more motivating, as well as just kinder, I think.’

Kinder,
Terry thought. To be told you have a 40% chance of dying rather than 50%. Well, maybe. He imagined the shock, the sheer terror Alison Grey must have felt, sitting in front of this man, hearing this news. No wonder her neighbour said she looked white.

What a job it must be, Terry thought, to tell people such news. How often? Once a week? Once a fortnight?

‘How did she take it?’

The doctor grimaced, and rubbed his ear before replying. ‘She was scared, of course. Everyone is, it’s a natural reaction. I tried to answer her questions, and told her about the treatment - how long it would last, what it would be like, the need for people to care for her and so on. She didn’t seem to have many friends up here, unfortunately. But we have a practise nurse who can visit - I offered her that.’

‘Doctor, I have to ask you this. Was there anything in her reaction that suggested to you that she might take her own life?’

The doctor shook his head slowly. ‘No. She never mentioned it. But then you wouldn’t, would you, to a doctor? Not unless the disease is terminal, which hers wasn’t - not yet. She did seem quite shocked, but that’s normal, in such a situation. It’s not normal to kill yourself. Are you quite certain it’s suicide, then?’

‘Not yet, no. We’re still waiting for the post mortem.’

‘Well, they’ll find the cancer, for sure - be able to tell you how bad it was. Not that it makes much difference now. She was in here for quite some time - twenty minutes or so. I wanted to be sure she was calm enough to drive home on her own. And she did say one thing, now I think of it, that might help.’

‘What was that?’

‘Well, she was a Christian, I think, but she wasn’t quite satisfied with our local church. Nothing to do with the vicar, I gather - it was more to do with doctrine. She’d been planning to be received into the Catholic church, she said, and had been taking instruction from a priest in York.’ He smiled sadly. ‘She even tried to make a joke of it - that’s when I knew she was getting over the initial shock. She said this would give her something really big to talk about next time she met the man of God.’

‘Do you know who this priest was?’ Terry asked.

‘I do as a matter of fact. I recognised the name when she told me; I’ve met him before. Nice man. Father Roberts, at the Catholic church in York.’

Father Roberts was in his early thirties; brisk, friendly, serious, with a pleasant Irish accent and a twinkle in his eyes which suggested that despite all the problems in the world he, somehow, had found the secret of inner peace, and was happy to share it with anyone who was interested. The perfect recruiting agent for the church, Terry thought; no doubt that was why he had been given the job.

‘Alison Grey? Yes indeed,’ he said, sitting quietly in a corner of the Catholic church near York Minster. ‘I met her several times. A tragedy - how did she die?’

‘That’s what we’re investigating,’ Terry said. ‘It looks like suicide, but there are several unanswered questions. That’s why I’ve come to see you. Did she say anything ...’

‘ ... to indicate she might take her own life? Not to me, Inspector, surely. I would recall something like that, you can be quite certain.’ Father Roberts frowned. ‘She had a number of troubles, it’s true, but ... well, for one thing, suicide, you know, it’s a mortal sin. I imagine she would have known that.’

‘What does that mean, exactly, a mortal sin?’

The sparkle faded from the young priest’s eyes. He met Terry’s gaze gravely. ‘A sin from which there is no redemption. After death, most of us go to Purgatory until our sins are redeemed by time, suffering, and the prayers of those left behind on earth. But there are some sins so serious that they cannot be redeemed. Suicide is one of those.’

‘So what? She would stay in this - what do you call it? - purgatory for ever?’

The priest drew a deep breath. ‘She wouldn’t go there. If you believe in the full doctrine of the church as I do, her soul would go straight to hell. Unless - it is possible there were circumstances known to God which would make forgiveness of such a sin possible.’

‘Let’s hope we find some then,’ said Terry grimly, shocked by the stark horror of the pronouncement. ‘Do you really believe in that?’

‘It’s not fashionable to talk about heaven and hell these days but yes, Inspector Bateson, I’m afraid I do. And I would have told her so had she asked me. Unfortunately she didn’t.’

‘Why exactly did she come to meet you?’

‘For instruction in the Catholic faith. She had been toying with a number of eastern religions, I believe, and attending the Church of England, but found them all unsatisfactory in some way. So she told me, anyway. We were halfway through a course of instruction. She was due to meet me again next week.’

‘Did she seem depressed in any way? Worried about anything?’

The priest hesitated. ‘There is an issue of confidentiality ...’

‘For Christ’s sake, man! The woman’s dead! What I’m looking for are some of those mitigating circumstances which may help us to understand the reasons for her death, and from what you say, keep her soul out of hell!’ Terry’s voice echoed in the vast cavern of the church, and several heads turned curiously. He realised his outburst was blasphemous, but didn’t care; he found the whole discussion somehow obscene.

‘Forgiveness comes from God, not man,’ the priest reproved him gently. ‘But yes, I understand your motives, inspector. And since she was not yet received into the church I learned nothing from her under the seal of the confessional. She was a troubled lady, certainly. Much of our discussion was around the theme of sin and forgiveness. This seemed very important to her. She never told me why, exactly, but it seemed to be both an attraction and a barrier to her hopes of conversion.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘As if there was some great sin she wanted to confess, but dared not. I tried to describe the relief that confession and absolution can bring. She seemed attracted by this notion, but afraid of it too. She cried once or twice, in our discussions.’

‘Did she tell you what this sin might have been?’

‘No. I was not her confessor, and ... I doubt if she was ready.’

‘What about her health?’ Terry asked. ‘Did you know she had cancer?’

‘Yes, she told me. She had visited her doctor the day before, and received the diagnosis. She was anxious about it, naturally.’

‘What did she say?’

The priest stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment. ‘Well, naturally she was afraid - anyone would be. Not just of the disease, but of the treatment - it’s no picnic, this chemotherapy. I’ve seen the effects. But you know, in a strange way I think she was looking forward to it.’

‘Looking forward to it? How?’

‘I know, it sounds odd. But it’s something she said. What was it now?
We all get what we deserve in the end. That’s how God works.
Something like that, anyhow.’

‘What do you think she meant?’

‘Who knows? Only God can be certain in the end. But as I told you, she mentioned this sin that she dared not confess. And so, when God inflicted this dreadful disease and its treatment on her, maybe she saw it as a punishment that she deserved. Maybe even a punishment that would absolve her, in the end.’ The priest shrugged. ‘It’s probably all in my imagination.’

‘Not necessarily. You knew her, after all, and I didn’t.’ Terry thought for a moment. ‘If you are right though, Father, and part of her
was
looking forward to this treatment, then it’s less likely that she would avoid it by killing herself, isn’t it? Particularly if she believed, like you, that suicide is a mortal sin?’

The priest nodded. ‘That would make sense, surely. Let us hope, for her soul’s sake, that she didn’t do that.’

‘Yes, quite. Maybe you should pray for her as well.’

‘Oh, I will, of course. I have done so already.’

Terry got to his feet and held out his hand. ‘You’ve been very helpful, father. Thanks for your time. But if she avoided the sin of suicide, as you hope, then someone else committed a worse one. Of murder.’

35. Location, location