Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) (34 page)

Jane followed the woman into a spacious, fitted kitchen. A warm scent of stew came from the Aga. The young dog sniffed her legs enthusiastically, chased a cat into the hall, then slumped down on a bed in the corner. The woman grinned. ‘Never a moment’s peace, with that animal.’

‘He’s good security though, isn’t he, living out here on your own?’

‘That’s the idea, any road. Scare any burglar shitless, he would. Not that I thought I needed protection out here, until now. What happened to Alison, poor lass?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Jane said. ‘Did you know her well?’

‘Hardly. Met her once when she moved in, that’s all. She was renting it to write a book, I believe.’

‘It’s not her house then?’

‘No. Belonged to Cartwrights once, but they retired and moved to Elvington. Sold it to an agency in York. I thought they’d do it up, but maybe they get more for the rent, I don’t know. There’s not that many wants to live out here these days.’

‘Do you know the name of the agency?’

‘I don’t, I’m afraid. My husband might. He’ll be in for his lunch in a bit. Will you have a sup of tea?’

‘Yes, thanks.’ While the kettle was boiling Jane learned that the woman’s name was Carol Richards, and her husband owned most of the woods and fields east of the A19. She asked about the bridleway. At its nearest point it was only about twenty yards from the house. ‘Do you get many people along here?’

‘Not many, this time of year. A few joggers, kids on mountain bikes, things like that.’

‘You haven’t noticed anyone suspicious? Over the last few days, especially?’

Mrs Richards frowned thoughtfully as she poured the tea. ‘Can’t say I have, no. Daft buggers, you’d think they had summat better to do.’ She laughed. ‘I did catch one lad staring at the house, but Max barked and that were it - gone! Sugar?’

‘No thanks. When was this?’

‘Oh, three four days since.’

‘Would you recognise the man if you saw him again?’

‘No, love. Just a lad in a black woolly hat and anorak. He could run though, I’ll give him that.’ As she handed out the tea a thought struck her. ‘Why? You don’t think he could have owt to do with Alison, do you? Like yon feller pestering women in Bishopthorpe and Naburn? I read about him in the
Press
.’

‘We’re checking out all possibilities, Mrs Richards. Did you see this man again?’

‘No, can’t say I did. But then anyone could go along that bridleway. I wouldn’t hear them, so long as they’re quiet.’

‘What if they went straight on, through the woods towards Alison Grey’s house?’

‘Same difference. The dog would bark if he heard summat, but he’s asleep half the time, and pestering cats the rest. Dumb mutt!’

‘What about Friday night?’ she asked. ‘Did you notice anything unusual then?’

Carol Richards thought for a moment. ‘Can’t help you there, I’m afraid. I was at whist drive in Selby - I go each Friday with my mum. And Ian was out drinking with his mates.’

‘So even if the dog saw him and barked himself sick, no one would have noticed?’

‘Not while I got back, no.’ A tractor pulled up outside. ‘Here’s Ian. See what he says.’

Her husband, a big bluff man, knocked off his boots in the porch as his wife put his lunch on the table. She offered Jane a bowl of stew too, which she accepted gratefully. Mopping up the last of his stew with a thick slice of bread, Ian Richards told her the name of the property company which owned Alison Grey’s house. He confirmed he’d been out drinking on Friday night. He’d seen nothing unusual at Alison’s house. But on the way home he’d noticed a car parked in a gateway along the road to Wheldrake, a couple of fields along.

‘I thought of stopping because it’s one of my fields, see, I don’t like folk parking there. They’ve got no right.’

‘But you didn’t stop?’ Jane asked hopefully.

‘Nah, what’s the point? I’d only get a load of abuse. Kids, no respect, have they?’

‘What time was this?’

‘About half eleven. On my way home from the pub.’

Probably over the limit, Jane thought, noting the veins round his nose. But that wasn’t the crime she was investigating. ‘Did you see anyone in the car?’

‘Nay, lass. I only had a glance, but it was all misted up. Probably having a shag on the back seat, randy young sods. Like we did once.’ He glanced at his wife and grinned, showing several teeth missing.

‘What sort of car was it?’

‘Now there I
can
help you. Nissan Primera. Red, five door. My daughter’s got one, see. Good reliable runner. Spacious, too, with the back seats down.’

Surprised by the accuracy of the information, Jane noted it down. ‘You didn’t get the number, did you?’

‘No, sorry. It wasn’t new though. A few years old.’

‘Don’t worry. Can you show me this gateway?’

‘’Course. If you come along with me.’ He got up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and gave his wife a smile and a slap on the bottom, before leading the way outside. ‘You won’t find no car tracks though, love, if that’s what you’re after. We’ve been lifting carrots all morning. Follow the tractor in your car, I’ll show you.’

He was right. The gateway - really just an entrance to a field with a rope strung across it - had been churned up by tractor tyres. Three huge vehicles were still at work. Part of the field was covered with straw, to keep the frost off the carrots. The rest was a sea of mud. It was pointless to ask the SOCOs to have a look, Jane realised. But the information was interesting nonetheless. She stood beside the gateway, thinking. In addition to Terry Bateson’s theory about a lover, she had two more possibilities now - a jogger, and the driver of this car. If Alison’s death wasn’t suicide, that is.

If it was Peter Barton, he could have come along the bridleway. Either cycling, as before, or on foot. He’d shown no interest in cars, though. So what did this red car mean?

Coincidence, or significance? Courting couple, or killer?

The carrot field extended back to a wood, behind which was the Richards’ farmhouse. She couldn’t see that from here, but what she could see, on her left towards the village, was the track from the road to Alison Grey’s house. She could see the house clearly from here, with the white SOCO van and muddy green Rover parked outside. To her left, the carrot field extended to the barbed wire fence round Alison’s garden.

The place where she stood was quiet apart from the tractors, and occasional cars swishing past. A couple of nights ago, she thought, before they started lifting the carrots, this field would have been covered in straw. It would be quite easy to walk from the gateway to the garden, leaving no tracks. In the middle of the night no one would see you coming, or know that your car - a red Nissan Primera - was parked here by the gate. No one driving on the road would think to look for someone walking across the straw field, in the dark. But anyone approaching the house through the field would see by the lights which rooms were occupied. If the curtains weren’t drawn he might even be able to see inside.

It might be something, it might be nothing, Jane thought, turning back to her car. I’ll ask the SOCOs to check for wisps of straw in the house.

38. On the Carpet

T
ERRY BATESON tried to shield his daughters from his work as much as possible. Their world, he hoped, was safer and more innocent than the one he worked in. They had their jealousies and squabbles, of course, and Jessica was still not happy with her geography teacher, Mrs Murton, but the violence and cruelty of the criminal world was something he wanted to protect them from if he could. They’d suffered enough with the death of their mother; there was no need to burden them with other deaths and assaults.

For this reason,
Crimewatch
was a programme he usually switched off. But it was different when it featured a case he had been involved in. He briefed Trude to help him get the girls to bed early, read them both stories, and then settled on the sofa for the dubious pleasure of watching his boss make his debut as a media star.

It was typical of Will Churchill to have taken over this case. He had let Terry, quite literally, do the initial spadework - carefully excavating the body of Brenda Stokes from beneath the ring road, fending off complaints from the Highway Authority about traffic disruption, calling in forensic archaeologists to examine the body, checking the files of the original prosecution to see if there was any way the discovery could be used to put Jason Barnes back in prison. But when the interest of the national media was aroused, everything changed. It became a high profile case which it was clearly his duty to lead.

‘It’s a responsibility shared, Terence old son,’ he’d said, with his hand on Terry’s shoulder. ‘This is too much of a burden, I recognise that. So I’ll deal with the media, keep them off your back, while you focus on Alison Grey and these other assaults. After all, it’s ancient history, this business of Brenda Stokes. You want to be at the cutting edge, young DI like you, dealing with what really matters to the community.’

So there he was, Terry thought bitterly, having his face powdered by make-up artists in some TV studio in London, while I struggle to get my kids to bed. It was, of course, typical of Churchill to rub in the fact that Terry was older than him and of junior rank. Churchill loved that. An appearance on
Crimewatch
could only help him rise further.

It was a short item, three or four minutes, no more. There was a ghoulish introduction about the discovery of the hand, followed by a clip of the excavations which Terry had supervised, a photo of a young pretty looking Brenda Stokes, a summary of the original trial and appeal, and a short interview with a serious, competent looking DCI Will Churchill. He outlined the forensic evidence they had found - the injuries to her skull and arm, the way she had been dressed, and the mystery about how she had got from Landing Lane, where she had last been seen with Jason Barnes, to the ring road where her body had been found. There was a close-up of the fragments of scarf found round her neck, enhanced to make the pattern much clearer. Will Churchill appealed for witnesses, and then it was over.

Three days later, Will Churchill called Terry and Jane into his office. There had been a gratifying response to the television appeal, but it would take weeks to respond to all the leads they had been given. ‘The usual array of nutters and fantasists,’ he told them. ‘But one or two a bit more promising. So this is going to take a fair bit of my time. Meanwhile,’ he said, leaning back in his black leather chair, ‘we need some progress on this business of Alison Grey. The
Evening Press
article hinted at suicide, but you’re treating it as murder, is that right?’

Terry nodded. ‘On the basis of the pathologist’s report, yes, sir. That’s what we’ll be saying to the coroner.’

‘In that case I want it sorted - fast. The last thing we need is another horror like this on our patch. It’s this same pervert who’s been pestering women on the cyclepath, isn’t it?’

‘That’s certainly a possibility, sir, yes’ said Terry cautiously.

‘More than a possibility, surely,’ Churchill said scornfully. ‘Single woman living alone, hanged with a scarf from her staircase. Didn’t he try a similar trick with that other woman, Lizzie something?’

‘Bolan. Yes. Tried to throttle her with her dressing gown cord. But she drove him off.’

‘Well, obviously this woman didn’t,’ said Churchill with heavy sarcasm. ‘Hence the result. If you’d caught this young bastard earlier, she’d still be alive.’

Terry bit his lip, controlling his temper with difficulty. This wasn’t the first time. Interviews with Will Churchill always made his blood boil. Ever since the man had come to York, parachuted into the job Terry had expected to be his, they had prowled around each other stiff-legged, like two dogs with one bone. Neither liked or understood the other. In his charitable moments, Terry told himself that Churchill must have been a good detective once. But if so, that had been in Essex, not here. Since he’d arrived in York there had been two major cases already in which Churchill had been grossly, spectacularly wrong, and Terry had been right.

‘If it was him, sir, yes.’

‘So what are you doing to find him?’ Churchill demanded brusquely. Jane Carter watched uncomfortably, surprised by the hostility between her superiors.

‘Peter Barton, do you mean?’

‘No, the Queen of Sheba. Who d’you think?’

‘Well, we’ve got a major search on. All the obvious places.’ For the next ten minutes Terry detailed the results of their search. Every known associate - not that there were many - of Peter Barton had been interviewed, without result. His photo, description and fingerprints had been circulated to every police force in England. His mother’s house had been watched. All known squats and hostels in York had been visited. Farmers had been contacted, and the woods and farmland around Crockey Hill searched. Uniformed officers had visited cycletracks and bridleways, showing people Peter’s photo and asking if they’d seen anyone like him.

‘All of which has led to what, exactly?’ Churchill asked impatiently.

‘A number of leads, but none that proved positive.’

‘What about the SOCOs’ report on the house? What evidence have you got to nail him when he finally does turn up? If we’re not all in our graves by then.’

‘Which house?’ Terry asked.

‘Alison Grey’s, of course. I’ve seen the report on Lizzie Bolan’s.’

‘Well, that’s just it, sir, there’s nothing conclusive,’ Terry said. ‘There were plenty of fingerprints, but none of them were his.’

‘So? He probably wore gloves, like last time.’

‘Maybe, yes. We can’t tell. But if there was an intruder we know where he got in. The downstairs toilet window was open, probably for the cat to go in and out - she didn’t have a cat door. There were traces of mud on the floor, but the uniform lads went in that way too, so it could easily have come off their boots.’

‘Any other traces? Footprints, fibres, that sort of thing?’

‘Same story really. The ground outside the window is gravel, so it wouldn’t show much even if the uniforms hadn’t trampled all over it clambering to get in.’