Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) (42 page)

But as the time grew nearer, doubts crept in. It wasn’t that she disliked Michael, not at all; their lovemaking, that second time, had been as exciting and satisfactory as the first - even more so, in some ways, with less anxiety and guilt. But somehow, the more she thought about it, the more she feared that these events, dramatic as they were, might deteriorate into routine and domesticity. Michael was a good lover, she thought, but it had been the excitement and rarity of their lovemaking, in a strange bed with a strange man, that had made the sex truly thrilling. The thought of it kept her warm for days.

But, perhaps because of her age, she felt she didn’t need it too often. The secret inward pleasure of the memory, the anticipation that in due course it could be repeated -
if
she chose,
when
she chose - were as delightful as the event itself. And the effect on Michael too was important. Coquettish it might be, but she’d enjoyed it when he’d rung her, asking for a date, and she’d had to turn him down, pleading pressure of work. The keener he was, she thought, the better balanced their relationship would be. If she moved in now, all that might change. She might start to seem stale to him, he could take her for granted.

Take her for granted, just as Bob had.
No, forget Bob
. But how could she? She’d had a warning, one of the harshest of her whole life. The man she’d relied on, shared her life with, had got bored with her and left. It was as heartless and terrible as that.

If it happened once, it could happen again.

She’d mentioned her fears to Michael, and he’d been the perfect gentleman, in understanding. Not only that, but he’d come up with a practical solution. Rather than move in with him, he suggested, why didn’t she move into the house he’d just left - the miller’s house, next to the windmill? That way they’d each have their own space. It was standing empty - it needed someone keep it warm. It was a decent house, with three bedrooms, much more spacious than the windmill, where they’d be bumping into each other all the time, especially on those stairs.

This way she could have her own privacy, but they could meet when she wanted. Of course they wouldn’t have to sleep together every night, he’d promised - not at all if she didn’t want to. Anyway, he travelled a lot, just as she did, was often tired in the evenings, was too old to be a constant stud.

‘We’ll eat out, if you like, once a week - put it in our diaries, make it special. Then if we both agree, ok,’ he grinned. ‘Otherwise not. For the rest of the time we’ll walk around each other like strangers. Neighbours, that’s all. No touching. Keep up the tension. How’s that?’

She laughed. It was tempting. A game she could play with this man. She wasn’t sure how well it would work, but after all, she told herself, I can always move out if it doesn’t. And it sounds worth a try. Better than these grubby flats I’ve seen, anyway.

He showed her round the house. It was clean, in need of some modernisation, but decent enough. There was a practical farmhouse style kitchen with an Aga, a spacious living room with a view over the windmill and a small dining room which Michael had been using as an office. It was still cluttered with a desk, books, papers and a filing cabinet.

‘I’m sorry, I’ll move these out as soon as I can,’ he said. ‘It’s just time and ...’

‘Leave it, it doesn’t matter. I can work in one of the bedrooms upstairs. There’s only me, after all.’

The main bedroom, in fact, was lovely. It only had a single bed at the moment but there was a thick blue carpet, fitted wardrobes, and magnificent view across the short hilltop grass beside the windmill to the valley beyond. She could see the clouds drifting towards her from the distant horizon. She could just pick out York Minster, a tiny white building twenty miles away. Sarah gazed out, enraptured.

‘I could sit here all day,’ she said. ‘I probably will. It could make me late for work.’

‘I doubt that, somehow, knowing you.’ Michael smiled. ‘Let me show you the bathroom.’

This, it seemed, was the one room he had modernized. ‘It really needed it,’ he said defensively. ‘It was one of those terrible English disasters with a carpet round the bath and the loo, soaked with urine, no doubt, paper peeling from the walls because of the steam. But now ...’

Now it was immaculately tiled from floor to ceiling, with a large luxurious bath with taps along the side, cabinet with power shower, low level loo, and a six foot mirror stretching all along one wall over the basin and splashtop. It reminded Sarah of a hotel - her hotel bathroom in Cambridge, in fact, where he had insisted on showering that first time, before they made love.

‘It’s wonderful,’ she said. ‘But I’m not sure I could afford it.’

‘Don’t be silly. You’re my friend. There’s no question of paying rent.’

‘Of course I’ll pay rent,’ Sarah said. ‘I’m not your kept woman.’

For a moment she stared at him, there in the bathroom, and the deal nearly fell through. What do I really know of this man, after all, she wondered? What am I letting myself in for? But Michael seemed genuinely hurt.

‘No, no, I didn’t mean it like that, please, don’t misunderstand me. I’m just trying to help. And since we’re, well ...’

‘
Michael, I’ll pay rent,’ she insisted. ‘I wouldn’t consider it otherwise. Even so, it’ll seem strange.’

‘It won’t be strange at all,’ he smiled. ‘It’ll be nice.’

And with that, for the moment, she decided to settle.

45. Burnout

T
HE CAR was a blackened shell. The windows were smashed, and the tyres and upholstery had vaporized, leaving only the springs, metal frame, and tracery of steel wires behind. Most of the paintwork had burnt off too, so that it was hard to tell what colour it had been. The number plates had been removed. All that could be said for certain was that it was a three year old Nissan Primera.

‘You said that’s what you were looking for, so here it is.’ The mechanic in charge of the Leeds police vehicle recovery workshop stood calmly beside the car, waiting for Jane Carter’s response. ‘We’ll keep it till Wednesday, then it’s going for scrap. Unless it’s needed for evidence, which I doubt.’

Jane walked around the car, examining it from different angles. ‘You’re sure it was red? How can you tell?’

‘Here, look.’ He crouched down to show her a place under the wheel arch which hadn’t been burnt. ‘A few spots under the bonnet too. Typical Nissan red.’

‘They made a thorough job of burning it.’

‘You’re right there. Whoever torched this had a guilty conscience, for sure. Either that or he just liked the flames.’

Jane poked her head through the window, examining the blackened mess inside. ‘Not much you can gather from this, is there?’

‘I wouldn’t think so. Not unless we put a thorough forensic team on it and even then you’d be lucky. Never justify the cost.’ He shook his head dourly. ‘Not unless your guvnor’s going to pay. Serious crime is it, you’re after?’

‘Murder,’ Jane said shortly. ‘Where did you say it was found?’

‘Off the edge of a by-pass, at the bottom of the slope. Needed a crane to lift it up, that’s why we waited until the New Year. Didn’t seem any particular rush. We get dozens of these every month. Joyriders, mostly, young lads. Or robbers using them as getaway vehicles.’

‘So far as you know,’ Jane said. ‘How many do you catch?’

‘Not many. Not when they’re burned out like this,’ the man admitted. ‘It’s a professional job, I’ll give the lad that.’

‘He took the number plates too, to make it harder to trace,’ she said. ‘What about the engine markings?’

‘Still there, I think.’ The mechanic wrenched up the buckled bonnet. ‘I can do a search, if you like. But we know whose it is, without that.’

‘How?’

The mechanic shrugged. ‘It’s a Primera, isn’t it? Not the most popular car. There’s only one been reported stolen in this manor all year. Red, just like this - stolen three weeks before Christmas. Belonged to a little old lady - her pride and joy, she said. I had her on the phone in tears.’

An idea sparked in Jane’s mind. ‘Do you have the dates exactly?’

‘It’ll be on the computer. Through here.’ The man set off across the workshop, a vast booming barn of a place, and Jane followed. They wove their way through a maze of similar car wrecks, some burnt out like the Primera, others mangled and twisted by accidents. In a separate barn at the far end, carefully shielded behind plastic screens, were a group of vehicles being meticulously examined for forensic clues. She followed him into a small office, where he tapped away on a computer.

‘Here we are. Car reported stolen Monday 5th December. Burnt-out vehicle found by patrol car Saturday 3rd December. There - what does that tell you?’

Jane’s spirits sank. ‘It was burned out two days before it was reported stolen.’

‘Looks like that, doesn’t it? But wait a mo, I think I remember ... yes, there we are.’ He scrolled down to a report. The old dear, Mrs Hamilton, she’d been up in Edinburgh visiting her grandson. Didn’t like to drive, she said, the motorways scared her, so she took the train instead. Left the car parked in her drive and when she came back on Monday, oh dear me, it wasn’t there.’

‘So how long was she away?’

‘Let me see, does it say? Yes, here we are.
‘I took the train from Leeds on Wednesday 30th November at 9.45 a.m, arriving Edinburgh at ..’
bla bla - Christ, too much bloody information, these rooky cops can’t see the wood for the trees. It’s all here, though, sergeant, every last detail. Is that any use?’

It might be, Jane thought hopefully. And then again it might be nothing at all, like so many leads she had checked out already. ‘Can I have a print out of that?’

‘Sure. Free of charge.’

While he was fetching the paper from the printer she went through the dates in her head. Alison Grey had been murdered near York on the night of Friday 2nd December. The Nissan Primera had been left standing in the old lady’s drive since the morning of Wednesday 30th - ample time, presumably, for whoever stole it to realise the house was empty, take the car, and - possibly - drive it to York, park it near Alison Grey’s house, murder her, drive back to Leeds, and set fire to the car the next day. She sighed. It did fit, in a way. But it seemed a long shot, even to her.

‘What time was the car found, exactly?’

The mechanic checked the printout before handing it to her. ‘Ten in the morning. A couple of horse riders saw it on a hack. Said it spooked their horses.’

‘So it had only recently been burnt?’

‘I guess so.’ The man shrugged, obviously losing interest. He nodded at a colleague who was trying to attract his attention through the window of the office. ‘So if that’s all?’

‘Not quite.’ Jane was tired, but she’d turned up a faint possibility, at least. Now she had to follow each detail, see where it led. She squared her shoulders, standing between the mechanic and the window. ‘Look, I need to be sure about this car. So first, even though the old lady says it’s hers, can you run a check on the engine number, please? So we’re quite certain?’

‘If we have to.’ The man looked reluctant. ‘Might take a while. We’ve got a lot on.’

‘Please,’ Jane insisted. ‘Hold the car till that’s done. And then ...’ she looked at car wistfully. ‘I’ll see if I can get a forensic check authorized on it, even though it looks a pretty forlorn hope. If it is our car, it was parked in a muddy gateway near a carrot field covered with straw. But any straw would have burned up in seconds, wouldn’t it?’

‘Sure.’ The mechanic thought for a moment. ‘Was it very muddy, this gateway?’

‘Like the battle of the Somme. Deep mud, as soon as you got off the road.’

‘Well, you might have a chance then. Soils are different, you know, these boffins can tell an awful lot under a microscope. They might find a few traces under a wheel arch or on the chassis somewhere that wasn’t blackened to a crisp. Worth a try, any road. If it’s murder, as you say.’

‘I’ll do it, then. Now, if you could just show me on the map where it was found? And the address of this lady, Mrs - what is it? - Hamilton? I’ll call in on the way back to York.’

Driving out to the by-pass where the car had been found, Jane yawned, wondering if this would turn out to be yet another wild goose chase. Her eyelids drooped; the small adrenalin rush she’d felt in the workshop when the dates had matched had not lasted for long. She needed a break, in both senses of the word. She still had no idea where Peter Barton was, the main suspect in the case; and no idea how he might be connected to this car, if at all.

Still, she wasn’t about to give up. The murder of Alison Grey was the biggest crime she’d been involved with since she started her new job in York, and she was determined to solve it if she could. That was how she had always operated: working long hours, tracking down every last detail until she was satisfied. Jane had always known she wasn’t brilliant, but she made up for it by being dogged, diligent, indefatigable. In her former job at Beverley she’d been nicknamed the Tortoise. Some people - her enemies - claimed this was because she was shy and tended to retreat into her shell at parties. But Jane liked the nickname. It suggested she was careful, slow, and thorough, unlike her young male colleagues, who dashed around a crime scene like hares, ignoring vital clues on the ground. She’d won her race to be Detective Sergeant, and she meant to stick to her method in York. If she, Jane Carter, could catch this murderer, then she’d gain the respect she craved, and be given more serious cases when they came along. One day, she might be a Detective Inspector. All it took was hard work, attention to detail - and a little luck.

46. Moving In

T
HE MOVE to Michael’s house had gone more smoothly than Sarah had expected. The house was partly furnished, so most of her furniture went into store. The main thing it lacked was a double bed, and that was the one luxury she couldn’t do without. Her squabble with Bob had been humiliating enough; after a couple of nights sleeping on a single bed in one of the smaller bedrooms, she went to a furniture showroom and ordered the largest, most comfortable queen-size double bed she could find. Michael laughed when he saw it.