Bold Counsel (The Trials of Sarah Newby) (43 page)

‘That looks to me like an invitation,’ he said, when the delivery men van had gone. He put an arm round her shoulder.

‘You’ve got your own, in the windmill,’ Sarah protested. ‘That’s why I bought this. So I can really stretch out, by myself. Pure luxury.’ She slipped from his grasp, and lay on the bed, fully clothed, looking up at him. ‘That’s the one great advantage of getting divorced. Having a whole huge bed to yourself, all night. Don’t you think?’

Michael’s face clouded, like a child denied sweets. She watched him for a moment, to see how he would respond. It felt dangerous, to tease him, but thrilling as well. Her husband, Bob, had been a soft man, thoughtful, intellectual, kind for the most part, and cruel only with words. With Michael, it was different. There was a faint sense of menace. He was normally charming but there was always that sense that he might turn, like that time on top of the tower. And then, anything might happen.

This time, when he said nothing, she took pity on him. She laughed softly, and stretched out her arms. ‘Of course, I might invite you to share it with me occasionally. Like now, for instance. If you’re not too busy, that is?’

It was a curious experience, for Sarah, this lovemaking. She had been faithful to Bob for so long, and before that, in her teenage years, to Kevin. She had no experience of other men in bed. That first night with Michael in the Cambridge hotel had been wild, guilty, full of nerves and tremendous, overwhelming excitement - a sensation that stayed with her for days, followed her into court, made her blush like a girl and feel foolish and forgetful with clients. Not so much because of the sexual satisfaction as the emotional release. Afterwards, she felt she was no longer Bob’s wife; he was history.

And so it was again, here now, on this new queen-sized bed she had bought with her own money and installed in this new different house, nothing to do with Bob at all. Standing in the shower afterwards, she remembered the words of a song, and laughing, sang it out loud.
‘I’m gonna wash that man right out of my hair.’
She was free, her own woman, making a new start.

And yet there was a problem, too, about drawing the boundaries between herself and Michael. They lived in different houses, which was important, though both belonged to him. It was crucial that she paid him rent, she felt, and had the status of a proper tenant. For however long she stayed here, she wanted this to be her house, which he could visit when she invited him, not otherwise. To her relief, Michael seemed to respect this. There was that clutter of his books and papers in the small dining room, but it was old stuff which he rarely needed. The windmill, he made clear, was his home, and the house was hers.

The arrangement began to work quite well. Michael was away quite often, travelling round his various projects, and Sarah, as usual, was absorbed in her work. There were days when they didn’t see each other at all, or only briefly, going in or out. And then there were evenings when, as he had suggested, they made a night of it, cooking for each other or going out for a meal and sometimes a film or a play and then, like lovers, to bed. Sometimes in his bed, sometimes in hers.

It was a stunning place to live. Sarah had grown up the city, among the back streets of Seacroft, with no view but houses and tower blocks, mostly squalid and run down, where everyone knew each other’s business. She had fought to escape that, and succeeded. The one thing she’d loved about the house she’d shared with Bob had been the sense of space. From her old bedroom window she’d looked out across fields to the river, where the heron floated in daily in his solemn quest for food. It had become, without her knowing it, a landscape in her mind. She had drawn sustenance from the changing beauty of the seasons, the big sky, the wide horizons.

But if that had been beautiful, this was spectacular. She could see for twenty miles to the west. She had never realised before how vast the sky was, how varied and beautiful cloud formations could be. On mornings when she didn’t have to be in early at work, she sat at her bedroom window, lingering as she brushed her hair and put on her make-up, and watched the weather come towards her from the west. Once she saw a huge rainbow arching like a giant bridge from Selby in the south to the gleaming whiteness of York Minster in the north, where the pot of gold must be. And then a black storm like the end of the world, blotting everything out as it tumbled eastwards towards her.

Travelling to work was a pleasure too. The bike really came into its own, swooping down the long switchback roads of the Wolds. She found several routes, and varied them according to her mood each day. Her confidence in the bike increased, as she got used to the hills and bends. Michael suggested she buy a car, but she refused. The comfort of his BMW was one thing, the exhilaration of the Kawasaki quite another. On the bike she felt free, quite alone, out of time, a black bullet of concentration focussed on nothing but the winding ribbon of road straight ahead.

Her son Simon and his girlfriend came out to see her. Lorraine was blooming. Her skin was smooth, her breasts had swollen, she glowed with an inner beauty that radiated around her. Sarah gazed at the girl in wonder, thinking
I must have been like that once
, before I brought her young man into the world. Now she felt quite sinewy and withered beside her.

Simon brought her some chairs from storage in his van, and fitted a new carpet in the bedroom she had chosen as a study. Michael, seeing how handy he was, offered him a job laying a patio round the outside of the windmill. It was a small job, but Simon needed the money, so he agreed to make a start next weekend.

Sarah guessed that her son did not entirely approve of her new lover. But then, he’d had so many fights with Bob over the years, she hardly expected things to run smoothly. Michael went out of his way to be friendly and welcoming, showing Simon and Lorraine around the windmill, talking about building, enquiring about the baby, and - best of all perhaps - leaving them alone after an hour before things got too awkward. Sarah had noticed Simon beginning to strut like a young cockerel, protecting his mother from another male, and she was grateful to Michael for his tact.

She was not surprised by Simon’s question.

‘Are you going to settle with him, Mum? Is he ...’

‘My new man? In place of Bob, you mean?’

‘Yeah. That’s what I’m asking, I suppose.’

‘Why? Don’t you like him?’

‘I’m not sure. He seems ... a bit sure of himself, like. A bit cocky.’

‘He’s a self-made man, Simon. A property developer.’ Sarah sighed. This was the wrong tack to take with Simon, who had a chip on his shoulder about all successful people. But it had been getting less in the last year, since he’d had regular work and the responsibility of the baby and Lorraine. The last thing she wanted to do was to drive him back into the envious rage of his adolescent years.

‘Honestly, Simon, I’m not sure myself. It’s too early to say. But it’s good for me to have a relationship with someone else after what your stepfather did to me. That was painful, you know, it really hurt. I lost a lot of confidence when he walked out like that ...’

‘You? Lost confidence? Mother, you’re the most over-confident woman I know!’

‘Yes, well. It may look like that to you, Simon, but it’s not always how I feel. Anyway, as far as this relationship with Michael goes ... I don’t know.’ She smiled, remembering what had happened last night. Michael had filled the giant luxury bathtub with bath salts until the bubbles spilled over the rim, and they had both climbed in and splashed and laughed together like two big children until it began to get cold. Then he got out, dried himself quickly, wrapped her up in a heated white bath towel and carried her into the bedroom, where he gave her slow, luxurious massage with scented oils before they made love. Sarah had never been treated like this in her life before. She’d felt at once deliciously relaxed and on the edge of laughter at the absurdity of it. Remembering it now in front of her son, she felt amused and faintly embarrassed.

‘He’s a nice man, Simon, and he’s made a big difference to me in the past few months. But whether it lasts - only time will tell.’

It was true, she thought, how Michael had helped her. She felt she was reaffirming her freedom, taking the necessary steps into a new and different life. It was vital, she felt, in her healing process not to feel that he, Bob, had taken all the main things from their marriage - the house, their bed, the decision about how and when to part - leaving her stranded like a waif on the shore. Sarah had been a waif once, when Simon was a baby; she never wanted to feel like that again.

As the weeks passed, her relationship with Michael changed. The sex, as they came to know each other’s bodies, was better; but the thrill of the first few times faded, into something more like friendship than passion. Or perhaps not friendship either, she thought, as she lay with her head on his chest afterwards, but therapy.

Yes, that was it - therapy, a sort of healing process. Once, years ago, she had fallen off her bike and ripped some muscles in her thigh, and for two months she’d had regular treatment from a handsome young physiotherapist. He’d been a friendly, talkative young man, and over the weeks they’d got to know each other quite well. She’d lain on his table, his long, sensitive fingers massaging the bruised muscles of her thigh, while they talked happily about their different lives. They’d come quite close, or so she’d thought; yet when the treatment was over, he passed her in a supermarket with just a brief smile. I’m one of many, she’d realised; I’m healed, it’s done.

Something similar, perhaps, was happening here. There were many moments when she felt close to Michael; and others when he seemed as much like a stranger as ever. There were those dark moods, for instance - not just the moment at the top of the windmill and the time his cooking had gone wrong, but other times too. She’d seen him a couple of times now during difficult negotiations on the phone, and it hadn’t been pleasant. There’d been a real scowl, not just normal anger but a hint of violence, of instability within him that had scared her. It was something she remembered from her first lover, Kevin. It impressed her, but she feared it too.

She liked him, certainly, but it wasn’t love. He was sexually attractive, entertaining and mostly considerate to be with, but ... he didn’t obsess her. She could quite easily imagine life without him, but not yet. After all, he’d done a lot for her - not just given her a roof over her head, but given her back the sense that she was an attractive, interesting woman whom a man was proud and happy to spend time with. Those were things she needed so much that she was prepared to stay, at least until she was healed.

Which I will be in the end, she thought ruefully, putting on her make-up one morning. No bruises last for ever. One day all this will be over. I’ll have a new life and a home of my own. And then what?

I may even walk past him in the supermarket as if he wasn’t there.

How would that feel?

To her surprise, she found the thought not scarey at all, but comforting. She frowned as she realised this, pulling a face in the mirror. I’ll make love to him now, and dump him when I’m healed, she thought coolly.

What does that say about me?

47. Clear as Mud

‘L
OST IT?’ Terry said incredulously. ‘What do you mean, you’ve lost it?’

‘I’m not saying we’ve
lost
it, necessarily,’ the voice on the phone replied miserably. ‘
Mislaid
, more like. It may just be filed in the wrong place. You see we’re in the middle of installing a new computer system, and our main office administrator resigned last week, in a dispute about re-grading, so ...’

‘This is a crucial piece of evidence in a murder enquiry! My sergeant sent it to you before Christmas. She’s had two sets of excuses from you already.’

‘I know, I know, and I do most sincerely apologise. It has the highest priority. We’re turning the place upside down as we speak. But the fact remains that at the moment, most unfortunately ... we have no idea where it is. It may even have been sent to a different lab by mistake.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ Terry slammed the phone down. ‘Pay peanuts and you get monkeys.’ He turned to Jane Carter, spreading his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘They’ve lost it. Our top scientists are very sorry, but they have accidentally posted your key piece of evidence to Outer Mongolia. Or Antarctica perhaps. So we’re no further forward.’

Jane groaned. She had pinned a lot of hopes on the small scrap of cloth which the SOCOs had found on the barbed wire fence round the carrot field next to Alison Grey’s garden. Will Churchill had praised her for it, and she’d been convinced it was just the sort of small, insignificant clue that would crack the case. All she needed was for the forensic scientists to find a trace of DNA on it. If it matched the sample she had taken from Peter Barton, then that was that - he was almost certainly guilty. If not, it had probably come from the driver of the red Nissan, and she could trawl the national DNA database to seek a match.

The one thing she had not expected, was that the lab would lose the sample.

Terry drummed his fingers on the table. ‘It’s absurd,’ he said. ‘The government wastes millions on some overpriced new computer system, and then tries to claw some of the money back by cutting staff pay. So what happens? All the good ones leave and get replaced by halfwits.’ He sighed. ‘And our murderer gets off scot free.’

He sat with Jane Carter in the incident room. The walls were covered with maps and pictures, the computers were running, the files of statements lay on the table between them. But even before this disaster, there had been a sense of something stale in the room. Nothing personal; his young sergeant’s skin glowed with health, if not with beauty, as it had always done, and Terry felt warm and relaxed from an hour in the gym before he had come on duty. No, it was the room itself - not the floors, which had been cleaned, as they were every day, by young women from Poland - but the case itself, and its exhibits. Terry had brushed a wisp of cobweb away from a photo this morning when he came in. Only a small wisp, but it was the photo of Alison Grey’s body, hanging from her staircase. And the cobweb had snagged on a corner of the photo, where it had started to curl up.