A Fatal Verdict (7 page)

‘Well, I tried to help her, of course. It’s all ...’ He shook his head. ‘It’s hard to remember.’

‘You must have been shocked.’

‘Shocked? Yeah. Course I was.’ David’s eyes had gone blank, seeing nothing in the room, staring inwards at the vision in his mind. The performance certainly looked genuine, and yet Terry was not sure. It could also be the intensity of imagination, visualising his story for the first time. Had this boy been shocked by his discovery, as he claimed? Or had he caused it?

‘Was her head under water when you first saw her?’

‘Yeah, I think ... I don’t remember exactly, it was all on one side, you know, floppy. Yes;  one eye was under water, I remember that, so I went and lifted her head, I did that, and I tried to get her out of the bath altogether but I couldn’t because she was all so slippery and heavy. It was horrible, I couldn’t do it, so ... you know, there was blood all over me, there still is, I’ve never seen anything like that, I didn’t know what to do, it makes you feel ill ...’

‘So what did you do, in the end?’

‘Well, the lady on the phone, she told me to try to stop the bleeding, so I went and got a plaster from the cupboard in the kitchen, but it didn’t do any good, I couldn’t get it to stick on and it was too small anyway and there was blood everywhere, you know it’s so slippery and I felt ill ... and then the paramedics came and took over. But they couldn’t save her either, could they? So it’s no good blaming me. They’ve had all that training but they couldn’t save her. It was all too late.’

He seemed genuinely moved now. But the memory of a dead body was not a thing that most people could recall with equanimity. Even murderers could weep for their victims. Terry had seen it done.

‘All right, Mr Kidd, just one more question. This knife. When you went into the bathroom did you see it there on the floor?’

‘What? I don’t know, I can’t remember. I mean, if it was there, I must have I suppose, but I was looking at Shelley, wasn’t I, not the knife.’

‘But did you pick it up or touch it in any way?’

‘Pick it up? No, why should I?’

‘You might have wanted to move it, put it somewhere else.’

‘No. No, I don’t think I did that. I don’t remember doing anything with it.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure. What would I want with the knife? For Christ’s sake, I was trying to save Shelley, wasn’t I? Not kill her.’

‘Yes.’ Silence fell, and Terry watched the young man wordlessly, while the tape revolved quietly in the recorder. He was lying, Terry felt sure of it. But there was no proof, and his story seemed plausible. So unless he admitted his guilt, Terry and his team would have to prove it. They would have to examine all the evidence carefully - see what fingerprints were on the knife, what could be deduced from the clothes and other items in the flat.  A lot would rely on the post mortem, and the information Tracy might get from the girl’s parents. And then there was the question of David’s alibi. Had anyone seen him in the local shop that night? If so, how long had he been there? And had he seemed distressed, anxious, hyperactive - or quite normal and calm?

For tonight, Terry had gone far enough.

‘All right, David, I understand how difficult all this has been, and I appreciate your help. What I’m going to do now, is take your fingerprints for elimination purposes. While we’re doing that PC Newbolt here will write up your statement neatly and you can read it through and sign it if you agree with what he says, okay? If you don’t agree with something we can change it. We’ll give you a copy of the tape. That’s it. Interview ended at ...’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Ten thirty seven. After you’ve signed the statement I’ll ring the SOCO team to see if they’ve finished with your flat. If so, you can go home and get some rest and we’ll take it from there.’

And I can see my children, he thought.

9. Country House

In other circumstances, Tracy would have enjoyed driving out to the country on such a pleasant evening. Andrew Walters lived ten or fifteen miles northwest of York, along the banks of the river Nidd, and as Tracy’s Clio hummed along comfortably the sun fell steadily towards the horizon in front of them.

Most of her attention, though, was on Professor Walters, slumped in the seat beside her.  Emerging from the hospital after having seen his daughter, the man looked close to collapse. In other circumstances, she would have suggested that his friend come along to give moral support, but the young black woman, Carole Westerham, had made it quite clear that her presence would make things worse, a point which concerned Andrew Walters too.

‘I ... suppose you’ve guessed that my wife doesn’t know about Carole. I mean, she knows we work together, that’s all, nothing more. If you don’t mind I’d rather you didn’t say ...’

‘Of course, sir, it’s none of my business. Anyway there’s no need.’

‘I appreciate that. After all, this is bad enough as it is. Oh, God. Shelley, we let you down.’ He covered his face with his hands, and Tracy drove with one eye on the road, passing him a box of tissues which she happened to have handy. His sobs were painful, coughing, almost violent, but when she suggested pulling into a layby he just waved her angrily on. ‘Don’t stop. Just get on, will you. The sooner we’re home the better.’

Towards Wetherby they came onto a long Roman road with the sun low ahead of them, a vast golden orange ball above the misty grey and green of the fields and trees. Below them, to their right, a river meandered slowly through a valley where cows and horses grazed. In places, reflected sunlight blazed off the water like liquid fire.

‘Slow down. Next turning on the right. It’s just a farm track.’

They turned onto the bumpy, potholed road, and Tracy saw a house half a mile down the slope in front of them with the river beyond it.  It was a traditional stone built Yorkshire farmhouse with stables and outbuildings, and horses and sheep grazing together in a paddock. ‘You live in a lovely place, sir,’ she ventured.

‘Yes.’ He sighed. ‘We only came here for the girls, really. So they could have ponies and a decent country life. They loved it, once. Now look what’s happened.’

‘Girls?’ Tracy pulled up on a gravelled area near the front door. ‘You have another daughter, then, sir?’

‘Yes, Miranda. Shelley’s older sister. She’s in America. She’ll have to be told, too, won’t she?’

Inside, the house had been well, even luxuriously decorated. There was thick, expensive wallpaper in the hall, recessed lights, and modern wooden floors. A woman appeared at the end of the hall, facing them. Tracy recognized her as Jane Miller, the nurse from the hospital.

‘Oh, Andrew,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. So very very sorry.’

Stepping forward, she gave Andrew a hug which he endured, Tracy thought, rather awkwardly. She followed them into the farm kitchen, a spacious room with an Aga , a wooden table in the centre, and a window looking out through the garden to the paddock and the river beyond. Kathryn Walters stood beside the table, still in her blue tracksuit, unconsciously shredding a tissue with her fingers. Her face was red and blotchy, her eyes wide and empty, as though long since drained of tears.

Andrew Walters walked up to her and enfolded her in his arms. And for a while they stood like that, the bereaved parents embracing in the centre of the room. Only not quite embracing, Tracy thought; he was holding her, stroking her back, and she had her arms round him too, but not really tight, not really clinging onto him as much as might have been expected. And when he stepped back, his wife still stood there, quite pale and still as though she hadn’t moved at all.

Andrew waved a hand at Tracy. ‘This policewoman brought me. She said it wasn’t safe for me to drive. Quite right, probably.’

Kathryn nodded, then moved, as if in a trance, towards the Aga. ‘It’s a long way. You’d like some tea, perhaps?’

‘No, it’s all right, Mrs Walters ...’

‘I’ll do it, Kath.’ Jane Miller moved swiftly to her friend’s side. ‘You sit down.’

Kathryn Walters sat down, quite abruptly, in a chair by the table, and stared across it at her husband, her eyes in the pale face wide and compelling. ‘He killed her, Andy. I said he would and he did.’

‘But she was found in a bath, they say.’ Andrew shook his head, miserably. ‘With her wrists cut. She bled to death.’

‘Yes, but it was his bath, wasn’t it? Shelley wouldn’t cut her wrists, Andy, you know that. She couldn’t kill a fly.’

‘No, but ...’ Andrew ran his hands through his hair. ‘We should have been there. If she was upset, she should have come to us.’

‘You were going to see her, weren’t you?’ Kathryn asked with surprising bitterness. ‘This evening?’

‘Yes, but not till later.’ Her husband darted a swift, anxious glance at Tracy. ‘I was in the library most of the afternoon, working. I was going to ring her from my room, but then ... this police woman came. I was going to ask if she wanted to have a meal with me in the college. She did that sometimes.’ His eyes rested on Tracy’s a moment longer, defying her to contradict him; then he turned back to his wife. ‘But if what you say is true, then it’s murder.’

‘Of course it’s murder. That’s what the police are investigating now, aren’t you, officer? I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’

‘Detective Sergeant Litherland,’ Tracy said, pulling her notebook from her bag. ‘Look, it would help if you could tell me as much as you can about your daughter and this young man. For example how long had she known him? Where did they first meet, and so on? If you think you’re up to it now, that is.’

‘I don’t know,’ Andrew said. ‘This is all a terrible shock, you know - and my wife ...’

‘I want to tell her, Andy. David’s always been a danger to Shelley. I told you he was bad news the moment I saw him, didn’t I? Only you had to shake his hand, suck up to him, the filthy creep!’ This to her husband, bitterly.

‘He seemed all right at first,’ said Andrew defensively. ‘And Shelley liked him too -  that’s why I was prepared to give him a chance. She deserved a bit of luck, after all she’d been through, poor kid!’

‘Luck? For God’s sake! She didn’t deserve this!’ Tears flooded Kathryn’s eyes, so that for a moment she couldn’t go on. But as she fumbled for a tissue Tracy thought the tears were as much a sign of rage as grief. This was a woman who had not just been hurt - she felt mortally wronged, as well.

Kathryn blew her nose and glared at her husband, her eyes ablaze with pain and anger. ‘And now she’s dead, because you were so blind! It’s Shelley’s fault too, of course it is. Only she was too young, too naive and stupid to see. Whereas you ...’

More heat was being generated than light, Tracy thought, remembering her old supervisor on the detective training course. Establish the facts, leave the emotion until later. Otherwise you’re lost - wandering in a fog with no landmarks to show you the way.

‘When was this, actually?’ she asked, pencil poised over her notebook. ‘When did Shelley meet this man, David - what’s his name? - Kidd?’

‘Last December,’ Andrew Walters answered. ‘At the end of her first term at university. She brought him home for  Christmas. My wife’s right, of course. She said he was trouble then, but I’m afraid it didn’t dawn on me until later. At that time, I even thought he might be her salvation, God help me.’ He shook his head slowly, meeting his wife’s eyes and then looking away. ‘We all make mistakes, don’t we, after all.’

‘Not fatal ones, Andy.’

‘Kath, please. This isn’t helping. Let’s just give her the facts, shall we?’ Andrew Walters reached across the table for his wife’s hand. She hesitated, then gripped it fiercely in both her own, shaking her head bitterly.

‘I know the facts. He killed her! What more do you need?’

‘I need to know the background, Mrs Walters,’ Tracy insisted. ‘If what you say is true, it’s more important than ever. Your husband’s right. Please, help me to understand.’

Jane Miller put her arm round her friend, and Tracy wondered if this was all too raw, too early. But the questions had to be answered sometime. A clock chimed in the hall. Kathryn Walters let go of her husband’s hand and looked up, her face pale, bitter, determined. ‘Yes, all right. Of course you need to understand. Just so long as understanding doesn’t lead to forgiveness. There can’t be any forgiveness for him, ever, not after what he’s done.’

Tracy shivered, as though a spider had crawled along the back of her neck. This was a vendetta she had walked into, it seemed. ‘All right. Tell me about Shelley, will you?’

Slowly, between the two of them, elements of the story began to emerge. Shelley, it seemed, had been in her first year at York university studying English. The fact that she had got a place there at all was, both parents agreed, a significant triumph not just for the girl, but for all concerned. Unlike her sister Miranda, she had not been a natural student, and had had many problems at school. For a while she had had psychiatric treatment for depression. But her parents - the father a professor of medieval history, the mother a pharmacist with her own successful business in Harrogate - had persisted, sending her to private school, paying for extra tuition about Bleak House which she loathed, even tutoring her themselves when she would let them - and at last she had come out with the required two As and a B to scrape a place. She had chosen York, even though it was near to home, because it would keep her in touch with her long-term boyfriend, Graham, of whom both parents spoke with a combination of deep regret and bitterness.

‘He was a lovely boy, he worked hard, kind, had a sense of humour ...’

‘The sort of boyfriend you’d dream of for your daughter ...’

‘And she loved him.’

‘Yes, she really did, that was the tragedy. The start of it, anyway.’ Kathryn rubbed her eyes futilely with a wet tissue. ‘Everything was going well for her, at last. He took over from us, in a way. Gave her confidence to grow up. Then it all fell apart ...’

‘Why? What happened?’ Tracy prompted, guessing the answer even as she did so.

‘Well, he dumped her didn’t he? That’s the ugly word they use nowadays, like a girl or boy is just what - a sack of rubbish? Anyway, that’s what he did. Right at the beginning of her first year. Said he’d met someone else over the summer and they weren’t right for each other after all. It destroyed her, poor girl. You know what she said to me? It’s like a trapdoor has opened under my feet. I don’t know how to stand up any more.’ Kathryn shook her head slowly. ‘She trusted that boy, we all did.’

Andrew took up the story. ‘That’s true, it destroyed her.  I thought she was going to give up altogether. Her work went all to pot. And then, on the rebound, she met this David. She brought him out here at Christmas.’ He sighed. ‘My wife’s right. I should have seen through him then. He wasn’t right for her at all, really. I mean, you’ve seen him, haven’t you?’

‘Briefly, this afternoon, yes.’ Tracy remembered the confrontation in the hospital corridor.

‘Yes, well he must be nearly thirty, at least - a lot older than her. Which would be all right if he had a proper job and a career, but of course he hasn’t. He buys and sells African art, he says, and talks about adventure holidays, though I’m not sure I believe him. He’s full of all sorts of stories, really ...’

‘Like his career in the army,’ Kathryn burst in.

‘Like his career in the army, exactly. He had all these stories about his time in Afghanistan, for heaven’s sake. Shooting Taliban - sounds wonderful, doesn’t it? Shelley lapped it up. Only we could never quite find out which regiment he was in or when he joined up and then when he finally let slip it was the Rifles, Kath phoned them to check. And what did they say?’ He looked to his wife to continue the story.

‘He had been one of their recruits five years ago but he failed the training course. Never went anywhere near Afghanistan. Not with the army anyway.’

‘I see.’ Tracy scribbled the details swiftly. ‘And did you tell him you’d done this?’

‘I told Shelley. She didn’t believe me at first. Lost her temper and said I was spying on him behind her back. Until a week ago when she found out about the other thing.’

‘What other thing?’

Kathryn drew a deep breath as though at last they’d got to the crux of the matter and she was marshalling her thoughts. ‘Well, you have to understand that for most of this year she’s been a virtual stranger to us. I mean, she came home every now and then with a bag of clothes to wash, that sort of thing. Or a request for money.’

‘Did David come with her?’

‘Sometimes, yes, unfortunately. But that only made things worse, because he’d just sit and talk - he can talk, you know, he’s good at that - and even if I’d ask her a direct question he’d answer it for her. It was like she was his little slave girl, almost. It was dreadful to see. Like he’d stolen her voice.’          

‘She was always a bit like that, even with Graham,’ said Andrew judiciously.

‘Yes, but Graham didn’t monopolise the conversation, did he, with all his empty boasts that came to nothing?’ Kathryn shot back bitterly. ‘He had that ridiculous sports car, too, that he was so proud of. Anyway, one of his boasts was that he was going to take her on a trip to Africa in the vacation. He said he’d worked as a safari guide in Kenya - another of his lies, probably, I haven’t been able to check that. And she was looking forward to it, of course she was, so when she came round last week I was going to take her for her injections, and buy her the right sort of clothes. I’d taken the afternoon off to do it; I thought at last I’d have her to myself for a while, have a proper talk for once. But when she came, well, it was all off.’