She smiled back, curled her fist and thumped the air triumphantly. “We did it!”
“You did it,” Owen said. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Winning is thanks enough.” She held out her hand. “Congratulations, Owen. And good luck.”
He shook it, the first time he’d touched a woman in months, and he was conscious of the soft warmth under the firm grip. He felt her give a little tug and released her, embarrassed to realize he had held on too long. He wanted to kiss her. And not only because she had won his case. Instead, he turned to Wharton.
“What now?” he asked.
“What? Oh.” The solicitor glanced away from the disappearing figure. “Wonderful woman, isn’t she? I told you if anyone could do it, Shirley Castle could. It was a majority verdict, you know. Ten to two. That’s what took them so long. What now? Well, you’re free, that’s what.”
“But…what do I do? I mean, my stuff and…”
“Tell you what.” Wharton looked at his watch. “I’ll drive you back over to the prison, if you like, and you can pick your stuff up, then I’ll take you back to Eastvale.”
Owen nodded. “Thanks. How do we…I mean, do we just walk out of here?”
Wharton laughed. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, that’s exactly what we do. Hard to get used to, eh? But I think there’ll be a bit of a mob out front, we’d better leave by the back way.”
“A mob?”
Wharton frowned. “Yes. Well, you’ve seen the papers. Those sly innuendos about the ‘evidence they couldn’t present in court.’ That not-guilty verdict won’t have sunk in with them yet, will it? People lose all sense of proportion when they get carried away by chants and whatnot. Come on.”
In a daze, Owen followed Wharton through the corridors to the back exit. The sun was shining on the narrow backstreet; opposite was a refurbished Victorian pub, all black trim and etched, smoked-glass windows; under his feet, the worn paving-stones looked gold in the midday light. Freedom.
Owen breathed the air deeply; a warm, still day. When he thought about it, he realized the trial had lasted almost two months, and it was now May, the most glorious month in the Dales. Back up near Eastvale, the woods, fields and hillsides would be a ablaze with wildflowers: bluebells, wild garlic, celandines, cowslips, violets and primroses; and here and there would be the fields of bright yellow rape-seed.
As they walked towards Wharton’s car, Owen could vaguely hear the crowd outside the front of the courthouse: women’s voices mostly, he thought, chanting, “Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!”
IV
“Fuck it,” said Barry Stott loudly. Then he said it again, banging his fist on the arm of the bench for emphasis. “Fuck it.” A couple standing by the pub door gave him a dirty look. “Sorry,” he said to Banks, blushing right up to the tips of his jug-ears. “I just had to let it out.”
Banks nodded in sympathy. It was the first time he had ever heard Barry Stott swear, and he had to admit he didn’t blame him.
They were sitting on the long bench outside Whitelock’s in the narrow alley called Turk’s Head Yard, drinks and food propped on the upturned barrel that served as a table. Along with his pint of Younger’s bitter, Banks had a Cornish pasty with chips and gravy, and Stott had a Scotch egg with HP Sauce, with a half of shandy to wash it down. They had just left Leeds Crown Court after the Owen Pierce verdict.
It was a beautiful May day; the pub had lured students from their studies and encouraged office workers to linger over their lunch-hours. Not much light penetrated Turk’s Head Yard because of the high walls of the buildings on both sides, but the air was warm and full of the promise of summer. Men sat with their jackets off and shirtsleeves rolled up, while bare-legged women opened an extra button or two on their blouses.
Banks took a sip of beer before tucking into the pasty. He watched Stott pick at the Scotch egg, dip little pieces in the sauce, chew and swallow, too distracted to taste the food. It was obvious that he had no appetite. He had only eaten half when he pushed his plate away. Banks finished his own lunch quickly and lit a cigarette.
“I can’t believe he got off,” Stott said. “I just can’t believe it.”
“I’m just as pissed off as you are, Barry, but it happens,” said Banks. “You get used to it. Don’t take it personally.”
“But I do. It was me who cottoned on to him, me who tracked him down. We build a solid case, and he just walks away.”
Banks didn’t bother reminding him how it was teamwork and hard procedural slog that had led them to Owen Pierce. “The case obviously wasn’t solid enough,” he said. “Dr. Tasker wasn’t very good, for a start. Even Glendenning wasn’t up to his usual form. Who knows? Maybe they were right?”
“Who?”
“The jury.”
Stott shook his head. His ears seemed to flap with the motion. “No. I can’t accept that. He did it. I know he did. I feel it in my bones. He murdered that poor girl, and he got away with it. You know, if we’d got the evidence from Michelle Chappel in, then we’d have got a conviction for certain. The judge made a hell of a mistake there.”
“Perhaps. Did you see her there, by the way?”
“Where? Who?”
“Michelle Chappel. In court. I don’t know if she’s been there all along but she was in the public gallery for the verdict. She’d let her hair grow since last November, too. Looked more like Deborah Harrison than ever. She was even wearing a maroon blazer. She was talking to that reporter from the News of the World.”
“See what I mean,” said Stott. “If we’d been able to bring out that connection, her evidence of what he did to her, there’s no jury in the country wouldn’t have convicted Pierce.”
“Maybe so, but that’s not the point, Barry.”
Stott flushed. “Excuse me, but I think it is. A guilty man has just walked out of that courtroom after committing one of the most horrible murders I have ever investigated, and you tell me that’s not the point. I’m sorry, but-”
“I mean it’s not the point I’m trying to make.”
Stott frowned. “I don’t follow.”
“Why is Michelle Chappel so keen to stick the knife in Pierce?”
“Oh, I see. Well, maybe because he beat her up. Or perhaps because he tried to strangle her? Or could being raped by him after he knocked her out have upset her just a little a bit?”
Banks sipped some more beer. “All right, Barry, give it a rest. I catch your drift. Perhaps you’re right. But why hang around after her evidence was declared inadmissible? Just to watch him suffer? Why take time off work?”
Stott frowned. “What makes you think there’s a connection?”
“It’s just odd, that’s all.” Banks stubbed out his cigarette and drank some more beer. “Her hair was short when we talked to her.”
“Women’s hair,” said Stott with a shrug. “Who knows anything about that?”
Banks smiled. “Good point. Another pint? Half, rather?”
“Should we?”
“Yes, we damn well should. Jimmy Riddle’s going to be out for our blood. Might as well put off the inevitable as long as possible.”
“Oh, all right. I’ll have another half of shandy. Then I’ll have to be off.”
Banks edged through the crowd to the bar, looking at his reflection in the antique mirror at the back while he waited. Not too bad for his early forties, he thought, still slim and trim, despite the pints and the poor diet; a few lines around the eyes, maybe, and a touch a gray at the temples, but that was all. Besides, they added character, Sandra said.