Till We Meet Again

  Longhurst had already pondered on that one. He couldn’t make up his mind whether Muriel was just lucky or if the gunwoman had set targets.

  ‘Tell me what you know about Pamela,’ he asked gently. ‘Anything. How she was with people, with you, the doctors, her interests, that kind of thing.’

  ‘I told you, she was smart.’ Muriel sighed. ‘In her appearance and her ways. Expensive clothes, she got her hair and nails done every week. She didn’t need to work, she did it because she liked to. She and her family went on holiday to places like Africa and Japan, they live in a posh house. I don’t know about her interests, other than cooking. She was always having dinner parties, she’d talk about stuff like sun-dried tomatoes as if I was supposed to know what they were.’

  Longhurst guessed by the bleak note in Muriel’s voice that she considered she and Pamela were at the opposite ends of the social scale.

  ‘So tell me about you then,’ he suggested.

  ‘About as different to Pam as you could get,’ Muriel said dourly. ‘Me and my hubby, Stan, live in a council place in Ashton. Stan works for the railways. Only time we’ve been abroad was to Spain, none of my four kids even got any GCEs, let alone places at university like Pam’s.’

  ‘I expect you are more understanding with the patients though,’ Longhurst said, trying to draw her out more.

  ‘I try to be,’ she said, her eyes full of anxiety. ‘I know what it’s like when you’re worried about your kids being ill, you want to see the doctor straight away. Pamela could be a bit sharp with folk, especially the poor ones and the old people. But then she really wanted to make this practice the most efficient in Bristol, and she did manage to cut down on some of the time-wasters, and weeded out people who didn’t really need home visits. She was doing a good job.’

  Longhurst looked at Muriel, noting her grey skin colour and that she was still shivering despite the blanket around her. She wasn’t up to any further questions today.

  ‘I’ll get someone to take you home now,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to come and get a statement from you in a day or two. Perhaps you’ll remember more once you’ve got over the shock.’

  ‘I don’t think I ever will get over it,’ Muriel said sorrowfully. ‘I’ve seen the practice grow from just two doctors to the busy place it is now, it was a safe, nice place. I never thought I’d ever see something like that! It’s like something you hear of happening in America, isn’t it?’

  Chapter two

  Heavy rain battered the windows of the offices of Tarbuck, Stone and Aldridge, criminal lawyers, as Beth Powell sat at her desk dictating letters to clients on to tape. It was almost dark now at nearly four in the afternoon, and the desk light shed a golden glow over the papers and files in front of her.

  People always described Beth as striking. She was almost six feet tall, with curly black hair twisted up and secured carelessly with a spring clip, ivory skin, green eyes and a wide mouth. As a girl she had hated that label, believing it was a polite way of saying ‘weird-looking’. But now, at forty-four, she no longer cared what people meant by it, or that they said she was haughty and cold. Better to be striking than insignificant, and she didn’t think it was a solicitor’s role to be a gossip, a mother figure or a femme fatale.

  Privately she was quite satisfied with her appearance. Her height gave her an advantage and she knew she wore her clothes well. She’d come to appreciate the dramatic contrast between her dark hair and pale skin. There were times when she looked at her wide, sensual mouth in the mirror and hated it, but she was a realist and as she knew she couldn’t change it, she accepted it.

  She also accepted that most of the people she defended in court were guilty of their crimes, and that if she succeeded in winning their case for them they would be re-offending at the first opportunity. But then she loved criminal law: the constant challenges, the variety of cases, and the extraordinary characters she met daily.

  Beth had only been in Bristol for a year. She had spent her entire adult life in London, and for the last twelve years of that she’d been with the same law practice in Chancery Lane.

  The idea of moving away from London came to her after her flat in Fulham was burgled three times in the same year. Buying somewhere more secure in London would have been prohibitively expensive, so she applied for jobs in several cities, thinking a change of scenery might also bring her a change of luck in her personal life.

  The interview with Tarbuck, Stone and Aldridge in Bristol was one of many, in cities as far-flung as York, Glasgow and Exeter. Beth chose this law practice purely because she was attracted to the position of its offices in a gracious Georgian building at the corner of Berkeley Square in Clifton, the most elegant part of the city. It was spring then, and the gardens in the centre of the square were bright with blossom and daffodils. Beth had noted that the interior of the building was drastically in need of decoration, yet it hadn’t felt claustrophobic like the offices in Chancery Lane. Then there was the added bonus that property was much cheaper in Bristol. She had managed to buy a secure third-floor flat just five minutes’ walk from the office, with a glorious panoramic view of the city.

  Bristol had turned out to be a far more fascinating and cosmopolitan place than she’d expected. Its long and colourful history as a port which once ranked next to London had left a legacy of astounding old buildings and a character all its own. She loved the way the city hadn’t forgotten its sea-going past; the revamped dock area was a delight to wander around in, with a museum, art gallery and dozens of bars and restaurants. The main shopping area had everything one could wish for, and in Clifton there were dozens of intriguing, quirky little shops that often surpassed anything Beth had found in London. But it wasn’t a formidable concrete jungle, there was space, parks, and the open countryside very close by. She knew too from her clients and conversations she’d overheard amongst the younger staff in the office that Bristol’s nightlife buzzed. But that wasn’t something Beth had explored. She told herself she was past the age for discos, night clubs and trying out every restaurant, pub or wine bar, but the truth of the matter was that you needed friends for that. And friends were something she didn’t have.

  ‘You don’t need them,’ she muttered to herself, the way she always did when this thought sprang up. ‘You are perfectly happy the way you are.’

  Suddenly Beth’s office door opened and Steven Smythe, one of the other solicitors, burst in, his face alight with excitement and red with the exertion of running up the stairs.

  ‘You’ve been called to Bridewell,’ he gasped out. ‘Duty solicitor.’

  Beth knew this meant it was her turn to offer legal advice to someone who had been arrested. If the police found the arrested person hadn’t got a solicitor of their own, they would consult the duty rota and call in whoever was next on the list. This time it was Beth, but it could just as easily have been Steven, or any other solicitor. It was just the luck of the draw.

  ‘Are you the errand boy today?’ she said sarcastically. The receptionist downstairs could have rung to tell her. But Steven was always looking for an opportunity to speak to her, she didn’t know why because she was invariably off-hand with him.

  He seemed to have the idea that they should be buddies. He had said soon after she arrived at the firm that he thought they had a lot in common. Whilst it was true they were the same age, had the same love of criminal law and similar backgrounds, Beth didn’t like the way he seemed to hang on her every word. He was also married with two small children, so she had no intention of encouraging him.

  She supposed part of his problem was that he was a misfit. He was neither one of the lads nor a ladies’ man. She suspected he’d been a bit of a swot at school. And though he was quite nice-looking, tall and well-built, with a strong jaw-line and attractive blue eyes, his clothes were always rumpled, and he badly needed a decent hair-cut.

  ‘I came up to tell you myself because it’s the woman who shot those two people down at Hotwells this morning,’ he sai
d.

  Beth instantly experienced the same surge of excitement Steven must have felt to run up three flights of stairs to tell her himself. But she wasn’t the kind to admit to such things.

  ‘Really!’ she said in a cool voice, getting up and reaching for her briefcase. News of the shooting had reached the office at noon, causing great shock and much speculation. No one could remember ever hearing of a woman shooting anyone in Bristol before. It was even more incredible that it had taken place in a busy medical practice.

  ‘I expect she’s mad,’ Steven said. ‘Apparently she won’t even give her name, hasn’t said one word since she was arrested.’

  ‘Well, even madwomen are entitled to legal advice,’ Beth said crisply, wishing he’d push off and let her go.

  ‘Have you ever defended a murderer before?’ he asked, seemingly unaware she wanted to leave immediately.

  ‘Yes, I have, Steven,’ she said, giving him a starchy look. ‘Now, I must go. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Beth stopped downstairs in the hall to put on her raincoat and take an umbrella from the stand. She always left her car in the garage beneath her block of flats during the day, as both the police station and the courts were only fifteen minutes’ walk away and parking was difficult. But the rain was so heavy she hoped she could get a taxi today. It was a faint hope, however – taxis in Bristol seemed rarer than hen’s teeth.

  After a few words with the duty sergeant at Bridewell, Beth paused outside the interview room where the accused woman was being held, to look at her first through the small window in the door.

  For a brief moment she felt a flash of recognition as she looked at the woman sagging in her chair, but looking closer she realized this was probably only because she was so very ordinary. She was short and plump, with a round, red-tinged face and straggly brown hair. She wore navy polyester slacks and a shapeless sweater, both very worn and snagged. She was indistinguishable from countless other worn-down women who queued for buses, shopped in supermarkets or scuttled off to office-cleaning jobs, except perhaps for the plimsolls on her feet. Beth guessed she wasn’t that much older than herself, and she certainly didn’t look as if she was capable of killing two people in cold blood.

  The door was unlocked for Beth and she went on in. ‘I’m Beth Powell, the duty solicitor,’ she said crisply. ‘I’ve been called to advise you on your legal rights.’

  The woman jerked her head round, her look of shock and surprise throwing Beth for a second.

  ‘Have we met before?’ Beth asked. She looked harder at the woman’s face, but even though there was something terribly familiar about it, she certainly couldn’t say from where or when.

  The woman shook her head, and Beth had to assume that her surprised expression was merely the result of being suddenly offered legal representation. Maybe she hadn’t fully grasped what she’d done yet.

  Beth sat down at the table and began explaining more fully why she was there. The duty officer had already filled her in with everything that was known about the shooting. The accused had freely admitted she was responsible but wouldn’t say anything more, not even to give her name or address. While there was nothing unusual about her silence – a great many people when arrested refused to say a word – it was strange to admit the offence, then clam up.

  The police were out now trying to discover who she was and where she lived, for she had nothing on her to identify her. But the gun she’d used was almost the most curious aspect of the crime. The police had said it was a very old weapon which had been carefully cleaned and maintained.

  ‘Now, come along,’ Beth said a little impatiently after she’d explained what she already knew. ‘I need to know your name. I can’t help you if I don’t know anything about you.’

  The woman lifted her eyes to Beth’s. They were a pale greenish-blue, with no light in them. ‘I don’t want any help,’ she said.

  ‘But you’ll need someone to defend you when you go to court,’ Beth said, thinking the woman still didn’t understand the enormity of what she’d done, or perhaps was simple. ‘You killed two people. You are likely to spend the rest of your life in prison because of it.’

  The woman looked up again and her eyes had just a faint spark in them now. ‘It was worth it,’ she said.

  Beth was jolted again by the woman’s voice. It too had a ring of familiarity. She scrutinized her face, mentally flitting through women she’d questioned in the past or seen waiting for other solicitors at the office. But although she could remember other equally shabbily dressed women of her age, the voice didn’t match up with any of those faces.

  ‘Well, whether or not you don’t care if you get a life sentence, you could at least tell both the police and myself who you are, where you come from and why you killed those innocent people,’ she said tartly.

  ‘They weren’t innocent,’ the woman snapped back. ‘They deserved to die.’

  ‘Why?’ Beth asked. ‘What had they done to you?’

  ‘Go away.’ The woman turned her head towards the wall dismissively. ‘I’ve got nothing more to say to you. They knew why, that’s all that matters.’

  Beth sat silently for a while, studying the woman and wondering what she should do next. She had defended people from all walks of life for all kinds of crimes. Almost all of them had claimed to be innocent of their charges, even when it was patently obvious they were guilty. Sometimes they told her too much, sometimes not enough. Some she had grown to like, however bad their crime had been, some were so unpleasant she was almost glad when the case was lost. She thought she had a well-rounded view of criminals and the justice system. But whilst this wasn’t the first time she’d been confronted with someone who openly admitted their guilt and showed no remorse, it was the first time a client hadn’t wanted to explain themselves or try to convince her they were right in what they’d done.

  One of the police officers had said the woman was a drunk. The red flush to her face seemed to bear this out. Yet to the officer’s knowledge she’d never been taken into custody for being drunk and disorderly. Her nails were bitten down to the quick, and Beth didn’t think her hair had seen a brush or comb for days. Yet she didn’t look, or smell, as if she slept rough. Then there was the matter of the gun.

  How would a woman like this come by a service revolver?

  Guns were not a feminine weapon. While Beth believed that almost any woman under pressure could point one and fire it to defend a loved one, it was extremely rare for a woman to use one in cold blood.

  Again she thought about the voice which had sounded so familiar and came to the conclusion that it was only because it was similar to her own: well-modulated, correct English without plummy overtones or traces of a West Country accent. She probably came from a middle-class background, and maybe that included hunting and shooting.

  Pleading wasn’t normally in Beth’s nature. Had this been any other kind of crime, she would just have got up and left, saying she’d see the client in court the next day. But she was curious now, and so she was inclined to unbend a little.

  ‘Please, tell me your name, if nothing else,’ she begged. ‘The police will find it out soon enough, but I want to know it so I can address you properly. Please!’

  The woman kept her head down, and at least a minute passed before she spoke. ‘Okay, it’s Fellows, Susan Fellows. But that’s all I’m going to tell you. I know you probably mean well, so get me to court and let me be sentenced. I did it. They can punish me. There’s nothing more to say.’

  The woman’s gentility shone through, touching Beth in a way she hadn’t expected. Almost all the female clients she’d defended since she’d been in Bristol had been from working-class backgrounds – shop-lifters, prostitutes and drug addicts in the main. She didn’t ever attempt to identify with them, rarely even truly sympathized with them either, however harshly life had treated them. Beth had always believed this was why she was so good at defending, for she could look at their cases coldly and dispassionately and plan h
er strategy to win at all costs. For the first time in many years she just didn’t know how to tackle this one.

  She got up, but she paused before leaving the room, putting her hand on the woman’s shoulder. ‘You will be taken to court tomorrow, Susan, but only so the police can hold you for another twenty-four hours while they find out about you. Then you’ll be back in court again. After that you will be remanded in custody, which means prison. You’ll spend a long time there before it comes to trial. The doctor you shot left a wife and four children, the receptionist had a husband and two children. Those people have a right to know why you did this. Then there’s me. I need to know too if I’m going to represent you and get you a fair trial. So I want you to think about that tonight and I’ll talk to you again tomorrow.’

  Susan looked up and her eyes were still cold and expressionless. She merely nodded and Beth couldn’t tell if that meant she agreed, or whether she was just acknowledging the request.

  Beth felt deflated as she walked away from the interview room. The media were going to be howling for information about this shooting, it was going to be of nationwide, maybe even worldwide interest, and Beth was aware she was going to be right in the spotlight. She had to know more about this woman, it wasn’t going to help her own reputation one bit if she had to admit complete failure at her first interview with her client.

  As she was let out of the last door into the reception area of the police station, she suddenly thought of Detective Inspector Roy Longhurst. He had been the arresting officer, and as she had met him fleetingly on a couple of occasions before, maybe he could tell her something she could use to persuade Susan Fellows to open up.

  Beth enquired at the desk whether Detective Inspector Longhurst was still on duty, and the young policewoman told her he was about to go home. She offered to ring his office and see if he was still there.

  When the policewoman nodded and smilingly held out the phone to Beth for her to speak directly to the detective inspector, she had to think fast.