Хилари Боннер - A Kind Of Wild Justice

He was as far away from his house and from the neighbouring houses as it was possible to be. The shed was solid, made of two skins of wood and without windows. He could not be seen and it was reasonable to assume that he could not be heard. He took a sip of his whisky, then lowered his glass to the floor. He threw back his head and let out a kind of howl of anguish. With it came the tears.

He wept and howled, and howled and wept, his arms wrapped round his torso as if he were hugging himself, until he ached from the sheer physical effort of the sobs which racked his body. The tears coursed down his face, burning hot. His throat hurt. But he could not stop, not until he had allowed all the anguish that was inside him to be released.

It was not the first time he had used the shed for this purpose, creeping there in the dead of night. But this was the worst, the very worst.

It was almost twenty minutes before he felt the spasms begin to lessen.

Eventually the howling ceased and so did the tears. When he gave in to these outbursts it was the only time in his life that he did not have total control. He reached down with a trembling hand for the whisky and took a deep drink.

He was not sure he felt any better. How could he, with the knowledge he now had of what Joanna had done? But he was at last beginning to calm down. He wished he had been able to tell her, in the depths of his despair, how much she had hurt him. But that wasn’t his way. His sister, with whom he had long ceased to have any contact, had once informed him that he was emotionally dysfunctional. Maybe he was. But it was more than that. How could he tell Joanna how much she meant to him? How could he, when he knew that he felt so much more for her than she had ever felt for him? He had no illusions. He had been able to make everything happen for him and Joanna. Everything except make her love him. The way he loved her.

He finished the whisky, rose from the stool, left the shed, locking it carefully behind him, and walked back to the house.

He would carry on as usual, of course. He also had too much to lose. Joanna remained the perfect wife for him, from the outside at any rate, as long as she behaved. And he knew he could make sure that she did so. Then there were both their careers. And, most vital, the knighthood. As Joanna had suspected, he didn’t intend to let anything queer his pitch there.

Life was never perfect, but he rather liked the idea that his appeared to be.

Most importantly, he could not imagine even existing without Joanna at his side.

By the time Paul Potter had unlocked and opened the kitchen door and stepped inside his house the episode of the garden shed was over. The moment had passed. It was almost as if it had not happened.

Exactly one week later Pam Smythe, nearly bursting with excitement, rushed through the Comet ’s big open-plan newsroom to Joanna’s desk by the far window. ‘Mike Fielding’s been nicked for fixing Jimbo O’Donnell’s murder,’ she yelled.

Joanna felt as if she’d been slammed against a wall. The shock was numbing. Neither her body nor her brain could function for a few seconds. She was incapable of speech.

The news editor didn’t seem to notice Jo’s stunned expression. Pam barely paused for breath. ‘I just don’t believe it,’ she enthused. ‘Christ! What an amazing story. This one is never going to die down. The police have put out a statement on PA. Arrested on suspicion of conspiracy to murder, that’s the official form. We need all the help you can give us, Jo.’

Still Joanna said nothing. She remained unable to.

‘Jo?’ There was just a note of puzzlement in Pam’s voice now.

Joanna managed a nod. Could Fielding really be a murderer? Even when she had been trying to hack into her lover’s laptop, checking him out, had she actually believed that he could have done such a thing? Certainly when he had confronted her she had felt merely foolish and disloyal. Her hands were trembling. She clasped them tightly together underneath her desk as she struggled to maintain control.

‘Right,’ Pam Smythe continued. ‘Can you get on to Mallett? We’ve got the new Devon area man going round to Fielding’s family house.’

With a huge effort of will Joanna forced herself at least to appear to react and function like the experienced professional journalist she was supposed to be. ‘Of course, Pam,’ she said. ‘I’m on it.’

She immediately picked up her phone and pretended to dial a number until the other women turned away and hurried back to her position at the head of the news desk. Then Jo replaced the phone and slumped back in her chair. Jesus! So had her half-formed suspicions been right all along? She hadn’t seriously considered it again since that disastrous last meeting with Fielding in the Southampton Row hotel and her even more disastrous confrontation with Paul the following day. She had tried a couple of times to contact Fielding since then, leaving messages both on his mobile and on his voice mail at Middlemoor. It had been her intention to follow through her promise to Paul and to tell Mike that their affair must end. Neither call had been returned, and she had come to the conclusion that Fielding had meant exactly what he had said in that dreadful hotel room and that their relationship was over without her having to do anything at all about it.

‘There’s no point in carrying on, Jo, is there?’ She remembered his words well enough, but now she wondered if there had been more to his silence than just that.

All she could do, however, was to go through the motions professionally and do as the news editor had asked. Although she didn’t expect to get much joy from Todd Mallett. One thing Pam Smythe had in common with all the news editors she’d ever known was a selective memory. Pam seemed already totally to have forgotten, or more likely had just chosen to appear as if she had, the breakdown in any workable relationship between Jo and the senior police officer she was expected to contact. A typical desk reaction, that. But she should be grateful for small mercies, she supposed. At least she hadn’t been asked to visit Mrs Fielding. She was pretty sure that nobody in the office had had any idea about the resumption of her affair with Fielding after all these years. Indeed, they might have giggled about the Private Eye story, but she didn’t think there was anybody much around who even remembered that there had ever been an affair. Pam Smythe had certainly given no such indication.

She picked up her phone again and, in spite of her sincere belief that the man disliked and distrusted her, attempted to call Todd Mallett as she had agreed she would. Unsurprisingly, he was not taking press calls. Not from her, anyway.

The following morning Fielding was formally charged at Exeter and Womford Magistrates’ Court in Exeter, and remanded in custody at the city prison. Yet another twist in the tail. Shifter Brown, the man he had allegedly hired to commit a brutal murder, was, of course, still being held in the same jail.

Later that day it was again Tim Jones who came up with the background. Not for the first time Jo found herself thinking what an excellent reporter young Tim was. ‘The rubber heel boys hacked into Fielding’s laptop and uncovered a heap of deleted e-mail correspondence between “contractor” and “enforcer”,’ the Comet ’s crime correspondent told her excitedly.

‘Apparently Todd Mallett got an anonymous call from someone claiming to be “an associate” of Shifter, saying Shifter suspected all along that Mike Fielding had hired him. Shifter denied it to the wall, but then he would, wouldn’t he? Todd Mallett’s the old-fashioned sort, of course, particularly when it comes to a bent copper. He’d always stick to procedure with the public, he’s a by-the-book man, but for Mallett cops come under different rules. And anyway there’s always been bad blood between him and Fielding, hasn’t there? Mallett didn’t hang about getting a warrant or anything like that, just walked over to Fielding’s desk out at Middlemoor, apparently, picked up his laptop and said, “Right sunshine, we’d best have a look in this and clear things up once and for all.”