Crying Out Loud (6 page)

He scowled. ‘I don't remember. But they didn't need to: I knew the score.' A whine of defensiveness. So perhaps things hadn't gone down as he was claiming.

‘Had you seen a doctor?' I said.

‘Custody nurse.' He nodded. So they had followed procedure – he had been given a medical assessment. ‘I was using coke and she wouldn't give me anything. I had to see the doctor first and they weren't there till later.'

‘But you knew you would see a doctor?' I was still trying to untangle what he was saying – whether he had been coerced or not.

‘And you know what he said?' Damien was fired up, sitting up straighter in his chair, chin thrust towards me. ‘That they didn't prescribe for cocaine withdrawal. If I'd been a junkie I'd have got a methadone script. But 'cos it's coke they just let you suffer. That is well bad, man.'

There was little to be gained from letting him pick over his outrage at the force's agreed drug abuse policies. So I asked him about later events. ‘Your confession – you didn't retract it until after you were imprisoned. You stuck by it at court, when you entered your plea and for sentencing. Why?'

‘I didn't think anyone would believe me,' he said quickly. Then he rubbed at his face with his hands and cleared his throat. He averted his gaze. ‘I can't do time,' he spoke quietly, ‘it's doing my head in.' I suddenly saw a different side to the man: sombre, honest, vulnerable. I wondered whether that was the reason for his volte-face. Not that he was innocent but that it was the only way he could see to get out of jail.

Just as quickly his demeanour switched again: edgy, salacious, a glitter in his eyes. ‘There's a ghost, you know, on my wing, B wing, where the condemned cell was. I've seen him. Just before dawn. A man in a dark suit and he's carrying a briefcase. The air goes cold. They say it's John Ellis; he was the hangman, but it drove him mad and he killed himself – slit his own throat.' He gloried in the details.

I took a breath. ‘Damien—'

‘I've done the short rehab course,' he said, ‘but in here.' He shrugged. ‘You could come again, bring us something.'

Asking me for drugs! Shock must have registered on my face because he grinned. ‘Joke.' That angel smile. ‘Some chocolate.'

‘Is there anything else you remember? Any other details?'

He shrugged. ‘What like?'

Did he expect me to supply them? ‘What you've told me is all a bit general, a bit vague,' I said.

‘You saying I'm lying?'

‘You just don't seem to remember very much.'

‘I was in a mess,' he protested, ‘and something like that, it shakes you up. I remember the smell.' He shuddered. ‘Made me sick, you know. I threw up by the gate.'

‘Anything else?'

He shook his head.

‘Did you see anyone? Anyone see you?'

Another shake of the head, then he stopped and his eyes brightened. ‘There was this guy, coming down the hill when I was going up from the bus. Maybe he done it?'

‘Can you describe him?'

A shrug. ‘It was dark.'

‘Young, old, fat, thin?'

‘Dunno,' he said lamely. ‘It was freezing, I wasn't hanging about, you know.' He shuffled in his chair. ‘You seen that
Most Haunted
on the telly? They want to come in here. Hah! No way they'll get through the night.' He was off again, talking trivia instead of pleading his case.

I gathered together my papers.

‘You coming again?'

‘I don't know.' I made eye contact.

He looked away, his jaw working, rocking back in his chair. ‘You going to talk to my lawyer?'

I looked across; he slid his eyes to meet mine. ‘And say what?' I asked him.

I came away feeling even more bemused about Damien Beswick than before I'd met him. His account of events was patchy and paltry. His explanation as to why he'd admitted to the crime was half-baked. I'd no idea what I was going to tell Libby.

SIX

T
he wind had got up, gusts shaking the trees and pushing banks of slate-grey clouds across the sky. I could smell the peaty aroma of leaf mould amid the petrol fumes and a trace of spice and onion, which made my mouth water, from one of the takeaways on the main road below the prison.

There was still some time before I had to get back home so I paid an unannounced call on Heather Carter, Charlie's widow. I suspected if I rang first I'd get the brush-off. For the family of a victim, the apprehension of the killer is a huge part of dealing with the loss. They know who is responsible at the very least. If the convicted person then starts crying innocence, it's a fresh trauma. Not something any family would want to accept.

Heather and her son Alex still lived on the riverside in Hale by the Bollin. The Carter house stood in its own grounds, bristling with security devices like all the properties nearby. The gates were open, perhaps because it was daylight, but I wondered if the cameras were filming me.

Heather Carter answered the door. I recognized her from the photos in news reports that I'd found online. I introduced myself and asked whether she could spare me a few minutes: I was working on a case linked to her husband's death.

Her eyes narrowed and she took a step back. ‘Are you the press?'

‘No.' I handed her my business card. ‘A private investigator.'

She hesitated. I thought I'd blown it, but then she inclined her head and invited me in.

Heather was short with a mass of curly black hair. She wore trendy glasses, black and red rectangular frames, and was dressed in a cherry-red sweater and fitted chocolate-brown slacks which showed off her curves. She still wore her wedding ring.

The house was lovely: thick carpets and luxurious curtains, high ceilings and huge windows which let in plenty of light. There were several doors off the entrance hall and I guessed there were three or four reception rooms. Heather led me into one which served as a formal dining room. In the centre was a large teak table and chairs, and along one wall a matching sideboard arrayed with family photos.

As we sat down, I heard footfall above and glanced upwards.

‘My son, Alex.' Heather smiled. ‘Heavy on his feet.'

‘How old?'

‘Eighteen now.' Her smile faded, her eyes softened. ‘He took Charlie's death very hard – I don't know if he'll ever get over it.' She shook her head then adopted a more businesslike tone. ‘So, how can I help?'

‘I'm reviewing the circumstances around Damien Beswick's conviction.'

Heather frowned.

‘Did you receive a letter from his sister, Chloe?'

‘Yes,' her face was alert, ‘I burnt it. I almost went to the police,' she said. ‘The cheek of it!' She gave a brittle laugh. ‘Is that who you're working for?' She was riled: circles of anger flared on her cheeks.

‘No. I'm sorry, I can't reveal the identity of my client.' Would she guess it was Libby? I thought not. The normal assumption would be that it was someone connected to Damien who'd employ me.

‘That man killed my husband. I
know
,' she emphasized the word. ‘I've no idea what he or his sister hope to gain from this and I don't give a damn. He's where he should be.' Tears stood in her eyes and I felt a sweep of pity for bringing this to her door.

There were footsteps on the stairs. ‘Mum?' a voice called out.

‘I'm in here,' she sniffed, taking a breath.

Alex Carter pushed open the door and came in. He stopped short when he saw she had company. He'd inherited his mother's wayward hair and his father's bigger build but he was rangy rather than blocky. He wore black jeans and a plain blue sweatshirt. He avoided eye contact and I formed the impression he was shy and awkward with strangers. ‘I'm going now,' he said.

Heather stood up, wishing him good luck as she crossed the room and touched him on the shoulder. ‘Just try to relax.'

He nodded, dipped his head and left.

‘Driving test,' she told me as she came back to her seat. ‘Second time.' She paused, then said: ‘Exactly why are you here?'

‘I'm trying to establish whether there might be any truth in Damien Beswick's new position. If there is any possibility that they might have got the wrong man.'

Her face hardened and I thought she would sling me out. ‘You know what happened?' she demanded.

‘I've read about it.'

‘Charlie—' The name unseated her this time and I was alarmed to see her mouth quiver and her eyes swim with tears.

‘I'm sorry; this is very upsetting for you.'

‘It brings it all back,' she said quietly. ‘You can't imagine. Charlie never hurt a soul; he was a good man. The shock  . . .' She took her glasses off, wiped her eyes, replaced them. Put her hand to her forehead. ‘I'd like you to go now.' Suddenly drained.

‘Please, Mrs Carter, I won't bother you again but if you could just tell me what you remember.' I was pushing it; the woman was in bits and I was asking her to rake it all up. ‘Please? And then I'll leave you alone.'

She looked directly at me. Her mouth was taut and trembling. ‘We didn't part on good terms. That still makes me so sad. You probably read that Charlie was seeing someone else?'

I nodded.

‘He'd told me he wouldn't see her for a while. It was a chance for us to give it another go, see if we could make it work.'

In Heather's eyes. But from Libby's point of view the marriage was past saving; it was simply a compassionate pause in Charlie's new relationship for the sake of the boy.

‘That Saturday Charlie said he was going to a sales exhibition at the NEC in Birmingham.' She ducked her head, studying her hands. ‘I didn't believe him.' She looked up, stretching her neck, rubbing one hand up and down it then covering her mouth and giving a shaky sigh. Her anguish was palpable but I waited quietly for her to continue.

‘I got a friend to come round and I'm not proud of this now  . . .' her brow furrowed and she sniffed hard ‘ . . . but we followed him in her car. As soon as he turned off for Thornsby instead of staying on the road to the M6, I knew he'd lied to me. He was sneaking off to see her.' Tears coursed down her cheeks and she swept them away. ‘Sorry.'

‘No,' I murmured, feeling lousy.

‘So we turned round and drove back here. I was calling him all the names under the sun but he was—' She didn't complete the sentence but I knew what she was saying: he was dead or dying. ‘That made it even worse. That those were my last memories of him.'

‘I'm sorry. There weren't any other suspects?' I asked her.

She looked a bit muddled – still lost in the past, her nose red and puffy from crying. ‘No. Well, the girlfriend.' I noticed she avoided Libby's name. ‘Then they found Damien Beswick. If Charlie had just given him his wallet, instead of trying to hang on to it, then he might still be here.' She went and fetched a tissue from a box on the sideboard, blew her nose. In Damien's new version of events the wallet was on the kitchen counter; in his original confession the knife had been beside it.

‘Maybe we would have gone our separate ways,' Heather said, ‘but Alex would still have his father.'

And so would Libby's daughter. Had Heather known that Libby was pregnant? It hadn't been in the papers. The women had no contact so I could only assume that Heather had no inkling of Rowena's existence. I imagined it would be even harder if she had done. To discover that Charlie had been on the brink of starting a new family when he died, replicating what Heather and Alex had shared with him, would have been an extra grief.

She fell quiet.

After a moment or two, she asked: ‘He couldn't get a retrial, could he?'

‘He'd have to present new evidence.'

She nodded, reassured.

We made small talk as she showed me out. The house was warm but she shivered and rubbed at her arms, the chill of murder in the air.

I had parked on the roadside. Above the high wall, tall shrubs and specimen trees seethed in the wind. I could see some sort of palm and a lovely graceful fir, the spiral of its branches reminiscent of Japanese watercolour paintings. My phone rang before I could start the car. It was Chloe Beswick. ‘Did you see him?'

‘Yes.'

‘And?'

‘Chloe, I'm not sure what you expect me to say.' I sighed.

‘You believe him – that'd be a good start,' she said baldly.

‘I'm not sure I do. He wasn't very coherent; he kept going off at a tangent. He didn't say anything that would count as new evidence. Frankly he seemed to be evading my questions.'

She swore. ‘Wanker! I told him. So, you just giving up, are you? 'Cos I'm not.' I couldn't help but admire her determination. She'd a losing hand with Damien to defend but she was with him all the way.

‘I'm working for Libby Hill,' I reminded her, ‘not you.'

‘You're not totally sure about it, though, are you? If you could just talk to him some more—'

‘I don't know yet. Let me think about it, see some more people.'

‘OK.' She sounded disappointed.

‘Oh, he wants you to take him some tobacco,' I said.

‘I always do, cheeky git.'

Had Damien Beswick killed Charlie Carter or had he made a false confession? I spent the next hour in my office, researching the phenomena. Most articles stressed that the area was complex and several factors were involved when someone made a false confession. There were three broad categories: voluntary confessions, compliant false confessions and internalized false confessions. I reckoned I could rule out the first – Damien had not walked into a police station claiming responsibility for the murder. He hadn't been seeking fame and notoriety or meaning for his life as most of these people did. His confession was only made once he'd been arrested and in the middle of interviews. There were elements in both the other categories that I thought might fit with Damien Beswick. Compliant false confessions are made by those who see no other way out. The suspect thinks if he confesses he will get away, get help, be allowed to leave. Damien had been panicking about his drug supply being cut off. He hoped to see the doctor; he hoped the doctor would give him something to manage the withdrawal symptoms he was experiencing. On the other hand, he also fit the picture of an internalized false confession: people who are highly suggestible and over the course of questioning come to believe they may be guilty.