Twelve Red Herrings (5 page)

“Arrestin’
criminals is ‘ow ‘e gets his kicks,” Fingers said, with some feeling.

“Sounds just the
man I’m looking for,” I said. “How old is he?’

Fingers paused
to consider. “Must be past fifty by now,” he replied.

“After all, ‘e
‘ad me put in borstal for nickin’ a toolset, and that was’ – he paused again – ‘more
than twenty years ago.” When Sir Matthew came to visit me the following Monday,
I told him what I had in mind, and asked his opinion of the Don.

I wanted a
professional’s view.

“He’s a hell of
a witness to cross-examine, that’s one thing I can tell you,” replied my
barrister. “Why’s that?”

“He doesn’t
exaggerate, he won’t prevaricate, and I’ve never known him to lie, which makes
him awfully hard to trap. No, I’ve rarely got the better of the Chief
Superintendent. I have to say, though, that I doubt if he’d agree to become
involved with a convicted criminal, whatever you offered him.’

“But I’m not...”

“I know, Mr.
Cooper,” said Sir Matthew, who still didn’t seem able to call me by my first
name, “But Hackett will have to be convinced of that before he even agrees to
see you.”

“But how can I convince
him of my innocence while I’m stuck in jail?’

I’ll try to
influence him on your behalf,” Sir Matthew sad after some thought. Then he
added, “Come to think of it, he does owe me a favour.” After Sir Matthew had
left that night, I requested some more lined paper and began to compose a
carefully worded letter to Chief Superintendent Hackett, several versions of
which ended crumpled up on the floor of my cell. My final effort read as
follows:

In replying to
this letter, please write on the envelol:

Nmber .i4_
..
798.3. N. COOPER, R.W. i Au.
,.
cor.;:..
,’.
: :s
[ H.M. PRISON .v- : ..: ,.’
o
ARMLEY A..

CA
..
O .ccmeo LEEDS LS12 2TJ

I reread the
letter, corrected the spelling mistake, and scrawled my signature across the bottom.

At my request,
Sir Matthew delivered the letter to Hackett by hand. The first
thousand-pound-a-day postman in the history of the Royal Mail, I told him.

Sir Matthew
reported back the following Monday that he had handed the letter to the Chief
Superintendent in person. After Hackett had read it through a second time, his
only comment was that he would have to speak to his superiors. He had promised
he would let Sir Matthew know his decision within a week.

From the moment
I had been sentenced, Sir Matthew had been preparing for my appeal, and
although he had not at any time raised my hopes, he was unable to hide his
delight at what he had discovered after paying a visit to the Probate Office.

It turned out
that, in his will, Jeremy had left everything to Rosemary. This included over
three million pounds’ worth of Cooper’s shares. But, Sir Matthew explained, the
law did not allow her to dispose of them for seven years. “An English jury may
have pronounced on your guilt,” he declared, ‘but the hardheaded taxmen are not
so easily convinced. They won’t hand over Jeremy Alexander’s assets until
either they have seen his body, or seven years have elapsed.”

“Do they think
that Rosemary might have killed him for his money, and then disposed...
”

“No, no,” said
Sir Matthew, almost laughing at my suggestion.

“It’s simply
that, as they’re entitled to wait for seven years, they’re going to sit on his
assets and not take the risk that Alexander may still be alive. In any case, if
your wife had killed him, she wouldn’t have had a ready answer to every one of
my questions when she was in the witness box, of that I’m sure.” I smiled. For
the first time in my life I was delighted to learn that the taxman had his nose
in my affairs.

Sir Matthew
promised he would report back if anything new came up.

“Goodnight,
Richard,” he said as he left the interview room.

Another
first.

It seemed that
everyone else in the prison was aware that Chief Superintendent Hackett would
be paying me a visit long before was.

It was Dave
Adams, an old lag from an adjoining cell, who explained why the inmates thought
Hackett had agreed to see me. “A good copper is never ‘appy about anyone doin’
time for somethin’ ‘e didn’t do. ‘
ackett
phoned the
Governor last Tuesday, and ‘ad a word with ‘im on the Q.T accordin’ to
Maurice,” Dave added mysteriously.

I would have
been interested to learn how the Governor’s trusty had managed to hear both
sides of the conversation, but decided this was not the time for irrelevant
questions.

“Even the
‘ardest nuts in this place think you’re innocent,” Dave continued. “They can’t
wait for the day when Mr. Jeremy Alexander takes over your cell. You can be
sure the long termers’ll give ‘im a warm welcome.” A letter from Bradford
arrived the following morning. “Dear Cooper,” the Chief Superintendent began,
and went on to inform me that he intended to pay a visit to the jail at four
o’clock the following Sunday. He made it clear that he would stay no longer
than half an hour, and insisted on a witness being present throughout.

For the first
time since I’d been locked up, I started counting the hours. Hours aren’t that
important when your room has been booked for a life sentence.

As I was taken
from my cell that Sunday afternoon and escorted to the interview room, I
received several messages from my fellow inmates to pass on to the Chief
Superintendent.

“Give my best
regards to the Don,” said Fingers. “Tell ‘im ‘ow sorry I am not to bump into
‘im this time.”

“When ‘e’s finished
with you, ask ‘im if ‘e’d like to drop into my cell for a cup of char and a
chat about old times.”

“Kick the
bastard in the balls, and tell ‘im I’ll be ‘appy to serve the extra time.” One
of the prisoners even suggested a question to which I already knew the answer:
“Ask ‘im when ^”e’s going to retire, ‘
cause
I’m not
coming out till the day after.’

When I stepped
into the interview room and saw the Chief Superintendent for the first time, I
thought there must have been some mistake. I had never asked Fingers what the
Don looked like, and over the past few days I had built up in my mind the image
of some sort of superman. But the man who stood before me was a couple of
inches shorter than me, and I’m only five foot ten. He was as thin as the
proverbial rake and wore pebble-lensed horn-rimmed glasses, which gave the
impression that he was half-blind. All he needed was a grubby raincoat and he
could have been mistaken for a debt collector.

Sir Matthew
stepped forward to introduce us. I shook the policeman firmly by the hand.
“Thank you for coming to visit me, Chief Superintendent,” I began. “Won’t you
have a seat?” I added, as if he had dropped into my home for a glass of sherry.

“Sir Matthew is
very persuasive,” said Hackett, in a deep, gruff Yorkshire accent that didn’t
quite seem to go with his body. “So tell me, Cooper, what do you imagine it is
that I can do for
you ?
” he asked as he took the chair
opposite me. I detected an edge of cynicism in his voice.

He opened a
notepad and placed it on the table as I was about to begin my story. “For my
use only,” he explained, ‘should I need to remind myself of any relevant
details at some time in the
future.
’

Twenty minutes
later, I had finished the abbreviated version of the life and times of Richard
Cooper. I had already gone over the story on several occasions in my cell
during the past week, to be certain I didn’t take too long. I wanted to leave
enough time for Hackett to ask any questions.

“If I believe
your story,” he said, ‘- and I only say “if” – you still haven’t explained what
it is you think I can do for you.”

“You’re due to
leave the force in five months’ time,” I said. “I wondered if you had any plans
once you’ve retired.” He hesitated. I had obviously taken him by surprise.

“I’ve been
offered a job with Group 4, as area manager for West Yorkshire.”

“And how much
will they be paying you?” I asked bluntly.

“It won’t be
full time,” he said. “Three days a week, to start with.” He hesitated again.
“Twenty thousand a year, guaranteed for three years.”

“I’ll pay you a
hundred thousand a year, but I’ll expect you to be on the job seven days a
week. I assume you’ll be needing a secretary and an assistant- that Inspector
Williams who’s leaving at the same time as you might well fit the bill – so
I’ll also supply you with enough money for back-up staff, as well as the rent
for an office.” A flicker of respect appeared on the Chief Superintendent’s
face for the first time. He made some more notes on his pad.

“And what would
you expect of me in return for such a large sum of money?” he asked.

“That’s simple.
I expect you to find Jeremy Alexander.” This time he didn’t hesitate. “My God,”
he said. “You really are innocent. Sir Matthew and the Governor both tried to
convince me you were.”

“And if you find
him within seven years,” I added, ignoring his comment, “I’ll pay a further
five hundred thousand into any branch of any bank in the world that you
stipulate.”

“The Midland,
Bradford will suit me just fine,” he replied. “It’s only criminals who find it
necessary to retire abroad. In any case, I have to be in Bradford every other
Saturday afternoon, so I can be around to watch City lose.” Hackett rose from
his place and looked hard at me for some time.
“One last
question, Mr. Cooper.

Why
seven years?”

“Because after
that period, my wife can sell Alexander’s
shares,
and
he’ll become a multi-millionaire overnight.’

The Chief
Superintendent nodded his understanding. “Thank you for asking to see me,” he
said. “It’s been a long time since I enjoyed visiting anyone in jail, especially
someone convicted of murder. I’ll give your offer serious consideration, Mr.
Cooper, and let you know my decision by the end of the week.” He left without
another word.

Hackett wrote to
me three days later, accepting my offer.

I didn’t have to
wait five months for him to start working for me, because he handed in his
resignation within a fortnight though not before I had agreed to continue his
pension
contributions,
and those of the two colleagues
he wanted to leave the force and join him. Having now disposed of all my
Cooper’s shares, the interest on my deposit account was earning me over four
hundred thousand a year, and as I was living rent-free, Hackett’s request was a
minor consideration.

I would have
shared with you in greater detail everything that happened to me over the
following months, but during that time I was so preoccupied with briefing
Hackett that I filled only three pages of my blue-lined prison paper. I should
however mention that I studied several law books, to be sure that I fully
understood the meaning of the legal term ‘autrefois acquit’.

The next
important date in the diary was my appeal hearing.

Matthew – at his
request I had long ago stopped calling him “Sir’

Matthew – tried
valiantly not to show that he was becoming more and more confident of the
outcome, but I was getting to know him so well that he was no longer able to
disguise his true feelings. He told me how delighted he was with the make-up of
the reviewing panel. “Fair and just,” he kept repeating.

Later that night
he told me with great sadness that his witc Victoria had died of cancer a few
weeks before. “A long illnes and a blessed release,” he called it.

I felt guilty in
his presence for the first time. Over the past eighteen months, we had only ever
discussed my problems.

I must have been
one of the few prisoners at Armley who ever had a bespoke tailor visit him in
his cell. Matthew suggested that I should be fitted with a new suit before I
faced the appeal tribunal, as I had lost over a stone since I had been in jail.
When the tailor had finished measuring me and began rolling up his tape, I
insisted that Fingers return his cigarette lighter, although I did allow him to
keep the cigarettes.

Ten days later,
I was escorted from my cell at five o’clock in the morning. My fellow inmates
banged their tin mugs against their locked doors, the traditional way of
indicating to the prison staff that they believed the man leaving for trial was
innocent.

Like some great
symphony, it lifted my soul.

I was driven to
London in a police car accompanied by two prison officers. We didn’t stop once
on the entire journey, and arrived in the capital a few minutes after nine; I
remember looking out of the window and watching the commuters scurrying to
their offices to begin the day’s work. Any one of them who’d glanced at me
sitting in the back of the car in my new suit, and was unable to spot the
handcuffs, might have assumed I was a Chief Inspector at least.