Crying Out Loud

by Cath Staincliffe

  ‘Where’s his willy?’ Tom asked.

  ‘You said it was a boy,’ Maddie accused me.

  ‘Did I?’ I pretended confusion. ‘I must be going mad. Jamie’s a girl, course she is. I wasn’t thinking straight.’

  ‘Jamie’s a boy’s name,’ Tom said doubtfully.

  ‘Not always. Not this one.’ I kept my head down, concentrating on the wipes. Thank God I’d picked a fairly unisex name and not Matthew or Felix or Oliver.

  ‘Can she watch telly with us?’ Maddie watched me fasten a fresh nappy on.

  ‘Sure.’

  I redid the poppers on her Babygro and took her into the lounge. There was a waffle throw there and I lay Jamie on the couch while I spread it out on the floor. Digger struggled to his feet and stalked out. The poor dog was quite bewildered by the whole palaver. I put Jamie in the middle of the waffle on her back and she made gurgling sounds. The children crowded close to her as I explained that one of them must come and get me straight away if anything happened.

  ‘Like what?’ asked Maddie.

  ‘Like her being sick or starting to cry or you both wanting to go upstairs. Anything like that.’

  ‘Is she going to be sick?’ Maddie curled her lip with dismay.

  ‘Hope not, but it happens a lot; they bring back some of their milk. You did it all the time.’

  ‘Did I?’ Maddie loved to hear about her life as a baby and often wanted more details than I could remember.

  ‘Big time. Drove me mad.’

  Ray was waiting for me, sitting at the kitchen table. I drew up a chair opposite him. He leant back, his arms folded, his eyes hard with suspicion. ‘So, are you going to tell me what’s going on?’

  He listened as I recounted finding the baby on the doorstep, showed him the note and explained that I’d no idea who the infant was and therefore who had left her with me. The only person I could think of who’d been expecting a baby was Abi Dobson.

  ‘She’s still pregnant,’ he said, ‘I saw her at the baker’s.’ He uncrossed his arms and placed his hands on the table. ‘We should tell the police.’

  ‘Ray!’ I protested. ‘Someone has trusted me with this child. They expressly ask me not to tell anyone. Who knows what would happen if I reported it? She’d be taken into care for starters – then how hard would it be for the mother to get her back?’

  ‘Or father.’

  ‘Or father!’ I snapped. ‘Whatever. I won’t do that.’

  ‘You haven’t thought this through.’ He spoke as if I was one of the children.

  ‘Don’t tell me what I’ve thought or not thought. What are you now, a mind reader? Someone needs me to look after this baby.’

  ‘What if it’s been taken? Abducted?’

  ‘Then why give it to me? And what kidnapper writes I’ll explain later? If we could just work out what the signature is, it’d probably all make sense.’

  He wasn’t having it. ‘What if she gets ill? Then what will you do?’

  ‘That’s it – look on the bright side,’ I snapped.

  ‘If anything went wrong, Sal, you’d be the one up for child neglect.’

  I stood up and paced away from the table. ‘Stop it. Listen, whoever it is must be in desperate straits.’ Outside a black bird on the fence looked warily from side to side then flew down to the grass, stabbing its beak into the ground.

  ‘It might be trouble of their own making,’ he said. ‘You’ve no idea what you’re getting yourself into.’

  ‘Why must you always look for the worst in people?’ I complained. ‘What sort of an attitude is that?’ I glared at him.

  ‘I don’t,’ he retorted, stung. His nostrils flared, the edges whitening. ‘But when you set your mind on something you won’t listen to reason.’

  ‘You don’t have the monopoly on reason. It makes perfect sense to me to look after the baby. Someone trusts me to do that. I’m not going to hand her over to the authorities.’ I could hear my voice rising, my words sharpening.

  ‘And if you’ve heard nothing in a week, ten days? Then what?’ he demanded.

  I paused and thought about my answer. The atmosphere between us crackled with antagonism. ‘Then I think again,’ I said as calmly as I could.

  ‘And what do we tell people?’ He still had that hard edge to his expression, his jaw muscle taut, but the question itself made me think he was coming round.

  ‘Something simple. That I’m looking after her while her mum, an old friend, is in hospital. London: too far for visits. Surgery: a hysterectomy.’

  Ray gave a derisive snort.

  ‘What? Not a hysterectomy?’ I asked. ‘A car crash? No – they’d want all the details. A hysterectomy’s better.’

  ‘I never knew you were such a fluent liar.’

  I was unsettled, sensing an undertone to his remark. ‘I’m not, I’m rubbish. I can make them up but I can’t tell them without giving myself away.’

  ‘But you must do that at work,’ he persisted.

  ‘Not really. Not unless I’m undercover and I hate those jobs. Most of the time I just have to play things close to my chest.’

  He slowly closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘I don’t like it,’ he said quietly. When he opened his eyes again I met his gaze, taking in the way his dark brown eyes had softened a little.

  ‘I know.’ I moved to stand behind him and put my palm on his chest, feeling his heart beating, the warmth of him. He raised his hand and pulled mine to his lips. Kissed my knuckles. Again I experienced the tug of attraction that had put our lives in a spin over the last few months.

  ‘How old do you think she is?’ I asked him. ‘She’s not rolling over yet.’

  ‘Search me.’

  ‘Maybe three months?’

  ‘She reminds me of Tom,’ he said. ‘The hair.’

  The baby punk look. I hadn’t met Ray and Tom until Tom was eighteen months. By then he was already sporting the glossy black curls of the Italian side of the family, taking after Ray’s mum. Ray had answered my ad for a housemate. I was on my own with Maddie and looking for co-tenants who would be happy to share a spacious Victorian semi with a cranky two-year-old.

  We’d rubbed along as housemates for almost six years, sharing the chores and childcare and growing to love each other’s child, before passion had reared its head. I had been disturbed by a shocking tragedy at work and had turned to Ray for comfort. A hug led to a kiss, which pitched me into a state of uncertainty, confusion and desire, and then, after Ray had unceremoniously dropped his girlfriend Laura and set out to court me, to us being lovers. We were still adjusting to the change though Maddie and Tom took it in their stride. Nothing had really altered for them.

  I wondered now whether the sudden appearance of an infant in our lives stirred up painful memories for Ray. His wife had died giving birth to Tom. Ray must have been crazed with grief in those early days – bereavement on top of the huge upheaval and the demands that a new baby brings. His mum helped out; she adored her grandson, but even so.

  ‘It must have been hard,’ I ventured, ‘for you and Tom.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He rose and whistled for Digger. He’d always been crap at talking about emotions.

  Ray took the dog out and I cooked tea. When I went to call the children they were balancing the remote control on Jamie’s tummy and counting how long until her kicks and wriggles bounced it off. Jamie was laughing; all gums and sparkling eyes as Tom pulled faces.

  There was one more hurdle to sort out before the end of the day. I waited until we had finished our pasties and apple and raisin fool. Then I took a deep breath and broached it with Ray. ‘Could you work from home, tomorrow? Well, tomorrow morning.’

  ‘You want me to look after the baby?’ Quick as a flash.

  ‘If she’s still here. Just tomorrow. It’s work. A meeting. I can’t change things at such short notice. I would if I could. And I can’t take her with me.’

  ‘I didn’t bring stuff home,’ he objected. ‘If you’d said on the phon
e . . .’

  I had to persuade him to do this. I couldn’t rearrange. ‘Well, can’t work email it to you?’ I argued.

  He sighed. ‘Maybe. Can’t you get them to come and meet you here?’ he said.

  ‘Hardly. I’m going to see man called Damien Beswick. He’s in Strangeways, serving a life sentence for murder.’

  He couldn’t trump that.

  THREE

  Aweek before the abandoned baby materialized on my doorstep I’d started work on my new case. My client was a woman called Libby Hill. She hadn’t gone into any detail over the phone but said it was an enquiry connected to the murder of Charlie Carter.

  Damien Beswick, a twenty-one-year-old petty criminal, had confessed to the murder of Charlie Carter last year. Middle-aged Carter, who ran a loft conversion company, was stabbed to death at his weekend cottage, in the hamlet of Thornsby, on 8 November. Charlie’s girlfriend, Libby Hill, discovered the body. The fact that Carter was married and still living with his wife Heather and their son added a salacious quality to some of the news coverage. There was speculation about a love triangle and questions as to whether the murder was a crime of passion. Interest surged when the police spent most of two days talking to Libby Hill, but two weeks later an arrest was made. Damien Beswick had been caught trying to use Carter’s missing bank cards at an ATM in Stockport. The next police announcement revealed that Beswick had made a full confession. Carter had surprised him in the middle of a burglary. Beswick, high on drugs at the time, panicked when the older man ran at him. Beswick grabbed a knife from the counter and in the scuffle that followed Carter suffered a stab wound to the stomach. Arraigned at Manchester Crown Court, Beswick pleaded guilty and asked for a number of other offences – burglary and street robbery – to be taken into account. It was standard practice to do that; a way of clearing the slate so the defendant couldn’t be rearrested for those crimes on his release. Subsequently he was sentenced to life and would serve a minimum of twenty-five years.

  His guilty plea meant there was no trial by jury and the case soon fell from public view. It was done and dusted. Justice had been served and a violent career criminal was safely behind bars.

  Libby Hill’s approach was intriguing. Did she want to claim compensation for the trauma of losing her lover? Or did she want to make some claim on his estate, which presumably had gone to his widow and son? Maybe it was a complaint against the police? But when she’d come over to speak to me in person, it was none of these issues that had prompted her to hire a private eye.

  She was prettier in the flesh than she had been on the news footage. Slightly built with fine, blonde hair caught back in a ponytail and large grey eyes, she looked younger than her thirty-two years. She wore faded straight-leg jeans and a blue and green checked needlecord shirt. I’d had time to refresh my memory about the case by trawling the Internet before we met.

  We settled downstairs in my office at the Dobsons’ place. It’s quite comfy nowadays – a contrast to the cold, whitewashed cell I’d first rented when I set up business. I had everything I needed: broadband access, desk and chairs, filing cabinet, a bookcase full of reference books, a sofa; paintings on the walls courtesy of my friend Diane and rugs on the floor courtesy of Ikea. A couple of flight cases held my electronic equipment: camcorder, voice-activated recorder, camera and the like. I’m not big on surveillance or bugging. There are plenty of large firms out there who specialize in that sort of work for corporate clients. My work is more personal, domestic, intimate. I prefer it like that.

  I made Libby a drink and assured her that there was no charge for an initial meeting. She needed to assess whether I was the right person for the job and I needed to decide whether it was something I was willing to take on.

  ‘I read about the murder,’ I told her. ‘I’m sorry. It must have been terrible.’

  She nodded. ‘Still is, actually. You keep wondering when life’s going to return to normal. I don’t know if it ever will. When I think of Charlie that’s how I see him; that moment – finding him – that’s the first image that comes into my head. It dominates, you know? I hate that.’ She spoke calmly, though her voice trembled a little at the end and she shook her head as she finished speaking.

  ‘Anyway.’ She slapped her palms on her knees, nails French manicured, hands slender and pale against the washed-out denim. ‘I got this about a month ago.’ She lifted her suede shoulder bag on to her lap and unzipped it. She drew out a small envelope and handed it to me. Libby’s name and address were handwritten but the folded sheet inside had been done on a printer and a couple of words had been misspelled.

  14 Leeson Close

  Northern Moor

  Manchester

  M23 JIB

  Dear Miss Libby Hill,

  My name is Chloe Beswick. I am Damien Beswick’s half-sister. I am sorry about what happened to Mr Carter but there is something you should know. Damien told me he didn’t do it and that he only confessed because it was the easiest thing to do. Damien is a drug user and has lots of problems and he was confused when they interviewed him. When he told me I went to his lawyer but she said there was nothing she could do unless their was new evidence.

  I believe my brother and their has been a miscarriage of justice. It also means the person that did it is still free. I am sure you want the right person to serve time for this. If the police and the brief will not look for new evidence then I don’t know how to get a retrial for Damien. Maybe I will have to do a campaign.

  Yours faithfully,

  Chloe Beswick

  When I’d finished reading the letter I looked across at Libby. ‘This must have been a shock.’

  ‘You got that right.’ She gave a sharp nod. ‘I don’t know why she’s written to me. I don’t know what she wants.’ A frown creased her brow.

  ‘No, it’s not clear. Perhaps she just wants to let you know, to warn you, that she has doubts about the conviction and that she might start this campaign, as a sort of courtesy. Did she write to Heather, too?’

  ‘No idea. We’re not exactly on speaking terms.’ Her grey eyes flashed.

  ‘No, of course, I’m sorry.’ I should have realized. I felt a little clumsy, and hoped she wouldn’t doubt my competence.

  ‘It’s a bloody cheek,’ she said. ‘You know what I think – he’s finding it hard in prison so he’s clutching at straws.’

  ‘There was other evidence used to convict him as well as his confession?’ I checked.

  ‘Too right.’ She placed one index finger on the other, prepared to count off the items. ‘They could place him at the cottage; he’d taken Charlie’s wallet.’ Her face tightened. ‘And there was blood on his trainers.’

  Pretty damning stuff. ‘The CPS wouldn’t have gone ahead with the prosecution if they didn’t think they had solid grounds,’ I told her. ‘On the other hand, mistakes do get made.’

  There had been a number of high-profile cases in the last few years: Stephen Downing, a teenager with learning difficulties who confessed to the murder of Wendy Sewell in Bakewell and had served twenty-seven years behind bars before having his conviction quashed; Stefan Kiszko, bullied into confessing to the sexual assault and child-murder of Lesley Moleseed was finally freed after sixteen years, years during which the real killer continued to abuse children; and Barry George, a mentally-ill man convicted on the basis of a single particle of gunpowder in his coat pocket, served eight years for the murder of TV presenter Jill Dando before being freed at retrial.

  ‘And sometimes people make false confessions,’ I added. ‘I don’t know how often – I suppose that’s difficult to establish. You can only know it’s a false confession if you disprove it – or someone else steps forward.’ I looked at her. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Find out what the hell they’re playing at,’ she said frankly. ‘Talk to this sister, talk to him. Maybe it’s some sort of scam. If it is, I’ll report them.’ Her brow furrowed; her thin face was taut, containing frustration. When she spoke ag
ain her words were clipped, her tone intense. ‘He confessed; he was convicted. It’s been hard enough to cope with as it is. But this . . . this is way out of line.’

  Before I spoke to either of the Beswicks, I needed to have as comprehensive a grasp as possible of the background to Charlie Carter’s death. Without a trial there were no transcripts to help so I would have to rely initially on what Libby could tell me. I asked her to start with their relationship.

  ‘It’d been going on for over a year by then,’ she said. ‘I’d first met Charlie when he came to give me an estimate for a loft conversion. I run a marquee hire business. We’ve an industrial unit where the tents are stored and checked in and out. I’d an office there but it was a miserable place to work.’ She grimaced. ‘On my own most of the time and the place was freezing – no natural light. With the computer and mobile phone there was no reason I couldn’t run things from home. I’d still be going out on site visits and organizing the lads for set-ups and strikes.’

  I frowned; I didn’t understand the reference to strikes. I repeated the word.

  ‘That’s what we call it when we take them down – comes from the circus, I think. But the rest, the invoicing and dealing with calls, I could do anywhere.’

  ‘OK. It’s your own business?’ I encouraged her to continue and made notes as she talked, capturing facts and figures and the gist of her story.

  ‘Yes. My dad started it off in the eighties and I helped out. When he died I carried it on. So, Charlie came and gave me an estimate for doing the loft. He wasn’t the cheapest but I liked some of the suggestions he made, and the fact that he did the work himself. I wouldn’t be faced with two contractors I’d never met and all the risk of crossed wires and them cutting corners. Long story short: by the time the loft was finished we’d fallen for each other. I knew his situation – he was totally honest with me.’

  ‘How did he describe it?’