‘That’s pretty extreme.’
‘Well I’m in an extreme situation, Tom,’ Bell made a point of looking around the place, ‘haven’t you noticed? They used to hang people here, you know. Out there in the courtyard; imagine that. The last man to be hanged in Durham jail was a twenty-year-old soldier named Brian Chandler, who killed an old lady … with a hammer,’ and he widened his eyes ironically at the coincidence. ‘I suppose they would have hanged me if Rebecca was killed back in 1958 but, as I keep telling everybody, I didn’t do it.’
‘You do keep saying that,’ said Tom, ‘but nobody seems to believe you.’
‘My wife believes me,’ he said, ‘but you’re right, nobody else does, despite the fact there is very little evidence against me.’
‘Did you study English at college?’ Tom changed the subject.
‘Business studies, why?’
‘I was remembering your letters,’ and he quoted from them: ‘The poison that drips from the pens of those so-called journalists?’
‘Are you mocking me, Tom?’
‘No,’ Tom said, ‘I’m just noting you have a way with words.’ He quoted the other man once more: ‘Are you mocking me not Are you taking the piss?’ and he looked at Richard Bell intently. ‘I wondered if you were a writer in your spare time, that’s all.’
Bell shook his head. ‘Not a writer, no, but I can appreciate a good turn of phrase and spare time, as you call it, is all I have these days. I chose my words carefully because there was a great deal resting on them. I read a lot. That’s the one thing they are pretty good about. They don’t mind us having books and I devour them. There really is nothing else to do in here. We are locked up for twenty-three hours a day, so books are all I’ve got. I read yours in a day. I thought it was exceptional.’ Tom ignored the compliment. ‘I reckon I could tell a pretty good story, given the chance.’
Tom leaned forward. ‘Then why don’t you tell me yours.’
Richard Bell began his story with the words, ‘I’m trapped. I don’t just mean in here. I am trapped in another way. Do you know what is meant by an innocent man’s dilemma, Tom?’
‘I think so, yes.’ But Bell regarded him as if he was a student who had not yet provided a satisfactory answer, so Tom continued, ‘You’ve been sentenced to life in prison for murder but life does not necessarily mean life. You could qualify for parole once you’ve served around a third of your sentence. Most murderers don’t serve their full term. The average is around fifteen years but if a man is of previously good character, if a parole board can be persuaded that he snapped for some reason or was provoked and is highly unlikely to kill again, he could be out in less than ten.’
‘That happens to around one in ten convicted murderers,’ confirmed Bell. ‘They are released back into the community to resume their lives,’ he said, ‘just like nothing ever happened but … and it is a very big but …’ He paused and allowed Tom to complete the point.
‘The murderer has to admit guilt.’
‘Precisely.’ Bell nodded his approval at the journalist’s knowledge of the legal system. ‘To qualify for parole, a prisoner must first confess his crimes. He must show sufficient remorse for the pain and suffering he has caused. He must have paid his debt to society and be fully rehabilitated.’ He spread his palms in front of Tom. ‘But what if he didn’t do it? If he is innocent. What then?’
‘He may not wish to admit to a crime he didn’t commit, so he will never qualify for parole and must serve his full sentence.’
‘Life,’ agreed Bell, ‘which in my case is twenty-four years, according to the judge. I’ve done two, so only another twenty-two to go,’ he said brightly. ‘I’ll be fifty-six when I get out of here, assuming I don’t conveniently die before then, which is a distinct possibility.’
‘But you won’t admit guilt?’
Bell shook his head.
‘So you’re stuck in here.’
‘Trapped in an innocent man’s dilemma,’ and he snorted, ‘I’d be treated far better as a self-confessed killer than a man who continues to protest his innocence. Even my lawyers have advised me to say that I did it.’
‘Ever cross your mind to take their advice?’
‘Why would I? I didn’t kill Rebecca.’
‘So you say, but your lawyers must have had their reasons for urging you to admit guilt.’
‘And those reasons have nothing to do with justice.’ When he realised Tom did not understand he grew impatient. ‘They don’t care whether I’m guilty or not. They just think we have run out of options. The authorities will not allow me to appeal against the guilty verdict or the length of my sentence. There is a lack of evidence to contradict the verdict and the normal sentence for murder is life, with the exact tariff at the judge’s discretion, which is then reviewed after a time by the parole board.’
‘But you can’t qualify for parole,’ Tom reminded him, ‘unless you admit guilt.’
‘Exactly,’ said Bell, ‘and that’s why I had a falling-out with my lawyers. I asked them what my options were and they said, “You don’t have any, why not just admit you’re guilty and see if you can get parole.” ’ Then Bell pretended to talk casually: ‘ “It’s not like you killed a bunch of people, Richard. This was a crime of passion. If you admit it, you’ll probably only do nine or ten years in total. You’ve already served two.” ’ The look on Bell’s face said it all. His legal team were morons who did not understand the two years he had already served were a living hell and that seven more would be a lifetime.
‘I can understand your reluctance to do that but,’ and Tom chose his next words carefully, ‘nine years is better than twenty-four. If you don’t admit to the killing, the parole board will never recommend you for release. You’ll be …’
‘Officially classed as In Denial of Murder,’ Bell said. ‘I should keep my head down, maybe do an Open University course, develop a sudden interest in God. If I behave like a model prisoner then I could be out of here in another seven years, as long as I take responsibility for my actions and admit my terrible crime. Just say the word and serve a third,’ he added dryly, ‘but if I continue to maintain my innocence I’ll do the full tariff. So let’s say I admit to killing Rebecca, hypothetically.’
‘Hypothetically,’ agreed Tom.
‘What then? What happens to me?’
‘You serve the rest of your sentence, then leave.’
‘Where do I go? What do I do?’
‘You go home; assuming your wife will have you. What you do then is up to you.’
‘That’s where you’re very wrong, Tom. It’s not up to me. I know Annie would take me back but I’d have no job and no way of getting one. Not many blue-chip companies employ murderers and I don’t think my father-in-law could be seen to be taking one back either, even if he felt inclined to.’
‘You were his Sales Director?’
Bell nodded. ‘Whatever would his clients say?’
‘I’m not saying it would be easy …’
‘Easy? It would be impossible.’
‘But …’ Tom ventured ‘… better than this?’
It was as if Bell hadn’t heard him. ‘What would I do for the rest of my life? Take walks in the park every day, go to the library, read even more books, then maybe meet my girls from school?’ And he chuckled, but without humour. ‘Can you imagine the looks in the playground? Let’s face it; my life is over as soon as I say I did it.’
‘I’m not sure you have an alternative.’
‘You are my alternative, Tom. I want you to clear my name. I need you to use all of your skills to take a fresh and unbiased look at Rebecca’s murder and find out what really happened. The police did a rushed investigation under a great deal of media pressure. As soon as they found out I was seeing Rebecca and had everything to lose if she told on me, they never seriously looked for another suspect. Most people are killed by someone they know so it was all about me from the off. The police were convinced I was their man, the press went for
my jugular and the judge bloody hated me. As for the jury, there were a couple of women who looked at me like they wanted to give me a life sentence just for cheating on my wife. There was no one on my side. I need someone to find the truth and that someone is you. When you’ve uncovered the truth, you can write another book about it, with my blessing. It would be quite a story, wouldn’t it? Journalist frees innocent man wrongly imprisoned for murder? You’ll have another bestseller on your hands.’
Tom wasn’t in the mood to contradict Bell on the sales figures of his book. The last time he’d seen Death Knock it was in a bargain bin, covered in large red ‘sale’ stickers and marked down to £1.99. His publisher’s only comment when he had enquired about sales was a rueful, ‘It’s been a tough year for true crime’.
The publisher had been enthusiastic at first. ‘This could launch you!’ he gushed, as if front-page leads in national newspapers didn’t count for anything. When firstly the book stores then the public failed to share this enthusiasm for the investigation into the murder of Sean Donnellan more than five decades earlier, they quickly lost interest in Tom and the half-promised offer to write a second book somehow failed to materialise.
‘I’ll be brutally honest with you, Richard, I’m not sure I can afford to spend weeks looking into a cold case on the off chance I find something that might be strong enough to reopen it for you.’
‘And I wouldn’t expect you to,’ Bell said, ‘which is why you will be paid.’
‘How would that work?’
‘My wife has money, enough to give you a weekly retainer while you look into this, with a bonus at the end should you discover fresh evidence strong enough to re-open my case – which you will, because I didn’t do it. There will be a further, generous bonus for you when my conviction is finally overturned.’ And Bell proceeded to spell out the terms of his offer. The weekly amount alone was extremely tempting to a man in Tom’s parlous financial state and the additional bonus at the end, should Richard Bell ever walk free, was the kind of cash injection any hard-up journalist would dream of.
‘And your wife is happy with this arrangement?’
‘She has agreed to it,’ Bell confirmed, though Tom couldn’t help feeling this wasn’t exactly the same thing.
‘You make it sound very easy, but it could take months for me to find something and I may not come up with anything at all.’
‘Time is all I have, Tom. I’m not going anywhere. You can work at your own speed. Just keep me posted. If you draw a complete blank we can review things, but I honestly don’t think it will come to that. You do have a distinct advantage over the police.’
‘Do I?’
‘They thought I was guilty. We know I’m not.’
‘But I don’t know that,’ Tom reminded him, ‘I could be helping a cold-blooded killer.’
‘You could be,’ admitted Bell, ‘but if you are going into this with an open mind then you may have to give me the benefit of the doubt on that.’
‘Particularly if you are paying me.’
‘If you want to get to the truth,’ Bell corrected him.
‘Okay but what if I can’t find the truth?’
‘There is only really one thing I need to get through my days here, Tom, and it’s not food, visitors or books.’
‘Hope,’ said Tom instinctively.
‘You see,’ said Bell admiringly, ‘you’re good. I knew you would be.’
‘I can usually put myself in the other man’s shoes,’ said Tom, quietly.
‘A useful quality in your profession,’ said Bell, ‘if I can believe that a man like you; a good man, a clever man, is trying to find out what really happened, then I can go on.’ When Tom said nothing in response, Bell’s shoulders seemed to sag. ‘Look, I’m a realist. I have to be. I know you are busy and I don’t expect you to work every hour of every day on it, just take some time to look into it for me; a couple of weeks at least, please? Just a little paid work looking for the truth, until you choose to look no more? Do it for Rebecca, if you won’t do it for me.’
‘Where would I even start?’
‘I’ll give you a list of names, everyone that matters. Go and see everybody connected with the case.’
‘I’d have go a lot deeper than that.’
‘I think I understand a little of the way you go about your work. Did you bring a pen?’ Tom reached automatically into his jacket pocket and brought out his pen and a notebook.
‘Right,’ the guard’s voice boomed in the large visiting room, ‘wrap this up now.’
‘Just a few more minutes,’ pleaded Bell, ‘we’re writing a list …’
‘No lists, no writing, wrap it up now.’ Bell looked like a child who had woken on Christmas morning to find no presents under his tree.
‘No lists then,’ he conceded, ‘but you’ll come back tomorrow.’ It was more of a statement than a question and when Tom did not look entirely convinced, he added the word, ‘Please.’
Chapter Eight
Councillor Jarvis hadn’t made an appointment – but then Frank Jarvis didn’t need to, not when he simply wanted to see a Detective Chief Inspector, and particularly when he had known that DCI since he was a beat bobby. All the same, Kane was a little perturbed when the politician produced a bottle of Scotch and placed it on the detective’s desk.
‘Bloody hell, I’m supposed to be driving home,’ but he still went to the cabinet in the corner of his office, opened it and produced two glasses.
‘Get one of your lads to drop you off,’ Jarvis told him. ‘There’s plenty would be willing to do that small favour for a DCI,’ he said, unscrewing the top from the bottle and beginning to pour. ‘I’m being picked up later.’ And Kane wondered which young member of the local party machine had been singled out for that honour.
‘This isn’t the bloody seventies,’ Kane scolded him half-heartedly as he watched the whisky go into the glasses. ‘Can’t have detectives getting arseholed in their own offices in the afternoons anymore.’
‘One drink isn’t going to hurt you and no one can see,’ countered Jarvis and he was right. The view into Kane’s office was obscured by an ancient set of grubby venetian blinds, permanently blocking the windows.
When the whisky was poured they both raised their glasses to each other and drank silently for a moment while Kane waited for Jarvis to say his piece.
‘My wife is struggling,’ he told the policeman, ‘I mean she’s always struggled …’ and he looked away for a moment because that struggle was an embarrassment to him, ‘but this … this is …’ and Jarvis turned slightly so that he was facing towards the window ‘… something else entirely.’
‘No joy from our friends up north?’ asked Kane. They both knew he was referring to Northumbria Police, the force that had led the investigation into the disappearance of the councillor’s daughter, Sandra Jarvis, since her whole family was from Newcastle. It was their patch, but Durham Constabulary, DCI Kane’s force, had assisted in the hunt for the missing girl from the beginning. She was studying at Durham University when she disappeared so there were lines of enquiry pursued by both forces without any positive outcome.
The rivalry between them was friendly enough for the most part, though officers based in Newcastle tended to view their County Durham counterparts as slightly bumbling, country bumpkins who spent most of their time investigating gentle crimes like vandalism or burglary, whereas their opposite numbers in Durham saw Geordie officers as out-of-control city dwellers, who were only mildly better behaved than the gangsters and drug dealers they were paid to lock up. When it came down to it though, there was a good deal of ‘cross-border’ cooperation between them, particularly if murder was involved or, as in this case, a disappearance that could have involved foul play.
‘There’s nothing,’ answered Jarvis. ‘That new bloke.’ And he shook his head dismissively. Kane knew he meant the recently installed Chief Constable, who must have been foolish enough to be less than fully cooperative when Councillor Jarvis
came knocking. He was surprised someone could actually become a Chief Constable without understanding the influence a man like Jarvis held in the region. He might be the former head of Newcastle City Council but one word in the right ear could still mean a favour granted, a problem solved. A whisper in another could cause a major problem for a senior police officer with ambition. Simple passive resistance from key politicians round here was enough to derail a promising career on its own. Kane was certain the new guy would soon learn who the real power brokers were in his own back yard.
‘I don’t know what to say to you, Frank, I really don’t. We have tried everything. We’ve spoken to everyone who had even the vaguest dealings with your daughter.’
‘And come up with nothing,’ the councillor reminded him sharply, ‘which smacks of incompetence.’
Kane’s silence was his answer. Jarvis was a man suffering the worst possible grief combined with uncertainty. His daughter had been missing for six months without a word from her or a single confirmed sighting. DCI Kane knew by now that her chances were not good.
Eventually Jarvis sighed, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s just …’
‘I won’t say I understand, Frank, because I don’t. No one can begin to comprehend how you are feeling but we know you are in a very dark place right now. We are doing all we can, I assure you.’
‘So you’re leaving no stone unturned? You can look me in the eye and promise me that.’
‘We’re doing everything in our power to find your daughter.’
‘What about things that aren’t within your power?’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Kane.
‘I’m just saying there are limits to what you can achieve, given that you are bound by a code of conduct.’
‘We’re bound by the limits of the law, Frank,’ Kane observed, ‘that’s all. I hope you’re not thinking of doing anything foolish.’
Behind Dead Eyes Page 5
