Crying Out Loud (3 page)

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

A
week 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.

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 again 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?'

‘That he was married; they had Alex. He wasn't desperately unhappy but he didn't think he and Heather would stay together in the long run, though she would probably want to.'

I'd already formed an impression of Libby. I believed her for a start; she was honest, direct. She had an energy about her, focused, contained and I could imagine her being practical and always busy.

She placed her hands on her knees again. ‘I'd never thought I'd date a married man. Seemed like a mug's game. Plus he was a fair bit older than me – thirteen years between us. He was no oil painting, either,' she smiled, ‘beer belly growing and his hairline shrinking, but we saw each other a couple of times a week throughout that summer. In the November we had our first weekend away – Venice.' She paused, her grey eyes growing distant as she picked through the memories. ‘By the following summer, last year, we both knew it wasn't just a fling.'

‘What was he like?' I asked.

She took a deep breath and exhaled with the weight of trying to sum him up. ‘He made me laugh. We laughed so much. He'd a real quick wit; he could see the daft side of anything. And he'd clown about, too. Ring me up and put on funny accents, spoof emails.' She thought for a moment, her head craned to one side, her hand stroking her ponytail absent-mindedly. ‘He was a very kind man – nothing was too much trouble. The number of times he'd be late because he'd helped someone who'd broken down or he'd run an errand for a mate – that sort of thing. Good company. Some men, they're tense, wound-up, you know?'

I thought of Ray, who was exactly like that given half a chance.

‘But Charlie was pretty laid-back,' she went on. ‘The only time I ever heard him get steamed up was in the car. If we got stuck behind a tractor or some Sunday driver then you could see the steam coming out of his ears. He was like a different man in the car. He'd overtake when there was barely room to get a bike past. Nerve-shattering. I hated driving with him.' She paused. ‘He was bloody brilliant,' she added, her voice creaky and her eyes glistening. She blinked hard and looked down at her hands, rubbing at the polished nails. I felt the lurch of sympathy.

‘So.' She cleared her voice. ‘We talked about wanting to be together and Charlie said he didn't want to leave until Alex had finished high school. It would mean waiting another nine or ten months and he asked me if I'd do that.' She gave me a sideways glance. ‘No-brainer. Charlie already had the cottage by then. He and Heather got it as an investment property. It didn't even have a roof when they first bought it. They were doing it up to sell on. Then Charlie thought it might be somewhere for us, eventually. Heather could keep the family home and he'd take the cottage. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to give up my little house. I'm a city girl – Manchester's the only place I've ever lived – but in the meantime we could use it as a getaway. That was the plan. Then Heather found out about us,' she said flatly. ‘I don't know what made her suspect but she checked his phone.'

‘When was this?' A prickle of suspense spread down my back.

‘Last October. First I knew he rang me at work. They'd spent half the night talking; Charlie'd told her he was leaving and she was devastated.' Libby winced. ‘Heather agreed they needed to keep it from Alex until his exams were over. But she made Charlie promise not to see me in the meantime. He accepted. So there was this awful charade going on: them sharing a bed and me in purdah.'

Jealousy is a powerful motive but I assumed Heather had a firm alibi or she'd be a prime suspect. I asked Libby about it.

‘Rock solid,' she answered me. ‘I never knew the ins and outs – the police don't tell you everything – but she was with a friend, Valerie Mayhew.'

‘Were there any other suspects?'

‘Apart from me?' she sounded bitter. ‘No.' Then she hesitated and backtracked. ‘Though there was a guy that Charlie had been in business with: Nick Dryden. He was a piece of work – had his fingers in the till for months, apparently. When Charlie found out he pursued him through the civil courts but Dryden declared himself bankrupt and Charlie never saw a penny. Dryden climbed into a bottle and lost his wife, his kids, his home. The crazy thing was he blamed Charlie. He was the only person I ever heard Charlie slagging off. But that all happened six, seven years ago. Ancient history. I think he went to Spain.'