Read Unsafe Convictions Online
Authors: Alison Taylor
‘What did you say?’
Gaynor
’s voice was hard enough to split stone when she was in one of her moods, the newsroom clerk thought, which was more often than not. Rubbing at a smear of ball-point ink on the telephone, he said: ‘This woman wants to speak to you. She’s called Mrs Something Sheridan, and she said it’s urgent.’
‘
What the fuck does she want?’
‘
I don’t know, Gaynor. She didn’t say. She just left a number.’
‘
Where?’
‘
Where what?’
‘
Jesus! Where was she fucking calling
from
?’
‘
How should I know?’
‘
Give me the number.’
Obediently,
he complied, then waited, while, at the other end of the line, she rustled papers.
‘
That’s a Sheffield number,’ she told him. ‘Why should somebody in Sheffield want to speak to me?’
Rather
than: ‘How the fuck should I know?’ he said: ‘I’ve no idea, Gaynor. Where are you now?’
‘
Freezing off my butt in the back of fucking beyond!’
‘
Well, wherever you are, you’d better call her,’ he said mildly. ‘It sounded urgent.’
Completing her report on Dugdale, Ellen said: ‘There’s always such a mess when people’s feelings and motives get exposed.’
‘
Only because they’re a mess to begin with,’ Jack commented.
‘
Be fair. We’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest.’
‘
The nest was thoroughly agitated long before we arrived,’ McKenna said, ‘and we keep prodding until the last hornet comes sizzling out. I’ve brought forward Father Barclay’s interview to this evening, around eight, and once we’ve heard what he has to say, we go after Fauvel.’ To Jack, he added: ‘I’d be grateful if you and Janet will examine statements for discrepancies, or anything that was overlooked first time around. I know much of what Smith told Holbrook isn’t in the trial transcript, and that could be because he’s making it up as he goes along, but we’ll ask Linda Newton to clarify the issues relating to her sister which might impinge on Dugdale’s conduct.’
‘
His statements are models of consistency,’ Jack said, ‘apart from the news about his relationships with Linda and Broadbent, but Lewis is a different matter. She seems to change her tune by the hour.’
‘
I must ask Barclay if he knows her.’ McKenna scribbled in his notebook. ‘Did you contact the National Insurance Register about Bunty Smith?’
Jack
nodded. ‘I also put queries on Hilda Smith and Bunty Smith through our computer, but nothing showed up, so the psychologist was probably right about her going to hospital, and not prison.’
*
Rene’s dinner of roast lamb and vegetables, and apple tart with hot custard, all of which Janet, watched hawkishly by Ellen, consumed steadily, was almost over when Superintendent Ryman telephoned McKenna.
‘
Something happened today I feel you should know about,’ Ryman began, his voice steely. ‘A rather unpleasant incident, I may add. Mr and Mrs Stanton Smith drove into Haughton this afternoon, and in the chemist’s, where Mr Stanton Smith tried to purchase some toiletries, the other customers very ostentatiously turned their backs on him. Some even went so far’, he added, ‘as to hold their coats over their faces, as if he had the plague!’
‘
Mr Stanton Smith has no one but himself to blame,’ McKenna replied. ‘If he wanted to keep a low profile, he should have refrained from spilling his guts all over the national press. People will react as they see fit, and apart from that, the father of the late Trisha Smith had a heart attack this morning, provoked by what the family claim are Smith’s wicked lies. He’s heaping insult on injury.’
‘
You’ve only got
their
word for that.’
‘
Apparently, there’s independent evidence available to disprove what was published. However, I understand the family’s dealing with that in their own way.’
‘
Are they? How?’
‘
By the usual means, I imagine.’
‘
A libel action? Have they got that kind of money?’
‘
I’m grateful for your information, Mr Ryman, but I won’t discuss the issue further.’
‘
That’s all very well, but it didn’t end with the cold-shouldering,’ Ryman added hurriedly. ‘When they got back to the car, they found the tyres slashed.’
‘
That’s for your local officers to deal with, although it might not be wise to construe the tyre-slashing as a personal attack.’
‘
What else could it be? Beryl Stanton Smith drives a cream Mercedes, with a personalised number-plate.’
*
McKenna had taken Rene to the hospital, and Janet and Ellen were washing up, when Colin Bowden arrived unexpectedly. Following Jack into the office, he pulled a chair close to the gas fire and, elbows on knees, stared at its white-hot heart.
‘
Shall I switch on the tape-recorder?’ Jack asked.
Colin
shrugged. ‘It’s up to you, sir, but this isn’t about the investigation. It isn’t your problem, either, but I don’t know who else to talk to.’
‘
Ms Singh? The Federation?’
‘
I can’t trust her. She’s got some agenda of her own, and I don’t think she’s advising me properly, so I asked the Federation for another solicitor.’
‘
As is your right.’
‘
Is it? Anyway, she’d beaten me to it, and told them she’d want out if I continue resisting her advice.’ Rubbing his hands to warm them, Colin added: ‘I don’t know what they said to her, but they virtually told me beggars can’t be choosers, and I either toe her line or suffer the consequences. Bearing in mind what you said about breaking ranks, sir, I said I’d prefer the consequences.’
Jack
sighed. ‘That strikes me as being more of a knee-jerk reaction than a considered decision. Have you thought this through? You’re obviously somewhat headstrong, and you might not appreciate her frames of reference. She’s obliged to protect you from getting shafted, and she has to presume that we pose a very real threat to your future, and even, perhaps, to your freedom.’
‘
She’s muddying the waters, sir, and putting the wrong construction on things. I
know
I didn’t collude with Inspector Dugdale to suppress evidence, and I
know
I didn’t help stitch up Smith, but she won’t accept that. She’s convinced I’m holding out on her.’
‘
Perhaps she’s just convinced that
something
happened, whether you know it or not, and trying to protect you from others’ mischief.’
‘
There was no mischief.’
‘
You’re isolating yourself,’ Jack said. ‘Putting yourself right out on a limb. In a worst-case scenario,’ he pointed out quietly, ‘whether or not you did anything wrong, you face going down. You were too close to Dugdale for dirt not to rub off, so I suggest you think again before cutting your only lifeline.’
*
As he finished relating the gist of Colin’s visit, Jack said: ‘It’s like that song Queen and Freddie Mercury used to belt out at the top of their voices.’
‘
I know.’ McKenna nodded. ‘ “Another one bites the dust”, as in solicitors going down like ninepins. Joking apart, it’s time we made our own representations to the Federation, so you can drop them a line while I’m out. Express our general concerns, advise them to get their solicitors back in line, and include Pawsley’s admission about Hinchcliffe’s gross indiscretion. That might alert them to the possibility of solicitor collusion.’
*
The bodywork of McKenna’s car was cloudy with frost, the pavement sparkling with millions of microscopic crystals, and the trees in the churchyard, their branches whitened, looked like ghosts, and quivered just as mournfully in the wind.
‘R
ene’s convinced we’ll be under ten feet of snow before long,’ he said, managing a wheelspin at the turn of the hill. ‘D’you think she’s exaggerating?’
‘
I doubt it,’ Ellen replied. ‘My grandparents’ house in Yorkshire was buried roof deep at times. We should get snow chains for the cars, you know.’
‘
I tried, but everywhere’s sold out in anticipation.’
Father
Barclay stood at the parlour window of the small presbytery outside Buxton, looking through his spectral reflection to the steep lane down which his visitors must drive. So weary he could barely stand, and almost beside himself with the bone-deep pain which dogged him day and night, he once more pondered the early arrival of his own death. The wilful, strong-minded young man who was so convinced of his calling that nothing could stand in its way was now a forgotten stranger, and he could not even remember the energy, let alone the fiery spirit, which compelled him to holy orders. Now, that spirit was humbled and turned in upon itself, he thought, as he watched McKenna’s car, headlights swinging wildly, bump over the humps and ruts of the lane. He began to move restlessly around the room, equilibrium and faith once more threatened by experience, by the close, cold brush of death’s wings, and by his responsibility for releasing a sadist upon the world.
*
The decorations in this cheerless room must be pre-war, McKenna thought, the unyielding, hide-upholstered armchair in which he sat even older, and although the coals in the hearth burned bright, the chimney must cough when the wind turned, for the wallpaper above the mantel was discoloured by smoky stains.
While
Ellen rigged up her machines, he studied the tall young man who sat in another ancient chair, and thought he saw the shadow of death still about him. Barclay’s eyes burned holes in his parchment-like skin, and McKenna could almost see the blood pulsing through the matrix of veins on the beautiful hands folded in the priest’s lap. He was not clad in the garb of his calling, as McKenna had expected, but in old corduroy trousers, a fisherman’s rib sweater, and checked shirt. Firelight struck gold in his thick brown hair, and warmed his engaging features, but did nothing to dispel the shadow.
‘
Thank you for allowing us to record the interview,’ McKenna said, ‘although I must stress that you’re not under caution.’ He smiled and, receiving a smile in return, felt as if he had seen the sun break through cloud. ‘Do you have any questions of your own?’
‘
None that I can think of, and none that man can answer anyway I’m afraid, pretentious though that may sound.’ Despite the lingering smile, the priest’s eyes were dark with weariness. ‘If Father Fauvel saw me now, I think he’d be very contented. On my last day in Haughton he advised an unremitting search of soul and conscience. He thought I was perilously close to heresy.’
‘
Did he?’ McKenna asked. ‘What had you done to warrant such chastisement?’
‘
I questioned the humanity of His Holiness’s last encyclical on birth control. I believe the Church has no right to promote uncontrolled fertility when half its flock is already starving. Unfortunately, we don’t have the gifts of Our Lord when it comes to feeding the masses.’
‘
In another age you’d have sizzled at the stake for comments like that.’
‘
Priests who share my views would sizzle now, if some of the cardinals had their way. But the Church is more likely to founder through arrogance than by reassessing its position according to the time and place. What is acceptable in a country with state welfare is wholly inappropriate in the Third World, and even here, both spiritual and material poverty results from the compulsion people feel to have children they can’t afford.’ He stared thoughtfully at McKenna. ‘We can only ever guess at the shape of God’s Will. Doubt
must
inform our convictions. Apart from that, unquestioning faith tends to give others the wrong opportunities.’ Impatiently, he ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I’m sorry. I’m being very pompous. To be truthful, Father Fauvel and I were close to real conflict, and not only over theological issues. I found his conservative routines rather irksome, and he very much resented my criticism.’
‘
He probably saw it as a power struggle,’ McKenna suggested. ‘The Church is no less prone than other institutions to vices like ambition. But at least, in South America, you were
expected
to make a difference. Will you go back?’
‘
When my strength returns. It’s a long time coming.’
‘
It’s a wonder you’re still alive,’ McKenna said. ‘You were very ill.’
‘
What sort of missionary work were you doing?’ Ellen asked. ‘Our documents don’t say.’
‘
You’ve probably heard about the street children in South American cities,’ Barclay replied. ‘They’re beggars, there are literally thousands of them, and they’re looked upon as vermin. Every so often, the “social cleansing squads” execute a few dozen here and there. Our mission was taking children off the streets, and providing food and shelter.’ The smile he offered was bleak. ‘A far more worthwhile enterprise than getting Piers Stanton Smith out of prison. I wish I’d never come back.’
‘
Did you know him well?’ McKenna asked.
‘
Only by sight. Converts were traditionally Father Fauvel’s property.’
‘
I have to ask you this,’ McKenna said. ‘Are you absolutely sure you saw Smith in church on the afternoon Trisha died?’
‘
Absolutely.’ Barclay nodded. ‘He turned up not long after two o’clock, wanting Father Fauvel. I told him Father Fauvel was in Manchester for the afternoon, at a meeting, but he waited. He must have footled around for the best part of three hours. It’s perfectly possible he was giving himself an alibi, but then, he also had a lot of time on his hands. I imagine he still has.’
‘
Who else was there?’
‘
The ladies who do the flowers and the cleaning, and I was in and out all the time. We were busy with preparations for Easter.’
‘
You went abroad at the beginning of April, and wrote to Father Fauvel early in September,’ McKenna began. ‘I appreciate that from your point of view, he was the more certain conduit, and in a position to ensure the letter served its purpose, but why didn’t you lay greater emphasis on its importance?’
‘
I almost didn’t write at all,’ Barclay admitted. ‘Smith and Haughton seemed terribly remote, but, more to the point, I knew there were other witnesses. My statement wasn’t crucial.’
‘
But it was,’ McKenna said. ‘And you should have said as much in your covering note to Father Fauvel.’
‘
It wasn’t his business.’ Barclay was adamant. ‘It was a matter for the police.’
‘
Did Smith say why he was anxious to see Father Fauvel?’
‘
No, but there’s nothing sinister in that. As the most junior of the priests, I hardly figured in his scheme of things.’
‘
Did Trisha ever attend your church?’
‘
I don’t know. I never met her.’
‘
Do you know her sister, Linda ?’
‘
No.’
‘
What about Wendy Lewis?’
Barclay
nodded. ‘Of course. She’s very devout, and she also, I suspect, has a crush on Father Fauvel, although in that, she’s definitely not alone.’
‘
Really?’
‘
He’s quite charming, and rather handsome, in that bland, old-fashioned way.’ He smiled. ‘A few years ago, two teenage girls virtually besieged the presbytery. They’d turn up in the morning before school, in the afternoon as soon as school was out, and be permanent fixtures nearly all weekend. When they took to peeking through the slits in the curtain nets he asked their parents to take them in hand.’
‘
Interesting.’ Stifling a yawn, McKenna asked: ‘D’you know Julie Broadbent?’
A
strange expression crossed the priest’s face. ‘Yes, I know Julie. A very lovely woman.’
‘
Is she? We haven’t met her yet.’
‘
No, but I’m sure you’ve heard plenty about her, most of it bad. Take my advice, and don’t heed. She isn’t what people say, and if she ever was, she’s redeemed herself.’
‘
Like Mary Magdalene?’ McKenna suggested.
‘
I hope that isn’t mockery, Superintendent,’ Barclay said, an edge in his voice. ‘Julie’s a good person. She has purity and charity, whereas she’d be quite entitled to bitterness and anger. She’s been badly wounded.’
Seeing
the expression on McKenna’s face, he added impatiently: ‘Not as Smith claims to be damaged! Julie was saddled with her mother’s shame, and when she went somewhat awry, most people saw it as proof that immorality is inherited. Personally, I believe the accident is responsible for any lapses.’
McKenna
frowned. ‘What accident?’
‘
Has no one told you? When she was eleven, a pan of boiling fat spilled over her. She’s very badly scarred, and I’ve often thought her so-called promiscuity was simply the outcome of an equally blistered self-image.’