Cath Staincliffe - Crying Out Loud

‘Can you describe him?’

A shrug. ‘It was dark.’

‘Young, old, fat, thin?’

‘Dunno,’ he said lamely. ‘It was freezing, I wasn’t hanging about, you know.’ He shuffled in his chair. ‘You seen that Most Haunted on the telly? They want to come in here. Hah! No way they’ll get through the night.’ He was off again, talking trivia instead of pleading his case.

I gathered together my papers.

‘You coming again?’

‘I don’t know.’ I made eye contact.

He looked away, his jaw working, rocking back in his chair. ‘You going to talk to my lawyer?’

I looked across; he slid his eyes to meet mine. ‘And say what?’ I asked him.

I came away feeling even more bemused about Damien Beswick than before I’d met him. His account of events was patchy and paltry. His explanation as to why he’d admitted to the crime was half-baked. I’d no idea what I was going to tell Libby.

The wind had got up, gusts shaking the trees and pushing banks of slate-grey clouds across the sky. I could smell the peaty aroma of leaf mould amid the petrol fumes and a trace of spice and onion, which made my mouth water, from one of the takeaways on the main road below the prison.

There was still some time before I had to get back home so I paid an unannounced call on Heather Carter, Charlie’s widow. I suspected if I rang first I’d get the brush-off. For the family of a victim, the apprehension of the killer is a huge part of dealing with the loss. They know who is responsible at the very least. If the convicted person then starts crying innocence, it’s a fresh trauma. Not something any family would want to accept.

Heather and her son Alex still lived on the riverside in Hale by the Bollin. The Carter house stood in its own grounds, bristling with security devices like all the properties nearby. The gates were open, perhaps because it was daylight, but I wondered if the cameras were filming me.

Heather Carter answered the door. I recognized her from the photos in news reports that I’d found online. I introduced myself and asked whether she could spare me a few minutes: I was working on a case linked to her husband’s death.

Her eyes narrowed and she took a step back. ‘Are you the press?’

‘No.’ I handed her my business card. ‘A private investigator.’

She hesitated. I thought I’d blown it, but then she inclined her head and invited me in.

Heather was short with a mass of curly black hair. She wore trendy glasses, black and red rectangular frames, and was dressed in a cherry-red sweater and fitted chocolate-brown slacks which showed off her curves. She still wore her wedding ring.

The house was lovely: thick carpets and luxurious curtains, high ceilings and huge windows which let in plenty of light. There were several doors off the entrance hall and I guessed there were three or four reception rooms. Heather led me into one which served as a formal dining room. In the centre was a large teak table and chairs, and along one wall a matching sideboard arrayed with family photos.

As we sat down, I heard footfall above and glanced upwards.

‘My son, Alex.’ Heather smiled. ‘Heavy on his feet.’

‘How old?’

‘Eighteen now.’ Her smile faded, her eyes softened. ‘He took Charlie’s death very hard – I don’t know if he’ll ever get over it.’ She shook her head then adopted a more businesslike tone. ‘So, how can I help?’

‘I’m reviewing the circumstances around Damien Beswick’s conviction.’

Heather frowned.

‘Did you receive a letter from his sister, Chloe?’

‘Yes,’ her face was alert, ‘I burnt it. I almost went to the police,’ she said. ‘The cheek of it!’ She gave a brittle laugh. ‘Is that who you’re working for?’ She was riled: circles of anger flared on her cheeks.

‘No. I’m sorry, I can’t reveal the identity of my client.’ Would she guess it was Libby? I thought not. The normal assumption would be that it was someone connected to Damien who’d employ me.

‘That man killed my husband. I know ,’ she emphasized the word. ‘I’ve no idea what he or his sister hope to gain from this and I don’t give a damn. He’s where he should be.’ Tears stood in her eyes and I felt a sweep of pity for bringing this to her door.

There were footsteps on the stairs. ‘Mum?’ a voice called out.

‘I’m in here,’ she sniffed, taking a breath.

Alex Carter pushed open the door and came in. He stopped short when he saw she had company. He’d inherited his mother’s wayward hair and his father’s bigger build but he was rangy rather than blocky. He wore black jeans and a plain blue sweatshirt. He avoided eye contact and I formed the impression he was shy and awkward with strangers. ‘I’m going now,’ he said.

Heather stood up, wishing him good luck as she crossed the room and touched him on the shoulder. ‘Just try to relax.’

He nodded, dipped his head and left.

‘Driving test,’ she told me as she came back to her seat. ‘Second time.’ She paused, then said: ‘Exactly why are you here?’

‘I’m trying to establish whether there might be any truth in Damien Beswick’s new position. If there is any possibility that they might have got the wrong man.’

Her face hardened and I thought she would sling me out. ‘You know what happened?’ she demanded.

‘I’ve read about it.’

‘Charlie-’ The name unseated her this time and I was alarmed to see her mouth quiver and her eyes swim with tears.

‘I’m sorry; this is very upsetting for you.’

‘It brings it all back,’ she said quietly. ‘You can’t imagine. Charlie never hurt a soul; he was a good man. The shock…’ She took her glasses off, wiped her eyes, replaced them. Put her hand to her forehead. ‘I’d like you to go now.’ Suddenly drained.

‘Please, Mrs Carter, I won’t bother you again but if you could just tell me what you remember.’ I was pushing it; the woman was in bits and I was asking her to rake it all up. ‘Please? And then I’ll leave you alone.’

She looked directly at me. Her mouth was taut and trembling. ‘We didn’t part on good terms. That still makes me so sad. You probably read that Charlie was seeing someone else?’

I nodded.

‘He’d told me he wouldn’t see her for a while. It was a chance for us to give it another go, see if we could make it work.’

In Heather’s eyes. But from Libby’s point of view the marriage was past saving; it was simply a compassionate pause in Charlie’s new relationship for the sake of the boy.

‘That Saturday Charlie said he was going to a sales exhibition at the NEC in Birmingham.’ She ducked her head, studying her hands. ‘I didn’t believe him.’ She looked up, stretching her neck, rubbing one hand up and down it then covering her mouth and giving a shaky sigh. Her anguish was palpable but I waited quietly for her to continue.

‘I got a friend to come round and I’m not proud of this now…’ her brow furrowed and she sniffed hard ‘… but we followed him in her car. As soon as he turned off for Thornsby instead of staying on the road to the M6, I knew he’d lied to me. He was sneaking off to see her.’ Tears coursed down her cheeks and she swept them away. ‘Sorry.’

‘No,’ I murmured, feeling lousy.

‘So we turned round and drove back here. I was calling him all the names under the sun but he was-’ She didn’t complete the sentence but I knew what she was saying: he was dead or dying. ‘That made it even worse. That those were my last memories of him.’

‘I’m sorry. There weren’t any other suspects?’ I asked her.

She looked a bit muddled – still lost in the past, her nose red and puffy from crying. ‘No. Well, the girlfriend.’ I noticed she avoided Libby’s name. ‘Then they found Damien Beswick. If Charlie had just given him his wallet, instead of trying to hang on to it, then he might still be here.’ She went and fetched a tissue from a box on the sideboard, blew her nose. In Damien’s new version of events the wallet was on the kitchen counter; in his original confession the knife had been beside it.