Cath Staincliffe - Crying Out Loud

‘You ought to make the most of the time you’ve got left,’ I warned her.

‘Everyone says that.’

‘Yeah, because we all wish we had. You won’t have time to wipe your nose once the baby comes.’

Abi looked amazing when she opened the door to us. She was tanned and her hair streaked from travelling in Thailand and India, and she wore some stretchy knit combination that hugged her huge belly.

‘How are you feeling?’ I asked her. ‘You look great.’

‘I’m good.’ She lifted Jamie out of the buggy. ‘Apart from the piles.’

I groaned in sympathy.

When Libby arrived, I outlined for her what I’d done so far and was honest with her about my uncertainty.

‘So, you’re saying you can’t tell one way or the other?’ she asked me, her grey eyes piercing.

‘If you pushed me, I’d say he’s more likely to be guilty than not. But if you take away the confession, I’ve no idea how strong the other evidence is. Partly because I don’t know exactly what they’ve got. We all know he was at the cottage, that he stole Charlie’s wallet and that there was blood on his footwear – but how secure is the forensic evidence that he used the knife? I’d have to be in the police to get that sort of information. They never found the weapon, did they? So it will be impossible to prove Damien used it, I think.’

Libby sighed, irritated by the unsatisfactory nature of my report. ‘So that’s it. Well, what else could you do?’

‘Try and see Damien’s lawyer, perhaps. They would know what evidence the CPS had. Though Chloe Beswick says they told her loud and clear that there are no grounds for an appeal. She’s asked me to talk to Damien again. It’s up to you,’ I told her. ‘You don’t need to decide now. He’s not going anywhere. Do you want to think about it?’

‘Yeah,’ she said. Then she thought of something, leant forward with her hands on her knees. ‘What if you could talk to someone in the police?’

‘That would help. Why?’

‘It’s just – there was one of the detectives; he questioned me when I was a suspect.’ She gave a bitter laugh, still hurt at the treatment she received. ‘But after that he kept in touch, let me know where they were up to. He informed me when they arrested Damien Beswick and he told me when they had a confession. It was good of him. I didn’t have a family liaison officer as such but he did it anyway. He might see you.’

‘What’s he called?’

‘Geoff Sinclair – he’s based at Longsight. I did try him when the letter came, but he was off work.’

‘I’ll try that, then?’ I said.

‘Yes.’ She seemed happier at the prospect than she had at me giving up. She wanted to get to the bottom of things and not be left with any doubts or ambiguity.

After she’d left I rang Greater Manchester Police and asked to be put through to Longsight; I was passed around a bit and was finally told that Detective Sinclair had retired.

When I rang Libby, she was disappointed but asked me if I could try and contact him anyway. She knew he lived in New Mills, a village up in the peaks beyond Stockport.

Luckily Sinclair had a BT phone line. That meant he was in the directory. With the plethora of telecoms providers, many subscribers are no longer listed. It isn’t impossible to find people on other networks – it just takes longer.

He was home. He listened to my spiel about working on behalf of Libby Hill (I was sure that using her name would get me further than leaving it out) and I told him that both Libby and Heather Carter had received letters claiming Damien Beswick was innocent.

‘Tell her to chuck it in the bin,’ he said, in a blunt Lancashire accent.

‘She won’t do that, not yet anyway. Can I come and see you?’

‘Why?’ He was guarded.

‘Libby wants to be certain that the conviction was sound. If I knew some of the police evidence that supported his confession-’

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

‘I could be there by one,’ I pressed on. ‘It’s been a terrible shock for her and she really appreciated how you kept her informed during the enquiry. You could help me set her mind at ease.’ What’s a little emotional blackmail between investigators?

‘I’ll need to be done by two,’ he said flatly. ‘And you’ll have to park in the pub car park on Crown Street.’

Result!

I left Jamie in Abi’s care and made the trip out along the A6 through the suburbs beyond Stockport. The road narrows frequently and is choked with traffic. It got easier once I forked left and climbed up past Lyme Park, scene of the famous white shirt fandango with Mr Darcy in a television adaptation of Pride and Prejudice . If you didn’t see it think hunk with smouldering eyes and a manly chest drenched in wet white cotton. On through Disley and from there the road clung to the hillside as the valleys opened out and the peaks came into view. New Mills is famous for its textile mills and sweet factory (Swizzles, home to Refreshers, Love Hearts and Drumstick lollies) and, more recently, renowned for the innovative hydroelectricity scheme sited on an old weir.

Geoff Sinclair looked like Gollum from The Lord of the Rings movies – well, a middle-aged version. Bald-headed with wide cheekbones, big ears and a long, scrawny neck, bulbous startling blue eyes and rubberiness to his lips. Large hands with spidery fingers. Unlike the ghostly creature in the films, his complexion was sallow, yellow. It was hard to tell his age: his face was wrinkled but I’d have guessed fifties rather than sixties. Police can retire after twenty-five or thirty years on a pension, so if he had joined up as a young man he may only have been fifty or so now.

We didn’t shake hands but he invited me in with a nod of the head. His cottage was on the outskirts of town and the living room had a broad window running across the main wall at the back, facing out on to the hills and the valley below. Nature in wide-screen. It was another breezy day and a stand of hawthorns to the left of Sinclair’s garden, bent low to the hill, shivered in the wind.

‘Would you like a brew?’ he offered. ‘There’s a pot just made.’

I thanked him and he disappeared into the kitchen while I sat and drank in the view. As the hills rose from the valley floor, I could see where farmland gave way to the moors, the green and tawny pastures replaced by dark splashes of peat bog, swathes of purple heather and orange-coloured bracken. I made out the hulk of Kinder Scout, the area’s highest peak: a gritstone plateau, a sometimes wild and treacherous place to walk. Clouds like boulders, dense and rounded, swept over the mountain. It’d be a punishing commute to work in Manchester from here but maybe the trade-off was worth it.

The tea came, hot and strong, bitter on the tongue. Just the way I like it. Aware that my time was limited, I began by showing him Chloe’s letter. He read it and snorted, a plosive ‘pah’ from his lips.

‘I went to see her, then I visited Damien,’ I told him.

‘He still in Strangeways?’

I nodded.

‘So, what’s his story?’ he sounded deeply suspicious as he lifted his mug.

‘Garbled, to say the least. He says Charlie was already dead when he entered the cottage. He claims he confessed because he was suffering from withdrawal symptoms and it was the easiest way to end the interview and get some medical attention.’

‘He entered a guilty plea,’ Sinclair said deliberately. He blew on his tea and took a sip.

‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘but then he told his sister he’d made it up.’

‘He’s mucking you about,’ he said.

‘Maybe. But if you set aside the confession and his presence at the scene, what other evidence did you have? You didn’t have the weapon.’