Cath Staincliffe - Crying Out Loud

Libby suggested we sit in her car; she had Rowena in the back. ‘I don’t often bring her out but she sleeps mornings regular as clockwork. Don’t know what I’ve done to deserve that.’ She smiled.

The baby was a similar age to Jamie but physically very different: solid and chubby, with a bald head. There wasn’t space in my head to think about Jamie, about the situation at home. It lurked there, a tight ball in my guts, a pressure at the back of my skull.

‘Takes after Charlie.’ Libby smiled again. ‘Rugby player.’

‘Did he play?’

‘Nah. Just built like one. Liked to watch. That and motor racing. Liked to put his foot down. He always said he had enough exercise lugging stuff about at work. You said you had some news?’

‘Yes. I’m afraid it’s bad news, about Damien Beswick. Sad, too. Damien committed suicide last night.’

‘Oh, my God.’ Her hand flew to her face.

‘I saw him yesterday,’ I said. ‘We went over his new version of events. He was reasonably cooperative. He maintained he didn’t attack Charlie. And he left a note, last night, saying the same.’

‘What does this… I don’t know what this means,’ she said quickly, thumping the steering wheel with one fist. ‘Are you saying he didn’t do it?’ Her face was mobile with confusion.

‘It’s more likely that he’s innocent than it was before,’ I said. A plane flew overhead, coming in to land at the airport close by.

She glared at me. ‘Did they know he might do this? Had he tried anything before?’

‘He was unsettled. He’d self-harmed. He was on some medication to calm him down. But his sister implied he had access to illegal stuff, too. She says the drugs made him worse but he found it hard to cope without them. But he wasn’t considered to be a suicide risk, no. I saw him yesterday and it never crossed my mind that he’d do something like this.’

There was movement in a copse to our right and a pair of red deer, large with huge antlers, walked into view. They seemed like creatures from another age.

‘And his version: did it add up?’

‘Possibly. At the very least there were some inconsistencies that I’d like to look at again and talk to the police about. I did go to see Geoff Sinclair but that was before this.’ What would he make of Damien Beswick’s sudden death? ‘Even if you don’t want me to carry on,’ I said to Libby, ‘I’ll be passing on what I know to the authorities.’

‘Well, I can’t just leave it like this,’ Libby said. ‘Not knowing. If he was innocent then that’s two lives lost, not just Charlie. And if they got it wrong, if it wasn’t him, then who was it?’

‘I don’t know. Look, Nick Dryden, did the police ever talk to him?’

She stared at me. ‘I’ve no idea. You think he might have done it?’

I watched the deer move off, silhouetted against the sky as they crested a slope. ‘He’s the only enemy that’s ever been mentioned. He should be ruled out.’

‘Can you find out?’

‘I can see what Geoff Sinclair knows.’

She sat back, resting her head on the head brace, her face tilted up. ‘Can they reopen the case with Damien dead?’

‘I imagine it will be harder but not impossible. It’ll be easier if there are enough grounds to try someone else.’

‘What a mess.’ She shook her head. ‘How did he…?’

‘He hung himself.’

She shuddered and shifted in her seat. ‘Do what you can.’

I opened the door and got out of the car. Then bent down as another thought occurred to me. ‘The press might be back.’

She groaned. ‘Oh, God. Yeah. OK.’

As I shut the door, I could see a group of fallow deer making their way down to the lake. The expanse of water lay blurred by the mist: a steely grey reflecting the sky above. Ducks swam and cormorants posed still as stone on the palings near the shore. But even the sombre weather didn’t dampen the brilliant flare of ginger and purple in the patches of heather and the blaze of copper in the trees across the lake.

I drove home via Hale. I had no obligation to Heather and Alex Carter; nevertheless, I felt I ought to show my face and see if they had heard the news. It wouldn’t be easy for them. No matter how sure they were about Damien’s guilt, his deathbed confession – or retraction to be precise – would disrupt any sense of closure they had. Everything would float to the surface again. I had an ulterior motive, too: Heather Carter would know more about Nick Dryden than Libby. And might be able to tell me whether the police had spoken to him while investigating Charlie’s death.

Valerie Mayhew answered the door. She tilted her head to one side when she recognized me. ‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage?’

Her tone took me aback. Before I could respond Heather appeared behind her in the hallway. Smaller than her friend, her cherry-red sweater replaced by a similar one in mustard yellow. Her face was pallid, her forehead creased in dismay. ‘Valerie, it’s all right.’

‘You’ve heard?’ I spoke directly to Heather.

She nodded. ‘Damien Beswick? Just the basics. The family liaison officer we had rang me. It’s already on the local radio.’ Heather moved back and Valerie did, too, allowing me in. Alex came out of the living room. He glanced at me and gave a shy nod. Rowena’s half-brother, I realized with a jolt. They shared Charlie’s large-boned build.

‘You should close the gates,’ Valerie told Heather, ‘before they turn up.’ In the scale of things a prison suicide wouldn’t bring out the press pack but the murder itself had been a huge news story and the death of the convicted killer and his claim to innocence would rekindle interest.

‘I’ll do it,’ Alex offered and disappeared into a doorway off the hall. He was soon back and joined us in the dining room.

‘He was disturbed, wasn’t he?’ Heather asked me. ‘An addict. They said that at the time.’

‘Do you think your interest, dragging it all up again, could have contributed?’ Valerie jumped in.

My cheeks burnt; licks of shame. Had it? ‘It’s possible.’ I swallowed. Damien had resisted my probing with his attempts to distract me, rambling about trivia. Was it simply too traumatic for him to recall in detail? Had facing those memories pushed him over the edge? ‘I was invited to talk with him,’ I said, ‘by his family – his sister.’ I didn’t mention it was Libby who was footing the bill.

‘The one who wrote the letter?’ Alex asked softly. His eyes swivelled my way but never met mine.

‘Yes.’

We were sat around the teak dining table. Close to Heather was a bowl of potpourri: shards and curls of wood that smelt like cedar. She was playing with it, her nails sifting through the fragments.

‘What did he tell you?’ Valerie asked me. ‘Anything that made sense or was this change of heart something the sister dreamt up?’ Her clipped words and the brusque delivery plunged me back into the headmistress’s office. I resented her attitude. And felt sorry for the souls who were sent up before her on the magistrate’s bench. She was much sharper than when I’d talked to her at the Civil Justice Centre. I put it down to her wanting to shield her friend from fresh troubles.

I looked at Valerie steadily then shifted my gaze to include Heather, whose face was pale and intent. ‘Damien left a note,’ I said, ‘repeating that he was innocent.’

‘No,’ Heather gasped and covered her eyes with her hand. ‘Why did he confess in the first place, then?’ she demanded.

Alex looked at his mother, his face glum. I got the sense that he felt clumsy, miserable; a teenage boy at a loss in the emotionally fraught situation.

‘I think you’d better go,’ Valerie said.