Cath Staincliffe - Crying Out Loud

‘Yeah.’ He rose and whistled for Digger. He’d always been crap at talking about emotions.

Ray took the dog out and I cooked tea. When I went to call the children they were balancing the remote control on Jamie’s tummy and counting how long until her kicks and wriggles bounced it off. Jamie was laughing; all gums and sparkling eyes as Tom pulled faces.

There was one more hurdle to sort out before the end of the day. I waited until we had finished our pasties and apple and raisin fool. Then I took a deep breath and broached it with Ray. ‘Could you work from home, tomorrow? Well, tomorrow morning.’

‘You want me to look after the baby?’ Quick as a flash.

‘If she’s still here. Just tomorrow. It’s work. A meeting. I can’t change things at such short notice. I would if I could. And I can’t take her with me.’

‘I didn’t bring stuff home,’ he objected. ‘If you’d said on the phone…’

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.

Aweek 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.

14 Leeson Close

Northern Moor

Manchester

M23 JIB

Dear Miss Libby Hill,

My name is Chloe Beswick. I am Damien Beswick’s half-sister. I am sorry about what happened to Mr Carter but there is something you should know. Damien told me he didn’t do it and that he only confessed because it was the easiest thing to do. Damien is a drug user and has lots of problems and he was confused when they interviewed him. When he told me I went to his lawyer but she said there was nothing she could do unless their was new evidence.

I believe my brother and their has been a miscarriage of justice. It also means the person that did it is still free. I am sure you want the right person to serve time for this. If the police and the brief will not look for new evidence then I don’t know how to get a retrial for Damien. Maybe I will have to do a campaign.

Yours faithfully,

Chloe Beswick

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.’