Cath Staincliffe - Crying Out Loud

‘I’ll be right outside,’ the prison officer told me.

Damien Beswick shared the same pale skin as his sister and the freckles too, but his were darker and he had collar-length black hair, thick sideburns and bushy eyebrows. These combined to give him a simian look, an impression strengthened by his physical restlessness. Even as he took his seat, he was shuffling about, fingers tapping on the table, eyes glancing this way and that. I went to shake hands and he gripped mine then quickly let go.

‘Chloe told you I was coming?’

‘She said Mr Carter’s girlfriend asked you to come,’ he replied. ‘You bring anything with you?’ His face was hungry. ‘It’s tight in here,’ he went on, ‘people steal your baccy-’

‘Sorry, no.’ I cut him off. ‘But I’ll ask Chloe for you.’ Tobacco remained the most popular currency inside.

There was a flash of disappointment on his face. He drummed his feet on the floor, then twisted in the chair. ‘I didn’t do it,’ he said rapidly. ‘I never killed him.’

‘But you confessed.’

‘Yeah, but I was… Look, they caught me with his cards. I’d been there, at the house, couldn’t say I hadn’t, but that was after. He was already… you know.’ He looked about, cast his eyes up to the ceiling. Why so coy?

‘How do you know?’ I asked him.

‘What?’ Mouth slack, startled by the question.

‘How do you know he was dead?’ I said.

He sighed and shook his head. ‘It’s not easy, talking about it.’ Then his mood shifted; he was suddenly lively. ‘You ever seen a dead person?’ Like an excited schoolboy, eyes alight.

‘Yes. But we’re not talking about me.’

‘You don’t believe me,’ he protested. He pushed back in his chair as if hitting out at it.

‘I haven’t exactly got a lot to go on yet.’

‘This guy on D wing,’ he said, ‘he’s the same – got fitted up. Was his auntie that died and he was gonna get the house and everything so the police, they-’

I remembered Chloe’s warning: Don’t let him arse you about . ‘Let’s stick to your story, Damien. Tell me what happened, everything you can remember, from the beginning. How did you get to Thornsby? Why were you there?’

‘You see that?’ He held his hand out. It was shaking. ‘Takes for ever to see the doctor. I need something to calm me down. You can’t just cut off a supply like that; it’s not right.’ It was exasperating: he was avoiding my questions, wanted to talk about his drug problem. We were wasting time.

‘Did you get the bus?’

‘They chucked me off at Thornsby. It was dark already. It was freezing. I’d been over in Sheffield. I just needed to get some readies, swear on my mother’s grave.’

‘Dead, is she?’

He grinned, caught out. His face lit up, his teeth were white and even, his smile broad. It transformed him. Then his expression clouded. ‘Might as well be,’ he muttered.

‘The cottage…’ I prompted him.

‘There’s a car outside but no lights on in the house, nothing. That’s asking for it. When I try the door, it’s not even locked. Inside, I can’t see a thing. I use my lighter.’ Damien looked down. ‘He’s there, just lying there, blood on the floor.’

‘Did you touch him?’ I could hear doors clanging in the prison somewhere and sporadic shouts.

‘Yeah, his pockets. Nothing. Then I saw his wallet on the counter. I took it, legged it. That’s all.’

‘Then what?’

‘Waited for the bus. They’re every half hour.’

He seemed callous, indifferent.

‘And you didn’t tell anyone? Didn’t think to report it?’

‘Wouldn’t have helped him,’ he said sullenly.

How did he know? I resisted the urge to pursue this, intent on keeping him on track.

‘Two weeks later, the police picked you up.’

‘Yeah. I went “no comment” for long enough, but they’re talking about me being at the scene and how much easier it’ll go if I give them something. They know I’m a user and they’ve filled in the medical sheet. I need something. If I say yes, they’ll fix me up.’

It beggared belief. Preventing this sort of coercion had been at the heart of changes to police procedure. The Police and Criminal Evidence Act laid out clear guidelines for every aspect of criminal investigation. The police deal with drug users a great deal and under PACE rules would be well aware of the danger of obtaining a confession from an addict who was suffering withdrawal symptoms, not least because it would be regarded as unsafe by the Crown Prosecution Service. And that’s not what you want in a murder case.

‘Did the officers interviewing you actually say that?’

He scowled. ‘I don’t remember. But they didn’t need to: I knew the score.’ A whine of defensiveness. So perhaps things hadn’t gone down as he was claiming.

‘Had you seen a doctor?’ I said.

‘Custody nurse.’ He nodded. So they had followed procedure – he had been given a medical assessment. ‘I was using coke and she wouldn’t give me anything. I had to see the doctor first and they weren’t there till later.’

‘But you knew you would see a doctor?’ I was still trying to untangle what he was saying – whether he had been coerced or not.

‘And you know what he said?’ Damien was fired up, sitting up straighter in his chair, chin thrust towards me. ‘That they didn’t prescribe for cocaine withdrawal. If I’d been a junkie I’d have got a methadone script. But ’cos it’s coke they just let you suffer. That is well bad, man.’

There was little to be gained from letting him pick over his outrage at the force’s agreed drug abuse policies. So I asked him about later events. ‘Your confession – you didn’t retract it until after you were imprisoned. You stuck by it at court, when you entered your plea and for sentencing. Why?’

‘I didn’t think anyone would believe me,’ he said quickly. Then he rubbed at his face with his hands and cleared his throat. He averted his gaze. ‘I can’t do time,’ he spoke quietly, ‘it’s doing my head in.’ I suddenly saw a different side to the man: sombre, honest, vulnerable. I wondered whether that was the reason for his volte-face. Not that he was innocent but that it was the only way he could see to get out of jail.

Just as quickly his demeanour switched again: edgy, salacious, a glitter in his eyes. ‘There’s a ghost, you know, on my wing, B wing, where the condemned cell was. I’ve seen him. Just before dawn. A man in a dark suit and he’s carrying a briefcase. The air goes cold. They say it’s John Ellis; he was the hangman, but it drove him mad and he killed himself – slit his own throat.’ He gloried in the details.

I took a breath. ‘Damien-’

‘I’ve done the short rehab course,’ he said, ‘but in here.’ He shrugged. ‘You could come again, bring us something.’

Asking me for drugs! Shock must have registered on my face because he grinned. ‘Joke.’ That angel smile. ‘Some chocolate.’

‘Is there anything else you remember? Any other details?’

He shrugged. ‘What like?’

Did he expect me to supply them? ‘What you’ve told me is all a bit general, a bit vague,’ I said.

‘You saying I’m lying?’

‘You just don’t seem to remember very much.’

‘I was in a mess,’ he protested, ‘and something like that, it shakes you up. I remember the smell.’ He shuddered. ‘Made me sick, you know. I threw up by the gate.’

‘Anything else?’

He shook his head.

‘Did you see anyone? Anyone see you?’

Another shake of the head, then he stopped and his eyes brightened. ‘There was this guy, coming down the hill when I was going up from the bus. Maybe he done it?’