Cath Staincliffe - Dead Wrong

It was three thirty. I’d no need to collect Maddie and Tom; Ray did the school run on Mondays as he’d no lectures. I parked in the multi-storey car park near the college on Lower Hardman Street, and had to go up eight floors before I found a space. Then I cut through to Crown Square where all the Law Courts are.

Dermott Pitt would be in the Crown Court. I passed through a security arch where my bag was checked. At reception I asked for Court No 2, and learned to my disappointment that they’d adjourned for the day. I walked down there anyway just in case Dermott was still hanging around chewing the fat with his colleagues.

The place was light and airy, with a long corridor, marble floors and pillars, and full-length windows all down one side giving a view of the square outside. On the other side were the courtrooms. At intervals there were statues of kings and lawgivers, and up on the wall opposite the windows, a huge colourful coat of arms, done in relief and surrounded by several smaller ones. My trainers squeaked on the floor; there was no other noise. The place was deserted. I poked my head into Court No 2. There was an usher there who told me that they’d all left. ‘He wanted to start fresh tomorrow with the defence witnesses.’ She was referring to the judge.

‘When do they break for lunch?’

‘It’s usually midday. He likes an early lunch, gets a bit rattled if they go on till one.’

‘I’m trying to see one of the briefs, a Mr Pitt, about another case.’

‘Ooh,’ she pursed her lips, ‘I wouldn’t do lunchtime, they’ve often got a lot on then, depending on how the morning’s gone. Need to see their clients and check the witnesses are all ready.’ She shook her head. ‘You’d be best coming at the end of the day.’

I nodded. Except the day might end early, like today. I tried Pitt’s office on my mobile but they were engaged. I was reluctant to leave it at that. Bootle Street, the main city police station, was just across Deansgate. I’d call there – maybe they could get things moving.

Trying to report something – anything – to the police is always a hit and miss affair. It depends on the day, the desk sergeant the weather, the football results, the position of the planets. The response can range from super-efficient: ‘We’ll have someone there within the next ten minutes, madam,’ to the lackadaisical, ‘You could try ringing Collyhurst/Copson Street/St Petersburg, next week, next year, next millennium, if you still want to report it. There should be someone there on a Thursday morning but we’ve a lot off sick today and it’s not really our area.’

It helps if you know who you want to speak to, and which station they are based at.

Dermott Pitt would be more familiar with who to approach and what to tell them, but in his absence I wanted to do something tangible for Luke.

At the desk I asked to talk to someone from the Serious Crimes section. Before I got any further I had to give my name, address and date of birth. I then explained that I had new information that could materially affect the charges against Luke Wallace, on remand for murder. The desk sergeant took it all down and then disappeared through a door.

I waited. Read a wall full of Crime Prevention posters and Wanted posters and waited some more. When he returned he asked me to go with him. We went through the door and into a small room immediately to the left. An interview room? I waited a few more minutes then I was joined by a Detective Sergeant Hatton. He wasn’t familiar with the details of the case so I did a quick résumé and then explained what I’d found out. Namely that the murder weapon belonged to one of the friends who had run away from home and was in hiding, and that there were inconsistencies in the statements given by the witnesses and even a question as to whether one of them had actually been present.

‘Based on?’

‘Well, hearsay at present, but I’m sure it could be proved.’

He grunted and rubbed his close cut beard. Had I informed the brief for the defence?

‘Not yet.’ Trying hard.

He suggested I did so. The brief could then apply through the appropriate channels for the case to be reviewed. ‘Sounds as though there may be some grounds there, the knife particularly, but they may decide to go ahead with the trial and debate the issues in full court anyway.’

And leave Luke on remand?

‘We could have you in, take a full statement, go through it all with you, but it wouldn’t guarantee a result any quicker than using the legals. That’s your best bet.’

No riding out on a white horse to rescue Luke from Golborne tonight then. I was disappointed. I’d been hoping for more decisive and compassionate action.

I had left a message at Rebecca Henderson’s office on the Friday afternoon after my antics with Debbie Gosport. I wanted to cover my back so I made sure that the firm knew what had transpired, understood how badly Debbie’s health was being affected and what advice I’d given her and her brother. I also informed Rebecca that the harassment now included assault, which would be significant in bringing any court action against G.

I was narked that I hadn’t stuck with the stalker; he’d have received his papers by now if I had, but at the time I’d been convinced that Debbie’s need was paramount.

Ricky rang late on Monday afternoon to let me know that Debbie and the children were staying with a friend in Chorlton. More letters had come to the house and he had intercepted them. Did I want to see them? Not particularly, but I asked him to hold onto them for evidence. The doctor had seen Debbie and changed her medication.

‘Is it helping?’

‘She’s half-asleep,’ he said, ‘but at least she’s not wired up like she was. She was up all night after you went, rabbiting on. Doin’ my head in an’ all.’

‘I’m glad she’s out of there, and that someone’s with her.’

‘Don’t know how long she’ll stay,’ he said. ‘She likes her own place, everything just so – you seen it.’

‘Yeah. Ricky, there’s a chance that the stalker will find out where she is and follow her again. Don’t frighten Debbie, but tell her friend to keep an eye out and ring me if there’s any sign. Make sure she’s got my number.’

‘She has. But how would he do that, find out where she is?’

‘Not difficult. Wait at school, see where she goes…’

An intake of breath. ‘Bastard.’

‘It might not happen. Next time he surfaces I’ll follow him home.’

‘Next time,’ he sneered.

I kept my voice even. ‘Ricky, I’ve not done it yet but that’s not because I’m no good at my job and it’s not because he’s particularly clever. It’s just been a run of unfortunate circumstances.’ And your sister’s vanishing act hadn’t exactly helped.

He grunted. Not convinced.

I didn’t waste any more breath.

The day had been exhausting and little fragments from my meeting with Luke, my encounter with Mrs Siddiq and my visit to the police kept floating into my mind. I didn’t want to be thinking about work. After tea I got a big map of Wales out and some old camping guides. I showed Maddie some of the places we could go.

‘We haven’t even got a tent, Mummy,’ she said scornfully.

‘We can borrow one. Harry and Bev have got one.’

‘Ring them now, ask if we can.’

‘Of course,’ said Harry, to my delight, ‘we’re not using it.’

‘Given up the outdoor life?’ I joked.

‘No, just prefer the warmer climes.’

I tutted. ‘All right for those who can afford it.’

Harry and Bev had struggled financially for years, both working part-time so they could share raising their two boys. Then Harry had got bitten by the investigative journalist bug, which meant long hours and not much more money. He’d begun to use computers as a tool for accessing commercial and business information; then he discovered the Internet and never looked back. Bev meanwhile had an unexpected pregnancy, and a third son came along. She never went back to her job and Harry began to rake it in, helping businesses get on the Net.