Jeffrey Archer - Twelve Red Herrings

At my request, Fingers took a straw poll among the prisoners as to who they believed was the best detective they had ever come up against. Three days later he told me the result: Chief Superintendent Donald Hackett, known as the Don, came out top on more than half the lists. More reliable than a Gallup Poll, I told Fingers.

“What puts Hackett ahead of all the others?” I asked him.

“e’s honest, ‘e’s fair, you can’t bribe ‘im. And once the bastard knows you’re a villain, ‘e doesn’t care ‘ow long it takes to get you be’ind bars.”

Hackett, I was informed, hailed from Bradford. rumour had it among the older cons that he had turned down the job of Assistant Chief Constable for West Yorkshire. Like a barrister who doesn’t want to become a judge, he preferred to remain at the coalface.

“Arrestin’ criminals is ‘ow ‘e gets his kicks,” Fingers said, with some feeling.

“Sounds just the man I’m looking for,” I said. “How old is he?”

Fingers paused to consider. “Must be past fifty by now,” he replied. “After all, ‘e ‘ad me put in borstal for nickin’ a toolset, and that was” — he paused again — “more than twenty years ago.”

When Sir Matthew came to visit me the following Monday, I told him what I had in mind, and asked his opinion of the Don. I wanted a professional’s view.

“He’s a hell of a witness to cross-examine, that’s one thing I can tell you,” replied my barrister. “Why’s that?”

“He doesn’t exaggerate, he won’t prevaricate, and I’ve never known him to lie, which makes him awfully hard to trap. No, I’ve rarely got the better of the Chief Superintendent. I have to say, though, that I doubt if he’d agree to become involved with a convicted criminal, whatever you offered him.”

“But I’m not …”

“I know, Mr Cooper,” said Sir Matthew, who still didn’t seem able to call me by my first name, “But Hackett will have to be convinced of that before he even agrees to see you.”

“But how can I convince him of my innocence while I’m stuck in jail?’

“I’ll try to influence him on your behalf,” Sir Matthew sad after some thought. Then he added, “Come to think of it, he does owe me a favour.”

After Sir Matthew had left that night, I requested some more lined paper and began to compose a carefully worded letter to Chief Superintendent Hackett, several versions of which ended crumpled up on the floor of my cell. My final effort read as follows:

In replying to this letter, please write on the envelope:

Number A47283 Name COOPER, R. W.

H. M. PRISON ARMLEY

LEEDS LS12214

I reread the letter, corrected the spelling mistake, and scrawled my signature across the bottom.

At my request, Sir Matthew delivered the letter to Hackett by hand. The first thousand-pound-a-day postman in the history of the Royal Mail, I told him.

Sir Matthew reported back the following Monday that he had handed the letter to the Chief Superintendent in person. After Hackett had read it through a second time, his only comment was that he would have to speak to his superiors. He had promised he would let Sir Matthew know his decision within a week.

From the moment I had been sentenced, Sir Matthew had been preparing for my appeal, and although he had not at any time raised my hopes, he was unable to hide his delight at what he had discovered after paying a visit to the Probate Office.

It turned out that, in his will, Jeremy had left everything to Rosemary. This included over three million pounds’ worth of Cooper’s shares. But, Sir Matthew explained, the law did not allow her to dispose of them for seven years. “An English jury may have pronounced on your guilt,” he declared, “but the hard-headed taxmen are not so easily convinced. They won’t hand over Jeremy Alexander’s assets until either they have seen his body, or seven years have elapsed.”

“Do they think that Rosemary might have killed him for his money, and then disposed …?”

“No, no,” said Sir Matthew, almost laughing at my suggestion.

“It’s simply that, as they’re entitled to wait for seven years, they’re going to sit on his assets and not take the risk that Alexander may still be alive. In any case, if your wife had killed him, she wouldn’t have had a ready answer to every one of my questions when she was in the witness box, of that I’m sure.”

I smiled. For the first time in my life I was delighted to learn that the taxman had his nose in my affairs.

Sir Matthew promised he would report back if anything new came up.

“Goodnight, Richard,” he said as he left the interview room.

Another first.

It seemed that everyone else in the prison was aware that Chief Superintendent Hackett would be paying me a visit long before I was.

It was Dave Adams, an old lag from an adjoining cell, who explained why the inmates thought Hackett had agreed to see me. “A good copper is never ‘appy about anyone doin’ time for somethin’ ‘e didn’t do. ‘ackett phoned the Governor last Tuesday, and ‘ad a word with ‘im on the Q.T., accordin’ to Maurice,” Dave added mysteriously.

I would have been interested to learn how the Governor’s trusty had managed to hear both sides of the conversation, but decided this was not the time for irrelevant questions.

“Even the ‘ardest nuts in this place think you’re innocent,” Dave continued. “They can’t wait for the day when Mr Jeremy Alexander takes over your cell. You can be sure the long termers’ll give ‘im a warm welcome.”

A letter from Bradford arrived the following morning. “Dear Cooper,” the Chief Superintendent began, and went on to inform me that he intended to pay a visit to the jail at four o’clock the following Sunday. He made it clear that he would stay no longer than half an hour, and insisted on a witness being present throughout.

For the first time since I’d been locked up, I started counting the hours. Hours aren’t that important when your room has been booked for a life sentence.

As I was taken from my cell that Sunday afternoon and escorted to the interview room, I received several messages from my fellow inmates to pass on to the Chief Superintendent.

“Give my best regards to the Don,” said Fingers. “Tell ‘im ‘ow sorry I am not to bump into ‘im this time.”

“When ‘e’s finished with you, ask ‘im if ‘e’d like to drop into my cell for a cup of tea and a chat about old times.”

“Kick the bastard in the balls, and tell ‘im I’ll be ‘appy to serve the extra time.”

One of the prisoners even suggested a question to which I already knew the answer: “Ask ‘im when ‘e’s going to retire, ‘cause I’m not coming out till the day after.”

When I stepped into the interview room and saw the Chief Superintendent for the first time, I thought there must have been some mistake. I had never asked Fingers what the Don looked like, and over the past few days I had built up in my mind the image of some sort of superman. But the man who stood before me was a couple of inches shorter than me, and I’m only five foot ten. He was as thin as the proverbial rake and wore pebble-lensed horn-rimmed glasses, which gave the impression that he was half-blind. All he needed was a grubby raincoat and he could have been mistaken for a debt collector.

Sir Matthew stepped forward to introduce us. I shook the policeman firmly by the hand. “Thank you for coming to visit me, Chief Superintendent,” I began. “Won’t you have a seat?” I added, as if he had dropped into my home for a glass of sherry.

“Sir Matthew is very persuasive,” said Hackett, in a deep, gruff Yorkshire accent that didn’t quite seem to go with his body. “So tell me, Cooper, what do you imagine it is that I can do for you?” he asked as he took the chair opposite me. I detected an edge of cynicism in his voice.