Crying Out Loud (15 page)

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.

‘No.' Heather lifted her head, plucked at the neck of her jumper with one hand. ‘His new story  . . . what did he say happened?'

Valerie looked from Heather to Alex, obviously concerned for them. Heather gave her a little nod – she could take this.

I went over the basics of Damien's account: getting thrown off the bus, walking to the cottage, passing a walker coming the other way, finding the door unlocked, Charlie already dead, taking the wallet, fleeing.

When I finished Valerie's voice was sharp with scepticism: ‘And had he any decent explanation as to why he admitted to the crime?'

‘Only to get out of the interview situation, to tell them what he thought they wanted to hear. As you know he was an addict and he thought they'd reinstate some sort of supply once he'd owned up.'

‘It beggars belief,' Valerie complained, her harsh expression emphasizing the angular planes of her cheekbones.

‘I know,' I agreed. ‘But I think also he realized that if he said he was guilty he wouldn't have to face a trial or go over events. It seemed the easier option in his head, at that time. Can I ask you about Nick Dryden?' I asked Heather.

‘Nick Dryden?' She was surprised. ‘What do you mean?'

Alex looked at his mother, startled.

‘He and Charlie fell out,' I said.

‘Yes. He was a horrible man. We'd no idea at first. Charming, funny, friendly, some good business ideas. It was all a front. He was a heavy drinker. And a vicious drunk.'

Alex sighed; he'd probably remember this – seven years ago, Libby had said. Had Nick Dryden been the uncle, the family friend who turned nasty? Had Alex frightening memories of the man?

‘When Charlie discovered we'd lost almost everything,' Heather said, ‘that Nick had been draining us dry, paying for gambling debts and fancy suits and God knows what else  . . . thousands of pounds, we had to remortgage the house. There was a file this thick,' she used her hands to measure it out, ‘of unpaid bills and bogus accounts: dozens of jobs where Nick had taken a deposit and never gone back. He left people a false business card. Charlie reported him. It got very nasty.'

‘When did you last see him?'

‘That winter. He turned up here with a baseball bat and put the windows of the Jeep in. Then he started on the conservatory. We were terrified.'

‘Mum.' Alex flashed a look imploring her to stop.

‘It's all right,' she said. She reached across the table and rubbed at his arm.

‘What happened to Dryden?'

‘I'm not sure,' she answered.

Was he missing? I'd a flash of an image: the man in a shallow grave, gone a step too far, trying to con the wrong punters. Or was he elsewhere, charming more unwitting mates into an exciting business venture, a sure-fire winner, pocketing the cash and ruining more lives? Fraudsters change their names a lot but not their way of working.

‘There were rumours he'd gone to Spain,' Heather said. ‘We never saw a penny. There were calls every now and then. He'd get drunk and ring up. Horrible calls – foul mouthed.'

‘Recently?'

‘No. They stopped.'

Because Dryden had finally got his revenge? My skin tightened. ‘When?'

‘It's hard to remember. Last autumn?' she said uncertainly.

‘Have there been any calls since Charlie's death?'

She shook her head.

‘He had a family?' I asked her.

‘They moved away. Selina and the girls – to Whitby. She remarried a dentist, Tim Darville. He has his own practice. They came for Charlie's funeral.'

‘Was Nick from Manchester?' I said.

‘Newcastle,' Heather said, ‘the Geordie accent was part of his charm.'

‘Did the police speak to him about Charlie's death?'

‘I don't know. They knew about him because of the trouble, but his name didn't come up again.'

‘You never thought he had anything to do with it?'

‘No. We hadn't seen the man for years.' But he'd continued to persecute the family with abusive calls, tormenting them for six years.

The phone rang. Alex moved to answer it but Valerie cautioned him to wait. Their answerphone kicked in followed by an eager voice, speaking rapidly. ‘Mrs Carter? Jonathan Gower here, Associated Press. Can you spare a few moments to comment on today's tragedy? Are you concerned by the allegations that Damien Beswick was wrongly convicted?'

Alex stepped closer and turned down the volume. Heather sank her head in her hands.

‘You could come to mine,' Valerie offered.

‘I'd better go,' I told them, getting to my feet. ‘If I do learn anything I'll let you know.'

‘Don't you think it's best left to the proper authorities?' Valerie asked me sharply.

‘I'm sure they'll be doing all they can,' I said neutrally. ‘The gates?'

‘I'll do it,' Alex shambled out. He could have flaunted his size, got himself in shape, built his muscles, toned his body. But he still had that slight stoop and lack of physical confidence that many boys have. And I imagined the horror of losing his dad would have completely overwhelmed any interest in normal teenage concerns and would probably continue to do so for a long time to come.

As I turned on to the main road I passed one news van, then another. The press pack was descending.

THIRTEEN

R
ay had been holding the fort since I'd taken Chloe's call. Now I was returning and he would go to Laura's. My apprehension grew as I drew nearer home, my throat and shoulders tightening and a weight pressing on my chest.

Ray barely expressed any interest in where I'd been or any concern for me. We exchanged practical information about the kids before he left but the air was thick with tension and neither of us was capable of diffusing it.

Although I loathed Arndale shopping, and knew I had more than reasonable grounds to renege on my earlier promise to Maddie, the prospect of sitting gnawing my knuckles and waiting for Ray's reappearance was worse than the alternative. I tried calling Geoff Sinclair after lunch, before we left, but the phone just rang out.

We walked through the park to the local train station. The kids didn't ask to push the buggy. Jamie had become part of the furniture as far as Tom was concerned and probably something even less positive for Maddie.

The train was full of people returning from the airport, heading for connections at the main station at Piccadilly. I manoeuvred the buggy into a space beside some luggage and stood there while Maddie and Tom found seats in the carriage.

Piccadilly was heaving: tourists, shoppers, students and footie fans. Flocks of teenagers in their various uniforms: Emos draped in black with flashes of acid colour, other kids in the oversized sportswear and gold ‘bling' of the hip-hop scene and handfuls of girls following the current fashion trend of short skirts, thick tights, sixties backcombed hair and panda eyes. It was handy to have the buggy so the kids could hold on and not get lost. On our way down the ramp towards town, I saw the news billboard: GAOL SUICIDE PLEADS INNOCENCE!

I hadn't really taken it in. That the man who'd joked and complained and argued with me the previous day wasn't still around; wasn't still prattling on about ghosts and drugs and cars. Wouldn't smile again, breathe again. How unbearably desolate he must have felt, or how fearful, to take his own life. His death brought with it flashbacks for me to other sudden deaths that would haunt me all my life: a man dancing aflame at a petrol station, another bleeding to death as I held his hand, a child lost in a house fire. I felt like crying but I didn't know who for. Then there was the prospect of Ray's surprise love-child. And I had two kids, a baby and shopping hell to contend with.

Both the children had spending money to get what they wanted and we were also looking for new trousers and a winter top for each of them. I knew we'd make more progress getting the clothes first. Market Street was busy; hard to believe we were in the grip of a recession. Along the central area of the pedestrianized thoroughfare were men with stalls selling whistles and kites and hats with ear flaps. I heard the blues guitarist before we saw him, shielded with an umbrella, his portable amp blasting out ‘Buddy Can You Spare A Dime'. I gave Maddie and Tom fifty pence each to drop in his box.

H&M did a reasonable line in kid's clothing and although everything took twice as long with buggy and baby in tow it was pretty straightforward. Maddie got deep-red corduroy trousers and a red and black striped fleecy top. Tom found some grey combat pants and a hoodie with sharks on that he thought was extremely cool.

Diane texted me asking how I was. Had she heard about Damien and remembered that he was who I'd been to visit? Or was she waiting for news about the situation with Laura and the baby? I texted back that I was OK and would ring later.

Like most children the kids wanted to buy toys with their spending money but Manchester didn't really have a decent toyshop in the city centre. There had been a Daisy and Tom's on Deansgate but it had closed and Toys R Us was out of town and required a car and browsing on an industrial scale. However there was a German market running in St Ann's Square and we found toys and playthings in among the gingerbread and sausages and beer. Tom seized on a wooden frog that made a lifelike croak when you stroked its back with a wooden stick, and a jester's hat with bells on that he thought would be good for pirates. Maddie bought a string puppet and a wooden hula hoop. Sorted.

They were flagging by then and the walk back to the train took for ever. Thankfully Jamie didn't start crying for a feed until we were on the train. It's a quick journey, eleven minutes, but her shrieks were enough to make ears bleed. I'd have given anything for a soother but if she was used to one surely her mother would have left one in the bag. I had made up a bottle of boiled water in case she got thirsty and tried to give her some but she screwed up her face tighter and screamed even louder. We were nearing our stop and I was busy gathering our bags and avoiding eye contact with the rest of the passengers, when the crying became more muffled. A rest at last? No, just Tom, standing there with his hand over her mouth.

An hour later, calm and quiet reigned and still no sign of Ray. I got through to Geoff Sinclair. ‘You've heard about Damien Beswick?' I asked.

‘Yes. Not totally unexpected, though.' He sounded a little breathless, reedy.

‘You think?'

He sighed. ‘The lad was damaged; it didn't take an expert to see that.'

‘But he was never deemed to be a vulnerable prisoner? He wasn't on suicide watch or anything?'

He grunted. ‘Don't know the ins and outs of it.'

‘But this changes things,' I said.

‘In what way?' I heard the reserve in his tone.

Surely he could see that. ‘He retracted his confession at the end; he left a note. That makes his claim to innocence much more plausible, surely? And I saw him yesterday. I used some of those techniques, the cognitive interview techniques.'

‘Did you now?' He didn't try to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

‘Yes. There were things that he'd not remembered before and odd things that didn't fit.' I pictured the house in darkness, the unlocked door, the car – still warm to the touch. ‘I wanted to ask you: the man he passed, the one who never came forward – could it have been Nick Dryden? Charlie's ex-business partner.'

There was a pause. ‘Well,' he said slowly, ‘could have been. Could have been the Count of Monte Cristo, an' all.'

‘Had you an alibi for Dryden? Did you speak to him?'

‘No. The man had gone to ground.'

‘How hard did you look, once Damien was in the frame?'

The pause went on longer. I wondered if I'd overstepped the mark.

‘It wasn't deemed to be a productive use of resources. I'd say that's still the case,' he said crisply.

My mind went back to the car. Charlie driving out there, too fast. He always broke the speed limit. His one flaw, according to Libby. A new idea came to me. Could he have upset someone with his speed? An encounter with another motorist turning to road rage. The other driver following him to the cottage. An altercation, a knife on the counter. I clutched at my head trying to concentrate, grasp the whole picture.

‘What if,' I said to Sinclair, ‘and this is off the top of my head, Charlie had cut someone up on his way out there. He always drove too fast  . . .'

‘Sounds like a fairy tale.' He was dismissive. ‘An imaginary traffic incident, an imaginary unknown attacker. We work with facts, we follow the evidence.'

‘Who else had any motive?' I asked. ‘Heather Carter, but she was with Valerie Mayhew all afternoon – unless she got Valerie to lie for her. They are friends. Valerie is  . . . formidable,' I chose the word with care ‘ . . . but she's straight as a die. I can't see her flouting the law at all – not even a parking ticket. She'd risk her whole reputation.'

‘We could corroborate their accounts,' Geoff Sinclair said flatly. ‘Phone records. There were calls made from the Carter house that afternoon. Third parties who could confirm that they spoke with Heather.'

‘Could she have hired someone?'

‘A hit man?' he scoffed. ‘There were no financial irregularities, no lump sum payments to suggest anything like that, and no phone traffic between Heather Carter and persons known to the police. All these things were checked. We did our homework.' Which put me in my place?