Read Unsafe Convictions Online
Authors: Alison Taylor
‘Back at last!’ Rene trilled, as McKenna came in through the rear door ‘I’ll get the teacakes under the grill now. Mr Tuttle’s had to wait for his elevenses, but I gave the two young ladies a hot drink as soon as they got here.’
‘
I went to have a look round the town.’
‘
And Trisha’s place as well, I expect. Not that it was ever hers. Or his. They rented.’
‘
So I understand,’ McKenna said.
‘
And she’d’ve had to go on renting, married to him. I reckon every penny she earned went on keeping him dressed up and idle, and when she lost her job I dare say most of their social security still went on him.’
‘
I saw two rather odd-looking people as I was driving away. And there was a woman with them.’
‘
Did she look normal?’
‘
Normal? Yes, I suppose so.’
‘
She must be one of the workers, then.’
‘
Where?’
‘
At the Willows. It was a nice house before they put the mental defectives there. If you ask me, they should be back in hospital, instead of wandering the streets on this community care thing everybody talks about.’ Frowning, she looked up at him, her hair under the kitchen light peppery with grey. ‘They weren’t at Trisha’s place, were they?’
‘
No. I saw them on the road.’
‘
Only I shouldn’t think even mental defectives would be daft enough to go there. I can’t think how you could stomach it on your own.’
*
After booking into their reserved rooms at the Bull Inn, Ellen and Janet returned to the Church Street house for lunch. Rene hovered over the table in the back parlour, serving lunch to her four charges, and tutting quietly as Janet picked here and there at her food but ate nothing of substance. She nodded with pleasure when small-boned, skinny Ellen consumed all that was put before her, and reached for more.
To
McKenna, Janet looked ill. Shorn of all her old voluptuousness, her once luxuriant dark hair was fiercely cropped into an almost architectural shape, she had blue smudges under her eyes, and not an ounce of spare flesh on a body she now clothed in dark, austere garments that mimicked the garb of her chapel-minister father.
Rene
broke into his thoughts. ‘One of the young ladies can heat up the dinner when you’re ready. I finish at five, but I could stay later some nights if you need me.’
‘
Where d’you live?’ Ellen asked her, wiping cake crumbs from her lips.
‘
If you go past the Bull, then the corner shop and the Wheatsheaf, you’ll come to a row of cottages. Mine’s the second one.’
‘
Have you been there long?’
‘
Since I got wed. My husband worked out of the police station in town. The village policeman lived here, but that was in the days when we had local men who knew who to keep an eye on. Nowadays, they’re just strangers in uniform.’
Ellen
nodded. ‘It’s the same in our force. We need Welsh-speaking officers in some areas, but all this shunting around doesn’t take that sort of thing into consideration.’
‘
Really?’ Rene’s eyes widened. ‘I didn’t know people still spoke Welsh. I thought it’d died out years ago.’
‘
It’s actually on the increase, thanks mainly to a bunch of political activists who cause us no end of bother.’
‘
I
had
heard about fire bombs in holiday cottages,’ Rene said, passing Ellen another slice of cake. ‘There’d be bits on the news now and then, but I didn’t understand why they were doing it. Seems like cutting off your own nose to spite your face, doesn’t it?’
‘
Quite.’ Ellen smiled at her. ‘But you can’t reason with people like that, can you?’
‘
Not usually,’ Rene agreed. Chewing her mouth, she looked down at McKenna. ‘D’you speak Welsh?’
‘
I do.’
‘
And what about you, Mr Tuttle?’
‘
I don’t,’ Jack admitted. ‘But Janet does, of course.’
Looking
again at McKenna, she added: ‘And d’you actually speak Welsh to people?’
‘
If necessary. If they want to.’
‘
Can you write your reports in Welsh, as well?’
‘
We can, but all official documents must be bilingual.’
‘
How strange.’ Rene seemed taken aback. ‘You don’t think of Wales as a
real
foreign country. I mean, you go there for holidays, but it’s not like Spain or France, is it? And you don’t
look
foreign. You look quite like anybody else.’
Waiting
again for the town centre traffic lights to change, McKenna said: ‘We might not look foreign to Rene, but the locals look decidedly alien to me.’
‘
Different racial types, sir,’ Ellen offered from the back seat. ‘Rene and her ilk come mostly from Saxon stock, with bits of Roman and Viking thrown into the pot, which could’, she added thoughtfully, ‘be relevant to us, because priorities, frames of reference, loves, hates, needs, wants and bugbears are different in different places, and those things govern behaviour.’
‘
If Dugdale deliberately withheld crucial alibi evidence, the outcome would be exactly the same wherever it happened,’ Jack asserted.
‘
But if he did, his actions could have been dictated by arcane local factors,’ McKenna said. The lights changed and, as the line of traffic jerked forward, he touched the indicator to turn left on to the Buxton road.
Ellen
had a large-scale road map open on her lap. ‘It’s about two miles to Rowarth Rise estate, where Dugdale lives, and fifteen or so to Buxton, where Dr Spenser, the pathologist, lives. Will we be seeing him?’
‘
Probably not,’ McKenna told her. ‘His reports are very comprehensive, and there’s been no dispute about his findings.’
‘
I found his scene-of-crime report far more harrowing than the autopsy report,’ Ellen said. ‘It was probably that warning against visual identification. When I was helping Rene wash up after lunch, she said Linda insisted on seeing Trisha’s remains. Then she told people exactly what she’d seen, which could be why nobody can stop talking about it. Rene says Smith’s an out and out monster, and if he’s any sense, he’ll get out of town while he’s still got legs to walk on.’
‘
I trust you told her to warn the town off any lynch mob activity?’ Jack broke his silence.
‘
Our being here focuses local attention,’ McKenna said. ‘Until we’re gone, Smith will be the main topic of interest, and as he’s shown no reluctance to make a public spectacle of himself, he can’t complain if the public turns out to watch, and judges in the process.’
*
Rowarth Rise estate consisted of twenty or so detached and semi-detached modern houses, built of local stone and fronted by lozenge-shaped gardens. The pavement line followed the gardens, zigzagging along the side of the hill behind a row of old sycamore trees, their denuded branches stark against the overcast sky.
McKenna
parked between other cars angled against the kerb, and, his briefcase leaden with papers, walked across frost-rimed grass to the unlatched garden gate, Jack beside him carrying the tape-recorder, Ellen with her laptop computer.
A
small, bent, wispy-haired man in lawyer’s pin-stripes opened the front door before they reached the step, and introduced himself. ‘Rodney Hinchcliffe, Superintendent. I’m Detective Inspector Dugdale’s legal representative.’ When McKenna had introduced his own contingent, Hinchcliffe added: ‘I really must protest about the way you’ve chosen to conduct this investigation. Turning a person’s own home into an interrogation centre is quite inappropriate, especially when there are more than adequate facilities at the town’s police station. Mrs Dugdale was forced to go out, and she’s had to arrange to keep the children away until I contact her with the all clear.’
The
hallway was carpeted in a warm, rosy pink, and McKenna carefully wiped his feet on the doormat before following the solicitor inside. ‘I note your objections, Mr Hinchcliffe,’ he said, ‘but I’m sure you appreciate that using the local facilities could give rise to far graver concerns.’
‘
Such as?’ Hinchcliffe demanded, stopping in his tracks.
‘
If this investigation is to succeed, we must remain as independent and as far removed from influence as possible. Our being based at Haughton police station could put us in danger of being drawn into institutional crisis and neurosis, and of adopting the distorted perspectives of others. In addition,’ he went on, moving along the hall and forcing the solicitor to do likewise, ‘the local officers would be aware of our every move, which, in my opinion, would place DI Dugdale and his colleagues at an even greater disadvantage, and under quite intolerable pressure.’
Frowning
with annoyance, Hinchcliffe pushed open the door to what was obviously the family’s sitting-room, where Dugdale stood before a large gas fire, wiping his hands nervously down his trouser legs, and not sure if a smile might, or might not, be appropriate.
Shocked
by the man’s gaunt appearance, McKenna thought he looked as if the stuffing had been literally knocked from his body, and tried to ignore the thought that guilt usually wore a different face. The apparatus of interview plugged in, switched on and readied, he announced the date, the time, the names and status of those present, then said: ‘For the tape, Inspector Dugdale, please state your name, rank, and date of birth.’
Dugdale
tried to speak, and failed, then cleared his throat, and tried once more. The words emerged slowly and falteringly, as if these essential details eluded his memory.
‘
Thank you,’ McKenna said. ‘I will now show you various statements made by yourself, and given by yourself, with regard to the investigation into Trisha Stanton Smith’s death, the arrest and charge of Piers Stanton Smith, and statements made subsequent to the submissions of Father John Barclay. Please read these statements, and say if there is anything in them with which you now disagree, or which you wish to amend. At a later stage, I shall deal with your testimony at Smith’s trial.’
As
McKenna handed over each sheet of paper, some now dog-eared and grimy, Dugdale obeyed his instructions, then gave the papers to his solicitor. The rustle of papers, the rasp of breath and the hiss of fire grew oppressive, and Dugdale began to sweat, drawing his finger around the neck of his shirt. Jack and McKenna watched him, while Ellen gazed through the window at a moorland panorama, where the earth reflected the grey of the sky.
Taking
the last sheet from his interrogator, Dugdale said, in a more certain voice: ‘I don’t disagree with anything, sir, and I don’t wish to change anything.’
‘
You’re sure?’ McKenna asked.
‘
Positive.’
‘
Throughout the investigation, you reported to Superintendent Ryman at police headquarters in Ravensdale. You also reported to the station commander in Haughton.’
‘
Yes, sir, but Mr Ryman decided what procedures should be taken.’
‘
Did you agree with Mr Ryman’s command?’
Dugdale
shifted in his chair, glancing at his solicitor. ‘It wasn’t really a matter of agreement or not, sir. For all practical purposes, what happened was up to me.’
‘
That’s common procedure,’ McKenna commented. ‘Were there any specific issues on which you required Mr Ryman’s consent, support, or co-operation?’
‘
Only Smith’s arrest. He rubber-stamped it, so to speak.’
‘
Did he ever advise pursuit of specific lines of inquiry?’
‘
Well, no. He didn’t know the people involved, he never visited the crime scene, and it was a long time since he’d worked in this area.’
‘
Headquarters set up a toll-free telephone line after the murder,’ McKenna said. ‘If someone lodged information on that line, or with Crimestoppers, who would receive the information? You or Mr Ryman?’
‘
It would have been relayed to me,’ Dugdale said. ‘But no one called, sir. There was a thorough trawl as soon as Father Barclay turned up. Nothing had been overlooked, and certainly not his letter.’ He paused, then added: ‘If we’d had it, believe me, Complaints and Discipline would have found it. They turned the station upside down, came here, then searched Wendy Lewis’s house and Colin Bowden’s flat.’
‘
Don’t be naive,’ McKenna chided. ‘If you decided to frame Smith, you’d get rid of Father Barclay’s letter first. Why didn’t you interview Father Fauvel?’
‘
Because we had no call to consider him until the papers for the appeal hearing arrived. As far as we were concerned, he was just the parish priest for the Catholics.’
‘
And of whose flock Smith had become a member.’
‘
He wasn’t relevant.’
‘
He was very relevant in the end, wasn’t he?’
‘
Look, sir, Brett Fauvel had months to come forward about this letter, only he didn’t. He didn’t mention it at the trial either, even though he was a character witness for Smith.’
‘
According to his testimony at appeal, he claims the letter was handed to you, unopened as Father Barclay instructed, and that as he heard nothing further, he assumed it was irrelevant.’ McKenna glanced at his notes. ‘Father Barclay had no idea who was running the investigation into Trisha’s murder, or even if it were still active, but assumed, quite reasonably, that Father Fauvel
would
know, and would know who was in charge. In his affidavit for the appeal hearing Father Fauvel states that he called at the police station on the afternoon of the day he received the letter, and gave it to you.’ Watching Dugdale speculatively, he added: ‘He also states that you identified yourself to him. The detail in his statements, and their level of simplicity, have the ring of truth.’
‘
Then why didn’t anyone else remember seeing him there?’
‘
Probably for the same reason that none of the women working at St Michael’s church on the afternoon Trisha died could be certain they’d actually seen Smith there at the time. You know as well as I do how unreliable the public memory becomes when challenged, and especially so where someone like Father Fauvel is involved. He’s very well known, apparently very distinctive, very prominently involved in all kinds of activities and, when he’s wearing his social-worker hat, a fairly frequent visitor to what is a very busy police station. In other words, he could be seen anywhere in the area at any time, and therefore’, McKenna concluded, ‘few people are willing to commit themselves to
when
he might have been seen in a particular place.’
Hands
trembling almost violently, Dugdale said: ‘He did not give me any letter. I never saw him or spoke to him throughout the investigation.’ He looked squarely at his interrogator. ‘I’m calling him a liar, sir, priest or not.’
‘
What motive could he have?’
‘
I’ve no idea.’
Hinchcliffe
leaned forward. ‘Has it occurred to anyone, Superintendent, that this letter is nothing more than a myth, and that
both
these priests are lying?’
‘
That is an issue I shall have to pursue, although Father Barclay’s actions speak of his being an honest man, and to our knowledge he has no stake in any aspect of Trisha’s death or your client’s investigation,’ replied McKenna. ‘Father Fauvel’s statements on Smith’s behalf indicate a regard quite contrary to the notion that he would allow an innocent man to go to prison.’
‘
I don’t understand why Father Barclay didn’t tell Father Fauvel what was in the letter,’ Dugdale said. ‘Why not, at the very least, make its importance clear?’
‘
I don’t know.’ McKenna was thoughtful. ‘Perhaps he thought there was no need.’ He shuffled his papers. ‘Leaving aside Father Fauvel for the moment, were there other lines of inquiry you should have pursued?’
‘
You want the benefit of my hindsight, sir?’ Dugdale’s voice was bitter. ‘We did what seemed right and necessary at the time.’
‘
Were you negligent?’
‘
No, sir. We probably missed odd things here and there, but that’s inevitable in any investigation, and this one was a real mystery. Trisha was well-liked, she hadn’t upset anyone, she didn’t have any insurance, she didn’t owe large amounts of money, no one seemed to benefit from her death, and she had no compromising knowledge about anyone apart from her ex-husband, so we began to wonder about Beryl. Wendy Lewis said she could have been pathologically jealous of Trisha.’
‘
Why should she be?’
‘
Second wives often worry that the husband will go back to the first,’ Dugdale asserted. ‘There’s so much history between them. Apart from that, a failed marriage doesn’t exactly point towards reliability, and Beryl already had more than enough to make her feel insecure.’
‘
Such as?’
‘
Wendy Lewis can give you a better perspective, sir. She researched Beryl’s background very thoroughly.’ He rubbed his forehead, and stared at the smears of moisture on his hand. ‘But she spent all afternoon at the dentist’s, having gold fillings done, so she had a cast-iron alibi, even though I’m sure she wouldn’t balk at murder to protect Smith.’
‘
That brings us to these mysterious male escorts with whom Trisha allegedly took up,’ McKenna said. ‘Are they included in the “odd things” over which you were probably remiss?’