Slipknot (18 page)

She felt nervous as she watched Walton Pembroke file in to the interview room. It was one thing to have an idea, another completely, to watch whether that idea could be true. Martha frowned. But if she was right…

Alex had rigged up CCTV so she could watch from another room, as well as pick up the sounds.

Pembroke had a confident, cocky air as he sat down, waiting as Alex Randall opened the questioning, checking names, times, places. It was a ruse, Martha knew, to put the suspect at his ease.

Then, quite abruptly, he turned the tables around. ‘You knew the Gough family?’

Pembroke looked surprised and instantly wary. ‘No,’ he said gruffly. ‘Why do you think that?’

Alex deliberately didn’t answer but carried on. ‘Someone rang you, did they, to tell you what had happened?’

Pembroke frowned. He didn’t quite know how to answer. After a pause, he said, ‘I had advance warning from Monkmoor Police Station that we would be receiving him, yes.’

Alex fixed his eyes steadily on Pembroke’s face and left a pause.

Maybe he had rigged this too. Another police officer entered the room handing Randall a sheaf of papers. He scanned them before looking over the top of them at Pembroke and nodding.

It riled Pembroke. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Randall did not answer Pembroke’s question. Instead he commented, ‘Set up nicely for your retirement, Walton?’

It was not a question.

And the ruse was working. Pembroke was squirming in his seat, eyeing up the door as though wondering whether he could possibly make a dash for it. ‘I’ve got a pension,’ he said.

Martha watched intently.

‘You get some nice little bonuses through your job, don’t you, Walton?’ With a suddenness that shocked even Martha, watching through the screen, Alex Randall scattered the sheaf of papers across the table. ‘These are your bank statements, Pembroke. Plenty of little backhanders. Rough ’em up a bit, Walt, give ’em a few extra spliffs, coke, we’ll make it worth your while, eh? And murder?’

This, at last, rattled the prison officer enough to make him talk. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No. I never would do murder. I never would. I’m not a criminal. I just take advantage of my position. That’s all. Nothing really criminal. I might have accepted a few gifts in exchange for the odd favour. Slip things in, make sure they were comfortable. That sort of thing. Nothing else. I swear.’

Alex leaned in across the table and spoke in a soft voice. ‘Someone asked you to set Callum up in cell 101, didn’t they, with Tyrone as a cell mate.’

‘Yeah. Yeah. I admit that. But not the other.’

‘Prove it.’

Something snapped inside the prison officer. He looked at the door, the window, the ceiling, put his hands in his pockets, finally laid them flat on the table.

‘It wasn’t me.’

‘Go on,’ Randall said.

Pembroke gulped in some air. ‘It was Matthews,’ he said. ‘She was over excited restraining him.’ His eyes flickered away. He knew what he was doing, shopping a colleague.

‘And you didn’t pull her off?’

Pembroke knew he was beaten then.

‘We’re going to want statements from you,’ Alex said. ‘The one thing you can do for us is to tell us exactly what happened between you and the Goughs. Understand?’

Pembroke didn’t even think about it. He nodded and stared at the floor.

Two police officers ushered Pembroke out of the interview room, straight into custody and as Martha watched Stevie Matthews entered. She looked pale and beneath her eyes were dark shadows.

Still in her black, wool uniform trousers and white shirt she sat down in the chair, gulped for air.

‘Tell me how it was.’ Alex’s voice was still soft and soothing. He would coax the truth out of her.

Stevie Matthews tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

‘He was hysterical,’ she said, ‘when we took him out of his cell. Screaming and going bonkers, breathing hard. We knew the place’d be in uproar if we let him carry on like that. Walt told me you have to come on ’em hard. Particularly at first. Show them right away who’s boss, like. I didn’t mean to do
anything wrong or illegal. Just restrain him. But I must have been too hard on his chest. He started off kicking and making a fuss. Walton knocked him a bit.’ She was quick to defend her colleague. ‘Not hard. Nothing terrible’

Behind the screen Martha muttered. The facial bruising. The bruises on the boy’s chest wall. No – they had not been hard. Merely unfortunate.

‘He went quiet. And then I got off him.’ Stevie’s lips were dry, hardly moving as she spoke, almost as though she had returned to the scene, to the long, echoing corridors full of locked doors and frightened boys.

And this one boy.

‘He didn’t move,’ she said. ‘I knew then…’

‘And Walton had the idea?’

‘He went wild, saying stuff about his pension, about how I’d crapped things up for him. And then he suggested…’ Her eyes flickered to the floor and Martha knew just how distasteful the girl had found the idea.

‘We dragged him back in.’ For the first time she smiled. ‘Tyrone was out for the count, snoring like a huge elephant. We got some computer wire, knotted it around his neck, and dropped him. That was that. Walton said it would just be classed as a suicide in custody and that he could retire with his pension and I could get on with my career.’

She broke then, dropping her face into her hands with great, racking sobs. A tear dripped through her fingers. ‘And now I’m done for, aren’t I?’

Even
she
felt nervous. It had been a risky decision. The Press had gathered, sensing that this would be a momentous inquest. She had refused all interviews, saying she would restrict all her comments to this one arena.

The court was packed. In the sea of faces she picked out some she recognised: Alex, in the front, Jericho to her side, Mark Sullivan, quiet and expectant like the rest. She saw the Goughs, surrounded by friends and family, picked out Shelley Hughes sitting as close as she could to Adam Farthing, a tight group of thirteen-year-olds, the centre of which was Katie Ashbourne.

And she seemed to see other faces too – Chelsea Arnold’s tiny form, in her pink ballet shoes, Callum’s anxious face, Roger Gough, standing at the back.

She took a deep breath, waited for silence.

And got it. From the minute she had entered the courtroom a hush had fallen inside the entire area. She felt as though the world watched with baited breath and was glad that today, for once, she
had
worn deepest black. A dress of thin wool, a fitted, waisted jacket over it, the large jet buttons firmly fastened. She wore high-heeled, plain black court shoes and filmy tan-coloured tights. She had used straighteners on her
hair so it was better tamed than usual. This was a solemn affair.

The Goughs still looked angry, Shelley Hughes vulnerable and Chelsea Arnold’s parents whom she had met only briefly looked shell-shocked.

It was time to speak.

‘I have taken a very unusual step today,’ she said clearly, ‘of holding a joint inquest on three separate deaths which took place at three different locations on three different dates. I have taken the decision to hold an inquest on the three deaths together for a very good reason. And that is because they were irrevocably linked. They were – dependant on each other and each happened as a consequence of the others.

‘Most of the evidence has already been heard in court and I have discussed my verdict already with the police who are in agreement with my decision.’ She caught a swift nod from Alex. ‘I don’t want to cloud the issues by a plethora of police evidence because it will rob my point of its power. The first death was that of Callum Hughes who died in custody at a Young Offenders’ Institute. What was he doing there?’

She had half expected the Goughs to speak but for once they sat stony silent and motionless, frozen in their seats.

Shelley Hughes also sat quite still, clinging to Farthing.

‘Callum Hughes had been the victim of a prolonged bullying attack at his school,’ Martha said without looking specifically at anyone. ‘He was being consistently terrorised. And as sometimes happens in these cases he turned on his oppressor. He bought a knife, sharpened it, and set out to free himself in a well-documented and witnessed attack. He was taken into custody and placed in front of the courts who
decided he should not remain at liberty. I have to tell you now that Callum did not commit suicide but died accidentally, as a result of an encounter in the prison. This will be the subject of further police investigation.’

Pens were scribbling furiously on pads. One or two reporters were texting into mobile phones. She ignored them all.

‘In the days that followed, while Roger Gough lay dying in hospital, the police tried very hard to find out why the attack had taken place but none of Callum and Roger’s schoolmates owned up to what had happened. So the police were unable to access the truth because the other youngsters were still too frightened of Roger Gough’s gang. In fact, if anything, Roger’s friends had an even stronger sense of loyalty towards their gang leader and felt increased outrage towards anyone who did not toe the line.

One person, however, did speak out and this poor girl paid for it with her life.’

Martha stared around the courtroom. ‘This is the terrible consequence of bullying and violence. Three families have lost their children in tragic and unnecessary circumstances. My object in bringing their stories to light is to make every effort in my power to ensure that this same story is never repeated again. These deaths were futile.’

The reporters were scribbling furiously, Martha noted, with a degree of satisfaction.

She would see this through.

She paused.

The reporters looked up, pens poised.

‘I am not at liberty to divulge all the details of exactly what
happened in the Young Offenders’ Institute as police enquiries and, almost certainly, criminal charges will result but the ultimate verdict on Callum Hughes’s death will certainly not be suicide but homicide. Roger Gough too died as the result of a homicide. Which leads me to the third death. Again the police are making enquiries but it seems certain that Chelsea Arnold died as the result of an arson attack on her home.’ She paused. ‘I am sorry to tell you that her baby brother did not survive the attack either.’

She studied the rim of faces. ‘And what has all this achieved? Nothing. Grief, unhappiness, loss. I see in front of me relatives whose lives have been shattered. There must be an end to it. These four deaths have achieved nothing. Unless,’ she paused, ‘unless it is to ensure that this type of situation does not happen again. Ever.

‘We have three murders – three families who have all suffered. One family’s loss is equal to another’s. No one has benefited.’ She fixed her eyes on the Goughs. ‘No one has won. You have all lost.’

Martha leaned back in her seat.

‘These,’ she said, ‘are the results of my findings.’

She waited for the watching people to absorb all that she had said before continuing.

‘Callum Hughes was fond of war poetry. In particular the poems of Wilfred Owen. Part of the poignancy of this young man’s death is that he died in November 1918. His parents could hear the Armistice bells ringing out in Shrewsbury when they received the news of his death. They must have grieved while others celebrated.’

She paused. ‘I want to read you an excerpt from just one of
his poems. It’s called ‘Strange Meeting’ and is an imagined encounter between a German soldier and a British Tommy.’

All eyes were on her.

She allowed the words to sink in before adding softly, ‘Let
them
sleep now.’

She had expected an aftermath – but nothing could have prepared her for the furore that broke out in the court. The Goughs, parents of the first victim, were taken into police custody before they reached the door. Outside journalists, friends, school-mates, all watched open-mouthed as Roger Gough’s parents were bundled into the police van.

One fine morning six months later, Martha was working in her office when there was a knock and Jericho walked in. ‘Detective Inspector Randall has rung,’ he said. ‘He wonders if he could possibly call on you.’

‘Of course.’ Like everyone else Martha had anxiously awaited the outcome of the police investigations.

Jericho left the door open and returned. ‘He’ll be along in half an hour,’ he said, adding, ‘shame about his wife.’

He lingered in the doorway.

Martha caved in. Jericho was an incorrigible gossip and would not be deflected once he had decided to speak. ‘What about his wife?’

‘In and out of mental hospitals,’ he said. ‘She’s got bipolar disorder. No end of trouble she’s caused him. Spending money like there’s no tomorrow. She rang the paper, I heard, and
accused him of all sorts of things. Going off with other women, stealing from their bank account. Poor man,’ he said. ‘It’s come close to costing him his job.’ He retreated before she could respond and closed the door deliberately and slowly behind him.

The knowledge of Alex’s home circumstances made her look at him in a new light when he arrived twenty minutes later. He looked tired. She noticed the lines around his eyes, the hard set to his mouth. She could read the suffering there. She had always sensed it but until now, she had not understood it. Now she did. Once Jericho had bustled through with cups of coffee, eagerly and unashamedly eavesdropping in on the conversation, Alex began.

‘You know, Martha,’ he said, settling back in the chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him, ‘one nice, predictable thing about villains is that they will all shop their fellows in exchange for a little plea bargaining. I’m almost awash with information. You wouldn’t believe how many hours we’ve spent taking statements and ferreting out the ugly truth.’

He grinned at her, took a sip of his coffee. ‘I almost don’t know where to start.’

‘Start with the Goughs.’

‘Well, we’ve got them on a conspiracy to commit murder charge. As we thought Peter Bowman was the singularly unpleasant arsonist.’ His mouth twisted. ‘He charged the Goughs eight hundred pounds for setting fire to Chelsea’s house. He’s back inside and, I hope, will never come out. He’s a wicked old lag who’s been in and out of prison all his life. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for a bit of money, which goes
straight on whisky and cigarettes. He’s done some long stretches but, somehow, we’ve never really managed to bang him up for life. They met up in one of the town pubs and a barmaid finally leaked details of their plans. She only heard bits but it’s enough.’

‘And the Goughs?’

Alex looked a little less certain. ‘Well, they’re bound to say that they were grief-stricken at Chelsea’s speech in the court and they will get some sympathy. There’s no doubt about that but I’d be very surprised – and disappointed – if they got less than ten years for their part both in the arson and the bribery of Walton Pembroke. Terrified of being on the receiving end of his own prison system he’s really ready to croak.’ He permitted himself a smile. ‘My bet is that he won’t be drawing that pension. Conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, concealment of a body, accepting bribes.’

‘Will you be able to pin that on him?’

Alex looked less sure of himself. ‘It’s going to be very difficult to prove exactly what he did,’ he said. ‘The Crown Prosecution Service is choking on this one. However, we have a safety net. The Prison Officers’ Union hold their own enquiries and they are more stringent than ours. Pembroke’s currently out on bail, suspended from work and will not be going back to Stoke Heath. When we investigated his bank account we realised he’d had a roaring little trade, supplying drugs, roughing inmates up, making life a little smoother for those who had relatives willing to pay, even smuggling the odd woman in.’

‘Stevie Matthews?’ she prompted.

‘Unlawful killing, perverting the course of justice but no
jury is going to believe she acted out of malice or alone. It’s obvious that Pembroke was the real villain. He was experienced enough to know that her restraint, on a terrified asthmatic, could have killed him and I always felt that making sure Callum was out of sight of the CCTV was a deliberate action.’

‘So what about the school?’

‘Put it like this,’ he said with a smile, ‘things have got a lot better not only at Hallow’s Lane but at other schools in Shrewsbury. This case has focused attention on the problem. I’ve been asked to provide officers to visit classrooms and speak to the pupils, even to look at playgrounds and advise on reducing the number of dark areas where assaults can take place. All the officers I’ve sent in have reported a real determination to make schools safer and stamp out bullying.’

‘That’s good.’

He was silent for a moment. ‘I’ll tell you something that’s been puzzling me.’

‘Yes?’

‘How did you know that Callum hadn’t killed himself?’

‘I didn’t, Alex, I suspected partly because I knew the
post-mortem
findings would be the same whether he had died from hanging or another cause and been strung up later to make it look like a suicide. I simply collected all the facts and laid them out in a row. When Shelley said that he was asthmatic I could see only too clearly that he easily could have asphyxiated from an over-zealous restraint. The terror could have caused bronchoconstriction and we know he was terrified. The videotape showed us his mental state only too
clearly. Then again – Stevie Matthews was new on the job. It was very likely that apart from her initial training sessions she had never actually applied restraint in a practical situation. As I’ve mentioned there was the avoidance of the camera’s eye. Pembroke had worked at Stoke Heath for years. Don’t tell me he didn’t know the exact location of every single CCTV camera. It was no coincidence that Callum was frogmarched out of sight. Then there were Callum’s injuries, the marks on his chest and face. String all those facts together and it fitted into place just that bit too neatly. Casper simply pointed the way forward.’

Alex was smiling at her. Saying nothing. His face looked younger, softer. One wouldn’t call him a handsome man but there was something craggy and masculine that made his an attractive face. Martha smiled back.

‘There is one other thing.’ He spoke quietly. ‘I feel worried about your stalker. These incidences can escalate all too easily. I took the liberty of asking an offender profiler to examine the incidents you’d told me about and he feels that we should take it seriously. He also feels sure that the perpetrator is someone you’ve had professional dealings with. That’s enough for me, Martha,’ he continued. ‘We’ll need details of every case you’ve conducted since you came to Shrewsbury.’

‘What? There must be thousands.’

‘Only the ones where you’ve played an active part in the verdict,’ he said.

‘That does narrow the field a bit. But it must still be hundreds, Alex.’

Alex raised his eyebrows and Martha was silent. She had suspected this herself, that her job had led someone to home
in on her. ‘Then I’ll organise Jericho,’ she said finally.

Randall stood up then. ‘Well, that’s it, Martha.’

She stood up with him. ‘Goodbye, Alex.’

He was gone and she sat back in her chair, thinking.

She still had her own ghosts to lay to rest, plenty to tackle yet in her life. Many cases of tragedy to deal with in the future but she would never forget these three lives which had been wasted so wantonly. Perhaps like the deaths in the First World War she should tell herself that all had not been in vain and that young lives had not been wasted without some benefit.

But in her heart of hearts she was not convinced.

She stood up and looked out of the window, straight across the town, at the spire of St Mary’s, scene of the first hang gliding tragedy in 1739. What future deaths would she need to unravel? Which would Alex find had led to someone victimising her for more than a year? And what about her personal life? Was she destined to follow the example of Martha Dias, also buried at St Mary’s?

Would that be her epitaph?

She sighed, felt vaguely and momentarily depressed then caught sight of her mobile phone flashing.

It was a text from Sam, simply hoping that she was ‘all
right’ and that ‘Bobby was fine’. She smiled. No need for the mistletoe code.

So as usual, she must move on into her own personal and professional future, her two children at her side. She texted Sam back telling him they were all fine too.