The Innocent Ones

by The Innocent Ones (retail) (epub)

  He didn’t wait for Ken’s reply. Instead, he marched through the reception area and back down the stairs to the street.

  All of his past was catching up with him now and he had too much to lose. He wasn’t going to let Jayne Brett take it all away.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Dan had been sitting in the visiting room at the prison for twenty minutes, jolted all the time by the distant bangs of large doors slamming, guards shouting, laughter between themselves. They reverberated through the prison, the soundtrack for the inmates.

  Rodney was in Doncaster prison, his two decades of good behaviour getting him downgraded to Category B.

  The prison was modern from the outside, behind high concrete walls and a modern gateway, and yet it had the highest suicide rate in the country. Perhaps it was something to do with the large electrical substation right opposite the entrance, so that the air seemed to crackle as he waited for entry. Or because it was surrounded by water, sitting where the River Don separates. It wasn’t Alcatraz, but it’s hard to predict what happens when hope is snuffed out.

  The prison had allowed him a special slot. They demanded twenty-four hours’ notice normally, but Rodney was a celebrity prisoner, and his gold-star rating sometimes got him privileges, even if it wasn’t said outright. For all of their disdain, Dan knew that the guards boasted of their inmates when they went home. Those in the outside world wanted to hear about the monsters, the names that filled the tabloids and made pints spill in heated pub discussions.

  The guards told of how there was something not quite right about them, from the evil in their eyes to the potency of their threat, their impulses barely held in check by the doors and walls, told like a fireside tale.

  The truth was less dramatic. The monsters were to be feared because they were just like everyone else, the dark side of humanity unleashed, but human nonetheless. They talked and laughed and slept and complained of boredom, just like all prisoners. A demand for a better cell life generated Burn In Hell newspaper pieces, but they were borne out of boredom, in the same way that other prisoners will fight over a pinched cigarette.

  For Dan, the real fear was in their ability to move unnoticed. Murderers were that one bad day, when impulses or a snap of anger couldn’t be kept in check, or that unusual something they were unable to control. Every murderer he’d defended seemed as ordinary as everyone else. Impossible to differentiate, out there somewhere, waiting to explode.

  There were more pragmatic reasons for the special visit too.

  Rodney was a special category of prisoner: Rule 43, isolated from the rest of the population for his own safety. He’d murdered two children, and that made him notorious. He was a target for the prison headhunters, and seeing Dan alone kept him apart.

  Dan didn’t know what to expect. He’d looked him up on the Internet overnight and realised that he’d heard of his crimes before, but his memory was patchy, gleaned only from occasional press reports rushed out on an anniversary of the murders. Despite his knowledge that most killers are conspicuous by their mundanity, he couldn’t help but feel some trepidation. There were always some that tried to play up to their images. When you’ve lost your liberty but acquired notoriety, your reputation is all you have left. Rodney Walker was a tabloid monster and some people become what people expect them to be. Would Dan feel the threat from across the table?

  Or would it be worse than that? Would he beguile him into believing that he was innocent, the very same guile that persuaded two young children to wander off with him? He didn’t want to be manipulated. He was there for Nick Connor, not for Rodney Walker.

  He sat upright at the familiar rumble of keys, always oversized, almost as if they were symbolic, the jailer’s fantasy. The door opened and into the room walked Rodney.

  He was smaller and greyer than Dan had imagined. He’d acquired a paunch, sitting around all day must do that, and his hair had thinned and turned silver. His movements were slow, dressed in jeans and a grey sweatshirt, a bright yellow bib on top, his hands in his pockets.

  When he sat down, he smiled and said, ‘Hello. Nice to meet you.’

  That surprised Dan. He’d expected hostility, a glimpse of his evil, but he seemed calm and quiet, serene almost.

  ‘You know why I’m here?’

  He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. ‘Ken Goodman called the governor. I was allowed to call him back. About Mark Roberts.’

  ‘You know him then?’

  ‘He came to see me. He was writing a book and I was going to feature.’

  ‘How did you feel about that?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m a celebrity prisoner, I understand that, and I’ll sell copies.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Ken said he’d been killed. You’re representing his killer, right?’

  ‘I am, and we’re looking at whether it had anything to do with your case.’

  ‘Why should it? My story on its own isn’t enough for a book, so he must have been looking at more than just my case. Like a greatest hits of child killers.’

  Dan ignored the arrogance, almost as if Rodney was determined to make Dan dislike him. ‘We’re following the only leads we have.’

  ‘Have you found anything?’

  ‘Nothing yet, and we haven’t got much time to do it. What did you tell him?’

  ‘That I wasn’t interested in taking part.’

  ‘Why did you speak to him then?’

  ‘To see what he had to say, whether he had a different angle.’

  ‘He did though, didn’t he? He believed you might be innocent.’

  ‘It’s not the first time I’ve heard that, and it wasn’t for my benefit. Just another true crime writer trying to live off me. I get contacted all the time, all wanting that interview with the sicko child killer. I don’t feed it. How will any of that help me?’ He held up his hand. ‘I don’t mean to be self-pitying. I’ve chosen this, no one else, and I don’t expect you to understand. What’s in it for me though? That’s what I always ask myself. And what about the families of those children? Why should I help them?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘They like to keep it in the media because they feed off it. They’ve become addicted to grief and the publicity. They should move on. I have.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s about making you hard to release if people are reminded of what you did?’

  ‘Bad people get parole all the time.’

  ‘Which brings me to why I’m here, because I expected you to be full of denials, truthful or not, because that’s what murderers do. They manipulate, make it all about them, which is just how they lived their lives, selfishly. You haven’t done that.’

  ‘You’re saying I’m different. Does that make me more or less likely to be a killer then?’

  ‘Likelihood isn’t important. It’s whether you are a killer.’

  ‘Twelve members of a jury said so.’

  ‘And you didn’t persuade them otherwise?’

  Rodney sat back and folded his arms. ‘What do you want, Mr Grant?’

  ‘Just for some light on this. There had to be a reason why Mark Roberts died, and your case seems connected somehow. My investigator was in Brampton for just a few hours before she was assaulted, and she was only asking questions.’

  He gave a small laugh. ‘Brampton doesn’t welcome outsiders. They’ll take their money in summer, but they never really like them.’

  ‘This was more than that. At least, that’s how she sees it, and there are two reasons.’ Dan held out his hand, to count the reasons on his fingers. ‘Firstly, she’s raking up bad memories and people are offended. That’s what Mark Roberts did, and he’s dead now. And I don’t accept that it’s because people want to move on. If the families are grief-junkies, like you said, why wouldn’t they relish the spotlight once more?’

  ‘And the other reason?’

  ‘If you’re not the murderer, someone else is, and it’s not much of a step to kill again when there is a secret to keep from twenty years
ago. Whoever that person is, he will be desperate or angry. If I can work out who that might be, I’ve got another suspect in my client’s case.’

  ‘How far have you got?’

  ‘Not far at all. Tell me, who do you think might have done it?’

  Rodney unfolded his arms and leaned across the table again. ‘I’m not going to start guessing. The country has got its bogeyman. Why should I deprive them of that?’

  ‘That sounds to me like the jury had it right all along, but you just can’t bring yourself to admit it.’

  ‘I didn’t kill those children.’

  ‘Who did then?’

  ‘I don’t care. It won’t change my life in any way. And it’s not good for my mental health.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘It’s better to accept my lot and live with it. Everyone else should do the same.’

  ‘You didn’t give evidence.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The world has never heard your side of things. Start with me.’

  ‘You want me to tell you what happened?’

  ‘Why not? I’m not going to write a book or newspaper article. I’m here for my client. Now? I’m just intrigued.’

  Rodney watched Dan, his gaze piercing, and Dan felt like he was in a spotlight.

  It was Rodney who broke the silence. ‘Okay, I’ll talk, but this is off the record.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  1997

  The Crown Court was only forty miles from Brampton, but to Porter it felt like a whole other world.

  He knew Brampton. He was familiar with the people and understood its rhythms. The Crown Court was in the big city, where people rushed and snarled and were choked by fumes, and whenever he visited he yearned to get back to the sharp, salty-clean air of his own small town.

  The Crown Court was a different thing altogether too.

  The Magistrates’ Court in Brampton was small and only sat three days a week, judgements handed down by a clique of small business owners and retired teachers. It was the place for petty offenders, the brawlers and the shoplifters, and there wasn’t enough big crime to require him in the Crown Court too often.

  Rodney’s case was different. It had shaken the town and had been the topic on everyone’s lips all summer. The season was ending now. The summer shows headlined by fading comedy stars were winding up and the fairground rides on the seafront were being put under tarpaulin for the winter, but still people talked about it.

  He needed the case to end though. He wanted to tell everyone that the monster was gone and that they could all carry on with their lives.

  Alongside him in the public gallery were the parents of Ruby and William. They were an ill-matched group. Ruby’s parents were in expensive-looking suits, her father in tweed and her mother in sleek black, her collar turned upwards, her hair immaculate. William’s parents had made an effort, but they looked hollowed out in comparison. He was in a suit also, but borrowed from a friend, not quite fitting properly, his shirt collar wide around his neck. William’s mother was next to him, but her leg crossed away from him, her arms folded, her face pale through months of tears. She wore her hatred of Rodney Walker more openly, but the blame she projected on to Sean was there for all to see.

  It had been a long few months.

  The defence hadn’t fought as hard as he’d expected. Although Ken Goodman wasn’t someone who’d ever worried the police, he wouldn’t be fighting alone. There was a QC, helped by a junior barrister, both ready to lead the defence. But it had been as if no one cared. Even when he’d been cross-examined, Porter hadn’t felt under pressure. There were small jabs from them, about whether he’d been thorough enough in the investigation, but it always came back to Ruby’s belt, and the DNA of both children in the car. The jurors knew that it was just legal games, as did the lawyers.

  Perhaps that was the answer. No one cared for Rodney. He’d murdered two children but stayed silent. Who cares about a child murderer, particularly one who didn’t put up a fight?

  Porter had sat in court once he’d finished his evidence and watched in bewilderment as the case progressed. Lawyers squabbled in public, legal points argued, the jurors taken out time after time as the judge settled them, and then laughed and joked once the jurors were absent. For Porter, his job was clear-cut. He investigated and found the truth. The courtroom was where it became obscured, all the facts stirred around until they came out looking much different.

  Ken Goodman was in court, sitting behind one of the barristers. He was in his best suit, his stomach straining the buttons on his waistcoat, on the off-chance that he got to make a speech on the court steps, but Porter wasn’t expecting that. And neither was Ken Goodman. They’d propped up enough bars together since Ruby’s murder, and he’d told Porter a few times, when the beer flowed for long enough, that he had no need to worry. Ken Goodman wasn’t going to be the small-town lawyer who freed the small-town killer. It wasn’t good for business.

  Ken must have felt Porter’s stare, because he turned to the public gallery. The parents stiffened, but Ken was searching for Porter. When he saw him, he gave a small nod.

  Porter knew what it meant. It would be his day, not Rodney’s.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the clatter of court keys and the mumbles of conversation as Rodney ascended into the dock from the holding areas below, flanked by two police officers close to retirement. He didn’t look round as he sat down. He sat forward, his body rigid.

  Porter glanced towards the door. If Rodney made a dash for freedom, the only things keeping him from the streets were a low brass rail and the reactions of the two police officers with him.

  Everyone stood as the judge entered.

  The next few minutes passed in a blur, the months of expectation ending in the solemn words of the jury foreman as he announced that they had arrived at a decision in which they were all in agreement, followed by that one word that brought an end to the case and shouts from the gallery, all the stress and anger spilling out once it had been proved that all they’d been certain of was true.

  Guilty.

  As Rodney was placed in handcuffs to begin the rest of his life behind bars, he turned to the gallery. There was no apology or taunt. Just a look towards Porter, his eyebrows pinched, anguish in eyes.

  Porter was confused. It wasn’t the reaction he’d expected.

  But he cast it from his mind. The beast was behind bars. It was all over.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Present Day

  Rodney looked around the room, his arms folded, as if checking to see who might be listening.

  Eventually, he leaned forward, closer to Dan. ‘It looked bad, and I knew that. I’m no fool. I’ve always thought someone set me up, but I just don’t know who. Think how easy it would be. I lived near the rugby club, where Ruby went missing, so if I’d been seen there, whoever it was would know that there was no one in where I live, because I’d never leave my kids on their own. My garage isn’t attached to my house and I wasn’t always good at locking the door. It was Brampton, a nice quiet town, leave your doors open and all that. There wasn’t anything worth stealing, just an old mower and some muddy gardening tools. It would have been easy for someone to sneak in there and kill her.’ He held his hands out. ‘If I’d killed her, do you think I’d be so stupid as to leave her belt in there? I’d have cleaned the place so that there was no trace left. And my car was there too. So easy to wipe William’s DNA on the seat belt. Whatever they used to clean up the blood would do that.’

  Dan frowned. ‘I don’t know all about your case, but I’ve been reading about the case on the Internet before I came here and there are other things. On the night Ruby went missing, you were stopped coming back from where she was buried. You seemed agitated, evasive.’

  ‘Of course I was agitated. I’d been drinking. I thought he was going to breathalyse me. I didn’t know then what it was all about, but I thought that night I’d got lucky.’ He gave a small laugh. ‘The bloody irony, eh.’


  ‘Where had you been though?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘What the hell do you think I mean?’

  Rodney narrowed his eyes, watching Dan, the gaze of a man who knew how to keep secrets.

  ‘You’re not writing anything down?’

  Dan held his hands in the air. ‘I’m just trying to find out why Mark Roberts died.’

  He sighed. ‘I don’t want anyone to go through what I’ve been through, so I’ll tell you. This stays between us, but I’d been to see a woman.’ He held up his hand. ‘Before you ask, I’m not going to tell you her name. It was the first woman I’d had any involvement with after Sarah left me, and I was in love with her. I know, it sounds soppy, but I promised I’d keep it secret. She was married, you see, and she didn’t want her children to suffer by her marriage breaking up. She’d been brought up by divorced parents and didn’t want the same thing to happen to her own children. And I agreed. I’d seen how my own had been affected when Sarah left. It was hard to explain, but they changed. More withdrawn, less confident. Less trusting. I couldn’t do that to her children.’

  ‘If she loved you, she wouldn’t let you languish here in prison.’

  ‘That was my choice, and I told her straight, but love makes you do strange things. That’s why I wouldn’t give evidence in my trial, because I knew I’d get asked that question. I don’t mean to make it sound heroic, but I sacrificed myself for that woman.’

  ‘And abandoned your own children. They lost you as a father and had to grow up in your shadow, the offspring of a murderer. Why wouldn’t you sacrifice her for them?’

  ‘Come on, you know why. I’d have been convicted anyway. There was blood in my garage. Ruby’s belt. William’s DNA in my car, Ruby’s too. I was at the scene of both. I had no chance. That’s what my barrister said, that I shouldn’t try to explain what I can’t explain. The prosecution barrister would tear into me. Why drag her into it as well?’

  ‘More than twenty years in prison, and you’ve suffered it all for love?’