by Bill Kitson
She listened for a moment or two and Barry saw her beginning to relax slightly. He could hear Marshall’s voice but was unable to make out what he was saying. Then Shirley said, ‘Yes, I’ll try and find out for you, but I’ve something to tell you, Alan, something important. The morning you left I intercepted a letter for you.’
‘Yes,’ she continued after a second, ‘for you. It was sent by registered post. The sender’s name is on the back. It’s from a firm of solicitors in Leeds: Carnforth and Lancaster. It’s addressed to Woodbine Cottage, but listen to this, Alan. It isn’t addressed to Andrew Myers. It’s addressed to Alan C. Marshall. Do you want me to open it?’
Shirley nodded to her husband, then pointed to the envelope tucked behind the spice rack and made an opening gesture. ‘Hang on a second, Alan, Barry’s opening it.’
She waited as he carefully slit through the envelope with a kitchen knife. ‘Sorry, what was that?’ Barry heard her say. ‘Oh yes, Nell’s fine. She’s missing you a bit, I think. She keeps lifting her head when she hears a car nearby, or when Barry comes through the door. Apart from that she’s OK. Right, I’ve got the letter now. Are you ready?’ Shirley paused. ‘There’s a covering note from a Mr Albert Carnforth stating that he’s been instructed to send you the enclosed only in the event of Stuart Moran’s sudden or violent death.’ She turned the pages and said, ‘The letter itself is signed by Stuart Moran. It’s dated December 2008. Here goes:
‘Dear Alan Marshall,
I hope you never get to read this letter. That’s because of the conditions I attached to it when I lodged it for safe keeping. If you do read it, that will mean I am dead. I hope this letter may be of some use, if only to set your mind at rest regarding the past, or act in the nature of a warning. What follows is as close to a confession of my part in the events surrounding your wife’s death and your conviction as you could get. But if you’re reading this, my guilt will have been paid for. I’m so afraid of what will happen in the future that I had to write this down and keep it safe.
I did you a great wrong. Two great wrongs actually. I was party to a deception the result of which was to send you to prison for murder. A crime I knew you didn’t commit. My so-called friends were anxious to get you convicted, in case you began asking questions about your wife’s murder and stumbled across the conspiracy.
Anna was killed because she uncovered information that was dynamite then. It will be one hundred times more dangerous in the future. She wasn’t prepared to look the other way, so she had to be disposed of. Every effort was made to incriminate you for her murder.
What Anna found out was one small part of a web of deceit and corruption involving business, local politics and the law. It was big then. It has since grown to massive proportions. Millions of pounds change hands every year to ensure the continuing success of the operation. No wonder Anna was expendable. Her decision to confront the men responsible instead of keeping quiet, signed her death warrant. I could have warned Anna she was in danger, but didn’t. By the time I plucked up courage it was too late, she’d disappeared.
I’ve been torn by guilt at my part in it all. I’ve had to live with that guilt. I’ve tried to disentangle myself from the mess, but I can’t. The only decent thing I did was to pay for your appeal. Since your release I’ve kept tabs on you with the help of a private detective.
My part in the conspiracy was to ensure you were convicted and safely out of the way. They could simply have had you killed, but that wouldn’t leave them with a ready-made culprit for Anna’s murder. I used my influence with the police to ensure they got plenty of evidence to proceed against you. The detective in charge assembled all he could, including a lot that I had manufactured. Anything that might suggest your innocence got ‘overlooked’ in the process. My other role was to stand up in the witness box and lie.
I told the court Anna and I were lovers. That was a lie, a total and utter lie. I wouldn’t have minded, but Anna would have nothing to do with me. I told the court she feared you’d found out; another lie. How could you? There was nothing to find. I told the court she had said you were insanely jealous. She never said anything of the kind. I also paid your neighbours to invent furious rows between you. I could see from your face as I stood there in court lying, that I was also destroying your belief in Anna.
Your expression, as you stood listening to my lies, has haunted my dreams ever since. That was why I paid for your appeal. That is why I’ve refused to have any more to do with the conspiracy. That refusal may cost me my life. If you’re reading this, Alan, then it has.
My advice would be to stay buried in your country cottage and forget the past. The people behind this are absolutely ruthless, and developments mean they intend to play for even higher stakes. Trust no one; their network of contacts is so widespread. Anyone could be in their pay. And remember, if this letter gets to you, it means I know where you are. Others could find out equally easily.
Even now, when I know this letter will be lodged in a safe place, I am too afraid to name any of those involved. But the strangest part is that you know more about the whole business and the people behind it than you realize. That knowledge is the reason they considered you, still consider you, to be such a danger.
That’s all I have to tell you. Whether you seek retribution for your wife, or not, is up to you, but be very careful how you go about it if you do. I can’t emphasize often enough how ruthless and deadly these people are. And how much they stand to lose.’
There was a long, dreadful silence after Shirley finished reading the letter. She heard what sounded like a sob at the other end of the phone. ‘Alan, are you all right?’
After what seemed an age she heard his voice, low and toneless, devoid of any inflection. ‘So it was all untrue. Anna wasn’t unfaithful to me. She wasn’t having an affair.’ He paused again. ‘She had a secret she couldn’t share with me, and all I could think was that she was cheating on me. I let her down, Shirley. I let Anna down. I wasn’t there when she needed me. That’s why she died. Because she couldn’t trust me.’
Shirley took a deep breath. This was bad, far worse than if Marshall had ranted and raved. ‘Listen, Alan, stop wallowing in self pity. I can’t speak for someone I didn’t know, but what this letter shows is that Anna didn’t tell you because she loved you. Do you realize how lucky that makes you? She died protecting you, and all you can do is moan about lack of trust. I tell you something, Alan: you’re right in one respect, you didn’t deserve her. She went to her death out of love for you. So what do you intend to do about it? Sit there moping and being a pathetic wimp until the police find you? The letter says you know something. Well, what is it? Think about it. Get out and find it; find Anna’s murderer. Take your revenge for her, and for yourself. That’s what I’d want you to do if I was Anna. I’d want a man, not a pathetic excuse for one.’
The silence was even longer before Marshall said, ‘You’re probably right, Shirley, but I’ll have to think it over.’
She put the phone down and looked at her husband, her eyes moist with unshed tears. She hadn’t liked the defeated tone in Marshall’s voice. ‘I’m afraid, Barry. That letter seems to have knocked all the fight out of him. I can’t see a way this will end, except in tragedy.’
Marshall sat on the edge of the bed staring sightlessly at the wall. For hours on end he remained in the same pose. The words from Moran’s letter echoed ceaselessly in his brain. After the first pangs of distress abated, one phrase thrust repeatedly into his lamentation. ‘The strangest part is that you know more about the whole business and the people behind it than you realize.’ What had Moran meant? How would he have known the motive for Anna’s murder? Did Moran believe Anna had confided some secret to him? Marshall wrestled with the idea all night, but the enigma remained unsolved.
‘Is that Lisa? We haven’t spoken before. My name’s Shirley. We’ve a mutual acquaintance, one with scars on his arm and chest.’
‘Right, I’m with you. What can I do for
you?’
‘Is it safe to talk? Our friend said you’d had one or two problems with others.’
‘No, everything’s fine.’
‘Our friend was wondering if you’d had chance to do the research he asked you about? He’s concerned about his security.’
‘I understand, but I haven’t been able to access the information yet,’ Lisa lied. ‘But with luck, I should have it soon.’
‘I think he’ll need luck. He’s very down at the moment. I’ve had to tell him something which really upset him.’ Shirley explained about the letter.
‘Ask him if he wants me to tell my boss about that? I’ve some news that might cheer him up.’ Lisa related the finding of the waiter’s uniform. ‘There’s no way our friend could have worn it. He wouldn’t even have been able to get into it. Tell him my boss is convinced he’s innocent. If you can, try and persuade him to come to Helmsdale for his own sake. Either that, or make the phone call I suggested.’
‘That’s great,’ Shirley said. ‘He’ll be delighted to hear it. And I’ll try and persuade him. But it won’t be easy.’
Marshall was in the library again. He picked up a copy of the local evening paper from the table and began reading. The double murder was still headline news. He was about to close the paper when a small item towards the bottom of the page caught his eye. ‘Councillor Bob Starts Campaign’, he read. ‘Councillor Bob Jeffries opens his re-election campaign tonight with a meeting in Queens Hall at 7.30 p.m. All constituents and others welcome.’
Marshall remembered the name; remembered the man. He’d had a lot to do with Jeffries when he’d been working in the city. Jeffries had been a major force on the Yorkshire Central planning committee. It was a curious relationship, with Marshall spending company money purchasing small gifts for Jeffries. Tickets to Elland Road, seats for the Headingley Test and so on, whilst the councillor secured planning consent for projects Broadwood Construction wanted to build. It was no big thing; everyone in the construction industry did the same. Marshall decided to go to Councillor Jeffries’ meeting.
There was little new in the fact that Councillor Robert (Call me Bob) Jeffries was up for re-election, but the count would be a formality, as with every election over the past twenty-five years. It was one of those wards. Nevertheless Bob didn’t fall into the complacency trap by ignoring his electorate. Prior to every election he held a series of public meetings. These followed a familiar and successful formula, whereby one of his staff would open the meeting and harangue the gathering, much in the style of a warm-up comedian. Then Jeffries would enter accompanied by a regional or national party luminary. The guest speaker would deliver a short rousing speech on national issues, utter a few words of fulsome praise about Bob and his value to the party. Then it would be Bob’s turn centre stage.
His routine had varied little over the years. He’d start by wishing every success to his worthy opponent. Actually he had changed that phrase a little, substituting ‘worthy’ with ‘young’ as a way of implying inexperience. He’d then proceed to demolish everything his opponent represented. He’d finish with a quick, but not too quick, embellished, but only slightly embellished, account of his achievements. Then a promise of what he’d be able to achieve in the future. He didn’t go so far as to promise the earth, moon and stars, only that segment of them visible from within the ward. He’d end with a rousing exhortation for them to turn out on election day with the slogan: ‘It’s up to you. You know your job, Come Election Day, Vote for Bob.’
The hall was almost three-quarters full that night, for the guest was a man going places within the party. The first speaker was about to start when Marshall entered the hall. As he went to take a seat towards the back of the audience, the man in front stopped and turned round suddenly. Unable to stop, Marshall bumped into him. The hard point of the man’s elbow struck Marshall in the chest. Immediately he felt a slight tear at the wound site. He knew what had happened. The gash had opened again. He could feel a warm sensation spreading across his shirt. Blood was seeping from the wound. Marshall cast a quick glance round the auditorium as the man he’d collided with mumbled an apology. He saw the sign for the toilets at the front, to the left of the stage. He knew he’d have to attempt some running repairs. The only place available was the privacy of a cubicle. The last thing Marshall wanted was to draw attention to himself.
The first piece of luck he had was when he saw the toilet was served by fabric roller towels rather than hand-driers. It was the work of seconds to force the towel cabinet and remove the roll of towelling. Marshall retired to the cubicle farthest from the door. Just in time to avoid being seen. As he swung the cubicle door closed behind him he heard the outer door open. This was swiftly followed by footsteps approaching the next compartment. Marshall listened. There were two unidentifiable sounds, a sort of gurgle, followed by a thump; then the sound of footsteps retreating. The outer door closed.
Marshall removed his coat and slowly lifted his shirt. The damage wasn’t as bad as he feared. The collision had moved the dressing, allowing the wound to bleed unchecked. He mopped up as much as he could with the roller towel and replaced the dressing, tightening it as much as possible. He was about to replace his coat when he glanced down. A pool of liquid had appeared beneath the dividing wall. Marshall shrugged his coat on and went outside. He pushed the door of the next cubicle open. He stared in horror for a second. Then he turned to leave. As he reached the door he brushed past someone entering the toilets. The surprised man stared after him. Marshall headed for the exit. He had to get away as fast as he could.
‘Where’s Jeffries?’ the party star waiting in the wings hissed. ‘We’re on in a couple of minutes.’
‘He went to the loo,’ the party agent replied. ‘I’ll go check he’s OK.’
‘Well hurry up about it!’
The agent almost collided with a man as he dashed into the gents. At first glance the lavatory appeared empty. One of the cubicle doors was almost closed. The agent glanced down. A thin stream of dark-coloured liquid had trickled across the tiled floor from within the cubicle. The agent pushed at the door. It resisted, blocked by something heavy. The agent pushed harder and the door flew open revealing the crumpled body of Councillor Robert Jeffries. Bob had always had a head for politics. Whoever slit his throat had all but severed that head from the body politic.
Getting out of the building wasn’t as easy as entering had been. At least, getting out without drawing unwelcome attention. Marshall walked slowly down the aisle on the left of the seating. The audience was becoming restless. The opening speaker had finished and there was no sign of the succeeding ones. They were unprepared for this. One or two were shuffling in their seats. A hum of subdued conversation spread through the hall. Marshall had almost reached the rear of the auditorium, where the exits to the foyer were, when a body of stewards entered the hall. Some went down the trio of aisles; others remained at the rear standing menacingly in front of the door. That way was barred. Marshall turned hastily aside, as if looking for a seat. As he did so a fresh sound panicked him even more. Faintly, in the distance as yet, but distinct, the unmistakeable sound of sirens. Marshall knew where they were headed. Knew he’d to leave now. Knew the next two minutes were his only chance to escape. He saw a curtain halfway down the aisle at the far side of the hall where there was obviously a door. The luminous sign above read ‘Fire Exit’. It was worth a try. Anything was worth a try. Any second now police would be entering the foyer. Marshall inched his way over towards the far side of the hall as if still looking for a vacant seat. His eyes scanned the auditorium constantly for movement that might signal the arrival of the police. He reached the emergency exit sign and looked quickly to his immediate right and left. He glanced cautiously over his shoulder to see a number of police officers entering the body of the hall as he slipped behind the curtain. Marshall slowly pushed the bar and the door opened a couple of inches. It led straight out on to the pavement. He carefully pushed the door wider, and
slid through it, closing it gently behind him.
‘Hey! You! What are you doing?’
Marshall turned, shock sending his legs momentarily into quivering jellies. Two large police officers were coming rapidly towards him. Their build suggested they might be rugby league prop forwards. Marshall turned to run and found himself confronted by a man in plain clothes. Recognition was instant and mutual, dislike almost as quick. It was the man who’d threatened Lisa in Netherdale. Obviously relishing the task, DS Donald Smailes began to speak, ‘Alan Charles Marshall, I am arrest—’
That was as far as he got before Marshall came to his senses, came to realize the desperation of his plight. He reached for the object at his belt, swung it high and hard. Heard the loud crack as it made contact with the man’s skull. Then he ran, with all the speed he could, from the collapsed figure on the pavement and the two officers lumbering after him. As he ran Marshall replaced the object on his belt. The eight-inch-long, lead-weighted cosh, used by anglers and shooters alike to dispatch wounded fish or animals. It was known as a ‘priest’, presumably because it administered the last rites. Marshall prayed it hadn’t fulfilled that function on the detective he’d struck.
He got away more by good luck than management. His narrow escape left him shaken. The thought of what he’d left behind only increased his fear. Any chance of denying his involvement in the murders would soon be gone. The evidence was overwhelming. The councillor’s body, his fingerprints close by. A towel soaked in his blood. His previous association with the dead man. If he’d been in a predicament before, his situation now was dire.
He risked catching a bus and got off at the stop nearest to the hotel and walked the intervening quarter of a mile. Caution was becoming more of a second nature now and he waited in the shadow of a tall chestnut tree, scanning the car park for strange vehicles; then examined cars parked in the street for people sitting inside. After fifteen minutes watching and waiting, when he was as certain as could be that it was safe, he walked swiftly across the road and into the building. The reception area was deserted, the reason becoming clear as he passed the resident’s lounge. The big screen TV was on, a football match being broadcast, watched by almost every other resident and the hotel’s proprietor. Marshall passed unnoticed and trotted up the flight of stairs to his room. He locked his room door behind him with some relief and went to switch the light on. He then had a second thought and crossed to the window instead. He stood in the shelter of the curtain for several minutes until a measure of night vision came to him and he was able to see the rear aspect of the hotel. Eventually he was satisfied that the shrubs and bushes were not concealing a posse of policemen. He closed the curtains before returning to the light switch. He flicked it on and examined the room carefully. Everything appeared to be as he had left it.