Clear My Name

by Paula Daly

  And then without knowing how it happens she has her face pushed to the floor. There is a knee in her back and the person is telling her to keep still. That she is only a danger to herself. She hears the sound of metal on metal and there’s a sharp burning sensation around her wrists. She can no longer feel the knee in her back but she can hear ragged breathing all around her. They pull her to her feet and she’s shocked to see the laptop on the floor along with a number of loose sheets of paper. Her solicitor is holding a paper napkin to the area above his right eye and a bright patch of blood is beginning to bloom through it. ‘I didn’t do that,’ she says to him, and he tells her, ‘Yes, you did. You hit me with the fucking laptop,’ he says.

  He’s angry.

  ‘We’ll need to swab her,’ she hears Gillian Frain telling her solicitor. ‘We’ve found blood at the scene not belonging to the victim, so we’ll need to swab Mrs Kamara for DNA.’ And the solicitor tells DI Frain to do whatever the hell she likes. He’s leaving. She’ll need to get a new solicitor.

  Now

  ‘I DON’T UNDERSTAND,’ Avril is saying. ‘How do police records disappear? How is that even allowed to happen?’

  ‘They just do,’ answers Tess.

  If Tess appears unmoved by Detective Inspector Frain’s bombshell, it’s because evidence does go missing, all the time, and forensic reports do somehow become unavailable – it’s not exactly a rare occurrence. And yes, it’s frustrating. Yes, she can understand Avril railing – Tess had the same reaction herself when she was a little greener – but there is little to be done.

  ‘There’s no point whining about it,’ she tells Avril. ‘We can raise the issue at the appeal – if we get one granted – but forget it for now because I have an idea.’

  Tess is backtracking. She is pursuing a lead that is almost certainly not going to be fruitful, but the alternative … well, she can’t think of the alternative right now, so she heads to the dealership.

  The dealership is across town, situated at the edge of the White Lund Industrial Estate – north-west of the River Lune. If Tess had more time she would solicit Clive’s services, ask him to call in another favour, gain access to the police records that she requires. But as it is, she’s here, essentially on the doorstep, so she may as well get the job done herself. And besides, she doesn’t like to abuse Clive’s goodwill. She prefers to use him when there is no other viable alternative, partly because Clive is putting himself at risk whenever accessing information he’s not legally allowed to access, and partly because she doesn’t like to be beholden to him. She’s not yet found the right moment to talk to him about Rebecca’s visit and her promise to his wife that the arrangement she shares with him is now defunct, so she’d rather simply avoid him for the time being.

  The car park is packed with Hondas large and small, old and new, and Tess finds a space from which she can survey the internal workings of the dealership unobserved. Avril goes to climb out but Tess tells her to stay put: ‘The second they see us on the forecourt, there’ll be a salesman sniffing round.’

  ‘OK, but what are we actually here for?’ asks Avril.

  ‘I need an address,’ she says, and points. ‘From them.’

  Tess keeps her eyes glued on the sales staff inside. From what she can determine there are two: both male, both mid-thirties, both with heavy paunches, both eager for it to be lunchtime. They move slowly around the showroom, killing time. If Tess were ten years younger, she might use charm to try to prise what she requires from them, but her days of petitioning using her sex appeal are well behind her.

  Avril begins tapping away on her phone.

  ‘Start the car again and take a left out of here,’ Avril instructs.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  Tess pulls out of the car park and when she returns, shortly afterwards, Avril has two large kebabs resting in her lap. One doner and chicken. One shish and doner. Avril gets out of the car and takes the polystyrene boxes along with her. ‘Follow my lead,’ she tells Tess, and she makes her way across the forecourt. She holds the door open for Tess, glancing backwards and quickly rearranging her features into that of a smiley, happy young woman, a woman who is about to present the most glorious gift. ‘Gentlemen,’ she says, upon entering.

  Five minutes later they are sitting opposite Avril’s new friend Alex. Alex who is eyeing the takeaway boxes, salivating, and who really can see no harm at all in looking up any white, limited-edition Honda CR-Vs that happened to be registered in the Morecambe area at the time of Ella Muir’s murder. ‘So there’s one here that belonged to a Mr Peter Kamara,’ Alex says. ‘He bought that new from us in … let’s see, it must have been—’

  ‘Any others?’ asks Tess impatiently.

  ‘Just a moment. Yes. One more. Her name rings a bell, actually, not sure why.’ Alex takes a pen from the grey desk tidy and writes the woman’s details on a compliments slip: ‘Melanie Phelps, 10 Shady Lane, Hest Bank’.

  He hands it to Avril who bestows a beatific smile on him. ‘Alex,’ she says playfully, ‘you really have been most helpful,’ and she slides the kebabs across the desk towards him.

  Ten minutes later and Avril pulls down the sun visor and checks her reflection in the small mirror. They are at Melanie Phelps’s address. The white Honda is in the driveway. ‘So, if Melanie remembers driving through Morecambe on the evening of Ella’s murder, then it could have been her on the CCTV and not Carrie.’

  ‘Exactly that,’ replies Tess, and she feels a prickle of irritation as she knows what Avril is about to say next.

  ‘Then why didn’t we come to see her earlier?’

  Tess looks out of the driver’s side window. ‘Other evidence needed checking,’ she answers vaguely. What she doesn’t say is that they are here because she has nothing else. They are here because she has run out of leads, options. What she also doesn’t say is that Melanie Phelps attesting to driving in Morecambe on the night of the murder would, yes, be useful to their case, but in itself is not exactly earth-shattering evidence. For Innocence UK to approach the Court of Appeal they must have either strong new evidence, or a new legal argument. And Melanie Phelps is neither.

  Tess bites down on her lower lip. She was expecting to find her strong new evidence courtesy of Stephanie Reynolds. Steph. What she didn’t expect was for her past to come hurtling towards her, slamming into her like a high-speed train and derailing her thoughts, her life, in the way it has.

  ‘Melanie’s off out,’ Avril is saying, nodding in the direction of Melanie’s house. ‘We need to move now if we’re going to catch her.’

  Tess rubs her face with her hands. The car smells of kebab. She wonders if she smells of kebab.

  They approach the driveway; Melanie Phelps is loading three Staffordshire bull terriers into the back seat of her car. The dogs are giddy with excitement, their tales wagging, their big mouths wide open, smiling. Melanie picks up each dog in turn and kisses the top of its head. She tells them how good they are. How much she loves them. She calls each one puppy. She is not aware of Tess and Avril, lingering behind.

  ‘Mrs Phelps?’ Tess calls out hesitantly. She doesn’t want to frighten the woman – absorbed as she is in her task – or the dogs.

  Melanie Phelps spins around. ‘Mrs? Not likely. I answer to Ms these days.’ Her voice is coarse and gravelly. A smoker.

  Tess steps forward and offers her hand. ‘Tess Gilroy,’ she says. ‘I hope you don’t mind but I got your name from the Honda garage. We’re investigating a miscarriage of justice case and—’

  ‘Honda? Those robbing bastards. Bet they didn’t tell you they sold me a complete piece of shit, did they? This car’s been back inside that garage more times than …’ She looks skywards trying to find a suitable way to end her sentence, and when nothing is forthcoming decides on ‘bastards’ again.

  Melanie is mid-fifties, blonde, brassy, with a row of capped teeth, and Tess likes her immediately. ‘Two years old this car was when I bought it,�
� she tells them. ‘Two years old. I thought I was buying something reliable but I’d barely got it back here when it started dying on me.’ One of the dogs starts to bark from the back seat. It’s wearing a baby-blue fleecy jumper with small sheep dotted on it. ‘Dixie!’ Melanie yells at the dog, crossly. ‘Stop shouting!’ She turns back to Tess. ‘She knows we’re off to the beach – she’s got no patience. What was it you wanted again?’

  ‘We’re investigating what we believe is the wrongful conviction of Carrie Kamara. You might remember her case. She was convicted for murdering—’

  ‘Ella Muir. Yeah. I know Ella’s mother, Sandra. She’s a right little battleaxe. Not that she deserved to lose a child. No one deserves that … Do you know Carrie Kamara stabbed Ella over a hundred and fifty times?’

  Avril coughs. ‘I think it was a little less than that.’

  ‘Was it? Whatever … Dixie! Stop picking on Miss Luna.’

  ‘We’re here because you drive the same car as Carrie Kamara,’ explains Tess, ‘your Honda. How long have you had it?’

  ‘Five years. Biggest mistake of my life. Well, one of ’em.’

  ‘Oh. OK, good. We’re specifically interested in the night Ella was murdered – the eleventh of November, four years ago. There was some CCTV of what the prosecution believed was Carrie’s car driving past the Eagle and Child pub around six o’clock. We were wondering if there was any chance that could have been you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would it be me?’

  ‘Because … you might have been on your way to somewhere?’

  Melanie seems put out. She’s frowning. ‘Who are you again?’

  ‘We’re from the charity Innocence UK. We look into alleged miscarriages of justice and work on behalf of those incarcerated to try to find out what really happened.’

  ‘Well, I can tell you right now I did not murder that girl. No matter what I thought of her mother.’

  ‘No, no,’ says Tess quickly. ‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick. We’re not for a moment suggesting you had any part in it.’

  Melanie looks at Tess sceptically.

  ‘What we’re trying to find out is if it could be your car, not Carrie’s, that was caught on CCTV. The prosecution claimed she drove past the pub on her way to Ella’s house and then back again a little later after she killed her.’

  ‘Why do you want to get her off?’

  ‘We think she was wrongfully convicted.’

  ‘Have you asked her?’

  Had she?

  Suddenly Tess can’t remember. Yes. Of course she’d asked Carrie if she’d done it. She must have.

  ‘I’ve always thought she was guilty as hell,’ Melanie goes on. ‘She’s got that look. Sneaky. I think you can always tell.’ She glances at the three hopeful faces in the back seat of her car. ‘Now dogs, they are a good judge of character. Put them in a room with Carrie Kamara and you’d soon know if she was telling the truth. I had this guy round once, nice, decent, drove a Lexus, and when I went to put my hairspray on, Miss Shelby – she’s the quiet one on the right – she barked at him so hard he locked himself in the understairs cupboard.’

  ‘What had he done?’ asks Avril and Melanie’s eyes go wide.

  ‘I didn’t wait around to find out,’ she says, as if this should be self-evident. ‘I got rid of him.’

  ‘So, the CCTV?’ interrupts Tess gently. ‘Do you think there could be any possibility that it was you in town that evening?’

  ‘Possibility? Yeah. My mother lives a few hundred yards past the pub and I go round there each night and take her a plate of whatever I’m having. She starves herself otherwise and then goes pestering the doctor saying she can’t put any weight on. She gave herself pneumonia last year on account of the fact she won’t eat. Anyway, that’s what I do. I go by there each night and make sure she’s fed. Not that she appreciates it.’

  Tess can feel her pulse quickening. This is it. This evidence will refute the prosecution’s claims and they can prove the car was not Carrie’s once and for all.

  ‘What date did you say it was again?’ asks Melanie.

  ‘The eleventh of November.’

  ‘Four years ago?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Oh, no, then that couldn’t have been me.’

  ‘What?’ says Tess. ‘Are you sure? How can—’

  ‘I was sunning myself in Benalmádena.’

  Now

  SO NOW THEY wait. Tess and Avril wait at the local Wetherspoon’s: the Eric Bartholomew it is named, in honour of the late, great Eric Morecambe, king of light entertainment, who was born here in Morecambe. Avril is wavering between the Whitby breaded scampi and the Mediterranean vegetable lasagne with a side order of chips. Tess won’t be eating. She’s too nervous to eat.

  When Melanie Phelps told them the day before that it wasn’t her driving after all, Tess was all out of options. And Avril had said, ‘What now?’

  Well, this was what now.

  This pub.

  This pub with its guest beers and its patrons who, with the exception of Tess, Avril and a couple of others, are all over the age of sixty-five, all thrilled to be ordering a hearty meal and an alcoholic beverage for less than a tenner. ‘What are you fancyin’?’ Avril asks, and Tess tells her that the teriyaki noodle dish is supposed to be good, but she doubts she’ll order it. Her stomach is beginning to roil and there is a bitter taste in her mouth.

  ‘Did you tell her one o’clock, or half past?’ Avril asks.

  ‘One.’

  ‘She’s running late then.’

  ‘Yes,’ replies Tess. ‘She is.’

  This wasn’t what she wanted to do but her hand has been forced, so to speak. With the forensics a dead end and the Honda now a non-starter, she has no other choice. This is what she’s telling herself as she sits here with her stomach in knots, as she glances at the door every two seconds, as she wrestles with her conscience because she knows this is wrong. It isn’t the right way to do things. It’s wrong, Tess. Wrong.

  ‘Do you think that’s her there?’ Avril says, pointing to the young woman on the other side of the glass. The woman is finishing the last of her cigarette whilst scrolling through her phone at the same time.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ replies Tess, even though she is. ‘I’ll go and check.’

  Tess rises and smooths the creases from her trousers, picks a few stray hairs from the lapels of her jacket, and then she heads for the door. Just before she opens it, she pauses in the entranceway and there’s a will-she-won’t-she moment as Tess’s nerves get the better of her. Her heart is in her mouth and she’s not sure she can go through with it.

  She takes a deep breath and presses on.

  ‘Hello? Steph?’ she asks the young woman with the pretty face and the braided hair.

  ‘That’s me.’ Steph hurriedly extinguishes her cigarette. ‘Sorry I’m late. I got held up.’

  Tess smiles. ‘Would you like to join us?’ And she motions to Avril through the window. Avril is still studying the menu but now has her phone out and is tapping away on the calculator. She will be adding the calories of each dish to her daily running total, Tess expects, and Tess feels a surge of warmth for her colleague as she watches Avril frown and shake her head slightly, before running her finger down the menu another time.

  They go inside. Tess sits beside Avril and Steph settles herself on the chair opposite. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’ Tess asks Steph. She is trying not to stare too much. She’s trying to take in her daughter’s face without freaking her out. She is quite lovely, and as Tess reaches for her own drink, suddenly she doesn’t quite trust herself to pick it up without throwing it all over herself, so she quietly withdraws her hand and rests it neatly in her lap.

  ‘Half a lager, please. Any type. I’m not fussy.’

  Tess gets up and goes to the bar. She pays for the drink and returns. When she sits down, Steph says, ‘So I was kinda depressed to miss out o
n that slap-up lunch at the Midland.’ And Avril shoots Tess a sidelong glance as if to say, What is she talking about? I thought she was a no-show?

  ‘Well, we’re here now,’ Tess replies weakly.

  ‘Yeah,’ Steph says, frowning. ‘Here is definitely where we are.’

  ‘Are you from Morecambe, Steph?’ asks Avril.

  ‘Born and bred.’

  ‘What a coincidence,’ she says, ‘so is Tess.’

  ‘Really?’ and Tess can only nod her head in reply.

  Now that this is really happening, she’s finding it difficult to form words. It’s as if the neural connections between her brain and her mouth have been severed and though she wants to answer, no words will come out. She smiles gawkily at Steph. They return to their menus and perhaps Steph is finding her awkwardness a little weird because when she speaks, she says this: ‘So, do you want to talk about Ella or what? It seemed there was some kind of urgency the other day, so I was pretty surprised when you went ahead and cancelled on me.’

  After Tess had fled the Midland Hotel car park, she’d sent Steph a lame text explaining that she’d been called away on an urgent matter. Really, it can’t be helped, she’d said, and so on and so forth. When she thinks about this again now, she’s even more ashamed. It was a shitty thing to do. Leaving the girl there without a proper explanation was a shitty thing to do.

  ‘What can you tell us about her?’ Tess asks, her words surprising her as they come out of her mouth in the normal way.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Anything at all would be useful,’ she answers, and she can feel Avril’s eyes upon her. She’s going around the houses. Being vague. She’s not getting to the point, which is something she has repeatedly warned Avril against. Tess knows this and yet she is powerless to take charge of the conversation as she would do normally.

  Her daughter has a row of freckles dotted across her nose. She has a small vertical scar between her eyebrows. When Tess held her as a baby she was unfreckled and lacked the scar. She wonders how old Steph was when these things appeared. Wonders whom she cried for when she cut open her lovely face.