by Elena Forbes
She had to agree; it all sounded farfetched. ‘What about the woman who saw him loading a piece of carpet into his van on Sunday morning?’
‘He doesn’t deny doing it. He says it was an old piece of carpet he took out of his living room, which he then took to the council dump. The police, of course, imagine it was either covered in blood or something, or that he used it to transport her body. Just because they weren’t able to find it, it doesn’t mean he was lying. The dump is used for recycling all sorts of household stuff and people just go and help themselves to whatever they want. The simple explanation is that somebody took it. Also, if you were going to hide a body in woods, why go there on a Sunday morning, when every man and his fucking dog are out walking around? How the hell was Sean supposed to have got the body from the car park to the dumpsite, which is half a mile away, without being seen? Jane was small and light, I grant you. But even so …’
‘He could have taken it there some other time.’
‘But then he would have had to store the body somewhere, either in the back of his van or somewhere else. The police found absolutely no evidence in the van and despite looking very hard, they failed to turn up any proof that he had a lock-up somewhere else, or had used a friend’s place. They examined Sean’s house, his clothing and bedding and his garden but there was no evidence of any blood or body fluid, or anything to suggest that Jane had been killed at his house, or that her body had been there at any point. That’s why the prosecution came up with this stupid accomplice theory.’
He waved his hand in the air for emphasis and she sympathized with his frustration. The way he was spinning it, the case against Farrell seemed incredibly tenuous and she wondered why the police had been so persistent. There had to be something he wasn’t telling her.
She caught his eye. ‘You think the police fitted him up?’
‘They needed a conviction and they had nobody else. The prosecution certainly made a great deal of the jealousy motive. But I guess it was all they had. And Sean had done a couple of stupid things, like follow Jane to a bar when she went out for a drink with another man and he made quite a scene. He’d had a few drinks and said some stuff he shouldn’t have done. But there was nothing violent.’
‘Jane made a formal complaint to the police about his stalking her.’
‘It was followed up, but no action was taken.’
‘Why was he so angry?’
‘He felt unfairly treated. They went out for about three months. Apparently, she thought he was getting too heavy, and tried to cool things off.’
‘That’s code for possessive, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe from a female point of view.’
Eve picked up the bitterness in his tone and wondered if he was speaking from personal experience. ‘So Jane dumped him?’
Dan nodded. ‘Sean says it all happened out of the blue. One minute they’d been talking about going on holiday together, the next, she wanted nothing to do with him.’
‘This was when?’
‘A few months before she disappeared.’
Although a few months were often enough to get over somebody, feelings weren’t always so easily switched off. Some people could keep an obsession going for years. ‘What about at the time of the murder? Was he over her by then, do you think?’
He shrugged. ‘In my view, he’d come to terms with the fact that she was a lost cause. As I said, he’d started seeing somebody else and, by all accounts, it was going well. I questioned him hard about this, I assure you. He said he’d moved on and I believe him.’
He spoke emphatically, but she wasn’t convinced. He might know the ins and outs of the case better than most, he might also have a good journalist’s instincts for the truth, but after the length of time he had invested in supporting Farrell’s cause, he was hardly impartial and maybe he had allowed things to colour his judgement.
‘So what was the argument at the gym about?’ she asked.
‘Jane saw him come in and she flew off the handle. She made a real scene and accused him of stalking her. He says he wasn’t, that he didn’t know she was going to be there at that time and that it was stupid trying to avoid one another. He said he had every right to go to the gym. In fact, he’d been a member there longer than she had. This all took place just outside the changing rooms and a number of people witnessed the argument. Nobody disputes his version of what he said, but it was clear that Jane didn’t believe him. Nor did the police.’
Eve was silent for a moment. Even if Sean Farrell were innocent, it was likely Jane had been killed by someone she knew. The police hadn’t found anyone, so either it was somebody she had recently met, whom she hadn’t mentioned to her friends and work colleagues, or else it was someone she had come across casually, maybe in a bar, or a shop, or on the street as part of her daily life. Had she been abducted, or had she gone willingly with whoever it was? Without knowing more of her character and day-to-day patterns, it was impossible to make any assumptions. It felt like looking for a needle in a haystack and she was suddenly struck by the lack of information and backup, compared to what she was used to.
‘I have a copy here of her phone records,’ she said, opening her bag and pulling out the file Peters had given her. She took out the sheet of paper with the call log and list of names, and passed it to him. ‘Can you tell me who these people are?’
He studied it for a moment, then looked up at her. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘I can’t tell you, I’m afraid.’
He shook his head irritably and passed the sheet back to her. ‘Stuart Wade and Lorne Anderson both had several horses in training with Tim Michaels.’
‘Why would they be calling Jane?’
‘Trying to get hold of Michaels, probably. Or maybe something to do with the party.’
‘Was it normal for her to use her personal phone for work?’
‘Dunno. Holly Crowther’s the girl she shared the cottage with. She was one of the Michaels’ riders.’
‘Where’s she now?’
‘Again, I don’t know. She was sacked a few days before the party – no idea why.’
‘Well, according to this, she texted Jane on the Friday, asking to come over and collect her stuff.’
He sighed. ‘I imagine the police contacted her, but she wasn’t called as a witness at the trial.’
‘Even so, it would be good to talk to her. She must have known Jane relatively well, if they lived together. What about the other girl?’
‘Grace Byrne? She went back to Ireland. I’ve got one of my researchers looking for both her and Holly.’
The way he spoke, he gave the impression that he had a team of people behind him, but she remembered what Peters had said about the charity’s lack of resources.
‘Do you mean Zofia?’
‘No. She works here voluntarily. She’s a graduate law student, in the middle of her PhD. We employ a professional PI from time to time, to chase down leads.’
Good PIs didn’t come cheap and she wondered how he found the money to employ one, given the charity was short of funds. Speaking to Holly and Grace was a priority and she made a mental note to follow it up herself.
‘OK. So who was Jane close to? Did she have anybody else she might have confided in?’
He shrugged. ‘Apart from the girls she shared with, maybe someone in the office. But she was new to the area. I don’t think she knew many people.’
Eve looked down at the list of names on the call log. ‘Who is Kevin Stevens? He left a couple of messages asking her to call.’
‘He was a freelance reporter, did quite a lot of work for the Racing Post. Again, it’s another connection on the PI’s list of things to check out.’
‘You said he “was”?’
‘Kevin Stevens was the victim of a hit-and-run. It happened a couple of months after Jane died. There’s no evidence they ever actually met. I spoke to Kevin’s editor at the Post and he said it could be something quite routine, like his wanting to inte
rview Tim Michaels. Jane looked after his diary and made all his appointments.’
‘But surely they’d ring the office phone, not her mobile?’
He offered another shrug in response.
‘Have you talked to Kevin’s family?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said, suddenly defensive. ‘We don’t have the resources to follow up on everything. Our job is to raise enough questions about the conviction to overturn it, rather than find the real killer. That’s the police’s job, or it should be.’ He glared at her, as though she were responsible for all the failings of the system.
She held his gaze for a moment, wondering why, even in spite of what he’d said and the genuine passion in his voice, things still didn’t add up. Given the lack of direct evidence linking Farrell to the murder, or evidence pointing in a different direction, it wasn’t clear why he had been the only real suspect. Something was missing.
‘OK. I agree the evidence against him is circumstantial, but unless the police were beyond incompetent, there must be something else to make them so sure Farrell did it. What have you left out?’
He glanced away, reached for his cigarettes, then lit another. ‘There is something, although it’s not really relevant.’
‘I’d still like to hear it. I need the full, unedited picture, if I’m going to be of any help.’
He looked up at her. ‘OK. When Farrell was in his early twenties, before he got married, he was arrested on suspicion of raping a woman. He admitted having sex with her, but claimed it was consensual. The police decided not to charge him. Twelve years later, when his marriage was on the rocks and his wife had booted him out, he was again charged with rape. A twenty-year-old woman he met in a nightclub in Swindon claimed he had followed her out of the nightclub and had raped her. Again he said she had agreed to sex, but this time he was remanded in custody. However, when the CPS examined the CCTV footage from the nightclub and street outside, they decided there was no chance of a conviction and the charge was dropped. Obviously, none of this came out in court, but I’m sure it coloured the police’s and the CPS’s view that they had the right man. As a result, they didn’t bother to look for anybody else.’
She stared at him, amazed. ‘So the man has a background of sexual violence. You seriously think none of this is relevant?’
‘No. I don’t. Innocent until proved guilty, isn’t that what it’s supposed to be?’
She exhaled loudly, still holding his gaze. What else was he holding back? ‘Well, I disagree. I’d call it interesting and very relevant, in the circumstances. Once, I could dismiss, but twice? You could say there’s a pattern beginning, particularly given the allegations of stalking Jane made against him.’
An angry fire filled his eyes. ‘There’s no fucking pattern. The police checked everything.’
She shrugged. ‘Were there other incidents we don’t know about, that maybe weren’t reported? Did you bother to check?’
‘It means nothing,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Sean’s not a rapist. He was never charged.’
She shook her head wearily. Even if Farrell hadn’t been charged or convicted of a sexual offence, such a background was hardly the norm. Without knowing the details, it was impossible to tell what it might mean, but to dismiss it as irrelevant was missing the point. Dan was as bad as the rest of them, she thought, not mentioning Farrell’s background until pushed, trying to skew the evidence Farrell’s way, even in conversation with her. Everybody always had an angle and Dan had probably invested so much time and effort in his belief of Sean Farrell’s innocence that he, too, had lost all objectivity and couldn’t see things straight. She had heard enough for the moment. She got to her feet and picked up her bag.
‘Have you tried to get the exhibits retested?’
‘Of course. But, as you know, there’s no right in this country to retest the evidence and there’s no consistent policy either from one police force to another. It’s basically a postcode lottery. Wiltshire Police, as they’re now called, have refused on the basis that the defence team had full access at the time. It’s possible the exhibits don’t even exist any longer, or they can’t lay their hands on them, which may be why they’re trying to withhold them.’
‘What do you mean? They are required to keep them safe.’
‘Try telling that to another innocent man we’re trying to help. I won’t go into the details, but the sodding Hampshire constabulary have either lost all of the exhibits or deliberately destroyed them.’
He looked at her meaningfully, as though somehow again she were to blame. He was right. Although the Home Office guidelines stipulated that exhibits must be kept for thirty years, evidence did go missing occasionally and it could have disastrous consequences. Unacceptable though it was, what could she say? Human error happened in all walks of life, even the police.
‘Going back to Sean Farrell,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t matter that the defence team was beyond incompetent and that science has moved on leaps and bounds. As far as the police are concerned, the ship has sailed.’
‘What about the Criminal Cases Review Commission? Isn’t that what they’re there for?’
‘Supposedly. They’re our last hope, but they’re basically useless,’ he said emphatically, with a dramatic sweep of his hand. ‘They’ll only send a case back to the Court of Appeal if there’s what they call “new and compelling evidence” that the conviction was unsafe. Rather than champion cases like Sean’s, they seem to be totally in thrall to the Court of Appeal. And they are very unwilling to quash convictions and go against a jury’s verdict. Less than one per cent of appealed cases get overturned.’
‘Why do you say the CCRC is useless? I thought they have the powers to request whatever they like from the police and the CPS.’
‘In theory, yes. Problem is, they’re completely swamped with applications and massively under-resourced. So they’re looking for any excuse to turn people down. Just to give you an idea, out of the five hundred or so cases they reviewed last year, they sent only about thirty back to the Court of Appeal. That’s all.’
She wasn’t aware of the statistics, but if what he said was true, it was a depressing picture and she wondered how he coped, working with such poor odds. ‘Isn’t there anything you can do?’
He nodded wearily. ‘Basically, we have to do the CCRC’s work for them and present them with the evidence on a plate. Which is what we’re trying to do for Sean. But if we aren’t allowed to retest the exhibits, and for whatever reason they don’t think it’s worth doing themselves, there won’t be any “new and compelling evidence” and they’ll turn us down. Catch bloody twenty-two. It’s no fucking way to run a criminal justice system.’ He thumped the table hard with his fist. ‘From what I hear, we have just a matter of a few weeks to come up with something before they decide on Sean’s application.’
She saw the despair in his eyes and was reminded of Duran’s original question to her in Bellevue: ‘Do you believe in justice?’ She had answered so quickly in the affirmative, but it was an un-thought-out, automatic response. The justice system was far from perfect. In her opinion, at the very least it sounded as though a forensic re-examination of the evidence was merited in Farrell’s case. But without cooperation from Wiltshire Police, the CCRC was Farrell’s last hope. Based on what Dan said, and the little she herself had picked up from the media, it wasn’t an option that filled her with much confidence either.
She moved towards the door, then turned around to face him. There was something she had to clarify, if only to satisfy her own curiosity. ‘One last question. Do you really believe Sean Farrell is innocent?’
He looked surprised. ‘Yes. Of course.’
The response was quick and emphatic, but it still didn’t convince her. Before she had a chance to say anything else, the door to the office opened and Zofia came into the room carrying Dan’s coffee and a paper bag. Dan stabbed out his cigarette violently in an empty mug on the desk beside him and slowly got to his feet.
‘We
won’t take on a case unless we’re pretty certain,’ he added. ‘We have hundreds of prisoners contacting us each year, but, as I told you, we have very limited resources. We have to be very careful to focus on the cases where we can help most, where we can add value to what has been done before and where there’s been an obvious miscarriage of justice.’ He spoke vehemently, the irritation in his voice clear.
‘Everybody gets it wrong though sometimes, don’t they?’ Eve said. ‘Has it never happened to you?’
There was a beat before Dan replied, a quick, subtle movement of his eyes towards Zofia, which told Eve everything. Then he gave a grudging nod. ‘Yes. We’ve got it wrong a couple of times. But I’m absolutely convinced this time. Sean Farrell’s innocent.’
EIGHT
Dan watched Eve go, listened to her footsteps on the stairs, followed by the distant thud of the front door.
Zofia thrust his coffee and a paper bag at him. ‘I got you a couple of croissants. That’s all they have left. The painkillers are in there too. What’s she talking about? Does she think Sean’s guilty?’
‘No. She’s just kicking the tyres.’
‘Why do you have to speak with her?’
‘Because I do.’
He yawned, sat down again and reached for the coffee, burning his fingers as he peeled off the plastic lid. He felt too weary to explain, although he didn’t blame her for being suspicious. Where she came from, the police were mostly corrupt or incompetent, or at least so she said. But he didn’t like her telling him what to think and what to do.
He took a swig and downed a couple of pills. He hadn’t slept at all well and felt nauseous. If Zofia hadn’t been there, he would have gone straight back to bed. Eve had been more than thorough. His first instinct was to dislike her. He resented her irritatingly professional, probing questions, but reluctantly he had to admit she seemed to know what she was doing. She had also picked up on his weak spot. Was Sean Farrell really innocent? He had gone over it all in his mind again and again until he was convinced that he was right, but his previous two mistakes had made him wary. Was Sean Farrell really innocent? He still thought so. He had been sure of it in the beginning, but the passage of time, and the increasing pressure of the looming deadline to turn up something new, which might, or might not exist, had eroded his confidence. The doubt was doing his head in. He was battle-scarred and weary; in no fit state to do battle at all, if he was honest. He had lost all feel for the case. At the very least, Sean’s conviction was unsound, based on the lack of direct evidence and the bungled defence, but that was not enough. He wanted so much to believe in Sean. He was ninety-nine per cent sure, but the other one per cent was keeping him awake at night. He needed to speak to Kristen, but she wasn’t returning his calls.