He stared at me for some time before uttering a word. “A terrible injustice has been done, Mr. Cooper,” he eventually said, “and we shall immediately lodge an appeal against your conviction. Be assured, I will not rest until we have found Jeremy Alexander and he has been brought to justice.”
For the first time I realized Sir Matthew knew that I was innocent.
I was put in a cell with a petty criminal called Fingers Jenkins. Can you believe, as we approach the twenty-first century, that anyone could still be called “Fingers”? Even so, the name had been well earned. Within moments of my entering the cell, Fingers was wearing my watch. He returned it immediately I noticed it had disappeared. “Sorry,” he said. “Just put it down to ’abit.”
Prison might have turned out to be far worse if it hadn’t been known by my fellow inmates that I was a millionaire, and was quite happy to pay a little extra for certain privileges. Every morning the Financial Times was delivered to my bunk, which gave me the chance to keep up with what was happening in the City. I was nearly sick when I first read about the takeover bid for Cooper’s. Sick not because of the offer of £12.50 a share, which made me even wealthier, but because it became painfully obvious what Jeremy and Rosemary had been up to. Jeremy’s shares would now be worth several million pounds—money he could never have realized had I been around to prevent a takeover.
I spent hours each day lying on my bunk and scouring every word of the Financial Times. Whenever there was a mention of Cooper’s, I went over the paragraph so often that I ended up knowing it by heart. The company was eventually taken over, but not before the share price had reached £13.43. I continued to follow its activities with great interest, and I became more and more anxious about the quality of the new management when they began to fire some of my most experienced staff, including Joe Ramsbottom. A week later I wrote and instructed my stockbrokers to sell my shares as and when the opportunity arose.
It was at the beginning of my fourth month in prison that I asked for some writing paper. I had decided the time had come to keep a record of everything that had happened to me since that night I had returned home unexpectedly. Every day the prison officer on my landing would bring me fresh sheets of blue-lined paper, and I would write out in longhand the chronicle you’re now reading. An added bonus was that it helped me to plan my next move.
At my request, Fingers took a straw poll among the prisoners as to who they believed was the best detective they had ever come up against. Three days later he told me the result: Chief Superintendent Donald Hackett, known as the Don, came out top on more than half the lists. More reliable than a Gallup Poll, I told Fingers.
“What puts Hackett ahead of all the others?” I asked him.
“’e’s honest, ’e’s fair, you can’t bribe ’im. And once the bastard knows you’re a villain, ’e doesn’t care ’ow long it takes to get you be’ind bars.”
Hackett, I was informed, hailed from Bradford. Rumor had it among the older cons that he had turned down the job of assistant chief constable for West Yorkshire. Like a barrister who doesn’t want to become a judge, he preferred to remain at the coalface.
“Arrestin’ criminals is ’ow ’e gets his kicks,” Fingers said, with some feeling.
“Sounds just the man I’m looking for,” I said. “How old is he?”
Fingers paused to consider. “Must be past fifty by now,” he replied. “After all, ’e ’ad me put in reform school for nickin’ a tool set, and that was”—he paused again—“more than twenty years ago.”
When Sir Matthew came to visit me the following Monday, I told him what I had in mind, and asked his opinion of the Don. I wanted a professional’s view.
“He’s a hell of a witness to cross-examine, that’s one thing I can tell you,” replied my barrister.
“Why’s that?”
“He doesn’t exaggerate, he won’t prevaricate, and I’ve never known him to lie, which makes him awfully hard to trap. No, I’ve rarely got the better of the chief superintendent. I have to say, though, that I doubt if he’d agree to become involved with a convicted criminal, whatever you offered him.”
“But I’m not …”
“I know, Mr. Cooper,” said Sir Matthew, who still didn’t seem able to call me by my first name. “But Hackett will have to be convinced of that before he even agrees to see you.”
“But how can I convince him of my innocence while I’m stuck in jail?”
“I’ll try to influence him on your behalf,” Sir Matthew said after some thought. Then he added, “Come to think of it, he does owe me a favor.”
After Sir Matthew had left that night, I requested some more lined paper and began to compose a carefully worded letter to Chief Superintendent Hackett, several versions of which ended crumpled up on the floor of my cell. My final effort read as follows:
I reread the letter, corrected the spelling mistake, and scrawled my signature across the bottom.
At my request, Sir Matthew delivered the letter to Hackett by hand. The first thousand-pound-a-day postman in the history of the Royal Mail, I told him.
Sir Matthew reported back the following Monday that he had handed the letter to the chief superintendent in person. After Hackett had read it through a second time, his only comment was that he would have to speak to his superiors. He had promised he would let Sir Matthew know his decision within a week.
From the moment I had been sentenced, Sir Matthew had been preparing for my appeal, and although he had not at any time raised my hopes, he was unable to hide his delight at what he had discovered after paying a visit to the Probate Office.
It turned out that, in his will, Jeremy had left everything to Rosemary. This included over three million pounds’ worth of Cooper’s shares. But, Sir Matthew explained, the law did not allow her to dispose of them for seven years. “An English jury may have pronounced on your guilt,” he declared, “but the hard-headed taxmen are not so easily convinced. They won’t hand over Jeremy Alexander’s assets until either they have seen his body, or seven years have elapsed.”
“Do they think that Rosemary might have killed him for his money, and then disposed …”
“No, no,” said Sir Matthew, almost laughing at my suggestion. “It’s simply that, as they’re entitled to wait for seven years, they’re going to sit on his assets and not take the risk that Alexander may still be alive. In any case, if your wife had killed him, she wouldn’t have had a ready answer to every one of my questions when she was in the witness box, of that I’m sure.”
I smiled. For the first time in my life I was delighted to learn that the tax man had his nose in my affairs.
Sir Matthew promised he would report back if anything new came up. “Goodnight, Richard,” he said as he left the interview room.
Another first.
It seemed that everyone else in the prison was aware that Chief Superintendent Hackett would be paying me a visit long before I was.
It was Dave Adams, an old jailbird from an adjoining cell, who explained why the inmates thought Hackett had agreed to see me. “A good copper is never ‘appy about anyone doin’ time for somethin’ ’e didn’t do. ‘ackett phoned the governor last Tuesday, and ’ad a word with ’im on the Q.T., accordin’ to Maurice,” Dave added mysteriously.
I would have been interested to learn how the governor’s trusty had managed to hear both sides of the conversation, but decided this was not the time for irrelevant questions.
“Even the ‘ardest nuts in this place think you’re innocent,” Dave continued. “They can’t wait for the day when Mr. Jeremy Alexander takes over your cell. You can be sure the long termers’ll give ’im a warm welcome.”
A letter from Bradford arrived the following morning. “Dear Cooper,” the chief superintendent began, and went on to inform me that he intended to pay a visit to the jail at four o’clock the following Sunday. He made it clear that he would stay no longer than half an hour, and insisted on a witness being present throughout.
&
nbsp; For the first time since I’d been locked up, I started counting the hours. Hours aren’t that important when your room has been booked for a life sentence.
As I was taken from my cell that Sunday afternoon and escorted to the interview room, I received several messages from my fellow inmates to pass on to the chief superintendent.
“Give my best regards to the Don,” said Fingers. “Tell ’im ’ow sorry I am not to bump into ’im this time.”
“When ’e’s finished with you, ask ’im if ’e’d like to drop into my cell for a cuppa and a chat about old times.”
“Kick the bastard in the balls, and tell ’im I’ll be ’appy to serve the extra time.”
One of the prisoners even suggested a question to which I already knew the answer: “Ask ’im when ’e’s going to retire, ’cause I’m not coming out till the day after.”
When I stepped into the interview room and saw the chief superintendent for the first time, I thought there must have been some mistake. I had never asked Fingers what the Don looked like, and over the past few days I had built up in my mind the image of some sort of superman. But the man who stood before me was a couple of inches shorter than me, and I’m only five feet ten. He was as thin as the proverbial rake and wore pebble-lensed horn-rimmed glasses, which gave the impression that he was half blind. All he needed was a grubby raincoat and he could have been mistaken for a debt collector.
Sir Matthew stepped forward to introduce us. I shook the policeman firmly by the hand. “Thank you for coming to visit me, Chief Superintendent,” I began. “Won’t you have a seat?” I added, as if he had dropped into my home for a glass of sherry.
“Sir Matthew is very persuasive,” said Hackett, in a deep, gruff Yorkshire accent that didn’t quite seem to go with his body. “So tell me, Cooper, what do you imagine it is that I can do for you?” he asked as he took the chair opposite me. I detected an edge of cynicism in his voice.
He opened a notepad and placed it on the table as I was about to begin my story. “For my use only,” he explained, “should I need to remind myself of any relevant details at some time in the future.” Twenty minutes later, I had finished the abbreviated version of the life and times of Richard Cooper. I had already gone over the story on several occasions in my cell during the past week, to be certain I didn’t take too long. I wanted to leave enough time for Hackett to ask any questions.
“If I believe your story,” he said, “—and I only say ‘if’—you still haven’t explained what it is you think I can do for you.”
“You’re due to leave the force in five months’ time,” I said. “I wondered if you had any plans once you’ve retired.”
He hesitated. I had obviously taken him by surprise.
“I’ve been offered a job with Group 4, as area manager for West Yorkshire.”
“And how much will they be paying you?” I asked bluntly.
“It won’t be full-time,” he said. “Three days a week, to start with.” He hesitated again. “Twenty thousand a year, guaranteed for three years.”
“I’ll pay you a hundred thousand a year, but I’ll expect you to be on the job seven days a week. I assume you’ll be needing a secretary and an assistant—that Inspector Williams who’s leaving at the same time as you might well fit the bill—so I’ll also supply you with enough money for backup staff, as well as the rent for an office.”
A flicker of respect appeared on the chief superintendent’s face for the first time. He made some more notes on his pad.
“And what would you expect of me in return for such a large sum of money?” he asked.
“That’s simple. I expect you to find Jeremy Alexander.”
This time he didn’t hesitate. “My God,” he said. “You really are innocent. Sir Matthew and the governor both tried to convince me you were.”
“And if you find him within seven years,” I added, ignoring his comment, “I’ll pay a further five hundred thousand into any branch of any bank in the world that you stipulate.”
“The Midland, Bradford, will suit me just fine,” he replied. “It’s only criminals who find it necessary to retire abroad. In any case, I have to be in Bradford every other Saturday afternoon, so I can be around to watch City lose.” Hackett rose from his place and looked hard at me for some time. “One last question, Mr. Cooper. Why seven years?”
“Because after that period, my wife can sell Alexander’s shares, and he’ll become a multimillionaire overnight.”
The chief superintendent nodded his understanding. “Thank you for asking to see me,” he said. “It’s been a long time since I enjoyed visiting anyone in jail, especially someone convicted of murder. I’ll give your offer serious consideration, Mr. Cooper, and let you know my decision by the end of the week.” He left without another word.
Hackett wrote to me three days later, accepting my offer.
I didn’t have to wait five months for him to start working for me, because he handed in his resignation within a fortnight—though not before I had agreed to continue his pension contributions, and those of the two colleagues he wanted to leave the force and join him. Having now disposed of all my Cooper’s shares, the interest on my deposit account was earning me over four hundred thousand a year, and as I was living rent free, Hackett’s request was a minor consideration.
I would have shared with you in greater detail everything that happened to me over the following months, but during that time I was so preoccupied with briefing Hackett that I filled only three pages of my blue-lined prison paper. I should however mention that I studied several law books, to be sure that I fully understood the meaning of the legal term autrefois acquit.
The next important date in the diary was my appeal hearing.
Matthew—at his request I had long ago stopped calling him “Sir” Matthew—tried valiantly not to show that he was becoming more and more confident of the outcome, but I was getting to know him so well that he was no longer able to disguise his true feelings. He told me how delighted he was with the makeup of the reviewing panel. “Fair and just,” he kept repeating.
Later that night he told me with great sadness that his wife, Victoria, had died of cancer a few weeks before. “A long illness and a blessed release,” he called it.
I felt guilty in his presence for the first time. Over the past eighteen months, we had only ever discussed my problems.
I must have been one of the few prisoners at Armley who ever had a bespoke tailor visit him in his cell. Matthew suggested that I should be fitted with a new suit before I faced the appeal tribunal, as I had lost more than fourteen pounds since I had been in jail. When the tailor had finished measuring me and began rolling up his tape, I insisted that Fingers return his cigarette lighter, although I did allow him to keep the cigarettes.
Ten days later I was escorted from my cell at five o’clock in the morning. My fellow inmates banged their tin mugs against their locked doors, the traditional way of indicating to the prison staff that they believed the man leaving for trial was innocent. Like some great symphony, it lifted my soul.
I was driven to London in a police car accompanied by two prison officers. We didn’t stop once on the entire journey, and arrived in the capital a few minutes after nine; I remember looking out of the window and watching the commuters scurrying to their offices to begin the day’s work. Any one of them who’d glanced at me sitting in the back of the car in my new suit, and was unable to spot the handcuffs, might have assumed I was a chief inspector at least.
Matthew was waiting for me at the entrance of the Old Bailey, a mountain of papers tucked under each arm. “I like the suit,” he said, before leading me up some stone steps to the room where my fate would be decided.
Once again I sat impassively in the dock as Sir Matthew rose from his place to address the three appeal judges. His opening statement took him nearly an hour, and by now I felt I could have delivered it quite adequately myself, though not as eloquently, and certainly nowhere near as persuasively. H
e made great play of how Jeremy had left all his worldly goods to Rosemary, who in turn had sold our family house in Leeds, cashed in all her Cooper’s shares within months of the takeover, pushed through a quickie divorce, and then disappeared off the face of the earth with an estimated seven million pounds. I couldn’t help wondering just how much of that Jeremy had already got his hands on.
Sir Matthew repeatedly reminded the panel of the police’s inability to produce a body, despite the fact they now seemed to have dug up half of Leeds.
I became more hopeful with each new fact Matthew placed before the judges. But after he had finished, I still had to wait another three days to learn the outcome of their deliberations.
Appeal dismissed. Reasons reserved.
Matthew traveled up to Armley on the Friday to tell me why he thought my appeal had been turned down without explanation. He felt that the judges must have been divided, and needed more time to make it appear as if they were not.
“How much time?” I asked.
“My hunch is that they’ll let you out on parole within a few months. They were obviously influenced by the police’s failure to produce a body, unimpressed by the trial judge’s summing up, and impressed by the strength of your case.”
I thanked Matthew, who, for once, left the room with a smile on his face.
You may be wondering what Chief Superintendent Hackett—or rather ex-Chief Superintendent Hackett—had been up to while all this was going on.
He had not been idle. Inspector Williams and Constable Kenwright had left the force on the same day as he had. Within a week they had opened up a small office above the Constitutional Club in Bradford and begun their investigations. The Don reported to me at four o’clock every Sunday afternoon.
Within a month he had compiled a thick file on the case, with detailed dossiers on Rosemary, Jeremy, the company, and me. I spent hours reading through the information he had gathered, and was even able to help by filling in a few gaps. I quickly came to appreciate why the Don was so respected by my fellow inmates. He followed up every clue and went down every side road, however much it looked like a cul-de-sac, because once in a while it turned out to be a highway.
The Collected Short Stories Page 48