HERE THE TRUTH LIES_A gripping psychological thriller_US Edition

by Seb Kirby

  Bill McLeish needs to know where the footage comes from, who obtained it and why. “What was Stanley doing handing over money in a public place? Who is the man accepting it and why is he videoing the handover with a secret camera?”

  The story is worthless without knowing this and I’m the one tasked with finding the answers to those questions.

  “I’ve been trying to find out what the cash was for. Going through Hansard for the written record of Stanley’s statements in the House. He’s on a number of influential committees, each with an impact on Government spending.”

  McLeish holds up a hand. “And yet there’s the obvious problem. If this is anything like you’re about to suggest, Stanley would be taking money. Here he is giving it away.”

  I shake my head. “That’s what’s making this difficult.”

  “So, what about the anonymous informant? Why send us the video? Why would anyone do that?”

  I draw a deep breath. “I’ve been looking into that, too, and I was hoping I’d have something more useful to tell you. But I’ve run into a problem.”

  I tell McLeish about the man who followed me. “I’m convinced he was about to attack me.”

  McLeish looks concerned. “And why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know. I thought he must be an Internet stalker but this was waiting for me this morning.”

  I hand over the plain white envelope I’m carrying.

  McLeish opens it and lays the message inside on the desk before us.

  BACK OFF BEFORE ITS TOO LATE

  YOU WONT BE WARNED AGAIN

  The message is scrawled in block capitals with what looks like a child’s black crayon.

  “You think this connects with the Stanley investigation?”

  I nod.

  McLeish bangs his fist on the table. “Well, if it is Stanley or anyone acting for him, I’m surprised he’d go this far. He should understand that there’s a golden rule we never break, Emma. We can’t allow ourselves to be intimidated because that would mean the end of freedom of the press.”

  “I thought you’d want to know.”

  “You did the right thing. I’ll make sure the police get to see this. In the meantime, it’s business as usual, you’re alright with that?”

  “Of course. It’s just part and parcel of the job.”

  This is no time to reveal my fears. Times have moved on. Women are much more accepted in journalism now but there is still the lingering insinuation that we might not be cut out for the most dangerous assignments. Any show of weakness would give fuel to that prejudice.

  CHAPTER 4

  I meet Sophie on the top floor of Tate Modern. The view from up here is remarkable. There is St Paul’s, sitting resplendent on the opposite side of the river, connected to the South Bank by the pedestrian highway of the Millennium Bridge, providing a walkway that is a magnet to tourists and locals alike, bringing a multitude of people to one of the world’s best free collections of art.

  And they can sit here for the price of a coffee.

  We often meet like this, making sure we keep in touch. But today is different. I need help.

  “I want you to come through on your promise, Sophie. I wouldn’t ask if there was any other way.”

  Sophie turns away from admiring the view outside with a whatever do you mean look on her face. “You sound stressed, I thought you said you wouldn’t.”

  “How could I be anything other with MacLeish on my back?”

  I tell Sophie how McLeish has insisted I stop covering the Brian Cooper story. “There’s someone in the office, I think it must be Angela Smith, who’s spying on me, taking tales to MacLeish. She’s just the type to think she can snitch her way into his good books.”

  “So, take it easy. Whatever work you do on Cooper, you do in your own time, when no one is looking. Then Angela Smith, or whoever it is, will have nothing to tell on.”

  I give a knowing smile. “There’s no such thing as own time in a journalist’s working day.”

  “And much the same goes for the law.”

  “But you might give it some pro bono time. You have access to much better lines of enquiry than I will ever have.”

  “You’re asking me to help with the Cooper story?”

  “I am.”

  Sophie leans forward and holds me by both hands. “You’re a dear friend, Emma. I’m worried where all this is taking you. You mustn’t let this ruin your life. You know that’s more than I could bear. So, yes, of course I’ll help. But the conditions still apply. You have to promise you will step back - and mean it this time - that you will let me take the weight of this thing from your shoulders.”

  “I promise I will.”

  “But you can’t or won’t give it up.”

  “I’d never be able to forgive myself.”

  “For what?”

  I draw my hands away. “I don’t know. It’s just the way I feel. A sense of dread if I can’t find out what happened.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I know my voice is sounding harsher. “Then just accept it. It’s how I am.”

  Sophie opens her bag, pulls out a file and places it on the table between us. “This is what I have so far.”

  I can feel my sense of alarm subsiding. I wonder if I’ll ever get used to these sudden changes of mood. “You’re already working on it?”

  “Not much of a surprise you would ask.”

  We spend the next half hour talking through what we know about Brian Cooper’s conviction. On the surface it’s an open and shut case. Cooper is a petty criminal with a string of convictions for drug dealing and theft. He was placed at the scene of the murder of ten-year-old schoolgirl Marion Jones and her father by one of his own. Greg Alison, an associate of Cooper charged with drug offences in which Cooper was also involved, gave a positive identification.

  When asked what the two men were doing at the house in Morden where the killings took place, Alison maintained that they were there to deliver a consignment of drugs - meth and cocaine – to the father, Alan Jones, and things had gone wrong. Cooper threatened the girl as a way of forcing Jones to come up with the money owed for the shipment. Cooper went too far and strangled the girl. When she died, Cooper also killed Jones, strangling him, too.

  Alison’s evidence was damning. Cooper’s defense was to say he’d never been there, but when asked to provide an alibi, he could offer nothing to convince the court. The jury gave a unanimous guilty verdict and Cooper was sentenced to life with a minimum of twenty-five years.

  Sophie sums up. “So, that’s where the problems start. The prosecution presented no DNA or fiber analysis. No independent proof that Cooper was there. There was no other witness evidence placing him at the scene. Everything depended on that single testimony. And how convenient that Alison died twelve months after giving his evidence, killed in a police shooting after he barricaded himself in his home to avoid arrest for further drugs offences.”

  I furrow my brow. “Meaning that Alison can never retract his testimony. And with both the girl and her father no longer alive, there’s no one else to call on. If you were setting out to frame someone for a crime they didn’t commit, with no way of proving otherwise, this would count as the perfect set up.”

  Sophie holds up her hand in a stop sign. “Hold on. No matter how much you may want to, it’s no good jumping to conclusions without real evidence and motivation. Why would Alison split on his partner in crime when he had nothing to gain? Why not believe him, as he said in court, that the killing of the girl and her father so appalled him he had to come forward?”

  “But without Alison, the prosecution had nothing.”

  “They didn’t need anything else. What they had was enough to convict.”

  “But that’s something I’m sure should never have happened, not given that there was only that one, single witness and nothing else to place Cooper at the scene of the crime. Why didn’t Cooper’s lawyer point this out at the trial?”

  “H
e did. His name is Alec Waring. He was young, inexperienced and pro bono. He made a poor job of it. But that wasn’t difficult since Cooper made a point of falling out with him, accusing him of being part of a conspiracy to get him convicted. Going so far as threatening him with violence if Cooper went down, a threat that Waring felt duty bound to report to the court. So, Cooper’s defense was flawed, to say the least.”

  “Where is Waring now?”

  “Last I heard he’s still out there, defending cases pro bono. It doesn’t look as if his career has moved on in any way.”

  “But you could contact him?”

  “I’ll try to find him.”

  “Isn’t the poor showing made by Cooper’s defense enough to merit an appeal?”

  “I’m afraid not. You have to remember that the only way to reopen a case like this is if there is new evidence. Anything that’s already been considered by the court in the trial, no matter how poorly argued, is out of bounds from the point of view of an appeal. That’s over and done with as far as the law is concerned and won’t be looked at again.” She pauses. “Cooper won’t admit the crime, express remorse?”

  “He’s ruled that out.”

  “So, we need new evidence. And the only place that’s likely to come from is Cooper himself. But, of course, you’ve promised to leave that to me.”

  I raise my eyes in an irresistible appeal to my friend. “But I have a call to Pentonville booked with him later today. Arranging that was what landed me into trouble with McLeish.”

  “So, just this one call and then you’ll leave everything to me?”

  “I promise. And I’ll make sure McLeish knows nothing about it.”

  CHAPTER 5

  I spend the remainder of the day on the Stanley story.

  I ask Aaron Fortune, the paper’s expert on cyber security, to get back to me with any information on the origin of the leaked video showing Stanley accepting the money. I’m not optimistic about the outcome, so it’s a surprise when Fortune returns just an hour later with something of interest.

  “These people are not even half as clever as they think. They sent the video from a fake email address, but did nothing to conceal the IP address.”

  “Which means?”

  “Finding where it comes from is not much more difficult than tracing a phone call.”

  “And that leads where?”

  Fortune smiles. “You’re not going to believe this. The message containing the video came from the House of Commons.”

  “A political rival, maybe?”

  “Or someone who hates the man enough to want to do his career real harm. Either way, that should narrow your search.”

  Next stop is the Parliamentary Correspondent of the Herald, Quentin Wetherby.

  I don’t have long to wait for a list of Stanley’s opponents.

  “You wouldn’t call him well liked, even in the political world where they fight like rats in a sack and accept hatred and loathing as par for the course. There must be two dozen of his fellow MPs who’d give a cheer if Stanley had to leave that place in disgrace.”

  “They’re Stanley’s opponents?”

  “Oh, no. Most are from his own camp. Something you need to get clear, Emma. In politics, real vitriol is reserved for those on your own side.”

  “Quentin, give me names.”

  “And there I can oblige. Two top the list. Albert Denham could’ve been in the Cabinet by now but for Stanley’s persistent attempts to undermine the man’s career. No one knows why but they’ve been at loggerheads from the start. And then there’s Margaret Hyslop. Many believe Stanley is responsible for sending her and her husband, Julian, to prison for perverting the course of justice. Start with those two.”

  When the afternoon comes to a close, progress is painstaking. My requests for an interview with both Albert Denham and Margaret Hyslop are turned down by their PAs. I still need something to satisfy McLeish at the next day’s morning briefing.

  And I have to prepare myself for the phone call to Brian Cooper. A call I would have to make in private somewhere far away from the prying eyes and ears of those in the office.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Not sure what to make of this, Steve.” DS June Lesley passes to her boss the report she’s just printed out. “Death threats made to a journalist on the Herald. Reported by the editor, Bill McLeish.”

  DI Stephen Ives looks over the details. “McLeish. Pain in the ass. Pushes out stories for bleeding heart liberals and then expects the Met to keep a lid on the blowback.”

  Lesley smiles. “Not everyone would see it that way. I mean, there are those who expect the public to be kept informed about the devious goings on of those in high places. Some would say it’s all part of, what’s the word for it, democracy.”

  Ives feigns surprise. “Never thought for a moment you were one of those, June.”

  “And who might that be?”

  Ives struggles to carry on hiding that he knows he’s being played. “The earnest anti-establishment type. Always bleating about civil rights.”

  “Yeah, that’s me, Steve. It’s why I became a copper. Needed the chance to work with a bunch of enlightened colleagues like you. And since then, I haven’t looked back.”

  Ives smiles to let her know he’s now got the joke. “OK. Who is it this time?”

  “Emma Chamberlain.”

  “The one who’s on late night TV?”

  “Didn’t think you ever watched the political shows, Steve.” She pauses, expecting a snarky response but, when nothing comes, she continues. “Yes, that’s her. A message threatening to kill her. McLeish is asking for an investigation.”

  Ives blows out a blast of air. “What do they expect? Put an attractive woman on late night TV. Get her to criticize whoever she chooses. Where’s the surprise if she gets hate mail?”

  “This is more than that, Steve. It’s a direct threat.” She pauses once more. “And, haven’t you noticed, your prejudice is showing? Again.”

  Ives shrugs it off. “Tell McLeish we’re taking this seriously but we won’t investigate unless there’s a repeat. If he doesn’t like it, remind him about our manpower shortages. He shouldn’t be able to argue with that, given that he’s been going on about cuts in the policing budget for the past year.”

  Lesley gives him a resigned look. “OK.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Just this.”

  Lesley opens wide the door to Ives’ office. Standing there with balloons, and armed with party poppers and streamers is the entire personnel of the Lions Yard station.

  “Happy Birthday! Forty today!”

  Ives was hoping that this event would pass unnoticed but here it is, in his face and unavoidable. He tries to wave them away, but to no effect.

  Lesley disappears into the crowd and emerges again holding a cake bearing lighted wax candles in the shape of the number 40 and brings it up to him. “Not every day you get to your fortieth, Steve.”

  He attempts to show enthusiasm as he blows out the candles and poses for the inevitable social media photos.

  “Couldn’t happen to a better man.”

  He tries to make the most of it. As a detective inspector he’s done more than enough to merit promotion to detective chief inspector. Everyone knows. Perhaps it’s because his face doesn’t fit or because the higher-ups dislike the way he speaks his mind and isn’t afraid to annoy people that they’ve made him wait this long. And now the Force has announced, in the name of efficiency, that it’s going to abolish the rank of DCI. He is one of the last to be denied the move up. So, this is as close to a celebration as he will get.

  They call for a speech but Ives waves the invitation away. “You’ve heard enough of my voice.”

  He mingles with his colleagues as the party spreads out into the incident room outside and smiles back at each and every one of them as they make the inevitable jokes about his age.

  “If I were you, Steve, I’d demand a recount.”

  “Look at it
this way, Steve, in dog years, you’d be dead.”

  “Don’t worry, Steve, everyone expected you to get bitter with age.”

  CHAPTER 7

  There is no point taking the train home any time in the early evening. That will mean fighting through the crowds at London Bridge station, struggling onto a crowded carriage and standing all the way out to Hounslow. So much better to head for one of the pubs surrounding Borough Market and wait the rush hour out. Indeed, this has become the thing to do for so many like me who turn this into an opportunity to get the day into perspective, swap stories, gain insights.

  When I arrive, the scene outside the Pride of London is no surprise. With the tables inside and any standing room long taken, the crowds of noisy and eager-talking drinkers have spilled out in large numbers across the street and right up to the entrance to the Market itself, blocking the way to passing vehicles.

  Most of those here are under thirty. Working London is very much a world of the young.

  At first I can’t find anyone I know in the sea of faces that confront me, but then I spot Margo Smith who works at the Herald in advertising and who’s always good company. She’s older than many in the crowd around her but her vivacity carries her through.

  Margot offers a welcoming smile as the woman next to her makes a space for me to edge in. She begins with a well worn but effective greeting. “Having a good one, Emma?”

  I have to shout to be heard above the din. “It might have been if McLeish would cut me a little slack.”

  “He’s a pain. There’s doing the job and there’s overdoing the I’m the one carrying the weight of responsibility ticket and we all know where McLeish comes on that scale.”

  I’m beginning to feel more relaxed. “Yeah, and we can do nothing about it. I guess that’s why they call it work.”

  “And why they have to pay us to do it.”

  I smile a yes as a friend of Margot’s, a good-looking Geordie, offers to go and get drinks.