Home Truths, page 6
‘Who is this blast from the past?’ I asked, when Scott showed me the message. ‘A close friend?’
‘Wouldn’t call him a close friend. We used to share a revolting student flat in Newcastle with about six others. He dropped out after the second year, failed his exams and didn’t bother to resit them because he thought the lecturers were useless. I’ve not heard from him since.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Twenty-five years ago?’ Scott shrugged. ‘Nice enough guy. I’m not sure he liked me. Bit competitive, bit of a know-all, spent half his life down at the gym. He pissed people off by hitting on their girlfriends—my girlfriend Carrie included. She couldn’t stand him.’
‘Did anyone challenge him about it?’
‘Carrie certainly did! He denied it point-blank.’
I was intrigued by this glimpse of my husband’s past.
‘Invite him here for dinner,’ I suggested. ‘He’s probably lonely. He can dish the dirt about your psychedelic drug-taking and wild student orgies.’
Scott put his arms around me, nuzzling my hair. ‘You’re going to be very, very disappointed.’
So Anthony came for dinner, bringing the ingredients for mulled wine, which he proceeded to make on our stove, giving me step-by-step instructions in his Californian accent. Bit of a know-all. Our low-ceilinged kitchen seemed to shrink in his affable, shambling presence: six foot tall, maybe sixteen stone, some of which was unruly beard and hair. After the meal he showed us photos of life in California: his wife Martina, their blue-eyed husky dogs, a swimming pool and sprawling home. The couple had employed ten people in a thriving tech business until the marriage ended. Martina kept the house, the business, even the huskies. Anthony landed back in the UK with a couple of suitcases.
‘Nightmare employing all those people anyway,’ he said, putting away his phone. ‘I’d rather keep it small. Less aggravation.’
‘But you lost so much,’ I said.
‘Martina was an alcoholic; she had a lot of problems. I couldn’t help her anymore. It was time to move on.’
I got out mugs and filled the kettle, wondering what Martina’s side of the story might be.
Anthony’s parents still lived in Teesside—though we’ve never seen eye to eye—and he was setting up an importing business out of a warehouse in Guisborough.
‘What d’you import?’ I asked.
‘Metal fittings and fastenings. Mainly from the States. Exclusively online.’
‘Metal fastenings.’ I couldn’t resist. ‘Riveting.’
Scott laughed. Anthony didn’t seem to get the pun, or perhaps he didn’t find it funny.
‘I’d never have picked Scotty to be the one to have it all,’ he told me, as I poured his coffee.
‘Really?’
‘Hell, no!’ He grinned at Scott across the table. ‘Our boy was quite the spindly little nerd. Lived in the library like a cave troll. Those godawful specs, Jesus Christ, remember those, Scotty? Where have they gone? And look at him now! Sporty as all hell. A beautiful wife and kids, gorgeous home, job he loves. The man who has everything. Unbelievable.’
I glanced at Scott, wondering how he’d take this backhanded compliment. He was helping himself to another mince pie, with Noah snuggled contentedly on his knee. He looked completely unruffled.
‘Spindly little nerd. Yup, I’ll cop to that,’ he said amiably, talking around a mouthful of pastry. ‘And you were a super-ripped bodybuilder with dreams of earning your first million by the age of thirty. Whatever happened to us, eh?’
Ouch. For a second, Anthony’s smile froze and a flush—anger or embarrassment, probably both—spread under his beard. Or perhaps I imagined it, because the next moment he was chortling away, asking Scott if he remembered the time Greg fell asleep in the shower and flooded the bathroom. By the end of the evening, the two men seemed to have picked up where they left off all those years ago.
And just a few months later, when tragedy struck our family, we saw the real quality of Anthony. While other friends disappeared into the shadows or sent kind texts—Thinking of you, let me know if I can help—Scott’s old flat mate was one hundred percent there for him. We owed him so much.
Must have him over again soon, I thought, as I found a space in the car park of Holme House Prison. Say thank you properly.
I flicked into work mode while navigating the prison’s security system. I knew the drill. I’d long ago grown used to the depressing clang of steel gates and doors behind me, the pervasive smell of a thousand captive human beings: sweat and hopelessness, stale nicotine, urine, cabbage. Disinfectant swilled all over the floors. I was used to the determinedly breezy banter of prison officers with radios, handcuffs and bundles of keys at their belts. Come to see Shepherd again? Got his parole board coming up, hasn’t he? I was well-acquainted with the plastic chairs in the meeting room, the crazed web of graffiti on the table. These things were as familiar to me as the classroom was to Scott. I could have applied for a management role by now, but this was where I wanted to be.
Footsteps outside the open door. A reedy voice singing ‘Roll Out the Barrel’ had me smiling before a slender figure was shown in. I’d known Charles Shepherd for about a year, since he was moved into Holme House. I’m five foot six; he was slightly shorter, and I’ll bet he weighed a whole lot less. His defining characteristic was an air of peace, the sense that he was happy in his own skin. Charles had spent most of his adult life locked up in one kind of institution or another, but I’d never heard him complain of his lot. If you met him in the street, you’d put him in the twinkly grandfather category, maybe a retired choirmaster. I mean, why not? Choirmasters can be murderers too. It’s a free country.
‘Livia! Thanks for dropping by to see me. How have you been? Kids okay?’ He spoke quietly, each word precise.
I gave him a stock reply: ‘They’re fine, back at school today.’ Charles knew nothing of my personal life, beyond the fact that I had two children. It was a lesson I’d learned early: protect your boundaries.
By contrast, I knew almost everything there was to know about this man, at least on paper. Over his sixty-seven years he’d amassed hundreds of court documents and reports from probation officers, mental health professionals and prison staff. Charles Mervyn Shepherd had been partially deaf since babyhood, the result of his father repeatedly ‘boxing his ears’—a chirpy euphemism for violent abuse. Nobody noticed. Perhaps nobody cared. Teachers, social workers, foster carers, children’s home workers: for years everyone thought the boy stupid and rude, commenting on the unsettling way he stared fixedly at their faces. I’ll bet some of them boxed his ears too. But the truth was that young Charles was very, very far from stupid. He looked at people’s mouths when they spoke, because he’d taught himself to lip-read.
His criminal career began with shoplifting sweets, and later cigarettes, for older children. He soon graduated to swiping slates from roofs, and thence to commercial burglaries. In his thirties he tried to settle down: worked as a plasterer, married the girl next door. They had a baby daughter, Jess. But the marriage blew apart, and so did he.
That was when he fell in with a crime syndicate up in Newcastle and really hit his stride. He carved out a niche as a notoriously efficient enforcer, collecting debts and information while ‘discouraging’ rivals. He hadn’t only learned to lip-read, he read people too, and soon earned quite the reputation for himself, perfecting a method of persuasion that didn’t call for strength, height or sophisticated weapons.
His heyday ended abruptly when the body of a man called Jarrod Jeffries was discovered on a park bench in Gateshead. Charles was immediately arrested. While assessing him for parole, I’d read extracts from hours of his police interviews. I’d learned all I needed to know about the crime for which he was now serving life.
DI Campbell: Okay, so, Charles, we’ve established that you assaulted Jarrod Jeffries in the early hours of Friday morning, after he left the Big Cat nightclub. I’ve just shown you some CCTV footage. Do you agree that’s you on the film?
Shepherd: That’s me. And the big guy in the film is Jarrod.
DI Campbell: How well did you know Jeffries?
Shepherd: I’ve only met him a couple of times. There was nothing personal. My job was just to persuade him to settle his debts.
DI Campbell: Why did he owe your boss money? What was that all about?
Shepherd: I have no idea. I never deal with the money side of things.
DI Campbell: I think you do. We know Jarrod Jeffries was dealing crack. Was that on behalf of your boss?
Shepherd: No comment.
DI Campbell: It would be a big help if you’d give us a bit more, Charles. You’re looking at a murder charge here. Why should you be the only one to carry the can? [10-second pause] Okay, Charles. You have a think about that.
Shepherd: It was just me. You can see on the silver screen there.
DI Campbell: All right. Can you tell us exactly what happened?
Shepherd: You’ve got the film, starring yours truly. You can see for yourself. I never meant to kill him, though. That’s not what I do.
DI Campbell: We need to hear it in your own words.
Shepherd: My own words. [Sighs] Okay. I was waiting for him outside the Big Cat. I knew he was in there, I’d been told by people who I’m not going to name. I saw him leave and started following him. He was in a heck of a mess. I bet you found crack in his bloodstream, did you? Shouting at shadows. I followed him for about fifteen, twenty minutes until he sat down on that bench. I waited in a shop doorway—you can see me, on the film. He was fumbling in his pockets, lighting up a ciggy. That was when I came up behind him, chucked my belt over his head and across the front of his neck—like this—and just gave it a good tug. Like this, see?’
DI Campbell: For the tape … you’re demonstrating holding a belt in both hands and pulling it forcefully towards you.
Shepherd: That’s right. Ninety-nine percent of the time, that’s all it takes. Cut off their windpipe, people very rapidly change their priorities. They give you their bank PIN numbers or safe combination or whatever. Anyway, Jarrod. I kept it tight for about ten seconds, then I slackened off to let him talk. He told me to eff off. So I tightened it again, he’s waving his arms and legs. I was explaining to him that I just wanted his card and PIN number. Next moment he’s gone limp. Sometimes people have a bit of a nap, just for a few seconds. I didn’t panic at first. I didn’t panic until it dawned on me that he wasn’t waking up.
DI Campbell: How did you react once it dawned on you?
Shepherd: My first thought was shit, shit, shit, this is bad. I gave him a shake, tried to wake him up—you can see me doing that. Ran to a phone box, called an ambulance. Made myself scarce. I bet you’ve got my voice on the call recording.
DI Campbell: You’ve done this before, haven’t you? Obviously you’ve a right to remain silent, Charles. I’ve reminded you of that, haven’t I, at the start of this interview? But come on, let’s get some of these other offences cleared up while we’re at it. We’ve had a few people turn up in hospital with exactly the same ligature injuries on their throats. They’re all telling the same story about being attacked from behind by someone they never even saw. You’ve got a nickname, haven’t you?
Shepherd: Have I?
DI Campbell: You’re smiling. You know exactly what I’m talking about.
Shepherd: No comment.
DI Campbell: Everyone knows you’ve got a nickname. You’re called the Garrotter. Why do they call you that?
Shepherd: You tell me.
DI Campbell: Because garrotting people is your speciality.
Shepherd: It’s hardly a new method, is it? The chokehold is old as the hills. Guards on the prison ships used it to control the poor sods they were transporting. Even little kids did it back in Victorian times.
DI Campbell: Did they? You learn a new thing every day, in this job.
Shepherd: The point is, I never meant to kill anyone. I’ve never in my life carried a knife or a gun. Nobody’s ever died until now.
DI Campbell: Yeah, but if you pull on a belt around someone’s neck, and their windpipe’s cut off, you’re quite likely to kill them, aren’t you?
Shepherd: No, no. I didn’t set out to hurt Jarrod Jeffries, let alone kill him. I never saw that coming at all. I wish it never happened. I wish I’d never met him.
But the jury at Newcastle Crown Court didn’t believe Jeffries’ death was an accident. Charles was convicted of murder and handed the mandatory life sentence, along with several concurrent terms for similar attacks and other offences. With his record, ‘life’ meant a very long time.
Charles was always neatly turned out, economical in his movements; I sensed a delicacy about him, as though a puff of wind might knock him down. His gentle courtesy put me on my guard when we first met. This was the first rule in my line of work, especially with lifers who had little to lose: be alert to manipulation, watch out for attempts to share confidences, to build a close friendship. Watch out for too much interest in your personal life or your appearance. I’d seen colleagues get themselves into career-ending trouble by allowing themselves to be manipulated. One of them ended up in prison himself.
But Charles didn’t seem the sort to set me up for a sting. He had no need to, because after nineteen years and two applications, he was almost certain to be granted parole this time. He hadn’t put a foot wrong, had steered clear of prison power games and been assessed as a low risk of reoffending. The underworld had changed in the new millennium, and so had Charles.
He used hearing aids as well as lip-reading, but I was careful to speak clearly as we ran through the plan. Release into the community was a critical period for any long-term prisoner. Many found themselves lost in a society that had changed beyond recognition. Often they had no family or friends remaining on the outside, which left them vulnerable and lonely. Charles was in touch with his adult daughter, Jess, and I’d arranged for him to live in a probation-managed address. He hadn’t completed his sentence and he never would—he’d be on licence for the rest of his life.
‘I see you passed your computer course with flying colours,’ I said.
A modest dip of his head. ‘Even the oldest dog can learn new tricks.’
‘You’re probably a lot more tech-savvy than I am. I’ve never really got into social media. I’m a dinosaur.’
He smiled. ‘I bet it’s safer that way. In your line of work.’
‘Too true. Best to stay under the radar.’
His smile faded. ‘Everything’s changed, Livia. The whole world has moved on and left me behind. Telephones aren’t even for phone calls anymore. Jess talks about buying rail tickets on her phone, and calling taxis. People don’t even go into the bank. Is that true?’
‘Partly,’ I said. ‘But it’s easier than it sounds. You’re going to be okay.’
‘I have to be. I wasn’t there for Jess when she was growing up. I want to do better for my grandchildren.’
‘She’s looking forward to having you around.’
‘I just want to be normal. A boring, regular old geezer. That’s my big ambition.’
For a long moment he was quiet, blinking at me. The single bulb above our heads was reflected in his glasses.
‘That’s enough about me. What’s been happening in your life, Livia? You never say a word about it.’
‘That’s because it’s my job to talk about you.’ I was scribbling a note of our meeting, getting ready to wrap up. ‘The usual. School. Work.’
‘I’ve learned a lot in here. I’ve noticed that people who moan the least often have the biggest troubles. You’ve got a bit of a worried look about you today. I’m just wondering whether all’s well in your world.’
‘I’m fine. You focus on your future.’
He stood up, pushing his chair under the table. ‘Sorry. I’ll mind my own beeswax.’
I felt as though I’d just snubbed a friend. Since the moment a pair of solemn police officers knocked on our door to break the news about Nicky, I’d been in crisis mode: supporting Scott, fretting about the children, teetering along the tightrope between mourning and crass jollity. Until now, nobody—not one person—had asked how I was doing.
‘You’re right, Charles,’ I admitted. ‘All’s not well in my world. Thank you for asking.’
I felt a tightness ease in my chest, just enough for me to take a deeper breath than I had in days. And then I broke my own rule. I told Charles all about Nicky dying in his garden, the mislaid phone, the harrowing message.
‘So your husband is blaming himself,’ he said.
‘Exactly.’
‘For a tragedy that could have happened any time, might have happened years ago if he hadn’t been around to help.’
‘Yes. And Heidi too. It was her birthday and they were out for a bike ride, but that doesn’t make it her fault. Maybe it’s because she’s a big sister to a little boy with health problems; she’s grown up taking on too much responsibility.’
‘Mm.’ Charles considered this, his head tilted. I heard the squeak of trainers outside, the rattle of keys in a lock. ‘You blaming yourself as well, Livia?’
‘I wish I’d found that phone earlier. I wish I’d dropped in on Nicky myself that morning. I wish …’ I shrugged. ‘Magic wand.’
It was high time I called a halt to the conversation. I had other meetings, phone calls to make, emails to answer, reports to write. And I’d strayed way, way beyond the boundaries I guarded so carefully.
‘Still,’ I said brightly, getting to my feet, ‘no point in wishing things hadn’t happened, is there? Keep moving forward. Starting with your parole hearing.’
I opened the door to let the officer know we’d finished our meeting.
‘If you were my daughter, I’d give you a hug,’ said Charles, as we parted. ‘You look after yourself, all right?’
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