Читать книгу Murder in the Graveyard - Don Hale - Страница 14

I returned to the Downing household a day or two later. I decided not to mention my anonymous caller. I thought he was probably a local crank who had spotted me on the estate and just wanted to rattle my cage. Besides, there was a more important phone call at hand.

Nita put the kettle on and within a few minutes she had a piping-hot cup of tea ready. Stephen was going to phone from prison but would only have a few minutes to chat. The couple said all his calls were monitored and restricted to a few short minutes via a special phone card during breaks from work.

I knew very little about their son, other than what I had read in those dusty old cuttings and from listening to Ray and Nita’s descriptions of him. I asked Nita, ‘Had Stephen been working long as a gardener for the council?’

‘No, no,’ she replied with a knowing smile. ‘He’d only been there for about seven weeks. He liked it, though. They’d shown him how to keep the hedges tidy, prune the trees, mow the lawns, keep the graves tidy, that kind of thing.

‘Although he was left to his own devices, other workmen regularly visited him and Stephen would help them out. To be honest, though, he didn’t seem able to stay in any kind of job for very long.’

As they spoke, I tried to imagine a young, immature Stephen Downing – a boy in many ways – convicted of brutally killing a married woman nearly twice his age at his place of work.

It seemed clear that he was not as bright as many other children of a similar age, and to me it seemed his struggle to cope with life continued into his teens and early working career.

Ray said Stephen loved model-making, needlework and cooking. Nita added that sometimes he would take over the kitchen to make everyone a meal, and he enjoyed baking. It appeared however, that Stephen had little in common with other teenage lads, and to many people he was considered odd and a loner.

As we chatted, I was startled out of my thoughts by the loud ringing of the telephone from the adjoining room. Nita rushed through and picked up the receiver, while Ray and I trailed after her.

She quickly passed the phone to Ray, who explained that I was there with them and wanted a quick chat. He then thrust the receiver into my chest.

Stephen sounded much younger on the phone than I had imagined. He was quite friendly but nervous, as he had never spoken with a journalist before. Initially he was slightly excitable, speaking at thirteen to the dozen, and it seemed he wanted to tell me his life story in one go, probably due to the limited time restrictions for a prison call. He seemed keen to accept my help and was almost emotional as he thanked me for my interest.

I told him I would appreciate as much help as possible from him and asked him to send me his personal account from the day of the attack. His parents seemed elated that after all those years someone had finally agreed to look into the case.

After the call, we sat back down in the kitchen, where Ray agreed to share his own recollections from the day of the attack. He grabbed another cup of tea and began.

‘It was bitter cold that morning, that I do remember. I had woken early – about 5.30 a.m. I was a bus driver in those days for Hulleys of Baslow. I had the early morning route that day. I remember pulling back the curtains and being surprised to see a heavy frost.

‘I had a wash and went down to the kitchen for some breakfast. Nita had come down by then.’ He looked across to his wife for support. She must have heard the story many times before. ‘You asked Stephen if he was going in to work, didn’t you, Nita?’ he said.

‘Yes, there was a sleepy response, if I remember correctly,’ Nita admitted. ‘Stephen just couldn’t get up in the morning. He had been off work on Monday and Tuesday with a heavy cold. I doubted whether he would make it to work that day.’

Ray continued, ‘I knew Nita would wake him early enough, but she couldn’t be behind him all the time. She also had to look after Christine. That day was important, because it was her first day back after the summer term. Christine wanted to be early, so Stephen had to fend for himself.

‘He seemed okay the night before, and said he wanted to go back. I asked Nita before I left if she thought he’d be fit for work. She wasn’t sure, but said she had his sandwiches ready if he decided to go in.’

‘So, did Stephen get off to work on time?’ I asked.

Nita was grinning, ‘He was at the very last minute as usual. I called him at 7.20, and told him that Ray had been gone for ages and Christine was checking her school stuff. Even though we only lived a few minutes from his work, he was often still late.

‘In fact, he was in such a rush that day that he put on the wrong boots. They were probably the first pair he could find in the half-light, but they were his best blue dress boots.

‘He only realised this on his way in to work, and panicked, thinking his dad would shout at him. In any case, he changed them when he came home at lunchtime.’

‘Anyway,’ Ray coughed, resuming his story. ‘By that time I reached the depot. I was pleased to see the coaches weren’t frosted over.

‘I was driving our old faithful bus Nell, which operated on the daily service round the local villages. I checked her over. She was always reliable, and I thought, What a pity Stephen couldn’t be more like her.

‘She started first time, and I drove out of the main yard but took it steady in case there was any ice about.

‘As I approached Middleton-by-Youlgreave, I noticed some people huddled in a small group by the bus stop. One woman was stamping her feet to keep warm, and they were all wrapped against the bitter chill wind.

‘“All aboard the skylark!” I shouted as the door swung open, and a cold breeze came in with the first passenger. I checked my change and adjusted the ticket machine ready for the next stop. The clock on the dashboard was visible to all, and the minute hand clicked to 8.05 a.m.

‘I had arrived on time just before 8 a.m., but couldn’t leave until the scheduled time of 8.10. I closed the door again, and while we waited I took a quick glance to admire the view.

‘The engine shivered against the cold. The clock suddenly clicked, and it was 8.10 a.m. precisely.

‘I asked if everyone was on – not really expecting a reply. I glanced in the rear-view mirror as I set off, and then suddenly this woman appeared directly in front of me. I had to stand back hard on the brakes, and the passengers were all tipped forward in their seats.

‘I opened the door again and let on this young woman I recognised as Wendy Sewell. She had been totally oblivious to any danger and was fiddling for change inside her purse. She had actually brushed against the front radiator of the bus just as I was setting off. Still breathless with shock, I said to her, “You were lucky!”

‘She replied, “Yes, I’d laddered my tights and had to look for another pair. I thought I’d miss the bus!”

‘No, I don’t mean that,’ I said. ‘I nearly knocked you over!’ She seemed totally unconcerned, and then it dawned on me – she hadn’t even realised her lucky escape.

‘I then said, “You’re not usually on this bus.” And she replied, “No, but I’ve some business to attend to in Bakewell.”

‘Wendy sat on the front passenger seat by the door. She looked straight ahead and didn’t acknowledge anyone. I glanced at her again as she sat down. She had long, dark-brown hair, which curled just above her shoulders. She was wearing a beige trouser suit with a black jumper.

‘As she crossed her legs, her left trouser leg ran up slightly and I noticed that she was wearing tights underneath with small white ankle socks and rather dingy-looking white plimsolls.

‘I thought she had probably put on the tights to guard against the cold. She carried a light-brown wicker-type shopping basket over one arm, and put her purse into a small handbag, which she placed under a cloth in her basket. I shook my head slightly and thought, What a pity. A pretty young woman – shame about the shoes!’

I stopped Ray for a moment. ‘You’re sure about the purse, tights and basket?’ I asked. I needed to be sure because I couldn’t find any record of these items in the police scene-of-crime report. There was also no mention of any diary, which again was supposed to have been in her handbag – allegedly together with a black book.

It seemed rather odd that the victim was found without her handbag or any other important personal effects. I recalled that there was no mention either of finding her tights.

Ray thought for a moment and then said, ‘Yes, I am absolutely certain. That very morning, she placed her purse into the basket and then covered it with a cloth.’

‘So, what do you think happened to these things?’ I asked him, adding, ‘They were not found at her office, so are they still in Catcliff Wood?’

‘Why not?’ Ray replied. ‘I don’t think anyone bothered to look, despite it being right next to the cemetery. After they forced a confession out of Stephen the police made little effort to find anything, or to question anyone else.’

He was keen to continue with his story. ‘I exchanged a few more pleasantries with Wendy but we were fast approaching Bakewell town centre. She was more intense as we came into Rutland Square. She seemed to have some things on her mind. As soon as we stopped, she was up and out in one, and ran down the street without saying a word. I shouted, “Cheerio!”, half expecting her to wave back, but she didn’t. I never saw her alive again.’

Ray wiped a tear from his eye – he was still emotional as he recalled these details – but soon regained his composure. He dipped his biscuit into his tea. ‘I had a funny feeling it would be a memorable day. The strange thing is that I could have killed Wendy Sewell myself that morning, quite by accident, of course, and then we wouldn’t have had 20-odd years of this bloody nonsense.’

Nita said she arrived home from work on the bus just after 1 p.m. She had only put the kettle on a few minutes before when she heard Stephen’s key in the door. ‘I shouted to him that it wasn’t locked,’ she said. ‘Stephen said the shop had already closed for lunch, and he asked me if I could get him another bottle of pop and take it across to him later at the cemetery. He had an empty bottle with him to collect the refund, and he put it on the kitchen table with some money.

‘I asked him if he was staying for a cuppa as I was making one for myself. He said no, as he had just come back to change his boots and feed the hedgehogs.

‘I told him I had already fed them, and said I would get him another bottle of pop when the shop opened and take it down to him later. He stayed for maybe another minute or so, but said he had to get back to his work and would see me later – but he too never returned home.’