Читать книгу A Bad Bad Thing - Elena Forbes - Страница 15

It had started to rain again and the morning traffic was almost at a standstill, backed up all the way along the Earls Court Road as far as the junction with the Cromwell Road. Eve cursed herself for leaving her umbrella at home and made her way as quickly as she could along the crowded pavement. The offices of 4Justice were in a shabby, four-storey building, not far from the Tube, the front door sandwiched between a Betfred and a Starbucks. The paint was scuffed and peeling and somebody had chalked the words ‘out of order’ against the small row of ancient-looking bells. A waft of warm doughnuts from one of the nearby shops momentarily filled the damp air and she suddenly felt hungry. Hopefully, the meeting wouldn’t take long. Sheltering under the narrow overhang above the door, she took out her phone and dialled the office number. After several rings, a woman’s voice answered. Repeating herself loudly several times over the noise from the street, Eve explained who she was. After a pause, she caught the words ‘first floor’ and the door buzzed open. The hall inside was poorly lit and smelled strongly of damp. Piles of dusty, unopened post lay on the threadbare brown carpet, next to a plastic recycling bin overflowing with unwanted fliers. A sign saying ‘4Justice 1st Floor, Exotica Travel 2nd Floor’ was pasted on the wall, with a large, black arrow drawn in marker pen pointing up the stairs. Peters had said that the charity was short of money, but after the impressive website, she had been expecting something a little more salubrious.

As she reached the first floor, the door on the landing opened and a stocky young woman, with short, spikey, black hair, appeared behind it.

‘I’m Zofia,’ she said, holding out a very firm, cold hand. She was dressed head to toe in black, her eyes heavily outlined in black as well. ‘Dan’s tied up at the moment. You can come in and wait.’ Her Polish accent was strong.

The office was spacious and light, with a large sash window overlooking the street. Shelf-lined walls were stuffed with files and books and the noticeboard that hung over the Victorian marble fireplace was papered with a variety of press cuttings and photographs. A mishmash of tatty tables and desks had been pushed together to form a block in the centre of the room, which was laden with computers and more files and papers.

Zofia pointed towards a sofa under the window. ‘You can sit there,’ she said offhandedly, before returning to her desk and tucking herself behind it, her face hidden by a large, leafy pot plant.

Eve took off her wet coat and hung it on an empty hook by the door. Moving a collection of files and newspapers to one side, she sat down on the sofa. A few minutes later, a door at the back of the room opened and a tall, thin man emerged, a cloud of cigarette smoke following him out into the office. She recognized Dan Cooper immediately from the images on the website, although his face looked more gaunt and he had grown a rough sort of a beard. As he closed the door behind him, Eve caught a glimpse of a darkened room, with what looked like an unmade camp bed pushed up against the wall.

‘You’re here about Sean Farrell, right?’ He ran his fingers quickly through his thick, brown hair, peering at her through narrowed eyes, as though dazed by the daylight. His voice was croaky and he spoke slowly as though every word was an effort. His frayed jeans hung low on his hips, pulled together loosely with a silver-buckled belt, an old denim shirt half tucked in at the front and open to his mid chest, the buttons done up incorrectly. It struck her that he had just hauled himself out of bed and dressed in a hurry on hearing her arrive.

‘Yes.’

‘You’re with the police.’ The tone was hostile.

‘I’m not here in an official capacity.’

‘Why are you here, then?’ He met her gaze defiantly, his eyes an intense, watery blue.

It was all very well for Peters to assume that Dan Cooper would do what he was told and cooperate, but experience had taught her otherwise.

‘I’ve been asked to help,’ she said quietly, aware that Zofia had stopped tapping on her keyboard and was no doubt listening.

Dan shook his head dismissively. ‘We don’t need any help. Thanks.’

He was frowning and his hand shook a little as he reached in his shirt pocket for his cigarettes and lit up. The night before, she had read various articles he had written and watched a short video clip on the 4Justice website of him talking about a different case, which he had investigated and where they had succeeded in overturning a guilty verdict. He had all the vigour and clarity of a successful campaigning journalist and when she Googled him, she saw that he had won a number of journalistic prizes and accolades. He had had a promising career in mainstream journalism and she wondered what had taken him off on a detour into charity work. She also wondered what had gone wrong. Peters had mentioned Kristen Harris as being his ex-partner but it wasn’t clear if he had meant it in a romantic, as well as a business, sense. Out of curiosity, she had watched a couple of other short clips from a TV programme presented by Kristen, highlighting a recent 4Justice case. She was good-looking, in an offbeat way, with long, wavy, dark hair and shiny red lips. Her presentation was slick and professional and she seemed very sure of herself as she talked and smiled at the camera. But it was all a bit over the top, a little too knowing and self-serving, Eve thought, given that Kristen was supposed to be presenting a programme on the serious issue of a miscarriage of justice, which had ruined somebody’s life, rather than The One Show. By contrast, Dan Cooper had come across as earnest and genuinely passionate. Based on the little she had seen, she knew which one of them she would rather have as an advocate. But the man in front of her seemed to be falling apart and she understood why Duran thought he might need help.

She got to her feet, holding his gaze. ‘Look. You may think you have everything in hand. I hope, for Sean Farrell’s sake, you’re right. But I have a job to do. I’ve been asked to take a look, as a favour for someone. Just in case I can turn up something. If I find anything, you can have it. What have you got to lose?’ He made no reply and she continued: ‘I’ve worked many, many murder cases—’

‘Yes. Yes. I know exactly who you are,’ he said, with a vague wave of his hand. ‘But I still don’t get why you’re here.’

She shrugged. ‘What I’m trying to say is, I’m used to dealing with this sort of thing and I understand how the system works. Maybe a fresh pair of eyes can be of use.’

‘Why are you so interested in Sean Farrell?’

His expression was still sceptical and she gave him a hard stare in return. ‘I’m not. I’d never heard of him until yesterday and, to be honest, I’d much rather go home and leave you to it. But as I said, I’m just doing a favour for somebody who, like you, believes Sean is innocent. That’s all. I’m not here to spy on you. I’m not checking up on you. And I won’t get in your way. But from what I hear, there’s not much time to turn things around and Sean needs all the help he can get right now. I just need you to fill me in on a few things, then I’ll go away and leave you alone. OK?’

He studied her for a moment, his full lips slightly apart, as though weighing things up in his mind.

‘I thought Alan Peters had explained everything,’ she said sharply, when he made no reply. ‘Do you want me to call him now and put you on the phone?’

‘He has. It just seems very odd, that’s all. But I guess I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, as they say. So long as you’re not a Trojan horse.’

‘I’ve told you who I am and why I’m here. I’m not going over it again.’

He sighed deeply as though it was too much trouble to resist any longer, slid out a chair from behind one of the desks and thumped down heavily onto it. He swung his feet up onto the desk, nudging aside a pile of papers with the heel of one of his ancient-looking cowboy boots, took a long, deep drag on his cigarette, then looked up at her through the smoke. ‘OK. Fine. But be quick. I’ve got to go and see somebody in half an hour.’

He didn’t look like a man with anything urgent to do. She sat down again and took out a notebook and pen. She wasn’t leaving until she had what she needed. ‘Before we talk about the case, can you tell me a little about Jane and what her background was, that sort of thing?’

He coughed, then looked round at Zofia. ‘Can you get me a coffee please, Zofia. My throat’s really dry and sore.’

Zofia shot him a sharp look, then rose from behind her desk with an audible sigh. ‘What sort of coffee?’

‘Black. Triple espresso. Maybe just a dash of hot milk. And something to eat. I’m absolutely famished.’ He looked back at Eve and added as an afterthought: ‘What about you?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘And some Hedex Extra,’ he shouted after Zofia, as she grabbed her coat and strode out of the room. He swivelled back towards Eve. ‘What were you saying?’

‘You were going to tell me about Jane.’

He nodded slowly and half closed his eyes as though it was all an effort. ‘She was an only child, born and brought up in a small village just outside Lincoln. Her father was an equine vet and she wanted to be a vet too, but didn’t get the grades. She’d been working at the Michaels’ yard for about six months.’

‘Before that?’

‘For a bloodstock insurance broker in Newmarket, I think.’

‘So she was relatively new to the Marlborough area?’

‘That’s right. She wanted to work for a racing yard, or at least that’s what her mother said. Reading between the lines, I think she also wanted to put some distance between herself and her parents.’

‘You’ve spoken to them?’

‘Just the mother. Briefly, on the phone and then about a year ago in person. She practically slammed the door in my face when she found out we were trying to help Sean. They’re convinced Sean killed her.’

‘Based on what?’

‘What the police told them, I guess. They certainly don’t want us digging it up all over again. They’ve been quite vitriolic, in fact.’

‘I’m not surprised.’

She had seen it before and understood why they wouldn’t welcome Dan’s efforts. Families wanted closure so that they could grieve and then, if possible, move on as best they could with their lives. Jane’s parents would want to believe that the police had got it right, that her killer was locked away behind bars for as long as possible, and that the murder of their daughter had been avenged. From their point of view, opening up the case all over again, with all the media attention and speculation, would reawaken the past, with all the endless wondering about who had killed their daughter, and why.

‘What about other boyfriends?’ she asked, watching Dan stretch his mouth wide into a yawn.

‘Nothing serious for a couple of years, from what I was told. I don’t think Sean was anything serious either, he just thought he was. That was the problem.’

‘Tell me about the Westerby estate. I don’t know the area and I know nothing about racing.’

‘It’s a big place and it belongs to the Michaels family. They’re one of those horse racing dynasties and they’ve been there for several generations. When Jane McNeil was murdered, Tim Michaels was still in charge, but he died and it’s now run by his son, Harry, and daughter, Melissa.’

‘Is she the one who reported Jane as missing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who lives on the estate now?’

‘There’s Tim’s widow, Sally. Harry Michaels. He’s divorced. Plus Melissa, her husband, and their children. I don’t know who’s in the main house these days, but there are a number of cottages dotted around the estate. I think a few are rented out, but the rest are occupied by the family or people who work for the Michaels, like the assistant trainer and people like that.’

‘So Jane had one of these cottages to herself?’

‘She was supposed to share it with two other girls, but they’d both left at the time of her murder, so she was there on her own.’

‘A number of people seemed to be passing her cottage the night she disappeared. How easy is it to access the land?’

‘Very easy, or at least it was. The whole place is covered in public rights of way and bridle paths, and anyone used to be able to come and go in a car, according to Sean. There are three or four entrances onto the estate and none were secured at the time Jane was murdered. You could just drive through. Even though it’s private land, people used to use it as a cut-through from the A4 to avoid Marlborough town centre.’

‘That must have made it very difficult for the police,’ she said.

‘I guess so. That’s all changed now, since Harry Michaels took over. He put up security barriers everywhere to stop people driving through.’

‘Tell me a bit about Sean Farrell. He was older than Jane, wasn’t he?’

He reached forwards to stub out his cigarette and nodded. ‘He’d been married before and had two kids. I don’t know why the marriage failed, but his ex booted him out and it was all very acrimonious. She even gave evidence against him at his trial, saying he was prone to violent mood swings and was overly possessive and controlling. If you ask me, the mood swings were to do with having to live with her. I met her once. She’s a right bitch.’

‘How did he and Jane meet?’

‘At the yard. He was the Michaels’ farrier. By all accounts, he was pretty successful and looked after a number of racing yards in the Marlborough and Lambourn area. He and Jane started seeing each other quite soon after she started work there.’

‘Let’s get to the trial. What went wrong, in your view?’

He sighed heavily and shifted in his chair, rotating his shoulders as though they were stiff.

‘A number of things. Sean was found guilty on the basis of circumstantial evidence alone. None of the forensic evidence gathered at the time indicated that he was her killer. There were fresh footprints in the mud around where the body was found, but they were too big to be Sean’s, nor did they fit the boots of either of the two female riders who found the body. There was sperm on the victim’s thigh, but Sean had had a vasectomy. You’d think that all the arrows were pointing away from Sean and not at him.’

‘How did the police explain it?’

‘They said the footprints could have been anybody’s, even though the body was found nowhere near a footpath. Also, the prints were found directly around the body. But there were no footprints under it, so they must have been made after the body was dumped there, most likely at the same time. As for the sperm, the women’s changing room at the gym was out of order, for some reason, so men and women were using the same place. The police had some ludicrous theory that the sperm must have come from a used towel or something. Or, that she had had sex with someone after the Westerby party and that Sean had seen this and flipped. But nobody knows who this other man is. The police certainly couldn’t find him.’

‘There were no other suspects?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. I don’t think they bothered to look very hard, once they had Sean in their sights. All of this should have been enough to create reasonable doubt in the minds of the jury, but the defence team were rubbish.’

‘They must have had something else against him, surely?’

‘A woman said she saw Sean near Jane McNeil’s house on the Sunday night after the party at Westerby, but her testimony isn’t totally reliable.’

‘You mean Susan Wright?’

‘Yes. She lived in one of the other cottages down the lane. She didn’t even come forward for two weeks, as she was away on holiday when the body was found. She describes a man in a suit hammering on Jane’s front door, but the physical description’s vague, as he was facing away from the road and, at best, she could have only seen him in profile. According to his family, the last time Farrell wore a suit was at his father’s funeral, yet she says she recognized Farrell in the headlights of her car …’

‘So she knew him?’

‘She worked with Jane and knew about their relationship, so maybe that was enough for her to make the association and think it was Sean. At any rate, it was pitch-black outside, no lights on inside Jane’s cottage, and the porch light wasn’t working either. I went down to Marlborough and walked past the cottage myself, just to check. It’s set back from the road, up a bank, and there’s a hedge at the front. Even with your lights on full beam, you’d be hard pushed to see much in the front garden at night.’

‘You think she lied?’

He shook his head wearily. ‘People often get things wrong, as I’m sure you know. Farrell said he went to the cottage earlier that evening to apologize for his behaviour at the gym, but Jane was still at the party, so it’s possible that Susan Wright did see him and made a mistake about the time. Alternatively, it was someone else she saw, who was also looking for Jane. Someone had tried to break in through one of the back windows, but Sean’s fingerprints weren’t found on it. So the prosecution said he must have worn gloves. But that would imply premeditation, which just doesn’t fit with his hanging around outside in full public view. He’s also not the pre-meditating type, based on what I know of him.’

‘Was there anything else to link him to the cottage?’

‘They found some partial fingerprints that might have been his inside the house, but they were old and smudged and could easily have been left over from when he was seeing Jane. There’s something else they tried to dismiss. Sean sent a text to some woman he’d just started seeing around about the time he was supposedly outside Jane’s house. The call was logged in the vicinity of his home, which is about ten miles away. The technology wasn’t as accurate then as it is now, but he couldn’t have been in both places at once. The prosecution said he had someone else, some sort of an accomplice, send the text and help him deal with the body, but they weren’t able to find any evidence that there was such a person. And why would anyone want to help him kill Jane? It just doesn’t add up.’ He looked at her challengingly.

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 interview 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.’