I was enraged. I’ve always been a cold person emotionally, but I cried on the journey back to London, because I had wanted to kill *** myself. I had needed to cleanse myself of these three evil men, and all I had now was a dead body on my hands and three terrified associates.
I drove back to-, breaking the speed limit most of the way. On arrival, I cleaned all the finger-prints from my flat and told the others that I would deal with ***** and **** in my own way. That was when the police burst in; twenty-four armed officers pinned the three of us to the ground, handcuffed and arrested me.
I discovered later that ***** had already phoned the police and told them he feared for his life. I gave my solicitor all the details, and he said that because I was in Hastings at the time of ***’s death, they wouldn’t charge me with murder, but they could charge me with conspiracy to murder. They charged me with murder, and I was sentenced to a minimum of twenty-two years.
Yes, I am doing a twenty-two year sentence for a crime I didn’t commit. I only wish I had, and I also wish I had killed **** and ***** at the same time.
I am now a Listener at Belmarsh and feel useful for the first time in my life. I know I’ve saved one life, and hopefully helped many others.
My demons still haunt me, of course they do, but I somehow keep them at bay. I won’t complete my twenty-two year sentence, but I will choose the time and manner of my death [38]
It’s only shame that prevents me from contacting anyone I know. A feeling of worthlessness, a dirty little rent boy that allowed older men to use, beat and abuse him, because he needed to be loved, and no longer cared what happened to him. How can I ever expect my wife, my children, or my family to understand?
I hope by telling this story, I may save someone else from the horror I’ve been put through, so that that person will never be visited by the same demons, and worse, will not end up in jail on a charge of murder.
11.23 pm
I go to bed asking myself should the man known as Fletch have to spend the rest of his life in jail? If the answer is yes, don’t we perhaps have some responsibility to the next generation, to ensure that there aren’t other children whose lives will end by the age of nine?
Day 20 Tuesday 7 August 2001
6.16 am
I have a better night’s sleep. Perhaps Fletch’s allowing his story to be committed to paper has helped. I write for two hours.
8.00 am
Breakfast. Frosties and the last dribble from the second carton of long-life milk. Not quite enough left to soak my cereal. Canteen provisions due in today, and as I’m leaving on Thursday I will be able to repay all my bubbles: Del Boy (water and biscuits), Tony (Mars Bar), and Colin (stamps, twelve first-class).
10.00 am
Association. I am strolling around the ground floor, when I notice that one of the prisoners, Joseph (murder), is playing pool. He’s by far the best player on the spur and occasionally clears the table. This morning he’s missing simple shots that even I would sink. I lean against the wall and watch him more carefully. He has that distant look on his face, so common among lifers.
When the match is over and the cues have been passed on to waiting inmates, I comment on his standard of play. I think the word I select is rubbish.
‘I’ve got something on my mind, Jeff,’ he says, still distant.
‘Anything I can help with?’ I ask.
‘No thanks, it’s a family matter.’
11.00 am
I see that my name is chalked up on the board for a legal visit from my solicitor, Tony Morton-Hooper.
Over the years I have found that professional relationships fall into two categories. The ones that remain professional, and the ones when you become friends. Tony falls firmly into the second category. We have a mutual love of athletics – he has represented many track stars over the years – and despite a considerable age difference, we relax in each other’s company.
We meet up in one of those small rooms where I come in from one side and am locked in, and moments later he enters by a door on the opposite side, and is also locked in. The first thing I notice is that Tony is wearing a thick yellow rubber band around his wrist; it will allow him to eventually escape, but for the next hour he is also incarcerated.
Tony begins by telling me that Wayland Prison is certain to be a far more relaxed regime than Belmarsh, and as good a place as any to be until I am reinstated as a Category D prisoner. I ask Tony what the latest is on that subject.
‘It’s all good news,’ he tells me. ‘The media have worked out that you have nothing to answer, and we’ve been through your files and they show the matter was raised in Parliament in 1991 when Lynda Chalker was Overseas Development Minister and she gave a robust reply. She also wrote you a long letter on the subject at the time.’ He slides both the letter and the Parliamentary reply across the table.
‘Was Ms Nicholson an MP then?’ I ask.
‘She most certainly was,’ says Tony, ‘and more importantly, a full investigation was carried out by the Foreign Office, so we’re sending all the relevant papers to the police and pointing out that a second inquiry would be an irresponsible waste of public money.’
‘So can I sue her for libel?’ I ask.
‘Not yet,’ he replies. ‘I talked to the police yesterday, and although they will not release a copy of the letter she sent to them, they made it clear that the accusations were such that they had no choice but to follow them up.’
‘If we issue a writ, will she have to release that letter?’
‘Yes. It would automatically become part of the evidence.’
‘Then we must have grounds to sue her.’
‘Not yet,’ Tony repeats. ‘Let’s wait for the police to drop their inquiry before we take any further action. And that could be quite soon, as Radio 4’s Today Programme have been in touch with Mary. Their research team are also convinced that you have no case to answer, and they want her to appear on the programme.’
‘Of course they do,’ I say, ‘because all they’ll want to talk to her about is my appeal.’
‘As long as she doesn’t discuss the case while an appeal is pending, I’m in favour of her doing the interview.’
‘She could of course quote from Lynda Chalker’s letter and the Parliamentary reply,’ I suggest.
‘Why not?’ says Tony. ‘But let’s proceed slowly, step by step.’
‘Not something I’m good at,’ I admit. ‘I prefer proceeding quickly, leap by leap.’
Tony then removes some papers from his briefcase, and tells me that the appeal will be officially lodged tomorrow. I have to sign an agreement to appeal against sentence, and another against conviction.
Tony would give me a fifty-fifty chance of having the verdict overturned if it were not for the ‘Archer’ factor. ‘If you weren’t involved it would be thrown out without a second thought. There wouldn’t even have been a trial in the first place.’ He puts the odds even higher on getting the sentence reduced. Mr Justice Potts’s comment that mine was the worst example of perjury he had ever known has been greeted by the legal profession with raised eyebrows. [39]
We then turn to the subject of the prison diary, of which I have now completed fifty thousand words, and I warn him that it’s going to come as a shock to most of my regular readers. He asks how I’m getting the script through to Alison, remembering this is the tightest-security prison in Europe. I remind him that I am still receiving two to three hundred letters a day, and the censors allow me to turn them round and send them back to my office the following morning, so another ten handwritten pages aren’t causing the censor any concern.