“I’ve told you!” The light of paranoia was back in his eye. “I had to get away from authority. I knew that lot would re-arrest me as easy as blinking.”
“I’m sure you’re wrong.”
“Well, I’m not. And I’ve had a lot more experience of that kind of world than you have, Carole.”
That was unarguable. “So what Gaby interpreted as you stalking her was just you trying to make contact?”
“Yes. But it was difficult. I needed to see her on her own. I needed to find out whether she knew anything about me.”
“Which was why you broke into her flat…Was it her birth certificate you wanted to see?”
“Yes, that kind of thing. Just to check whether there was any acknowledgement of my existence in my daughter’s life.”
“And was there?”
He shook his head bitterly. “Nothing. Father’s name on the birth certificate was Howard Martin.”
“And abducting me? What was all that about?”
“It was a way of getting to Gaby. She wouldn’t respond if I contacted her, but if you did…”
“Well, why on earth didn’t you tell me that? Why did you have to go through all the strong-arm routine?”
“In my experience, violence – or the threat of violence – is the only way you can get anything done.”
Carole was about to argue with this, and then she thought about what his recent experience had been. In a prison environment, the principle he had just outlined might well be the only viable one. Michael Brewer’s faith in his fellow human beings was not going to be easily re-established. So she contented herself with saying, somewhat huffily, “I still don’t see why you had to take me away from High Tor.”
“The police were looking for me – are looking for me. I had to get both of us somewhere safe.”
“Huh. Well, you could have said.”
There was a silence. It was much darker now. Carole could sense rather than see the curves of the Downs in front of her.
“There’s one thing, Mick…”
“Hm?”
“You had a lot of information. I know some of it you got from Gaby’s flat – like her mobile number, for instance. But there’s other stuff you couldn’t have known unless someone told you. For example, how did you know where Gaby’s flat was?”
He was silent for so long that she didn’t think she was going to get an answer. Then, slowly, he said, “Marie.”
“You talked to Marie?”
“Yes. After she wrote to me that first time in Parkhurst, we wrote quite a lot of letters. Couldn’t say much in them, of course, because of the prison authorities my end, and Howard at her end. But…we re-established contact. And then, when I was released…I got her phone number and rang a few times. We found it easy to talk. Marie and I always found it easy to talk.”
“But weren’t you worried about Howard answering the phone?”
“He never did. His deafness made using the phone difficult for him. He could use it, but he preferred not to.”
“So was it Marie who set up the meeting you were going to have with Howard – you know, the day after he died?”
“No. I didn’t want her to know about that. I rang Howard to fix it at a time I knew Marie would be out.”
“And of course the meeting never happened.”
“No. Wouldn’t have happened even if Howard hadn’t been killed. As soon as I discovered that Robert knew about it, there was no way I was going to turn up.”
“But how did you discover that Robert knew about it?”
“Marie told me. I rang her that night after the engagement party.”
“You did? Where did you ring her from? Were you in Essex?”
“No. I was planning to go up the following morning. I was down here.”
Carole’s eyes sparkled in the gloom. “Mick, do you realize what that means?”
“What?”
“It means you’ve got an alibi for the time of Howard’s murder. Your call to Marie in Harlow. The police can trace where the mobile was being used from. If you were down here talking on the phone, there’s no way you could have been in Epping Forest, strangling Howard Martin.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” he said softly.
“And if Marie had told the police about your call, then that would have removed the suspicion from you straightaway. Why didn’t she?”
“I think she wanted to protect me. She thought that if the police knew I’d been in touch with her, it would make it easier for them to track me down.”
Carole wondered if that was the real reason. She reckoned that Marie Martin’s secretive nature, encouraged by her control-freak of a brother, had stopped her from saying a lot of important things over the years. Some of which would definitely have prevented murders.
Neither of them slept much that night. The weather was so mild that they didn’t feel the need to go back down to the cellar. They talked intermittently, half-dozing through long silences. And, as the June dawn rose over the Downs, Carole Seddon realized that she had spent the night talking to the father of her prospective daughter-in-law.
And they hadn’t discussed wedding plans at all.
Michael Brewer made them some breakfast, and Robert ate a little too. Then, at nine o’clock, the time when Jerome Clancy always arrived at his office, Carole rang through to him. Like so many from her Home Office days, his number was etched into the address book of her brain.
Jerome Clancy remembered her well, and was very interested in the story she had to tell about the miscarriage of justice against Michael Brewer. More than interested, excited. He asked how soon they could get up to his office in High Holborn.
They went all the way up to London in Robert’s Peugeot, Carole driving. On public transport there was still a risk of Michael Brewer being recognized.
Jerome Clancy was delighted to see them. They talked for two hours, and he took copious notes. As the conversation developed, he grew increasingly gleeful. This was exactly the sort of case he relished.
That afternoon, acting on information received, the police arrived at Leper’s Copse, and arrested Robert Coleman.
Forty-One
On that August evening outside the Crown and Anchor, Fethering felt more like the South of France than the South Coast of England. Global warming, the locals tutted, but they couldn’t help loving the warm weather.
Gita Millington had come down to stay at Woodside Cottage for the weekend, and had insisted on treating Carole and Jude to dinner at the pub as a thank-you.
“What for?” Jude had asked.
“I’ll tell you when you’re there.”
So after they’d loaded up with drinks, heard Ted Crisp’s latest joke about the difference between a fishmonger and a footballer, all ordered his recommendation of Fethering Crispy Fish Pie, and found a table outside, Jude said, “All right, Gita. Enough of this mystery. What are you thanking us for?”
“I’m thanking you for putting me on to the Michael Brewer story.”
“Well, thank you for all the research you did,” said Carole. “It really helped. And now, thank God, Michael Brewer has a chance of living the remainder of his life in peace.”
“In peace, and in some luxury, I would imagine.”
“What do you mean, Gita?”
“Compensation. I know no amount of money can actually make up for thirty years in prison, but he will be getting a pretty substantial sum.”
“Yes, I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Come on,” Jude urged. “Why are you thanking us for getting you to do our research for us?”
“I’m thanking you, because, the more I got into the story, the better I realized it was. So I put together a proposal for it and – ”