Twelve Red Herrings (4 page)

In his opening
address, Sir Matthew put up a magnificent fight on my behalf. Without a body,
how could his client possibly be charged with murder? And how could I have
disposed of the body, when I had spent the entire night in a bedroom at the
Queen’s
Hotel ?
How I regretted not checking in the
second time, but simply going straight up to Jeremy’s room. It didn’t help that
the police had found me lying on the bed fully dressed.

I watched the
faces of the jury at the end of the prosecution’s opening speech. They were
perplexed, and obviously in some doubt about my guilt. That doubt remained, until
Rosemary entered the witness box.

I couldn’t bear
to look at her, and diverted my eyes to a striking blonde who had been sitting
in the front row of the public gallery on every day of the trial.

For an hour the
counsel for the prosecution guided my wife gently through what had taken place
that evening, up to the point when I had struck Jeremy. Until that moment, I
couldn’t have quarrelled with a word she had spoken.

“And then what
happened, Mrs. Cooper?” prodded counsel for the Crown.

“My husband bent
down and checked Mr. Alexander’s pulse,” Rosemary whispered. “Then he turned
white, and all he said was, “He’s dead.

I’ve killed him.

“And what did
Mr. Cooper do next?”

“He picked up
the body, threw it over his shoulder, and began walking towards the door. I
shouted after him, “What do you think you’re doing; Richard?”‘ “And how did he
respond?”

“He told me he
intended to dispose of the body while it was still dark, and that I was to make
sure that there was no sign that Jeremy had visited the house. As no one else
had been in the office when they left, everyone would assume that Jeremy had
returned to London earlier in the evening. “Be certain there are absolutely no
traces of blood,” were the last words I remember my husband saying as he left
the room carrying Jeremy’s body over his shoulder. That must have been when I
fainted.” Sir Matthew glanced quizzically up at me in the dock. I shook my head
vigorously. He looked grim as counsel for the prosecution resumed his seat.

“Do you wish to
question this witness, Sir Matthew?” the judge asked.

Sir Matthew rose
slowly to his feet. “I most certainly do, M’Lud,” he replied. He drew himself
up to his full height, tugged at his gown and stared across at his adversary.

“Mrs. Cooper,
would you describe yourself as a friend of Mr. Alexander?”

“Yes, but only
in the sense that he was a colleague of my husband’s,” replied Rosemary calmly.

“So you didn’t
ever see each other when your husband was away from Leeds, or even out of the
country, on business?”

“Only at social
events, when I was accompanied by my husband, or if I dropped into the office
to pick up his mail.’

“Are you certain
that those were the only times you
saw
him, Mrs.

Cooper? Were
there not other occasions when you spent a considerable amount of time alone with
Mr. Alexander? For example, on the night of 7

September 989,
before your husband returned unexpectedly from a European trip: did Mr.
Alexander not visit you then for several hours while you were alone in the
house?”

“No. He dropped
by after work to leave a document for my husband, but he didn’t even have time
to stay for a drink.”

“But your
husband says...” began Sir Matthew.

“I know what my
husband says,” Rosemary replied, as if she had rehearsed the line a hundred
times.

“I see,” said
Sir Matthew. “Let’s get to the point, shall we, Mrs.

Cooper? Were you
having an affair with Jeremy Alexander at the time of his disappearance?”

“Is this
relevant, Sir Matthew?” interrupted the judge.

“It most
assuredly is, M’Lud. It goes to the very core of the case,” replied my QC in a
quiet even tone.

Everyone’s gaze
was now fixed on Rosemary. I willed her to tell the truth.

She didn’t
hesitate. “Certainly not,” she replied, ‘although it wasn’t the first time my
husband had accused me unjustly.”

“I see,’ said
Sir Matthew. He paused. “Do you love your husband, Mrs. Cooper?’

“Really,
Sir Matthew!”
The judge was unable to disguise his irritation.

“I must ask once
again if this is
relevant?
” Sir Matthew exploded.

“Relevant? It’s
absolutely vital, M’Lud, and I am not being assisted by your iordship’s thinly
veiled attempts to intervene on behalf of this witness.” The judge was
beginning to splutter with indignation when Rosemary said quietly, “I have
always been a good and faithful wife, but I cannot under any circumstances condone
murder.” The jury turned their eyes on me. Most of them looked as if they would
be happy to bring back the death penalty.

“If that is the
case, I am bound to ask why you waited two and
a half hours
to contact the police?” said Sir Matthew. “Especially if, as you claim, you
believed your husband had committed murder, and was about to dispose of the
body.”

“As I explained,
I fainted soon after he left the room. I phoned the police the moment I came
to.”

“How
convenient,” said Sir
Matthew.
“Or perhaps the truth
is that you made use of that time to set a trap for your husband, while
allowing your lover to get clean away.” A murmur ran through the courtroom.

“Sir Matthew,”
the judge said, jumping in once again. “You are going too far.”

“Not
so, M’Lud, with respect.
In fact, not far enough.”
He swung back round and faced my wife again.

“I put it to
you, Mrs. Cooper, that Jeremy Alexander was your lover, and still is, that you
are perfectly aware he is alive and well, and that if you wished to, you could
tell us exactly where he is now.’

Despite the
judge’s spluttering and the uproar in the court, Rosemary had her reply ready.

“I only wish he
were,” she said, ‘so that he could stand in this court and confirm that I am
telling the truth.” Her voice was soft and gentle.

“But you already
know the truth, Mrs. Cooper,” said Sir Matthew, his voice gradually rising.
“The truth is that your husband left the house
on his own
.
He then drove to the Queen’s Hotel, where he spent the rest of the night, while
you and your lover used that time to leave clues across the city ol Leeds –
clues, I might add, that were intended to incriminate your husband. But the one
thing you couldn’t leave was a body, because as you well know Mr. Jeremy
Alexander is still alive, and the two of you have together fabricated this
entire bogus story, simply to further your own ends. Isn’t that the truth, Mrs.
Cooper?’

“No, no!”
Rosemary shouted
,
her voice cracking before she
finally burst into tears.

“Oh, come, come,
Mrs. Cooper. Those are counterfeit tears, are they not?” said Sir Matthew
quietly. “Now you’ve been found out, the jury will decide if your distress is
genuine.” I glanced across at the jury. Not only had they fallen for Rosemary’s
performance, but they now despised me for allowing my insensitive bully of a
counsel to attack such a gentle, longsuffering woman. To every one of Sir
Matthew’s probing questions, Rosemary proved well capable of delivering a
riposte that revealed to me all the hallmarks of Jeremy Alexander’s expert
tuition.

When it was my
turn to enter the witness box, and Sir Matthew began questioning me, I felt my
story sounded far less convincing than Rosemary’s, despite its being the truth.

The closing
speech for the Crown was deadly dull, but nevertheless deadly. Sir Matthew’s
was subtle and dramatic, but I feared less convincing.

After another
night in Armley Jail I returned to the dock for the judge’s summing up. It was
clear that he was in no doubt as to my guilt. His selection of the evidence he
chose to review was unbalanced and unfair, and when he ended by reminding the
jury that his opinion of the evidence should ultimately carry no weight, he
only added hypocrisy to bias.

After their
first full day’s deliberations, the jury had to be put up overnight in a hotel
– ironically the Queen’s – and when the jolly little fat man in the bow tie was
finally asked: “Members of the jury, do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty
or not guilty as charged?” I wasn’t surprised when he said clearly for all to
hear, “Guilty, my lord.” In fact I was amazed that the jury had failed to reach
a unanimous decision. I have often wondered which two members felt convinced
enough to declare my innocence. I would have liked to thank them.

The judge stared
down at me. “Richard Wilfred Cooper, you have been found guilty of the murder
of Jeremy Anatole Alexander...”

“I did not kill
him, my lord,” I interrupted in a calm voice. “In fact, he is not dead. I can
only hope that you will live long enough to realise the truth.” Sir Matthew
looked up anxiously as uproar broke out in the court.

The judge called
for silence, and his voice became even more harsh as he pronounced, “You will
go to prison for life. That is the sentence prescribed by law. Take him down.”
Two prison officers stepped forward, gripped me firmly by the arms and led me
down the steps at the back of the dock into the cell I had occupied every
morning for the eighteen days of the trial.

“Sorry, old
chum,” said the policeman who had been in charge of my welfare since the case
had begun. “It was that bitch of a wife who tipped the scales against you.” He
slammed the cell door closed, and turned the key in the lock before I had a
chance to agree with him. A few moments later the door was unlocked again, and
Sir Matthew strode in.

He stared at me
for some time before uttering a word. “A terrible injustice has been done, Mr.
Cooper,” he eventually said, ‘and we shall immediately lodge an appeal against
your conviction. Be assured, I will not rest until we have found Jeremy
Alexander and he has been brought to justice.” For the first time I realised
Sir Matthew knew that I was innocent.

I was put in a
cell with a petty criminal called “Fingers’

Jenkins.

Can you believe,
as we approach the twenty-first century, that anyone could still be called “Fingers’?
Even so, the name had been well earned. Within moments of my entering the cell,
Fingers was wearing my watch. He returned it immediately I noticed it had
disappeared. “Sorry,” he said. “Just put it down to ‘abit.

Prison might
have turned out to be far worse if it hadn’t been known by my fellow inmates
that I was a millionaire, and was quite happy to pay a little extra for certain
privileges. Every morning the Financial Times was delivered to my bunk, which
gave me the chance to keep up with what was happening in the City. I was nearly
sick when I first read about the takeover bid for Cooper’s. Sick not because of
the offer of 2.5o a share, which made me even wealthier, but because it became
painfully obvious what Jeremy and Rosemary had been up to.

Jeremy’s shares
would now be worth several million pounds – money he could never have realised
had I been around to prevent a takeover.

I spent hours
each day lying on my bunk and scouring every word of the Financial Times.
Whenever there was a mention of Cooper’s, I
went over the
paragraph so often that I ended up knowing
it by heart. The company was
eventually taken over, but not before the share price had reached 3.43- I
continued to follow its activities with great interest, and I became more and
more anxious about the quality of the new management when they began to sack
some of my most experienced staff, including Joe Ramsbottom. A week later, I
wrote and instructed my stockbrokers to sell my shares as and when the
opportunity arose.

It was at the beginning
of my fourth month in prison
that !
asked
for some writing paper. I had decided the time had come to keep a record of
everything that had happened to me since that night I had returned home
unexpectedly. Every day the prison officer on my landing would bring me fresh
sheets of blue-lined paper, and I would write out in longhand the chronicle
you’re now reading. An added bonus was that it helped me to plan my next move.

At my request,
Fingers took a straw poll among the prisoners as to who they believed was the
best detective they had ever come up against.

Three days later
he told me the result: Chief Superintendent Donald Hackett, known as the Don,
came out top on more than half the lists. More reliable than a Gallup Poll, I
told Fingers.

“What puts Hackett
ahead of all the others?” I asked him.

“
e’s
honest, ‘e’s fair, you can’t bribe ‘im. And once the
bastard knows you’re a villain, ‘e doesn’t care ‘ow long it takes to get you
be’ind bars.” Hackett, I was informed, hailed from Bradford. Rumour had it
among the older cons that he had turned down the job of Assistant Chief
Constable for West Yorkshire. Like a barrister who doesn’t want to become a
judge, he preferred to remain at the coalface.