Twelve Red Herrings (6 page)

Matthew was
waiting for me at the entrance of the Old Bailey, a mountain of papers tucked
under each arm. “I like the suit,” he said, before leading me up some stone
steps to the room where my fate would be decided.

Once again I sat
impassively in the dock as Sir Matthew rose from his place to address the three
appeal judges. His opening statement took him nearly an hour, and by now I felt
I could have delivered it quite adequately myself, though not as eloquently,
and certainly nowhere near as persuasively. He made great play of how Jeremy
had left all his worldly goods to Rosemary, who in turn had sold our family
house in Leeds, cashed in all her Cooper’s shares within months of the
takeover, pushed through a quickie divorce, and then disappeared off the face
of the earth with an estimated seven million pounds. I couldn’t help wondering
just how much of that Jeremy had already got his hands on.

Sir Matthew
repeatedly reminded the panel of the police’s inability to produce a body,
despite the fact they now seemed to have dug up half of Leeds.

I became more
hopeful with each new fact Matthew placed before the judges. But after he had
finished, I still had to wait another three days to learn the outcome of their
deliberations.

Appeal
dismissed. Reasons reserved.

Matthew
travelled up to Armley on the Friday to tell me why he thought my appeal had
been turned down without explanation.

He felt that the
judges must have been divided, and needed more time to make it appear as if
they were not.
“How much time?”
I asked.

“My hunch is
that they’ll let you out on licence within a few months. They were obviously
influenced by the police’s failure to produce a body, unimpressed by the trial
judge’s summing up, and impressed by the strength of your case.” I thanked
Matthew, who, for once, left the room with a smile on his face.

You may be
wondering what Chief Superintendent Hackett – or rather ex-Chief Superintendent
Hackett – had been up to while all this was going on.

He had not been
idle. Inspector Williams and Constable Kenwright had left the force on the same
day as he had. Within a week they had opened up a small office above the
Constitutional Club in Bradford and begun their investigations. The Don
reported to me at four o’clock every Sunday afternoon.

Within a month
he had compiled a thick file on the case, with detailed dossiers on Rosemary,
Jeremy, the company and me. I spent hours reading through the information he
had gathered, and was even able to help by filling in a few gaps. I quickly
came to appreciate why the Don was so respected by my fellow inmates.

He followed up
every clue, and went down every side road, however much it looked like a
cul-de-sac, because once in a while it turned out to be a highway.

On the first
Sunday in October, after Hackett had been working for four months, he told me
that he thought he might have located Rosemary.

A woman of her
description was living on a small estate in the south of France called Villa
Fleur.

“How did you
manage to track her down?” I asked.

“Letter posted
by her mother at her local pillarbox. The postman kindly allowed me to have a
look at the address on the envelope before it proceeded on its way,” Hackett
said. “Can’t tell you how many hours we had to hang around, how many letters
we’ve had to sift
through,
and how many doors we’ve
knocked on in the past four months, just to get this one lead. Mrs. Kershaw
seems to be a compulsive letter writer, but this was the first time she’s sent
one to her daughter. By the way,’ he added, ‘your wife has reverted to her
maiden name.
Calls herself Ms Kershaw now.”
I nodded,
not wishing to interrupt him.

“Williams flew
out to Cannes on Wednesday, and he’s holed up in the nearest village, posing as
a tourist. He’s already been able to tell us that Ms Kershaw’s house is
surrounded by a ten-foot stone wall, and she has more guard dogs than trees. It
seems the locals know even less about her than we do. But at least it’s a
start.” I felt for the first time that Jeremy Alexander might at last have met
his match, but it was to be another five Sundays, and five more interim
reports, before a thin smile appeared on Hackett’s usually tight-lipped face.

“Ms Kershaw has
placed an advertisement in the local paper,” he informed me. “It seems she’s in
need of a new butler. At first I thought we should question the old butler at
length as soon as he’d left, but as I couldn’t risk anything getting back to
her, I decided Inspector Williams would have to apply for his job instead.”

“But surely
she’ll realise within moments that he’s totally unqualified to do the job.”

“Not
necessarily,” said Hackett, his smile broadening.

“You see,
Williams won’t be able to leave his present employment with the Countess of
Rutland until he’s served a full month’s notice, and in the meantime we’ve
signed him up for a special six-week course at Ivor Spencer’s School for
Butlers. Williams has always been a quick learner.”

“But
what about references?”

“By the time
Rosemary Kershaw interviews him, he’ll have a set of references that would
impress a duchess.”

“I was told you
never did anything underhand.”

“That is the
case when I’m dealing with honest people, Mr. Cooper. Not when I’m up against a
couple of crooks like this.

I’m going to get
those two behind bars, if it’s the last thing I do.” This was not the time to
let Hackett know that the final chapter of this story, as I plotted it, did not
conclude with Jeremy ending up in jail.

Once Williams
had been put on the shortlist for the position of Rosemary’s butler, I played
my own small part in securing him the job.

Rereading over
the terms of the proposed contract gave me the idea.

“Tell Williams
to ask for 25,000 francs a month, and five weeks’ holiday,” I suggested to
Hackett when he and Matthew visited me the following Sunday.

“Why?” asked the
ex-Chief Superintendent. “She’s only offering xz
,ooo
,
and three weeks’ holiday.”

“She can well
afford to pay the difference, and with references like these,” I said, looking
back down at my file, ‘she might become suspicious if he asked for anything
less.” Matthew smiled and nodded.

Rosemary finally
offered Williams the job at 3
,ooo
francs a month, with
four weeks’ holiday a year, which after forty-eight hours’ consideration
Williams accepted. But he did not join her for another month, by which time he
had learnt how to iron newspapers, lay place settings with a ruler, and tell
the difference between a port, sherry and liqueur glass.

I suppose that
from the moment Williams took up the post as Rosemary’s butler, I expected
instant results. But as Hackett pointed out to me Sunday after Sunday, this was
hardly realistic.

“Williams has to
take his time,” explained the Don. “He needs to gain her confidence, and avoid
giving her any reason for the slightest suspicion. It once took me five years
to nail a drug smuggler who was only living half a mile up the road from me.” I
wanted to remind him that it was
me
who was stuck in
jail, and that five days was more like what I had in mind, but I knew how hard
they were all working on my behalf, and tried not to show my impatience.

Within a month
Williams had supplied us with photographs and life histories of all the staff
working on the estate, along with descriptions of everyone who visited Rosemary
– even the local priest, who came hoping to collect a donation for French aid
workers in Somalia.

The cook:
Gabrielle Pascal – no English, excellent cuisine, came from Marseilles, family
checked out. The gardener: Jacques Reni stupid and not particularly imaginative
with the rosebeds, local and well known. Rosemary’s personal maid: Charlotte
Merieux – spoke a little English, crafty, sexy, came from Paris, still checking
her out.

All the staff
had been employed by Rosemary since her arrival in the south of France, and
they appeared to have no connection with each other, or with her past life.

“Ah,” said
Hackett as he studied the picture of Rosemary’s personal maid. I raised an
eyebrow. “I was just thinking about Williams being cooped up with Charlotte
Merieux day in and day out and more important, night in and night in,” he
explained. “He would have made superintendent if he hadn’t fooled around so
much. Still, let’s hope this time it turns out to our advantage.” I lay on my
bunk studying the pictures of the staff for hour after hour, but they revealed
nothing. I read and reread the notes on everyone who had ever visited Villa
Fleur, but as the weeks went by, it looked more and more as if no one from
Rosemary’s past, other than her mother, knew where she was – or if they did,
they were making no attempts to contact her.

There was
certainly no sign of Jeremy Alexander.

I was beginning
to fear that she and Jeremy might have split up, until Williams reported that
there was a picture of a dark, handsome man on a table by the side of
Rosemary’s bed. It was inscribed: “
We’ll
always be
together- J’.

During the weeks
following my appeal hearing I was constantly interviewed by probation officers,
social workers and even the prison psychiatrist. I struggled to maintain the
warm, sincere smile that Matthew had warned me was so necessary to lubricate
the wheels of the bureaucracy.

It must have
been about eleven weeks after my appeal had been turned down that the cell door
was thrown open, and the senior officer on my corridor announced, “The Governor
wants to see you, Cooper.’

Fingers looked
suspicious. Whenever he heard those words, it inevitably meant a dose of
solitary.

I could hear my
heart beating as I was led down the long corridor to the Governor’s office. The
prison officer knocked gently on the door before opening it. The Governor rose
from behind his desk, thrust out his hand and said, “I’m delighted to be the
first person to tell you the good news.” He ushered me into a comfortable chair
on the other side of his desk, and went over the terms of my release. While he
was doing this I was served coffee, as if we were old friends.

There was a
knock on the door, and Matthew walked in, clutching a sheaf of papers that
needed to be signed. I rose as he placed them on the desk, and without warning
he turned round and gave me a bear hug.

Not something I
expect he did every day.

After I had signed
the final document Matthew asked: “What’s the first thing you’ll do once they
release you?”

“I’m going to
buy a gun,’

I told him
matter-of-factly.

Matthew and the
Governor burst out laughing.

The great gate
of Armley Prison was thrown open for me three days later. I walked away from
the building carrying only the small leather suitcase I had arrived with. I
didn’t look back. I hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take me to the
station, as I had no desire to remain in Leeds a moment longer than was necessary.
I bought a first-class ticket, phoned Hackett to warn him I was on my way, and
boarded the next train for Bradford.

I savoured a
British Rail breakfast that wasn’t served on a tin plate, and read a copy of
the Financial Times that had been handed to me by a pretty shop assistant and
not a petty criminal. No one stared at me – but then, why should they, when I
was sitting in a first-class carriage and dressed in my new suit? I glanced at
every woman who passed by, however she was dressed, but they had no way of
knowing why.

When the train
pulled into Bradford, the Don and his secretary Jenny Kenwright were waiting
for me on the platform. The Chief Superintendent had rented me a small
furnished flat on the outskirts of the city, and after I had unpacked – not a
long job - they took me out to lunch. The moment the small talk had been
dispensed with and Jenny had poured me a glass of wine, the Don asked me a
question I hadn’t expected.

“Now that you’re
free, is it still your wish that we go on looking for Jeremy Alexander?”

“Yes,” I
replied, without a moment’s hesitation.

“I’m even more
determined, now that I can taste the freedom he’s enjoyed for the past three
years. Never forget, that man stole my freedom from me, along with my wife, my
company, and more than half my possessions. Oh yes, Donald, I won’t rest until
I come face to face with Jeremy Alexander.”

“Good,” said the
Don. “Because Williams thinks Rosemary is beginning to trust him, and might
even, given time, start confiding in him. It seems he has made himself
indispensable.” I found a certain irony in the thought of Williams pocketing
two wage packets simultaneously, and of my being responsible for one, while
Rosemary paid the other. I asked if there was any news of Jeremy.

“Nothing to
speak of,” said Donald. “She certainly never phones him from the house, and
we’re fairly sure he never attempts to make any direct contact with her. But
Williams has told us that every Friday at midday he has to drop her off at the
Majestic, the only hotel in the village. She goes inside and doesn’t reappear
for at least forty minutes. He daren’t follow her, because she’s given specific
instructions that he’s to stay with the car. And he can’t afford to lose this
job by disobeying orders.” I nodded my agreement.